A Day in June

by Marisa Labozzetta

  “When was this?” Ryan has again become the enthusiastic woman on her walk into town earlier that day. Eric knows the photo flatters him.

  “About eight years ago.”

  “Where?’

  “The Whites.”

  “Who took it?”

  “An old friend.”

  “A girlfriend?” She continues to study the picture.

  “Yeah.”

  “A photographer?”

  “That’s correct. She was.”

  “And the photo was a gift.” She finally looks up at him.

  “Very good, Sherlock.”

  “I can tell by the frame. It’s different from all the others. I’m glad I saw it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re playful and open. Relaxed. Content.” She turns her attention back to the photograph.

  “And now?”

  “Like the rest of us,” says the girl who is about to be married, and Eric can’t help concluding that talk of the impending wedding does not reveal a happy heart. “You do that a lot, don’t you?”

  “Do what?”

  “Cock your head to the side like this.” She mimics the photograph. “You just did it a few minutes ago.”

  “Guess I do. Is that bad?”

  “Not at all,” she tells him, and he swears she’s coming on to him. “For what it’s worth, I like your hair better the way you used to wear it.”

  I don’t remember asking your opinion, he wants to tell her.

  “What’s behind that curtain?” She points to a ratty black velvet cloth hanging on a curtain rod.

  “That is my darkroom—when I use one.”

  “Can I see it?”

  * * *

  She is not horrified by the condition of the darkroom hidden behind the curtain Eric’s mother had sewn when his father first enclosed the five-by-seven-foot area for his own hobby so many years ago—the hideaway with its raw plywood floor installed to better maintain the warmth given off by the small space heater in the corner, the stained sink, plastic gallon jugs of chemicals, crude shelving that holds boxes of fiber paper, clothespins clipped to the clothesline that await photos after they are developed, the safe lights whose wildly strung wires look anything but safe, exposed copper water pipes running along the ceiling, the second-hand enlarger, an old beige wall phone, the timer, the grain enlarger, the pegboard filled with small odd tools, the collage of photos tacked up on the walls, giving the room the appearance of a crime lab. It is unattractive chaos to a neatness fanatic, antiquated to those who crave state-of-the-art, incomprehensible to the laity.

  “I dry the negatives and film here. The fiber photos get pressed in this press. I like analog.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Film. I still like to use black-and-white-film on occasion. Don’t get me wrong, there’s great advantages to digital: You’re never aware of film problems, like having to change it; you just shoot away and then edit and get rid of the crap.”

  “I thought you used a phone sometimes.”

  He laughed. “There’s that too.”

  He goes around the room from the wet area to the dry, explaining the developing process, the machines he rarely touches anymore, the ones he still does, trying to make the sequence understood.

  She steps closer to a black-and-white 8 x 10 matte photo of a couple, though the position of the subjects does not make their human qualities apparent at first glance. She studies it. The man and woman are naked and sitting on the floor, but the way their legs and arms are entwined hides any private parts. The sleek blond head of the woman rests on the smooth black shoulder of the man, whose face can be seen only in profile. But that’s not all. There’s another arm, another leg, another head, another body there—darker than the woman’s, lighter than the man’s. He’s between them, his head arching around the woman, his torso around the man. It’s as though they’re melting into one another and can’t be separated. A sculpture of unity. A lyrical, never-ending story.

  “You can almost see them breathing,” Ryan says. “I want to touch their skin, there’s such a soft quality to the photo. How did you do this, and what’s it doing on this wall with a pushpin in it?”

  “How?” He’s pleased with her reaction.

  “How did you pose them like this? Who are they?”

  “Friends. Honestly, it was easy. It’s who they are. They kind of posed themselves.”

  “They must be pretty close friends to let you do that. It’s as though the photographer is part of the picture. It’s so intimate.”

  “He is.”

  “Oh my God! That’s you!”

  “I was taking a portrait class when I foolishly thought I could sustain my bread and butter with them while I worked on more creative stuff. One day the professor asked to see my self-portraits, and I told her I didn’t have any. ‘You’re a fucking portrait photographer and you don’t have any self-portraits?’ she said. ‘Get naked and take some.’ I was used to a controlled photo session, where I set up every aspect. Self-portraits loosened me up and opened my eyes to getting something I didn’t know I was going to get. It’s been a great help in my new project—and in photographing actors.”

  “I should feel like I’m intruding on them but I don’t. It’s like they’re drawing me into their private world. Is that a contradiction?”

  She’s moved closer to him, their bodies purposely touching as they examine the portrait, and again he can swear she’s coming on to him. Or is he coming on to her?

  “I suppose. But that’s the beauty of art, isn’t it? I wish everyone saw into images that way.”

  “Were you happy with it? I mean, is that what you set out to do?”

  “Sort of. When the end result surprises you some—surprises your audience—I guess that’s what you were striving for.”

  “Well you killed it. This is amazing.”

  “Thanks, but you’re way too complimentary.”

  “No I’m not. I can see why you want it here. To remind you of what you’re capable of.”

  “And who and what you love.”

