Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  “Five minutes, Rick.” Karen Lassiter, my chief of staff, takes my coat, my briefcase, and sets them down in the living room of my suite in the Waldorf Astoria. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m good, thanks. Wasn’t it only supposed to be four hours from Baltimore?” Day twenty-eight on my East Coast campaign tour, and the only thing worse than a five-and-a-half-hour battle on the I-95 was the traffic coming into Manhattan, even at 11:00 a.m.

  “Construction in the Lincoln Tunnel, rain. You scheduled things a bit too close. But I’m not one to say I told you so.” She just did. But she’s right about these things. That’s why I hired her.

  “Just give me a couple of minutes to freshen up, okay? Make yourselves at home, help yourself to the wet bar. Just don’t get too comfortable, the reception is being filmed.”

  Karen grins and gets right on her cell phone, while the Secret Service men step outside. I walk into the bedroom and make my way past the marble columns of the bathroom. I splash cool water on my face and take a deep breath. Was it all worth it?

  After toweling off, I unzip my black leather toiletry bag, fish past the toothpaste and Tylenol, then put the Norelco to my five o’ clock shadow, whisking away hundreds of miles and pages upon pages of speeches. Tonight, I’ll deliver one of my best to my supporters from the Coalition of International Business Ventures. Topic: Transforming the Global Economy, One Commodity at a Time.

  A major supporter, the CIBV pushed the legal envelope with contributions and promotions. There is no way I can give them anything less than my best tonight.

  Karen knocks gently on the bedroom door. “Two minutes, Rick. Everything all right?”

  “Be right out.” One final pass over my salt and pepper with a comb, and I’m ready. The cell phone on the granite countertop displays 5:50 p.m. Given that I’m about to step up to the dais before cameras and hundreds of the world’s most powerful CEOs in less than ten minutes, Karen’s patience surprises me.

  But not as much as the buzzing of my cell phone, just as I pluck it off the counter. Nearly dropped it. As soon as I see the caller ID, however, I grip it tighter. My heart races. “What is it?”

  It’s Cecilia, Suzanne’s home attendant. “Senator Colson, I’m sorry to bother you right now, but—”

  Karen knocks a bit more urgently now. “Rick?”

  “Just a minute!”

  “You’re going to be late.”

  “I said, in a minute! Cecilia, what’s wrong?”

  The nurse’s tone is even but anxious. “It’s Mrs. Colson, sir. She’s had a massive flare-up. We’re taking her to the ER right now.”

  “Which one?”

  “Mercy Hospital.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there soon.”

  “But—”

  “Just tell her, Cecilia. Thank you.” I end the call before she can offer another question. When I open the door, Karen and the two Secret Service men stand waiting in the living area.

  “They’re expecting you in the ballroom, sir.” She helps me into my jacket and fixes my tie. “You’re going to miss your sound check.”

  “There’s a problem.” I push her hands away and step back. “Suzanne’s had an episode.”

  Karen opens her mouth, then stops herself. Then, “Sir, I’m sorry to hear that. But the CIBV members paid five hundred dollars a head to be here tonight.”

  “It’s an important appearance, I know. But not as important to me as Suzanne.”

  “Of course not.” She glances at her watch. “But remember, public perception.”

  “We can work the media, Karen.” I control it more powerfully than anyone in the public could ever imagine. “I can make Hitler look like a saint and Mother Teresa as wholesome as Madonna.”

  “If you miss this speech, you’ll take a direct hit. No amount of media spin mitigates snubbing this group. You can’t risk that now. Not when we’re this close.” Again, she’s right. If I’m perceived as unable to keep my personal life from affecting my official life even before I am elected, what would that do to my supporters’ confidence?

  A few more of the event staff arrive at the door. Karen reaches up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be late.”

  9

  XANDRA CARRICK

  New York City

  The human body wasn’t designed to traverse continents in so short a time span. All the great explorers—Vasco de Gama, Ferdinand Magellan, Christopher Columbus—sailed for months. My journey back from Vietnam took a day. I’ve yet to reacclimate to Eastern time.

