Pictures of You (22 page)

Miss Rivers pursed her lips. “Plus,” she said. “He doesn’t have any friends.”

Charlie started. “Of course he has friends,” he said.

“I’m just saying that at school, he keeps to himself and reads,” said Miss Rivers. “For a while he was friendly with Teddy, but Teddy hasn’t been back to school because of a personal family matter.” The teacher leaned forward. “Actually, I thought Teddy was part of the problem.”

“Teddy?” Charlie said. He felt suddenly bewildered, trying to place the name. “Who’s Teddy?”

Miss Rivers gave him an odd look. “Teddy. His best friend, Teddy.” Miss Rivers pursed her lips. “Mr. Nash,” she said. “Maybe he needs to talk to somebody.” She scribbled something on a card. “No one can deny he’s had a hard time. He’s been through a trauma. And kids can be cruel. This woman is supposed to be just excellent.” Numb, Charlie took the card and tucked it in his pocket.

The whole way home, Charlie brooded. Sam had a best friend named Teddy and Charlie didn’t know a thing about him.

He pulled the card the teacher had given him from his jeans. Talk to somebody, the teacher had said. Sam had seen more than enough doctors in his lifetime. He thought of his son sitting in a room while a stranger leaned toward him and asked him questions. He thought of all the jobs he had to do, but what was work compared to his son? Charlie picked up his cell phone and called his foreman. “I’m taking a few days off,” Charlie said. “Personal family matters.”

• • •

I
SABELLE STOOD IN
her darkroom, hands on her hips, looking at the photographs Sam had taken. Photographers always talked about the law of thirds. You were supposed to divide up the shot into three sections for compositional interest, putting the main subject a third of the way into the frame, but here she was, smack in the middle and it was one of the most arresting photographs she had ever seen. He had captured her, and the most curious thing was that he had somehow photographed her so that her shoulders were dark and burly, as if she had wings under her dress and any moment she might spread them to lift off the ground and fly away. She studied the picture as critically as she could. Well. This was really a good picture. For a kid and for anyone. She clipped it onto the clothesline in her darkroom. She’d find a way to get it to him.

She picked up the one shot she had taken of him. His face was arresting, his eyes so luminous she couldn’t look away. He was gazing right at the camera, right at her, almost as if he were trying to tell her something.

S
AM WAS HOME
alone when a big brown envelope came through the door addressed to him. He didn’t get mail. At least not real mail. You couldn’t count the junk mail that somehow got addressed to him, offers for time shares in Florida or subscriptions to magazines he really didn’t want, like
Popular Boating
or
Muscle Man Today
. He took it to his room and sat on the bed before carefully tearing open the envelope. There was a small blue card that said only “Sam, I know you wanted these. They are good.” And then there was Isabelle’s name. He traced his finger across it.

There were three pictures, two of Isabelle and one of the street, but she had blown them up so they were large and glossy. As soon as he saw them, he had to bring the photos closer to his face to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing. She had told him that pictures showed things that sometimes seemed hidden, and now, he understood that what she had been telling him
was another message. There. Right there. Look at that. Her coat was bunchy, hiding her wings. And her face was turned as if she were guiding him to look in a certain direction and when he did, he saw a blurry spot in the photograph and his heart leaped.

His mother. He knew it. It was a sign, just like the angel books had said.

“Sam.” He heard his father and quickly put the photographs back in the envelope and slid it into the bottom of his drawer under his sweaters.

For the next three days, Charlie took off work, put his cell phone away, and did nothing but be with Sam. “Everyone deserves to play hooky once in a while,” Charlie told him. They went to four movies in two days. They went bowling, and afterward, they walked along the main street. “Let me buy you something,” Charlie said, stopping in front of Laughs toy store.

Sam brightened and, to Charlie’s surprise, shook his head. He met Charlie’s eyes. “I want a camera,” Sam said.

C
HARLIE WAS SO
relieved that Sam wanted something, that he showed interest, that he immediately took him to Gray’s Camera Store, where the clerk started pulling out digital cameras. “How about those?” Charlie asked, but Sam shook his head.

“I want a film camera,” he insisted.

