Gone

SIX

DARREN, THE FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPHER, WAS HOLDING open an old Life magazine he’d taken from a stack and was saying to Nathan, “You don’t see the resemblance? Tell me you don’t see a resemblance.”

Darren was smiling, having fun, eyes moving from the magazine to me, then to Nate, whose shaved head looked flushed like he’d worked out, gone for a swim, and maybe had a shower during the five hours I’d spent with Mrs. Whitney. We were in the photographer’s studio, floors of blond wood, high white walls that were silken with sunlight from windows spaced along a beamed ceiling. The room, furniture, pastel colors meshed so cleanly, it was hard not to be jealous of the man’s good taste. On the other hand, the thought that places such as Darren’s cost more than my mother, Loretta, made in her lifetime didn’t enter my head-but only because I’d reflected on that fact so many times while idling my boat along the back side of Captiva Island, or fishing with clients off the beach. On the west coast of Florida, it’s something you get used to.

“Hannah… Hannah, at least have a look.” Darren was feeling talkative after a few whiskeys. Not drunk, not disrespectful-the man was always so sweet and caring, it was sometimes hard to believe he was who he was. I knew he was working hard to make Nathan’s friend his friend, too, so I let him see me smile and showed some interest in what he said next.

“I’ve obsessed about shooting you ever since you refused to sit… two weeks ago? No, three, because I’d just gotten back from L.A. But that’s not the reason, dear. Ask Nate. Nate… tell her! I see you as a gawky American colt who’s turning into a swan but doesn’t realize it. You’re heart’s too… something… Solid? Yes, too solid to know or even care. Said it from the start, didn’t I?” Smiling wider as Nathan nodded shyly, Darren held up the magazine as if it were a prize. “Then I find this!”

Before I knew what I was saying, I replied, “A colt’s a male horse, Darren. And shooting swans has nothing to do with taking pictures, in my experience. But I am flattered you think I look like a woman in an old magazine.”

Nate turned to me, his expression stricken, and said, “Hannah,” which I felt in my chest because I realized I’d been rude and I hadn’t intended to be rude. Truth was, I still felt numb from some of the things Mrs. Whitney had told me regarding Ricky Meeks. Most especially were the embarrassing acts Meeks had forced upon the woman and other bad things he’d manipulated her into doing. Never in my life had I heard such stories and I’m not a naïve person. Like everyone else, I spend more time on the Internet than I should, sometimes peeking at videos and reading about subjects I know I shouldn’t.

There was something else bothering me, too, which is probably why I’d snapped at the man without thinking. It was something nasty that Mrs. Whitney had said about Darren an hour or so after I’d made the mistake of mentioning his name to Nathan. The woman had been in one of her mean moods at the time. I wasn’t ready to accept the meanness of what she’d said about Darren-and Nathan’s stupidity-as truth, but I was feeling tense and on my guard more than usual.

I stared at my hands, which were folded on my knees, and said, “Darren, that didn’t come out right. I don’t know why but I’m still nervous around you. It’s not you, and please don’t fault Nate. It’s my problem. You’re always so kind to me, but then I end up opening my mouth and saying something stupid.”

“The camera will see that quality in her-that exact quality,” Darren said to Nate, which confused me but didn’t stump my friend for a moment.

“Hannah’s always had a gift for pissing off people,” Nate agreed yet sounded defensive. “Especially when it comes to putting men in their place. But I’ll always take her side, Darre. It’s the way it’s always been with us and that’s not going to change.”

Nathan’s warning tone startled me, but Darren appeared to like it. “Her honesty, that’s what I meant, you goose. Match the right camera, the right glass and light, and the lens doesn’t lie. A person’s soul is a robe worn on the outside. Like skin… or an aura.”

“The outside,” Nathan echoed, thinking it over while trying to hide his relief.

