Someone
wanted to do it a lot. There were dozens of photos, most of the same girl, her
face altered so that she resembled a broken statue, mottled green and black.
But a few pictures seemed to be clumsy self-portraits. One showed a mirror and
the flashlit reflection of a figure holding the SX-70. The others showed
portions of a face, badly out of focus. A scalp, a nose or ear, a toothy grin.
Someone had gone to the trouble of taking these photos. And someone else had
taken the trouble to save them.
None
of these photos were signed. They didn't need to be. I knew it was him.
Denny
Ahearn.
Those
Polaroids pumped out damage the way that little space heater cranked out BTUs.
I could taste it, a tang like biting into an old penny, like the taste you get
from speed that hasn't been cooked enough. I wanted to recoil, but the images
drew me on. I looked at one after another, impelled by the eye behind that
camera, a presence so strong it was like it was in the room with me.
And
then, there really
was
an eye, staring out at me from the last page. It
was the only photo that hadn't been manipulated. A single amber eye, gleaming
as though it had been coated with glycerin. The cornea wasn't white, but a
custardy yellow, threaded with red filaments. I could see the pale reflected
outline of a camera in the iris.
That
was creepy enough. What made it worse was a blotch of green pigment like the
one in Gryffin's eye. Only this was a bigger flaw, and it was in a different
place, just below the pupil.
I
couldn't look away from it. It was like staring at a painting where the canvas
has been torn: if you could only rip away the ruined canvas, another painting
would be revealed: the
real
painting. I felt the same vertiginous horror
I'd experienced as a girl, looking into the sky to see a great eye gazing down
at me.
Now
I felt that jagged bit of pigment was the
real eye,
the realest eye I'd
ever seen. I brought the photo to my face to get a better look, and grimaced.
It
stank. Not the musty, doggy smell of Aphrodite’s room, but the smell I'd
detected on the photo back at Ray Provenzano's house, a reek like someone had
dumped rotting fish on top of a dead skunk.
It
was faint, but unmistakable. And it was coming from the Polaroid. I held it
under my nose and sniffed.
I
replaced the photo, sat on the floor and stared at the unmade bed, soiled
sheets, dog fur, all those expensive photo books, Roberto Schezen, Rudy
Burckhardt.. .
"Shit,"
I whispered.
I
stood and grabbed a book, the familiar RUNWAY colophon on its spine beneath the
title and photographer's name.
DEAD
GIRLS CASSANDRA NEARY
On
the title page was an inscription.
'ONE
BECOMES HUMAN BY IMITATING THE GODS'
FOR
A WITH LOVE
D
"What
are you doing?" For a second I thought I'd imagined the voice. "
What
are you
doing?"
I
looked up.
It
was Aphrodite, the deerhounds at her sides. A twig was stuck to her leggings;
her lipstick was faded and her silvery hair flattened as though she'd just
woken up.
But
by the way she swayed back and forth, red eyed, I figured that she'd been
up—though maybe not upright—for a while, and keeping the same kind of company I
had; no speed, maybe, but plenty of cognac or whatever it was that made her
look like a skeletal marionette.
"Aphrodite."
I blinked. "Wow. I—"
Before
I could move she was on top of me. I fell back as she yanked the book from my
hands and smashed it against my head. I cried out and fell backward,
struggling.
"Hey!"
I gasped. "Stop, I was just—"
A
dog whined as she smashed the book against my face again. I kicked out
violently and struck her shoulder. She staggered backward and the dogs growled,
as though this was a game they'd played before.
"Get—
out
—"
The book dropped to the floor. Aphrodite beat at the air as though there were
another, invisible assailant between us. "Get—
out
—get—
out
—"
I
crouched on the bed as the dogs pawed at each other and Aphrodite swiped madly
at nothing, like someone practicing a deranged form of Tai Chi.
"
Get out, get out. . ."
Whoever,
whatever, she was fighting seemed to have nothing to do with me. She didn't
even seem to remember I was there. I edged off the bed.
"Get—
out!"
Aphrodite's voice rose to a strangled cry. Abruptly she grew silent. She
lowered her hands, panting, and looked around.
Now
she did see me.
No,
not me: my camera. She gazed at it then lifted her head and stared right at me.
When she spoke, her voice was calm.
"Amateur.
Thief." She smiled a horrible broken doll's smile. "You're nothing
but a little amateur. Both of you—
nothing.
You think I didn't know? You
thought I wouldn't know who you were? You—"
She
lunged and grabbed at my camera. "You're
nothing
.. ."
I
covered the Konica with one arm and pushed her away. She reeled back, the dogs
dancing around her as though this, too, were part of the game. One of them
leaped up, its paws grazing her shoulders. Aphrodite gasped, still staring at
me, then fell.
I
had no time to stop her, only watched as her head struck the corner of the
woodstove. I heard a
snap.
Not like a dry stick breaking, more the sound
of something green that doesn't want to give way.
Her
body hit the floor. The deerhound backed away and slunk toward the bed. The
other two dogs surged forward, tails wagging, and nosed at her crotch.
I
clutched my camera and held my breath, listened for the sound of footsteps and
Gryffin's voice: sirens, shouting, God knows what.
But
there was nothing. The room was still, except for the snuffling dogs and the
hum of the space heater. I drew a breath and ran my hand protectively across my
camera.
"Go,"
I whispered. I swatted at the dogs. "Go, go on—"
They
backed off, mouths split in white grins.
"Lie
down." I gestured toward the bed. "Go on, lie
down!'
They
leaped onto the bed, padded across the covers, and settled down, long gray
muzzles on their paws. I made sure there was still no sound from the hall then
went to the body.
