The Photographer

by Mary Dixie Carter

I placed the copper baking dish in the oven. As I was refilling my wineglass … I heard something in the backyard. It was concerning. The downstairs tenant, if one existed, was not home. Who was in the backyard? The Straubs would definitely appreciate my checking on the situation.

  I exited out the bifold doors and walked down the spiral staircase. “Hello!” I called out. A leafless cherry tree, dramatically lit, stood in the center of the yard surrounded by brown grass. Outside the garden apartment’s back door was a small patio with two chairs and a side table. The downstairs resident was likely restricted to the patio. Amelia and Fritz wouldn’t want to socialize or share space with a tenant. Would they?

  I smelled something unusual. The Straubs would want me to check on a gas leak. They would be grateful for my conscientiousness. I knocked on the back door. “Hello!” Inside, the lights were still out, as they were when I arrived. I knocked again. No one answered.

  I tried one of the extra keys, then the second extra key. Seconds later I was inside, standing in the open kitchen. I switched on the lights.

  The apartment looked exactly as I’d hoped—as if it had been designed to conform to my tastes, with every architectural detail conceived and executed flawlessly. It was breathtaking.

  Amelia (I assumed it was Amelia) had chosen more vivid colors for the garden apartment, such as smoky green in the living room and grayish purple in the hallway. I walked from one end of the apartment to the other. “Hello,” I said loudly. If someone happened to be in, I would explain that I had smelled gas and was checking to make certain all was well.

  The apartment had one large bedroom near the front entrance. A crisp white duvet cover appeared comparable to the linens in the master bedroom.

  Two framed photos rested on the bedside table: A group of twentysomething women who looked to be on vacation in the Bahamas. A young homely woman and an older couple, maybe the woman’s parents. Perhaps the homely woman lived here and rented the apartment. I wondered what she paid. I wondered what kind of work she did. I wondered if she was fucking Fritz. I opened her closet and saw several suits. Maybe a lawyer? Maybe finance? I examined her scant collection of imitation jewelry. She was meticulous. It takes one to know one. In that respect, she was an ideal tenant.

  In the living room, I sat down on a dingy sofa that probably belonged to the tenant. I studied the recessed lights, the skim-coat paint job, the fine cabinetry. If the apartment was a rental, it was a highly unusual one. Perhaps Amelia and Fritz believed the entire house was a marketing opportunity, and it needed to represent their work accurately.

  Before I left, I took a glass down from the kitchen cabinet and filled it with water. I poured the cup of water on the wood floor in the middle of the bedroom. A leak, she might think. I took a photo of the puddle so that I could replicate it in the future, if need be. Then I dried the glass and returned it to the cabinet.

  * * *

  When I finished eating dinner, I cleaned the Straubs’ kitchen so it would look exactly as it had when I’d arrived. I washed the dishes by hand, dried them, and put them away. I placed all the garbage in a bag that I would throw out on my way to the train.

  Before leaving, I checked on their home office, because I’d found useful information there in the past. I sat down at Amelia’s desk, resting my hands on the smooth, rich walnut. In and among a stack of architectural drawings, I saw two new Post-its. One read: surrogacy agency with a phone number below. One read: adoption agency with a phone number below. A chill traveled across my scalp and down my back.

  Amelia and Fritz could very well be moving forward on their quest to have a baby, and I wasn’t privy to any of the pertinent information. I needed to understand their thought process so that I could guide them, so that I could help them.

  * * *

  Days later Ian sent me an extravagant flower arrangement with a card that read: I’m in awe of you. His mother, Paula, sent me a box of Godiva chocolates with a card that read: You’re brilliant.

  I emailed Ian to tell him that I was planning to be in his neighborhood in the West Village for work. We met for dinner at a small Japanese restaurant, decorated with antique Japanese panels.

  Apparently, his mother had already received two offers on the apartment, with another potential one on the way, all greatly exceeding the asking price.