  “It makes me want to take up photography even more,” Ryan says. “It also discourages me. I could never do this.”

  He shakes his head. “Do it because you love it—or at least like it. Because it brings you pleasure. See what happens.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Put it on your gift registry—a camera, a class. I’m just talking. Do people do that?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I should get back to the inn.”

  Her mood’s changed again with the mention of the wedding.

  “Come on. I’ll take you back.”

  “Wait! Where are the pictures from the show?”

  “Still packed away.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Sure.” He wants to keep her here, and it seems she wants to stay, as long as he doesn’t bring up the wedding. He’s about to leave the darkroom and lead her to the carton with the three wrapped-up photographs, but instead he bends down and does what he’s been wanting to do—he kisses her. And she kisses him back, putting her hand on his chest. He wraps his arms around the small of her back. She moves her other arm around his thick neck. And now they too are in some fashion entwined, as though seeking to replicate the photo. He’s a good kisser; at least that’s what women have told him. Maybe they lied, though she seems to be enjoying it. He can feel himself growing. Shit! He can feel her body temperature rising, her breath becoming heavier. They pull away at the same time, as though they had set the developing timer and it just went off.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, wiping the sweetness from his lips.

  “Don’t be.” She combs her hair with her fingers. “Just don’t be sorry.” But they have already turned away from each other and are heading for the black velvet curtain and the long flight of stairs without mentioning the carton of photographs from the show.

  Chapter 9

  Friday, February 7

  The Holy Prostitute
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  “Morning.” Daisy stepped barefoot into the kitchen where Suzanne was giving the children their breakfast. “That quilt was so warm and cozy. I had one like it. When my father was dying, I left for two weeks to visit him. When I got back, my roommate and his girlfriend had taken all of my things and thrown them in the street. In the street!”

  “Why?”

  “Sick.” She pointed to her head. “You should have seen it. Everything in the gutter, thrown every which way. I like things orderly. Neat. And do you think my father cared what happened to me? He kicked me in the face. Almost broke my jaw. Then he called the police.”

  “Your father?”

  “No. My roommate. He had me on the floor. Even the policeman said he didn’t like to see anyone down and out like I was.”

  Suzanne wondered if Daisy’s father had died. She had lost both of her own parents early: Her father when she was ten and her mother when she was eighteen, just before she married Billy. Alyssa lifted up a piece of toast and held it out to Daisy.

  “Thank you, sweetie, but that’s your breakfast.” Then she took it just the same, and eying the jar of peanut butter on the counter, asked if she could have some.

  “Go ahead.” Suzanne shoved a spoonful of cereal into the baby’s mouth. Daisy began to open all the drawers. “What are you looking for?”

  “A knife. Don’t get up. I don’t mind. Actually, I’m enjoying going through your things. So neat and orderly. You’re like me. Neat. You know what that shows, Suzanne? Good upbringing. Right?” She drew out the last word in a sing-song manner. “I have a lot of dishes like these—somewhere—I think. Is ninethirty too early to call someone who’s been up late at a party?”

  “I really don’t know.” The company of another adult—even a bizarre one—was a welcome change from being alone with the babies. Billy managed a gas station during the day and was finishing up his third quarter at the university in the evening. He wanted to be a lawyer.

  “I told him not to stay up all night. John, my boyfriend. He’d better have listened. Does Billy listen to you?”

  Suzanne laughed as she began to clear the dishes. That was an understatement.

  “He’s probably got a real hangover. But you know men. They go out and cavort, then they want to run home and make love to you. I don’t mind. I like to think of myself as a prostitute.”

  Suzanne straightened her back and squeezed the sponge in her hand.

  “Oh not that kind. I mean a holy prostitute, like they used to have back in Ancient Greece, in Mesopotamia, in Egypt. They were women in the temples. You know. When men came back from battle, they would go to these temples and screw these prostitutes. Entering them was a form of cleansing after their barbaric behavior. Like confession. But, of course, that was before the great misogynists took over.”

  “Who?”

  “Misogynists. You know. Women haters. Right?” She said, drawing out the word again and taking a slice of bread from the package on the counter, then slathering it with peanut butter.

  CONFESSION. THERE WAS a handy little sacrament that washed away evil thoughts and deeds with a few Hail Marys. Ryan could use a good confession now, sneak behind the curtain into the dark box of the local church (because she isn’t allowed since she has never been baptized) and spill it all. That way she wouldn’t have to admit any deception to the Brackton Chamber of Commerce. It had worked for her first college roommate who chose the religious practice over therapy to deal with her nymphomania. And how nifty was it for those ancient warriors who derived pleasure while receiving absolution? How arrogant of them! Men, like her father, still came crawling back in the same manner, only now they called it makeup sex.

  Ryan is making good progress on this story. If she stays at the office for an extra forty-five minutes, she can write a page a day. In a month, she’ll have the first draft down—sooner if she puts in time on the weekends. In a year, she could write a novel, though every book she’s read on writing says it takes at least two. She doesn’t at all mind staying late today and waiting out the rush hour traffic before she picks up her car in JP and heads over to the nursing home. She can’t wait to go to Laurel Manor. She’s dying to tell Faye about her naughty weekend in Brackton.