  It’s 10:30 a.m., which for Dad is 7:30 in San Diego. An early riser, he will have been awake for a couple of hours by now. I reach over, pick up the phone, and call him. From the moment he answers, it’s apparent something’s amiss.

  “How are you doing, Dad?”

  “Better. You?”

  “Unseasonably cold today.” As I speak, my eyes linger on the Graflex, perched on my desk. Beside it, my cello sits entombed in its case. How long has it been there, untouched, its voice forgotten?

  Dad clears this throat. “Listen, Xandi. I never got a chance to apologize.”

  “It’s all right, I should have said something about it before blindsiding you.” Once again I’m making excuses for him. Truth be told, I’d prefer an explanation over an apology for his tantrum in Bình Sơn. He’ll never talk about it, though. Anything related to his war experience, from which I suspect that outburst stemmed, is off-limits. It’s always been.

  “So we’re okay?”

  “Dad, I could never stay mad at you.”

  “You were mad?”

  “I just meant … never mind.”

  “What are your plans, now that you’re home?”

  “Don’t know. I was thinking about submitting an entry for the Marbury.”

  Dad pauses. “Hmm.”

  “What do you mean, hmm?”

  “The Marbury’s huge. Makes the Pulitzer look like a local contest.”

  “You don’t think I can win?”

  “Not what I meant.”

  “No, go on and say it. I can take it.”

  “Xandi, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “You don’t think I can make it in photography any more than I could in music.” Propped up against the wall, my neglected cello silently affirms this.

  “You gave up, even though you had everything going for you. Excellence requires more than talent, Xandi. You need dedication.”

  “You of all people should not lecture about dedication.” As far as memory serves, he’d become an absentee dad, even when he was home. I had no siblings with whom he had to divide his attention. Mom honored and protected his right to “privacy,” trained me to be devoted to him. Unfortunately, those sentiments were not reciprocated.

  Dad huffs. “Why’d you call, anyway? To argue about the past?”

  “What could ever possess me to imagine you’d open up about the past?”

  “This conversation is over. Call me after you’ve cooled down.”

  “Call me when you get a clue!” I slam down the receiver, but I think he beat me to it. My hands are shaking and I’m breathing heavily. The Graflex and my cello stare at me, witnesses testifying against me in this mockery of a trial called “My Life.”

  “You’ve got such a gift,” Mom had said backstage, the day before my graduation recital at Juilliard Pre-College. “Don’t keep it to yourself. It’s meant to bless others.”

  “I don’t feel so gifted. Karina’s the one who won the Avery Fisher prize, she’s the one who signed with Yo-Yo Ma’s manager, and she’s the one that Sony Classical—”

  Mom cupped my face and kissed my head. “You’re just as good. Maybe if you were more willing to share.”

  “Karina doesn’t share; she shows off.”

  “Think of all the people you have touched with your music. The senior citizens in the nursing homes, people in church. Hmm?”

  “How about Dad?”

  “He loves your cello playing.”


  “Then why isn’t he here?”

  “It was a last-minute assignment; he had to go.”

  “That’s what happened last year, and the year before. He doesn’t care.”

  “You know that’s not true. He’s very proud of you.”

  I went on stage and, according to my teacher Ardyth Alton, gave the best performance of any concert I’d ever played. But somehow, despite three encores and four curtain calls, Dad’s absence hollowed out any of the joy I might otherwise have derived.

  That was my last public appearance.

  From then on, it was college, photography, and the hollow pursuit of winning his approval. There are fringe benefits to such pursuits, though. My current work with the New York Times is among them, and I can always fall back on that when I’m feeling the need for validation.

  Or so I hope.

  My leave of absence from the Times began with Mom’s passing and lasted nearly a year. I’m having difficulty finding the motivation to return to my photographic endeavors. This concerns me, though Doug, my supervisor, hasn’t made an issue of it. “Take all the time you need,” he always tells me. “Your job will be here waiting, when you come home.”

