“Hey,” he said.
“Hey. Good day in the city?”
“Oh yeah. I went up to the Rose Garden. It must be gorgeous when they’re in bloom. And Mount Hood—it’s so . . . present. Like the moon. I feel as if it’s been following me around all day.”
“You can see a long way when it’s sunny,” said Myla, sitting down on the top step.
“Are you okay?” asked Samuel after a minute. She could feel him looking at the back of her head.
“Sure,” she said. She couldn’t describe the feeling inside her. After the initial euphoria of having held David’s manuscript in her hands, she now felt a sorrow so simple it threatened to overwhelm her. The book in her bag would likely be the last unknown piece of David she’d ever get to have. Every time she read one of his words, it would be the last time that word was new.
Samuel rose and walked across the porch to sit beside her. He held a piece of paper in his hand. He cleared his voice. “Mark called.” He handed her the paper and she saw Mark’s name on it, and the time he’d called. Only an hour before.
Myla studied the paper, hoping it would offer some clue to Mark’s emotional temperature. “Was he angry?”
Samuel shook his head. “He didn’t sound angry. I can’t really imagine Mark angry.”
“Exactly,” said Myla. “Neither can I. And that’s what scares me.”
“What makes you think he’s angry at you?”
“He hasn’t returned any of my phone calls. And you know how much he loves the phone.”
“Actually,” said Samuel, pointing to the piece of paper, “he has returned your phone calls. It just took him some time.”
Myla nodded. “How long did you guys talk?”
“I don’t know—like twenty minutes?”
“What did you talk about?”
Samuel shifted his weight, and the board underneath him groaned. “I don’t know. Mostly you.”
Myla rolled her eyes. “I’m not an interesting topic of conversation, let me assure you.”
“Au contraire,” said Samuel, then laughed. “Or at least that’s what Mark would say.”
Myla felt tears buzzing into her eyes, stabbed with missing Mark. Samuel squatted down beside her. “Just call him back, Myla.”
Fifteen minutes later, Myla had hidden herself in the bedroom with the clunky rotary phone, after getting up her nerve to dial the number. It rang four times—long enough to convince her Mark wasn’t home anymore, long enough to make her nearly lose her nerve—and then he answered.
“Hi, Mark.”
“Well, this is one of those situations not covered in the best-friend handbook: how to talk to your estranged partner in crime who’s been living under a false identity for the full duration of your friendship, and who now has an entirely different name with entirely new initials and, most important, an entirely new monogram. I mean, how embarrassing for me! Those hand towels I got you last Christmas! I could just die.”
Myla smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So my name’s Myla now.”
“Yeah, I gathered that. Somewhere between waiting for them to find your body and wanting to kill you myself, I picked that up.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
Mark’s voice turned serious. “See, I’ve thought a lot about that. When I got your letter and Samuel explained what it all meant, I was pretty much ready to be done with you.”
“So what changed?”
“Oh, so you assume I’ve changed my mind. You’re a presumptuous lady, Miss Myla Rose Wolfe. Okay, okay, yes, I’ve changed my mind. But I can’t quite figure out why. Samuel’s faith in you certainly helped.”
“Yeah. And now he’s here.”
“Yeah. You wanna dish about that one?”
Myla shook her head, as if Mark was in the room with her. “Frankly, I’m puzzled. I thought I’d made it clear that I never wanted to see him again. And correct me if I’m wrong, but most men tend to take that kind of thing at face value. Most men don’t get on an airplane the same day.”
“Most men aren’t simultaneously brilliant and perfect without a shirt on. Then again, most men aren’t Samuel or me.” She could hear Mark biting into an apple as he casually added, “You guys done it yet this time around?”
“Mark! No comment.”
“Oh, please don’t tell me the new you doesn’t dish on sexy details—”
“It’s not like that,” she interrupted. “Things just haven’t gone that direction.”
