green-shot eye. "Anyone
there?"
No
reply. I pushed the door open.
The
light was on and the room empty. I looked back quickly to make sure no one saw
me. Then I went inside.
You
might think I'd never done something like this before. In fact it was exactly
the sort of thing I did.
It
was a room identical to mine. Clothes tossed were over a chair. On the bed was
a computer case, open, with a laptop inside. A few books were stacked on top of
the laptop, along with a small notebook. I picked up the notebook, flipped
through lists of names, phone numbers, dates.
No
interest there. I tossed it aside then peered into the computer case.
Pens,
a calculator, cell phone charger; a thick yellow Rite Aid One Hour Processing
envelope stuffed with photos and a CD-ROM. I took the envelope and walked to
the window, angling myself so I could see outside without being seen, and
looked through the photos.
They
were color pictures, overexposed 4x5s. There were two copies of each. Hard to
tell how recent they were. I guessed maybe a fewyears old, though some
people still use film and transfer the images to CD-ROM. The photos showed some
kind of family gathering—a brilliant sunny day, women in pastel and
tropical-bright dresses, men in light-colored jackets or shirtsleeves. A
white-haired woman in a broad-brimmed red straw hat held a champagne flute. Two
dark-haired women who looked like sisters cocked their heads and pursed their
lips in an effort to look disapprovingly at the photographer. A big dog ran
past a crowded table, a black blur, its tongue hanging from its mouth.
Everyone
looked happy, even the dog. A wedding? No one takes pictures of funerals.
But
there was no bride or groom that I could see; no wedding cake or birthday cake
or anniversary cake; no presents. A few darting children in the background, but
not enough to herald a kid's party. Round tables where people sat and smiled
for the camera, their faces shadowed by big striped umbrellas, yellow and
green. Pink blossoms strewn across some of the tables, wine glasses, wine
bottles.
Most
of the photos were like this. I'd almost reached the last of them before I
found one in which I could pick out the figure of the man I'd nearly run into.
He stood in a group of men and women, all dark haired, though sunlight and
distance made it impossible to discern any other resemblance between them. All
were nearly as tall as he was, and there was a similarity to the way they held themselves—squinting,
shoulders canted slightly to one side, as though flinching from something—the
light? a sudden cold wind?—that made it seem as though they might be siblings
or cousins and not just friends. I stared at the photo for a moment, glanced
out the window at the parking lot, then looked at the last two pictures.
Both
showed the man I'd seen. In one he was sitting alone at a table. Light filtered
through a canopy of leaves and splattered his face yellow and black. He seemed
brooding, distracted, though maybe he was just bored or tired. Behind him the
hindquarters of the black dog could just be glimpsed, its tail an arrow aimed
at the man's outstretched legs.
The
last photo was different.
It
was the same man in the same chair at the same table. The black dog was gone.
Now the man's head was turned, looking at someone out of camera range. He'd
moved just enough that sun fell full on his face, which was bright but not
overlit. His hair had blown back a little from his forehead; his face was split
with a smile so rapturous it seemed contorted. It made me uncomfortable, and I
looked away.
Then
I looked again. I tilted the picture back and forth, as though the unseen thing
he stared at might materialize; waiting for that same sense of damage I'd felt
outside to rise from the image like a striking cobra.
But
it didn't.
I
frowned.
What
was he looking at? His lover? His child? The black dog? It wasn't just that no
one had ever looked at me like that. I'd never seen anyone look at anything
there?"
No
reply. I pushed the door open.
The
light was on and the room empty. I looked back quickly to make sure no one saw
me. Then I went inside.
You
might think I'd never done something like this before. In fact it was exactly
the sort of thing I did.
It
was a room identical to mine. Clothes tossed were over a chair. On the bed was
a computer case, open, with a laptop inside. A few books were stacked on top of
the laptop, along with a small notebook. I picked up the notebook, flipped
through lists of names, phone numbers, dates.
No
interest there. I tossed it aside then peered into the computer case.
Pens,
a calculator, cell phone charger; a thick yellow Rite Aid One Hour Processing
envelope stuffed with photos and a CD-ROM. I took the envelope and walked to
the window, angling myself so I could see outside without being seen, and
looked through the photos.
They
were color pictures, overexposed 4x5s. There were two copies of each. Hard to
tell how recent they were. I guessed maybe a fewyears old, though some
people still use film and transfer the images to CD-ROM. The photos showed some
kind of family gathering—a brilliant sunny day, women in pastel and
tropical-bright dresses, men in light-colored jackets or shirtsleeves. A
white-haired woman in a broad-brimmed red straw hat held a champagne flute. Two
dark-haired women who looked like sisters cocked their heads and pursed their
lips in an effort to look disapprovingly at the photographer. A big dog ran
past a crowded table, a black blur, its tongue hanging from its mouth.
Everyone
looked happy, even the dog. A wedding? No one takes pictures of funerals.
But
there was no bride or groom that I could see; no wedding cake or birthday cake
or anniversary cake; no presents. A few darting children in the background, but
not enough to herald a kid's party. Round tables where people sat and smiled
for the camera, their faces shadowed by big striped umbrellas, yellow and
green. Pink blossoms strewn across some of the tables, wine glasses, wine
bottles.
Most
of the photos were like this. I'd almost reached the last of them before I
found one in which I could pick out the figure of the man I'd nearly run into.
He stood in a group of men and women, all dark haired, though sunlight and
distance made it impossible to discern any other resemblance between them. All
were nearly as tall as he was, and there was a similarity to the way they held themselves—squinting,
shoulders canted slightly to one side, as though flinching from something—the
light? a sudden cold wind?—that made it seem as though they might be siblings
or cousins and not just friends. I stared at the photo for a moment, glanced
out the window at the parking lot, then looked at the last two pictures.
Both
showed the man I'd seen. In one he was sitting alone at a table. Light filtered
through a canopy of leaves and splattered his face yellow and black. He seemed
brooding, distracted, though maybe he was just bored or tired. Behind him the
hindquarters of the black dog could just be glimpsed, its tail an arrow aimed
at the man's outstretched legs.
The
last photo was different.
It
was the same man in the same chair at the same table. The black dog was gone.
Now the man's head was turned, looking at someone out of camera range. He'd
moved just enough that sun fell full on his face, which was bright but not
overlit. His hair had blown back a little from his forehead; his face was split
with a smile so rapturous it seemed contorted. It made me uncomfortable, and I
looked away.
Then
I looked again. I tilted the picture back and forth, as though the unseen thing
he stared at might materialize; waiting for that same sense of damage I'd felt
outside to rise from the image like a striking cobra.
But
it didn't.
I
frowned.
What
was he looking at? His lover? His child? The black dog? It wasn't just that no
one had ever looked at me like that. I'd never seen anyone look at anything
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