  For the first half hour, Ian appeared tongue-tied and mildly flustered. “I really … I mean … Yeah, I know it was your photos,” he said. “My mother is your friend for life. I can’t even … I sent a couple of them to Amelia. She was blown away too.”

  He was especially grateful, he said, because he wanted to move things along quickly with his mother’s apartment. “It reminds her of my dad,” he said. “Once she moves out, she’s planning to go to Florida.” He paused. “You grew up in Florida, didn’t you?”

  “Orlando. My parents worked at Disney World.”

  “Wow.” Ian blinked several times in a row. “A fairy-tale childhood.”

  “They were ‘custodial cast members’—that’s what Disney calls its janitors.” My parents had hated their jobs and each other. It was probably each one’s own personal hell.

  “Wow.”

  Most people don’t realize that any job at Disney World, maintenance staff or otherwise, has more dark than light, more pain than pleasure. “I lived in Disney housing for ten years.”

  “You’re incredible.”

  “No.” I smiled modestly.

  “Overcoming … obstacles … hurdles.”

  I ate another piece of California roll. I’d mistakenly allowed Ian to order for both of us; obviously risk averse, he’d ordered the least interesting items on the menu. “I called Amelia yesterday,” I said. “She sounded distressed.”

  Ian smoothed out the wrinkles in the tablecloth.

  “She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.” The waiter refilled our water glasses. “Do you know?” I had my own thoughts, but I was looking for Ian’s history and perspective.

  He sighed. “It’s probably about the baby she wants to have.”

  I felt the muscles in my jaw release. “Yes?”

  “Fritz says it’s really hard.”

  “On their marriage?” I asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Of course it would be.”

  “Maybe they blame themselves or something.…”

  “Solutions exist.”

  The waiter cleared our plates away.

  Ian brushed away imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth. “Fritz says the whole adoption thing is rough. It’s been two years.”

  “There’s surrogacy,” I said.

  “Yeah.” He rolled his chopsticks with the palms of his hands. “I know a guy who did that.”

  “Could be a friend or a relative,” I said.

  “I guess.” He sighed.

  The waiter brought the check.

  “Ian, I’m so glad that we had this evening together,” I said. “It’s just, there’s an ease. I feel like we’ve known each other forever.” I gently placed my hand on his forearm and rested it there for several minutes. I put my arms around him when I said goodbye. It was an intentionally ambiguous gesture.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My prints of Natalie’s birthday party were ready on New Year’s Day, the same day the Straubs returned from their vacation. I don’t usually frame photos for my clients, but I couldn’t resist in this case. I wanted to see my work in their home right away, and I didn’t want to leave it to Amelia and Fritz, who might or might not get it done.

  I framed five pictures and placed the best one—Natalie with her balloon unicorn, chin tilted up, laughing, hands up—in a sterling silver frame. I wrapped all of them in a heavy bronze-colored paper that I thought Amelia would like.

  On the second of January, I brought the prints to the Straubs’ house. I was nervous about seeing Amelia, and as I approached the front door, my anxiety escalated. I wondered if she’d missed me as much as I’d missed her.

  When she opened the do
or to greet me, her words and gestures pulled me into the circle of light that surrounded her. “Delta Dawn!” she said. The bells sounded in my head again, but this time they transformed into a full orchestra performing an opera, probably Verdi’s Aida, since that was the only opera I knew.

  I handed her the wrapped packages. Would the silver frame strike her as an extravagant gift that wasn’t warranted by our friendship? I feared that her response would be less than I’d imagined it to be. I needed her to recognize my work, the same way I recognized hers.

  She unwrapped the one of Natalie with her balloon unicorn. Tears filled her eyes. “Darling Delta. There are no words.” She embraced me.

  My cup runneth over. That wasn’t a phrase I’d ever thought about or used before, but right then it seemed apropos.

  She placed three of the framed photos on their console table in the front library. And two in the great room. I couldn’t have asked for more prominent placement.

