didn’t even walk him to the door. I didn’t even say goodbye.
I’ve thought about that a lot since. That simple sentence. I’ll come back this afternoon.
Nothing special about that. Right? No reason to doubt him. People say things like that all the time. You never question it. At the time, it never occurs to you that they could be flat-out wrong.
NINE
Right?
I walked out of my building with Wilbur, on our way to the park.
He was wearing a tight fishnet top with white pants. You could see his whole chest and shoulders right through the shirt. He was slim but kind of fit-looking, too. And his skin was dark.
Maybe Wilbur was Latino. Or part, anyway. I’d never really thought about it.
He was fully made up, but not in an extreme style. I mean, on a woman it wouldn’t have been extreme. There was nothing exaggerated about it. The long top part of his hair had been pulled back into a tiny short pouf of a ponytail, which made the rest of his hair look sleek and flat. It was a more dramatic look, like when a woman skins her hair back to go formal.
I knew that a big part of my challenge would be to take photos that were about something bigger and more important. Just shooting the fact that Wilbur was feminine for a boy wouldn’t begood enough. I had to go underneath that. Find something deeper and more to the point.
I just had no idea how.
About a dozen times in the past few days, I’d been tempted to go over and talk to Molly about it. But I kept getting hung up in the idea that Frank might be home. So I guess I was on my own with this. I’d have to figure it out from scratch.
Maybe everybody had to.
Maybe it’s one of those things that can’t really be taught in words, anyway.
We walked down East Drive to around Sixty-seventh Street before ducking into the park near Willowdell Arch. It was already really hot, so we sat in the shade of the dog statue. I was trying to think how you even start a project like this.
“Any idea why there’s a statue of a dog over our heads?” I asked Wilbur. Probably just to have something to say.
I’d seen the statue before. I’d just never bothered to go over and read the plaque and see what it was all about.
“Sure,” he said. “That’s Balto. That Siberian husky who saved all those people in Alaska by getting some kind of medicine through in the winter. You know. A dogsled sort of a thing. He was the lead dog. The musher swears the dog found his way through the storm all by himself.”
I wondered how Wilbur knew all that, but I didn’t ask.
“Wow,” I said. “A dog hero.” Silence. It was time to take pictures. But Wilbur would want me to tell him what he was supposed to do. And I had no idea. “Do you like dogs?”
“I’m a little bit afraid of them,” he said. “I’d be afraid of a bigSiberian like that. My mother used to have a little Yorkie. Pepito. I liked Pepito.”
“What happened to him?” I asked. I was hoping this had nothing to do with his stepfather.
“He died of old age. And after he died, she never got another dog because my stepfather hates them.”
We sat in silence in the shade for a few more beats.
“What feels like it’s missing in your life?” I asked.
It was a weird question. Out of nowhere and not even fully explained. Or at least it should have come off that way. But Wilbur picked it right up. As if he’d been answering questions like that one all his life.
“Maybe feeling like I’m safe,” he said.
“Okay, stand here in the shadow of this dog,” I said. “And I’ll see if I can find a way to see that through my camera lens.”
But I wasn’t even sure how I’d know if I succeeded. That was the problem with a film camera. Until you developed your film, you never knew if you got what you wanted or not.
I had him lean against the base of the dog statue. I liked the way it gave the shots the background of a hero.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do,” he said.
I lowered my camera and looked him
I’ve thought about that a lot since. That simple sentence. I’ll come back this afternoon.
Nothing special about that. Right? No reason to doubt him. People say things like that all the time. You never question it. At the time, it never occurs to you that they could be flat-out wrong.
NINE
Right?
I walked out of my building with Wilbur, on our way to the park.
He was wearing a tight fishnet top with white pants. You could see his whole chest and shoulders right through the shirt. He was slim but kind of fit-looking, too. And his skin was dark.
Maybe Wilbur was Latino. Or part, anyway. I’d never really thought about it.
He was fully made up, but not in an extreme style. I mean, on a woman it wouldn’t have been extreme. There was nothing exaggerated about it. The long top part of his hair had been pulled back into a tiny short pouf of a ponytail, which made the rest of his hair look sleek and flat. It was a more dramatic look, like when a woman skins her hair back to go formal.
I knew that a big part of my challenge would be to take photos that were about something bigger and more important. Just shooting the fact that Wilbur was feminine for a boy wouldn’t begood enough. I had to go underneath that. Find something deeper and more to the point.
I just had no idea how.
About a dozen times in the past few days, I’d been tempted to go over and talk to Molly about it. But I kept getting hung up in the idea that Frank might be home. So I guess I was on my own with this. I’d have to figure it out from scratch.
Maybe everybody had to.
Maybe it’s one of those things that can’t really be taught in words, anyway.
We walked down East Drive to around Sixty-seventh Street before ducking into the park near Willowdell Arch. It was already really hot, so we sat in the shade of the dog statue. I was trying to think how you even start a project like this.
“Any idea why there’s a statue of a dog over our heads?” I asked Wilbur. Probably just to have something to say.
I’d seen the statue before. I’d just never bothered to go over and read the plaque and see what it was all about.
“Sure,” he said. “That’s Balto. That Siberian husky who saved all those people in Alaska by getting some kind of medicine through in the winter. You know. A dogsled sort of a thing. He was the lead dog. The musher swears the dog found his way through the storm all by himself.”
I wondered how Wilbur knew all that, but I didn’t ask.
“Wow,” I said. “A dog hero.” Silence. It was time to take pictures. But Wilbur would want me to tell him what he was supposed to do. And I had no idea. “Do you like dogs?”
“I’m a little bit afraid of them,” he said. “I’d be afraid of a bigSiberian like that. My mother used to have a little Yorkie. Pepito. I liked Pepito.”
“What happened to him?” I asked. I was hoping this had nothing to do with his stepfather.
“He died of old age. And after he died, she never got another dog because my stepfather hates them.”
We sat in silence in the shade for a few more beats.
“What feels like it’s missing in your life?” I asked.
It was a weird question. Out of nowhere and not even fully explained. Or at least it should have come off that way. But Wilbur picked it right up. As if he’d been answering questions like that one all his life.
“Maybe feeling like I’m safe,” he said.
“Okay, stand here in the shadow of this dog,” I said. “And I’ll see if I can find a way to see that through my camera lens.”
But I wasn’t even sure how I’d know if I succeeded. That was the problem with a film camera. Until you developed your film, you never knew if you got what you wanted or not.
I had him lean against the base of the dog statue. I liked the way it gave the shots the background of a hero.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do,” he said.
I lowered my camera and looked him
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