“Really? Film? But digital is so much easier. That’s what everyone uses now,” Charlie said.

“Film shows more,” Sam said.

“I bet you’re right,” Charlie said, impressed. The clerk brought out some film cameras, heavy and more substantial. “You sure?” Charlie asked, and Sam studied the cameras.

“Do you have any Canons?” he said. “That’s what I want.”

“You and ninety percent of the business. They’ve got different models and lenses to go with every budget. And you’re in luck because I’ve got a used one,” the clerk said. “At a good price for a Canon, too.”

The camera came with a strap that Sam could slip over his neck and an instruction booklet as big as Sam’s fist. When Charlie saw the price tag—three hundred dollars—he blanched. He was about to guide Sam back to one of those little automatics, but then he saw how Sam’s face was lighted up, how excited he was. “Sold,” Charlie said. “It’s your early Christmas present.”

For the first few days, Charlie got used to flashes of light in his eyes, making him blink so he couldn’t see.

The camera seemed to transform Sam. He stopped reading obsessively. He stopped sitting in the dark, and instead, he couldn’t wait to get outside with his camera. All he wanted to do was take pictures. Charlie couldn’t wait to see the pictures Sam had taken. He took three rolls to the photo shop and two days later went to pick them up, but when he opened the folder, his jaw fell.

Charlie had bought Sam black and white Fuiji film, the best, which wasn’t all that cheap, either. He remembered Sam snapping pictures of him at dinner, or when they were in the park. He knew Sam had taken a posed picture of Charlie watering the lawn and working in the garden, but where were those and what were these?

He spread the shots out. All of the photographs were of cars speeding away, or the backs of people, their heads turned as if they were about to tell you an important message. It had been a brilliant sunny day when Sam and he had gone out to take pictures, but all these shots were dark.

He didn’t know what to say to Sam. Not that he was any expert on photography, but shouldn’t the pictures be brighter? Shouldn’t they have something in them other than cars and the road? He didn’t want to ruin Sam’s obvious enthusiasm, or to put a damper on the first thing that had made Sam excited in weeks. He thought he’d get him some books on how to take pictures, maybe he’d talk him into a class, but to Charlie’s shock, when Sam saw his photos, he was delighted.

“Look how great they came out!” he said. He pored over the
shots as if they were masterpieces, holding them up to the light, squinting, and when he handed them to Charlie, he stood so close that Charlie could feel the warmth of his skin. Sam hung all the pictures up on the bulletin board in his room, carefully thumb-tacking around the edges, and later that evening, when Charlie walked by, he saw Sam looking intently at the pictures, one after another, as if a wonderful drama were unfolding in front of him.

T
HE CAMERA MADE
Sam brave, as if it had secret powers. He took the camera to school, and almost instantly good things started happening. First, the camera was like a stop sign. It was one thing to trash Sam’s lunchbox, to throw his sandwich, but all you had to do was look at the camera to know it was expensive and special. Sam tensed when Billy approached him. He put his arms around his camera, ready to shout for the teacher if he had to. Billy eyed him and said, grudgingly, “Cool camera.”

The next incredible thing that happened was that Teddy walked back into the classroom, his arm in a sling. “What happened to you?” Sam asked.

Teddy scowled and acted as if he didn’t even know Sam. “None of your beeswax.”

Sam heard Teddy tell the other kids that he broke his arm while riding on the back of a motorcycle, that he had been going 70 miles an hour when the bike swerved and crashed, but all Sam could think of was how Teddy’s mother had raged into the room.

At recess, it was too cold to go outside, so they all went into the big gym. Teddy followed him, tapping Sam on the shoulder. “Take my picture,” Teddy said, and posed with his arm.

“Hey, me, too,” said Billy, and he held up his arms as if he were a muscle man on the beach. Then all the other kids wanted their pictures taken, and because taking their picture was better than getting pushed around, Sam did as he was told. When he was behind the lens, no one touched him.

Miss Rivers made Sam let her keep the camera for him. All day,
he kept looking over at her desk, and every time he did, he felt a strange new surge of power. He looked up and saw the world in pictures. He made mental frames about Miss Rivers, around the window pouring light into the room. His fingers itched with excitement.

