Nolan Trilogy

by Selena Kitt

  “Wild,” Erica agreed, pointing to a photograph of a naked woman on her knees, mascara thick under her eyes and running in rivulets down her cheeks as if she’d been crying, and she was trying to swallow the largest penis Leah had ever seen. In fact, the only penis she’d ever seen, come to think of it. The closest she ever got to one was when George Truslow had put her hand in his lap at the Cass Theater, and she’d barely discerned the shape of it before pulling her hand away as if it had been burned.

  To be fair, it had been very hot, even through the material.

  And throbbing.

  Leah stared at the photograph, at the man’s hand in the woman’s hair, as if he could shove himself deeper down her throat, although from the look on her face, Leah was pretty sure that wasn’t physically possible. She’d sucked her thumb until she was ten, only stopping because the dentist threatened braces, and she found herself wondering if it might be similar.

  “There.” Erica jabbed her finger at the photo. “That’s giving head.”

  “You really put it in your mouth?” Leah blinked in disbelief. She’d barely been able to keep her hand on one. She couldn’t imagine putting it in her mouth! Erica just laughed, continuing to turn pages.

  Leah ran her finger along the spines underneath the counter, marveling at their number. She took one off the shelf, one of the ones hidden way at the back, opening it in her lap, still stunned at what she found inside. Erica was right, this was really wild stuff. It showed everything, all the minute details of the flesh, up close and personal. She found herself utterly enthralled, in spite of her embarrassment with Erica sitting right there. She couldn’t seem to help her body’s response.

  They sat on the bench in silence, sifting through the slick, glossy pile of pages, flipping through each of them on their own, their breath coming faster and growing more shallow in the silence. Once in a while, Erica would nudge Leah and show her something of interest, and Leah would do the same, when a picture was so intense it absolutely required sharing.

  The darkroom was secluded, and they were so involved, Leah didn’t even know how they heard the front door. Thankfully the old warehouse had a huge steel entry. The sound of it closing startled both of them and the girls looked at each other with wide eyes. Erica shoved her book back and Leah did the same, both girls scrambling for the door, Leah bringing up the rear. She was in such a hurry, Leah couldn’t keep her balance and tripped, falling against Mr. Nolan’s desk, skinning her knee in the process, and knocking one of his cameras onto the floor.

  “Shit!” Leah swore softly as Erica slid the bolt back into place, fumbling for the key and locking the padlock before letting the tapestry fall over the door again. Gonna have to add swearing to my confessions this week, Leah thought, and then realized what they had been doing for the last hour probably warranted a confession far more than profanity.

  “Hurry!” Erica returned the key and slammed the desk drawer closed, grabbing her friend’s hand, barely giving Leah enough to time retrieve the camera and put it back on the desk. They ran like five-year-olds getting caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar, turning on the television—American Bandstand was their mainstay—and scrambling onto the couch in the makeshift living room, breathless and flushed.

  The Nolans had a huge new set, a giant 21-inch color console. The television came to life slowly—too slowly—the prism pinprick of light in the middle of the screen slowly growing into a line and then blooming into a picture. It was fuzzy and the rabbit ears on top needed adjusting, but neither girl moved to do it as they sat listening to Mr. Nolan’s boots clomping down the hallway toward them.

  The Nolans didn’t live in a house exactly—it was a giant warehouse Mr. Nolan had converted, “for the light,” he said. There were huge skylights overhead that let in ample amounts of sun, and Mr. Nolan had half the place set up as a photography studio. The main living area was a wide open space with just the suggestion of rooms—living, dining and sitting—using dividers. The separated rooms were the kitchen, the studio/darkroom, the bathroom, Erica’s room, and Mr. Nolan’s room up in the loft.

  And now, Leah realized—the other darkroom.

  “Hey girls.” Mr. Nolan poked his head around the divider, pulling off his motorcycle helmet and smiling—he had the best smile—his thick, dark, shoulder-length hair mussed up from the ride. Leah had never known another man in her life who wore his hair long like Mr. Nolan, but he could get away with it because, as her mother often reminded her, he was an artist. “Who wants pizza tonight?”

  Erica glanced up from the still-fuzzy picture. “Can Leah stay?”

  Mr. Nolan met Leah’s eyes and winked. “Sure, as long as her mom says it’s okay.”

  Not much problem there. Leah’s mom thought Mr. Nolan was the cat’s meow, in spite of his long-haired, beatnik-like eccentricities—a widowed father, raising Erica all by himself, and Catholic too! She always started conversations about him with, “That man is such a catch—” which Leah always cut off with a disgusted exclamation of, “Mother!”

  “I’ll get her on the horn.”

  Leah hopped off the sofa and went to the phone in the hallway to call home, picking up the handset and dialing the exchange, TU8-7857, peeking around the corner to watch Mr. Nolan shrug off his riding jacket—black leather with silver zippers, like Brando in The Wild One or Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. He tossed it over a chair along with his helmet, gloves and camera bag, sitting in the matching mustard-yellow, wing-backed chair next to the sofa and crossing one of his well-worn motorcycle boots over his knee.

