'The wind blows the door and look what walks in.'
'Actually I have two dollars.'
He didn't turn around. He would have to adjust to this. He'd naturally fitted himself to the role, for some years now, of friend abandoned or lover discarded. We all know how the thing we secretly fear is not a secret at all but the open and eternal thing that predicts its own recurrence. He turned off the water and put the skillet in the drain basket and waited.
'Ask me if I'm glad to be back. I missed you. Are you all right?'
'Run into Bill?' he said.
'I sort of kept seeing him, you know? But not really. Did you hear anything?'
'All quiet.'
'I came back because I was afraid you wouldn't be all right. And I missed you.'
'I've been keeping busy. I've done some things, some organizing.'
'You always put a premium on that.'
'Same old Scott,' he said.
His voice sounded unfamiliar. He thought it was because he hadn't spoken aloud to anyone in some time. But maybe it was the situation. It was dangerous to speak because he didn't know which way a sentence might tend to go, toward one thing or the logical opposite. He could go either way, one reaction as easy as the other. He was not completely connected to what he said and this put an odd and dicey calm in his remarks.
'Of course you might want to be alone,' she said. 'I know that. I know I left at probably a bad time you were having. But I honestly thought.'
'I know.'
'We weren't the old dependency.'
'It's all right,' he said.
'I'm not very good at this type conversation.'
'I know. It's all right. We're embarrassed.'
'I didn't call from New York and I didn't call from the bus station.'
'It's not a station. You always call it a station. It's a little ticket booth inside a drugstore.'
'Because I don't trust the telephone,' she said.
He turned and looked at her and she looked like hell. He walked over and put his arms around her. She began to shake and he held her tighter and then stepped back to look at her. She was crying, making the motion or taking the shape, but without tears, her mouth stretched flat, the animated light missing from her eyes, and he put his hand behind her head and drew it softly toward him.
They went for a long walk in the woods beyond the road, single-file along a path and then out into a glade of lady fern. She told Scott she'd brought the pictures with her, the contact sheets of Brita's photographs of Bill. He said nothing but felt an ease, a redress, the partial payment for damage suffered. She said Brita would not publish the pictures without Bill's, or Scott's, consent.
They held each other much of the night, or lay in wettish touch, haphazard, one prone and the other supine, two legs engaged, and talked and did not, or fell away to clear and periodic sleep, or made choppy laboring love, made heaving breath, converged at some steep insidedness, or Karen talked and Scott laughed, delighted at her imitations of the New York speech machine, they blat and cram, they champ and smash, or Scott told her how the lines of her face were printed in his vision so that he saw her sometimes in the middle of a meal, afloat in her own hair like a laser image of some Botticelli modern.
In the morning they drove twenty-two miles to buy a lightbox and magnifier, and twenty-two miles back.
In the afternoon they cleared the desk in the attic and spread out the contacts. There were twelve sheets, each containing thirty-six black-and-white exposures-six strips, six frames per strip. The sheets were eight and a half by eleven inches and each frame was one and a half inches long and one inch high.
Scott and Karen stood at different ends of the desk. They bent over, careful where they put their fingers, and looked at the strips of developed film but not thoroughly or analytically. It was too soon for that.
Karen's hands were clasped behind her back and after a while Scott put his hands in his pockets and this was how they scanned, leaning deeply toward the desk, moving around each other to exchange positions.
In the evening, after early dinner, Scott carried the telephone table up to the attic. He set it at one end of the desk and placed the lightbox on top.
They took turns looking at the sheets. Because the frames followed each other in the original order of exposure, they were able to see how Brita had established rhythms and themes, catching a signal, tracking some small business in Bill's face and working to enlarge it or explain it, make it true, make it him. The pictures of Bill were glimpses of Brita thinking, a little anatomy of mind and eye. Scott thought she wanted something undesigned and casually come-upon, a familiar colloquial Bill. He took the magnifier to frame after frame and saw a photographer who was trying to deliver her subject from every mystery that hovered over his chosen life. She wanted to do pictures that erased his seclusion, made it never happen and made him over and gave him a face we've known all our lives.
But maybe not. Scott didn't want to move too soon into a theory of how much meaning a photograph can bear.
First came the great work of cataloguing the pictures, making lists based on camera angle, subject's expression, part of room, degree of shadow, head shot, head and chest, hands showing or not showing, visible background and so on. What we have in front of us represents one thing. How we analyze and describe and codify it is something else completely.
Although in a way, and at a glance, the differences frame to frame were so extraordinarily slight that all twelve sheets might easily be one picture repeated, like mass visual litter that occupies a blink.
All the more reason to analyze. Because there really were differences of course-position of hands, placement of cigarette-and it would require time to do a comprehensive survey.
At breakfast Scott said, 'There's something I haven't wanted to think about.'
'I know what you're going to say.'
'We have to be prepared for the possibility that Bill won't return, that we won't ever hear from him again. But I'm not going to be puzzled or resentful.'
'Neither am I.'
'We can't let our own feelings define his behavior.'
'We can't use normal standards.'
'Whatever he's done, we have to understand it's something he was preparing for, something he's been carrying all these years.'
'He needed to do it.'
'And we are absolutely the last people on earth to require an explanation.'
'Can we still live here?' Karen said.
'The house is paid for. And he'd want us to live here. And I have money saved from the salary he paid me and this money goes automatically from his account to mine every month and if he didn't want me to keep getting it he would have advised the bank when he went away.'
'I can get a job waitressing.'
'I think we'll be all right. We're in Bill's house. His books and papers are all around us. It depends on his family. When they find out the situation, they may try to sell the house out from under us. They may try to sell his papers, get the new book published. Every scenario of total disaster I've ever imagined. And there's the question of royalties from the other two books.'
'We won't worry now,' she said.
'There's the complex question of who's entitled.'
'He lived with us, not them.'
'He left no instructions.'
'We're the ones who made it possible for Bill to devote his whole time to writing.'
'We removed every obstacle. It's true.'
'So shouldn't they let us live here if we promise to keep things just as they are and do Bill's work?'
Scott laughed.
'The night of the lawyers is approaching. The long knives are coming out. Blood and slogans on all the