“A camera in the right hands, of course,” Darren added, reaching for ice tongs, then a bottle with a label that read Laphroaig, which was scotch whiskey. “The soul on the other side of the camera has to commit total energy to the moment. All of his… well, it’s a childlike quality. Spontaneous. An openhearted love of whatever the lens discovers. I don’t let myself explore why or how it all works, it just does. Photography-art, not Photoshop tripe-has more in common with sorcery than engineering. Spirituality… passion…”

The man paused, looking toward the hall gallery where photos of actors and rock stars were hung, individually lighted, one of the most famous, an AC/DC guitarist, shirtless, mouth open wide in the spotlight, his long hair dark with sweat. Then Darren said, “No! Sensuality-that’s the real key. Never underestimate the power of raw sensuality and sexuality. Those two elements, they fire every passion in us. Love, devotion, courage. And also all that’s evil and ugly and weak. Scratch the surface of either, and those two elements come pouring out like blood.”

Darren had clanked cubes into a rocks glass, poured it half full, now lifted the glass in salute. “The sun’s almost below the yardarm, mateys. Sure neither of you will join me?”

He and Nathan were on barstools, a lead-sheathed counter supporting an ice bucket, crystal ashtray, plus Nate’s elbow along with a quart of grape Gatorade, most of it gone. Opposite them was a restaurant-quality kitchen, stainless gas burners, a butcher’s block, pans and pots suspended above, polished and orderly as church bells. I’d been sitting off in a corner by myself on one of the sleekest Manhattan-looking chairs I’d ever seen, drinking a bottle of water and texting an update to Lawrence Seasons on what I had learned. I still regretted my stupid words to Darren, but my brain immediately locked onto what he had just said, aware that it might be important. Sex, passion, weakness, and evil. I didn’t understand his meaning-not in my head, anyway-but it did offer some hope that I might yet understand why Mrs. Whitney had behaved as she had with a man half her age who had no solid job or education. I knew I’d have to spend time on the water, or in my bed, to think it through, but the connection alone was enough to give me faith.

“I’d like to see that magazine,” I said, storing my cell phone and getting to my feet. “Sorry about my rudeness. I should be thanking you instead of interrupting your cocktail hour.”

Darren sat straighter, watching me cross the room, then said, “Sensuous,” as if the word had reappeared inside his head. As an aside to Nathan, he added, “Pure motion… physically at ease… no wasted effort. I can see why they called your great-aunt ‘Big Six.’”

It was meant as a compliment, of course, but his words reminded me of Arlis’s exaggerations, which that rough old man considered a smooth way of flirting. It also caused me to once again recall what Mrs. Whitney had said about a young, handsome boy like Nathan being a fool to trust a celebrated homosexual photographer.

I took the magazine, which was folded open. After several seconds, I pulled out the barstool that separated the two men, straddled it, then placed the magazine on the counter.

“A cowgirl?” I said, perplexed by what I saw, which might have sounded sharp, so I added in a rush, “She’s real pretty, of course. Long-legged, and I like her boots. She’s… well, handsome, I guess.”

“I’ll be damned,” Darren said. He was chuckling in a way that told me I’d noticed something he’d missed, which apparently pleased him. “Let me see that.”

Instead of giving me time to slide the magazine over, the photographer leaned his shoulder against mine so he could see better. Just as unexpectedly, Nathan, on my right, did the same thing. For an instant, I stiffened, a claustrophobic reaction… but then I took a breath and stopped trying to shrink myself. It was pleasant, I realized, to be sandwiched between two nice men. I could feel the warmth of their shoulders clear through to my ribs, something I’d seldom experienced, which was enjoyable in a mild way and made me feel more at ease.

“Actress Barbara Stanwyck, in costume, on the set of The Big Valley.” Nathan read the caption aloud as if he’d never seen the picture before. Which made no sense until Darren said, “My God, she’s a classic example of female masculinity. Of course… Barbara Stanwyck-perfect. This isn’t the image I wanted you to see, Hannah pet, but it has a wonderful duality that fits. How in hell did I miss it?”

Darren leaned in front of me to say to Nathan, “Didn’t I tell you? Serendipity-if your heart’s open, if it’s free of meanness, destiny takes us by the hand and leads us to wonderful places. We’ll compare the two shots in a minute, but”-he took the magazine, flipped it over, and squared it in front of me-“here’s the image I wanted you to see. It’s the image that told me I must get you in front of the lens.”

I said, “Her?”

Darren’s expression read Don’t be so surprised. Whatever success he had earned could have had something to do with the look He was giving me, a private signal that connected his eyes with mine. It offered reassurance and told me what happened next was safe no matter what I decided.

