The Effects Of Light Part 10

"Hm," said Mark. "So you're not interested."

"I didn't say that."

"Or, I know, you're miffed at him for invading your privacy by following you all the way across the country just so he could profess his undying and eternal love . . . You know, on second thought, you're right. Poor you. I absolutely hate it when that kind of thing happens."

Myla realized she'd tangled her fingers in the cord of the telephone. She pulled her hand free and sighed, ignoring Mark's mocking tone. "I'm not exactly angry. I like having him around. But there's something about him, something he said-"

"Right. The stuff in his lecture. He explained it to me. And by the way, when he was telling me about it, putting two and two together, he got all red in the face and excited, and I realized: no wonder seeing him lecture turned you on."

"Mark!"

"Okay, okay. So do you want to know my opinion or not?"

"Of course I do."

"I say let it go."

Myla felt her voice rising. "It wasn't the kind of thing one can just let go. He believes the photographs I was in as a child were the cause of my sister's death. He essentially accused my father of murdering her with his own hands." Myla shuddered. "I can't kiss a man who believes that about my father. I can't just let something like that go."

"If you can't, you can't," Mark said. "I'm just saying go easy on the guy. He's a good man. He obviously likes you. He probably feels really bad about what he said. And maybe being with you, maybe seeing that you don't believe your father murdered your sister, will bring him around to your point of view. I don't know."

"Okay," said Myla. "Thank you. I've got to remember to lighten up."

"Yeah. Don't let Myla Rose Wolfe be a downer. Let her be one of the cool kids. You get a clean slate, after all."

Myla smiled again. "Thank you, Mark." She paused. Then she asked, "But I have to know, if you'll tell me. Why'd you decide to call?"

"Oh, that," he said. "See, I thought about it a lot. And realized that we're all pretty f.u.c.ked up, which is not a highly profound statement, but go with me on this one. We start out as these tiny bundles and then along the way we get f.u.c.ked up, and we f.u.c.k up in the process. My dad-you asked about my dad-he wants to be a good man. His name's Pedro, since you were so curious. He was raised in a conservative Spain, by very traditional people. He's a devout Catholic, he loves his wife, he loves the children who follow his vision of what life should be. He's tried to love me. I truly believe he has. But that doesn't help me when I know he won't speak to me because I'm gay. That doesn't help me when I'm not invited home, or when one of my sisters-the super-Catholic one-won't even call me anymore. My mom's called me once this year."

Myla had heard only s.n.a.t.c.hes of Mark's family situation in the five years she'd known him. Now, laid out before her like this, the story was excruciating. "Oh G.o.d, Mark, that's awful."

He continued, "And this is why I don't talk about it in the first place: because it just turns into this maudlin sob story that depresses everyone. The truth is, I've come to terms with it. I've made myself a pretty great life, and I pity my father for not wanting to know me just because of who I am. It's probably caused him much more pain than it's caused me. But that's not my point."

"What is your point?"

"My point is that you, Miss Myla, are brave. At first I was very angry at you, and then I came to realize how much I admire what you're doing. Horrible stuff happened in your family. We're talking Greek-tragedy horrible. It obviously screwed you up-when you're orphaned, that's probably it for most people-and I'm guessing it wasn't some luxuriously sneaky plan of yours to simply pretend to be someone else. I'm guessing you felt it was a last resort. So how cool is it that you've decided to finally tell the truth about yourself? Yeah, I'm mad you didn't want to let me in on the secret, but that's mostly my own s.h.i.+t. What I'm talking about is bigger than that: I'm impressed by you. I'm impressed by who Myla Rose Wolfe is. She's the person I'm excited about knowing. Forget Kate Scott. It's a new phase! It's a new you! It means you can buy a whole new wardrobe!"

Myla was laughing hard. She felt giddy, wound around by understanding. They talked and talked, and she explained everything: David's notebook, David's ma.n.u.script, Jane and Steve's house, Samuel's arrival, Portland, and the bits of her past she wanted to revisit. With each word, she felt more whole, more confident. It was glorious: one half of herself meeting her other. She felt, at last, that she'd arrived.

