A Clean Slate

by Laura Caldwell

  It was me sometime over the summer, I realized. Sometime during those horrible months. And I was thinking how there was no hope. No hope for what? What was I so distraught about? It was partly about Ben—I could feel that now. And it was partly about getting fired from my job. And of course, there was Dee. But there was something more, too. What was it? The two-freckled man, the one with the dark hair. It had something to do with him.

  I finally wrenched myself away from the image and sat up so violently in the bath that lime-green water surged over the edge and splashed on the bathroom floor. I shook my head and blinked like crazy. I was here. What the hell was that? What had happened? It was like the flash I’d had of the two-freckled man, but this one had been about me. The me I didn’t want to be anymore. The me I was running from.

  17

  That image stayed with me all night and all the next morning. Over and over, I saw my drawn face just above the bathwater, my vacant eyes, my lifeless hair snarling and floating around my head like Medusa’s snakes. It was Friday, a day I used to long for when I worked at Bartley Brothers, but now I worried about what I would do with my weekend, whether that woman in the bath would come back to me.

  That day, Cole was taking portfolio shots for a few models sent over by a local agency. The idea was to build up the books of these models, make it appear as if they had more experience than they actually did, and so we worked hard to change the set, the models’ looks, the lighting, anything to make it seem as if the photos weren’t taken at the same time. Luckily, all the activity took me out of my head, and by noon I’d exorcised that awful image of myself.

  “Kelly,” Cole said to me after lunch. “Why don’t you take a few here? You might bring a different look to the shot.”

  “Sure. Great. Just one second.” I had my arms full with a huge fan that we’d used with the last model.

  “Hurry up, Kelly. I want this done.”

  I glanced over at Cole. He hadn’t snapped at me like that since before the William shoot, but all day he’d been tense.

  I stepped behind the tripod and smiled at Tracy, the model. She had stunning ebony skin and wore a khaki dress unbuttoned almost to the waist, with stiletto heels. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, her eye makeup dramatic—a sexy working-woman look. The fact that she was fifteen wouldn’t show up on camera, but it kept freaking me out, the age of these girls. I’d always envisioned models as sophisticated women drinking cosmos in Manhattan, but the Snapple-slurping fifteen-and sixteen-year-olds in the studio that day were actually the norm. Most of them hadn’t even gone to a prom yet, and they were all making more money than me.

  “Tracy, can you turn around and look at me over your shoulder?” I said.

  Cole had been shooting her in some stern, businesslike poses, but she had a playful side that came out between shots—a cute smile, a girlish giggle—and I thought we might use some of that personality to even out the austere outfit and makeup.

  She turned her body to face the back wall and swung her head around.

  “Chin down,” I instructed her. “Small smile. A little bigger. There you go.”

  Tracy responded well to me, and it took only five minutes to shoot off a roll of twenty-four.

  “Good work, Kelly,” Cole said when I was done. His face was serious, though, different than his goofiness of the last week, and I wondered if he’d lost that assignment he’d been hoping for.

  The studio phone rang then. I dashed across the room to answer it.

  “Hey, hon.” It was Laney. “How’s that boss of yours? Still cute?”

  I glanced at Cole across the room. He was talking to the head of the agency, looking nervous. “He’s okay.”

  “Say hi for me. Anyway, I wanted to tell you about this memory-loss Web site I found on the Internet. You really need to check it out. From your symptoms, you could have a medical problem, or it could even be psychiatric.”

  “Well, I’m definitely crazy right now,” I said, trying to ignore her ominous tone and hold on to the good feeling I’d gotten from taking the shots of Tracy.

  “You know, it’s nothing to ignore. We’ve really got to figure this thing out.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said, doing my best Ellen Geiger imitation. “Well, now’s not the time.”

  “You can’t keep putting this off, Kell.”

