He paused and took a bite of his pastrami on rye sandwich. “What? It’s just going to get thrown out.”
I guess what I’m trying to say is that Grampa has never been a big fan of accepting help.
When I got home, I felt like a million hours had passed since Grampa’s call to my cell phone, but neither of my parents were even home from work yet. I ran upstairs and took a shower, feeling that maybe, just maybe, I could scrub the evidence of what I had seen off my face before dinner. As if my mom would ask. Or believe.
Still, I felt sick all evening. I kept seeing Grampa sitting hunched over on the floor. My legs felt a little weak, and I don’t think it was just from the unexpected afternoon sprint. Plus, my elbow was throbbing pretty hard — so hard, I almost popped one of the super-strong postsurgical pain pills I still had in our bathroom cabinet.
So much for joining the track team.
After my parents went to bed, I got online and read up on Alzheimer’s disease. The more I read, the more I felt like Angelika had been right. Every single one of the early symptoms matched up with something I’d seen Grampa do. Even though it was late, I called Angelika.
Thankfully, she answered. If I had faced an interrogation from her mom at that point, I think I would have cracked completely. “Angelika?” I said.
“Pete? Hey, hi! I’m so excited! I was just mounting you. I mean, your portrait — you know, with the baseball? I can’t wait to hand it in tomorrow. It’s really powerful stuff, thanks to you and Adam. I am so going to get an A on this now. The technical values are all there, definitely. Plus, Mr. Marsh is going to fuh-reak over the concept. He was right; once you get that going on, it completely brings a portrait to life. Anyway, I think I really … whoa, wait a minute. Am I babbling? I mean, you called me, right? What’s going on?”
I had meant to tell her all about my scary afternoon. Somehow, though, that wasn’t what came out of my mouth. “You know, in those pictures … I meant to tell you something. I, uh, I wasn’t really crying. I mean, I had tears. But, um, I just kind of … I guess I had a thing. For a minute.”
If I had super-hearing, I’m pretty sure I would have been able to hear Angelika’s eyebrow arching upward. “Oh, that’s fine, then. What a relief. I thought you were totally crying. But if you just had … a thing … that saves me a lot of trouble.”
“Trouble? What do you mean, trouble?”
“See, I’ve always said I wish I would meet a guy who could actually cry. Because I cry all the time. Remember a few years ago, when President Obama’s daughters got their dog? I cried. I cried when my goldfish died — an hour after we bought it. I cry for no reason. I cry for freaking fun! I cry like Lady Gaga changes outfits. So anyway, I swore that if I ever found a crying boy …”
“Yeah?”
“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I mean, unless you were actually crying. But you already said it was just a thing. Right?”
“Uh, I might have been crying. A little, tiny bit. One lone, manly tear. So what did you swear you would do?”
“Gee, I’ll have to put some thought into this. I promised myself if I met a boy who could totally cry, I’d, like, jump his bones. Smother him in passion. Make him my own. But for one lone, manly tear … maybe you should ask me out quick, Peter. You might at least get a kiss out if this, or something.”
Holy cow. Ask her out? I had the feeling, like I always did, that she was laughing at me a little. Possibly even toying with me. But she was so pretty. And so smart, and funny, and quick, and my photo partner — this had to be my moment.
At these crucial times, some people say, “Carpe diem! Seize the day!” Then they leap right in there and get the girl. Others try to seize the day, but blurt out the worst, most buzz-killing words imaginable. Sadly, I once again proved my knack for being one of the great blurters of the world: “Angelika … how did you know your grandmother had Alzheimer’s?”
Angelika really was incredible. She changed gears so fast, there wasn’t even a pause before she answered. “Oh, boy. Is this why you really called? And here I was, shamelessly flirting with you. What happened today, Pete?”
Dang it, I thought. What’s my problem? Shameless flirting good. Weepy grampa-talk bad. But I had to keep talking about the situation now that I had brought it up. “My grandfather fell today. He called me and I went running over to his house. When I got there, he seemed kind of disoriented, on and off. But he made me swear I wouldn’t tell my parents about it. Now I’m reading all the symptoms online, and he’s done, like, half of the things it says to watch for. On the other hand, this one website said that most old people have some of the symptoms, some of the time. So how did you know for sure?”
