The Cage (10 page)

She paced sometimes in her room. She thought she should be writing letters to people, making notes to herself, researching, but she couldn't think what to say about this place, or what to read. She certainly didn't want to go downstairs to the bar where David and Butler would be drinking, talking.
She would be seeing more than enough of them over the next month. She couldn't go outside, so instead she paced and looked out the window.

One afternoon, she noticed the wooden beams of the ceiling in her room, the thick hand-hewn wood of old colonial houses. She was surprised to find wood that beautiful in this town well beyond the tree line. She stood on a chair to touch one. It gave slightly beneath her fingers. They were made from Styrofoam.

“When I was a child,” Maggie said, “I used to dream of being Alec Ramsey. He was this kid in these adventure books I read. He went to all these faraway countries with his black stallion and raced other horses, had adventures. Even though he was always told he couldn't do things at first because he was just a kid, he got to in the end because of his horse and because of his determination. I wanted to be just like him. I thought if I tried enough, I could be him. Only I was a skinny black girl who didn't have a big horse, didn't even have that many friends. I just read a lot. I dreamed of these adventures all the time, but in that heat down there I was too tired even to run across the yard.”

The car fishtailed slightly in the deep snow and Maggie slowed down further to a crawl. “When I was twenty I found this man, this good man, who said he loved me. My mom thought he was all I would ever have. I married him immediately. I mean, it wasn't like I hadn't been trying to conform all the time. We had Julie and James. A lot of fighting. I couldn't
believe in this role I was playing. I couldn't believe in the apartment and our marriage and the children. No, wait, it wasn't that I couldn't believe in the children. I believed in them more than anything, I just couldn't understand they were mine.” Maggie's mouth twitched a little into a smile and she looked out at the snow.

“One day I saw an ad for people needed in the Arctic. They would pay for families to resettle. Gerry didn't have a job then. A month later we were here. He thought it was for a year. Thought this would finally keep me quiet. I thought so too until I stepped out of the plane and felt that wind across all that space. I'd never smelled anything like it, seen anything like it. Gerry left within the year. I really hope he's happier now.”

Within a few years of college Beryl had already had a few photography shows and was making a steady living from freelancing for magazines. At her shows she'd begun to hear strangers say “Findham” a lot, as though by saying her name frequently during any discussion of her photos it would be obvious they understood her meaning. They would confidently ascribe to her name many qualities as though describing a substance like a rock with clear, easily definable veins. She still associated her last name with her parents and each time she heard it she saw her mother cocking the camera, her father adjusting the lights. In a way it was easier for her to imagine her parents taking the pictures all these people came to see.

When she was twenty-six she attended the show of a man three years older than she and as well-established. He specialized in photographing the insides of vegetables, magnifying to huge images the hidden seedy nooks and curls inside. She marveled at his technical expertise. One of his reviews, reprinted in foot-tall letters over the wine and cheese table, said his vision of the alien hidden future was focused, involuted and withering.

Beryl completely believed in his ability, his true claim to his reputation as an artist and a man with a vision. When they'd met she'd felt the firmness of his handshake, the width of his hand. Crow's-feet appeared around his eyes when he smiled; she assumed they came from peering into a camera and thinking hard. His teeth gleamed so white and smooth she'd known immediately that he didn't smoke or even drink coffee. He said he'd been to two of her shows. She noticed the way he concentrated directly on her face whenever she talked as though she were saying something quite complex and it was critical that he follow. When she turned away to get more wine, she'd also caught the way he glanced down her body. She felt honored and nervous, finished her glass of wine too quickly. She tried to smile the way she thought he thought she should: a small confident world-weary smile. They went out to dinner.

During the relationship she found herself copying his speech, his mannerisms. He tended to couch his own thoughts in what she considered the impersonal style of textbooks: “It can be assumed …” and “It need not be said …”
This style made what he said sound proven and factual. While talking philosophically he habitually brushed back his hair, massaging his scalp as though he were thinking so hard his head hurt. He twisted out his lips in grimaces while searching for the exact word. Her imitations of his speech never sounded as imposing. Her grimaces looked more like twitches than deep thought.

Gradually he took on the role of older teacher, gave her treatises by Krishnamurti,
The Moosewood Cookbook
and
Diet for a Small Planet
. He maintained that eating macrobiotic took less from the world. For her birthday he gave her a carton of recycled dioxin-free toilet paper and some perfume made without animal testing. She had been quite excited by the size of the wrapped package, then confused when she saw the first roll. He had explained the dangers of dioxins; once she saw he was serious she tried to thank him for the present as though delighted by the originality of his thought.

One day when he said she should do her laundry using only baking soda and vinegar, she'd listed all the chemicals he used in his photography. She meant only to tease him, but his face went quite stiff, the nostrils of his thin well-formed nose whitened.

“That,” he said, “is Art. One cannot curtail the needs of one's expression, nor divert the means it chooses.”

She had worked immediately at mollifying him. In the end he had relaxed only when she maintained that it was really the fault of scientists for not coming up with more ecologically sound chemicals. He was a passive victim from lack of
choice. He had nodded his head at her wisdom and together they had decried the scientists' greed for profit.

And from the third breakfast they shared together, he had continually told her she should give up coffee.

“It is widely understood that there are three substances dangerous to clear vision,” he said the first time he enumerated the evils of coffee. He held out his hand and counted off the items on his large, neatly manicured fingers. Those fingers last night had moved so cleverly across her body she'd almost been scared of them. Afterward she'd traced the outline and texture of his nails and wrists for a long time while he slept. The blond transparent hair on the backs of his knuckles had seemed so vulnerable, so delicate.

