“No,” I said. “The one next to it.”
“This?” Ray stumped to the wall and removed the photo. “This is one of Denny’s.”
He blew on the surface. A fume of dust rose, and he began coughing. “Ugh—Robert! You’re falling down on the job! For chrissakes.”
He shook his head. “Yeah. Denny’s—this is one of his. I paid a lot of money for this.”
Gryffin laughed. Ray glanced at him irritably and turned the frame over. It was backed with a piece of stained cardboard.
“He needs to work on his presentation,” Ray said. “I told him that. He never listens.”
“Denny’s incapable of listening to anything except the UFO voices in his head,” said Gryffin. “May I?”
Ray handed him the photo. Gryffin stared at it, finally pronounced, “I still think it’s crap.”
“You Philistine,” moaned Ray. “It’s beautiful.”
Gryffin looked at me. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s good,” I said as Ray poured Calvados. “But—what is it?”
Ray handed me a glass. “Who knows? I like it.”
“Yeah, me too.” I sipped my Calvados, still staring at the photo. “Does he do a lot of these?”
Ray leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. “I’m not sure. Not a lot, I don’t think. She started him on it—Aphrodite.” He pointed at Gryffin. “He doesn’t like to hear this.”
Gryffin stood. “No, I don’t. Excuse me for a minute.”
He left the room. Ray shrugged. “Don’t mind him. Aphrodite, she and Denny were involved, back in the old days. This was before Gryffin was even born, but there was always bad blood between him and Denny. Who fucked everything, I might add. Everything in skirts, anyway.”
He hesitated, his expression pained. “Gryffin’s father, you know, Steve—the love of my life. We were together seventeen years. Steve lived here, Gryffin was always around. I mean, when he wasn’t off at school. Aphrodite was never much of a mother. Actually, Steve was never much of a father either,” he said. “Whereas I love kids—and don’t you look at me like that, I never touched him. Never touched him.”
He sighed, staring across the room to where Robert snored on the sofa. “You know, I never touched those others, either. I did look, though,” he added and laughed again. “But you know what that’s like, right? You photographers. You like to look and not touch. Voyeurs.”
“No,” I said. “Voyeurs need to feel protected. I like to feel threatened.”
“Seems like you’d be able to find a lot of work these days.”
“Hasn’t worked out that way. Denny—how come he didn’t sign his name?”
“Didn’t he?”
“There.” I pointed at the corner of print. “It says ‘Spot.’”
“Oh yeah. That’s him.”
“Spot? What’s that mean? Gryffin said it’s a joke.”
“A joke?” Ray held out his hand, and I gave him back the photo. He looked at it then replaced it on the wall and settled back into his chair. “I guess it’s a joke. Tell you the truth, I don’t really remember. It was something weird, though. Denny, he was into that kind of woo-woo stuff. That commune of his, they got into all kinds of ritual shit. Well, they called it religion. I called it ripping off the Indians. Native Americans, I mean—they were crazy for that kind of stuff. After they finished the Buddhists and the Hindus and the God knows what else. All those off-brand religions. But those kids, none of ‘em was any more Native American than me.”
He sighed. “Denny, he was way into it. He was smart too—he flunked out of Harvard. He was studying comparative religions or some such. Gilgamesh, that was one of his big things. Babylonian stuff. He was a beautiful young man, Denny. You wouldn’t know it now. Let’s face it, living here takes years off your life. That’s why everyone drinks like a fish. It’s the winters. Heating with wine. Look at me! Aged before my time.”
He downed another shot of Calvados. “But that photo—what think you, huh? His stuff is starting to get picked up. Lucien Ryel, he bought some. That one there, I paid a grand for it a year or so ago. It’s probably worth more now.”
“A grand?” I gave him a dubious look. “That’s a lot of money for someone no one’s ever heard of.”
Ray shrugged. “Hey, I’m a collector. You know how it works. Everyone wants to bet on the new kid. Even if he’s an old new kid. The photography market’s crazy these days, you know that. I don’t think Denny gives a rat’s ass about that kind of shit, but Lucien, he’s got an investor’s eye. He turned on his rock star friends—Pete Townshend, he bought some of Denny’s stuff. Townshend goes for outsider art. I guess this qualifies as outsider photography.”
