The Photographer

by Mary Dixie Carter

  Itzhak rearranged himself on the floor. Natalie petted him with her bare foot. “When is your son coming back?”

  “Soon, I hope.” The sun moved behind a large branch of the Straubs’ cherry tree, so I was temporarily relieved from the glare in my eyes.

  She picked up a pencil resting on the kitchen counter and twirled it in her fingers. “I’d like to meet him.”

  “One day.” Jasper was my creation, just as a child from my womb would be my creation, were I to have one. And because I knew him so intimately, every eyelash, each toenail, I could speak about him with complete candor. Without apology.

  She set the pencil back down on the counter and twirled it in place.

  The sound of Itzhak’s labored breathing filled the room. Natalie turned her attention toward the dog again. “I’m scared that Itzhak’s going to die.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  “He sleeps almost all the time. When I come home from school, he doesn’t run to say hi anymore. I think it’s his heart condition.”

  At this time of day, the suspended glass cabinet glowed, as did every wineglass inside it.

  “His eyesight and his hearing aren’t good either,” she said. “He can still smell me though. Itzhak has an incredible sense of smell. Did you know that a bloodhound’s nose is ten to one hundred million times more sensitive than a human’s?” She sniffed the air as if testing the sensitivity of her own nose.

  “That’s amazing.”

  Now one side of Natalie’s face was bathed in light. Her gray eyes had small flecks of yellow. I took several long, slow breaths. The ache behind my sternum was subsiding.

  “Some bloodhounds can detect who has touched a pipe bomb after the pipe bomb already exploded.” Natalie got down from the kitchen stool and sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, next to Itzhak. “They can detect one milligram of human sweat among one hundred million cubic meters of air. Those detective dogs are so cool. I’d love to meet one of them.”

  Itzhak rolled over onto his back. She scratched him behind his ears. “You’re my best friend. Right, buddy?”

  “Itzhak loves you so much,” I said.

  “I read that some dogs go away to die.” She rubbed his stomach. “Is that true?”

  The sun was quickly sinking behind the Straubs’ shrubbery at the back of their yard. “Itzhak, please don’t,” she said. “I’m scared that one day I’ll come home and he won’t be here anymore. No one will know where he went.” The whole house dimmed. Itzhak stood and limped away from Natalie and toward the tall glass doors.

  “Maybe dogs who go away to die are hoping to spare their masters the pain of witnessing their death.” I’d been by myself with my uncle when he’d had a heart attack. I was twelve at the time. I called the paramedics, but, unfortunately, he died before they arrived.

  Natalie hugged her skinny legs into her ribs. “I think it would be worse. The not knowing.”

  Amelia and Fritz were going to return soon, but I was relishing my time with Natalie and wanted a few more minutes of uninterrupted conversation.

  “Remember Lucia?” Natalie sat back down on the kitchen stool.

  “Hmm?”

  “She’s keeping her baby.”

  I felt dust in my throat and coughed.

  “I think you knew that already.” Natalie made eye contact with me. The yellow flecks in her eyes danced. I saw acuity in her gaze.

  “I wasn’t sure.” I was very aware of the muscles in my face.

  “Her boyfriend came back. He decided to be the dad.” She studied me, as if anticipating a reaction.

  I tried to maintain a semi-neutral expression of detached concern.

  She swiveled her stool 360 degrees and then back the other way. “Mom’s dying for a baby. It’s pathetic.” Again, she swiveled and reversed.

  Itzhak circled in order to find a comfortable spot near Natalie.

  “They don’t need a baby,” she said. “They have me.”

  “You’re not a baby.” I envisioned the chaos of any baby compromising Amelia’s desire for order and infringing on her circumscribed life.

  “I’m their real daughter,” Natalie said. “Why bring some other gene pool into the house?”

  I looked at her face to determine if she was making a joke, but saw no trace of humor.

  “I want to say to them: You’re too old for another baby.” She swiveled, then caught herself mid-revolution each time, and pushed off in the opposite direction.

  I held her stool in place to keep her from swiveling.

