Leaving Unknown (10 page)

I
refused to let him ruin my humor.

“And closed out the café register?”

“Yes.”

“And did the order sheets?”

“Yes.”

“And put the
Grapes of Wrath
on the front table?”

“Yes.
And
I managed to run fifteen miles before work.” I got a little saucy.

“Fine.” Noah frowned. The bell on the front door jangled, and from the way Noah’s right eyebrow drew down, which was his “tell,” I didn’t need to look. “Samuel.” He nodded. The two men shook hands. Samuel turned to me with a smile.

“Ready?”

I nodded. He was breathtaking. I hesitated. “Do you want to walk with us?”

Noah shook his head. “No, you go on. I’ll see you there.”

I wondered if it was unprofessional to hold hands in front of my boss, but it felt good when Samuel took mine, so I didn’t really care. When we stepped outside, Samuel pulled me close for a kiss.

“I’ve been waiting to do that again,” he said, then reclaimed my hand.

We headed to the town square. The site of my aborted campout was a pleasant rectangle flanked by Main Street and Red Street, filled with trees, picnic benches, and an expansive lawn. At one end was the community center, and at the other a bandstand evoking the innocence of Dick Van Dyke musicals. Weather permitting, at least once a week there was a community event, like a dance, concert, potluck picnic, outdoor film screening, or kickball game. Tonight, the bandstand was decorated with fairy lights, a rainbow of paper rosettes, and a makeshift purple curtain, and was surrounded by rows of folding chairs.

The park was crowded. The whole town turned out. News of my arrival preceded me, and I was surprised at people’s eagerness to get acquainted, and their warm reception. It made me a little shy, but that didn’t deter anyone.

“It’s the most tasty salad—basically green beans and peas,” Liz Goldberg said, as she scribbled a recipe for me on a crumbled receipt.

“Great, thanks. I’m planning to introduce more vegetarian items onto the lunch menu at the bookstore.”

Bruce got an alarmed look on his face. “Yer not gonna make everything all oatmeal bread and sprouts, are you?”

“No,” I assured him. “Your roast-beef belly buster, double the meat, double the cheese, add hot peppers and mayonnaise will still be there.”

“So will your high blood pressure and elevated cholesterol.” Ruby sniffed.

“In fact, when I update the menu, I thought I’d rename that sandwich the Lawrence,” I said. “Maybe I’ll call your salad the Liz.”

“Maybe you should ask the boss,” said Noah.

“Maybe I’ll call the turkey sandwich the Noah,” I said.

The arrival of a pert blonde about my age prevented his retort. “Sandy Irwin from the nail salon,” she introduced herself. Her nails were a vision, an Arizona state flag gracing each. “You have to come to the Wagon Wheel for a beer sometime. A bunch of us girls are meeting on Friday for happy hour.” She scribbled her number and the details on the back of the nail salon’s card. As soon as Sandy moved on, an elegantly coiffed woman glided into her place.

“Poppy Tarquin, my husband runs the nursery. Listen”—her tone was conspiratorial—“for a proper manicure you must go to Nogales. Sandy is a sweet girl, but she can’t do gels for shit.” I was startled at the profanity coming from such an elegant creature. “I have a girl. I’ll give you her number.” She scribbled a note.

“Where’d Samuel go?” April demanded. I looked around. He’d vanished.

“I can’t imagine”—Ruby’s eyes twinkled—“what could drive him off like that.”

“Hunh,” grunted April. She shoved a piece of paper at me. “Give him that. It’s a list of magazines the waiting room should carry.” I was beginning to look like a Japansese temple, scraps of paper everywhere.

Jenny Up wandered over next, and struck up a “casual conversation” about the sanitary (read: unsanitary) nature of pet birds visiting grocery stores. Samuel had quickly reappeared
after April walked off, but faded a second time after ten minutes of Jenny’s speculation on the number and nature of diseases a pet, for instance cockatiel, might introduce into the environment.

It was almost a relief when Helen Rausch approached, with muttered invective that I’d best watch out before eating anything Liz Goldberg recommended because “that hussy is pure poison.”

