Generation Loss (18 page)

Yet
this photo worked. It wasn't just that the girl was cute and had nice tits,
what I could see of them, anyway. It was that the photographer had trusted his
instincts, and the girl had trusted them too. Even more, she'd trusted
him.

And,
just as I knew the first photo was by Aphrodite, I knew this one had been taken
by a man. Phil used to make fun of me for claiming I could identify a
photographer, no matter how obscure, by his or her images. He ranked on me even
worse when I once drunkenly announced I could identify the gender of a bunch of
unknowns whose pictures hung at a small gallery in DUMBO.

But
I did it. I nailed every single one.

"That's
amazing, Cass," Phil said. "Another remarkable if totally useless
skill."

Even
now, I couldn't tell you how it works. It's like me picking up damage, like
there's a smell there, or a subliminal taste. And you'd think that would be an
easy call to make with this picture, because it sure looked like it would taste
like cheesecake.

But
this photo was weirder than that. When I'd first glimpsed the contact sheets
under the safelight, I'd noticed the girl was holding something over each
breast. I thought they were coconuts, which would fit in with the whole kitschy
vibe this little hippie chick projected.

Now
that I looked more closely, I wasn't so sure. Even when I got out the loupe and
peered at them, I still couldn't tell. She was holding something, and from the
shit-eating grin on her face, it was something funny. But what?

I
had no clue. Whatever it was, though, it made me queasy. The girl
trusted
whoever
was behind the camera. That came through, in her smile and the way she'd tilted
her pelvis toward him, which seemed less of a come-on than a welcome. She
looked about nineteen or twenty. There were tiny furrows to either side of her
mouth, and tinier lines around her eyes.

And
the photographer had done a sharp thing there too. You couldn't see it in the
frame, but he'd set a lit candle in front of her then positioned her so that
the flame was reflected in each eye, making them sparkle. A simple effect, but
a good one.

For
a few more minutes I sat and stared at the photo. Then I put away the loupe and
slid the prints and contact sheet into my copy of
Deceptio Visus.
I
needed coffee and something other than Jack Daniel's as a nutrient.

Downstairs,
the living room woodstove was dead cold. The one in the kitchen had nearly
burned out. I wadded up some newspapers and tossed them inside, along with a few
sticks of wood, and hoped for the best. Then I made coffee, trying to
convince myself that my hands trembled from the cold and not because I had the
shakes. The deerhounds heard me and came skittering into the room. They looked
hungry, so I gave them some water and filled their bowls from one of the sacks
of dog food in the mudroom. They ate voraciously and afterward shambled over to
where I sat by the window with my coffee and a piece of dry toast.

"Poor
old dogs," I said. Their heads were almost on a level with my own.
"Doesn't anyone ever feed you?"

"That's
the way they're supposed to look."

In
the doorway stood Aphrodite. The dogs turned and raced toward her. She put a
hand to the wall to steady herself from the seething gray mass.

I
stood awkwardly, pointing to my chair. "Do you want to sit?

"In
my own house? I'll sit where I choose."

She
walked toward the sink. In the thin morning light she appeared ancient, her
skin dull and her hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot behind wire-rimmed glasses. I
felt a pang. She looked so frail. It seemed impossible this wizened doll could
have shot the pictures in that upstairs room, let alone the grim, hallucinatory
images in
Mors.
Her hands trembled as she pulled a coffee mug from a
shelf.

"I
made coffee," I said.

"So
I see."

She
reached into a cabinet and withdrew a bottle. A minute later she joined me at
the table, steam threading from her mug, and the smell of brandy.

We
sat in silence. I wondered if she'd rail at me again, or acknowledge that we'd
met the day before. Did she even remember?

Finally
I said, "Gryffin showed me your photos. The island sequence. They were—it
blew me away, seeing them for real. I mean, I waited my whole life to see them,
and then, last night..."

My
voice died. "They're just incredible," I said at last.

"I
was never happy with the transfer process." Aphrodite sipped her coffee.
"That whole book. I was never happy with it. The colors were muddy. Today,
maybe they could do a decent job. But back then?"

She
shook her head. One of the dogs whined and thrust its nose at her. She stroked
its muzzle absently. "They ruined it."

I
stood to refill my coffee. "Do you want some more?" I asked.

She
gazed out to where thin eddies of mist snaked across the water's surface.

"Sea
smoke." She drank what was left in her mug and slid it toward me.
"Thank you."

I
filled both mugs and handed hers back.

"The
other pictures," I said tentatively, settling in my chair again.
"From
Mors.
I didn't see them up there. Do you—are they here?"

“They
re gone.”

"Oh.
Jeez. I—"

I
stopped, afraid I'd said too much already. She seemed not to have notice I'd
spoken.

"I
saw them," she said after a moment. "Your pictures."

I
looked up in surprise. "My pictures?"

"Yes.
When your book came out. A long time ago. Twenty years, I suppose."

"More
like thirty."

"Thirty."
She nodded slightly without looking at me. "Yes, that would be right. Some
of them—you had a good eye. One or two, I remember. The rest, though—"

One
thin hand waved dismissively. "Derivative. And late. You weren't the only
one who saw
Mors.
You know that."

I
stared at the table. Everything went white. There was a sharp taste in my
mouth, that pressure against my forehead. It was a moment before I realized she
hadn't stopped talking.

"...
his were just grotesque. Tabloid fodder. He stole from me like the rest of them
did, and it was all shit.
Just shit"

I
looked up. Aphrodite's eyes shone with a hatred so pure it was like joy.

"You
little thief." She jabbed at me. "Cassandra Neary. You think I didn't
see? But you were the least of it. The least."