  “Your parents adore you,” I said.

  “They don’t adore spending time with me.”

  I heard a car pulling into the Straubs’ driveway. Itzhak’s ears perked up. He stood, as if he were considering running to the front door out of duty, but then an expression of defeat fell across his face and he lay back down.

  I heard the front door open, followed by the sound of forceful wind, along with boots stomping on the doormat. The door clicked shut. Then footsteps in the hall. I recognized the footsteps as belonging to Fritz.

  In a baseball cap and jeans, he appeared brooding and intensely handsome. He flicked a switch and every light in the back half of the house was illuminated. He rubbed his hands together. The cold air from the front door had traveled down the hall, toward the back of the house, and even the kitchen felt chilly. It was the last day of March, but the temperature was still below freezing.

  “Hi, Delta,” he said. “Hi, Toots.” Fritz kissed Natalie on her forehead. I noticed that his beard had grown in.

  “Rough day?” I asked.

  “It’s three grand to replace the car’s fucking transmission.” He opened the Sub-Zero refrigerator and then turned away from the open door, distracted, as if he forgot what he was looking for. He removed his baseball cap and threw it across the room, where it landed on the sofa.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  The refrigerator beeped to indicate it was still open.

  He turned back to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of IPA. “Lucia decided to keep her baby. Did you know?”

  I tried to read him. Was he thinking of our conversation from a few weeks earlier? I held my face still and expressionless. “A temporary change of heart, perhaps?”

  He widened his eyes. “Amelia’s a disaster.”

  “Dad,” Natalie said. “Mom needs to get a grip.”

  “I know.” He studied his bottle of beer, as if deciding how to open it.

  “Maybe she needs to talk to our rabbi,” Natalie said.

  Fritz reached into a drawer and pulled out a ninety-nine-cent bottle opener, one of the only mundane items I’d noticed in the Straub household, not in the same league as my brass-and-marble bottle opener. The bottle cap fell to the floor. He left it there.

  “Piper says Mom needs spiritual guidance.”

  “Your mom doesn’t want spiritual guidance.” Fritz looked out toward the backyard. His attention seemed to be caught by something he heard. I observed his rounded shoulders. The endless exchanges with Amelia had taken a toll on his body. Though an exceedingly attractive man, his hair was thinning, his hairline receding.

  “She doesn’t know what she wants.” Natalie seemed irritated at her father’s distraction.

  Fritz continued to gaze absentmindedly at the cherry tree, the dead brown grass, the lavender sky.

  “Mom’s damaged,” Natalie said, raising her voice to get his attention. She sounded strident.

  He pressed his eyes closed tightly.

  “Spiritual guidance could be helpful,” I said. Still seated at the kitchen island, with Natalie next to me, I gently placed my hand on hers, and, as I did, I noticed that it was almost as large as mine. The skin on her knuckles felt rough from the harsh winter air. “Amelia’s experienced a loss because she was counting on Lucia’s baby. There are people who can help her with that.”

  Fritz laughed thinly. He cast his eyes in my direction.

  “I grew up Catholic,” I said. “I used
to talk to the priest at our church when I was having difficulty.” I’d barely known the priest, and only spoken to him once, when he took me aside to ask me about my parents’ divorce. I was wearing a white blouse with bell sleeves that day. I remember wishing for a pair of scissors so that I could cut off my sleeves and cover his mouth with them, to mask the nauseating smell of his breath. “In fact, even recently, I called the priest from my church for counsel on my custody situation.”

  Fritz cleared his throat, as if he expected me to say more, but I didn’t.

  It wasn’t in my best interest to be spiritual. Maybe one day, when I had what Amelia already had—money, family, love, success—on that day, I could afford to look for God. But right now it wasn’t the best use of my time.

  Amelia, however, was a different story. Natalie was right that she needed guidance of some kind. Opening her heart up to God, her pain might disappear entirely. It worked for some people. She might look around and say, Wow. I’m fortunate. Thank you, God.

  But first she’d have to acknowledge her blessings. She’d have to notice, for example, that I was standing in front of her, eager to help.

