Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  He popped a blues tape in the player and cranked up the bass. As he stood before his workstation, tossing a film canister from hand to hand, he eyed a sheet of thumbnails that lay out from the night before. Setting the undeveloped film aside, he fingered a negative strip that corresponded with the proof sheet on the table. Holding it up to the light, he breathed in restraint, then set that strip aside.

  Catching the graceful yet elusive movements of a runner—not just a jogger—challenged him. Although he often photographed many of his student runners—that they might see where to improve their posture or pronation—it was altogether different to capture a body in motion for the sake of composition and art. That was what he had been after on the beach back in July. He examined a couple of alternate strips, but the one that inspired him begged another look. He again picked it up. It seemed almost hot to his touch, but that did not prevent him from bringing it to the darkroom.

  There were about a dozen shots. The angle started off head-on and progressed to side views, the last two from behind as his subject passed by. He positioned the film in the enlarger and cropped the background. As gradations of black and white became distinguishable, Leila in motion emerged from beneath the developer solution where her body gained definition. She was not casually jogging; she was in a full-out run, beautifully proportioned and balanced. Her face lacked the strain of exertion, and her eyes were nearly closed.

  Ian’s stomach tightened. Candid shots of runners often evoked strong emotion when developing them for the first time, yet scrutinizing Leila’s form felt voyeuristic. Perhaps he had crossed a line, broken some unspoken photographer’s rule. He stepped back, awash in the heat of guilt, quickly clipping her images to the drying line without a final inspection.

  He stepped back into his studio where the fresher afternoon air cooled his bare chest. His stomach gurgled as he headed to the kitchen. Leftover pizza did not look as appealing as beer. He pulled a Heineken from the six-pack and chugged a bottle. Unquenched, he grabbed another and then headed back to his studio.

  At his worktable, his finger tapped the music’s rhythm as he stood over the thumbnail proof sheet from the Girl Running file, analyzing Leila’s stride. She had such potential as a runner and, he sensed, as an individual. What compelled her to run with such determination? What ‘lack of options’ had sent her from New Hampshire to Long Island? He hoped she would provide him an opportunity to find out.

  Downing his beer, he left the proof sheet on the table and returned to the refrigerator, feeling the effects of his two ales. He elected to eat pizza first and washed it down with more beer. As he headed back to his studio, the doorknocker tapped softly.

  Ian was not expecting anyone. Karen knew he would be home, likely working in the darkroom, which meant he did not want to be disturbed. Although they frequently shared her bed, Karen had never been to his house, and he dreaded that it might be her, pushing the next boundary. Just as well—now was as good an opportunity as any to readjust their relationship, if not end it. He hoped for the latter. He took one more gulp as he braced himself before pulling the door open.

  Ian’s heart lunged. “Leila ….”

  She looked at the beer bottle before speaking. “Is this a bad time?”

  It took a moment to respond, “Um ….”

  A few wisps framed her flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry, I should have called first.”

  “No … this is, uh … this is a good time,” he said, making no move to invite her in.

  “I’m sorry. I’m intruding.” She backed off from the doorway. “We can just talk tomorrow.”

  “No. No, this is fine, uh, come on in.” Ian glanced at his beer and folded his arms across his bare chest.

  She stepped into the foyer, into the light pouring in from his studio. She wore the same white shirt as in July, with its sleeves rolled to her forearm. Light caught her unbuttoned front, revealing a white undershirt with a low scoop neck.

  He closed the door as his heart pounded. “Let me just go put something on and turn the music down.”

  In his kitchen, he drank down the last of his beer and grabbed a denim shirt from the back of a chair, detoured to the living room and reduced the stereo volume. Returning to the foyer, he fumbled with a middle button or two.

  Leila fidgeted, and then tucked her fingers in her jeans pockets. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  “Yeah.” He imagined any number of reasons why she might show up on his doorstep. He worked at another button and stepped back, thinking of a hundred ways to maintain control of the situation.

  “Well ….” Her eyes shifted and so did her sandaled feet. “I made a decision, and I want to cut a deal.”

  Ian’s brow lifted. “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay ….”

  She breathed deep, tightly wrapping her arms around her middle. “I want to see your photography.”

  “My photography?”

  “Yes. And not just the stuff you show everyone else. I want to see it all—even the stuff you don’t think is very good. And your early work, too.”

  “Why my photography?”

  “I want context—insight.”

  “On me?”

  She shrugged.

  In all his years of taking pictures, her request was a first. Any interest a girl or woman had shown in his photography was usually more a means of seducing him than gaining any context or insight on him. Not that they hadn’t appreciated his talent—some did, but they seemed to consider his artistic bent as merely an enhancement of his packaging.

  “I don’t know, Leila.” He studied her face for some hidden agenda. “Do your parents even know you’re here?”

  Her eyes wandered and then came back to his. “No. But my parents aren’t a problem.”

  “Well, they may not seem like a problem right now, but it could end up being a big problem for me.”

  “You think I’m just some ridiculous seventeen-year-old who isn’t concerned with consequences?”