One
of the dogs barked as Gryffin walked into the kitchen.

"This
the breakfast club?" he asked, yawning.

I
shoved my chair back and stormed outside, the door slamming behind me.

I
didn't stop until I reached the gravel beach. I paced along the shore, kicking
at rocks. The wind tore at my face, but I hardly noticed. I headed to a stand
of small, twisted trees and boulders. Driftwood had fetched up against the
rocks. I grabbed a branch and smashed it into a boulder, again and again until
it splintered into dust and rot. Then I leaned against a barren tree, panting.

"If
only we could harness this power for good." Gryffin stepped gingerly up
the path from the rocky beach. "I come in peace," he added and raised
his hands.

I
drew a long breath. "Fuck off."

"Here."
He held out something wrapped in a paper towel. "Ray made this for dessert
last night. I brought a piece back for you."

I
hesitated, then took it: a slab of apple pie.

"He's
a good cook," said Gryffin. "Those are his apples too. Fletcher
Sweets, they're called. They only grow here on the island."

"Thanks."

"A
Yankee is someone who has pie for breakfast. That's what Toby says."

Gryffin
watched me eat. "You were really whaling on that tree," he observed.
"What'd she say to you?"

"Nothing."

"She's
a monster. But you knew that. It's why you came here."

"I
came because I needed a fucking job and Phil Cohen lied to me that he'd set up
this interview." I finished the pie and started walking back along the
beach. "And because I wanted to see those pictures. Most of which, I
gather, she destroyed. So instead of this goddam trip earning me money, it's
costing me money."

I
picked up a rock and threw it into the waves. "Which I don't have."

"Well,
she's gone off, for a while, anyway. Her and the dogs."

"What
does she do all day?"

"Beats
me. Usually she makes a circuit of the island." He swept his arm out,
drawing an imaginary circle. "Along the shore. She picks up stuff that
washes up. She'll be gone for a while, unless the weather gets really
bad."

We
walked toward the slope that led back to the house. A raven hopped across the
dead grass and let out a gravelly cry at our approach.

"I'm
going to the Island Store," said Gryffin. "Want to come?"

"No.
Not this minute, anyway." I sighed. "You think I'll be able to get a
ride back over today?"

"Today?
Well, you missed anyone who'd be going early this morning. But someone'll
probably head back later in the afternoon."

"What
about your friend Toby? Will he take me?"

"Probably.
If I see him, I'll mention it."

"That'd
be good."

He
started up the hillside. I jammed my hands in my pockets and watched him go.
The steely light burned my eyes, and my feet ached from the cold. But I
couldn't stand the thought of seeing Aphrodite again. When Gryffin was out of
sight, I began climbing the hill myself.

Once
I reached the pine trees, the path split. One trail bore off to the left and
angled downhill again, toward the village; the other wound upward among more
trees and jagged outcroppings of stone. I took the right-hand path, scuffing
through a mat of pine needles and fine snow.

It
was a steep climb. After a few minutes, I began to sweat. My fury diminished,
bitten away by the cold. For the last few years I'd carried on conversations in
my head. Well, not conversations, really: arguments. Now the voices fell
silent. I found myself focusing on things I didn't usually notice, like the
vapor clouding my face with every breath, the way sounds seemed to carry from
far away. Seagulls, a diesel engine, waves tugging at the shingle beach below.

As I
neared the top, the hill's crown emerged, a granite dome surrounded by oaks
with a few dead leaves still clinging to them. A weathered sign dangled from a
lopped-off bough.

OAKWIND
EST. I973

Boards
and buckled plywood poked up between rocks and burdock stalks, all that
remained of the commune. I picked my way between scrap metal, broken bottles,
old tires, a firepit. A man-sized standing stone reared from the wreckage of
weeds and winter-killed saplings, flecks of white paint on its granite surface.
I crouched in front of it and pushed away dead ferns to get a better look.

Someone
had painted three concentric circles on the stone, like a target. The central
circle—the bullseye—had been filled in with white paint. There was a smudge of
metallic green pigment in the middle circle.

I
touched it. The stone was rough and cold. When I withdrew my hand, specks of
pigment and lichen stuck to it.

I
felt a sudden wave of dizziness, stumbled to my feet and backed away.

From
the far side of the hill a raven clacked. A late cricket clung to the standing
rock, rubbed its legs then crawled toward the earth.

I
kicked at the ground, then, for good measure, bent and dug at it with my
fingernails. A scant half-inch of turf came up. I rubbed it between my fingers
and stood again, relieved.

There
was nothing buried under the stone, not unless the hippies had jackhammered
their way into the hill's granite dome. It was just a rock with a bullseye
painted on it. The commune had probably used it for target practice. I started
back down the hillside, but only got a few steps before I stopped again.

Tucked
among the oaks was the mottled bulk of a large vehicle. An old International
school bus, painted in a camo pattern with candy colors—pink, lime green,
orange—that time had turned splotched and sickly. Branches burst through the
broken windows. What looked like lime green paint was splattered against the
glass, but as I got closer I saw this was some kind of mold, its edges curled
and black.

I
pushed through the underbrush until I reached the cab. Above a wooden platform
that served as a step, the door hung in two pieces. I pushed it open.

It
was like being in a fish tank where everything has died. Light streaked through
windows hung with blackened plastic curtains that had once been green. All the
seats had been removed, and wadded rugs had been chewed to fuzz by rodents.
There were beer cans and condoms, signs of more recent occupation; splintered
chairs, a plastic bucket crusted with brown. An exploded futon. A jagged face
hung from the ceiling, lantern-jawed and with huge hollow eyes.