  “Fritz, if you don’t mind my saying so, you and Amelia should try to communicate with Natalie during the whole process so that she understands your thinking.”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Thanks, Delta. I think we got this.”

  Natalie rolled her eyes. “Really?” She pushed her ash-colored hair behind her ears, a habit not dissimilar to Amelia’s. “How’s that?”

  My stomach turned. I didn’t want him to associate me with Natalie’s rebellion.

  “Why don’t you go practice the cello?” he said to her.

  He opened one set of bifold doors and walked outside without closing them behind him. Itzhak followed him to the door, but just stood there with the wind blowing his hair and ears back and chose not to go out. Cold air made its way through the house again. Natalie shivered. Fritz walked down the spiral staircase and to the far end of their backyard, where he appeared to examine their cherry tree. He’d told me it was glorious in full bloom, but I liked it now, when the tree’s angular silhouette carved out negative space in the sky. Fritz circled the tree methodically, looking closely at the bark and the roots, as if he were an arborist. I wondered if he knew anything at all about trees.

  I walked to the stove, picking up Fritz’s bottle cap on my way, and turned on one of the burners to boil some water.

  “Fritz,” I called outside through the open door. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “He doesn’t drink tea. He drinks beer.” Natalie’s tone of voice was sharp. I felt chastised.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked her.

  Natalie sighed loudly and stared at the ceiling. “No.”

  I took down two large rust-colored ceramic mugs from the cabinet—two of a set of twelve, probably handmade—and removed two expensive-looking tea sachets from a tin container.

  I walked back to the kitchen island and sat down next to her. “I think you should talk to your mom.”

  Itzhak lay back down next to Natalie. His breathing sounded like a broken radiator.

  “I want to help you all,” I said.

  Fritz reappeared and closed the doors behind him.

  The teakettle shrieked loudly. It sounded like an ambulance siren. I poured boiling water into the ceramic mugs and let the tea steep.

  Fritz joined us at the kitchen island. “It looks good.” He held his beer bottle in one hand and placed his other hand on the handle of the mug.

  “You hate tea,” Natalie said.

  “I do?” He adjusted his glasses on his nose.

  The phone rang and Fritz picked up. “Nat, it’s Piper.”

  Natalie took the portable phone down the hall.

  Fritz and I were now alone in the kitchen. Our previous conversation hung in the air between us, as did our previous physical contact.

  “My back … it’s killing me.” Fritz rubbed his shoulder. His hands looked masculine, like they belonged to a blue-collar worker. The way my father’s hands looked. The way my uncle’s hands looked.

  “I used to be a masseuse.”

  He glanced at me. Perhaps he interpreted my statement as an overture. Perhaps it was.

  “It’s probably in spasm,” I said. I stood behind him and placed my hand on his shoulder. His shirt was still cold from having been outside. “Is this where it hurts?” I pressed my thumb down on what I thought might be a pressure point. The Australian masseur I’d dated several years earlier had shown me a few. That relationship lasted longer than most, until his roommate made absurd accusations and changed the locks on their apartment.

  My fingers lingered on the carotid pulse in Fritz’s neck and I could feel it quicken.

  “I have a headache too.” He put his hand to his head.

  “Usually tension in the shoulder contributes to a headache. The constriction of blood flow.” My hands moved to his forehead and his temples, often the source of a headache. I used my fingers to place pressure on his temples and his jaw, all potential causes of tension. “Here is the problem,” I said, “right here.” Then I moved down his arms to his hands. He released his tight hold on the bottle and a few drops of beer spilled onto the floor.

  “Delta, you’re really good at this.” He shifted on his stool. “Thank you.”

  I massaged one of his hands, then the other. I felt the calluses covering his palms. “The hands have pressure points connected to every part of the body. Pain in one part of your hand is an indication of a larger problem.” After his hands, I massaged his lower back. Then I turned his body on the stool so that he was facing away from the counter and toward me and I would have more access to the front of his body. His face was flushed and damp with perspiration. I wanted him. My desire for Fritz didn’t completely align with my grander vision, but I couldn’t talk myself out of it. I wanted to be in the center—with no secrets between Amelia and Fritz that I didn’t have access to.

