Joy Raab-Faber
Backward and Forward
I like to call myself an amateur photographer. I like the intimacy of
catching people in the now. But many of my pictures of people dancing,
playing, and partying end up in the folder marked "shot in the back." I
have a small collection of good stills. Pink hollyhocks against a stucco
milieu, the shadow of a feral cat preening outside a rain-specked window,
trees covered in hoar frost, that kind of thing. The digital age allows
me one pure indulgence, a picture of the sunset every evening from my
second story balcony.
Or the sunrise from the front stoop. When I'm too tired to do anything
else, I set up a slide show on the Mac and look at the passage of my life
in ribbons of blues, pinks, oranges, greens and shades of cloud white. It
gives my mind context for rest, images to dwell on, replacing work-a-day
chaos and confusion in my mind. She says it's regressive, like playing
computer games. I should just take a nap she says.
Carol deflects my efforts to photograph her, though my camera loves her.
She has a relaxed softness around her nose and mouth, open and wholesome.
Her shaggy brown hair is alive with prismatic gray threads.
On Saturday mornings, we wake slowly, together. Cool breezes slip in on
sun slats through the sliding balcony door with sounds and taunting food
smells from other apartments. The newness of touching each other in
fitful morning sleep is delicious.
This Saturday I slid out of bed quietly. I thought I'd make
breakfast-in-bed and save her the trouble of getting up. I snatched my
camera from the nightstand and photographed her sleeping, tangled in pink
chintz, her pale limbs twisted, languidly hanging over the edge of the
bed. Moving backward, I tripped over a shoe and caught myself with a loud
grab at the doorframe.
"What are you doing?" She wiped her eyes and held out her long arm and
fingers. "Give me that." Curling her finger in backward suggestion.
"Com'on, give it up."
"No," I said challenging.
She rose and strode toward me curling and uncurling her finger. I walked
backward pressing the button as fast as my camera could focus.
"Give that to me."
"Oh, no, I've got you now," I egged.
She leaned and dove, grabbed, and held her hand in front of her face. I
skipped and hopped backward to the kitchen.
"I love you! I want these in my slide show! No one will see them!"
She wasn't giving in.
"Come on, Carol, I love you, why can't I look at you?"
"In my underwear, half asleep, I don't think so! Oh, crap! I have to pee.
You -- stay where you are."
I quickly downloaded the chip into My Pictures.
"Here you can have it. My gift to you." I held out the chip.
"I know you already saved them. If anyone ever sees them, we are so over.
Get the picture Randall?" She smiled but her eyes didn't smile.
"Sweetie, don't be mad. Go lay down. I'll make breakfast. You can sleep in."
She turned and walked stiffly back to the bedroom. I followed, quickly
loading the chip into the camera. I stalked her, snapping a few keepsakes
from the rear. Cute. I cut into the bathroom before she could turn
around. In my mind, I could see her pondering the bathroom door with her
chin on her fist, one French manicured fingernail tapping her pink lips.
Sunday night my boys came over for poker. Carol picked up a few movies
and locked the bedroom door behind her.
After the game broke off, around 1:30, I couldn't resist.
"Zeek, look what I got, shhhh!" whispering, I opened the folder, and
clicked advance to start the show.
As Carol retreated into our bedroom in underexposed slides, she unlocked
the door and waltzed into the living room in real time. She spotted the
slide on the screen right away. Color drained from her face and neck.
Humiliation screamed across her wide green eyes, her arms hung limp.
"Oh, God. Carol. I'm sooo sorry." I knew it would never be enough.
Carol went to our room and packed a few of her things in a small duffel
bag and a box from the closet. I stood in the doorway watching, horrified
by my indiscretion. Isn't it our nature to share the things we love? But
Carol isn't a thing. Absent of mind I picked up my camera. Aiming from
below my hip, I pressed the shutter, again and again; walking backward in
front of her, I captured the images of her leaving, resolute, pressing
forward, out of my life. As she drove out of the parking lot, I took a
step backward and closed the door.
©2008 by Joy Raab-Faber
