Pictures of You (35 page)

What she did love about New York was her classes. Imagine, going to school to learn the thing she loved! The light here was different, somehow sharper and more complex. She shot black and white because it seemed more real to her, all those shades of gray, like moving through a fog.

She had wanted to keep her world small, but it kept expanding on her. She was busier than she thought she’d be, and she made a point of taking her camera everywhere. She looked at the sky, something Dora told her never to do because it would mark you as a tourist and present you like a blinking green light to all the hucksters prowling about. Isabelle didn’t care. Nothing could have made her stop looking. Even with all the clouds and the dimming sky, it was still a beauty of a night. Everywhere you looked there were these huge, busy buildings and throngs of people, and they all
looked interesting to her. She wanted to photograph nearly every face she saw.

She turned up the collar of her jacket against the nip in the evening air. Thinking about the boy at the party, she dug her hands deeper into her pockets.

Isabelle had never stopped aching for Sam. She remembered the feel of him on her lap, the silk of his hair, the lilt of his voice. She sent Sam photographs of the city, and books, and though they never came back, she never heard back, either. She had called a few times and Charlie told her that Sam couldn’t come to the phone, that he was in and out of the hospital with serious asthma, and even though Charlie never said so, she felt that he blamed her somehow. When she missed Sam most, she went to Central Park Lake and skipped stones, just the way he had taught her. A million times she thought about visiting, just showing up, but her course workload was so heavy and her bankbook so light, she couldn’t get away. And more than that, Charlie never asked her to come.

She knew that Sam came to visit his grandparents twice a year, at Thanksgiving and spring break, and she was always wondering if she’d run into him. “My ex lives a block away and in five years, I’ve never seen him,” Dora had told her, meaning to be consoling. Isabelle had never met Charlie’s parents. She had certainly seen enough photographs to be able to pick them out, and though she knew it was nuts, she kept looking for them in the city, running over in her mind what she might say if she did. Yes, I’m doing fine. How are you? How is Charlie? How is Sam? Sometimes, she imagined they would be sympathetic to her, that Charlie’s mother would pat her hand. Other times, she thought they’d be dismissive, that they’d still somehow consider her a murderess, though Charlie had told her they had been cool to April, too, that perhaps they’d be frosty to any woman he chose. She knew they lived on the Upper East Side, and one day, when she felt especially lonely, she had taken the uptown train to their block, walking past their apartment building, a huge limestone structure with gargoyles carved in the
side, a doorman in a uniform stationed in the front. She took her time walking by, she pretended to be admiring the building, which was certainly beautiful. She wondered if they’d come out and if they’d know who she was, or if she’d recognize them. Of course, all that happened was that she hovered in front of the building so long that the doorman asked, “Are you lost, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am.” And then she walked away and never went back.

Isabelle leaned against a building now and shut her eyes for a moment. She shouldn’t have had the wine. Maybe she shouldn’t have gone to the party. She was drunk and lonely and felt as if everything she wanted were a thousand miles away. A knot of tears formed in her stomach, and she wrenched herself away from the building.

The day she had left the Cape, sitting beside Michelle in the car, she had felt numb with grief. Her first few weeks in New York had been chaotic. There were a million things to do. She had to set up her apartment, get Nelson settled, and get a phone. She had to register at the school, find a darkroom, and change her address, sending the cards to everyone, even her mother, who sent her a card with a big cross on it and the inscription Faith Will Find the Way. She had cried all the time. Once, on the street right in front of Macy’s, on a bright, sunny day, she had been unable to stop crying. No one even turned to acknowledge her. People calmly walked by as if she were invisible, and to her surprise, that made her feel better. She began to feel that New York was just what she needed.

When the phone didn’t ring with a call from Charlie or Sam, when no letters came for her, she told herself that maybe it was for the best. Sometimes she dreamed different versions of her life: Charlie would call and tell her that he was free of his demons, that all he wanted was for her to come home and marry him; Charlie and Sam would show up on her doorstep, saying, “We can’t live without you.” Or even just Charlie, finding her to say, “We have
to talk our way through this. We have to figure this out. We can do this, I know we can.”