“Hm,” said Mark. “So you’re not interested.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Or, I know, you’re miffed at him for invading your privacy by following you all the way across the country just so he could profess his undying and eternal love . . . You know, on second thought, you’re right. Poor you. I absolutely hate it when that kind of thing happens.”
Myla realized she’d tangled her fingers in the cord of the telephone. She pulled her hand free and sighed, ignoring Mark’s mocking tone. “I’m not exactly angry. I like having him around. But there’s something about him, something he said—”
“Right. The stuff in his lecture. He explained it to me. And by the way, when he was telling me about it, putting two and two together, he got all red in the face and excited, and I realized: no wonder seeing him lecture turned you on.”
“Mark!”
“Okay, okay. So do you want to know my opinion or not?”
“Of course I do.”
“I say let it go.”
Myla felt her voice rising. “It wasn’t the kind of thing one can just let go. He believes the photographs I was in as a child were the cause of my sister’s death. He essentially accused my father of murdering her with his own hands.” Myla shuddered. “I can’t kiss a man who believes that about my father. I can’t just let something like that go.”
“If you can’t, you can’t,” Mark said. “I’m just saying go easy on the guy. He’s a good man. He obviously likes you. He probably feels really bad about what he said. And maybe being with you, maybe seeing that you don’t believe your father murdered your sister, will bring him around to your point of view. I don’t know.”
“Okay,” said Myla. “Thank you. I’ve got to remember to lighten up.”
“Yeah. Don’t let Myla Rose Wolfe be a downer. Let her be one of the cool kids. You get a clean slate, after all.”
Myla smiled again. “Thank you, Mark.” She paused. Then she asked, “But I have to know, if you’ll tell me. Why’d you decide to call?”
“Oh, that,” he said. “See, I thought about it a lot. And realized that we’re all pretty fucked up, which is not a highly profound statement, but go with me on this one. We start out as these tiny bundles and then along the way we get fucked up, and we fuck up in the process. My dad—you asked about my dad—he wants to be a good man. His name’s Pedro, since you were so curious. He was raised in a conservative Spain, by very traditional people. He’s a devout Catholic, he loves his wife, he loves the children who follow his vision of what life should be. He’s tried to love me. I truly believe he has. But that doesn’t help me when I know he won’t speak to me because I’m gay. That doesn’t help me when I’m not invited home, or when one of my sisters—the super-Catholic one—won’t even call me anymore. My mom’s called me once this year.”
Myla had heard only snatches of Mark’s family situation in the five years she’d known him. Now, laid out before her like this, the story was excruciating. “Oh God, Mark, that’s awful.”
He continued, “And this is why I don’t talk about it in the first place: because it just turns into this maudlin sob story that depresses everyone. The truth is, I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve made myself a pretty great life, and I pity my father for not wanting to know me just because of who I am. It’s probably caused him much more pain than it’s caused me. But that’s not my point.”
“What is your point?”
“My point is that you, Miss
Myla, are brave. At first I was very angry at you, and then I came to realize how much I admire what you’re doing. Horrible stuff happened in your family. We’re talking Greek-tragedy horrible. It obviously screwed you up—when you’re orphaned, that’s probably it for most people—and I’m guessing it wasn’t some luxuriously sneaky plan of yours to simply pretend to be someone else. I’m guessing you felt it was a last resort. So how cool is it that you’ve decided to finally tell the truth about yourself? Yeah, I’m mad you didn’t want to let me in on the secret, but that’s mostly my own shit. What I’m talking about is bigger than that: I’m impressed by you. I’m impressed by who Myla Rose Wolfe is. She’s the person I’m excited about knowing. Forget Kate Scott. It’s a new phase! It’s a new you! It means you can buy a whole new wardrobe!”
Myla was laughing hard. She felt giddy, wound around by understanding. They talked and talked, and she explained everything: David’s notebook, David’s manuscript, Jane and Steve’s house, Samuel’s arrival, Portland, and the bits of her past she wanted to revisit. With each word, she felt more whole, more confident. It was glorious: one half of herself meeting her other. She felt, at last, that she’d arrived.