Her
head lolled to one side. A skein of spit ran from the corner of her mouth to
the floor, mingled with blood from a deep cut in her temple. The cut formed a
shape like a tiny inverted pyramid, glistening pink at the sides, deep indigo
at the deepest point. I glanced at the woodstove. A small chunk of flesh was
impaled on one corner, a few hairs protruding from it, like a daddy longlegs
snagged in a bit of bloody Kleenex.
I
looked down again. One of Aphrodite's eyes was fixed on me. A pinkish glaze
sheathed the cornea, like a welling tear. As I stared, the eyelid dropped in a
wink then slowly rose, the tear darkening to scarlet as it spilled onto her
cheek. A red bubble appeared in one nostril and popped. Tiny red specks
appeared across her cheeks, a flush.
She
was still alive. I took a step toward the door.
And
stopped. I turned back, got onto one knee, popped the lens cap from my Konica,
and began to shoot.
I
had shit for light, but I didn't care. There was enough for an exposure. That's
all I needed. Tri-X doesn't pick up as many details in the gray area as
something like T-Max. It doesn't have as fine a grain, it's a colder film, it
can be raw. It's perfect for what I do. It was perfect now.
What
mattered was what was in front of me at that moment: the matte bulk of the
woodstove, ash on the floor; the macabre doll with her head twisted. She was
beautiful, it was all beautiful, her spill of silver hair and the play of blood
beneath her skin.
I
got a series of close-ups. At one point I worried that her breath might fog my
lens. But by then she hardly seemed to be breathing at all.
I
don't know at what point she actually died. But gradually the flush on her
cheeks took on a violet tinge. A strand of hair fell across her face, obscuring
one eye. I moved it aside, shot two more frames before checking the camera.
I
only had four shots left. I stopped, suddenly aware of my body clammy with
sweat. I looked at the bedroom door then scrambled to my feet.
On
Aphrodite's bed, the dogs slept. A body lay on the floor, and a leather
portfolio.
Otherwise
nothing was out of place. It looked like an accidental death. To me, anyway.
Even kind of a natural death, all things considered. I tugged at my T-shirt so
it covered my hand, grabbed the copy of
Dead Girls
and stuck it on a
bookshelf, lining it up so it looked as inconspicuous as possible. Then I got
the portfolio, did my best to clean it with my T-shirt, and shoved it back
under the bed.
Would
that be enough? My fingerprints were probably all over it, and the other two as
well. But I couldn't waste time trying to clean up. I'd have to hope no one
would bother with it. I glanced around the room for any hint I'd been there.
All
seemed as untidy and forlorn as when I'd entered. I used my T-shirt to polish
the doorknobs, swiped the fabric across the doorjamb for good measure. I felt
surprisingly calm, as though I were cleaning up from a party.
Had
I touched anything else?
Nada.
I
was safe. Maybe.
16
Phil
used to say my motto should be
Born to Lose.
At that moment,
Nothing
to Lose
seemed just as good. I gave one last look at Aphrodite's room.
Would she have left the door ajar? The light on?
I
decided yeah, sure, if she didn't know she was going to be dead. I headed for
Gryffin's bedroom.
His
door was shut. I stood and tried to get my nerve up.
I
was wasted, but I wasn't stupid. I wasn't sure exactly what had happened back
there in Aphrodite's room—did she fall or was she pushed?— but I knew it didn't
look good.
I
needed to cover my ass. Getting rid of the film in my camera would be a start,
but I didn't want to do that. Those pictures ... maybe no one else could ever
see them, but
I
wanted to see them. I
needed
to see them, to
prove that I wasn't like her, not yet. To prove that I hadn't lost it.
The
hall was black. But gradually my eyes adjusted. There's always a gray scale,
even in what seems like total darkness. I went into Gryffin's room and closed
the door behind me.
The
bedroom was warm. I could hear him breathing deeply. Not snoring, which was
good. I don't sleep well with other people in the room.
Not
that I could sleep yet. I crossed to the far wall. There was enough light that
I could see Gryffin lying on his back. One arm rested on his forehead. His head
was tilted. The sleeve of his T-shirt had hitched up so that I could see the
hollow beneath his arm.
He
looked beautiful. Otherworldly, I would say, except that what was so lovely
about him was his very ordinariness, the fact that he could be in the same room
with me, breathe the same air; and know nothing of me at all. As though I were
a ghost; as though Aphrodite had been right, and I was truly nothing.
But
for as long as I stood there, for as long as he didn't wake, our worlds
occupied the same space, the way a photograph can create a secondary world that
exists within the real one. I felt as though I had stepped inside a photo—not
one of my own pictures but someplace calm, someplace suspended between waking and
sleep, the real and the ideal. A place my work would never belong, any more
than I would.
Gryffin
belonged there. Dark as it was in that room, I could imagine he slept somewhere
else, sunlit. A beach, a green woodland. Sun, a man smiling; always out of reach.
I would never be able to touch him.
Grief
hit me then, the image of Aphrodite's sad small body sprawled beside the
woodstove, and horror at the darkness around me. I turned and groped around the
room until I found Gryffin's desk, the brass candlestick and box of wooden
matches. I struck one, not caring if he woke, lit the candle then extinguished
the match.
The
flame seemed blinding, but he didn't stir. I stood at his bedside, candle in my
hand, and gazed down at him: his mouth parted slightly, as though he were on
the verge of speaking to someone in his dream. His eyes moved behind his
eyelids. His breath was warm and smelled of toothpaste and alcohol. He was
beautiful.
Everything
is random. That's what I used to believe. Nothing happens for a reason, nothing
happens because we will it. I never believed in gods. I believe in Furies. I
think there are beings, people, impelled by the power to do harm. Sometimes the
impulse is momentary. Maybe in some instances it's eternal. And maybe that's
the one thing in the universe that isn't random.