Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  The one with the photo

  ‘Hurry up,’ Emily called from the car.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I replied, shutting the front door, and jiggling it to make sure it was locked. Walking down the narrow path I could see her impatiently tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Glancing down the street, I saw a real-estate sign outside the old couple’s house and made a mental note to try and find out what had happened to them.

  I’d barely settled into the seat before she pulled away and merged into traffic. I understood her impatience, but that wasn’t going to stop the merciless teasing for the rest of the night.

  ‘Relax, they’re not going to start without you,’ I told her.

  ‘God, why did I give up smoking?’ she said, cutting off another car and earning an angrily shaken fist.

  ‘Because it’s illegal.’ They said you could hear the collective hacking cough of thousands when cigarettes were taken down from shop shelves for the last time. Another swerve almost sent us into a parked car and I gripped the dashboard. ‘Slow down,’ I told her, ‘or we’re not going to make it at all.’

  Her response was to push the accelerator down harder. Thankfully we were in an electric car and spared the engine’s whining protest. As it was, a disembodied voice advised us we were going too fast in a residential area. She eased up slightly and our odds of surviving went from not a hope, to slim.

  ‘If you cross the zone going too fast they’ll shut down the car and we’ll never get there.’

  She immediately eased back to the speed limit.

  ‘Why are you so nervous?’ I asked her.

  ‘It’s a big show, Troy. This could make or break my career.’

  I would have been impressed if she didn’t say it every time she had a show dedicated to her work. ‘You’ll be fine. The critics love you, the public love you, I love you – what more can you ask?’

  ‘Critics are fickle, the public are unreliable, and you’re biased.’

  I couldn’t argue. We sat in silence as she navigated her way into the city and parked in her pre-booked space. The old museum was lit up with her name, and crowds milled outside the entrance waiting for the doors to open. She gripped my arm and steered me to the side entrance where her agent, Reed, waited.

  He greeted us with a curt nod, preoccupied with all the minute details. ‘You’re late.’ Reed was a tall, thin man, always impeccably dressed, with manicured nails and styled hair. I disliked him immensely and the feeling was mutual.

  ‘Sorry,’ she replied meekly.

  ‘How’s Fiona?’ Reed asked as he ushered us through the door and into a narrow corridor. He was too busy to see her facial response.

  ‘Fine,’ she said coolly.

  This made him look up. ‘Sorry, Emily, wasn’t thinking. Jack Cunnington is in attendance tonight.’

  Emily paled. Even I knew who Jack Cunnington was – the most influential critic in the world. He really could make or break her career. Suddenly I felt nervous for her.

  ‘You wait here,’ Reed told us. ‘I’ll go tell them to open the doors. Troy, for God’s sake get her a drink.’ He disappeared through the internal door, leaving destruction in his wake.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Troy, I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Just breathe, Ems. You’re good at what you do, and everyone knows it. Jack Cunnington knows it too, so breathe.’ I pulled out my phone, brought up building services and ordered two Martinis – one vodka, one gin.

  When they arrived Emily sculled hers back. ‘I wish Austin was here,’ she said.

  Austin, her husband, had died two years ago from a brain aneurysm. Eight when he died, Fiona was now a precocious ten-year-old, but she was everything to Emily. I kissed Ems on the top of her head. She looked fabulous at forty-eight, her hair shorter now, and a few more lines on her face, but I wasn’t one to judge. She wore a long blue dress that clung to her body, still in shape thanks to endless hours in the gym, and a job that resulted in shedding nervous weight every few weeks.

  ‘There’s something else, Troy. I didn’t want to tell you until tonight, but you need to hear this before you go in.’

  ‘What is it, Ems?’

  ‘One of the –‘

  Reed burst through the door. ‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing her arm. ‘It’s time to start.’

  Emily mouthed I’m sorry before disappearing through the door. Sorry for what? By the time I followed them, Reed and Emily had disappeared further into the gallery. I remembered when this was the Wellington museum, before the museum moved to a new purpose-built building in 2026. Since then this place had been used for a number of different things, including for a brief time as a historical-themed brothel. For the last year it had been the hottest gallery in the country. Every artist was desperate to show their work here, something guaranteed to elevate their stature in the art world, not to mention adding value to their work. A feature show was considered an unobtainable pinnacle for most of them. It was Emily’s first.

  No one paid much attention to me as I wandered across the ground floor, snagging a drink refill from a well-appointed waiter. The crowd emitted a nervous buzz across the ground floor. I glanced up the central stairs and caught a glimpse of Emily rushing back and forth. She didn’t need to – everything had been set up hours before – but she was panicking. I knew she’d ignore any words of encouragement, so I kept quiet.

  The crowd was an eclectic group, young and rich, old and well-connected, and politicians looking for a sound bite to boost relatability with voters. I recognised a few people by sight, well enough to give a head tilt, but not enough to initiate small talk. A few people recognised me and attempted conversation. I was polite but vague. I didn’t know any of them; they had obviously seen my picture and read my bio.