WE’RE EATING DINNER IN THE house, and by “we” I mean Myla, me, David, and Helaine. She’s made us chicken with broccoli on the side, and rice. Myla loves broccoli, so she’s eating it even though she wants to hate this food. She’s mad at David for telling Helaine this is her favorite meal.
Then the doorbell rings. I go get it and Ruth’s outside. She smiles. “Hey, can I come in?” and I say of course, but when I bring her into the dining room they all make sounds like they’re apologizing. Ruth says, “Oh, I didn’t realize—” and David stands up so his chair scrapes on the floor and he speaks too loudly. He says, “Don’t be ridiculous,” while Myla gets up to get Ruth a chair. The only person who doesn’t say anything is Helaine. Then there’s confusion about whether Ruth will eat with us or not. She says no but David says yes. She settles for a glass of wine. She says she already ate but I can tell she’s lying.
When we’re all sitting, Helaine says, “So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Glad you asked,” says Ruth, even though she’s not. “I got a call yesterday, from a gallery in New York City, and they love my portfolio. Not only do they want to represent me, but they want to do a solo show! Of my photographs! Can you believe it? The gallerist said they haven’t been this excited about someone’s work in at least ten years.”
Myla’s up and jumping and comes around the table to hug Ruth and me. Then David’s laughing and everyone’s saying congratulations and forgetting all about the meal. It’s just that kind of moment. We don’t mean anything by it.
Once we’re all quiet, Helaine says, “Congratulations, Ruth. What’s the time frame for this?”
“Pretty soon, actually. January.” Ruth looks at Myla and me. “And I would really like it if you guys could come along. Obviously, we’ve got to talk to your dad about it, but I’m hoping—”
“What pictures would you be showing?” Helaine says over her wine-sipping.
“Well,” says Ruth. “Recent stuff.” She smiles. “Stuff of the girls, probably.”
Myla giggles and claps her hands. She says, “Oh my God, Ruth, I can’t believe this is happening! New York City?” But Helaine says something while Myla’s speaking, and we can’t hear Helaine. David asks her to repeat what she said, and she cuts the chicken slowly with her knife.
“So it’s pictures of the girls you’ll be showing, then?”
Ruth’s voice gets hard and she says, “Yes. Partially. That’s what this gallery’s really excited about.”
“Have you asked the girls?”
“I always ask the girls.” Ruth looks at David and then at me. She doesn’t know what to say.
“Yeah,” I say. “She always asks us.” I don’t sound as brave as I’d like.
“Good,” says Helaine, and smiles so we can see her gums. “Looks like you have it all figured out. I’m so proud of you, Ruth. I know we all are.”
Myla gets up and puts her napkin on the table. Her chair doesn’t make the sound she’d like it to. She looks at David and says, quietly, “Unbelievable,” and picks up her plate and leaves the room. We hear her as she glowers up the stairs, and her door-slamming shakes the house.
Ruth pats my back. “I’m sorry if I came at a bad time. This is obviously something we all need to talk about. So.” She gets up. David says he’ll walk her out. And they go to the front door and he walks her out onto the porch.
Helaine’s still eating. I watch her while she chews. She has a strong jaw. I tell her about my day. I eat my rice.
MYLA BURST AWAKE TO FIND Samuel shaking her. “You were having another nightmare,” he said, letting go of her shoulders as she rose into consciousness.
“Jesus,” she said. She’d been dreaming about the dark room again, about the interview with tiny Pru alone onstage. Myla looked at Samuel, and his face pulled her back to reality. He stood up.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He headed toward the door.
“Wait,” she said, her voice too loud in the nighttime.