  It’s not so much the job as it is about my drive. What will impel me to get out of bed every day now? The thrill of capturing moments in the temporal existence of human beings from all walks of society just doesn’t hold the same appeal now as it did, say, two years ago, when I thought there was still a chance Dad would one day say, “Xandra, I’m so proud of you.” What am I doing it for now? Prestige, self-fulfillment? Perhaps when the money runs out, I’ll gain a new perspective.

  On the way to the kitchen, I pass by my poster of Senator Richard Colson. In bold blue letters, the slogan reads: Vote Colson, Vote Change.

  Perhaps the new president will bring a new hope. Thank God Colson is taking the lead in the polls. Nobody wants another four years of Republican rule. On the other hand, many fear Remington’s extreme views on the Democratic ticket. Colson is not the lesser of two evils, but the sensible balance. He’s socially responsible, well balanced, strong on foreign policy. And he’s got my vote.

  Two more weeks.

  Change.

  That’s the word that fills my head as I pour myself a bowl of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes. While I partake, Tony the Tiger reminds me of how his sugar-frosted flakes are like Colson’s reform plans: “they’re grrrreat!”

  In this historic election year, Washington’s talking about bailouts, corporations are laying off employees by the tens of thousands, and people are committing suicide because they’ve lost jobs, homes, face. But I’m emotionally disconnected from these troubled economic times. Mom’s death has eclipsed it all.

  For now, the only thing I can focus on is getting my inspiration back. Something I had hoped would happen back in Bình Sơn. While Mom’s ashes had remained in Dad’s house in Del Mar, I held on to her presence, if only spiritually. Now that they’ve been scattered, it feels like she’s truly gone. I never expected to feel so empty.

  Even here in my apartment, the slightest hint puts me in tears—a framed picture, the gold cross that once belonged to her brother, a chipped coffee mug she gave me three years ago for Christmas that reads, FAITH: THE EVIDENCE OF THINGS NOT SEEN.

  Bình Sơn was supposed to bring me closure. But closure is a process, not an event. Perhaps the few photos I took there will help me to connect with my inner feelings. I’ll develop them after breakfast.

  There’s great comfort in routine. A bowl of cereal, a hot cup of coffee, checking my email as I turn on the radio and read the headlines on my laptop: Colson Crosses Party Lines, Gains Ground in Swing States. Vietnam Vet Dies After Falling Asleep at the Wheel in Boston. Foreclosures Scale Record Heights.

  The radio announcer reports that a dance student from Juilliard has been reported missing for three days. “Dellafina was last seen wearing faded jeans and a white sweatshirt. Authorities are asking anyone with information on her last known whereabouts to contact the Missing Persons Squad, or the 20th Precinct at …”

  With a sigh, I shut off the radio. Bình Sơn and New York: both jungles, one of bamboo and earth, the other of asphalt and concrete. Manhattan is where a wide range of humanity, eight million plus, compresses into thirty square miles. These are the harsh realities to which I’ve returned. I feel as though I’ve left part of my soul behind under the emerald palms of Vietnam.

  My Outlook inbox bulges with months-neglected messages. Reflexively, I delete all the spam and junk mail that has accumulated.

  Then, without even looking at the subject line, I notice the sender’s name on the next email. My innards knot up. I’m tempted to delete the message without even looking.

  It’s from Ethan.

  He only emails me for a couple of reasons: to borrow money or to brag about the new girl he’s dating. I really don’t need this now.

  Never before had I given my heart to anyone. And the first one I felt safe enough to do so with breaks up with me because I wasn’t ready to sleep with him.

  In retrospect, the signs were painfully obvious—his wandering eyes, hopeless flirting, and vehement denial thereof. He’d been cheating on me from the start. Mom had a feeling about him and was right. She was always right, when it mattered. If only I’d listened.

  But I really loved him. And that is perhaps what made the pain so acute.

  I suppose I’ll open the message. Curiosity, it’s a masochistic habit I must break. This time, however, the entire look of the email is different. It’s formal, not filled with ’netisms.