  Finally someone called for quiet and Reed appeared halfway up the stairs.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure I welcome you to The Gallery tonight. We are here to see the latest work from an extremely talented photographer. Her work has been exhibited all over the world, she has twice won international photographer of the year, and she hails from right here in Wellington. What you’re about to see is truly some of her best work. And I’m not saying that because I’m her agent and get a percentage of all sales.’ He paused for polite laughter. ‘As you can understand, Emily is extremely proud of her work, but she’s also a little nervous, so instead of her saying a few words she would like to let her work speak for itself. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Loss.’ The applause was thunderous and genuine, a class-A drug to the insecure.

  People began making their way up the wooden stairs to the second floor. I joined them, excited for Emily, and excited to see her work. I don’t usually see what she is working on before an exhibition – I liked to be surprised. At the top of the stairs people fanned out into different directions. The stairs were in the middle of the floor, so there were lots of options. The lights were dimmed to allow the photos to have the greatest impact. Waist high, thick wooden posts dotted the floor. They were smooth and stained dark, and each displayed a photograph. I approached the first one and saw it was of an old dog, grey muzzle, coat flecked with white. It lay with head on paws, eyes clouded, the ravages of time seeping off the photo. I circled the post, noting the stiff legs, possibly arthritis, the thin torso, ribs pushing against the skin. This was a dog on its last days. The caption simply said, Companion.

  A small boy, around five years old, stood open-mouthed at the image, before reaching out a hand to touch it. For a moment the picture distorted, dragged down like a finger in paint. The mother snatched his hand away and the picture re-established itself. The mother offered a red-faced apology to the rest of us and dragged the boy off.

  Technology had advanced considerably in the past twenty years, particularly in optics. Photos are no longer two-dimensional snapshots – the latest cameras have holographic capability. I’m not much on how technology works; Emily tried to explain it to me once but my eyes glazed
over and I pretended to snore. Basically you take a photo and when the image is prepared it creates a holographic image. So instead of seeing something flat on a page, you see it as it’s supposed to be, three-dimensional, fleshed out, alive. Not really alive – the images don’t move – but they look like they could. In the first year the technology was available the number of suicides rose by 25 percent. Grieving people could see a three-dimensional image of the deceased and it screwed with their minds. Some couldn’t handle it. Like anything, though, once it had been around for a while people became used to it, and suddenly the old style of photos didn’t cut it any more.

  I moved to the next image, this one of the burnt-out shell of a house. In front of it stood a man, his head bowed, clothes singed and dishevelled. Despair seemed to radiate from him. You could virtually smell the smoke. A woman standing next to me began to cry and was immediately comforted by her companion. I felt a lump in my throat and quickly moved on. All around me people were reacting to the raw emotion in each picture. Some stood silently, reflecting on dislodged memories. Others shed their own tears. Conversation was at a low murmur, as if normal volume would offend the work. I spotted Reed across the room, leaning against the wall wearing a satisfied look. This sort of reaction was good for business. Which was good for him. As long as Emily got her entitlement I didn’t care what he got, but the guy was still an arsehole.

  Emily was kept busy with a steady stream of admirers, and no doubt she was too wired to enjoy it. I once asked her why she did it. Why put herself through this if it caused her such stress? She told me a story about her first holographic photograph. It had been of Fiona’s doll, her very first doll, battered, dirt-stained, much loved. It was slumped down on a child-sized chair, eyes half open, one arm twisted unnaturally behind it, the other draped casually across its body. Emily said she had shown the picture to Fiona and one of her friends. Fiona burst into tears and her friend reached out for the doll, fascinated by the realism, disappointed when her hand went through it. Emily said the different reactions to the same image fascinated her, and that’s what kept her going. I understood, but still had concerns about the toll these types of events took on my oldest friend.

  As I drifted from one image to the next I became aware of a conversation buzz. People were talking about a picture I hadn’t seen yet, in the large room off the main floor area. One woman dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, while her partner rubbed her arm in a consoling gesture. Intrigued, I wove through the crowd and slipped through the doorway. It was quieter in the room, the single image obscured by the only other people in the room. As I got closer the couple turned and stepped away, giving me my first clear view of the image.

  The other person in the room noted my reaction. ‘That’s how I reacted too,’ she said. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

  I stood speechless. She patted my arm and backed away. I don’t know how long I stood there, how long my brain had trouble processing what I was seeing. I didn’t even hear Emily came into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Troy,’ she said softly from behind me. ‘I should have told you.’

  ‘Yes, you should have,’ I said dully.

  She moved next to me, slipping her arm into mine. ‘You have to realise why I didn’t. I knew this would be painful for you, even after all this time.’

  And she was right. She knew me too well. Decades melted to nothing; all I could see was yesterday.

  ‘I’ve asked them to close the room off until you’re done.’ Emotion was evident in her voice. She grieved for me. I appreciated what she said, but didn’t trust my voice enough to tell her. She slipped away and I was alone with my memories. I sank to my knees in front of the image, bringing my face close, and drank in everything – the eyes I knew so well, a single tear frozen in time on a perfect cheek. It was as if Cat was staring at me, into me. Unbidden the last conversation we had replayed in my head and I imagined the words coming from the lips inches away.