  “Yes, I can!” My voice was raised. One of the moms who was passing by looked at me in alarm, but I couldn’t stop. “I can do what I want with my life, and right now I want to enjoy it. I’m an adult for Christ’s sake!”

  Silence on the other end.

  “I’m sorry.” I sighed. “I’m working here, and there’s a lot to do.”

  “I’m just trying to help, you know.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. Like I said, it’s just crazy around here. That’s all.” That wasn’t all, of course. There was much more—something else that was going on with Laney and me—but now wasn’t the time to talk about it.

  After another silence, Laney said in a small voice, “Well, do you want to come to Gear’s gig tonight?”

  I was meeting Ben for a drink after work, and I really didn’t need a whole night of Laney mothering me, but I felt so bad for snapping at her. “Sure. Where is it?”

  “The Metro. They’re the opening band.”

  “Meet you there at nine?”

  She paused. “You don’t want to get dinner first?”

  “I’m actually having drinks with some people from Bartley Brothers.” That was true. Sort of.

  “Okay,” Laney said. “See you at nine.”

  Cole wrapped up around four. He asked me to run to the photo shop to drop off the day’s film and pick up the rolls from the lingerie shoot. The shop was about ten blocks away in the Loop, and I decided to walk, since it was one of those Indian summer days in late October, at least sixty degrees. The trees in the city were practically bare now, but I liked them better that way because I could see the sky through the branches—royal-blue and growing darker. The city had that buzzy Friday afternoon feel to it, like everyone was on the verge of something wonderful. I hadn’t been plagued by a headache for a few days, and I felt light on my feet, happy.

  Cars streamed by me as I crossed Michigan Avenue, shouts of laughter as the doors to the bars opened and closed. I took my time walking to the shop, glad that I wasn’t working at Bartley Brothers right now, where leaving the office before seven at night was frowned upon.

  “Hey, Nate,” I said, greeting the balding store owner as I walked into the photo shop.

  “Happy Friday,” he said. “I’ve got your stuff in the back.”

  He disappeared through the rear door of the shop, and I busied myself by playing with point-and-shoot cameras on display.

  “Here you go.” Nate swung through the back door again. “Fifteen rolls.”

  I glanced down at the sheet where Cole made me record every film delivery. “Lingerie shoot—fourteen,” it said.

  “I think that’s one too many,” I told Nate.

  He counted through them again, looking at the labels with Cole’s name on it. “I’ve got fifteen. Why don’t you go through them?”

  This was what Cole required me to do, anyway—briefly review each roll to see if any photos needed obvious redeveloping. I peeled back the flap on the first envelope, flipping through the shots, then moving on to the next and the next. Lots of women in very little undies looking mostly gorgeous and ridiculously thin.

  When I’d gotten to the eighth roll, another from the lingerie shoot, I suddenly remembered why there was an extra one. My roll was in this bunch—the roll I’d finished at the park that day that Ben had shown up, the one that held ten mystery pictures. I’d brought it in with Cole’s film, and somehow I’d forgotten. Maybe because of Ben and Laney and everything that’d been going on lately, or maybe I just wanted to forget.

  I paid Nate, pocketed the receipt for Cole and was out the door and back on the street. Now the crowd on the sidewalk seemed pushy and rud
e instead of giddy and fun. The cars honked over and over, exhaust hanging thick in the air.

  What was in my roll of film? What was on those pictures? I kept my feet pounding, heading back toward Cole’s. In my hands I had a glimpse of the last few months, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to see it.

  Yet I knew I had to look. I stopped and sat on a concrete bench. A woman sitting there with a host of stuffed plastic bags sniffed as if I was really putting her out, then finally scooted over to give me more room. I had to flip through a few more rolls of broads-in-thongs before I came to the one that was mine. I could tell before I even opened it because it was thicker than Cole’s. I always got doubles.

  I tapped the unopened packet of photos on my leg. A bus pulled up, brakes squealing, and the plastic-bag lady heaved herself up and onto the bus, leaving me alone.

