Chapter Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
Annie
El’s friend, Roland, agrees to meet with us at his studio in Bolton Hill, a neighborhood just over the highway from the club.
When he buzzes us in and we take the stairs up to the correct unit, we find ourselves in a space that’s less artist loft than cramped and probably-not-up-to-code efficiency apartment.
It’s also dark except for a single task lamp in the corner and light pollution coming in through the room’s singular window.
A reedy man with light brown skin, shoulder-length straight black hair, and a goatee stands up from where he’s sitting on a metal stool at a drafting table in the corner of the room.
He turns to greet us, the shadow of him spreading out its arms. “Good evening, new friends, and welcome to the Edge of What Is Possible.”
“Um…” Cal starts.
“I feel like we’ve just walked into Willy Wonka’s factory,” I say out of the side of my mouth as I smile at Roland.
“Yeah, if the lickable wallpaper was replaced with creepy photographs of abandoned malls and the whole place smelled like feet,” he responds under his breath as Roland approaches us.
“That’s what I call my domain. The Edge of What Is Possible. Because I’m always hoping to push the boundaries here,” he explains, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his camo cargo pants. “So you two know El?”
“Not really. We just met them at the burlesque show tonight,” I say.
Roland’s eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. I think I was supposed to go to that.” He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text, presumably an apology.
“I’m always losing track of time when I’m processing a new batch of photos.
” He nods in the direction of a closet that he must use as a darkroom.
“El probably won’t be too mad though. They’re super supportive of my work.
I can only be friends with people who are as into their art as I am, you know?
’Cause they understand the creative lifestyle. ”
“Yeah, for sure,” Cal says. “Anyway, El said you have the stuffed goose that was stolen from us.”
“Stolen?” Roland sounds alarmed. He puts his hands out in front of him and takes a step backward.
“I wasn’t the one who took it. You gotta believe me.
I haven’t stolen anything in my life. Except a belt one time from Walmart when I was twelve, and that’s more on my mom ’cause it blended in with her purse straps and we forgot to scan it. ”
“We know it wasn’t you,” I assure him. “But we really do need it back immediately, so—”
“Wait. Did you only come here ’cause you think I have it?”
“Yes, we were under that impression,” Cal bites out. “Why else would we be here in the middle of the night?”
“I thought you were interested in seeing my work,” Roland says, sounding deflated. “And if I’d known you weren’t, I would never have invited you over. ’Cause I’m really busy. That goose of yours, it really fucked me.”
“It…what now?” I ask.
“Don’t you know that stuffed birds are illegal, man?”
Cal presses his lips together. “Uh…”
“It’s something I just learned myself, thanks to my cousin.
Taxidermy is, like, his thing, so I sent him some of the photos I took ’cause I figured he’d like them but instead he was like, ‘Dude, you absolutely cannot let those be displayed anywhere’ and sent me a link about the law or treaty or whatever it is.
And now I’m screwed because I was counting on those shots for my assignment that’s due tomorrow afternoon and I’ve got nothing to turn in.
” He sits down in a threadbare armchair and drops his head into his hands. To our surprise, he starts to cry.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” I ask, moving to pat him on the shoulder but changing my mind as he shakes with wet-sounding sobs.
“This is my third time trying to finish my BFA,” he blubbers. “I really can’t afford to fail out again.”
“Oof,” Cal says, grimacing.
Roland uncovers his face, the pale light coming in through the windows making his tear-streaked cheeks glisten. “When you called and mentioned the goose, I thought maybe I could at least sell you the pictures I took. Since then we would be in it together. Like, mutually assured destruction?”
“Us buying them would still mostly incriminate you,” Cal points out. “Since it would prove that you have the goose in your possession.”
“I don’t, though!” he protests. “My cousin came and got it from me. Said he knew what to do about it.”
“You’re clearly having a rough time, Mr. Eady,” Cal says through gritted teeth. “So why don’t you tell us how to get in contact with your cousin and we’ll let you get back to your work.”
“Yeah, and the night’s still young! Relatively. Maybe you can take some new photos to turn in tomorrow?” I suggest, attempting to be pleasant and helpful, the good cop to Cal’s annoyed, unintentionally callous cop.
