before I receive an answer from Emory Pugh, but he’s come through for me. The envelope is thick, and I eagerly unfold the four sheets of paper crammed into it. His letter is brief, as always.
Dear Clara,
Here are the pictures you asked for. I don’t have a copying macheine but I printed these out off the internet instead. I hope they are what you wanted. My printer does not do color. I think the one in front of your house is very pretty.
He goes on talking about other things, but I skip the rest and go straight to the photos. So strange that Emory Pugh has the internet in his house. We aren’t allowed any access to it at all, and I still don’t really understand it.
The first photo is Ricky’s mugshot. His thick brown hair is askew, and he’s grinning. There’s a sleepiness to his eyes, but they looked that way naturally— bedroom eyes singers used to call them, with a certain weight to his brow that always made him look like he had just woken up. This isn’t the kind of photo I wanted, but it’s still a bit of a shock to see his face—so familiar and also so young. I had known Ricky since I was nine years old; he grew older and I did, too, but at the same pace, matched to one another. Not anymore, though. Not anymore.
The page beneath it must be the one Emory Pugh was referring to. A slim blonde girl is sitting on the steps in front of the Cathouse, her dress pulled down over her knees, feet bare. She’s looking into the middle distance with a thoughtful expression. It’s true, she’s very pretty, but this isn’t me. That’s definitely the Cathouse behind her, but this is Katie Rayburn, the actress who played me in the film, posing for some sort of publicity shot. My friend in North Carolina is confused, but I can’t blame him for it. She does look like me, at least enough for a casting director.
And then, the one I was hoping for. He’s found it. It’s a shot of me and Ricky sitting in a booth at the Godfather’s Pizza in San Jose, about a year and a half before everything went wrong. Ricky has both arms thrown across the back of the booth, one disappearing behind my shoulders. We’re both smiling for the camera, and I’m caught in a half-turn, snuggling my body against Ricky’s side. He’s wearing one of his newsboy caps and a collared T-shirt, the one with the tiny alligator on the chest, which is tucked into his jeans. Ricky wasn’t a big guy, but in this pose—his body taking up most of the space in the photo’s frame, stretched out in the loose, authoritative way of men—it’s not difficult to remember his appeal. There was no threat to him, no machismo, only a careless sort of confidence and goodwill. He was just a boy in the neighborhood, and always the underdog. The one who detested sports, drew pictures during class and got jerked around by the jocks when they stopped by the Circle K to buy cigarettes after a game. Marlboro Reds box. No, I said Marlboro Lights box. Make that a soft pack. No, Camels. C’mon, faggot, what’s taking you so long?
I smooth the picture against my desk, trying to rub the folds from the page. The fact that I want this picture and will not toss it into the trash has the feeling of a small defeat. I picture his messy, blanket-strewn bed at his parents’ house, his face nuzzled into my neck, moving in the same insistent, friendly way of a young cat reminding you he’s ready for his dinner. Like that, where I sit back and say Oh, all right, all right, but not with resentment, only fondness.
* * *
Father Soriano’s forehead wrinkles as I step into the office we use as a confessional. “And here you are,” he says. “I’ve been concerned about you.”
“I have some things on my mind.”
“Well, this is the place to discuss them.”
I revert to the usual confessional patter, cross myself, list my sins. “I’ve committed acts of sexual impurity,” I tell him. “And perjury.”
This time he doesn’t ask me how many times I’ve gratified
Dear Clara,
Here are the pictures you asked for. I don’t have a copying macheine but I printed these out off the internet instead. I hope they are what you wanted. My printer does not do color. I think the one in front of your house is very pretty.
He goes on talking about other things, but I skip the rest and go straight to the photos. So strange that Emory Pugh has the internet in his house. We aren’t allowed any access to it at all, and I still don’t really understand it.
The first photo is Ricky’s mugshot. His thick brown hair is askew, and he’s grinning. There’s a sleepiness to his eyes, but they looked that way naturally— bedroom eyes singers used to call them, with a certain weight to his brow that always made him look like he had just woken up. This isn’t the kind of photo I wanted, but it’s still a bit of a shock to see his face—so familiar and also so young. I had known Ricky since I was nine years old; he grew older and I did, too, but at the same pace, matched to one another. Not anymore, though. Not anymore.
The page beneath it must be the one Emory Pugh was referring to. A slim blonde girl is sitting on the steps in front of the Cathouse, her dress pulled down over her knees, feet bare. She’s looking into the middle distance with a thoughtful expression. It’s true, she’s very pretty, but this isn’t me. That’s definitely the Cathouse behind her, but this is Katie Rayburn, the actress who played me in the film, posing for some sort of publicity shot. My friend in North Carolina is confused, but I can’t blame him for it. She does look like me, at least enough for a casting director.
And then, the one I was hoping for. He’s found it. It’s a shot of me and Ricky sitting in a booth at the Godfather’s Pizza in San Jose, about a year and a half before everything went wrong. Ricky has both arms thrown across the back of the booth, one disappearing behind my shoulders. We’re both smiling for the camera, and I’m caught in a half-turn, snuggling my body against Ricky’s side. He’s wearing one of his newsboy caps and a collared T-shirt, the one with the tiny alligator on the chest, which is tucked into his jeans. Ricky wasn’t a big guy, but in this pose—his body taking up most of the space in the photo’s frame, stretched out in the loose, authoritative way of men—it’s not difficult to remember his appeal. There was no threat to him, no machismo, only a careless sort of confidence and goodwill. He was just a boy in the neighborhood, and always the underdog. The one who detested sports, drew pictures during class and got jerked around by the jocks when they stopped by the Circle K to buy cigarettes after a game. Marlboro Reds box. No, I said Marlboro Lights box. Make that a soft pack. No, Camels. C’mon, faggot, what’s taking you so long?
I smooth the picture against my desk, trying to rub the folds from the page. The fact that I want this picture and will not toss it into the trash has the feeling of a small defeat. I picture his messy, blanket-strewn bed at his parents’ house, his face nuzzled into my neck, moving in the same insistent, friendly way of a young cat reminding you he’s ready for his dinner. Like that, where I sit back and say Oh, all right, all right, but not with resentment, only fondness.
* * *
Father Soriano’s forehead wrinkles as I step into the office we use as a confessional. “And here you are,” he says. “I’ve been concerned about you.”
“I have some things on my mind.”
“Well, this is the place to discuss them.”
I revert to the usual confessional patter, cross myself, list my sins. “I’ve committed acts of sexual impurity,” I tell him. “And perjury.”
This time he doesn’t ask me how many times I’ve gratified
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