The Vanishing Point Page 10

  They’d go for drives together. He had his mother’s old station wagon with the fake-wood siding that always had something wrong with it. He was working on this monograph called Working Class, and he liked the dirty old car because he said he could be anonymous. She suspected he felt guilty for having money. He didn’t like people knowing it. She also knew money wasn’t important to him. I’d rather be poor, he once told her.

  He wanted a simple life. Just him and his camera.

  He said he spoke in pictures, not words.

  He could be gloomy, quiet.

  He was interested in people. He liked that moment of connection, that tense interaction, when you looked at someone and they didn’t look away. Two strangers setting eyes on each other for the first time. Magda’s mother had taught her to look away. It’s not polite to stare. But Rye looked right at you. Maybe because he’d grown up overseas, the son of eccentric socialites, he’d been encouraged to look, to see. To pull people in with his gaze. He didn’t care what you had or what you did. You could be a bum or a junkie or some main-line aristocrat. He treated everybody the same.

  Outside the city, you could find country, farms. They’d roll their windows down and blast the radio. There was this waitress he started photographing, Joyce. It was one of those places off the highway. You’d see the pickups in the parking lot at six in the morning. Farmers. The plaid-flannel shirts lined up at the counter. They’d go in. Everybody always looked at Rye. Maybe because he was tall, like Abraham Lincoln. Then they’d look at her. Now, Rye had never told Magda she was beautiful, or even pretty, for that matter—he wasn’t generous like that, at least not back then, not with her. She didn’t think of herself as particularly beautiful. She was sturdy as a peasant, breasts like her mother’s, too big. She’d been born to figure numbers, to make her own bread and wine, to sew her own clothes. This waitress, Joyce, was older than them, her face already lined, a timidity in her eyes, like she knew fear. Her name stitched in frayed red thread on her breast pocket. You could see in her face her whole mixed-up history. The farmers liked her. They felt comfortable. She was their sister. Rye asked her this one time if he could photograph her. She asked him why. And he said: Because you’re beautiful.

  Toward the end of the year, Rye put up a photograph of Joyce in class. Everybody stared at it hungrily, instantly transported to a field somewhere in rural Pennsylvania. Joyce was sitting on one of those old metal lawn chairs, naked, her skin very pale against the green metal chair and her nipples very pink, her black hair cut short. Her pubic hair was very black, black as a skunk. She was smoking, and the sky was almost lavender, and in the very far distance you could see the late sun flashing off the cars on the interstate.

  He never told her how he’d managed to get Joyce to take off her clothes, and she never asked.

  That final month of the workshop, Magda started to believe in her own work. She loved the world inside her pictures. Her ambition roiled inside her like a ravenous appetite.

  As a photographer, she never had a problem with being female, but other people did. Other people: the whole world. She was quieter, maybe, than the men. The fact that she was outnumbered only made her work harder, made her want it more. She admitted that some days she was intimidated. The men were standoffish, superior. Julian. He’d watch her from afar. She thought he was good-looking but strange, as if his tidy, immaculate appearance was a disguise and the real person underneath was entirely opposite, repressed, wildly discontent. They were all of them a little odd, in fact. Some didn’t like her work. They’d say things. It was too female. You could practically smell the menstrual blood! She’d walk home alone on the dark streets, clutching her coat around her, tears running down her cheeks. But she never doubted her talent. She knew she was good; they knew it too.

  They’d go to the VFW. You could drink cheap. They had these red-leather stools and a black-and-white-tiled floor. They’d sit at the bar next to men in wool coats with watery eyes and red faces. Hands that worked in the factories and mills. Sometimes she was the only girl in the place. They’d get drunk, and he’d walk her home, and they’d fool around in the backyard on the cold grass under her mother’s laundry. She liked to pin him down and say things to him in Polish. You are the love of my life, she would say; he never knew. She’d be on top of him and he’d run his hands through her hair and clutch it in his fists like the strings of a dozen balloons.

  There is nothing better than that, when someone is holding you, looking at you, seeing you.

  Love comes to us. It arrives unannounced; it swarms you like a hundred bees. Then you fumble around like a stung person.

  She was one of his subjects, nothing more. He saw her. Captured her. And then he left.

  She wrote in her journal: What makes the photograph work? Is it a technical accident? Yes, sometimes. Is it how you take the shot? The angle, the light, the frame—or what you take? The subject? Or is it what comes later, in the darkroom? How you manipulate the image. How you make it yours.

  The people give themselves to you. They are saying: This is me. Look. I dare you to see me.

  They remind us who we are. Why we’re here.

  They remind us that we’re human.

  She was going to tell him. She’d gone to the drugstore, done the test. He wasn’t the type to be a father, she convinced herself. And he’d warned her about Simone. They saw life the same way, he said. They wanted the same things.

  He didn’t love her enough.

  He didn’t love her at all.

  That last day. He brought Simone to the show. Magda watched them across the room. Simone was smaller than her. Confident in her expensive clothes. Magda could feel her skin growing hot as they came toward her. This is my fiancée, he said to her, blameless, beyond reproach. This is Simone.