Now a headache was forming, as small and hard as a Brazil nut. Alcohol was supposed to wear off, but instead, Isabelle seemed to be feeling drunker. She tried to walk a straight line and wobbled. She didn’t want to go back to her empty apartment or call a friend who would look at her with rich sympathy, and in any case, most of the friends she had now were still at parties. She felt in her purse for her cell phone. Her heart was racing and she felt sick, but she dialed.

She let it ring, four times, five, hypnotized, before she hung up. What would she say if Charlie or Sam answered? How could it possibly make anything better?

Isabelle put the phone back into her purse.

S
HE WALKED OVER
to Houston and then headed up Hudson Street. It began to snow. Instantly, she was covered with flakes. The thin, fancy red flats she had bought for the party skidded on the damp sidewalk. A woman ran past Isabelle, her hair dappled with white, and she glared at Isabelle as if she blamed her for both the terrible weather and her tragic hair.

Isabelle felt woozy and hungry and her headache was worse. In two more months, she’d be thirty-nine.

A cab zipped by, the top light on, but it was packed with people. She crossed Fourteenth Street, past Twenty-sixth Street. She was still ten blocks from her apartment, an easy walk in nice weather, an even better run, but she needed to take a break. Coffee, maybe. Or hot chocolate cooled with cream. She ducked into the first café she saw. It was a small space, with ten cozy, pale wood tables and everything lit with candles, and there wasn’t a single person in there. Empty restaurants weren’t a good sign in New York, but she was cold and hungry, and she sat down.

As soon as she scraped her chair out, a man popped out from
the back, a white apron about his waist. “The electricity’s out,” he apologized. “Actually, everything’s out. I can’t even scramble you an egg, and I just sent the waitstaff home.”

She looked up at him. He was all shades of black and white. Pale skin. Black T-shirt, sneakers, and jeans. He had a ruckus of black hair and a weathered-looking face. “Can I just sit here for a bit?” she said. “It’s beginning to snow harder out there.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Be my guest.” He studied her for a moment and then abruptly disappeared into the back room.

She began to relax, watching the glow of the candles. She felt weightless, as if the merest rush of air would float her away. The snow fluttered and stuck against the window, so all she could see was what was here, inside. She stretched her legs and then he appeared again and set a plate in front of her. Three kinds of hard cheese, some crusty bread, and red grapes. She looked up at him. “Oh, I didn’t order,” she said.

He waved his hand. “It’s a cold feast, but it’s on the house,” he said. He poured her a cup of coffee. “This is what you need,” he said kindly. “It’s actually still hot.”

She stared at the food.

“If you don’t eat it, it’ll just spoil, so you’re actually doing me a favor,” he said.

She nodded. “You’re so kind,” she said, and he looked at her, surprised.

She didn’t realize how hungry she was until she picked up her fork. Her stomach roiled and her mouth began to water. The food was delicious, the cheese sharp and dotted with bits of cranberry and orange. He looked at her happily as she ate. He went to the boombox behind the bar and put on some music, an Italian aria. “Thank goodness for batteries,” he said. “Now we have atmosphere,” he said.

“You don’t have to do all this for me,” she said.

“Why not? I do this for all my customers.”

“It’s getting nastier out there,” she said. “We both should go home.”

He shrugged and she noticed that his eyes were this eerie electric blue and for a moment, she wondered how old he was. Forty-five, maybe. Fifty tops.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he said. “This isn’t really my restaurant. I’m babysitting it for a friend tonight, a silent partner for my own restaurant.” He dug into the pocket of his apron and handed her a bright green card. Frank’s, it said. “All my life all I wanted to do was cook,” he said. “I was that weird little kid who made his own breakfast and took fancy lunches to school that everyone else made fun of.” He looked at her with interest and she suddenly was aware of her hair, damp from the snow, and she flushed. “What do you do?” he asked. “I know you’re not supposed to ask a question like that, but you look like you do something interesting.”