Roland slowly looks up at me. “Yes. That’s…that’s it. That’s exactly what I need to do.”
“Great, so your cousin’s phone number?” Cal prompts.
“No, no. I mean, I need to take new photos. Right now. So that I can process them in time to turn them in.” He grins. “And if you want my cousin’s info, you’re going to help me.”
—
“This is going to end with someone making cutesy jokes about our murders on a true crime podcast,” Cal says.
“Listen. I know it’s not, like, reassuring that Roland has round-the-clock access to a warehouse full of mannequins…”
“Annie?” Cal says.
“Hm?”
“Let’s stop talking now. I don’t want to waste my final words bickering with you.”
“What if I want to waste mine on bickering with you, though?” I ask.
He exhales loudly.
“Okay, I think we’re ready,” Roland says, adjusting the short ponytail he pulled his hair back into before he got to work moving mannequins into what he referred to as “the ideal position.” The ideal position for what is the question.
I disagree with Cal that it’s murder, because why go to all of this trouble?
He could have much more easily murdered us back at his studio, where no one would probably even notice the bloodstains for a good long while, masked by the lack of overhead lighting and grimy old hardwood floors.
Unless he wants to kill us and then photograph our dead bodies, of course. But that certainly wouldn’t help with his I-have-nothing-not-incriminating-to-turn-in-tomorrow-for-a-grade conundrum.
“So the assignment is to take a series of photographs that meditate on the concept of aliveness,” he explains.
I’m not sure if that is a point in the column for not going to kill us or definitely going to kill us.
Could really go either way. “With the goose, I put the dead one in the middle of a bunch of live ones in Druid Hill Park. But I’m going for the opposite here.
” He adjusts something on the camera he wears around his neck, then glances back up at us. “How do you feel about nudity?”
“Uhhhh,” Cal starts.
“Because, like, I won’t force you to do anything you’re not okay with, obviously. But the statement I’m trying to make here won’t be nearly as powerful if you’re fully clothed.” He pauses. “I think I can make it work from the waist up only, if that makes you more comfortable.”
I look at Cal, who looks back at me. He’s seen my boobs already.
Let’s be real, he’s done more than see them.
And I don’t get the impression from Roland that he’s asking this with any perversion in mind.
As much as I hate to think what it says about me, I do kind of understand and appreciate what he’s going for here, and it will look better if we match the mannequins as much as possible.
“Fine with me,” I answer, and shrug off my coat.
Cal stills me with a hand on my arm. “What? Are you serious?”
“The sooner we’re done with this weird little late-night photoshoot, the sooner we’ll get the contact info for Roland’s cousin. Get stripping, Callahan.” I make quick work of the buttons on my blouse and let the sheer sleeves rest on my arms as I reach back to unhook my bra.
Cal still looks far from convinced that this is a good idea, shooting me an expression that’s somehow simultaneously irate and absolutely electric as he peels off his own coat, then the hunter green sweater beneath.
And now we are standing topless in a room full of mannequins while a stranger continues adjusting his camera.
Hmm. I think I might have had a dream like this once, actually.
Roland takes us in and nods in swift, businesslike approval.
“Follow me, please.” He leads us into the gaggle of mannequins and taps the floor with the toe of his shoe where he’d like each of us to stand.
Cal and I take our designated positions, standing a yard apart like we’re just two more of the evenly spaced lifeless figures surrounding us.
After returning to where he’s going to be shooting from, Roland frowns.
He grabs a wooden crate from a pile of random objects at the edge of the space and brings it over to where I am.
“Hop up on this, please, Annie. I need you closer to the same height as everyone else. Thanks.”
“Ooh, fun. I like it up here.” It’s kind of like being on the counter at Virtu. “I’m seeing this experience from a different angle.”
“Still looks like we’re half naked in a creepy warehouse at one a.m. to me,” Cal says.
“Well, that’s just because you don’t have a crate. Because I can see that we’re half naked in a creepy warehouse at one a.m. as art is being made.”
He lets out a small snort of laughter despite himself.
“All right,” Roland says. “A couple quick test shots. Just look forward, right past my ears.”
“This reminds me of getting my school pictures taken.”
“Uh, where the hell did you go to school?” Cal asks.