WE'RE EATING DINNER IN THE house, and by "we" I mean Myla, me, David, and Helaine. She's made us chicken with broccoli on the side, and rice. Myla loves broccoli, so she's eating it even though she wants to hate this food. She's mad at David for telling Helaine this is her favorite meal.

Then the doorbell rings. I go get it and Ruth's outside. She smiles. "Hey, can I come in?" and I say of course, but when I bring her into the dining room they all make sounds like they're apologizing. Ruth says, "Oh, I didn't realize-" and David stands up so his chair sc.r.a.pes on the floor and he speaks too loudly. He says, "Don't be ridiculous," while Myla gets up to get Ruth a chair. The only person who doesn't say anything is Helaine. Then there's confusion about whether Ruth will eat with us or not. She says no but David says yes. She settles for a gla.s.s of wine. She says she already ate but I can tell she's lying.

When we're all sitting, Helaine says, "So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Glad you asked," says Ruth, even though she's not. "I got a call yesterday, from a gallery in New York City, and they love my portfolio. Not only do they want to represent me, but they want to do a solo show! Of my photographs! Can you believe it? The gallerist said they haven't been this excited about someone's work in at least ten years."

Myla's up and jumping and comes around the table to hug Ruth and me. Then David's laughing and everyone's saying congratulations and forgetting all about the meal. It's just that kind of moment. We don't mean anything by it.

Once we're all quiet, Helaine says, "Congratulations, Ruth. What's the time frame for this?"

"Pretty soon, actually. January." Ruth looks at Myla and me. "And I would really like it if you guys could come along. Obviously, we've got to talk to your dad about it, but I'm hoping-"

"What pictures would you be showing?" Helaine says over her wine-sipping.

"Well," says Ruth. "Recent stuff." She smiles. "Stuff of the girls, probably."

Myla giggles and claps her hands. She says, "Oh my G.o.d, Ruth, I can't believe this is happening! New York City?" But Helaine says something while Myla's speaking, and we can't hear Helaine. David asks her to repeat what she said, and she cuts the chicken slowly with her knife.

"So it's pictures of the girls you'll be showing, then?"

Ruth's voice gets hard and she says, "Yes. Partially. That's what this gallery's really excited about."

"Have you asked the girls?"

"I always ask the girls." Ruth looks at David and then at me. She doesn't know what to say.

"Yeah," I say. "She always asks us." I don't sound as brave as I'd like.

"Good," says Helaine, and smiles so we can see her gums. "Looks like you have it all figured out. I'm so proud of you, Ruth. I know we all are."

Myla gets up and puts her napkin on the table. Her chair doesn't make the sound she'd like it to. She looks at David and says, quietly, "Unbelievable," and picks up her plate and leaves the room. We hear her as she glowers up the stairs, and her door-slamming shakes the house.

Ruth pats my back. "I'm sorry if I came at a bad time. This is obviously something we all need to talk about. So." She gets up. David says he'll walk her out. And they go to the front door and he walks her out onto the porch.

Helaine's still eating. I watch her while she chews. She has a strong jaw. I tell her about my day. I eat my rice.

MYLA BURST AWAKE TO FIND Samuel shaking her. "You were having another nightmare," he said, letting go of her shoulders as she rose into consciousness.

"Jesus," she said. She'd been dreaming about the dark room again, about the interview with tiny Pru alone onstage. Myla looked at Samuel, and his face pulled her back to reality. He stood up.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay." He headed toward the door.

"Wait," she said, her voice too loud in the nighttime.

He stopped. His back to her, he looked smaller than usual, like a boy who needed permission. She checked herself before saying: "Come back." As she moved into full waking, she cloudily remembered the reservations she had about this man. She knew, in the daylight, that she had all sorts of reasons not to trust him. But she moved her legs so he could sit down, scooped against her. A breeze came in slowly, swooning the curtains. There were dogs barking in the neighborhood.