  “No. I’m just not comfortable with this—with how your parents might feel.”

  She pursed her lips and stared at the floor. When she finally looked back up, her eyes begged reassurance, as if she needed him to confirm his own trustworthiness.

  “What?” he asked, hoping she would divulge the weight of what her eyes conveyed.

  Her arms relaxed and dropped to her side. She rubbed her thighs. “I don’t have parents.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean my mother left fifteen years ago and my father’s dead.”

  The impassive delivery of her words diluted their import and yet explained why she seemed mature beyond her years and fit the profile, the fantasy he had built around her. He wanted her to be a young woman of depth, not just some kid. At the same time, he wished she were some silly girl with a crush, someone he could dismiss.

  He asked, “Well, who’s your guardian?”

  She tucked her hands back in her pockets. “I don’t exactly have one.”

  “You’re being rather cryptic. Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?”

  Her dimples deepened but not with a smile. “Show me your photography first.”

  Perhaps she had calculated their respective vulnerabilities and considered them an even trade. But what of the consequences? Was she capable of the discretion he imagined—that he wished of her?

  “I don’t know, Leila.”

  “Okay,” she said, again folding her arms tightly. “It was just an idea. I guess I’ll see you Monday, then.”

  She began to turn away.

  “Wait,” he said. His chest contracted with anxiety and expanded with excitement. The thought of inviting her in dissipated the consequences. Three beers convinced him that he would be careful and still provide her the context and insight she hoped for, that he hoped to provide.

  “If I show you my photography, you’ll run track?”

  “If you show me whatever I want to look at, the
n yes.”

  “Will you tell me what’s really going on with you?”

  “We’ll see.”

  He nodded, sealing the deal.

  What on earth am I doing? He pushed the studio door wide open. Mid-afternoon light streamed in the back window, washing the room in a luminous haze. A series of portraits hung in a row—his safe, commercial work with a wider appeal. Leila smiled, her shoulders lifting with the wonder of a child. Her eyes roved beyond his small gallery, back toward his work area and studio. She licked her lip and looked at him, as if again seeking permission.

  “Go ahead,” he said, directing her to the first portrait.

  As she stepped forward, he gave her a wide berth and stood off to the side. Now that she was in, he didn’t want to crowd her into hurrying.

  All the displayed photographs were black and white. She moved from picture to picture, spending a minute on each. Long minutes. Her expression changed as her eyes moved about the subject. As she studied his work, he studied the subtle variations in the contours of her mouth, the way she dipped and raised her daintily carved chin.

  Many of his subjects were women, most of them beautiful, some smiling, not necessarily seductive but pensive. The males he photographed varied in age and demeanor.

  “I really like the backlighting on this one.” She pointed to a little boy and the highlights in his hair, like a halo. She stroked the line of his cheek. “And the reflective light here, the way it softens his face.”

  “What do you think of the contrast? Do you think I went too far with it? You know, too dramatic for a portrait of a child?”

  “I like contrast. I think it works.” She moved on to the next.

  Tracing the lines of arms and legs, bent at opposing angles, she said, “I like the way these are interacting, and the way the reflection here sort of goes off into negative space.”

  Ian smiled at her astute observations.

  “May I?” she asked, gesturing toward his work area.

  He stepped aside, more eager than he had anticipated. “Go ahead. It’s part of the deal, I guess.”

  She walked past a tripod, light stand, and an umbrella positioned halfway toward the tall windows at the back of the room that extended to the rear of the house. In front of the window, a small piano stool sat amidst a draped white sheet that formed a reflective backdrop. The setting glowed.

  Ian’s eyes darted toward the Girl Running proof sheet, left out at his workstation.

  “How far back do your photos go?” she asked.

  “To my first photo, the first real picture I took on purpose. It’s a gate in a brick wall with early evening light. Here, I’ll show you….”

  Ian opened the large file cabinet at the far side of his worktable. He pulled a folder, removed a small photo, and then discreetly placed that folder on top of the Girl Running proof sheet. The small color snapshot he handed Leila had faded over the years, yet the bricks glowed beside the white, sun-washed gate.

  “It’s not a great photograph,” he said, “but it was the first time I really discerned tonal values and what light could do. After that I couldn’t stop.”

  “Is that what you were doing at the beach that afternoon, taking advantage of the light?”

  “Yeah,” he said, again impressed. “How did you know?”

  “I saw your camera in the backseat of your car.”

  He nodded with satisfaction—she was indeed observant. Could she also discern his growing admiration and that he was having difficulty remembering her age?

  “May I see the pictures you took that day?”

  “Uh … yeah.” Ian retrieved his Beach folder.

  She fingered the Girl Running file tab, shifting the folder just enough to expose the label and the sheet beneath it. “Do you photograph all the runners on your team?”

  Oh boy—no turning back now. “I do,” he said, inhaling composure. “However, any runner who happens to pass in front of my lens is liable to end up in my darkroom.”

  “Of course.” She lifted the folder in which to replace the small color photograph, further exposing the thumbnails depicting her.