  She left and walked through the streets, looking into people’s windows, the yellow lights. She’d lost track of how she fit in. These other people had options. They weren’t like her, stuck.

  Later, there was a party at Rye and Julian’s apartment. Everyone was going. Some people brought their spouses, partners. She was nervous, climbing the stairs. The small space was jammed, and there was a lot of smoke and loud music, and she wanted none of it. She only wanted him to hold her and tell her it would be all right. But she didn’t see him anywhere. Julian was in the kitchen, pouring everybody drinks. He caught her eye as she started for Rye’s room. The look said: don’t. The door was ajar. They were in there, the two of them. Simone was taking something out of a paper bag. It was a white tulle veil. She held it up for him to see. It had been trimmed in lace, she told him, by a blind woman on Bainbridge Street. Here, she said, and took his hand. Close your eyes. And he did, running his fingertips along its fragile edge.

  Magda retreated silently. She found something to drink. One and then another. Why not just take the whole bottle. She would drink herself sick, she decided. And maybe all her trouble would go away.

  It was Julian who walked her home. She threw up in the grass. He helped her, clutched her. At her door, holding her arms, he made her face him. Stop being stupid, he said. You’re wasting yourself on Adler. He’s just using you. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. You’re a beautiful girl. You deserve better. And then he kissed her. A hard, hateful kiss, and left her there.

  She never saw Rye again. A few days later, when she went over to their apartment to give him the news, she found the place empty. They’d both moved out. She lingered a moment at the bay window, taking in the view as Rye might have done, understanding for the first time how alone she was. Nobody could protect her, nobody was going to take care of her, and everything that came next was up to her.

  They’d left behind a big, leafy plant. She took it. It seemed like a metaphor. Well, she would bring it home and water it and put it in the sunshine. And it would grow. It would grow.

  The next morning, she broke down and told her mother, who offered only shame. Who was this man? Where had he gone? If he loved her so much, why
had he thrown her away like garbage? All the usual things a mother would say. You can forget that career you’re in, she said. You’d better find yourself a real job. You’re going to need every penny.

  She took her mother’s advice and started sending out her résumé. She went to the clinic and met with the doctor. They talked about terminating the pregnancy. The first appointment was in two weeks. She didn’t know, she wasn’t sure. There were a lot of reasons not to have it. It cost a lot; she’d have to borrow money from her mother. How stupid she was, how impulsive! Like some girl in a movie, rolling through the grass, never considering the consequences. And where was he? Off living his life!

  She was beginning to feel desperate when she got a call from an editor at Seventeen, who’d received her résumé and wanted to interview her. Brodsky was her reference. Her mother tried to talk her out of it. Even if she got the job, she couldn’t take it, not in her condition. But Magda wasn’t going to pass up an interview like that. The morning of their meeting, she dressed carefully in a black skirt and silk blouse that she wore only on special occasions and borrowed her mother’s church shoes, patent leather pumps. When she looked at her troubled face in the mirror, she could only think what a good shot it would make, how her reflection represented so many other women like herself, fearless, relentlessly capable.

  The editor was an old friend of Brodsky’s named Alice Fuller. She was wearing a flower-patterned dress with a blazer, her bifocals hanging on a chain around her neck. She had a deep smoker’s voice, and Magda could tell she’d been in the business a long time. In lieu of a husband and family, she’d given herself to her career. They talked for a few minutes about the workshop, how Magda, as a woman, had been outnumbered, and Alice admitted that in her own experience, she too had suffered for being female. Magda felt like they were fighting for the same cause, but when she handed Alice her portfolio, the older woman flipped through it quickly, like a perfunctory exercise, never once lifting her eyes.

  These are good, she said at last. Very fresh. I like how you capture the lives of these women. The sort of routine repression.

  Thank you.

  Alice handed her back the portfolio. It’s good work, and you should be proud of it, but unfortunately I can’t hire you as a photographer.

  Why not?

  Well, for one thing, the models won’t trust you. They’re used to men. They won’t believe you know how to use a camera. They won’t believe you can make them look good.

  That’s outrageous. I’m well trained.

  The girls are young. They’re very insecure. They won’t want to act sexy in front of a woman.

  They’d rather have a man salivating over them!

  I don’t make the rules, Alice said. It’s very unfair, I realize.

  It’s discrimination. Magda got up. She was ready to go.

  We do have an opening for a secretary. Can you type?

  In despair, she rode the elevator down. When the doors opened and she stepped into the lobby, she saw a familiar face. It was Julian Ladd, in a suit and tie. Julian!

  Magda!

  They hugged. What are you doing here?

  I had an interview upstairs.

  How’d it go?

  Not very well. She asked me if I could type.

  Can you? Julian cracked a smile.

  No. But I take a hell of a picture. She held up her portfolio. What about you?

  I’m with Hopkins and Donne. Advertising. Fourth floor.

  Impressive. How is it? Do you like it?

  More than I expected to.

  You look rather dashing in that suit.

  He smiled. It’s good to see you, Magda.

  You too.

  You look—

  She waited as his eyes roamed around her face.

