Reverb (17 page)

They’re like a work of art.
Click.
Father and child, there’s nothing to tell they're not—the fine, thick, wavy hair, sculpted baby faces. Cameron looks angelic, like a cherub. James is spectacular in sleep, his square jaw relaxed, taking the sharp hallow from his cheeks, the full lips slightly parted.
Click.

She burns through the first roll of film and is on her second, focusing on James’ enormous hand over Cameron, made to look even larger with his shirtsleeve scrunched back, when she notices. Elisabeth kneels next to the lounge chair and examines his exposed wrist. James stirs and she freezes, holds her breath. He shifts slightly but stays sleeping. A jagged cut extending up his forearm is in the process of healing. She shudders, moves back quietly, lifts the camera from around her neck, and focuses on the scar.
Click.
What happened that would make him want to take his own life? He’s so
young
, beautiful, probably well educated, obviously wealthy.
Click.
Why would someone with all he has want to die? She burns another roll and is on her third when he wakes to her lens in his face.

“What are you doing?” He slowly gauges what’s happening, sits up gently and settles Cameron on the lounge as he moves off of it and stands. “Give me the camera.”

“Why? You two were perfect. Like an Annie Lebowitz portrait. It was beautiful. I couldn’t help myself. Please forgive me.”             

He walks over to her, takes the camera out of her hand casually and examines it, then opens it and pulls out the film.

She can’t believe it. “Why did you do that? You have no right.”

“Did you shoot any other rolls of me?”

“Why? What difference does it make? I’m not going to publish them. The pictures are for my personal collection, chronicling Cameron, that’s all. You have no right to destroy them.”

“And you have no right to take my picture without my permission.”

“Well, actually, I have every right to take your picture without your permission, especially if you
are
famous. Do you really need the first amendment speech?” Her heart is pumping hard and fast.             

“Where is the rest of the film you shot?”

“You just wrecked it. God, what is the big deal, James? I just took a few shots. No one besides me, and maybe my mother would have seen them. May I have my camera back now please?”

He stares at her, then runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. “You’re right. I’m overreacting. Sorry.” He hands her back her camera and the exposed roll of film and turns away, walks to the railing and looks out at the sea.

“What is going on? Who are you? What are you so afraid of?”

“Everything.” He whispers it, but she’s sure she heard him. “Nothing.”

“Right.” She studies him. “There are only two types of people I’ve encountered that are afraid of me shooting them. The superstitious, who believe that capturing their image on film is somehow damning them to death, and those who don’t want to be seen, people who are hiding from someone or something they think can harm them. And you don’t strike me as the superstitious type.” For the first time since they’d met she feels afraid of him. “Why are you hiding here on this island?” Visions of him being a terrorist, or a mercenary flash through her mind, and she’s suddenly very afraid for her son.

James turns back to her, leans against the railing and stares at her, then shakes his head. “Look, I’m just really tired, and you surprised me.”

She glares at him. “Who are you?”

“James Matthew Pierce. And I’m nobody.”

“I’m finding that a little hard to believe.”

“Have I given you cause to fear me?”

Yes. “No.”
No?
“Yes.”

He laughs.

“Well, not really, I guess. Except for the camera thing. What’s up with that?”

“Nothing.” He laughs again, shakes his head. “You startled me. And I’m wound a bit tight these days. Sorry.”

She stares at him imagining all kinds of horrors he could be, but with that tousled hair, those bedroom eyes, that baby face, she has to remind herself to feel afraid of him. And she really can’t fault him for his reaction. Somewhere in the back of her brain, before
‘just get the shot,’
she knows it’s not exactly right to take his picture without asking first.

Cameron stirs and Elisabeth goes and picks him up. He snuggles his face into her neck and she melts into his warmth. James watches them. She looks over at him and he looks away.

“I’m gonna take off, go home, take siesta.” He gives her a quick smile and pushes away from the railing.

“I made breakfast—scrambled eggs and bacon. You’re still welcome to join us. I’m really sorry about the pictures—”

“It’s not that. Really. And I owe you an apology for wrecking your film. I was out of line. I’m just more tired than hungry right now. Sorry.” He stares at her, studies her. “Enjoy the rest of the day.” He glances at Cam, her son’s face snuggled between her breasts then he turns away, leaves the deck, and crosses the graveled sand to the path.

“Bye. And thanks for the butterflies.” She watches him wave without looking back and then disappear in the grove at the base of the hill. She holds Cameron to her, his warm body pressing into hers, and wonders why she feels so alone.

You’ve left me alone Jack. Alone! I hate alone. I hate you. Do you hear me? I hate you, Jack! You always left me alone.

She goes inside and takes the exposed rolls of film she’d shot out of her jacket pocket and drops them in her panty drawer. Served James right after he wrecked the roll in the camera even though she probably should have given him the other rolls when he asked.

It’s close to midnight when she closes the photo album, gets a cold beer, goes out to the patio and stares out at the calm black sea. It glimmers as it reflects the blanket of stars. And something else. Small waves breaking on the shore are
glowing
. Phosphorescent green. She’s seen this once before, on a night crossing to Catalina with her father. Phosphorescent Sea he’d called it. Certain plankton emit light when disturbed in the water. Like a million microscopic fireflies, they light up with motion.

She has to get a closer look, run in the shallows and light up the water. Might be able to get some interesting shots. Digital won’t pick anything up. Not enough light. Must have an old roll of 300 Kodachrome floating around the bottom of her camera bag. Still need a tripod though. She goes back inside and gets the equipment she needs, checks on Cameron asleep in his crib, kisses his little head, and goes down to the shoreline. If he starts to cry she’ll be able to hear him from quite a distance in the warm, still night.