When the music cued, Helen rushed to get the middle seat of the first row before one of those sneaky Goldbergs did, and Samuel went to claim our seats. I lurked around the bandstand as unobtrusively as possible, snapping shot after shot. The show was an unintended work of comic genius, as Tuesday tried to shepherd the children of Unknown through various routines, like herding cats. Little Bloom Tarquin stomped on Frieda Watson’s foot when Frieda stepped upstage of her. Frieda ran off in tears, Tuesday scurrying after her, as Bloom pirouetted prettily alone centerstage, other dancers staying cautiously back. The Nez twins froze like deer in the headlights when they stepped onstage and didn’t move until Tuesday skipped out and danced with them. But it was little William Up who stole the show when his lederhosen broke and the short pants fell to his ankles, revealing Spiderman Underoos.

I burned through film, but I was nervous, feeling like each moment once gone could never be recaptured. It’d been a long time since anyone depended on me. I didn’t want to let Tuesday down.

Even after Celia Sweet had danced (safely) offstage after the last number, I continued to shoot. Liz Goldberg with Tommy (in a sling) telling the story of his fall to Jenny Up, with elaborate hand gestures. Helen scowling at them. Bruce towering over Ruby but looking half her size as he nervously offered her
pink lemonade. Noah lifting Frieda Watson in her tutu onto his shoulders. Click. Click. I loved the sound the shutter made as I stole this part of Unknown. The permanence of photography left me in awe. Nothing alive was that enduring. It felt powerful to control it. Click. Tuesday, flushing with pleasure as she accepted accolades. Click. Ronnie Two Shoes, thumbs hooked into belt lops, chatting up Sandy. Click. The setting sun highlighting the planes of Samuel’s throat as he laughed. Click. Samuel turning toward me. Click. Samuel reaching to tug the camera away from my eye.

“Hi, shutterbug. You hungry?” Samuel’s goal in life seemed to be making sure I ate enough.

“Hey.” Happiness poured out of my smile. “Getting there. What a great night.”

“Aloha?! Where are my people?” I heard Tuesday demand. “I need my people! Maeve, Samuel! Let’s go eat!” She waved us over and it was my turn to flush. I was her people. I happily fell in with the crowd bound for dinner.

Later, stuffed with chile rellenos, Samuel and I meandered back to Ruby’s. We’d dawdled to allow Bruce to escort Ruby home in private. Inside, I noticed that Oliver had taken up residence with Lulabell. They were snuggled on her perch, and he was making his happy grinding noise.

“Look,” I whispered to Samuel. “They’re in the same cage.” But Samuel wasn’t looking at them.

“What an excellent idea,” he murmured. And without another word, I took his hand and led him to Number One.

“You need to see Child,” April rumbled. We were contemplating the pile of film on the table.

“My goodness you took a lot of photos.” Busy fluttered.

I was worried about the cost of developing. My checks from
Noah were minimum wage, and I was still paying off Simon Bear for towing Elsie. I wondered how I could barter. “What child is that?” I asked absently.

“Child Sugar. He develops the pictures here. In the back of the print shop.”

“The octagonal building?” I was interested. I’d seen it on my runs.

“Yep.”

“Oh, you’ll like Child,” Busy said. “He’s a lovely man.”

“You think everyone is lovely,” growled April.

“No I don’t!” Busy protested. “I think you’re a skanky ho.”

A picture-perfect model for cardigan sweaters looked up when I walked into the print shop an hour later. When he saw me, he smiled, white teeth brilliant against his ebony skin. He reminded me of Cook from
The Shining
.

“I’m guessing you’re Maeve Connelly,” boomed a rich bass.

“How did you know?” We’d never met.

“Ruby mentioned that a young lady wearing kneesocks might be by today, most likely with a barter scheme at the ready.”

“She’s very good.” I nodded. “At knowing things.”

“She is, indeed.”

I laid the eleven rolls of film on the counter. We eyed them.

“Will Noah let you work for me Mondays from four to eight o’clock in the evening? Mondays are my late night—everyone wants his or her weekend images ten minutes ago—however I dislike missing
News Hour with Jim Lehrer
. I’ll instruct you in the operation of the machines. You may develop and print your own film after the paying customer orders are complete. You will only be required to compensate me for the cost of the photo paper if you rely on your own labor.”

“Absolutely,” I said, with no idea what Noah would think.

“Let us be civilized.” Child gestured to two armchairs and
I sat. He pressed a button on an electric kettle, and in less than a minute loose tea was steeping in an Aurora Royal Patrician bone-china teapot, matching fragile cups at the ready. I truly had been expected. Child settled in his chair. “Tell me about yourself, Maeve.”

