by Edan Lepucki
“Don’t tell me he didn’t show you the video. He made it for art class.”
All I could think of were the video games Seth played: World of Warcraft, Call of Duty, some annoying text-based ones that Karl had read about and introduced to Seth. “They’re feminist!” he’d tried to explain to me, but I couldn’t even pretend to care.
Kit knew Seth hadn’t shown me any film. It was why she was telling me now; hell, it was probably her whole reason for ensnaring me into this goddamn lunch.
“He isn’t taking an art class,” I said. I knew this much; I’d seen his schedule, paid the tuition. “It’s a film class.”
“Film is art!” she said. “Seth’s using the medium to express his struggles.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“He wants to be able to talk,” Kit said.
“Everyone wants him to talk!” I didn’t mean to raise my voice, but I did, and the three assholes who had just been seated looked up from their phones in mock concern.
“I don’t care if he speaks or not,” Kit said. She looked deeply satisfied, as if she’d proven something about me that she’d been speculating for years. “Is that why you haven’t let Devin learn sign language?”
Jesus, had Karl recounted every argument we’d ever had?
“All I said was that Dev was too young to take a class. He’s still learning English.”
“The earlier the better, you know that,” Kit said.
“He isn’t deaf!”
“But are you?” she said, and, pleased with her comeback, dipped an empty mussel into the broth and slurped it clean. From his stroller, Devin gave a little sigh, but didn’t wake up.
“Let Dev and Seth communicate,” she said.
“They do communicate!” I grabbed my purse and stood.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to use the bathroom. Or do you need to issue me a hall pass for that?”
I tried not to run across the restaurant. This was a fucking ambush. Figures. I’d made Karl move out and now I was the enemy. Kit never would’ve tried this a few years ago, when she at least put some effort into being nice to me: when we first met at Trader Joe’s and she asked me to model for her; when she wanted me to date Karl; when I was Karl’s lovely wife.
She’d never been friends with any of her subjects before, and if she knew anyone who was poor it was because they were starving artists, not because they were a single mother of a disabled (ugh) child and estranged from their only living relative. I was a novelty, and in the beginning, Kit wanted to bond. Or she just wanted to impart lessons, precious pearls about where to get waxed, what wine to drink, how to talk to housekeepers, how to hang art in your home, which galleries were worth anyone’s time, which female artists were geniuses and which were total poseurs. She even had opinions on child-rearing, of which she had no firsthand experience. I still didn’t understand how she was Karl’s twin sister. He must’ve sucked out all the sweetness from the amniotic sac, left her to feed on only arrogance and judgment.
At least now, in the bathroom, I could check my phone.
First I texted Seth: I WANT TO SEE YOUR FILM YOU MADE FOR SCHOOL.
All-caps conveyed screaming, especially for Seth. That was the point. How dare he not show me the art he made!
I checked my Twitter account, and there, like that, was a message from Marco. Before reading it, I grabbed a white hand towel from the basket by the sink and wiped the sweat from my face.
Sure lets meet. Next week? Monday? Im in Chatsworth (dont laugh): 107 Peralta Ave.
But I did laugh. Holy shit. There was his address. I would see him next week. That was soon.
I replied, Monday works.
I was vetting him. I wouldn’t let him near Seth before I saw him for myself.
On my way out of the bathroom, my phone dinged. I thought it was Seth—he’d give me enough information about his short film that I could get out of this lunch alive, and later we’d watch it together. He’d show me his pain. I knew it better than anyone.
But it was only a text from Verizon, letting me know I’d used up 75 percent of my data plan.
—
When I returned to the bar, Devin was awake, hiding under my stool in a crouch.
“Uh-oh!” I said. “Where is my child?”
Kit gave a theatrical shrug and Devin squealed. He grabbed my calf, pinching the muscle between his tiny fingers.
“Ow!” I said, and reached down to tickle him.
As Devin laughed, Kit said, “A friend of mine says tickling is torture. She’ll never do it to Hildegard.”
