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.”