The sea is even more amazing close up. Fish dart about and glow in the night water from the phosphorescent plankton lighting up around them. Long thin waves make a pattern of illuminated lines along the shore. Elisabeth sets the tripod in the sand and mounts the Nikon. It’ll be hard to capture the scene. Phosphorous light is bright aquamarine, but shines only briefly and never in the same place. She focuses on a wave crest and waits for it to strike the water and light it up.

Wait…Wait...

Click
.

No way.

Film speed is too slow, and the light too low to get anything but blur, even with the moon rising. She looks back up at the house and listens for Cameron’s cry, but hears only the chirp of crickets. Small waves lapping the shore sound like footsteps in the sand. She looks around, up the dark, deserted beach then scans the hillside up to James’ house. A light is on. She pictures him sitting cross-legged on his sleeping bag in front of the fireplace, reading, his slender form arched over his book. Then she recalls him with the butterflies—his expression of childlike wonder. Elisabeth smiles. She flashes on him through the lens that first time she saw him on the beach.
Click.
Too bad she’d missed it.

She wades in the shallows. Phosphorous lights up her ankles and her feet as she moves through the water, trailing liquid green light. Jack would have loved this. Natural beauty turned him on. Some of their best times together were spent storm chasing; photographing lightning over L.A. up at Blue Jay Way; their fifth anniversary tornado expedition. Elisabeth flashes on Jack’s hazel eyes, his rust-colored hair blowing wildly around his stubbled face. He’s pointing his cell at a spinning black mass looming in the distance, and laughing. Elisabeth laughs with the memory, but feels like crying.

She moves through the glowing foam remembering, kicking, splashing and lighting up the sea. Droplets of phosphorus glitter around her. She laughs and kicks harder, splashes harder, then harder—kicking, then slapping, then slugging at the water.
Jack! Damn it. Damn you, God!

“I hate you, God! Do you hear me? I hate you for taking him away from us!” Then she looks up and sees him through her tears.

“Hi.” James stands on the beach watching her.

“Hi.” She feels awkward as she comes out of the water, her jeans and tee-shirt soaking wet and clinging. She stops within a few feet, facing him.

He looks away, surveys the scene. He has on a dark, long sleeve shirt haphazardly tucked into blue jeans that hang loosely on his hips. “Beautiful night. Spectacular sea.”

She looks back at the water. “It is.”

“How’s Cameron?”

“Good. All better I think.”

“Good.” He moves beside her and looks out at the waves. “How are you?”

She gives him a quick smile, then sticks her tongue out, then quickly closes her mouth and swallows back the tears. “Have you ever lost anyone you’ve loved, James?”

“Yes.” He takes his hands from his pockets, balls them into fists and tucks them under his arms. The change in his demeanor is palpable.

“Well, since Jack was killed I’ve been having this war with The Almighty, or myself, I’m not really sure which. I need to believe now more than ever, but I find myself hating God.”

“I’ve got a similar issue with anger towards entropy.”

“What?”

“Forget it. Look, what I mean is, sometimes events in life won’t always have a reason. Sometimes shit just happens.” He looks at her, gives her a gentle smile. “Maybe you’re trying to make sense of the senseless. Perhaps that’s your real war.”

“Maybe, but I just want to know why
now
, right after Cameron is born, and Jack had finally agreed to move back to the States. He was only thirty-two. I mean, what is the master plan here? Because I have a bone to pick with the Master.”

“Sorry. Can’t help you. Don’t believe in a Master, or a master plan.” He practically whispers as if not to disrupt the night.

“Do you really believe that everything is just random chance, that there is no higher order, no rhyme nor reason to anything?”

“Yeah. Pretty much. It’s all just chaos. Random occurrences colliding with varying results, with respect to the laws of physics—like cause and effect, of course...”

She laughs, even though she knows he didn’t mean to be funny. “I think I get your general drift.” Elisabeth looks back out at the glimmering sea. She thinks of his cut up arms. “Some would say your perspective is rather reckless. Without God, or a higher order, what gives your life meaning?”

“I do—or don’t, as the case may be.”

She feels him looking at her. Staring. Waiting. She doesn’t say anything. He finally does. “Does your belief provide you solace?”

“It does, sometimes anyway. I struggle with believing in God, but I do believe there is a higher order. When I look out there, at the sea, the stars, I see design, and I’m humbled by the designer.”

He nods, then stared at the sea. The intimacy of their discussion strikes her as odd. Religion, even spirituality are generally taboo subjects, often even with friends and family. Jack wouldn’t talk about it. He’d adopted his parent’s vague sense of Christianity, and had no interest in discussing it further. She could never have had this conversation with Jack.

“Sometimes—at times like this, anyway, I wish I didn’t believe. I wouldn’t be wasting all this energy searching for a reason.”

He laughs. “Yeah. Atheism is efficient that way. But I envy your faith. You’re never alone, or without purpose.”

They’re quiet for some time, but it isn’t awkward. Crickets fill the night with songs, and the repeating rush of water lapping on the shore sets an even rhythm.

James points to the camera mounted on the tripod. “Get anything?”

“No. Not enough light.”

“Too bad. It really is extraordinary out here tonight. Did you develop the rolls from this morning of Cameron and me?”

Son of a bitch
. She flushes.
He knows about the other rolls of film.
“I haven’t set up a darkroom yet so I’m not developing anything right now.” She stares at him. Smiles.

He stays fixed on the sea. Doesn’t, or won’t look at her.

Now the silence between them
is
awkward. Should she apologize and offer the other rolls she shot? Elisabeth feels anxious, small, and then overwhelmingly tired. “Well, it’s late. I think I’ll head in for the night.” She goes to the tripod and takes the camera off, then lifts the unit out of the sand and collapses it.