“Nicotine,” he listed, “alcohol and coffee. Mystics around the world, from early Christians to modern-day Buddhists, agree that these three dull the spirit's sight.” She watched his hands, looked at his red lips forming the words. “It's fairly obvious the connection between spiritual sight and art. We must have clear truthful vision.”

She was fascinated by the idea that to photograph well, one's soul had to have clarity, as though it were another lens to be fitted onto the camera. Unfortunately she liked coffee. Each morning she made it quite strong using a melior, a ritual that helped her to wake up. He said that any awakening must come from within. Something about the weight with which he uttered advice like that made her see it as a country sampler stitched with little roses and hung on the wall. She knew this wasn't how he'd want her to hear his words.

When he was around in the morning she'd try to wait until he left to have her coffee, but sometimes he'd stay until lunch and then she'd pull the melior out in front of him. Once he asked how it felt to be addicted. Vocabulary about addictive behavior was quite popular at the time, from chemical dependency to dependent relationships. Several of her friends had confessed to her their addictions and she had felt insensitive and slightly left out that she had no confessions to give in return. She began to wonder if coffee would be acceptable.

“It's like seeing you drink ground glass,” he explained. She smiled shyly at his caring, his protection, but each time she took a sip, he'd look away. She began to enjoy her coffee less and less.

For a week she experimented by not drinking caffeine to see if her photos actually did benefit. She couldn't see much of a difference. She wondered if it took longer than a week to work the impurities out of her soul.

He started to give advice about her work each time they met at her studio. He would state the criticism with his face turned a little away from the photograph so his eyes were narrowed and looking out from the side, the crow's-feet showing, the same pose he favored in the posters advertising his shows. She never ceased to revel in the physical size of his work, blown up to ten feet tall and fifteen feet wide, grainy and hard. Sometimes he nailed wood boards onto the pictures, dusted them with dirt, glued on telephone wiring that curved in and out. The vegetables looked quite alien, like the insides of machines. The critics loved his combination
of photography and sculpture. She thought he couldn't have mistakes in pictures that big.

One day over lunch, he asked if she didn't sometimes tire of photographing only animals.

She had been raising a tofu curry sandwich to her lips. She put the sandwich back down. “What?” she asked.

“You only photograph animals,” he said. “You must get tired of it. If you do that well with animals, you could say so many more things with a greater subject matter, with something more than …” He thought for a moment, puckered his lips out, and then laughed as he said, “Bambis and Thumpers.”

She had tried to laugh at his joke. A drop of soyonnaise had clung to his upper lip. She'd leaned forward and wiped the drop away with her napkin, touching his lips with her other hand and then running her fingers down his chin, as though she could stop his voice, his words. She'd given up coffee almost entirely except sometimes in the afternoon if she still felt sleepy.

“Oh,” she said, “I guess it would be nice if I had a larger scope, but animals are the only things that fascinate me enough to make the photos good.”

“Maybe,” he said, “you should try harder.”

They had a long discussion on the subject. In arguments like this he was methodical and earnest, tracking each statement down to its logical conclusion. He would maintain that
IF
she had a limited subject matter, and
IF
she thought it
would be better to photograph more things than animals,
THEN
she should try harder to increase her scope.

She wasn't as logical in her debates. For her the conversation wasn't the only thing going on. While they discussed the scope of her work, she noticed that when he made a point he held his hands cupped out toward her as though physically offering her something. She noticed that his eyes hardly ever rested on her, but tended to stare at the salt and pepper near her as though he were describing something as clear to him as the salt shaker's shape. She saw her own hands ripping up a napkin and wondered what she had in her fridge to make for dessert. After the argument he felt the issue had been settled and action would be taken. She felt they'd examined one side of it.

After he left she began to wonder. She heard his voice saying “Bambis and Thumpers” again and again.

The next time she saw him he handed her a portfolio showing his most successful work, so she could start to think about other subject matter. In the moment when her hand closed on the weight of the portfolio, she understood that he wouldn't let this issue drop. At some point she would enjoy photographing animals as little as she enjoyed drinking coffee now. The skin along her backbone began to sweat. Nothing in her life was worth more than her work.

After dinner, she kissed him one last time and then walked slowly home to change her phone number and leave on the first assignment she could find that lasted over a month.
Some of her best photos ever had come from that assignment photographing the new exhibits at the San Diego Zoo. She'd felt so lucky just being able to stand there for hour after hour watching the animals, holding her camera. Her patience had been inexhaustible. The pictures had an almost confidential feel to them, as though the animals were bending closer to show her something secret.

Once after that, at a company she worked for occasionally, she'd stepped around a corner in the hall to see him walking toward her, examining two photos in his hands. His hair had grown longer, his face thinner. She stepped back quickly around the corner and then into the women's room, breathing as unevenly as if she'd run for blocks.

She'd had other relationships since then, but they had been mostly physical with a clear line drawn by herself as to exactly how far the man could come into her life. Even with those who respected her rules, the relationships usually broke up within two or three months. She didn't know if it was just bad luck or if she imposed too many limits. Other women she saw, no matter how hurt they had been in the past, still tried with each new man to be as intimate as possible. She wondered if she was wrong not to do so.

Her last relationship had been the best, with a friend of a friend who had a pet otter she'd wanted to photograph. The man was as humorous and fast-moving as the otter, which had perfected the art of opening doors with its paws so it could join in on any water activity, from washing dishes to a shower. At the slightest slackening of her defense it would
roll into the dishwater to curl up round a cup, ready to wrestle determinedly for ownership. Afterward, the dishes would have to be blown dry with a hair dryer to get rid of all the stray otter hair. When showering Beryl had learned not to jump at the otter's smooth fur slicking unexpectedly round her ankles.