“Face me and no smiling, please,” Roland orders.
“Sorry!” I say, and focus on keeping my mouth in the same dead, stoic line as those of the mannequins around us.
A few clicks of the camera later, Roland sighs. “Cal, I know she’s lovely, but I really do need you to look straight ahead.”
Thankfully, with this place sparsely illuminated and Roland’s bragging on our way here that he only shoots in black and white, the deep blush that starts on my cheeks and travels down to my chest probably won’t show up on film.
But then Roland asks us to pivot on our heels and face each other.
I have to turn toward Cal, who I’m sure can see the color spreading across my skin even in the low light and from three feet away.
Then Roland says, “Look in each other’s eyes, like you’ve just seen each other from across the room at a party after thirty years apart. ”
“How old do you think we are?” Cal asks.
“No talking, please and thank you.”
We stare at each other as the shutter snaps in the distance.
Everything else feels like it fades away, even the twenty or so naked fiberglass forms surrounding us, as those pretty olive eyes of Cal’s search mine.
At one point, I catch his gaze dip down to my breasts for a fraction of a second, and the corner of my mouth raises in response.
He blinks, keeping his eyes closed a moment longer than he might normally, and Roland comments, “Okay, whatever that was, I liked it.”
Oh my. I did too.
It sucks so much that Cal and I can’t repeat what happened at Virtu the other night.
While the vulnerability overwhelmed me at the time, it’s since mellowed into something less intimidating, something almost like freedom.
Because even though I’ve had more sexual partners than he has, being with Cal felt like a brand-new experience.
Like we were each uncovering hidden parts of ourselves that could only be accessed through the other’s touch.
What else is hiding inside me that I might never be brave enough to find without his help?
“Great. Now…” Roland approaches us and taps his foot in a new spot.
“Meet in the middle, right here.” Cal and I take slow steps toward each other until we’re standing face-to-face.
(Or, rather, face-to-chin, until Roland moves my crate and I hop back atop it, making us about the same height again.) “May I touch your arms to give you direction?” he asks, and I’m grateful that, despite being cartoonish in his artistic pretension, Roland Eady is nothing but professional with his models.
“That’s fine,” I say, and Cal nods in agreement, albeit reluctantly.
Roland moves us so that my left arm is draped around Cal’s neck. “Is this okay?” I whisper as the photographer moves back to his original location.
Cal nods again.
“If you don’t want to touch, I’m sure Roland will respect that.”
“Not wanting to touch isn’t the issue,” Cal whispers back, voice tight.
“What’s the—”
“How would you feel about making out?” Roland calls to us.
Um, positively. Let’s be real. I would feel very positively about it. An excuse to kiss again? Yes freakin’ please.
But Cal…I really can’t tell what he’s thinking right now. If I look hard enough, I can convince myself of almost any emotion hidden in his features. Better safe than sorry, I suppose.
“It’s okay. We don’t have to. I’m not offended,” I say quietly to Cal before yelling back to Roland, “I’m not sure we’re—”
Before I can finish the sentence, Cal’s lips are on mine, hard and hungry, and his fingers are threading into my hair on both sides of my head.
It takes me a moment to respond in kind, but as I do, Roland shouts, “Incredible! Yes. Amazing. These are going to look freakin’ awesome.
” The reminder that this is all in service of getting the goose back and that we’re actively being photographed is quickly forgotten as I continue putting my all into ravishing each other’s mouths, pressing my breasts against his hot skin, drawing needy little involuntary noises from Callahan Leitner’s chest that tempt me to say to hell with it and slip my hands down his pants.
Roland cuts in again, this time with a much closer, intentionally loud throat clear.
Cal and I break apart, shoulders heaving as we revivify. “What now?” I ask Roland, though my eyes refuse to leave Cal’s.
“Oh. That’s all. We’re done here. I got everything I needed.”
Roland might’ve, but I didn’t. Now there’s this ache inside of me, a pit of desire that’s only grown deeper and deeper since Cal and I agreed we wouldn’t be further exploring our physical relationship.
What a stupid move on my part. Because I see now that it’s much more dangerous to let that pit keep growing than to try to pretend it isn’t there; a person could fall into it and never come back out.