  Really beautiful.

  Do I? No—

  She was suddenly self-conscious.

  Have dinner with me tonight?

  My train. I should—

  I know a good place right up the street.

  It was a pretty little restaurant called Harry’s, with white tablecloths and candles and a piano player. They ate steak and potatoes and shared a bottle of wine. She drank a little of it, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She could tell he wanted to impress her. He had good table manners. He knew how to use his silverware. He had sharp features, dark perceptive eyes. He was patient, polite; he listened to her. She heard herself telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. It was a defense mechanism, she knew, generated by her suspicion that he was the kind of man who had little patience for small talk. A man who, under particular circumstances, could snap.

  He asked to see her portfolio. Begrudgingly, she showed it to him. He turned the pages slowly, with care. These are beautiful, Magda.

  Thank you, she said gratefully.

  Good luck with them.

  What about you? She asked if he was still taking pictures.

  Not really, he said. I sort of gave it up. I knew I’d never make it.

  Why do you say that?

  I’m not good enough. Not like Adler, for example. He looked at her uncertainly. You heard about him? He’s somewhere in Africa.

  She nodded. I never thought much of his work. His pictures are shallow and totally superficial. No wonder he’s making it so big!

  Of course, none of this was true. But Julian’s eyes brightened, and she could tell he was pleased.

  But your work, Julian. You shouldn’t give up. I always liked your pictures. They’re provocative. It’s much harder to take pictures of nothing. Open spaces. You never guided the viewer. You simply asked for their consideration. You posed a question; the answer didn’t interest you.

  She was a little drunk. Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly. They went back to his apartment. It was clean and organized. They drank some more, she wanted something strong. He gave her whiskey. He took off his jacket, his tie, his shirt. He was fit; assured. She stood there as he unbuttoned her blouse, unzipped her skirt, unhooked her bra. Her breasts felt heavy and sore. He watched as she removed her stockings and underpants. Naked, she stood before him. He looked her over from head to toe.

  I’ve wanted this for a long time, he told her.

  They held each other tentatively, like teenagers, fully understanding the promise of their future together now that Rye was gone.

  When she finally told him she was pregnant, she neglected to mention that the baby wasn’t his. It was something she let happen. It wasn’t right, she knew, and yet she couldn’t stop herself, the detour she took in that moment.

  And Julian was elated.

  You’ve made me very happy, he said, and kissed her. They were married a few days later in the city clerk’s office and had a small party on the terrace with some of his friends from work. Her mother did all the cooking. At one point, she cornered Magda and squeezed her hand. He never has to know, she said. It is what mothers do for their children.

  She never heard from Rye. Not that she expected to. She supposed he was too busy becoming famous. He wasn’t shooting starving children anymore. He had swiftly moved on to more lucrative subjects, and his pictures seemed to be everywhere, in magazines, advertisements, on the sides of buses. He’d done the new This Is Me campaign for an organic clothing company, huge studio portraits of regular Americans standing against a gray backdrop, a spirited celebration of diversity and inclusion. She knew they were special and political and great, but she looked at them only with contempt. She had no business admiring his work. She had taught herself to hate it, to hate him, to trust her anger. Her anger was more reliable. It was like an animal tethered to her heart, ravenous, determined to survive.

  They moved into a larger apartment in the same building, one that had a tiny second bedroom for the baby. The doormen called her Mrs. Ladd. While Julian was at work, she painted the nursery, the lightest blue of a summer sky. Sometimes she’d take pictures from her window. She was like Steichen, who’d glimpsed his neighbor reading the Sunday papers in a tenement window acro
ss from his. All of the greats had taken photographs from their windows and she would too. There was the dark crease of the curb, the black street. The people crossing from one side to the other in the sharp river light, their shadows stretched long and thin. Sometimes she’d take her camera and venture out. She’d walk into the park and sit on one of the benches, watching the people. She’d shoot a roll and print out a contact sheet, review it with disdain. The shots were just okay, she thought.

  Once, Julian looked over her contact sheet. He took his time; he seemed to enjoy the minutes of suspense as she sat there waiting. Finally, he gravely set down the loupe and offered his opinion. They’re good, honey. But don’t give up your day job.

  He wasn’t home very much. He was building a life for her, he said, for all three of them. They’d already promoted him at the agency. There were dinners after work. Entertaining clients. If she felt up to it, she’d join him, but she got the distinct feeling that nobody wanted a pregnant woman around.

  In those last days of her pregnancy, she felt more alone than ever, even a little terrified. She’d stand naked before the mirror, running her hands over her belly. How could she not be thinking of him now? One night when Julian was out at a party, she called information. She’d seen their wedding announcement in the Times, the two of them dressed in their ceremonial clothes, barefoot, on a farm somewhere upstate, a little town called Ghent. It all sounded nauseatingly storybook. The operator had the number. With shaking fingers, she dialed. It rang and rang. She was about to hang up when she heard his voice.

  Hello?

  She couldn’t speak. Her heart was pounding.

  Anyone there?

  There were voices in the background. Laughter. Music.