  “Good ride?” Erica stretched, all casual. Leah’s heart was still beating too hard in her chest. She couldn’t get those images out of her head. They made her squirm, inside and out, as if she was too small in her own skin.

  He shrugged. “Got some great shots before it started raining.”

  Leah hadn’t even noticed, but when she glanced up, she saw rain sheeting down the skylights in a grey waterfall. Ada answered the phone, of course. Her mother was still at work, as usual. She was the receptionist in a law office, and Leah could have called her there, but Ada, their housekeeper and cook, was easier.

  “Weldt Residence.”

  “Hi Ada, it’s Leah, can I stay for dinner at the Nolans?”

  “I made fried chicken,” Ada tempted her. “Your mother will be home late.”

  Leah twisted the phone cord around her finger, knowing Ada would say she could stay for pizza—she traditionally ate dinner with the Nolans on Friday, even though Ada always cooked. “I’ll eat it cold in the morning. I’m staying the night too. Will you leave a note for my mom?”

  “Yes, Missy.” Ada had called her Little Miss when she was young, and it had changed into Missy over time. “I’m going to head home then. It’s a gulley washer out there.”

  “Goodnight, Ada!”

  “You wanna order, Lovey?” Mr. Nolan asked his daughter, and Erica sighed, heading toward Leah and the hall phone.

  “No pepperoni on half,” Leah reminded her, handing over the receiver.

  “And extra cheese!” Mr. Nolan added as Erica grumbled and sifted through the phone table for Buscemi’s pizza menu. They had the best pizza in town, and since the new McDonald’s went in across the street, Paul Buscemi had started delivering his pizza in order to compete. So far, it was working pretty well. Leah would far rather have Buscemi’s pizza than a McDonald’s hamburger any day.

  Mr. Nolan looked up as Leah came back to the living room. He was still smiling at his daughter’s dramatic eye-rolling. “How was school? Are you enjoying your classes?”

  “The academics are kind of a drag,” Leah admitted. “Especially World Religion. I thought about dropping it but...”

  “But?”

  She felt her face turning red. “Well, Father Michael’s teaching it, and he’s kind of dreamy.”

  “So you’re staying for the visuals?” he teased, chuckling. Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice, conspiratorial. “Aren�
��t you worried lust is a sin?”

  Usually Mr. Nolan’s teasing just made her giggle, but after seeing his darkroom—his darker darkroom, as his daughter coined it—she felt her face bloom with color. And that wasn’t the only thing feeling warm. He noticed her response, his eyebrows going up slightly.

  “I’m sure lusting after a priest is a super-sin.” Leah tried to cover her reaction as best she could by tossing a remark back at him and attempting to change the subject. “Anyway, at least I’m loving my dance classes.”

  “I’m glad.” He sat back, smiling. “You’re a very talented dancer.”

  “Thank you.” Leah’s face felt even hotter now and she wasn’t sure why. Mr. Nolan had always encouraged their creative endeavors. He’d pushed his daughter for years until she found her niche in journalism, but Erica had started at the age of five in ballet class with Leah and had moved through everything from piano to cheerleading before finding what she loved to do.

  For Leah, it had always been dancing, and Mr. Nolan had been even more supportive than her own mother from the very beginning. Leah spent so much time at their place, and the Nolans had so much room, Mr. Nolan had actually set up a mirror and a barre for her on one wall so she could practice. She kept extra dance clothes and toe shoes at the Nolan’s too.

  But now, thinking about him watching her dance, it made not just her face, but her entire body, feel as if it was on fire.

  “Hey, you’re bleeding.”

  “Huh?” Leah blinked.

  “Your knee.”

  “Oh. Bummer.” She licked her finger and rubbed at the spot where she’d skidded across the floor.

  “How did that happen? You’re Madame Graceful.” He cocked his head, looking at her with fully raised eyebrows now. “Come on, let’s get you bandaged up.”

  She followed, watching as he opened the top drawer of his desk—the one with all the keys—remembering the camera for the first time since he’d arrived home. That also got her to thinking about the secret door under his bed, just a few feet away from where they stood, and as much as she tried to push the thought out of her mind, it refused to go.

  “Ummm, I actually have a confession to make.”

  “Sure you don’t want to save it for Father Michael?” He winked, patting the edge of his desk. “Here, hop up.”

  She slid up onto the desk’s surface, watching as he went to one knee in front of her so he could see better, peeling the edges of the bandage back. As his fingers smoothed the Band-Aid over her flesh, she held her breath, looking at him in a totally different way than she ever had before. She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t question it either.

  Leah’s primary way of processing things had always been through her body, and she trusted it completely. Now it was telling her something she was forced to pay attention to. Something twisted and flipped inside her like a landed fish. Her heart rose up to her throat. Her hands began to sweat, and she had to press them flat on the desk to keep them from trembling.

  What was wrong with her? How many times had Mr. Nolan applied a Band-Aid and kissed her boo-boos over the years? A dozen? Two? It was a familiar gesture, and yet this was entirely different. What had changed? Just the simple knowledge she now knew what he was hiding under his bed? That was all—but it was more than enough.