Then he explained the picture, saying, “This image was taken in nineteen forty-two by Otto Schmidt, a master of black-and-white. A true craftsman with the old large format Leica cameras. A near genius, of course, when it came to lighting, as you can see.”

Now, instead of looking at a handsome woman wearing jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat, I was looking at a woman the caption said was Marlissa Dorn, Hollywood Siren. The actress was standing, eyes tilted upward at the camera, hip canted against a concert piano, wearing a black gown, low-cut, and balancing a freshly lit cigarette between her fingers at ear level.

“Beautiful,” I said softly. “I’ve never seen any of her films, but the name’s familiar. And I love old movies. She reminds me of Rita Hayworth.”

Darren waited for Nathan to tell me that Marlissa Dorn’s family had once owned a vacation home on Sanibel Island before agreeing, “Rita Hayworth, another one. The camera loved them both. They had a sensuality that was visceral… subliminal, very, very private. But they couldn’t hide it from the lens. My God, they practically melted the lens. And a physical fluidness, perfectly at ease with their bodies.”

I felt my ears warm, recalling what Darren had said about me-physically at ease… no wastedeffort. But it was silly to think I looked anything like this glamorous woman who’d been about my age eighty years ago.

Darren was on his feet. I watched him cross the room, slim and elegant in the way he moved, then my eyes returned to the magazine.

Nate said in a low voice, “He’s dying to have you sit for him.” Then, about Marlissa Dorn, “She has a smoky look. Sort of smolders and she’s not even trying. That’s what Darre likes about the shot.”

The woman was staring at the camera through a luminous frame of cigarette smoke. Her hair was combed full and glossy to her shoulders, head tilted in a way that had an attitude but was attractive, not superior-acting or off-putting. For an instant, Mrs. Whitney came into my mind and I found myself hoping that she, too, had once looked as glamorous and confident. A pleasant memory might help the poor woman finally get some sleep-that, plus the soup I’d reheated and forced her to eat before leaving.

“Thanks to Nate, I’ve been reading about your family,” Darren called from across the room. He was returning, carrying a newer version of the Florida history book that was still in the old briefcase stored on my boat. “I’ll be honest. I love the historical connection. It gives the project… fabric. Makes shooting you part of a larger canvas.”

I’ve heard my family’s stories so many times, I only pretended to be interested when Darren opened the book, still talking about photography, then switched to the subject of history. My great-great-grandmother Hannah Smith was called Big Six by early Floridians. She was well known because of her height and unusual strength, which was required of a woman who chopped wood and hunted hogs for a living. Not hogs natural to Florida but feral hogs that had escaped the Spaniards and still ran wild on the islands. The first Hannah Smith-like my late aunt, Hannah Three-had fallen in with rough men, and both Hannahs had died violent deaths due to their bad judgment. It was an error that I have probably been overly careful not to repeat.

Hannah One’s sister, Sarah Smith, was called Ox Woman because Sarah was the first person-maybe the only person-to drive an oxcart across the Everglades before roads were built. Having hiked part of the Glades with my Uncle Jake, who was a crack shot and expert hunter, I knew better than most what my relative, Sarah, had done was near impossible by my own weaker standards. I admired her for that more than I’ve ever admitted publicly, but the last remaining photo of Sarah-which Darren and Nate were looking at now-still makes me wince. Sarah was anything but a handsome woman, unlike Hannah One. And certainly not beautiful like Hannah Three. Secretly, I feared early Floridians had nicknamed Sarah for her looks, not her gift for driving oxen through swamps and sawgrass.

Out of politeness, though, Darren was disagreeing with the thoughts in my head, telling Nathan, “See the high cheekbones? Might be a touch of American Indian in the family. And an incredibly strong jaw… those piercing eyes, Sarah Smith is still alive on this page, see what I mean? It’s a woman’s inner strength, her physical presence, that makes for a timeless image. Like this.” Darren tapped the picture of Marlissa Dorn I was still studying, which was easier for me than suffering yet another look at my great-great-aunt, the Ox Woman.

“Hannah?”