“Well, first of all, you can’t know for sure. Eventually, somebody is going to have to get him to a doctor. And that’s really hard. When my grandma got sick, she refused and refused to go.”
“Until?”
“Uh, one day, she got in her car and tried to drive to her childhood house. Which was knocked down thirty years ago when they built the old middle school. So she kept driving into the school parking lot, going in circles, then driving back out. Eventually, security noticed, and the police came and stopped her. It was awful. Apparently, she just kept saying, ‘Somebody took my house. Why are you arresting me? Why aren’t you going after the house thieves?’”
“My grampa hasn’t done anything like that yet. But sometimes he just spaces out, and when I look into his eyes, it’s like there’s nobody home. And he never falls down. This is a man who hikes mountains with a full load of camera gear for fun. And now …” I didn’t know what was with Angelika and my lump-in-the-throat problems, but at the moment, it seemed kind of like a sleazy way to be racking up points with her.
“All right. Maybe he’s losing it and maybe he’s not. But, Pete, you have to tell your mother. She’s his daughter, right? She’s supposed to handle this stuff.”
“What about me? I promised I wouldn’t tell.”
“He shouldn’t have made you promise that. It’s not fair to you or your mom. And what if he does something really bad, and you could have stopped it by getting your mom involved? How are you going to feel then?”
“Angelika, I’m not a total moron. I made him promise he’d tell my mom if he thought he was in any danger.”
“OK, whatever.”
“What do you mean, whatever?”
“I mean, the whole point of getting senile is that the person can’t think right. His judgment might be impaired. Or maybe he’s already forgotten about his whole encounter with you today, and he’s sitting around eating bonbons while you’re torturing yourself over this. Even though it’s not your job. Listen, why don’t you sleep on this? Maybe in the morning, you’ll feel more like talking to your mom about it.”
The worst thing about talking to perceptive people is that they notice everything. But I didn’t feel like hearing any more about how wrong I was, so I changed the subject. “I hear you, OK? And I appreciate the advice. Really, I do. Now, can we talk about our next sports assignment? I think we should do the girls’ swim meet this Friday, and then the first JV basketball game on Sunday. Mr. Marsh said Linnie Vaughn is going for a record in the backstroke this week, so it would probably be a good idea to get some shots of that for the paper.” Linnie Vaughn was the star swimmer at our school. She was also kind of legendarily hot.
Angelika hung right with me on the quick switch. “Sure. Hey, isn’t Adam on the JV team?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe we can get a really great shot of him in action, and then blow it up into a poster or something for him.”
“Why?”
“Well, because I owe him one. Plus, he has nice eyes. I think they would really pop if we got the right shot. It would be fun to try, anyway.”
Suddenly, I felt a flash of jealousy. That’s why I said something stupid for the fourth time in, like, twenty minutes. “OK, that’s cool. So, can I blow up a shot of Linnie Vaughn?”
S
he laughed, but it wasn’t her usual, merry laugh. I don’t know how to explain it, but she sounded kind of sly and angry at the same time as she said, “Sure. I know one thing: You won’t have to be a great photographer to make her, um, features pop!”
Three photos. In the first, a hand holds a baseball in the classic pitcher’s grip: first two fingers across the top seam, thumb underneath. The pitcher’s arm extends almost straight back into the picture and blurs into his face. The hand and the front of the ball are what photographers refer to as tack sharp: You can see whorls of fingerprint pattern on the skin, a jagged nail, every stitch and scuff on the ball. And you can somehow feel the tension in the fingers, almost imagine that hand crushing yours in its clawed grip. Maybe you’ve heard somewhere that a pitcher is supposed to hold the ball loosely. Then again, this pitcher isn’t going to be throwing the ball anyway.