“The kid’s name is Hildegard? That’s torture enough.” I let go of Devin and when he begged for me to keep tickling him, I raised an eyebrow at Kit.
“Let me tell you about what I’m working on,” she said.
“Did you give up the real-estate project?”
Last Thanksgiving, Kit told me she’d begun scouring real-estate websites for messy interiors she might photograph. She loved to see houses just on the cusp of entropy.
“That was a hobby. Besides, too many properties are staged. Not a power cord in sight.”
Devin climbed onto the stool next to me and began spinning side to side. I asked Nate to pour him a Shirley Temple, extra cherries, and I was surprised Kit didn’t remark on the sugar content. Devin bounced up and down. “I love red juice,” he told Nate solemnly.
“This isn’t about the Women series, is it?” I asked Kit.
“God no—this is all new! Anyway, even if I were putting that up again, you’re off the hook. I signed the contract, remember? Part of me wishes I hadn’t. I’d love to have the original in a show someday.”
“Stop.”
“What? You are Woman Number Seventeen!”
“Woman No. 17 is the name of a photo. I’m a person, Kit.”
“Well, it’s my favorite in the series. Karl’s too, obviously. And look what it led to!”
“The one in the book is okay,” I said.
“Not as good as the original. I can’t believe I listened to Karl.”
“You know S, my nanny?” I said. “She’s a fan of yours. She’s seen me in the book.”
“Is that so? Why would she be nannying if she’s so interested in art?”
I sighed. “Tell me about your new stuff.”
Kit blushed, which surprised me. She was always so confident about her projects, full of bluster. But then again, I’d only heard about them after they were finished, or when they were just minor preoccupations.
“This one really matters to you,” I said.
I remembered when we met, how she’d walked me to my car, squeezed into the back of Trader Joe’s nightmare parking lot. She spoke in quick bursts about her vision, about how I’d be part of something honest and raw and real. She told me about her camera and her process and her background, how she’d been showing work for twenty years, how she was excited about this current project. Then she peeked into my grocery bag and saw I’d gotten the shu mai and said she loved it too. I hadn’t had a friend, a real friend, in years, and Kit was this brilliant woman, more than ten years older, with vermillion lipstick and wearing what looked like a bolero made of carpet scraps, her fingernails as unkempt as her outfit was tailored, talking with infectious passion about art and truth and processed food. I didn’t realize how famous she was, but perhaps I sensed it, and felt drawn to her. That day, Kit didn’t have a card so she wrote down her phone number on the back page of the Fearless Flyer.
“Please call me,” she’d said, and I did, two hours later.
Now she had a similar intensity in her eyes, but something sheepish too. The vulnerability was refreshing. Her weapons were down, for now.
Nate set the Shirley Temple in front of Devin and he immediately hooked himself to the straw. It would be gone in seconds. And then what? I doubted they had chicky nuggets.
“Personal? Cool. Are you doing self-portraits?” I asked. “S paints landscapes. I just found out.�
�
This seemed to interest Kit, but then she put down her napkin and said forcefully, as if part of her wasn’t willing to say it aloud: “Lady, I’m photographing Seth.”
I thought I’d slip off my stool. “You’re what?”
I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t.
Devin was still drinking. Oh to be at the bottom of his glass instead of here next to Kit! I felt her hand on my shoulder and I leaned away.
“He loves doing it,” she was saying, “of course he does or I wouldn’t be photographing him.”
“No,” I said. “No. No. No.”
“I want to show you the prints.” She paused. “He’s old enough.”
“What are you even talking about? When did this happen? Did you wait for him to turn eighteen so you didn’t have to fucking ask me? Jesus, Kit. This is low, even for you.”
Just then, a busboy placed my lunch in front of me. The burger glistened with blood and grease and I thought I might vomit.
“Here’s your burger, Dev,” I said, but he just wrinkled his nose.
Without looking at her, I said, “He’s my son, Kit. He’s basically your nephew.”