He stopped. His back to her, he looked smaller than usual, like a boy who needed permission. She checked herself before saying: “Come back.” As she moved into full waking, she cloudily remembered the reservations she had about this man. She knew, in the daylight, that she had all sorts of reasons not to trust him. But she moved her legs so he could sit down, scooped against her. A breeze came in slowly, swooning the curtains. There were dogs barking in the neighborhood.
He said, “I don’t like the way your nightmares sound.” It was a perfect thing to say. She was starting to notice small details about Samuel: the timbre of his voice, the way he hesitated before lifting his water glass, his attention to the outside when they were driving, and, most of all, the simple truths behind his speech. It seemed that he did not lie. His honesty struck Myla at that moment as an extraordinary thing.
“I don’t like being in them,” she said.
“What happens?”
She tried to think of the best way to explain. “They’re all about not being enough. Fast enough, strong enough, brave enough. Not catching up in time.”
“In time for what?”
“In time to save her.” Myla tried to start again, but she’d lost her voice. She looked at Samuel, traced his features with her eyes. She was being pulled under by something stronger than sleep, but familiar in the way that sleep was. She wanted to explain to him, but she couldn’t.
Finally he spoke. “Tell me about Ruth.”
So here it was: his way of helping her. Asking her questions she wouldn’t explore on her own, in search of an answer he believed she needed to find. She leaned closer to him, then tried to locate Ruth in her mind. Ruth was a taste. Ruth was a feeling. “Ruth was tall. She had this amazing long black hair. She spun all sorts of wild tales about traveling through Asia with only a camera and a backpack. She collected legendary boyfriends with names like Luca and Giancarlo. We never knew much about her childhood. We knew she grew up in Kentucky and that she didn’t have much family, but that was about it.” Only here in the darkness could Myla easily assemble truths about Ruth and speak them out loud. “She loved us as she loved herself. She wanted to make glorious, transcendent art.” She shook her head, listened to her hair rustling the pillow. “Pru loved the photographs.”
“You’ll think this strange, after what I said in my lecture, but I find the photographs profoundly compelling,” he said. “They’re riveting.”
“I haven’t looked at any of them since I left here.”
Samuel touched her then, softly, on her hip. “I’ll look at them with you, if it helps. We can look at them together.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Are all the rest of them—what’s the estimated figure, ten thousand negatives?—really missing?”
“Yes,” said Myla. �
�Not to mention her prints. She was a great printer. None of us has any idea what Ruth did with them. She probably destroyed them,” and the thought of all that lost art brimmed Myla with sorrow.
“Later, then, when you want to.” His fingers rubbed a circle on her hip, starting small, moving big.
“How long will you stay?” she asked.
“As long as you want.” It was what she wanted him to say. “I don’t plan on going back. So here’s as good a place as any.”
Immediately a question rose in her—why was he refusing to return to his life at the college?—but just as quickly, her hands were on the corners of his shirt, pulling him toward her.
They’d done this before, but this time it was different. This time she was aware of him in a way she hadn’t been before, because she knew him so much better. She wanted to know him. It was quiet and soft, this way of lying against someone you might grow to cherish, and afterward, they pulled the covers up around them and slept hip to hip. They awoke to the dawn, creeping blue into the room. They made love again, and then Myla lay on her back, watching Samuel slip into soft sleep.
David’s manuscript was still her secret. She waited until Samuel was breathing long and deep, and she then eased her body away from his warmth. Myla’s bag, which held David’s book, was nestled beside the bed. With her fingers, she found the thick manila envelope and pulled it up onto her lap, relishing what was to come. She slipped out the cover page and read the title again. Spectacular Futures: How Art Makes Up Our Minds. Underneath it, David had typed the titles of each subsection:
i. Gaining Perspective: Sight and the Invention of the Real
ii. The Sacred Body and the Nude: Visual Salvation
iii. The Momentous Birth of Photography and the Advent of Technological Time
iv. Blessed Are the Art Makers, for Theirs Is the Kingdom of Change
The Effects of Light Page 16