The Vanishing Point Read online

  She sits in the broken Windsor chair. She can hear the bare branches scraping the window and wonders now why they never bothered to trim them. Maybe they like the sound, she thinks, a reminder that, in nature, there is a time for everything, for being bare or bursting with blossoms, the pageantry of spring.

  Is it for work?

  Of course, he says with annoyance.

  What are you working on?

  He only looks at her, as if the answer is impossible to explain.

  He gathers his usual accoutrements—the black nylon knapsack, his camera bag, a small, canvas duffel full of clothes—and heads outside. Shuffling into her boots, her coat, she follows him. The cold finds her like a stranger’s hand. After a moment it bites her ankles, the backs of her legs. He tosses his things into the truck and gently positions his camera bag on the passenger seat. He is a man who resents attachments and commitments. Over the years she has come to accept this. Secretly, she knows she’s enabled him—perhaps he is enabling her as well. While she stays behind to guard the fort, he ventures out and does what he wants. But she has come to a point.

  We need to talk, she tells him.

  About what?

  Everything. Us.

  He looks at her hard. What about us?

  Something doesn’t feel right—

  Soon, he cuts her off irritably. We can talk all you want.

  She nods like a scolded child. Then he touches her cheek and kisses her. Goodbye, Simone.

  She stands there shivering as he pulls the truck off the grass into the long driveway. Just before he turns, he raises his hand out the window in a tentative wave. He is looking at her in the rearview mirror. She can see his eyes, bright with the early light. And he can see hers.

  And then he is gone.

  They are already strangers. She takes the blame. She is always blaming herself, as though she’s never been enough for him.

  The sky is white. The wind gusts around her legs. She pulls her coat around her and walks back to the house, the waiting dogs.

  She makes herself go to yoga. Every time it’s hard. There seems no improvement. Each pose is as challenging as it was the day before. Still, only fifteen minutes in, she is already better. Grateful she can move like this.

  At the very end, when they are lying on their mats in the near dark, she twists toward the woman beside her. Simone sees her hair knotted at the back of her head, her long neck, her grace. The sweat on her arms. They are so close, she thinks, sprawled beside each other like sated lovers.

  She drives home. The fields are white with snow. The barns are brown, blood-colored. Rudy and Pal are waiting for her. They wander into the field as the sun steeps like tea in the copper dusk.

  They had made love. She thinks of it now, how he’d reached for her in the night. She still marvels at his intelligent face, his knowing eyes, how his shoulders slump just slightly in the wrinkled blue work shirts as though there is always something upon them, some weighty urgency, some world problem to solve. He is, she knows, generous to a fault. Generous with strangers. With people who need him more than she does. Still, she does not deny her status. She loves him perhaps too much. Even though they are damaged. Even though they are standing there, peering into the abyss, their hands bound.

  Rye

  When he is working, he is better. They are better. They are better apart than together. They are better as an idea than the reality. He doesn’t believe in marriage. Not that he has an appetite for other women, it was never about that. But his freedom, being free in the world, that’s what matters to him.

  He doesn’t have to be this person. He doesn’t have to be the carrier of all faces, the one who sees. The one who can read a face or see the promise inside a person like the pit of their own fruit.

  The grim light suits him, this hour of before. Before the day happens and becomes after. As he turns onto the Taconic, the morning sky opens, and he indulges in optimism, at least for now. It’ll be good to see Magda, he tries to convince himself, and yet it feels more than a little strange, the same sort of queasy apprehension that comes when you discover you’ve mislaid an important document, one that distinguishes you somehow and cannot easily be replaced.

  He’d come to know her through her photographs. Her pictures had been technically proficient, black-and-white prints of the people in her neighborhood, mostly women, most of them immigrants. Neighborhood girls in tank tops with charcoaled eyes and bad skin. Wives and mothers in the supermarket, handbags over their arms. An old woman with a crooked back, walking home on the littered sidewalk, the metal wheels of her cart catching the late sun.

  He hadn’t found any evidence of a career online. Even with all that talent. But it isn’t easy for women. No matter how good they are. And it was even harder back then.

  He remembers the early days, hustling quarter-page magazine assignments. Trying to meet the editors. Your work had to stand out. He’d gotten a lucky break with National Geographic. They’d sent him all over the world, covering all sorts of stories about all variety of people. He’d seen a lot and he’d learned that there were innumerable ways to live a good life. He’d seen joy in people who were living in squalor. And despair in some of the wealthiest.

  He’d done a lot of street photography back then. Simone used to accuse him of being irresponsible when he photographed the indigent or homeless. He would hear their terrible stories and learn of their misfortunes. He would get to their truth, and make it beautiful, and walk away.

  He’s a different person now. Over time, out of necessity, he’d segued into more commercial work, getting assignments with some of the major magazines. He had a reputation for knowing how to put people at ease during a shoot. As a result, he’d witnessed a wide breadth of the human experience. In his more introspective moments, he was deeply humbled by it. He was the first to admit that his own success had turned him into someone else. His raw vision was gone. Now the camera owned him. It was the camera that decided what and how he saw.