  “Yeah … funny thing …,” he preempted, “I happened to photograph a girl on the beach that afternoon.”

  Leila lifted the folder, examining the dozen miniature frames.

  “So you did,” she said, now squinting. She glanced at Ian. “Is this me?”

  “Yes. I didn’t realize it until I developed it. Although I have to admit, there did seem to be something familiar about you. I guess I just assumed it was our common interest in music and connection to New Hampshire.”

  She did not react. Ian hoped she didn’t think he was some sort of stalker. She cocked her head, adjusting the angle of the paper and pointed to the first one in the series, the one he had developed that afternoon.

  She said, “I like this one.”

  His jaw relaxed. “I do, too.”

  Leila smiled as she replaced the sheet and took the Beach folder from his hand. “May I?” she asked, moving toward the open drawer to return it to its place. “Do you mind if I thumb through some of these others?”

  Even though she had put him more at ease, his heart sped. He was eager to show her the rest of his work. “Sure, go ahead.”

  She stared at the A divider. She didn’t pull every file—only ones that seemed to interest her. “You like architecture.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And boats.”

  “Mostly sailboats.”

  “You sail?”

  “I do.” He did better than simply sail. He had taught tourists on New Hampshire lakes—during those years when he had worked full-time at any odd job: waiting tables in resort towns, caretaking on wealthy estates, playing handyman—while attending a community college.

  “I’ve always wanted to learn how to sail.”

  He wanted to offer but didn’t. “Then I’m sure you will one day.”

  When she arrived at the back of the top drawer—at the Ms—she perused the Mount Washington file with interest. He was particularly proud of the photography from his winter hiking trips, and it pleased him that she spent a fair amount of time on them.

  “Have you ever been to the Presidential Range?” he asked.

  “I hiked Tuckerman’s Ravine with my dad once. But we only made it to Hermit Lake. I’ve always wondered how it would feel to look out from the top.”

  “It’s indescribable—especially in the winter.”

  She gazed off. “Someday. Even if I never climb the mountain, I’m going to move back to New Hampshire, for sure.”

  How had Leila managed to say all the right things—hit upon so much of what he had wanted in a woman, in a relationship, and now, she too hoped to move back to New Hampshire someday.

  Oh, stop it! She’s only seventeen. You’re giving her too much credit.

  Leila returned her attention to the cabinet, moving to the next drawer and the files behind N. After spending not a few minutes on Nautical, her hand moved to Nudes. Ian held his breath. It had been a while since he added anything to that folder, and it wasn’t as if he had forgotten about them, but not until that moment did he consider the implications of her seeing them. He cringed at the thought of the school board. Miss Michaels might explore nudes as art in the classroom with few if any repercussions, but these were photographs of naked women, and Leila was about to view them in his home studio. With him. Alone. Perhaps she would pass over them. She didn’t. Without a word, she pulled the entire folder and laid it on the table.

  Color rose in her cheeks as she examined each with the same fascination as the foregoing.

  “I love this composition,” she said.

  Ian’s smile twitched.

  He had shot them in the studio with carefully planned light. Many focused on just one or two views of the body, curving and intertwining at various angles, all premeditated yet natural. In fact, many required scrutiny to ascertain just what aspect of the body he’d shot. Their sensuality existed not so
much in their parts as in their pose, in what they implied and in what lay beyond the margins. Leila viewed many of the photos from alternate angles as if they might transform into something altogether different. Where did it take her imagination?

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “I hired models.”

  “No girlfriends?”

  “No,” he stated without hesitation, his hands tensely pocketed. “I’ve never photographed my girlfriends like that … not that I’ve never photographed them nude … I mean, I just … I don’t ….” Idiot!

  Leila smirked. “Never mind.” She closed the file and placed it in the drawer.

  Ian had spent over an hour holding his breath as he watched Leila move from photograph to photograph. His mouth dried. He needed another beer. “It feels very warm in here. Would you like something to drink?”

  Leila wiped her neck. “Yeah. It’s kinda hot in here.”

  Ian exited and then returned with two glasses of ice water, one half emptied. They sipped in silence alongside each other, staring out the big windows as he rattled ice in his glass. Had he made a mistake inviting her in and allowing her free access to his work—to the nudes file?

  “What are you thinking?” she asked without turning.

  He glanced at her profile, at her hair loosely twisted at the back of her head, and at her flushed cheeks. “I’m thinking that if the school board knew you were here looking at nude photographs … I’d be in some pretty hot water.”

  “And how would they find out?”

  He sighed. Of course she wouldn’t tell, why would she? “I’m just saying ….”

  “I do realize you’re out on a limb, Ian.”

  The brunt of skepticism shot from his sideways glance.

  She continued, “If it makes you feel any better, I’m out on a limb, too.”

  “Really?” I doubt it.

  She blurted, “I’m a minor and I’ve been living on my own. I don’t have a parent, and I don’t have a guardian. If someone were inclined, they could make a big deal of it and I’d end up a ward of the state.”