The Photographer

Sarah began, “for my next holiday card.” Holiday cards. The bread and butter for a family photographer. What used to be a thoughtful gesture, a considerate note and good tidings for the holiday season, had become a self-promotional opportunity—with less reach than social media, but more of a tactile punch. My clients sent out holiday cards because they wanted their friends and family to know that they had beautiful children and a lot of money. It was a message that came across easily in my photos, if that was desired. Success, in its various forms, was what I sold, so conveying it and bringing it into relief was effortless for me.
“We have five other grandchildren,” Howard said to Sarah. “You can’t send out a picture of only one.”
“She’s the one who takes after me.” I didn’t see any physical resemblance between Sarah and her granddaughter.
“Happy fifth birthday, Hazel.” I knelt so I could look her in the eye. She had a round face and a head of red curls, like Little Orphan Annie.
“I’m still four,” she said apologetically. “My birthday is next week.”
“I see.”
Sarah led her granddaughter to the living room and sat down with Hazel in her lap. Sarah yanked Howard’s arm. “What’s her name, the girl who’s taking pictures?” she said loudly.
“Delta.” Howard put his finger to his mouth to shush his wife.
“Delta! Come here!” Sarah called to me.
Howard stood behind Sarah and Hazel for the group shot. I took several photos of them, and then Carmen and Sergio entered into the frame and leaned over Sarah’s shoulder.
“Feliz cumpleaños, Hazel!” Carmen called out to the camera. She kissed Hazel on the forehead.
Sarah’s expression morphed from joyful to irate. She turned to Howard. “I’d like one photograph with my little granddaughter. Without everyone breathing down my neck.”
One after another, family members entered the apartment: aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, dressed for the occasion. I finally caught another glimpse of Hazel’s parents. They looked amazed by their good fortune—amazed that a child such as Hazel had entered their lives. They seemed to believe in their child’s brilliance and talent, the same way people believe in God.
“I don’t know if I mentioned,” Brooke said to me, “that Hazel is also a gifted ballerina. She’ll be performing for us later.” She came closer to me so that she could whisper in my ear. “I have an idea for Brian’s birthday. I want to surprise him with a gallery wall—photos of Hazel dancing.”
“Of course,” I said. “Perfect.”
Brooke was entirely undiscriminating in her opinions of her child—so different from Amelia. Amelia had high standards for herself, and those high standards extended to her daughter. She wasn’t inclined to heap praise on Natalie if it wasn’t warranted.
I concluded that all of Hazel’s relatives at the party considered themselves an important part of the girl’s life and had probably never missed a birthday. The child didn’t realize what she had. Her significant place in people’s lives. Her privilege was of a different kind than Natalie’s. For all of Natalie’s material advantages, she would never have the same kind of self-esteem that Hazel had. She simply wasn’t that central. Natalie drifted on the periphery of the Straubs’ lives, in an outer lane around their whirlpool.
Mack the Magician showed up on time. We’d seen each other at five birthdays in the last two months. I remember the first time we met. We were working on a party in the East Village and we left the clients’ town house together. When we reached the sidewalk, he pointed at the brown leather biker jacket I was wearing. “Funny, I didn’t see you arrive with that.” I smiled and kept walking, but I’ve hated him ever since.
At two thirty, when Hazel’s party was winding down, I slipped into the front vestibule to phone the Straubs’ house.
“Delta?” Fritz picked up the phone.
“Hi, I left my sweater at your place last night. I—”
“Amelia missed her meeting in Dallas.” Fritz was speaking quickly in a hoarse voice. “She left the house at five in the morning and was supposed to fly straight there, but she didn’t show up. The clients called me. They can’t reach her. I can’t reach her. I left a message for Ian, but I haven’t heard back.”
“I’ll be there soon.” I attempted to keep my voice in a low, steady vocal range. Changes in pitch indicate fear or anxiety.
I packed up the camera equipment, which I’d already placed near the front door; it took longer than it normally would have because my arms and hands were trembling terribly and I found it difficult to zip and unzip my camera case.
I waited for my car on West End Avenue. The rain had stopped, but I could feel the harsh, bitter air cutting through my down jacket. All the blood in my body was rushing to my head. I was confronted with the possibility of losing Amelia. My love for her was as intense as any romantic love I had ever experienced. I needed her. I wanted to disappear inside her.
Fritz answered the door, his sandy-blond hair disheveled, his face unshaven, a glazed look in his eyes. “Natalie’s in her room doing homework. I haven’t told her anything yet.”
I dropped my equipment in the vestibule, hung my coat, and followed him into the library.
“Why don’t we sit down?” I motioned to the sofa. He rubbed his palms together, like his hands were cold. I was genuinely concerned for him. It occurred to me that I needed to behave in a calm and confident manner. It wasn’t the role I wanted to play, but I really had no choice, because anything other than that would send Fritz into a state of greater panic and crisis.
“Let’s just talk through everything,” I said. “Do you know if Amelia took a car service to the airport this morning?”
“I wasn’t awake.” He held his hands to his mouth and blew hot air on them.
“Do you know if she boarded her flight?”
“Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ,” he said,