  * * *

  In the New Year, Friday night babysitting at the Straubs became a pattern, and one or two additional nights often came up at the last minute, so I was averaging two nights a week at their house, one night a week with Ian, and found myself busy a great deal.

  I got in the habit of picking up the Straubs’ dry cleaning, and other odd errands, because such gestures gave me a reason to make extra visits to their house and because Amelia appreciated it so much. “Delta, you’re a true miracle,” she would say, interlacing her fingers below her chin in a prayerlike gesture.

  One evening, as I approached the Straubs’ brownstone to drop off the dry cleaning, I saw the lights on through their garden-level windows. I casually mentioned my observation to Fritz when he greeted me at the door. “Would you like me to shut those lights off?”

  “That’s quiet little Gwen who rents from us.” He smiled. “She barely makes a peep. The best kind of tenant doesn’t socialize.”

  I didn’t spend a lot of time with Fritz in those early weeks, but I could tell he was attracted to me. I could sense his eyes locked on me when my back was turned. I, too, longed for a connection with him, perhaps because he was a central figure in Amelia’s world.

  On Fridays I would frequently arrive early, before Fritz and Natalie were home, because Amelia enjoyed having her own special time with me. The front door was occasionally unlocked in the daytime, so I’d let myself in. Sometimes Amelia didn’t even hear me when I walked into her office. I would stand in the doorway and observe her working—her brow furrowed with concentration. Her beauty was impossible to separate from her dazzling mind.

  I entered one afternoon and saw, on her monitor, the elevations of a town house. “Amelia, that’s gorgeous.” I was completely sincere.

  “Oh, Delta, do you think so?” She looked like a child—so hopeful, so eager for praise.

  “Yes, it’s brilliant.” Her supremely functional designs were always layered with ideas. She wasn’t capable of drawing something commonplace.

  Amelia was buoyed by my encouragement. I could tell by the change in her posture and the shift in the angle of her chin. “I get so lost in my work, and sometimes I don’t know what’s good and what isn’t.” She rested her fingers on my shoulder. “I can’t tell you what your support means to me.”

  Fritz had probably stopped telling Amelia what she needed to hear. I could see her wilting when she didn’t have sufficient praise. She needed someone to prop up her sense of herself.

  After discussing her drawings, we would sit at the kitchen counter and she’d make us each a cup of herbal tea. These were some of my happiest moments. Without fail, I would try to steer the conversation in the direction of the baby that she yearned for. I was looking for the right time to address the subject directly and hadn’t found it yet.

  Sometimes she asked me about myself. “So I get reports from Ian but nothing from you,” she said one day, a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes.

  I sipped a warm mug of raspberry tea. “I feel so fortunate that you introduced us. How did you know?” I was seeing Ian regularly, but going slow on physical intimacy for as long as possible while still maintaining his interest.

  Amelia beamed, clearly relishing the role of matchmaker. “It was intuition!”

  “He’s an amazing person,” I said. “I feel like we’ve known each other for years.”

  “You’re an amazing person.” She squeezed my hand. “By the way, he showed me the photos of his mother’s place. I hear Paula’s planning the wedding already.” She laughed. “And I don’t blame her.” The notes of her laughter rippled through the air.

  * * *

  R u free Thursday for lunch? It was a text from Amelia the following Monday. I felt light-headed. I didn’t expect this. I’d been hoping that our relationship would extend beyond photography and babysitting, but I thought it would take several months. I didn’t expect that we’d already be socializing, without the pretext of my babysitting Natalie.

  Amelia suggested I meet her at a job site on the Upper East Side so she could show me the town house they’d just finished renovating. She wanted to spend time with me—to share her work with me. She’d already shared her drawings with me, but the invitation was an indication of our growing intimacy. It was a significant step forward in our relationship.

  Wednesday night, I spent more than an hour choosing an outfit for my lunch with Amelia. I wanted her to be proud of me if she had occasion to introduce me to someone. I wanted to look like I belonged to the same socioeconomic class that she did. She might choose to take me to a fine restaurant, so I needed something slightly elevated but effortless. After trying on most of the clothes in my closet, I ended up choosing a gray cashmere sweater and black slacks. It wasn’t a unique outfit, but Amelia would certainly notice that the pants and sweater were both very expensive.