He said, "I don't like the way your nightmares sound." It was a perfect thing to say. She was starting to notice small details about Samuel: the timbre of his voice, the way he hesitated before lifting his water gla.s.s, his attention to the outside when they were driving, and, most of all, the simple truths behind his speech. It seemed that he did not lie. His honesty struck Myla at that moment as an extraordinary thing.

"I don't like being in them," she said.

"What happens?"

She tried to think of the best way to explain. "They're all about not being enough. Fast enough, strong enough, brave enough. Not catching up in time."

"In time for what?"

"In time to save her." Myla tried to start again, but she'd lost her voice. She looked at Samuel, traced his features with her eyes. She was being pulled under by something stronger than sleep, but familiar in the way that sleep was. She wanted to explain to him, but she couldn't.

Finally he spoke. "Tell me about Ruth."

So here it was: his way of helping her. Asking her questions she wouldn't explore on her own, in search of an answer he believed she needed to find. She leaned closer to him, then tried to locate Ruth in her mind. Ruth was a taste. Ruth was a feeling. "Ruth was tall. She had this amazing long black hair. She spun all sorts of wild tales about traveling through Asia with only a camera and a backpack. She collected legendary boyfriends with names like Luca and Giancarlo. We never knew much about her childhood. We knew she grew up in Kentucky and that she didn't have much family, but that was about it." Only here in the darkness could Myla easily a.s.semble truths about Ruth and speak them out loud. "She loved us as she loved herself. She wanted to make glorious, transcendent art." She shook her head, listened to her hair rustling the pillow. "Pru loved the photographs."

"You'll think this strange, after what I said in my lecture, but I find the photographs profoundly compelling," he said. "They're riveting."

"I haven't looked at any of them since I left here."

Samuel touched her then, softly, on her hip. "I'll look at them with you, if it helps. We can look at them together."

"I'm not ready."

"Are all the rest of them-what's the estimated figure, ten thousand negatives?-really missing?"

"Yes," said Myla. "Not to mention her prints. She was a great printer. None of us has any idea what Ruth did with them. She probably destroyed them," and the thought of all that lost art brimmed Myla with sorrow.

"Later, then, when you want to." His fingers rubbed a circle on her hip, starting small, moving big.

"How long will you stay?" she asked.

"As long as you want." It was what she wanted him to say. "I don't plan on going back. So here's as good a place as any."

Immediately a question rose in her-why was he refusing to return to his life at the college?-but just as quickly, her hands were on the corners of his s.h.i.+rt, pulling him toward her.

They'd done this before, but this time it was different. This time she was aware of him in a way she hadn't been before, because she knew him so much better. She wanted to know him. It was quiet and soft, this way of lying against someone you might grow to cherish, and afterward, they pulled the covers up around them and slept hip to hip. They awoke to the dawn, creeping blue into the room. They made love again, and then Myla lay on her back, watching Samuel slip into soft sleep.

David's ma.n.u.script was still her secret. She waited until Samuel was breathing long and deep, and she then eased her body away from his warmth. Myla's bag, which held David's book, was nestled beside the bed. With her fingers, she found the thick manila envelope and pulled it up onto her lap, relis.h.i.+ng what was to come. She slipped out the cover page and read the t.i.tle again. Spectacular Futures: How Art Makes Up Our Minds. Underneath it, David had typed the t.i.tles of each subsection: i. Gaining Perspective: Sight and the Invention of the Real ii. The Sacred Body and the Nude: Visual Salvation iii. The Momentous Birth of Photography and the Advent of Technological Time iv. Blessed Are the Art Makers, for Theirs Is the Kingdom of Change Myla quietly read each chapter heading, her tongue lilting over the vowels. The words reminded her of the t.i.tles of the books that had lined the walls of her childhood home; she'd fingered the spines, wondering at the mysterious content of each tome. She closed her eyes and remembered how thick all those books had felt. Thick with pages, and knowledge, and possibility. This was how it felt to hold her father's book.

