Heteroflexibility by Mary Beth Daniels

Songs, to Make You …Trash Your CD Collection
    This photo shoot was never going to end.
    What I definitely didn’t need to improve my last day in my own house was Harry Histrionic, Jr. and his clan exploding into waterworks during their session. I leaned on my tripod, waiting out the group hug and calculating if I had enough shots at this point to call it a wrap.
    “And Dad…Mom,” Harry said, lifting a pretend glass in a toast, “none of us would be here today without you both.”
    Of course not. They sired you.
    I stifled a groan as the mush continued. When I’d booked the shoot two weeks ago, Harry-boy had told me the picture was a gift to his parents for their fiftieth anniversary. I’d figured, hey, three families in one, nice-size order, wall portraits all around.
    I hadn’t counted on the sap factor.
    The matriarch gathered her progeny to her bosom, eyes wet with joy. Harry Senior passed her a handkerchief, red-faced and beaming, touching the heads of his bored little grandchildren, one of whom was staring at me like I was the spawn of Satan. He squinted his beady eyes at me, freckles peppering his face like someone had attacked him with a Sharpie.
    “Did you stick your finger in a light socket?” he asked.
    The hair. Always the hair. “Nope. Turned these lights up too high.” I twirled the dial on the back of one of the strobes and the modeling lamp brightened.
    His eyebrows shot up, and he ducked behind his mother’s gray skirt. Kids. Just as well Cade was having his with some bimbo. I didn’t have the patience or the temperament.
    Except maybe for that one. A smallish girl, probably five or so, clung shyly to Harry Jr.’s pant leg. She looked up at the pictures on the wall of my studio with a solemn expression, taking in every one.
    I followed her gaze to an image of a little boy with a puppy. What a horrid shoot that had been, but I’d learned from a bonus feature on a movie DVD to spread peanut butter on the kid’s face to make the dog lick him. And it had worked too, the resulting photo almost iconic, a boy in overalls, barefoot, sitting on the curb with his pet Beagle.
    “You like that one?” I asked her.
    She slid another quarter turn behind her father’s knee, watching me with quiet eyes. I waited—the rest of the family was still hugging and mock-toasting each other—and finally she nodded, her tiny chin shifting ever so slightly up and down.
    I knelt near her. The droning of the adults was fainter down low. “Do you have a puppy?”
    She shook her head. Her red hair was tied into tight braids, but the ends bushed out like puff balls. I pointed at the freckled boy. “Is that your brother?”
    She nodded again.
    “Does he make fun of your hair too?”
    Another nod.
    I scooted closer. “Here’s what you say next time.” I glanced up at Harry Jr. “You tell him that when he gets old, his hair is all going to fall out like your daddy’s.”
    Her eyes grew wide.
    “And you can straighten yours, but he can’t make his grow back.”
    The girl cracked the tiniest smile.
    I stood up again. Everyone had gone all kissy. Harry Jr. nodded at me, the signal to play the song he’d picked out.
    A photography seminar had instructed us to create what I called the CD of Doom, something to keep around for emotional moments. Playing it during a session was supposed to build sentimental sales. I had a list on my web site to choose from. I started up “Wind Beneath My Wings.”
    Fresh sobs commenced. Tighter hugs. Harry Senior motioned for me to come over, as if to envelop me in their love-ring. “You’ve made this such a special moment,” he choked out.
    “Someone’s got to capture it!” I said, ducking behind the camera to avoid any pretense of joining the fray. I’d rather peel a pineapple with my thighs.
    And yet, as I snapped the shots, Senior kissing the matriarch, adult children wiping their eyes, even the younger ones clutching various skirts and legs, I felt the inner tug. Who