  * * *

  She finds Faye lying fully clothed on her bed, eyes closed, mouth open, left arm hanging over the mattress. Ryan’s heart sinks, adrenaline rushes.

  “Faye!” She clasps the limp but warm hand.

  An annoyed Faye moans in protest. “I was having the most delightful dream. I was in Venice. Marcello Mastroianni and Rossano Brazzi were fighting over me in a gondola.”

  “How come it wasn’t Paul Newman, Miss JDate? Or have you crossed over to the world of gentiles?”

  Faye’s eyelids fly open.

  “Ryan! I thought you were one of the little nurses here. Always waking me up for one thing or another. Pains in the neck.”

  “You scared the shit out of me, Faye.”

  “Now it even costs to dream?”

  “You didn’t answer the phone when I called you an hour ago.”

  “I was out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Probably in physical therapy, or the gym, as they call it. I call it physical torture.” She pushes herself up and rests on her elbows; Ryan adjusts her pillows. Suddenly Faye’s mouth droops to the left, then to the right. Her eyebrows rise an inch. Ryan reaches for the buzzer.

  “What’s the matter, Faye? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m doing my facial exercises. I always do them when I wake up, no matter how many times a day. You should too. And will you please relax already? You’re becoming as nervous as your father.”

  “I thought you were having a stroke.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I take an aspirin a day.”

  “Should I do that too?”

  “Not until you’re fifty.” Ryan helps her sit up. “So tell me, bubeleh, how did you make out on the Internet?”

  “I didn’t. But I did go to Vermont.”

  “Vermont?”

  “Remember the contest? Or are you still in Venice?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  Her thin penciled brows work hard, meeting together over the bridge of her nose. Then the smile of recollection.

  “I don’t know, Faye.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “Why I’m pursuing this marriage thing at all. Some of my friends are already getting divorced. What’s the point?”

  “You and I wouldn’t be here together having this conversation without it. That’s the point.”

  “This contest is creating too many problems.”

  “If you’re not cut out for problems, Ryan, you’re not cut out for life. I look at it this way: You can be happy or you can be sad; the glass can be half full or half empty. I choose to be an optimist. Now, tell all.”

  Ryan begins to recount the weekend’s events to her grandmother. She takes a long time to tell a story; her descriptions are detailed, her dialogues verbatim. When she was a child about to recount her school day at the dinner table, her father would look at his watch and ask if it was going to take more than five minutes, so he could go pee and then pour himself another glass of wine in preparation. Ryan has barely finished describing the vendors’ presentation and is up to her visit to Eric’s artwork (she’ll leave out the darkroom episode) when there’s a knock at the door. This time it’s the CNA Louis whom Ryan met last time, coming to take Faye to the movie they’re showing. Tonight it’s Pal Joey.

  “Louis, I’m so glad it’s you. You remember my granddaughter.”

  “Forget it, Faye,” Ryan whispers. “He still looks like he’s ten.”

  “This Eric character sounds like he might be a prospect.”

  “Out of the question.”

  Faye challenges with raised eyebrows. Was Faye that clever or Ryan that transparent?

  Louis helps Faye into a wheelchair and pushes her past Ryan.

  “Sorry, bubeleh. I have a dat
e.”

  “Let me guess. Harold the dancer.”

  Faye confirms with a smile. “We’re working fast, since we’re both short-termers here.”

  “Why? Your mother won’t allow you to go out when you get home?”

  “Cute. At our age, we don’t buy green bananas. By the way, we’ve exchanged bodily fluids.”

  “Too much information.” And in front of Louis, no less. Ryan waves away her grandmother’s last statement.

  “Orally, Ryan darling. For now. There’s a slice of coffee cake wrapped in a napkin on my night table.”

  “I’ll be back, Faye.”

  “Can you bring me a can of spray paint next time you come?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re into graffiti?”

  “I might be getting a walker soon.”

  “And you want to paint it.”

  “Metallic gold.”

  Chapter 10

  Monday, February 10

  FATHER CURRAN’S OFFICE in the seminary is the size of the small foyer that used to lead to the secretary’s large office adjacent to the tremendous oak-paneled president’s office—the office from which Father Curran had once steered Freeland College on the Oregon coast, like a ship caught in a perfect storm of tumultuous times that roiled the country and threatened to veer out of his control daily. The youngest Jesuit president at the time, he lectured on the collision course that the country was headed toward concerning materialism and racial inequality. Having studied on the cusp of Vatican II, he was keenly aware of reform and revolution.

  He found himself so impassioned about the Vietnam War that he marched with students, a step that caused the faculty to cast a vote of no confidence and the Board of Trustees to call for his resignation, but a step that also cemented student fidelity: No building was vandalized or occupied at Freeland; there were no administrative takeovers, no strikes. And it was Father Curran who was asked to address the student body after the murders of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, atrocities his religious peers ignored despite their order’s commitment to social justice. And so by popular student demand, the Board of Trustees and influential alumni had no recourse but to uphold Father Curran’s position at the helm, where he remained for thirty years.