“Pretty good for someone who used to live in a bus.”
“Did Gryffin tell you about that?” Ray gave his braying laugh. “Hey, don’t knock it! This is one of the last places in the country where people can still live between the cracks.”
It didn’t seem to me that Ray would fit between a crack smaller than, say, Chaco Canyon. But I kept my mouth shut as he went on.
“They’re all one-offs, his stuff. Does he do a lot of these? I don’t know. I’ve never seen where he lives. But he obviously spends a lot of time on them. Like Aphrodite used to, you know? Making her own paper and stuff.”
“And emulsion,” I said. “He must prepare his own emulsions too. That’s what it looks like to me. If they’re really one-offs, then he’s producing some kind of monotype. Or monoprint, if he uses the neg more than once. Interesting.”
“That the kind of stuff you did?”
“No. I would’ve been happy to sell lots of copies of my stuff. If anyone wanted to buy them. But—”
I pointed at the photograph. “What it means is, that’s an original work of art. Like if this guy was Robert Mapplethorpe, that picture would be worth a ton of money. Probably you’ve already figured that out.”
“That it’s worth a lot of money?”
“That this guy ain’t Robert Mapplethorpe.” I finished my Calvados. “So, what about her? Aphrodite. How come she stopped taking pictures?”
Ray ran a hand across his scarred cheek. “Hard to say. Those early photos—she never really had a success big as that again. I think part of it was she took so long with each one. And there wasn’t a market back then for photographs, like there is now—she couldn’t make money at it. She refused to do commercial work when they wanted her to, and after a while no one wanted her to. And the drinking—that’s been going on a long time. When she and Steve got involved—well, you know, she really loved him. And he loved her too, in his way. But it was different then; for a long time he couldn’t really admit to himself what he was. That he was gay. Unlike me, who never had a problem.”
He laughed.
“They must’ve gotten along at least once,” I said. Ray looked at me, puzzled. “Gryffin. They had him.”
Ray made a face. “Oh yeah. Gryffin. The miracle child. That was Denny’s idea. Like I said, Aphrodite never really took to it—being a mother and all. But things went bad between her and Denny early on. They got real competitive, he started taking photos, Aphrodite encouraged him—like, here’s this beautiful young guy, she takes him under her wing, you know? But then they got competitive, and then it got weird. He got weird. Aphrodite, she’s accusing him of stealing stuff—”
“Like what? Camera equipment?”
“No. Stealing her soul. Stealing her pictures! Not the photos—stealing what she did. You know, ripping her off. Her ideas. Her ‘vision.’”
He laughed and wiggled his eyebrows. “Totally insane! Like how people used to think you’d steal their soul if you took their picture? That kind of thing.”
I frowned. “She couldn’t believe that.”
“Nah. She didn’t believe it. But Denny did! He was very convincing, too.” Ray looked at me and shrugged. “I guess you had to be there. Anyway, nowadays she spends all her time drinking with those damn bony dogs.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Bathroom that way?”
He nodded.
Compared to the rest of Ray’s jerry-rigged palace, the bathroom was luxurious. Mexican tiles on the floor, a small Jacuzzi.
Best of all, a well-stocked medicine cabinet.
I locked the door then perused the contents: Percocet, Hydrocodone, Adderall. I pocketed some of the Percocets, but I was more interested in the Adderall. At 25 milligrams apiece, they’d provide a nice little blast of Dexedrine. I popped one then added a handful to what was already in my pocket. Ray wouldn’t miss them.
When I returned, Gryffin was staring stonily out the window. Ray looked at me.
“I thought maybe you decided to use the Jacuzzi,” he said. “You can if you want.”
“No thanks.” I sat down. Immediately a phone began to ring. Ray turned and bellowed at Robert, still sound asleep on the couch.
“Robert. ROBERT. Get the frigging phone!”