  I began to notice little things. She was older than when I last saw her, through the computer screen. Tiny lines crept around the corners of her eyes, and her mouth. Her hair was shorter and darker, carelessly cut. But it was the eyes I kept coming back to. I remembered them looking at me, remembered them sparkling with laughter. Now, even through the dimensional element of the image, I could tell they were sadder eyes.

  I glanced down at the column. The label said sold, and I felt a pang of jealousy that someone else would have this memory in their possession. The title of the image was ‘Too Much’, but that’s not what caught my eye. The photo was dated 2032.

  A cold wave swept through me, and I stood and went in search of Emily.

  I didn’t get to talk to her alone until the end of the night; she purposefully dodged me. I stalked her through the crowd, but like a deer in the dense bush she remained elusive, flitting in and out of my peripheral vision.

  Once the last guest left it was just Emily, Reed and me. Reed was in a buoyant mood.

  ‘Jack Cunnington loves you, Emily. His review will send sales through the roof. You’ve hit the stratosphere, my girl.’

  The term my girl irritated her but he was too preoccupied to notice.

  ‘I’m tired, Reed. Troy and I are going home.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said pompously, like he was giving his permission. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, Emily. You were wonderful.’ He kissed her on both cheeks, then was off.

  We didn’t talk on the way to the car. She was nervous and I was angry and neither of us wanted to start.

  She handed me the key and I punched in the security code, and slid into the driver’s seat. I might be pissed off at her but she was exhausted, in no fit state to drive.

  Traffic was virtually non-existent, but I took the long way around the bays. I like it better than the tunnel and hills. We were halfway around when Emily spoke.

  ‘Pull over,’ she asked.

  I did and we sat in silence, me looking out the window at light reflecting off the water, her playing with the flat package she had carried from the gallery.

  ‘I’m sorry, Troy.’

  ‘You already said that.’

  She sighed. ‘You’re angry with me.’

  ‘I’m pissed off.’

  ‘You have every right,’ she said softly.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied sarcastically.

  ‘I’ve watched you pine for her for twenty years, Troy. I’ve watched you waste your life on a never was. I begged you to move on, but you never did – you buried it, scabbed it over. Why would I bring that up again?’

  My anger cooled slightly, against my will. I wanted to be angry with her, but her words made sense. To cover my thawing mood I flicked the ambience button on the dashboard, activating the outside speakers. The sounds of the harbour, breaking water and crying birds filled the car.

  ‘Where did you see her?’ I asked.

  She sighed again, pressing her head against the window. ‘Five years ago Austin and I took Fiona to England – do you remember?’

  I did remember. She’d been gone for three weeks, and came home exhausted and broke.

  ‘About a week in we hired a car and drove around the countryside. Austin was over London, and we wanted to see if the old countryside still existed. You know, like the ones that used to be on the television shows when we were growing up. It sounds so clichéd but we discovered villages time forgot. Little places no bigger than a pub, a corner store and a few houses. Hell, some of them had horses riding down the main street. Austin insisted we turn off our personal devices; we were cut off and we loved it.’ Her voice was bittersweet at the memory.

  I switched off the outside noise and once again the whole world was inside the car.

  ‘We saw this sign for a town, this tiny place with a village green outside the pub. It was so peaceful. We decided to stop at the pub for lunch. Elissa was working behind the bar. I didn’t recognise her at first, not until she looked up and smiled.’

  ‘She lived there,’ I said, for the sake of saying
something.

  ‘Yes. She’d been there fifteen years.’

  ‘Why?’

  Emily looked at me with a mixture of sadness and pity. ‘Isn’t it obvious, Troy? She was hiding.’

  ‘From what?’ I asked, afraid of the answer.

  ‘From the world. Austin took Fiona across to the green to play while we caught up. I didn’t even need to ask – he was good like that.’ The emotion constantly bubbling under the surface cracked in her voice. I reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘She told me she drifted for a long time after leaving Australia. She hadn’t known what she was looking for until she found the village by accident, and she felt safe there.’

  I remembered the image at the gallery. The expression on her face. ‘But not happy.’

  Emily shook her head. ‘No, not really. She asked about you. She sounded … regretful. But she didn’t tell me what happened between you two. Neither did you.’

  I remembered every word, every inflection, every gesture, even though it happened decades ago. ‘I fucked up, Ems. I got frustrated and pushed too hard and she bolted. I tried to apologise, but the damage was done. She stopped returning my texts, wouldn’t answer my calls. I even flew to Australia to see her, to beg for forgiveness, but she was already gone. She trusted me to be patient, to be there for her and help her heal, and I messed up badly.’

  ‘Idiot,’ Emily said.

  ‘I know. You don’t need to rub it in.’

  ‘Not you,’ she replied angrily. ‘Her. She should have given you a chance. You’re worth it.’

  I didn’t want to talk about it any more. ‘I see you sold the image.’

  She nodded. ‘I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.’

  I started the car and pulled out. We didn’t talk the rest of the way home, both lost in painful memories. At my place we got out of the car. I met her on the pavement and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, letting her know I wasn’t angry any more. She handed me the package she’d been holding.