  I finally turned the envelope over and slowly slid the flap open, watching the glue stretch into thin threads before snapping. I lifted the smaller envelope from inside. Another second went by before I removed the stack of photos.

  I breathed out, quick and heavy, when I saw the top one. It was me, just me by myself. I raised it closer to my face, recognizing the Van Gogh print behind my head and the mustard-yellow of the walls. It was my town house, and I stood in the same spot I always did when I took an automatic shot of myself. I believed in taking photos for posterity, even if they were of me, alone. In this particular photo, my hair was like it used to be—longer, light brown, pulled back in a shiny ponytail with short bangs in front. I had on a big smile, full makeup and a V-neck black dress. When had this been taken?

  I looked at the bottom righthand corner, and sure enough, I’d turned on the date function of my camera. May 3. My birthday. I could tell from the light in the room that it was early evening, which meant I’d taken this photo after I got fired but before Ben and I went out for dinner.

  I flipped to the next picture. It was a shot of the living room and dining area of my town house, and the date was the same. I’d bought flowers and placed them on the polished dining room table. The place was spotless and gleaming. I’d probably cleaned, waiting for Ben to come over, wondering whether he would propose there, at our future home, or if we would go out to dinner. I couldn’t remember taking the picture, and yet seeing it was as depressing as watching an alcoholic stand outside a closed liquor store.

  I quickly moved to the next one and then the next and the next. What the hell?

  They were all similar in a way. They were all of Ben. But he hadn’t posed for these shots. They looked like surveillance photos—an out-of-focus shot of him leaving his apartment; Ben kissing Therese on the street; Ben pushing through the doors of the Bartley Brothers building on Madison; Ben buying something at an outdoor fruit market in the Loop. I could tell that I’d used my 200 mm lens for most of them, that I’d been rather far away when I’d taken these. I’d been following Ben around, stalking him in a sense, just as he’d told Laney. Damn.

  When I got back, I heard the low rumble of male voices as I took the elevator up to Cole’s studio. I wondered about the type of people he hung out with, eager to forget what I’d seen in those photos. The elevator opened, and I stepped into the room, the voices clearer—and both familiar.

  “She’s brilliant,” Cole said, “really brilliant.”

  “I know that,” the other man said. “I’m sure I know better than you.”

  I froze. Oh, God. I did know that voice. It was Ben.

  I hurried down the steps and looked to the right, and there, standing over Cole’s butcher-block table, were Ben and Cole. Ben’s arms were crossed—his defensive pose. Cole looked a little more loose, a little more amused.

  “Hello, Kelly Kelly,” Cole said, and I saw Ben’s eyes narrow at his use of the nickname.

  “Ben,” I said, wrapping the plastic bag tight around the photos as if he could see through it to those surveillance pictures of him. I stuffed the bag deep into Cole’s beanbag chair and walked toward them. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at the bar.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought I’d come pick you up, see what you’ve got going on over here.” He cast a disdainful glance around Cole’s studio and raised his eyebrows as if to say, You could do better.

  “Look, mate,” Cole said. “We’re working, so we’ll see you later, okay?”

  “I’ll just hang out and wait.”

  “Sorry, doesn’t work like that,” Cole said. “This is a private studio.”

  “Yeah, thank God it’s not open to the public,” Ben said.

  It was Cole who looked pissed off and defensive now.

  “Okay,” I said in a loud voice. I grabbed Ben by the arm and propelled him toward the elevator. “I’ll meet you at the bar in half an hour, all right?”

  “Sure, sure,” he said. He leaned down, as if to kiss me, but I turned it into a quick hug and practically pushed him into the elevator.

  “What a prat,” Cole said when the doors closed. “You’re not serious about that guy, are you?”