I froze. Child was the first person to ask me about my past. Most of the time, I peppered people with questions, got them to talk instead. I preferred it that way.

“Not much to tell really. My car broke down and I’m earning the money to fix her up. Are you originally from Unknown?”

“My family comes from Pittsburgh. Ruby did mention your situation. I am sorry for your car misfortunes. Where is your family?” He poured the tea through a silver strainer.

“North Carolina. How long have you lived here?”

“I moved to Unknown in 1988. Did you attend university in North Carolina?” Most people can be conversationally diverted with ease. You ask them something about themselves. Child was unshakeable.

“Mmmm-hmmm. I bet Unknown hasn’t changed much. Is it pretty much the same as when you arrived?”

“They offer an excellent book on the history of Unknown at Piece of Work, the artisan shop on Red Road. What did you study in school?” It was like fencing.

“Oh, lots of things. How did you get into prints?” The walls were hung with beautifully framed antique maps, old posters from something called the Monkey Flower Festival, and intricate line drawings. The shop felt like a Victorian parlor except for the film processing machines behind the oak table serving as a counter.

“I studied art history at Carnegie Mellon. What did you do after college?” Riposte.

“This and that. I haven’t really decided on a career.” Parry.

“When did you complete your studies?” His gaze was level.

“December. When did you open the shop?”

“Ten years ago. So you must have taken some time off school. You’re what, twenty-four, twenty-five?”

“A lady never tells,” I demurred. He was sharp. And undeterred.

“So photography is a career interest for you?” Redoublement.

“Career? I don’t know. I like taking pictures.” I decided to give him something. Retraite.

“Tell me what you like about it.”

“Capturing people as they really are. What do you like about framing prints?”

“Putting things in their best light. Is photography what you did during your time off from the university?”

“Nope. Prison,” I joked. I didn’t want to talk about my time off. “My goodness, is that the time?” Feinte. “I have to get to work.” I didn’t have to do any such thing. It was my day off, but I was anxious to escape Child’s inquisition. I gave him a rueful smile. “It wouldn’t do to be late the day you ask your boss for Mondays off!”

“No indeed.” Child smiled back.

After agreeing to meet on Monday, I fled. I resolved to have a better plan next time. I’d pepper him with questions. There’d be no opportunity to talk about me. The encounter left me unsettled, a feeling that stayed long after I was sprinting between grassy meadows. I ran hard, breathing the smell of sage, sunshine resting like a hand on my head, but I couldn’t run off the feeling that something was following me.

“These are incredible, Maeve! A million mahalos!”

We were looking at photos from Tuesday’s recital. “This one of Bloom Tarquin is precious!” I’d caught her mid-pirouette, tongue at the corner of her lip in concentration, light haloing
her blonde curls. I was anxious for Tuesday’s approval. Child had carefully tutored me in operating the sensitive developing machines, but it’d taken more than a couple of rolls to get a feel for them and produce usable prints from the negatives.

My first set of prints came out completely black. My second split images over two sheets. With the third I managed to center the images and produce a set where Bruce’s camping photos were only slightly orange.

“I’m sorry, Child.” I’d pushed back sweaty bangs, hot with frustration. “I’ll pay for these.”

“Don’t be silly. Training is a cost of business. These machines are highly calibrated, sensitive creatures, easily thrown into bad behavior. Rather like chefs. You’ll get the hang of it.”

And, eventually, I did. It was 3:30 in the morning and Child had long since gone home and finished his sherry nightcap when Bruce’s image of a flushed pheasant taking wing emerged crisp and clear, blue sky and gold meadow vibrant in color. No one was there to hear me whooping, but Child must have known, because when I showed up unscheduled at closing time on Tuesday, he didn’t seem surprised.

By Friday all he said was, “Remember to lock up.” He’d given me keys when it became apparent my nocturnal fervor showed no sign of stopping. When Samuel hunted me down with a basket picnic, I could barely sit still, eager to continue creating prints, ushering him out the door with a hasty kiss.

It was worth it. After mastering the machines, I’d cleared the backlog of customer orders (and learned a few things about Ronnie Two Shoes), and turned to my own film. My pile of rolls had grown as I continued to take images of Unknown and its citizens. Like Sisyphus—when my task seemed met, it multiplied.