  At 34th and Ninth he pulls into a garage, then walks a block east. It’s an old Irish pub, two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun wobbling in the windows, drunks hunched over the bar. Places like this, they stop time, he thinks. You step out of the world for a few hours. The bar is their time machine. At this hour it’s nearly empty, the windows bright above café shutters, their slats thick with dust. He glimpses the people on the sidewalk walking by, their heads covered in hats, their faces wrapped in scarves as they brace against the wind.

  He takes a seat and orders a Dewar’s. Waits. The bartender sets down his drink.

  Thanks, man.

  He holds the glass in his hands. Sips. It’s a cold day and the scotch tastes good. Medicinal, he decides, with this guilt he’s feeling. He thinks of Simone, how she fussed over him, making the meal, ever solicitous of his needs. He’ll call her, just as soon as—

  Hello, Rye.

  He’d know that voice anywhere. He turns, and there she is. Magda, he says.

  No longer the girl he knew but a grown woman. Still beautiful, yes, but broken somehow. It’s not the years that have done it, he thinks, but something else, some temporary saboteur.

  He opens his arms like a peddler showing his wares. He holds her a long time, longer than he should.

  You look the same, he says.

  No, I’m old now.

  Not old. Hardly. You look well.

  She nods, accepting the compliment. Been a long time.

  Yes, it has.

  She shrugs her coat from her shoulders and hangs it on the hook next to his, then unwinds the scarf, revealing the pale beauty of her neck. Her movements are methodical, restrained, as if she is remembering the steps to a dance. Her clothes are expensive, the black cashmere sweater, the long gray skirt, worn leather boots. Mexican silver on her wrists. As she pushes her hair back behind her ears, he notices her wedding band. Not that he’s surprised. Women like her are always married.

  How are you, Rye?

  All right, I gues
s.

  He can see the window’s reflection in her dark pupils, the cold white sky. She rubs her hands together. I didn’t think it would be this cold.

  Winter, he says softly. Already here.

  Feel my hands.

  He takes her cold hands into his own. You weren’t kidding.

  I forgot my gloves.

  What are you drinking?

  The bartender comes over.

  Red wine, she says. Do you have something French?

  He nods and pours her a glass and sets it carefully on the bar.

  Na zdrowie, she says, and he watches her taste the wine. It’s good.

  Good. Cheers.

  Outside, the green awnings clatter in the wind. The sky is very white, very bright, but only for a moment. Then it shifts and darkens, coaxing the worry out of her eyes. For some reason that he cannot explain, he feels a bitter nagging jealousy over the husband she has left at home. She looks at him carefully. He wonders what she sees. An old man, he thinks, hardwired, a little ragged.

  You’re very famous, Rye. Your work, it’s very good.

  Thank you.

  You’ve had a remarkable career.

  I’ve been lucky.

  No, that’s not luck. I saw something recently. About that actor. With the gold ceiling?

  He doesn’t feel like talking about his work. Not with her.

  Some people don’t know what to do with all their money, he says.

  I’m sure you’ve seen plenty.

  Yup. Movie stars, politicians, rock stars, gangsters, but when you come down to it, they’re all just people. It was his stock answer.

  No, she says. They’re rich people. Big difference.

  Is she suggesting he’s sold out? He’s worked hard, and he’s proud of his work. But now, sitting here with her, pride isn’t what he’s feeling.

  And you?

  I work here and there. She smiles a little. Twenty years is a very long time, she says.

  Yes, it is. Where do you live?

  Westchester. But I’ve never felt at home there. It’s convenient. My husband is in the advertising business. He makes commercials for the pharmaceutical companies; it’s his niche. He’s been very successful. I’m sure you remember Julian.

  Julian Ladd?

  He tries to hide his surprise. Ladd is about the last person on the planet he would have chosen for her. Although he hadn’t expected her to be unattached, hearing this is disappointing news.

  They’d been roommates that year in Philadelphia. After only a few weeks of living with Julian, Rye had come to the conclusion that he was a rather odd fellow. Type A didn’t quite cut it; obsessive compulsive was more like it. He’d seemed overly preoccupied with Rye’s lifestyle, down to how many beers he drank, or the little boxes of takeout that languished in the refrigerator, or how often he changed his sheets, which was not often. When he’d come home, Rye sometimes had the feeling that Julian had been in his room, going through his things. He’d notice the slightest aberrations, the drawers slightly open, the clothes pushed around, the book on his nightstand open to a different page, as if Julian’s fingerprints were all over his life. These covert violations troubled him, and yet he never mentioned them to Julian or questioned him. He was like an overlooked child—too good-looking and well behaved to incite alarm, innocently ignored. He was always watching, lingering on the periphery like someone who didn’t speak the language and had to rely on careful observation to understand what was going on.

  They’d been living together for half a year before Rye asked him why he never photographed people.

  Julian sat up a little taller and defended himself. I’m not interested in people, he said, as if he’d prepared the answer to a long-awaited question. People get in the way. They change the story.

  What’s wrong with that?

  I’ve never liked people very much. Even as a kid. My mother used to worry about me because I was such a loner.