  When I arrived at the job site at noon the following day, three workers were finishing final touches on the house, installing the kitchen cabinetry, hardware, appliances, and light fixtures. I spotted Amelia. She was wearing a stylish brown coat and a silk scarf around her neck. “My beautiful Delta,” she cried. “I’m so happy you’re here!” It was freezing cold, but Amelia’s words heated every inch of my body within seconds.

  I noticed how the workers looked at her, the supreme respect they accorded her. They worshipped her. Her eyes darted to every corner of the kitchen, assessing what needed to be done. “Line up the pull and the hinge.” “Center the sconce.” “Raise the lantern two inches.” When she gave a direction, her confidence and expertise were palpable.

  She finished speaking to the workers, then led me through the parlor floor, describing the paths of circulation and the use of space. Not only was the renovation finished, the home was almost completely decorated. It appeared that many of the original walls were intact, as opposed to the first floor of the Straubs’ home, which was largely open.

  We entered the library in the back of the house. “The clients wanted to keep all the dark wood and the paneling,” she said. “They think they’re respecting history. I tried to tell them it was added in the sixties. And even if it was original, it’s ugly.

  “They saw our website,” she said. “And I told them, listen, you say you like our work. Well, it’s not going to look like that if you leave all the heavy wood everywhere.” Amelia was surprisingly practical when speaking about her work. Yes, she was a true artist, and it was this aspect of her, above all else, that drew me to her. But she acknowledged the commercial side of her job without apology. Amelia and I had so much in common.

  I found the home handsome—though not in the same league as the Straub house. Amelia led me up the stairs, pointing out details with which she was pleased, such as the design of the black iron newel posts, the steel balusters, and the gracefully curved mahogany handrails. The house didn’t completely represent her aesthetics, but I could tell she was proud of it.

  She showed me the master suite on the second floor and the children’s bedrooms on the third floor. “We’re
submitting photos of our work for an award we were nominated for,” she said. “The photographer we normally use totally flaked.” We were about to head back down the stairs when she stopped and turned to face me, her eyes bright. “You know, I just had an idea,” she said. “Would you take photos of the house for us?”

  It took a minute for me to register what she’d said. When I did, I felt a hollow pit in my stomach. She’d asked me to lunch for this particular reason. I’d believed she was interested in spending time with me.

  “We need someone brilliant who can fight against all the dark,” she said. “Of course I’d pay you anything you ask.”

  I told myself that the request was flattering. She liked the photos of Ian’s mother’s place. Real friends do favors for each other. Just because Amelia had asked me for a favor, that didn’t necessarily mean anything about our friendship.

  But I felt foolish, and at that moment, when I tried to see myself through her eyes, I saw Natalie’s babysitter and a party photographer. Not an artist. Not a peer.

  * * *

  When it came time for the shoot the following week, I overcame my despondency and was able to enjoy myself, largely because I had Amelia’s undivided attention and her admiration. She followed me around like a puppy dog, just as Ian and Paula had done in Paula’s apartment. Occasionally I allowed Amelia to look through the viewfinder. “How do you do it?” she said. “You’re not misrepresenting the space, but you’re interpreting it in the best possible way. You’re a genius.”

  I hesitated when she asked what she owed me. If I were to take her money, then I would be solidifying an employer–employee relationship. But if I did not take her money, then I still wouldn’t know if our friendship was purely one of convenience for her.

  She’d been paying me to babysit Natalie and she wouldn’t have it any other way. However, I considered the photographs to be in a separate category. For one thing, I typically charged a lot for my photographic skills. And something told me that Amelia was looking for a deal. She would be put off if I said my price was fifteen hundred for the day. But I couldn’t devalue my work. It was all or nothing. I chose nothing.