  I willed Fritz to put his hand between my legs. He needed something to take his mind off the failed adoption and Amelia. I closed my eyes and imagined his hand on my thigh, then further up on my crotch.

  How long would Natalie be on the phone with Piper?

  In my mind, I saw myself: I walked toward the Straubs’ side office and looked back so that he would follow me and, in my mind, he did. Fritz closed the door behind him and locked it. In the background, I could still hear Natalie on the phone. We didn’t have much time. I lay my upper body facedown on Fritz’s desk and pulled my dress up. I understood him. He was angry at everyone. Maybe even angry at me for offering sex to him. And angry at himself for accepting the offer. Rage was driving him. I know what that’s like.

  When I opened my eyes, I was standing in front of Fritz in the kitchen. His eyes were still closed. His head had dropped forward slightly. My hands were still on his shoulders.

  I heard Natalie say goodbye to Piper then her footsteps approaching. Fritz opened his eyes. We made eye contact. I felt the pounding of my heart in my body. Then he looked away. Natalie joined us in the kitchen and sat on the floor, petting Itzhak while Fritz drank his beer. He didn’t touch the tea.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I heard the front door open, the wind shrieking, and then silence after the door slammed shut. Amelia appeared in the kitchen. She had dark circles underneath her red, swollen eyes and appeared thinner than the last time I’d seen her.

  Without a word, she crossed to the sink, turned on the faucet, and vigorously splashed water onto her face, spilling it onto her dress and the floor as well. She dried her hands with a paper towel, but didn’t bother to wipe up the puddle on the floor.

  Amelia carefully dabbed her lips with the paper towel, then her forehead and then her cheeks. “I have a right to say goodbye to the baby.”

  “What do you mean?” Fritz took a large sip of his beer.

  “I believed that I was her mother.” Amelia’s voice sh
ifted into a higher register. “I bonded with the baby. My heart has been ripped from my chest.” She rolled the wet paper towel into a small ball.

  Fritz crossed toward Amelia and put his hands on her shoulders. “You have us, babe.”

  She pushed him away as if his hands burnt her skin through her dress. “I’m dying.”

  Seated on the floor next to Itzhak, Natalie twisted a rubber band around her hair to create a ponytail.

  “Amelia,” Fritz said. “You need a therapist or a counselor.”

  “It’s deep grief.” Amelia pulled on her ear, like a baby with an earache.

  “You need spiritual guidance.” Natalie stood and sat back down on one of the counter stools.

  Amelia turned to look at Natalie as if noticing her for the first time. “Hmm?”

  “Maybe our rabbi,” Natalie said.

  “We don’t have a rabbi.”

  “At the synagogue.”

  “We don’t have a synagogue.”

  “Any synagogue will do.”

  Amelia looked at her daughter as though she were speaking another language. The frayed hem of Amelia’s dress and the scuff marks on her boots did not comport with the charismatic, glamorous woman I’d met several months earlier. The roots of her hair were gray and greasy. Her shine had completely worn off. She wasn’t trying and failing. She had stopped trying altogether.

  Amelia had yet to recognize my presence. I was used to feeling invisible, but even so, her lack of acknowledgment elicited a hollow feeling in my gut.

  I considered excusing myself, out of a sense of propriety, but I owed it to myself to embrace the opportunities I’d created.

  “I don’t want a baby if this is what happens to you.” Fritz spoke in a dry voice. “I don’t know you.”

  “Then I suppose we go our separate ways.” Amelia opened up one of the kitchen cabinets. She looked at the expiration date on a box of crackers and tossed it into the trash. I questioned whether the crackers were actually expired.

  “Jesus Christ.” Fritz downed the last of his beer and deposited the bottle under the sink with a loud crash. “Do you have any concern for your daughter’s feelings?” I imagined that he said the line “concern for your daughter’s feelings” often and by rote because it made him sound responsible and caring.