The Photographer

with every architectural detail conceived and executed flawlessly. It was breathtaking.
Amelia (I assumed it was Amelia) had chosen more vivid colors for the garden apartment, such as smoky green in the living room and grayish purple in the hallway. I walked from one end of the apartment to the other. “Hello,” I said loudly. If someone happened to be in, I would explain that I had smelled gas and was checking to make certain all was well.
The apartment had one large bedroom near the front entrance. A crisp white duvet cover appeared comparable to the linens in the master bedroom.
Two framed photos rested on the bedside table: A group of twentysomething women who looked to be on vacation in the Bahamas. A young homely woman and an older couple, maybe the woman’s parents. Perhaps the homely woman lived here and rented the apartment. I wondered what she paid. I wondered what kind of work she did. I wondered if she was fucking Fritz. I opened her closet and saw several suits. Maybe a lawyer? Maybe finance? I examined her scant collection of imitation jewelry. She was meticulous. It takes one to know one. In that respect, she was an ideal tenant.
In the living room, I sat down on a dingy sofa that probably belonged to the tenant. I studied the recessed lights, the skim-coat paint job, the fine cabinetry. If the apartment was a rental, it was a highly unusual one. Perhaps Amelia and Fritz believed the entire house was a marketing opportunity, and it needed to represent their work accurately.
Before I left, I took a glass down from the kitchen cabinet and filled it with water. I poured the cup of water on the wood floor in the middle of the bedroom. A leak, she might think. I took a photo of the puddle so that I could replicate it in the future, if need be. Then I dried the glass and returned it to the cabinet.
When I finished eating dinner, I cleaned the Straubs’ kitchen so it would look exactly as it had when I’d arrived. I washed the dishes by hand, dried them, and put them away. I placed all the garbage in a bag that I would throw out on my way to the train.
Before leaving, I checked on their home office, because I’d found useful information there in the past. I sat down at Amelia’s desk, resting my hands on the smooth, rich walnut. In and among a stack of architectural drawings, I saw two new Post-its. One read: surrogacy agency with a phone number below. One read: adoption agency with a phone number below. A chill traveled across my scalp and down my back.
Amelia and Fritz could very well be moving forward on their quest to have a baby, and I wasn’t privy to any of the pertinent information. I needed to understand their thought process so that I could guide them, so that I could help them.
Days later Ian sent me an extravagant flower arrangement with a card that read: I’m in awe of you. His mother, Paula, sent me a box of Godiva chocolates with a card that read: You’re brilliant.
I emailed Ian to tell him that I was planning to be in his neighborhood in the West Village for work. We met for dinner at a small Japanese restaurant, decorated with antique Japanese panels.
Apparently, his mother had already received two offers on the apartment, with another potential one on the way, all greatly exceeding the asking price.
For the first half hour, Ian appeared tongue-tied and mildly flustered. “I really … I mean … Yeah, I know it was your photos,” he said. “My mother is your friend for life. I can’t even … I sent a couple of them to Amelia. She was blown away too.”
He was especially grateful, he said, because he wanted to move things along quickly with his mother’s apartment. “It reminds her of my dad,” he said. “Once she moves out, she’s planning to go to Florida.” He paused. “You grew up in Florida, didn’t you?”
“Orlando. My parents worked at Disney World.”
“Wow.” Ian blinked several times in a row. “A fairy-tale childhood.”
“They were ‘custodial cast members’—that’s what Disney calls its janitors.” My parents had hated their jobs and each other. It was probably each one’s own personal hell.
“Wow.”
Most people don’t realize that any job at Disney World, maintenance staff or otherwise, has more dark than light, more pain than pleasure. “I lived in Disney housing for ten years.”
“You’re incredible.”
“No.” I smiled modestly.
“Overcoming … obstacles … hurdles.”
I ate another piece of California roll. I’d mistakenly allowed Ian to order for both of us; obviously risk averse, he’d ordered the least interesting items on the menu. “I called Amelia yesterday,” I said. “She sounded distressed.”
Ian smoothed out the wrinkles in the tablecloth.
“She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.” The waiter refilled our water glasses. “Do you know?” I had my own thoughts, but I was looking for Ian’s history and perspective.
He sighed. “It’s probably about the baby she wants to have.”
I felt the muscles in my jaw release. “Yes?”
“Fritz says it’s really hard.”
“On their marriage?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“Of course it would be.”
“Maybe they blame themselves or something.…”
“Solutions exist.”
The waiter cleared our plates away.
Ian brushed away imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth. “Fritz says the whole adoption thing is rough. It’s been two years.”
“There’s surrogacy,” I said.
“Yeah.” He rolled his chopsticks with the palms of his hands. “I know a guy who did that.”
“Could be a friend or a relative,” I said.
“I guess.” He sighed.
The waiter brought the check.
“Ian, I’m so glad that we had this evening together,” I said. “It’s just, there’s an ease. I feel like we’ve known each other forever.” I gently placed my hand on his forearm and rested it there for several minutes. I put my arms around him when I said goodbye. It was an intentionally ambiguous gesture.

CHAPTER FIVE
My prints of Natalie’s birthday party were ready on New Year’s Day, the same day the Straubs returned from their