The second photo is composed exactly like the first, except now the focus is on the middle of the pitcher’s arm, so that both the ball and the face are blurred. You can’t even read the label on the ball in this one, nor can you be sure the pitcher’s eyeglasses are still on his face. What you can’t avoid seeing in this one is that elbow: knurled and knotted with scar tissue. The sleeve of the pitcher’s Under Armour shirt has been pushed up to his bicep, but you know he must not roll that sleeve back very often. If your elbow looked like his, you’d probably invest in 365 sweaters.
In the third photo, the focus has shifted to the face. The ball is so blurry you can almost see right through it, and the elbow, mercifully, is now smoothed over, stripped of painful detail. The pitcher’s eyes are facing forward and slightly down: He may be looking at the ball in his hand. He may be looking at his ruined elbow. His mouth turns down at the corners; his brow is creased in concentrated sorrow. Light catches on a tear that balances on the lower lid of his left eye. You can stare into this face all day, and the eyes are never going to stop their downcast gleaming.
Looking at the three pictures side by side, as they are presented in the photographer’s plain black matte frame, you may very well wonder: Who is the subject here? Is he the hand that holds the ball? Is he the scarred and twisted elbow? Could he be neither of these? Could it be that the pitcher will learn to define himself in some brilliant, brave new way? Or is he, in the end, nothing more or less than a sad face behind a blur?
I didn’t want Angelika to turn in her three-shot portrait of me. The pictures were incredibly, painfully perfect, which meant Mr. Marsh would probably gather everyone around to ooh and ahh about them. Can you imagine standing by while a bunch of upperclassmen listen to your teacher say, “See how this tear is sitting there, just waiting to fall? That’s genius!” And then he’d probably want to post them in the hallway or something. In which case I’d have to fling myself from a high window.
On second thought, Angelika would probably capture a few good snaps of that action, too.
We were arguing over it when class started that day. She hissed, “I need this grade. And, Pete, you didn’t have to roll up your sleeve when I asked you to!”
Which was true. But if I hadn’t done it, she would have been all mad. Plus, AJ had once told me that, and I quote, “Chicks dig scars. Trust me: It’s well-known.”
“But it’s — look, would you want everyone in the whole world to see you looking like that?”
“Like what?” She grinned. “You look really great in the picture … strong and manly, yet sensitive. I mean, in real life you could use some work, but in the picture —”
I sighed. “Can I just see it before class starts?” I asked. She took a flat cardboard mailer out of her backpack, opened it, and slid the three photos out. I grabbed them and held them over my head. She lunged, and you guessed it — once again, Mr. Marsh caught us locked in a full-body embrace.
He said, “When I tell ya that photography should be yer passion, that’s not quite how I mean it. Heh-heh.” We scrambled to separate, and tumbled into our seats. I tried to be unobtrusive about sliding the pictures over to Angelika, but apparently Houdini doesn’t have to feel threatened by my sleight-of-hand skills, because Mr. Marsh came over and said, “Well, well, well. What’s this, kids? More of the brilliant work ya somehow manage to create when yer not, um, messin’ around?”
Angelika put her hand down on top of the pictures, and said, “It’s nothing, Mr. Marsh. I took some pictures, but they’re not really ready to be shared, so I’ll just —”
“Wait, let me see, Angelika. Ya know I will always tell ya if I think a project needs more work.”
“No, I mean they … the … uh, the subject hasn’t given his permission for me to share these yet.”
Angelika peeked up at me from under her bangs. For once, it was her turn to blush. Mr. Marsh caught the vibes. “Peter,” he said, “you’re the subject, right?”
I could feel all the other students’ eyes on me as I answered, “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Marsh turned to the rest of the group and said, “San Lee, I believe you had a presentation due today — is that correct?” San nodded. Mr. Marsh continued: “And yer presentation was on the photographic style of Henri Cartier-Bresson, yes?” San nodded again. “Then let’s table our discussion of Angelika’s work until after we have heard from Mr. Lee. I have a feeling he might give us a new perspective on the situation. San? Whaddaya got?”