  In the spirit of decency, I’d like to call a truce and share some good news. On December 25, 2009, I’m going to marry Felicia, the love of my life. And I’d love for you to be there.

  The pen I forgot I’m holding drops to the floor.

  Why would he do this? No, I’m not upset. I’m really quite over him now. Yet the walls are closing in around me and the air is being sucked out of my apartment. I’ve got to get out. Walk it off. Take some pictures.

  I throw all my gear into my backpack. The Graflex is coming along, too, because I’m going to show the world that it’s the photographer, not the equipment, that matters.

  As usual, Frank, the doorman, tips his hat. “Lovely morning, Ms. Carrick.” I walk right past him. “Have a great day, ma’am.” Rudeness isn’t my way and I regret it. I’ll apologize later.

  While crossing Central Park West, I nearly walk into a moving bus. The driver leans on the horn. I don’t even flinch. He’s got his destination and I’ve got mine: the old bench by the pond.

  The sun doesn’t even attempt to peek through the clouds, which cast sackcloth and ash over the city. Thick morning air fills my lungs as I jog over puddles from last night’s thunderstorm.

  Out of breath and with my thinking bench in sight, I’m doubled over, resting my hands on my knees, backpack hanging from my elbow.

  Breathe.

  I straighten up, and a boy on a bike speeds by, splashing frigid water all over me. “Hey!”

  He doesn’t even turn around.

  Dripping and cold, I am nevertheless determined. Not even this shall deter me from the sanctuary. I wring out my sleeves and take my place before the pond.

  Denn alles Fleisch from Brahms’ Ein Deutsches Requiem flows through my iPod. A bit too brooding for me, so I shuffle the tracks, and in a moment I’m listening to the latest NPR podcast.

  “… are aware of the fact that Senator Colson is a twice-honored veteran of the Vietnam War. He’s no stranger to the difficult choices and the importance of strategy. This seems to engender a sense of trust with the conservatives in regards to his foreign-policy plans. But at the same time, his plans for middle-class tax breaks resonate with liberals and those who make less than two hundred thousand dollars a year.

  “Experts predict a huge upset on November fourth. Both the Democratic and Republican parties have expressed concern because they are so polarized on the issues and have
taken such a hard line in order to maintain a distinctive platform. Now, Independent Colson is poised to snatch the election from under them.

  “Reporting from Independent Richard Colson’s campaign headquarters in Sacramento, this is Joshua Sanford, NPR News.”

  Unlike his opponents, Colson’s got his finger on the nation’s pulse and is ready to jump-start it back to life. If only I could do the same with my own life. For the past year, my entire existence revolved around Dad. Seeing to it his bills were paid, calling the insurance company to file death-benefit claims, making sure he was eating. Depression struck him hard, and for the first five months, he could barely get out of bed. Thank God he’s better now. Maybe now that he’s fulfilled Mom’s final wishes, he’ll be able to move on.

  I, however, have grown acclimated to a life where my own needs are so foreign, it requires a passport to even think about them. It’s time to get back into photography. If what Doug and the critics say is true, I’m closer now than ever to reaching my lifelong goal. Even Dad had once alluded to it, especially with my work in Fallujah. I can just feel it. That’s why I’m aiming for the Marbury Award for Outstanding Photojournalism. The fifteen thousand dollars is nice, but really, it’s the prestige and the doors this prize will open that motivate me.

  But can I even approach Dad’s level of achievement? If I could just prove myself, exceed his expectations … It all comes back to him, doesn’t it?

  Enough.

  Time to take some pictures. Visual free association: I aim Dad’s Graflex at the first thing I see—a gray-brown mallard waddling through a puddle and into the pond, three yellow ducklings in tow. Dad’s Graflex has traveled the world and captured events of historic significance.

  Now I’m using it for ducks.

  At the most inopportune moment, my cell phone rings. Quacking in surprise, the web-footed entourage scampers away. It’s Doug, likely calling to beg me to return to work. Eschewing the appearance of desperation, I let it ring a couple more times before answering.

  “Doug who?”

  “Very funny. How are you, Xandra?”