She sat up in bed and flattened the ma.n.u.script on her lap. She began where she'd begun the other day, and when she reached the end of the first three paragraphs of the section she now knew was called Gaining Perspective, she continued reading. The thrill of her father's ideas made a patch of hope around her body. Nothing could stop her.

WE GET ON THE AIRPLANE TO New York and I choose the window seat once I convince Myla she'd rather sit by Ruth. David sits in front of us, and every once in a while he turns around and makes sure everything's okay. It's the first time I remember being on an airplane. A whole decade ago, when I was just a baby and my mom was still alive, we went on an airplane down to San Francisco to visit her family. But I don't remember that.

What I remember is maybe the feeling of flying, because when I lift my feet as the plane takes off, the flip in my stomach is familiar. But just when I know how to name it, what to say, we've already shot up past the clouds, and the world below is only patches of green. By then the words leave my mind and I have to turn back to the dim humming inside of the plane, to conversation with my family. The lurch, the pull, is gone.

Myla wants to talk about the pictures. Ruth is happy to have a million conversations about them with her. I don't know why we have to talk about them. The doing seems all that matters; even looking at them feels funny. Myla thinks I don't want to talk about the pictures because I think she's vain. But that's not it. She's not vain. The pictures make her count all the good and bad things about herself. She wants other people to look at her pictures that way, to have them declare who she is, but I don't. I just want to be me. I just want the me in the pictures to be left alone. I want to speak for myself. To be.

Ruth keeps trying to talk to me. She asks me about New York and whether I'm excited and I say yes, mostly because I'm supposed to. I'm excited about the city, and David's saying we can explore some museums and shop at FAO Schwarz. What I'm not excited about is the gallery with all sorts of people standing in front of my picture whispering. What I'm not excited about is sitting in a corner, waiting for Myla to decide she's bored and wants to go home, like I have for the last hour. What I'm not excited about is the moment when I look up and catch my own eye, across the gallery, on the wall, and remember the particular day-the sun on my back, the song in my head-and know I can never be there again in that perfect bright moment. I'll be jealous of the me in the picture, warm and alive. It's a strange thing. Even Myla doesn't understand.

proof the two girls are together on a trickling streambed. The older one is in front, and she stands with her feet a shoulder's width apart, her hands poised on her hips. She looks as if she's up for a challenge, her chin set in such a way that there's a trace of rebellion on her face. The muscles in her arms are flexed. Her legs are strong. She has b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the fierceness of someone who knows the world, who expects a fight.

The younger one is behind, softer, out of focus. She curls on a rock, a dollop of brightness behind her sister's sour stance. At first glance you think she's threatened by the older one's towering presence in the foreground, but then you see that's not the case. You look closer and realize she's content. A smile settles on her face, in the corners of her mouth, and her eyes look lovingly in the older one's direction.

The older girl is a mammal. You see that she's guarding the younger one from something unnamed. Not the camera, for she's obviously comfortable in front of it, knows her way around its edges. Not the viewer. Or at least not you. If you're looking at this picture, and you're able to see the protection in her body, then you're not the person she's guarding against. It means you have an eye for the girls' well-being. It means you're not the one who ends it.

chapter thirteen.

steve cleared the last of the dishes from the breakfast table and kissed Myla on the cheek. "You two be good," he said, chuckling. Apparently he'd noticed Samuel's move upstairs.

The screen door banged shut, and Myla turned her gaze to Samuel. He was engrossed in the Times crossword, something that had never particularly interested her. In her mind, puzzles had always seemed a waste of valuable research time. But there Samuel sat, closing and opening his eyes, deep in concentration. She watched him for a time, until he looked up at her. He said, "So I guess we aren't in a fight anymore."

Myla smiled. "We were never in a fight. We were distant. But if you want to call it a fight, then yes, I guess we're no longer in it."

