Shrug

by Lisa Braver Moss

  “Oh.” I kind of knew what he meant.

  “Color always seems a little false, however good the chemicals are,” he went on, lighting another Gauloise and waving the match out in the air. “It’s a paradox of the trade: black-and-white is actually more natural-looking. Even our models prefer it.”

  Our models. His and Leonard’s. I tried not to blush: somehow I understood he meant nudes. I swished my tea bag around in the leaky metal teapot and fixed my mind on how pretentious Declan Wilder was.

  He leaned back, tipping the chair slightly. “How’s Jules, by the way?”

  “Okay. He’s scraping by. Still has a stall at the flea market.”

  “Ah.”

  “Plus two radio gigs,” I added, grateful for the chance to fill Declan in about a person he clearly thought of as cool—and hoping he’d forget that my father was cooler than I was.

  Declan’s chair clopped as he sat upright again. He eyed me narrowly. “So Miss Martha. How long have you and I known each other?”

  I knew exactly how long. “Let’s see.” I stalled. “Ninth grade? That makes three or four years, I guess.”

  “Well. You’ve grown up nicely.”

  I’d grown up nicely? We were the same age. Relax, I told my shoulder.

  “Hey, so, you want to model for me?”

  “M-model?” I stammered. “Declan, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not very—”

  “My models aren’t of the Hollywood ilk,” Declan interrupted. Great! Mom would approve.

  “Sometimes,” he went on, “it’s these float-down-the-river Ophelia types I find most compelling.”

  Ophelia type—was that what I was? A suicide waiting to happen? Without thinking, I pulled my left sleeve down over my wrist.

  Declan blew smoke up toward the ceiling, flashed the misaligned smile. “You’re so earnest! And at the same time, innocent. Look, it’s entirely up to you, but you should come by if you’d like. I’ve gotta get to the darkroom, but I should be free by six, and Leonid is out of town, so I have the studio all to myself. It’s a wonderful space. Terrific natural light.”

  I could feel the pulse in my neck. Weren’t these the things that men said when they wanted to seduce you? That their mentors (Leonids, not ordinary Leonards) were out of town? Or that their wives were? That you were earnest but also innocent, that their place had wonderful natural light? I jostled the teapot by mistake and it clanged cheaply and spun around, sending anemic lukewarm liquid across the table. Shrug.

  I grabbed my napkin, blotting the spill as Declan watched in amusement. I felt like a fool. Why had I gone into Cody’s to “run into” him there if I didn’t want to have sex? Wasn’t that the whole point of having a crush on someone? Besides, why shouldn’t I have sex with someone like Declan? He was the type who, if I ever told him about my father’s being a hitter, probably wouldn’t think any less of him for it. There was something perversely relieving in that.

  Hildy had lost her virginity, obviously. So had Stephanie, who’d slept with her boyfriend from camp when they were both counselors for the last two summers. My pathetic experience consisted of kisses, from Brett and then from Clifton.

  So when Declan borrowed a pen at the front counter of the café and wrote Leonid’s phone number and address down on a napkin, I knew I was going.

  “Call me if you’re interested,” Declan said. “Or just stop by later,” he added in a softer voice, before tipping his goddamned beret again.

  I went into Dharma Bums and tried on skirts for a while, just to look at my new haircut from different angles in the rickety three-way mirror, to bask in anticipation about Declan, and to push away the question of whether Clifton would like my new hairstyle. Then I wandered up and down Telegraph, not wanting to go back to the apartment but also not wanting to seem overly eager or annoying by showing up at Declan’s too soon. I stopped at a phone booth and checked in with Drew, who said my father would be home shortly. I was free.

  But what if Declan was one of those guys who didn’t want the burden of having sex with a virgin? Stephanie had read somewhere that a girl can become very attached to her first lover. I could promise Declan I wouldn’t be that way; I could reassure him. But what if he didn’t believe me? And—what if I couldn’t keep my promise? I tried not to think about the fact that none of this would be a problem if it were Clifton.