Darren’s friend wanted my attention again, but I was becoming uncomfortable. Plus, I was still thinking about Mrs. Whitney and what Ricky Meeks had done to her-and what at this very moment he might be doing to Olivia Seasons, who was a younger woman and not nearly so toughened by life as Elka, who had survived four husbands, three of them wealthy.

Returning to the chair where I’d been sitting, I said, “While we’re on the subject of pictures, you mind taking a quick look at this?” I opened the grocery bag I’d placed on the floor beside me.

Nate said quickly, “I don’t think Darre would be interested,” sounding nervous, and then waited through several seconds of silence before asking me, “Where’d you get that?” The bag, he meant.

Aside from a manila envelope with the photo of Ricky Meeks, the grocery bag, which read Bailey’s Store, contained a few things Mrs. Whitney had given me, including the Chantelle bra, and a beautiful blouse that I’d hand-washed in Woolite while waiting for a load of wash to finish and after putting away bags of groceries and liquor that had been delivered. The woman had behaved almost fondly toward me at the end when she saw I was willing to work to help clean up the mess her life had become. That work included phoning her attorney and her doctor, alerting both that the woman needed some assistance. The fact that Mrs. Whitney and I wore the same bra size-34D-had helped, too. It created a sisterly feeling that is often the reward when women share private matters they wouldn’t entrust to a man.

Closing the bag, I said to Nate, “Just some things,” then walked the manila envelope across the room and placed the photo in front of Darren. “You mind? Maybe the camera lens sees something my eyes don’t.”

Darren had some snobbery in him when it came to photos but appeared to relax when he realized the wrinkled eight-by-ten was just a picture, not someone’s attempt at art.

“A snapshot,” he shrugged after a glance. “What do you want me to say? Is this a relative of yours?” Darren patted the pockets of a white guayabera he’d bought on a trip to Cuba. “Where’d I leave my glasses, Nate? Damn it, in the bedroom, I bet. Would you be a dear?”

Nathan stood, face reddening, and it was still red when he returned.

The famous photographer’s reaction was much different, once he had his glasses fixed low on his nose. I watched him take another fast glance and do a double take. After several seconds of scrutiny, he looked at Nate and asked, “How do you know this person?” which sounded like an accusation, and also contained a hint of distaste.

“We don’t,” I said. “Nate saw him a few times at the Rum Bar, that’s all. There’s something about the picture that upsets you, I can tell. Is it what the camera shows? Or maybe you’ve seen that man before.”

Darren knew something about Ricky Meeks, I felt sure of it. Maybe even met him. Either way, it wasn’t surprising. Darren wasn’t wealthy by Mrs. Whitney’s standards, just rich with money he’d earned on his own. Even so, he moved in the same social circles-when he wanted. At parties and fund-raisers, being famous is better than being wealthy as far as a guest list is concerned. This was something else I’d learned from fishing clients.

Darren picked up the photo, thought for a moment, then placed Ricky Meeks’s face down on the counter. “He was my neighbor’s boy toy for a while. I saw him around a few times.” The man used his glass to indicate the photo and then lit a cigarette. “She gave this to you? I wouldn’t be surprised, the sad, pathetic old bitch. She probably still has the hots for him.”

I felt a tightening in my head that was anger, but showing it wouldn’t keep Darren talking, so I asked, “Does the picture tell you anything different from what your eyes saw?”

“No… and yes.” He touched the photo as if to take another look, then decided it wasn’t necessary. “The guy’s white trash. A vicious little animal who isolates rich, lonely women, then screws them into submission. That’s my guess. Even a cheap camera tells part of the story. The rest I know because I have incredible instincts for people. Human sexual drive is the ultimate power-weren’t we just talking about that?”

I started to dig for useful details, but Darren interrupted, saying, “Why the questions? More important-if we expect to have any fun tonight-who’s going to join me?” The man raised his empty glass, his face masked with another smile, but suspicious. From Darren’s tone and the way he eyed me, I could tell he expected drinking company-if I expected him to confide what he knew.

I replied, “My uncle found a good mojito recipe in Havana. Otherwise, I stick to red wine.”

The photographer, not listening, was already lining two fresh rocks glasses on the bar, the bottle of scotch nearby.