  Ben and I sat on stools in the dim light of Trattoria No. 10, or “T-10” as it was called by the Bartley Brothers employees. It was an Italian restaurant and bar, housed in the belly of a building on Dearborn Street, a place I’d been with Ben a million times. Ben hadn’t mentioned his visit to Cole’s studio, and aside from telling him to call next time before he stopped by, I had let it go. I just wanted to enjoy myself.

  “Another one?” Ben said, pointing to my nearly empty wineglass.

  “You bet.” What the hell? I’d been drinking merlot, the heavy red sinking through my stomach and into my limbs.

  Ben lifted himself off the stool and walked a few feet away to catch the bartender’s attention. I started to think again about those photos I’d taken of him. Did he know? Was that why he’d told Laney I was stalking him? Or was it just my constant appearance on his doorstep in my pajamas? Whatever the answer, I wasn’t going to tell him now. No way. It made me feel guilty knowing about those photos if he didn’t, but to admit that I’d been following and photographing him would change the tenor of our time together. I’d revert to psycho status in an instant.

  I watched him talk to the bartender, noticing how different it was to be here with him, in a dark, crowded bar drinking too much wine. So different from the steaming mugs and the cozy comfort of Katie’s Coffee. It seemed more adult now. Closer to sex—a possibility that was eating away at my mellow buzz. I mean, let’s face it, I hadn’t had sex in God knows how long, and human beings simply weren’t made to abstain forever. There was also the fact that I was feeling physically fantastic, lean and mean in my new clothes and my new body, all of which had been bringing sex to the forefront of my brain lately.

  “Here you go,” Ben said, placing another fat glass of red in front of me and hitching himself back onto his bar stool. He wore a dark gray sweater that I’d never seen before. Cashmere, I could tell. Something from Therese? Or maybe a gift to himself after he’d made partner?

  “Thanks,” I said, giving him a flirty smile. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help thinking about sex with him because I knew how it would be. How good.

  “So, tell me more about this Cole guy. What’s with the attitude?”

  “Ben, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “You know. Don’t slam him. He’s my boss, and I like him.”

  “Fine, then tell me what you’ve been working on over there.”

  I told him about the models, about my shots of Tracy. Yet as the words came out of my mouth, my head was a little detached, because I kept seeing Ben naked. I kept seeing the barely there hair on his chest, the mole on his left hipbone. Each time I let my mind’s eye wander lower, I’d blink madly to scare away the image, and focus again on what I was saying, what Ben was asking me. Thank God I’d agreed to meet Laney so that I wouldn’t have to make any kind of decision about sex with him. He hadn’t made any advances toward me, except for that near kiss today at Cole’s, and I didn
’t even know where we’d go if we wanted to do it. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if he lived with Therese or if she’d just been at his place that day. We didn’t talk about stuff like that.

  Ben was beaming at my success with Tracy, his eyes clear and happy, like they used to be in our first few years together, before we both got bogged down with climbing the ladder at Bartley. “Bogged down” was how I used to think about it, because Ben and I had gone the way that so many couples do—we’d gotten inordinately busy and inordinately used to one another, and as a result, we didn’t treat each other quite as well as before. Aside from sex, which was always wonderful, we just weren’t as close as we had been in the early days. I assume that there are couples who actually grow closer as they grow older, but I haven’t met them yet. Jess and Steve might qualify someday, yet they’ve only been together two years, so it’s hard to say.

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” Ben was smiling at me, sort of an indulgent, proud smile, like the one he’d given me at Jess’s wedding when I was singing the bawdy love songs.

  “What?”

  “This whole photography thing.”

  I shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, too.

  “You do. You love it,” Ben said.

  “Yeah. I mean, of course.”

  “It’s like having a hobby for a job.”

  “I guess that’s true.” God, was it true? Ben’s statement seemed insulting but with an underlying layer of truth.

  “You don’t make much, right?”

  “In terms of money? No.” Why did I feel so defensive? He was right. My hourly wage would barely support a teenager’s Mountain Dew habit.