That day, when Miss Rivers asked who in the class knew when the Declaration of Independence was written, Sam shot up his hand and answered, waiting for the moment when his chair would be kicked, but there was no kick, and when he turned around, Fred Morgan, who usually sneered at him, gave him a thumbs-up.

Sam walked home through the park, his camera looped about his neck, hoping he might run into Isabelle. Maybe his father didn’t want him to see Isabelle anymore, but Sam couldn’t be blamed if they just sort of bumped into each other, could he? Maybe he wasn’t allowed to ask Isabelle about his mother, but no one said he couldn’t ask her about photography, and he had a million questions he wanted to ask her about depth and framing a shot. Sometimes, as he walked, he’d just whirl around and take a picture.

You never knew who might be in it.

It was blustery and cold, and Charlie stood outside the school, looking for Sam, thinking he might surprise him. Like April, he thought, then brushed the thought away. The kids spilled out, shouting and jumping around, their winter coats flung open, their heads without hats. They ran to their parents’ waiting cars or headed for the park. He scanned the crowd for Sam, but he knew he had time because Sam always came out last, and he was almost always alone.

“Hey, Dad!” Charlie looked to the sound, and to his surprise, there was Sam, and miracle of miracles, he was grinning. The sturdy little used Canon was slung around his neck, and when he saw Charlie, he lifted the camera and took Charlie’s photo. “F-eight and be there!” Sam said. “That’s photographer talk about the f-stop, Daddy!”

Charlie hugged Sam to him, leading him to the car. “I got sixty chips because my homework was so good,” Sam told him. “I used half for free time while everyone else had to practice their cursive.”

“That calls for extra dessert tonight.”

“Cool.”

Charlie was glad he had bought Sam the camera, which seemed to focus him. Sam seemed happier. His homework was now done
on time. So he didn’t have a lot of play dates. Who did, when you thought about it?

“I was wondering,” Charlie said, “if you’d like to take a photography class.”

“Maybe,” Sam said.

As soon as they got home, Sam ran to get his collection of photographs. He sat in the center of the living room, his legs splayed out, his whole body hunched over. Sam was so intent, he didn’t even see Charlie, not until his dad stooped to get a better look, and then he started.

“Did I surprise you?” Charlie asked, and then he moved to the other side of Sam where he could get a better look, and he felt himself reeling. Sam had taken pictures of cars moving away, of empty, winding roads. Just like the ones that April had been killed on. Every shot looked like the newspaper accident scene. All that was missing was a white chalk line for the body. Charlie felt like crying.

“Why do you keep taking pictures like that?” he asked quietly.

Sam stared at him, not moving. Charlie bent down, and that was when he saw the photo Sam was trying to hide under one of his legs. That was when he saw Isabelle’s face. Her coat flying out behind her, her features in shadows.

Charlie pulled the photo free.

“That’s mine!” Sam cried, grabbing for it.

“What’s this?” Charlie said sharply, holding it away from Sam.

“I took it.” Charlie noticed how Sam’s eyes began to fill with light. “It’s mine.”

“When?”

Sam hesitated. “Last week. I saw Isabelle in the park.”

Charlie stared at the photo. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing.

Sam stood up, shifting his weight from one untied sneaker to the other. “Don’t you like them? Don’t you think I’m good at this? I can do this. I can do this really well.” He lifted his chin. “Isabelle
thinks I have talent. She taught me things. She developed them for me—and there’s even one she took herself.” He lifted up one of the bigger prints that had a brown tone, a shot of Sam in profile. “It’s called sepia,” Sam said. “I like that word, sepia.”

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from her? Next time, you give the film to me.”

“But you don’t know anything about photography!” Sam stabbed a finger at a picture. “You don’t know that that’s called perspective!”

“Look, I’m glad you’re taking pictures. That’s not the point. I’m thrilled you love photography. I really am. But I don’t want you dealing with Isabelle! If you like taking pictures so much, do it on your own. Or maybe we can find you a class.”

Sam shook his head, confused. “But I don’t want to take a class!”

“I thought you said you did!”