  I thought of calling Stephanie or Hildy to talk, but then I’d lose momentum, and besides, I had no dimes left. I figured I’d walk down to Declan’s studio instead of hopping on the bus. Walking would take more time, plus it was one of those crisp, vivid spring afternoons that make you realize how overrated summer is.

  What if Declan didn’t believe in condoms—what if he thought they were “like taking a shower with your raincoat on,” as I’d heard? Also—I didn’t have any condoms. Did young women even carry condoms? Probably not. Probably the guy took care of that. What if it hurt to have sex and I said, Ow, and Declan laughed and told me I was too serious? What if I couldn’t stop shrugging?

  The studio was a run-down, one-story bungalow built on a corner lot. I walked tentatively up the front steps, the wood creaking under my weight. I knocked quietly. But there was music, Steely Dan or something, blasting from inside, and Declan didn’t answer. I knocked again, more loudly this time. Why hadn’t I called? No: why had he invited me to drop by if he was going to play records at a volume that guaranteed he couldn’t hear the door? Goddamn him. I was about to knock again, hard, when the door opened.

  “Miss Martha!” He looked like he was trying not to laugh, whether at my agitation or at the fact that I’d shown up in the first place I wasn’t sure. His smooth blond hair was a little staticky, from having had the beret on earlier, I guessed. Even from the porch, the place smelled of hash, and he was drinking straight out of a bottle of Irish whiskey. He’d probably wind up with psoriasis of the liver or whatever that disease is called.

  He gestured me in. “Want a swig?” he said loudly, waving the bottle.

  “I should probably tell you, Declan—” I began, practically having to shout over the music. You go back, Jack, do it again. . . . I’d heard the song on the radio and really liked it, the haunting instrumentation and lyrics, the maracas, or maybe they were shaker gourds. Now I’d never be able to get the damned thing out of my head.

  “Make yourself at home,” Declan said, waving grandly behind him.

  I backed off, looked around. The studio was one large main room with big windows whose thick wood trim was a dark red that was chipped in places. A lot of the room was taken up by a silver photographer’s screen, with silver umbrellas clipped to tripods to direct the lighting from two huge lamps. The wood floor was painted dark blue, with the previous color, a comforting sky-blue, showing through the parts that were heavily trafficked. Kind of like my crushes, I guessed—cumulative, the past remaining visible underneath the present.

  A small oval coffee table was strewn with issues of National Geographic and books about cameras: Canon, Polaroid, Nikon, Leica. On an overstuffed faded burgundy sofa, a huge gray cat lay sleeping in the crack between the two cushions. The sofa was covered in its hair. Every wall that had a window in it was lined with low bookshelves: art and photography books, several large atlases, and what looked to be several shelves of spy novels or maybe thrillers. The one wall with no windows was covered with black-and-white photographs. They looked pretty professional, so I guessed they were Leonid’s work.

  “Nice pictures,” I said tentatively, walking over for a closer look as Declan watched me. The first one I saw was a nude full-body shot of a seated elderly black woman with a breast on one side and a scar on the other, from cancer surgery, I guessed. I was surprised by how serene she looked, with an almost whimsical expression on her thin face. The flat spot where the breast and nipple used to be looked so natural, the scar at a matter-of-fact diagonal, as if her chest had simply been zipped back up at an angle. Or as if that side of her body were winking at you. I didn’t want to
stare too long with Declan watching me, but I also didn’t want him to think I was afraid to look, because then he’d see me the way my father did, as a paint-by-numbers kind of person.

  I took in an image of a very fat, middle-aged nude woman who was smoking a cigarette while sitting on the ledge of the burgundy sofa, looking almost defiant. Her hair was teased, her eyeliner and mascara too heavy. Suddenly I could feel Declan’s presence just behind me. Slowly, I leaned back into him, and my eyes fluttered shut. I felt him bending down to put the whiskey bottle on the floor, the hollow sound punctuating Steely Dan’s lyrics. And then Declan’s hands were around my waist and his breath was on my neck and he turned me around and kissed me, alcohol and tobacco and hash overlaying a distinctive bitter-sweetness. It was kind of like the smell of gasoline: you knew the fumes were toxic, but you loved it anyway. I whimpered with pleasure.

