The Photographer

driven than anyone I’ve ever met.” Fritz looked self-conscious, almost as if he’d forgotten I was sitting there. He studied a bubble in the handblown water glass. “You’ve been awesome to Natalie. It’s just, we’re juggling too much crap. Each year, a new crop of hotshots competes for the business. Anyway. I need to stop talking. And ask about you.”
“I love observing children, discovering their personalities,” I said. “The parents who hire me, some of them lack confidence. My pictures tell them that all of their choices have been the right ones, because their choices have led them to a life with joyful children who are thriving due to their love and care. I’m selling a self-image.”
“Interesting.” His eyes widened.
“You and Amelia too. I imagine a large part of what people buy from you is self-image. Living in a Straub house gives your clients confirmation that they belong to a cultured, sensitive, creative breed of elite.”
I gathered that Fritz was pleased by what I said but didn’t want to acknowledge it.
“They want to be you, don’t they?” I said.
“Hell no.” Fritz shook his head, as if amused by my outlandish idea, but I knew I had approached the core of what he considered to be the truth.
“It’s an intimate act. To create someone’s home,” I said. “Your imagination, your intellect, your creativity, all of those things are funneled into your work. You’re the artist. But the creation belongs to your clients. You give birth, and then you have to give your child up. The home becomes their child.”
Fritz looked into my eyes and I knew we understood each other on a deeper level.
I stifled an urge to caress his face. I wondered what he would do if I took his hand and put it underneath my bra.
It was hard to explain my desire for Fritz. Even hard to explain it to myself. I didn’t want Fritz or Amelia to have a personal life separate from me. The further I burrowed myself into them, both of them, the less likely I’d ever have to return to my own existence. The less likely they could disentangle themselves from me.
I heard footsteps on the stairs. Fritz stood, preparing to leave. Amelia, dressed in an alluring black dress with a long string of beads, entered the kitchen. She turned to face away from me, revealing the ivory skin on her back and a partially unzipped dress. “Delta darling.” She gestured toward the zipper and I obliged.
She turned back around and smiled. “La Divina.”
At 7 P.M., the doorbell rang and the pizza I’d ordered arrived. I called to the girls and they flew down the stairs and past me into the kitchen toward the small media room. Both girls were wearing capri pants and tank tops. Piper’s top revealed her midriff. Natalie grabbed the remote.
“We’re watching Mean Girls while we eat pizza,” Natalie said.
“Yasss!” Piper said as she slid into a full split on the floor. She could do splits easily, and it was clear she wanted those around her to recognize her talent.
“Natalie, your parents OK with that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
I had the sense that Natalie wanted Piper to think she’d seen the movie before when she really hadn’t—that she was trying to impress Piper with her prior knowledge of Mean Girls.
Natalie turned on Showtime and found the movie. Then the girls brought slices of pepperoni pizza on paper plates into the media room and settled into the sectional sofa with Itzhak at their feet.
I sat at the kitchen counter and worked for a while on my laptop, my eyes drifting to Lindsay Lohan on the television screen every few minutes.
Piper recited lines from the movie. “‘What is that smell?’ ‘Oh, Regina gave me some perfume.’ ‘You smell like a baby prostitute!’ Yasss!” She turned to Natalie. “OK, you’re Janis and I’m Cady.” Natalie acted as though she knew the dialogue too, but it was clear she didn’t.
I pulled out my Canon EOS from my backpack; while the girls were engrossed in the movie, it was a good opportunity to take a few photographs of the house. I planned to keep the photos in my archives, in case I wanted to refer to them one day.
Natalie and Piper paused the movie halfway through to microwave popcorn and then resumed. When the credits were rolling at nine, I suggested it was time to brush teeth and change into pajamas. That was when Piper proposed Mean Girls 2. Natalie jumped on the idea.
“You can watch it over breakfast,” I said. “It’s too late to start a movie now.”
“Whatevs,” Piper said, tossing her hair.
“Mom and Dad let me stay up as late as I want when I have a sleepover.” Natalie proceeded to look for Mean Girls 2 on Showtime.
I didn’t think this was exactly true, but I also didn’t want to make her seem immature in front of Piper, who carried herself with a cool sophistication that was extreme for an eleven-year-old.
“I don’t know.” I made eye contact with Natalie, trying to read the situation.
“Please, Delta,” she said quietly with wide, innocent eyes.
I already knew the dynamic with Piper was less than ideal. “OK, Natalie. Fine.”
While the girls were watching the movie, I studied them. Piper had long, shiny black hair and golden skin. Her delineated features, her bone structure and its accompanying shadows and highlights, were unusual for a child. I look at children’s faces for a living, so I know what I’m talking about. It takes a long time for a face to become what it is supposed to be. Some children have baby fat well into their teens. Then life experience forms a character and chisels out the lines of a face. Small children are often cute, but they’re rarely beautiful, because real beauty has specificity.
Natalie hadn’t yet become the person she was going to be, whereas Piper had. Even at eleven, Piper’s face had lines and a form. How does that happen to a child? How does it not