San roused himself from his usual lounging position, and made his way to the front with a set of prints and a laptop computer. When he was all set up, he started a slide show, and three words were projected onto our room’s overhead screen:
THE DECISIVE MOMENT
Then San clicked through a series of black-and-white photos: Three women doing each other’s hair. A couple kissing on top of a tower in Paris. An old woman sitting at a sidewalk cafe, giving a beautiful younger woman a dirty look. A crush of people getting off a ship, with a crying man in the middle, hugging an elderly lady. Each picture was almost too private to look at, yet here they were, on display in our classroom, probably fifty years after some of their subjects had died of old age.
San spoke: “Henri Cartier-Bresson was a French photographer who started becoming well-known in the 1930s. He practically invented the art of street photography. He would walk along, with his Leica camera — just one fifty-millimeter lens, no zoom — and snap pictures of whatever he saw that interested him. He tried not to get the attention of his subjects. He even taped over the shiny parts of his camera with black electrical tape so that the camera wouldn’t be as noticeable. In 1952, he published a book of his work, titled Images à la Sauvette, which literally means something like ‘images on the run’ or ‘stolen images.’ But in English, the book became known as The Decisive Moment. When I look at his work, I can see how the images are all three things: stolen, taken on the run, and decisive. There’s also a kind of Zen to the pictures, because he only had one shot to capture that exact, unposed instant. Of course, he was working with an old-fashioned film camera, so he couldn’t just put it in burst mode and go click, click, click eight times a second. And the instant before or after the one he caught probably wouldn’t have been as perfect.”
He paused then to pin up his own photos.
“Can ya tell us about these, San?” Mr. Marsh asked.
“Sure. I decided to imitate Cartier-Bresson by walking through the hallways of our school with my camera and one fifty-millimeter lens. I used the swivel viewfinder on my camera so I could shoot from my waist, and didn’t use a flash or burst mode. I also didn’t do any retouching or Photoshopping, because Cartier-Bresson was all about the shot. He didn’t care about the developing process. Anyway, here’s what I got.”
The first photo San pointed to was taken in the stairwell of the building. A really skinny guy was facing the camera, on his way up the steps, and you could see that the shoulder of a huge guy going down had just bumped him pretty hard. The skinny guy was grimacing, but you could tell he was going to keep walking.
The next shot showed the view down
a nearly empty hallway: two parallel walls of lockers seemed to go on forever into the distance. There were only two people in sight. In the background, a custodian was bent over his push broom. In the foreground, a girl was throwing a gum wrapper over her shoulder.
San’s third and final picture showed a wide view of the front entrance to the school on a sunny day, looking straight on at the four steel doors. There were four people sitting on the cement stairs, facing the camera. On the left, a guy and a girl were clearly arguing over something. His mouth was open, and he looked really angry. She was turned partly away from him and was raising her palm toward him in the classic tell-it-to-the-hand position. On the right, two guys were sitting with their arms around each other, goofy smiles on their faces, looking completely engrossed in each other.
He turned to Mr. Marsh, who said, “So, Mr. Lee, can ya tell me the essence of whatcha were trying to capture here?”
San looked right at me and said, “The truth. I think the best use for a camera is to capture the truth.”
Meanwhile, I was thinking, Great! So just because some French dude shot a bunch of embarrassing photos of random strangers sixty years ago, now I’m supposed to let Angelika hand in a gigantic blowup poster of me crying like a four-year-old? And of course the funny part is, we have no idea what those poor suckers thought about the pictures. For all we know, they all jumped off the Eiffel Tower right after the book came out.
I looked down and spent some time picking at the frayed hem of my left pant leg.
“So, guys, whadda the rest of ya think? Is photography all about telling the troot?”
I had to speak up. “Well, my grandfather was a professional photographer, and he said his job was to present his subjects the way they would want to be seen.”
Angelika said, “But your grandfather shot weddings. That’s different. San was going for more of a photojournalism thing. Right?”
Curveball: The Year I Lost My Grip Page 7