  It made her want to confess to him, and she did. “Erica and I were screwing around and I fell and knocked your camera over. I hope it isn’t broken.”

  “This one?” He stood, picking up the big, boxy camera that had clattered to the floor earlier. “Seems all right.” He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. “Medium format cameras are pretty indestructible. Now if it was my 35mm...” He made a face and shrugged. “They just don’t make cameras like they used to.”

  “So it still works?”

  He took a step back, looking through the lens, pausing a moment before snapping a photo of her. She was used to it. Mr. Nolan had been taking pictures of them for as long as she could remember. There was a whole series of Leah and Erica practicing cartwheels in the park as little girls in frames down the front hallway.

  “See?” He stepped forward and placed the camera beside her on the desk and Leah felt his hand brush over the top of her leg as he did, making her breath catch. Had he taken those pictures—those other pictures—with this very camera, she wondered? She had flipped through image after naughty image, nude bodies and sinful flesh, but Mr. Nolan had seen it firsthand, with only a refracting lens as a barrier.

  “Now you have to develop it to make sure.” Her voice was breathy and small. She was thinking of the darkroom just a few steps away.

  “You can help me if you want.” He gave her a half-smile, and it wasn’t like his usual Mr. Nolan smile at all. It was a little more hesitant, unsure. Something was happening, she could feel it, and she knew he could feel it too.

  “In your darkroom.” The regular darkroom, the one with the red light over the door that told the girls not to open it, was around the corner from the kitchen. She’d been helping him develop photos in there for years, not knowing all the while he had another, darker darkroom. What else didn’t she know about Mr. Nolan?

  “Where else?” He was still standing close, his leg touching hers. It wasn’t anything unusual. The three of them often piled up together under blankets on the couch to watch television on Fridays, all limbs and warmth. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and yet for Leah, a door had now been opened she couldn’t quite get closed again.

  When she lifted her face to look at him, to meet his eyes, she couldn’t look away, and he didn’t look away either. It felt like forever, that moment, her sitting on the desk, him standing close enough to touch, the sudden spell between them almost palpable.

  “You’re such a pretty girl.” His words were just a murmur, barely audible, and she felt his weight shift ever so slightly toward her, not away. A smile played on his lips. “Who’s your boyfriend these days?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.” She lifted her chin, feeling both proud and ashamed of the fact at the same time.

  “Seems a shame. A pretty girl like you should have a boyfriend.” His weight shifted again, imperceptibly, toward her, his smile reaching his eyes. Was he flirting with her? Were they actually flirting? Leah couldn’t wrap her head around that any more than she could integrate the existence of the pictures they’d found in the secret darkroom under his bed.

  “Erica gets all the boys.” She knew her words would break the spell, distract them both with mention of his daughter and her best friend, and they did.

  “Tell me about it.” Mr. Nolan snorted and rolled his eyes, taking a step back and offering her a hand. She took it, letting him help her off the desk. “That Bobby-what’s-his-name calls constantly. He seems to be the front-runner.”

  “Yes,” Leah agreed as they headed back to the living room. “He’s a nice boy.”

  Nice. Well that wasn’t exactly the truth. Nice enough, she supposed. Played football and baseball and drove a nice car and came from “good stock,” as her mother would say. But she wasn’t about to tell him what sinful things Bobby liked to do to Erica in the backseat of his brand new 1956 Ford Thunderbird, or what he liked to have Erica do to him. Not that Mr. Nolan would be surprised, if the secret pictures he’d taken were any indication. Leah’s definition of “nice boy” was changing by the moment.

  “Took you long enough to order a pizza,” Mr. Nolan remarked as Erica came back into the living room. He was messing with the rabbit ears on the television, trying to get Dick Clark, who had just started hosting American Bandstand last year, to come in more clearly.

  “Bobby called.”

  Leah and Mr. Nolan exchanged knowing looks and they both grinned as Erica flopped down on the couch with an issue of Modern Teen magazine, a pouting Elvis on the front, singing under her breath to “Don’t Be Cruel.” Leah joined her friend and things slipped back slowly into place as they flipped through the pages together, talking about the latest
Peter Pan collars and Elvis’s new movie while Mr. Nolan read the Detroit Free Press in his arm chair.

  By the time pizza arrived, Mr. Nolan was snoring, and Erica ran to the door to answer it, Leah following close behind. Sometimes they sent Rodney Emerson, who went to their sister school, St. Casimir, on the other side of town. He worked at Buscemi’s delivering pizzas, and he was awfully cute, but this time it was Paul Buscemi himself, gruff and to the point. Erica just took the pizza and told him to put it on her father’s tab.

  “Think we should wake him?” Erica was already opening the box, lifting out a hot, cheesy slice before handing it over to Leah. They sat on the floor in front of the television, the pizza between them.

  “I’m awake.” Mr. Nolan opened one eye. “Don’t eat it all.”

  “Daddy, can Leah stay over tonight?” Erica inquired sweetly. “We have a project to work on for World Religion.”