  “Declan.” I looked up at him. “It’s just, see, I’m still—”

  “Miss Martha. All this is optional. I could photograph you with clothes on. We could drink whiskey together, or smoke a little hash. We could read Rilke. I’m at your service. Or, at your—cervix,” he smiled. “Whichever you prefer. And yes, I do have rubbers.”

  “Oh!” I stood there blushing.

  “Don’t you think,” he confided, leaning into me, “that four years of foreplay is enough?” He picked up the bottle and offered me a swig again, but I shook my head. I didn’t want to do anything that might confuse me, or make me unable to remember and savor things later.

  “C’mon back,” Declan said, “and I’ll show you my den of iniquity.” He strode through a short dark hallway, opening the beaded curtain for me and letting me in first. The beads clicked soothingly as the strands swung to rest.

  Declan’s room was small, and the air in there was stale. Piles of books lay on the floor: Under the Volcano, In Cold Blood, The Armies of the Night. There was very little room left for the large, unmade bed. Each wall was a different color: olive green, navy blue, bright orange, and hot pink, as if in mockery of my childish red-blue-green-yellow sense of order. Against the orange wall was a narrow wooden table littered with prints. “My latest forays into photo-land,” Declan explained. “This is my work. The ones in the main room, of course, are Leonid’s. Go ahead, have a look. See what you think.”

  There were two shots of Raquel, one with clothes on and one with clothes off. She had a beautiful body and for some reason didn’t look show-offy in the nude the way she did in real life. There were nudes of several other girls that Declan had been involved with, two of which were taken outdoors. There were also some pictures of people I knew from school that I’d never have dreamed Declan would be interested in, like Diego someone, a black football player in our grade who had a huge Afro and shark-like teeth. In one of the photos, Diego was smiling and nude, in a he-man-type pose with his arms, but with his legs pressed together. He had pubic hair but no penis. I winced.

  “That one?” Declan laughed.

  I wished I had something original to say. Raquel probably would. She’d probably act as if a guy without a penis were nothing unusual and then make some joke on top of that. “What—”

  Declan was merciful. “He just stuck it between his thighs.”

  “Oh,” I said, forcing a smile. There was something about Declan’s pictures that made me feel excluded, as if everyone else got the joke except me. Were they all like that? I rifled through the stack.

  There seemed to be two categories: (a) people Declan was interested in, and (b) people who had something wrong with them. That studious, acne-scarred girl named Fumiko who had been in my Latin class! It was surprising enough that Declan noticed her existence, but how had he gotten her to take her clothes off? I looked back down. A girl in my Trig class who had become skinnier and skinnier over the last year or so, like Shalimar. She was wearing her glasses, but nothing else. And underneath that one, a nude of a cheerleader who sat in my homeroom class and was always smacking her gum. I’d heard she’d had to undergo an operation to remove part of her digestive system. On the cheerleader’s abdomen was a strange plastic bag that seemed to be attached right to her body.

  Oh, God, what was this? Giselle? Nude, on tiptoe, with one hand on top of her cello as if for balance, and the other hand waving the bow? There was nothing wrong with Giselle! She would have to be in the other category. Did Clifton know? Was the photo taken before he and Giselle were together?

  There was no doubt in my mind that in order to photograph these girls, Declan had told all of them something. They had a special aura about them, or they were imperfect but also perfect, or the light was reflected so beautifully in their faces. He’d kissed them, and said he was at their cervixes, and said that x number of years of foreplay was enough. Doing that to a girl you wanted to sleep with—I guess that was one thing. But the idea that Declan would seek out odd girls and feature what was weird about them—now, finally, I was angry.

  “You just want people who—who’re damaged. Is that it?” I demanded.

  “Miss Martha, don’t be—”

  “They’re all—oddities behind what looks normal! Or—normalness behind—look, I get it, okay? I’m an oddity to you!” Shrug.

  Declan put his hand on the jumpy shoulder. “My lady—”

  “Don’t my lady me! You think you can capture my shrug in a nude photo? You can’t!”

  “Miss Martha. Don’t you realize? We’re all oddities!” From another stack, Declan pulled out a nude self-portrait he’d taken in a mirror. This one was in color. He was wearing heavy blue eyeliner and coral lipstick. Goddamn him, he was even pretty as a girl.

