A Love Like Blood by Victor Yates Page B

television set reflects on page fifty-two in Avedon’s Portraits , where Dorothy lives. A men’s swimming competition is on; however, I have the volume muted. The cameraman pans to a Somali swimmer stepping onto a slanted starting block. I know his parents are from my grandfather’s country by his nose, classic Somali, long and narrow. I have the same nose, inherited from Father. Both my brothers are the same shade of brown as him and have his gaunt face, sharp cheekbones, high forehead, dark brown eyes, and kinky-curly hair. Father calls it the growling stomach look. The swimmer could be someone that we know. Close to Marian on the wall, I hung up a photo-collage of my father and brothers. Looking at my brothers is like looking through family photo albums. I see Father as a boy and a young adult, which is why it is difficult for me to separate him from them. His nose is the only family feature that I inherited. I take after Mother, who is Cuban. I have her tan skin, hazel eyes, and coarse hair. My cheekbones are not as prominent as hers. However, when I smile, close-lipped, my cheeks dimple like Mother.
    In the book, the page opposite to Dorothy is stark white and contains a quote by Avedon: “to get a satisfactory print is often more difficult and dangerous than the sitting itself.” A child’s finger smeared fruit jam under the lustrous words. I retrace my fingers over the red mark. Four of Avedon’s later books, my photography guides, are where they usually are, on my bed. Avedon’s latest book is on my dresser underneath a Polaroid. A few cameras that Father has given me over the years line the top. They include a Polaroid Land Camera, Graflex Crown Graphic, Pentax K1000, Brownie Bull’s-Eye, Leica M6, Ricoh Super Ricohflex, Agfa PD16 Clipper, Nikon F3, and Canon Canonet 28. As well as accessories: Canon battery grip, Nikon flash, manual focus lens, Argus C3 camera, Argus LC-3 meter, Honeywell Tilt-A-Mite flash, and a handle bracket. He gave me Portraits after the coldest day of winter in February. I was ten years old, and like a magic trick, the book opened up to Dorothy’s face. And, I remembered the first time that I saw her. Her basset-hound eyes reminded me of a comedic cartoon character. A noise between a dog’s bark and the whoo of an owl came out of my mouth. As I look out of my window at everything green, it is impossible to believe that Chicago and Beverly Hills are freezing in February up until May.
    The doorbell chimes twice downstairs. At the front door, the face staring at me scares me because Father will pull up at any minute.
    â€œI almost didn’t recognize you. Without your face behind your chuh chuh,” Brett says. He transforms his hands into a rectangle and presses down on an imaginary shutter button.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œYour dad mentioned to my dad. There’s a leak in your basement. I came to check it out.”
    â€œDid my father tell you to stop by?”
    â€œNo, he didn’t ask me to.”
    Before I can think of a lie for him to leave, Brett drags his work boots on the knobby doormat. The leather tool belt around his sinewy waist has an attachment with multiple pockets. A messenger bag, covered in light-colored nicks, hangs over his shoulder. He swings the bag back behind him. His work uniform, a dingy white t-shirt, and paint-stained jeans, fit tight against his body. I stare at fresh, fingernail-size cuts on his forehead. On his neck and the top of his shirt, there are dried dots of what looks like cement. His mustache is thicker than it was yesterday, and his beard has grown in light but covers his lower jaw area and neck. His face looks tanned, slender, and slightly more masculine. The heaviest door closes me in and my body tenses, listening out for Father.
    As he scratches his back, walking into the kitchen, Brett asks, “Where is everyone?”
    â€œI’m the only one here.”
    His blue