“That’s why it’s so personal. I’m interested in the perils of representation—always have been, it’s what my work is about.” She took a last sip of her wine. “All his life, Seth’s dealt with everyone speaking for him.”
“So why add to that?”
“The photos are humane,” she said. “They’re the first I’ve ever staged.”
Now I turned to her. “Bullshit. What about Woman No. 17?”
She laughed. “That’s you, Lady. Or it was. That was your life. Your bathroom.”
“And how wonderfully depressing it was! Poor women: so real!”
I could tell she wanted to disagree, but she knew I was right.
“I think you’ll really like the photos,” she said. And then: “I’m surprised you’re so angry.”
“You knew I would be. He’s my child.”
“You’re the one writing a book about him. That could be why it’s been so hard for you to get started.” She furrowed her brow and pouted at me like I was a puppy. As if I’d ever buy her performed concern.
I picked up my fork. I’d at least eat the vegetables. When I was finished I’d ask Nate for a second bowl, and keep eating.
I stopped as soon as I’d speared a bite. This wasn’t a pale-green and fractal piece of Romanesco—it was just plain cauliflower, off-white and blooming like a wart.
I dropped my fork. It hit the plate with a clang.
“You okay?” Kit asked.
“This isn’t Romanesco,” I cried. “This is fucking bullshit cauliflower!”
Devin flinched and Nate looked up behind the bar, as did the server by the windows, who had just bent over to present the old man with his espresso in a tiny brown cup. This place served its coffee with sugar that was more uneven pebble than perfect cube. Karl loved it.
“Lady,” Kit murmured. “Relax.”
I turned to her. “I’m leaving. You’re a traitor and I won’t allow you to hurt my son.” I picked up my purse and hung it on the back of the stroller.
“Lady…”
“And, by the way? That dress? It looks super absorbent.”
I picked up Devin to put him back in the stroller. I didn’t protest when he wouldn’t let go of the glass of Shirley Temple. He could throw it on the floor for all I cared. We were never coming back to this horrible, elegant restaurant. He was confused we were leaving so quickly, but too excited about keeping his drink to resist the exit.
On my way out, I caught Nate’s eye. “Eleven dollars for a side of cauliflower?” I said. “You deserve better, Nate.” I nodded to one of the busboys. “You all do. Get out of here while you still can!”
34.
Traffic on Beverly was practically at a standstill and part of me worried Kit would overtake us on foot. Nah, no chance—Cunt Daniels was probably still at the bar, drinking a second glass of wine and joking with Nate about her insane sister-in-law.
I took some solace in knowing that I had embarrassed her, that she would have to order a dessert she didn’t want just to make amends for my behavior. I was shaken, though. Seth had made a movie and kept it secret from me. He let Kit photograph him. He’d kept that a secret from me too. My hands were so clammy I could barely grip the steering wheel and my held-back tears were acid in my throat. I had to pull over.
“Why we stop?” Devin asked from the backseat once we were parked again. He was trying to scoop the ice out of his drink and I didn’t bother telling him to stop.
“Mommy needs to think.” I grabbed my phone and then turned up The Jungle Book soundtrack. “Get mad, baby,” sang Baloo.
First I texted Seth: Why didn’t you tell me about Kit’s project?
Then I texted Karl: Did you really not know about the photos???
No reply from Seth, but Karl texted back immediately: What photos? A moment later my phone rang; it was Karl. Of course he was willing to get to the bottom of this, to talk it out.
I didn’t pick up. Let Kit do the explaining.
I was about to start the engine when my phone dinged four times fast, texts from Kit.
I’m so sorry I Upset you. Since you won’t come to my Studio, here are a few shots of Seth. I think you will see your son’s Grace and Wisdom—or come around to. They’re quite a Departure for me.
I didn’t want to see the images, but I couldn’t help myself.
