photographs for the first time. “We should get these into a gallery,” he said. “I’ll help you.” And even though Danny knew his images weren’t good enough to be shown anywhere, he felt invincible, Frank’s words like armour against his chest.
—
Through the phone, Danny can hear Cindy clear her throat. “Once in a while, he asks me how you’re doing, if you’re happy. He does it nicely, like he’s interested, like he really wants the best for you.” She pauses. “Does that help?”
He bursts in: “Does he still love me?”
“Danny, how would I know that? Since you guys broke up, I never ask about his personal life.”
He feels ashamed. “I know. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I tell him you’re happy.”
Danny lets loose a rupturing laugh that is part cry, part scream, part release. “Thanks for that, I guess.”
Cindy pauses before taking a breath. “Are you happy?”
“What?”
“Seriously, are you happy? I mean, maybe you are. But do you have everything you want?”
“I don’t know, Cindy. Maybe I want to have my pictures shown in a gallery somewhere. Maybe I want to move to New York. Maybe I want a dog. Stop asking me. I don’t even know what I’m going to do tomorrow, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know what your problem is? You keep too much inside. What do you do most of the time? Where do you cruise? How can you live like that, with your life so separated?”
“You should talk. Do Mom and Dad know what you do outside of the house?”
Cindy laughs roughly, but it soon dies away into silence. “Fine. I get it. We both have secrets. But you work yourself into fits, worrying about how it could all go wrong. It’s not good, Danny, not at all.”
“Thanks, Dr. Cindy. I’ve wasted enough of your time this morning.”
“Yes, you have,” and her laugh, a real one this time, trills over the phone line. Danny smiles, half in love with the version of his sister who can laugh like this, who can coquettishly twirl her hair around her finger. “Maybe I’ll call you later.”
When he sets down the phone, he turns and picks up his camera bag and folds his tripod under his arm. Before he leaves, he scans the apartment. Like an empty eggshell . His eyes wander over the clean surfaces, the chrome and glass and leather, resting on the iron, the stove and coffeemaker to make sure that he hasn’t left anything on that could burn down the building. If Danny were watching himself, he wouldn’t see any difference in this pre-studio ritual he performs four days a week. No, he has done everything in the same way, with the same neutral expression on his face. But inside, an unstoppable rush has started, and he is submerged by Frank’s puffy, sleep-crusted eyes first thing in the morning, by the roll of flesh Danny once saw on Miss Val’s thighs where her costume bit into her skin, even by the coolness of his mother’s hand on his forehead when he was feverish. The deluge is beyond his control, and the fear of it washes over him; without control, his life bleeds together and he is no longer the Danny of his own creation, but a nerve-ridden, guilt-racked man who will never please his parents and never have sex again. He calmly closes his apartment door behind him and locks it, but each muscle and brain cell churns, remembering touch and smell and sight, old memories that he thought were irrevocably lost.
THE FIRST TIME
1968
It was the summer after graduating high school that Danny worked at the Exhibition, operating the rickety roller coaster. Part of the thrill, his boss told him, is that it looked as if it could splinter apart any minute, as if a nine-year-old constructed the rises and falls out of paper glue and balsa wood. On hot days, he baked in his uniform; on rainy days, he hunched over in his standard-issue yellow slicker. He hid his camera in a gym bag and took it out when the lineup was short, when no one would notice his hands winding and clicking, the lens
—
Through the phone, Danny can hear Cindy clear her throat. “Once in a while, he asks me how you’re doing, if you’re happy. He does it nicely, like he’s interested, like he really wants the best for you.” She pauses. “Does that help?”
He bursts in: “Does he still love me?”
“Danny, how would I know that? Since you guys broke up, I never ask about his personal life.”
He feels ashamed. “I know. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I tell him you’re happy.”
Danny lets loose a rupturing laugh that is part cry, part scream, part release. “Thanks for that, I guess.”
Cindy pauses before taking a breath. “Are you happy?”
“What?”
“Seriously, are you happy? I mean, maybe you are. But do you have everything you want?”
“I don’t know, Cindy. Maybe I want to have my pictures shown in a gallery somewhere. Maybe I want to move to New York. Maybe I want a dog. Stop asking me. I don’t even know what I’m going to do tomorrow, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know what your problem is? You keep too much inside. What do you do most of the time? Where do you cruise? How can you live like that, with your life so separated?”
“You should talk. Do Mom and Dad know what you do outside of the house?”
Cindy laughs roughly, but it soon dies away into silence. “Fine. I get it. We both have secrets. But you work yourself into fits, worrying about how it could all go wrong. It’s not good, Danny, not at all.”
“Thanks, Dr. Cindy. I’ve wasted enough of your time this morning.”
“Yes, you have,” and her laugh, a real one this time, trills over the phone line. Danny smiles, half in love with the version of his sister who can laugh like this, who can coquettishly twirl her hair around her finger. “Maybe I’ll call you later.”
When he sets down the phone, he turns and picks up his camera bag and folds his tripod under his arm. Before he leaves, he scans the apartment. Like an empty eggshell . His eyes wander over the clean surfaces, the chrome and glass and leather, resting on the iron, the stove and coffeemaker to make sure that he hasn’t left anything on that could burn down the building. If Danny were watching himself, he wouldn’t see any difference in this pre-studio ritual he performs four days a week. No, he has done everything in the same way, with the same neutral expression on his face. But inside, an unstoppable rush has started, and he is submerged by Frank’s puffy, sleep-crusted eyes first thing in the morning, by the roll of flesh Danny once saw on Miss Val’s thighs where her costume bit into her skin, even by the coolness of his mother’s hand on his forehead when he was feverish. The deluge is beyond his control, and the fear of it washes over him; without control, his life bleeds together and he is no longer the Danny of his own creation, but a nerve-ridden, guilt-racked man who will never please his parents and never have sex again. He calmly closes his apartment door behind him and locks it, but each muscle and brain cell churns, remembering touch and smell and sight, old memories that he thought were irrevocably lost.
THE FIRST TIME
1968
It was the summer after graduating high school that Danny worked at the Exhibition, operating the rickety roller coaster. Part of the thrill, his boss told him, is that it looked as if it could splinter apart any minute, as if a nine-year-old constructed the rises and falls out of paper glue and balsa wood. On hot days, he baked in his uniform; on rainy days, he hunched over in his standard-issue yellow slicker. He hid his camera in a gym bag and took it out when the lineup was short, when no one would notice his hands winding and clicking, the lens
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