Robert stumbled to his feet. I glanced at Gryffin. He raised his eyebrows, silently framing a question: Leave? I nodded.
“Hey, Ray.” Robert stuck his head out from the kitchen. “It’s John Stone.”
“John Stone, John Stone,” Ray muttered. “Now what.”
He shuffled off to get the phone. Robert came out and sat at the table.
“She was looking for you.” He ran a finger across the seaglass necklace.
“What?” I said.
“The other night at the Good Tern? Kenzie—she was looking for you.”
“That girl from the motel?” I frowned. “I don’t even know her. Why would she be looking for me?”
“I dunno.” He stared at his feet. “But she told me. She said there was some lady from New York City staying there. She said you were nice.”
He shot me a baleful look. Gryffin glanced at me then leaned across the table to ask, “So you saw her, Robert?”
“No. We were IMing. I was going to meet her later, but she never showed up. She said you were going to give her a ride.”
“A ride? To where?”
“New York, I guess.”
I stared at him then laughed in disbelief. “Jesus! Poor kid. She must really be hard up.”
“That’s what I said.”
I looked to see if this was a joke, but his face had already shut down. From the kitchen Ray’s voice rumbled on into the telephone.
“Did you know her?” I asked Robert.
“Yeah. We hung out. She gave me CDs to rip.”
He stopped as Ray came back into the room and announced, “That was John Stone. He wants to talk to you guys—not you, Robert, I told him you were here. You have an alibi, though he said he might need to talk to you if she doesn’t show up. But you—”
Ray pointed, first at Gryffin, then me. “And especially you—”
He sank back into his chair. “He wants to question you.”
“Me?” I felt a small hot flare inside my skull, the Adderall’s opening salvo. “What the fuck does he want to talk to me for?”
Ray began to sing, “‘Sheriff John Stone, why don’t you leave me alone…?’”
“This guy’s the sheriff?”
“Hey, Cass,” said Gryffin. “Relax. John’s a good guy, he won’t give you a hard time. What’d he say, Ray?”
“He said they were starting to question people. Her father filed a missing persons thing a few hours ago, and now they have to follow up on it. Even though John told me in great detail how Little Missy’s probably headed off to Lubec or Bangor or someplace with a boyfriend no one knows about, which personally I also think is probably the case, but John has to do his job.
“But he doesn’t have to do it tonight,” he added and laughed again. “’Cause he don’t want to come over here from Collinstown unless somebody has something of interest to tell him. Which I said I’d ask. So, do any of you have something of interest to tell him?”
Gryffin shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”
“I already told him I was IMing with her last night,” said Robert.
All faces turned to me. The red flare inside my head mushroomed into something white and hot. “Not without a fucking attorney.”
Ray slapped his thigh. “That’s the spirit! Stick it to the man!”
“Shut up, Ray.” Gryffin looked annoyed. “You’re overreacting, Cass. If you don’t have anything to tell him, just say that tomorrow. You don’t need to get paranoid; no one’s accusing you of anything. Anyway, I saw you at the Good Tern.”
I could see Robert watching me with those blank cold eyes. A song went through my head: I was just gonna hit him, but I’m gonna kill him now.
“I gotta go,” I said, and stood.
“Yeah,” said Gryffin. “We better get back.”
As I passed the couch, I looked down and saw several CDs scattered across the cushions. Green Day, Mosque; and something else.
I held the CD toward Robert. “This yours?”
“Nope. Kenzie’s. I told you, she gives me stuff to download.”
“Huh.” I looked at it again: Television, Marquee Moon. “She has good taste.”
Robert shrugged. “She likes that old shit.”
I tossed it back onto the couch and followed Ray and Gryffin to the door.
“Well, very nice to meetcha, Cass. Maybe I’ll get hold of your book.” He embraced Gryffin. “You be back tomorrow?
“I doubt it. Got to get back to Chicago.”
Robert stayed where he was. When I looked across the room, I saw him nodding, earbud cords dangling from his ears, his eyes fixed on me. I stared back at him, then turned and followed Gryffin into the night.