Unlike the Women series, these were in color. They’d been taken in a studio, no doubt Kit’s, against a white backdrop. In all three Seth was shirtless, wearing jeans I didn’t recognize. His arms were dark but he had a farmer’s tan at his T-shirt line, and his chest hair swirled dark and flat as a patch of grass an animal’s been sleeping in. Or like Marco’s chest hair. In the first, a melancholic Seth pushed his fists into his pockets, arms straight, the waistline of his jeans stretched away from his hips. In the second, he was laughing with his arms across his chest. It was a real laugh, and I could see the fillings in his lower left molars, the ones he’d gotten when he was ten; I’d opened a new credit card to pay for them. The third was just a close-up of his back. His spine, that spine. Mine.
In their own way, these photos were sexy. Someone would definitely think so. Wouldn’t they? They made Seth look vulnerable, but also, at the same time, like he was the one in control. That was their genius, I suppose: that the viewer couldn’t be sure.
Either way, I wanted Seth to put his shirt back on.
I closed the images. On the CD, King Louie was still scatting as if nothing had changed in the last few seconds. Devin was kicking the back of the passenger seat. He’d dropped the empty glass, it wasn’t anywhere.
I opened Twitter and re-read Marco’s message. There was his address, a fruit to pluck if I were reckless enough. I checked myself out in the rearview mirror. Not bad. Despite the drama, my lip gloss had hung on. My eyelashes had kept their curl. I was wearing jeans and my favorite green T-shirt, as thin and soft as a gas-station receipt. Beneath it, my sensible but flattering nude-colored bra. My hair was okay. Whenever Marco and I drove in his car together, he used to keep one hand on the wheel and one hand on me, sliding his hand up and down my ponytail.
“We’re going to visit an old friend of mine, Dev,” I said, but he was too busy bobbing along to the music to care.
Before I started the engine, I texted S: Devin and I would like the yard to ourselves this afternoon. If you were planning on using the pool later on, please don’t. Thanks.
Whatever happened next, I’d want to dive into that cold water without any adults watching, not even S. I’d had enough with judgment.
35.
Marco lived in a low-slung ranch-style house with jagged rocks instead of a lawn. The whole effect was brown upon brown upon brown. It looked a lot like his mother’s place, but in better condition. A sign out front read GREEN BUILDERS. I remembered Marco’s solar energy tweet and cr
aned my neck to get a better look at the roof. Sure enough: panels. The street was wide and Valley-flat, and the sky above was Valley-blue: cloudless and washed-out, yellowing at the edges. The heat was Valley-oppressive; it made everything in the distance tremble. No one had their windows open. The freeway hummed, close but unseen. It felt like the sound was coming from inside me, like I was secretly roaring.
I tried not to think about what I expected to happen, what I wanted to happen, what I’d say if and when Marco opened his door and saw me standing on his front porch with a little boy. Maybe for a moment his mind would hiccup and he’d mistake Devin for Seth.
I had no idea what I was doing, all I knew was that I couldn’t go home. If I did, I’d just be waiting, jittery and angry, for Seth. I’d stare at Kit’s photos until I got eyestrain. And when Seth finally slunk through the door I would force him to explain everything: about his art, about modeling for Kit, about all that he hoarded from me.
But now I was here. Later, in an hour or five, I could tell Seth that I had found his father. I could hand over Marco’s address. I could say, “Your dad’s a better man than he was when he left us.” It would be my one and only card, and I wouldn’t play it unless it was the truth. Seth had enough monsters in his life, he didn’t need another.
Before I could lose my nerve, I got out of the car. I unbuckled Devin and carried him up the front path.
“This is Marco Green’s house,” I said.
“Is hot here,” Devin said.
“Very hot,” I said, and pointed to the doorbell so he could push it.
Even after all these years, I knew Marco, and I knew he wouldn’t answer the door right away, even if he were standing a foot away from it. He made everyone wait. Or maybe just me.
Sure enough, I had to ring the bell again before I heard someone call, “Coming!” from the back of the house. It was Marco, had to be. I remembered his Valley voice, that surfer-country drone, and a cold sweat lacquered my neck. This wasn’t going to be good, whatever this was: reunion, recon mission, confrontation, adventure, site of future regret. I almost turned around with Devin and ran back to my car.