  I stared at the photo. The kind of person who would put on makeup and then take a picture of it and show it off—that was a person who, I knew, would never be interested in me. Declan was going to want to spend his time with people who were as brave as he was—who were willing to expose the parts of themselves that were scary, I guessed. As hard as I worked, I couldn’t be like that. It was too advanced for me. It was like the infinity of books at Cody’s—an equally impossible demand.

  I walked past Declan back out to the main room, where I’d left my purse. He didn’t try to dissuade me. He just stood at the beaded curtain, watching me with that maddening expression of amusement, the bottle in one hand. I had my kiss, and I could always come back and have sex with him if I changed my mind.

  Giselle. What was I going to do about that? I’d have to think. In the meantime, Steely Dan ushered me out.

  32

  berkeley

  A few days later, a big envelope from Cal arrived in the mail. I knew that if I’d gotten in, my father would start bitching about how I always worry for no reason, and if I’d been rejected, he’d offer me some bullshit about the human condition. If I’d gotten in but hadn’t gotten financial aid, he’d probably give me a little of each. I was in no mood for any of it. So I took the envelope into the bathroom for privacy, my heart racing and my stomach roiling as I tore open the flap.

  Suddenly, privacy was irrelevant. “Dad! Dad!” I shouted, flinging open the door and racing into the kitchen. “I’m accepted at Cal! And they’re giving me money!”

  My father looked up from his crossword with a mild half-smile. “Good, honey.”

  It wasn’t exactly the full-throated congratulations I was expecting. “Dad, you understand, right? That I have the money to go? They’re giving me a Regents’ Scholarship of $650 per year for four years! That’s gonna cover all of my tuition and registration fees. Plus they awarded me living expenses. Which means I can use it for a dorm or a co-op, plus it’ll pay for my books and stuff! So—thank you for filling out those forms!”

  I figured that at the very least, my father would be happy he didn’t have to support me anymore. But he just gave me this baffled look, as if I’d gotten around the money obstacle using the same illegitimate trick I’d used to do well in school all along. As if Bancroft Way were some sort of picket line that I wouldn’t dream of crossing if I were a
moral person.

  I ignored him and went and sat on my futon. The envelope was filled with papers and brochures: housing forms; pamphlets about activities and clubs; a glossy sheet about the history of the university. There were all kinds of pictures of the Campanile and Sather Gate and Sproul Plaza, landmarks so familiar that they looked almost unfamiliar on paper. There was a sheet about medical services on campus. I must have checked some box saying I was Jewish, because there was an invitation from Hillel to come enjoy free dinners on Friday nights.

  I could be Jewish if I wanted. I could go to a doctor if I wanted. I could live in a dorm and hang around with other Cal students if I wanted. All of these were things I wished for Hildy and Drew. But it had been hard enough making them happen for myself.

  I thought of calling my mother to tell her I was going to Cal, but I didn’t want a lecture about how I wasn’t getting far enough away from my sick, destructive father. On the other hand, I was worried that she’d get really upset if she somehow found out and I hadn’t told her. So I wrote her a brief letter at her parents’ to show I was mature. Also to show I’d be moving to student housing.

  “Dear Mom,” I wrote, “How are you? I’m fine. I wanted to tell you I’m starting at Cal in October. They gave me all the money I need to go, and even to live in a dorm. I hope you’re okay. Love, Martha.”

  Graduation came, then a long summer of working for Mr. Lucas, hanging around with Stephanie and Brett and Paisley and Hildy and Drew, and trying not to roll my eyes when my father would lecture us kids about how we should really call our mother. Who, by the way, never responded to my letter.

  I also spent a lot of time daydreaming about Clifton. I hadn’t figured out what to do about that photo of Giselle at Declan’s, so I hadn’t done anything. Then toward the end of the summer, I found out that Giselle had broken up with Clifton, apparently in order to take up with his best friend, Ben, before leaving for Oberlin. I thought of calling Clifton. I wanted to call. But Mrs. Cray might answer the phone, so again, I did nothing.