15
We walked back most of the way without talking. We were both pretty loaded; it took most of our energy just to keep our footing in the icy mist. I had a nice shiny feeling from the Adderall, and after a few minutes I popped a second to boost it.
But something kept gnawing at the glow: the memory of Mackenzie Libby’s white face in the headlights.
She was looking for you. She said you were going to give her a ride.
Wishful thinking, but why not? I was probably the first person she’d ever seen who might have heard of Marquee Moon. I thought of Patti Smith’s “Piss Factory,” sixteen and time to pay off. Leave home, sleep in the gutter, find yourself a city to live in.
I should have picked her up. Though then, of course, the locals would be coming after me with pitchforks.
“Be careful,” Gryffin warned as the path narrowed. “It’s slippery—”
I felt impervious to anything short of a bullet to the head. When we came to the final stretch leading to the house I began to run. I tripped and fell, hard.
“Hey.” Gryffin hurried to my side. “I said be careful! Are you okay?”
He crouched beside me. I pushed him away, but he grabbed my hand and trained the flashlight on it.
“Jesus,” he said. “Doesn’t that—”
“Hurt? Yes.” My palm was slick with blood. “Shit.”
I staggered to my feet, got the Jack Daniel’s and took a swig. Gryffin watched me with a kind of intrigued disgust. I laughed.
“What?” he demanded.
I couldn’t speak, just kept laughing as I wiped my bloodied hand on my jeans. Gryffin turned and walked on. I ran after him, an amphetamine surge knuckling behind my eyeballs so that the darkness splintered into sparks.
“Aw, don’t go away mad,” I yelled, but he ignored me.
* * *
“I’m going to bed,” Gryffin said when we got inside. He hung up his jacket and started for the kitchen. “You and my mother can sit up doing Jell-O shots if you want.”
“Wait,” I said.
I leaned forward, grabbed his chin and kissed him. He didn’t pull away. His cheek was unshaven, his mouth tasted of Calvados. I let my hand trail down his neck, my fingers resting for a moment in the hollow beneath his windpipe. I fe
lt his pulse, then drew my mouth down to his throat and kissed it.
“Gryffin,” I whispered. “What kind of a name is Gryffin?”
He pulled away and left the room. When he was gone I started laughing uncontrollably.
The Adderall had kicked into high gear. I love speed, that black light you see alone at three am, when bottles shimmer like cut glass and everything reminds you of a song you once loved. This is when everything comes into focus for me, when what’s inside my head and what’s outside of it become the same thing.
What can I say? Bleak is beautiful. I stared at my reflection in a darkened window, pressed my palm against the cold glass. I thought of my camera in the spare room.
The house was dead still, the woodstove barely warm. Two deerhounds lay on the couch but didn’t stir when I walked past. Aphrodite was still conspicuous by her absence, though she’d left the radio on, a DJ whose voice droned into John Coltrane. I turned it off, found an empty film canister and dropped my stolen pills into it, and went upstairs.
The door to Gryffin’s room was closed. Mine was open. I went in and sat on my bed for a few minutes, my legs twitching. To blunt the speed, I drank some more Jack Daniel’s. The bottle was almost empty, so I killed it. I picked up my camera and checked the flash.
It was dead, and I hadn’t brought a spare battery—I couldn’t think of the last time I’d needed one. I thought of a recent argument I’d had with Phil.
“Get a digital camera, Cass. Anyone can take a great picture with one of those. Even you.”
“Screw that,” I’d said. “It’s too easy. It’s degraded art—no authenticity.”
“Oh, right.” He looked disgusted. “The last word on Degraded Art, from Ms. Authenticity 1976. You know what your problem is? You’re a goddam dinosaur, Cass. You’re fighting a culture war that ended thirty years ago. And you know what? Your side fucking lost.”
I started, hearing a voice in the spare room. I’d been talking to myself. It happens. I made the mistake once of mentioning it to Phil. He suggested I try Ecstasy.
I cradled the old Konica against my chest. It wasn’t even that late—a little past midnight. The drugstore speed would keep me going for a few more hours.
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