He took a final bite of corn m.u.f.fin and raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't mind if that's how we make up from now on."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," she said, blus.h.i.+ng. Her body was flushed with life, touched by her father's ideas and Samuel's body. Even the rain outside seemed to convey a brightness she knew other people probably weren't seeing. She felt lifted by language, by wanting to tell Samuel all sorts of things. Words were ready to tumble out.

Samuel set down the crossword. "Do you want to go back upstairs? I've been feeling distant from you for, oh, the last forty-five minutes or so."

"Let's take a walk."

He shrugged. "Not the answer I was hoping for."

"It'll be better after the walk," Myla said, standing up.

He groaned in complaint.

"Think of the distance we will have established by then," she teased, smiling at herself as she went to put on her jacket. Pulling her bag onto her shoulder, she giggled at how effortless this flirting was. Samuel followed her and kissed her against the front door. She managed to find the doork.n.o.b behind her. "Your methods of persuasion won't work on me. Besides, I have something to tell you. A secret."

Outside, the rain was hard to distinguish from the gray sky. Samuel squinted up at the clouds and said, "Umbrella?"

Myla laughed. "No native Oregonian would ever be caught dead with an umbrella. Especially on a day like today. This? This is nothing." She stepped off the porch. "Unless you're scared of a little water . . ."

"No, I relish being soaked to the bone. But in case it starts raining any harder . . ." He picked up a small umbrella resting by the door and put it in his jacket pocket.

Steve and Jane's house was only a couple of blocks from the lookout point above Oaks Bottom. Standing on the lip of the lookout, one could see the marsh below, and beyond it an old-fas.h.i.+oned, still-intact amus.e.m.e.nt park where Steve had taken them when they were kids. Beyond that unfurled the ribbon of the Willamette River, then the buildings of downtown Portland. The West Hills rose dark green behind Portland, glowering and brightening with each pa.s.sing cloud. This place, where they were standing, displayed the wide vistas Myla was craving.

Looking out over the city, she told Samuel about the mysterious ma.n.u.script. She told him about its unknown origins, about the bright bird that had seemed to summon Tim the librarian, and the smell of the ma.n.u.script, the weight of it, the familiarity of her father on each page. She told him she wasn't ready for Steve or Jane to know about the book's existence. She didn't look at Samuel as she spoke, almost couldn't look at him, because she felt that such sight might break the spell of this conversation. She wanted to trust him, but she trusted her own words more. She needed to do whatever she could to speak.

"And have you read it yet?" Samuel asked when Myla finally came to a resting place.

"This morning. I read a hundred and fifty pages. You were sleeping." She could look at him again as she was brought back around to her memory of him curled up beside her.

"And?"

She took a deep breath. "It's unlike anything I've ever read. He calls it an essay, but it's five hundred and eighty-one pages long. He uses very familiar language, accessible language. He makes it clear that he wants this to be a book anyone can read. And I know my father: he thinks it's a book that everyone should read." Myla shook her head and smiled. "It looks as if he's read everything, and not just to agree with someone else's point of view. He's scrutinized every piece of art ever made-I'm exaggerating, of course-but I mean that he leaves no stone unturned if it will help him shape his ideas. Because that's essentially what he's doing: shaping ideas, small arguments, into a huge, sweeping theory."

"What are some of the arguments?"

Myla slipped the pages out of her bag. A few drops of water splotched down on the cover page, and she brought the papers up to her chest, under her jacket.

Samuel gamely pulled the umbrella from his pocket and sheltered her with it. "I hope I'm not going to get you arrested by the rain police," he joked. Then he lifted his head, shouting out to the city: "One Oregonian over here, risking her reputation for a little shelter! Send out the squad cars! Alert the media!" He grinned down at Myla, and she couldn't help but laugh.

Then she looked down at her father's ma.n.u.script. "Okay. So the book is called Spectacular Futures: How Art Makes Up Our Minds. What he means by that is pure David: he believes that humans think they shape art, but that's not necessarily true. Art shapes them. At the very least, it's a reciprocal relations.h.i.+p."