  But isn’t the medium itself designed for people? To show who we are? Where would we be without Strand’s blind woman, or Arbus’s twins? Or all of Frank’s Americans?

  Like I said, people don’t interest me. I don’t like them very much. They’ve never been very nice to me.

  You don’t have to like them to photograph them, do you?

  Maybe like isn’t the right word. You have to appreciate humanity for what it is. For all its filth and deception. I guess I just can’t. I think when you look at a picture without a person in it, you think about why there’s nobody there. You see it as a lonely place. The window of a tenement takes on a new significance. It becomes something else. In my pictures, the story is in what you don’t see.

  Rye thought about that for a long time. Julian had a kind of brilliance, but it seemed misguided. His photographs were empty, even morbid; he found their ambiguity disturbing. They seemed to reveal something about Julian, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

  He was always hanging around. No matter where Rye went, he would turn his head and see Julian. Watching him. Listening. Seeming to memorize anything he ever said. More than once, Rye heard him repeating, almost word for word, a comment he’d made himself, and when he finally called him on it, Julian cracked a strange grin and said, I guess it’s like that old expression: Great minds think alike.

  One night, Rye made the foolish mistake of inviting Magda back to his room. He knew it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair to her. For one thing, he had a serious girlfriend. And when he was totally honest with himself, he also knew that, as much as he liked her, once the workshop ended, it was unlikely he’d ever see her again. Still, he couldn’t stop himself. They were just getting into it when he heard Julian’s key in the lock and his feet stomping into the apartment. Magda was pulling off her top when his door suddenly opened. Horrified, she covered herself with the sheet, but Julian just stood there, staring at her, in no particular hurry to leave.

  Sorry, he said, finally. I didn’t know she was here.

  Now he is looking at her in a new light. He can’t imagine how she’s stayed with Ladd all these years. The idea of the two of them together, intimately, makes him feel a little sick. How is Julian?

  Her face changes as if a shadow has crossed it. Her eyes go dull as she constructs a lie. He’s been very good to me.

  Rye can see there’s more to it, much more. His phone rings, and he glances at the screen, Constance. I need to take this. It’s my assistant.

  Of course.

  But that’s not the reason he gets up. Because he doesn’t plan on answering the call.

  He walks to the back of the bar and pushes through the door of the men’s room. He turns off his phone and puts it in his pocket, then pees and rinses his hands, avoiding his reflection in the dirty mirror. There’s something about all this that feels underhanded and strange, and he worries about his capacity to leave it alone. He decides it’s time to go, and soon. Whatever she’s come here to tell him is not his problem. He wants nothing to do with her, he decides. Nothing good can come of this. The thing to do is to leave the bar as soon as possible and go home. He’ll erase her contact information from his phone and forget he ever saw her. But when he returns to the bar, that’s not what happens, that’s not what he does.

  Instead, he orders them each another drink and wonders how long it will take to get her alone.

  Sorry about that.

  No problem. I know you’re busy. How is Simone?

  She’s well, thank you.

  Such cordiality feels forced, he thinks, the casual scrutiny of an interloper.

  You have a daughter, don’t you?

  Yana. She’s twenty-three now.

  I remember reading about her in the Times.

  It always surprises him when people seem to know things about him, things they’ve read. One of the drawbacks of becoming known for what you do. It certainly wasn’t his intention. He has been guided only by a desire to do good work.

  She’s pretty special, he says. What about you? You have
any kids?

  Magda nods. A son, she says, and her eyes brighten with sudden tears. He’s twenty.

  Hey—

  She shakes her head. Look, I need to go.

  What’s wrong?

  I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—

  He reaches for her hand as tears roll down her cheeks. She pulls away and wipes her eyes, irritably. This doesn’t feel right, she tells him. I shouldn’t have—

  We’re old friends, he says.

  We’re not friends. But that’s not important. It’s not relevant.

  She pulls her leather knapsack onto her lap and starts digging through it. I brought you something, she says. That’s really all I wanted. To give you these.

  She retrieves a manila envelope and slides it across the bar. For you, she says, then rises from the stool and puts on her coat.

  He stares at the envelope. Please, Magda. Sit down.

  She sits but doesn’t remove her coat. Her eyes are cold, a little desperate. He holds up his glass, signaling for another, and the bartender comes right over.

  Rye opens the envelope and pulls out a stack of photographs. He’s not surprised that it’s the same boy from her Instagram feed, a chronology of childhood milestones: the first day of kindergarten, the toothless second grader, the school play, the braces, the girl he took to the prom—and more. He flips through them quickly, like a deck of cards, an unpromising hand. What is this, Magda?

  He’s yours, she says.

  He sits there, trying to think. For some reason he can’t seem to move.

  His name is Theo.

  Why didn’t you—

  I tried.

  He looks at her, waiting for an explanation.

  I went to your apartment, but you had already moved out. I tried to get your number. It was unlisted. Anyway, it wasn’t something I wanted to discuss with your wife—

  He can’t look at her. Magda, I’m—

  But she isn’t interested in his pity. I tried to contact you through the magazine. They said you were somewhere unreachable.

  Slowly it starts to come back to him. I was in Somalia, he says.