When Isabelle told him she was a photographer, that she was in school, he sat up straighter. “Well, what do you know?” he said. “Would you photograph me in front of my restaurant? I’m doing this new package for investors and I need a picture of myself. I hate being photographed. I’d pay you, of course. And I’d make you a real dinner.”

“Don’t you want to see my work first?” she asked, and he waved his hand. “You haven’t seen my work yet, either, so we both can be surprised,” he said. “And anyway, I trust you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I can read people. I’m a good judge of character.”

“This is for real?”

“Why would I make it up?”

“Deal,” she said, and when he took her hand to seal the deal, she felt a jolt of heat.

All that week, Isabelle kept thinking about Frank. How easy his kindness had been, how he hadn’t thought twice about taking
her in and bringing her food, how he hadn’t once asked what had brought her into the café alone on New Year’s Eve.

T
HE DAY
I
SABELLE
photographed Frank was blisteringly cold. She tried on two pairs of jeans before leaving the apartment. She brushed her hair until it gleamed.

Frank’s restaurant was on West Eighteenth Street. It was all windows and greenery, and inside were polished wood tables and flowers. Frank wore chef’s whites, which made him look both older and funnier, and as soon as he saw her, he smiled. “It’s a little cold out,” he said. He was alert and snapping with energy, and it made her feel more lively, too.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’ll take some inside shots first and then a few outside. I promise I’ll work quickly.” As soon as she started photographing him, she forgot how nervous she had been. She searched out the best, most natural light, over by a window, and had him lean against it. She forbade him to pose with his arms folded, the way most chefs did. “Talk to me,” she ordered, moving back, crouching behind her camera, and when he started telling her about his childhood, his six brothers and sisters in a tiny town in Michigan and how his sister had liked to dress up the family guinea pig in doll clothes, she began snapping.

She went through ten rolls of film. She had him stand in front of the window and in the kitchen, sitting on one of the tables and standing by the counter. The whole time, he didn’t complain once. He didn’t ask her “Are you done yet?” or suggest that his right side was his best, and anything she asked him to do, he did. “Done,” she said finally, standing and stretching.

“Beautiful,” he said, and she thought he meant beautiful that she was finished, but he was looking at her when he said it, and for a moment, before she remembered just who she really was and how she could never ever be that lucky, not after what she had done, she felt the world shimmering all around her.

I
T WAS SPRING
again and Charlie was sifting through bills. The gas company wanted money. The mortgage was due. There was an invitation to a bowling birthday party for Sam, which made him happy because he worried that Sam at ten was still too solitary, that he didn’t have enough playdates, didn’t even seem to want them, no matter how Charlie coaxed. There was junk mail from a mattress factory and a Cheese-of-the-Month Club invitation, and then, stuck in the middle, was a single gray envelope. Curious, he pulled it out. For one stupid moment, he thought it might be from Isabelle, but he brushed it aside. They hadn’t heard from her in months. No. That life was gone.

He looked at the envelope again. It was hand addressed to April. It was postmarked Pittsburgh, which gave Charlie a jolt. He flipped it over.

No name, though. No return address.

He tore it open, letting the letter fall out into his hands. It was a single sheet of white letterhead paper, carefully folded into thirds. Bill Thrommer, it said on top. There was the same sloppy handwriting that had been on the envelope, and the paper seemed worn, as if someone had folded and unfolded it over and over, deliberating whether to send it or not.

April
,

I’ve written this letter a dozen times to you, and ripped it up a dozen more. I’m taking a chance sending it. Breaking our rules, but what does it matter now?

Maybe you’ve forgiven me
.

Or maybe I’m the one forgiving you
.

I loved you. I really did. And I just wanted you to know that
.

Your Bill

Charlie’s hands shook. He scanned it again. Thrommer. Bill Thrommer.
Your Bill
.

He reached for the phone and called Hank Williams, his detective. “You don’t say?” said Hank, when Charlie told him about the letter.