by Lisa Lace
“Getting hurt was a tough break. Who knows where it could have taken you?”
I hold up my hand. “I try not to think about it. This is what I do now, and it needs to be enough. Besides, now I have Sophie again, and she’s just—” I can’t find the words. “—wow. If I were still out there taking pictures, our paths would never have crossed again. I’m thankful for that.”
“She’s a lucky woman.”
“I’m lucky that she was still single. She makes all this worthwhile.”
I arrive back to Sophie’s apartment and have to remind myself that I’m home. As soon as I step through the door, I can smell her home cooking and hear her humming to herself. I smile. It’s better coming home to her.
I set down my equipment and head into the kitchen. Sophie is cooking, still wearing her work uniform. The jacket is thrown over the arm of the sofa. She’s wearing the blue collared shirt, with the long sleeves now rolled up to her elbows and a couple of buttons undone. Her hair is in a messy high ponytail.
She looks up when I arrive, and grins. “Welcome home, Mr. Tanner.”
“God, it’s good to see you.”
“Tough day?”
“The worst. I’ve had hundreds of teenage girls screaming at me for hours. How was yours?”
“A couple of customers had their little tantrums, but nothing I can’t handle.”
I go to her and sweep her into a kiss. It takes her by surprise, and she loses her breath. She smiles. “I was starting to think we’d slipped into acting like an old married couple.”
I slap her rear playfully. “Not quite yet.”
Sophie serves dinner, and we take it into the living room to eat on our laps. We put on the evening news. There’s a story about a fire at a hospital and another about a shooting downtown. Then a headline appears that makes us both put down our knives and forks.
“Renowned photojournalist Edward Bates, thirty-four, has been killed in crossfire in Sudan while documenting the crisis.”
“Oh, my God!” Sophie exclaims.
“It is believed that Bates separated from his team to take a closer shot of the action. It was at this time that he was fatally shot.”
Sophie closes her eyes in horror and shakes her head. “It’s a dangerous profession.” She reaches for my hand and grips it. “Thank God you’re not doing that anymore.”
I stare in disbelief at the screen. I see the newsreader’s lips moving, but I don’t hear anything after the initial headline. “I worked with him.”
Sophie turns to me with wide eyes. “You did?”
“We worked together for a while at The New York Times.”
“I’m sorry. Were you close?”
I shake my head. “We didn’t know each other that well.”
“Still, how terrible.” She moves closer to me. “I’m so glad you’re here. That work was dangerous. It could have been you.”
It should have been me. If I hadn’t been injured, I would have still been out there, on the frontline of journalism. I’d been to that country. I’d witnessed that gunfire. “It’s a hazard of the job,” I say hoarsely.
“It’s not worth it.” Sophie’s voice is soft and distressed. “To give your life for a photo.”
“It’s more than that. The photo is symbolic of so much more. Those pictures may be the only way to give the most oppressed and suffering people in this world a voice. Those pictures are documentary evidence of history at its best and its worst. When it’s caught on camera, nobody can deny it. Nobody can look away. That significance of the work is priceless.”
“Do you really believe that, Cole? How can a picture ever be worth a man’s life?”
“People don’t take jobs like that unless they believe in the cause. Journalism is the only way to shine a light in the darkest corners of the world and on humanity’s darkest acts. It’s powerful. A hard-hitting exposé has a ripple effect that affects real change.”
Sophie’s silent for a moment, thinking about what I’ve said. Eventually, she sighs and shakes her head again. “All I can think about is everyone left behind—his parents, brothers, sisters, friends, partner. All those people who have to go on without him because he wanted the perfect close-up. It seems like such a waste.”
She pats my hand and buries her head against my chest. “You’ve done your part for the truth, Cole. Now you’re here, and safe. Thank God. That poor man; his poor family.”
I say nothing. My eyes glaze over as I look at the screen. Seeing Edward’s face on the news has shaken me. I think of the photo he took for the cover of Time. No matter what Sophie or anybody else says, Edward Bates has left a legacy.
Sophie
I watch Cole out the corner of my eye. He hasn’t been himself since he heard about Edward on the news. He’s sitting on the sofa, eating a bowl of cereal. When the news starts talking about Edward again, he reaches for the remote and switches it off.
I sit next to him and gently brush back the hair at his temple. “Are you alright?”
Cole offers a forced half-smile. “I’m a bit in shock. I found out when the funeral’s being held. I want to go and pay my respects.”
“I think that’s a nice idea. Do you want me to come with you?”
He shakes his head and gives my hand a grateful squeeze. “No. Thanks, Sophie, but I’ll be all right. I’m sure I’ll see a lot of old faces there. It’ll be good to reminisce and celebrate some of Ed’s achievements. He did far more in the job than I ever did.” Cole picks up a copy of Time magazine that he bought at the store this morning and holds it up to me. “He took the cover photo.”
I pull the magazine toward me, and my eyes carefully trace the image on the front page. A beautiful girl with gorgeous, curious eyes stares back at me in black and white, her cheeks freckled from the sun, her black hair interspersed with braids.
“She’s beautiful.”
“A new tribe was discovered. The girl had never seen a camera before. Can’t you see the wonder in her eyes?”
I glance back at the photo. “I can.”
I thread my arm around Cole’s shoulder. “You respected him.”
“Of course. I respect anyone who does work like this. To put your life on the line, to die for your work, that’s a level of devotion that most people could never achieve.”
“Does it take you back to Haiti?”
Cole traces the line of the scar on his inner forearm, then shakes his head. “It’s not about me. It’s simply a shame that the world has lost a man like Bates.”
“He’s all over the news,” I say, trying to comfort him. “I think the world knows they’ve lost someone who matters.”
“I know you don’t understand the reason men like Edward and I are driven to do what we do, but it’s more than a job to us. It’s a vocation. It’s a calling.”
I lay my hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Hopefully, the funeral can help bring you some closure. Like you said, it will give you a chance to celebrate his achievements and pay your respects. That will mean a lot to you.”
“Yes. It will.”
The funeral is scheduled for a few days from now. In the days leading up to it, Cole is quiet and withdrawn. He goes to work, but as soon as he comes home, he retreats to the shower, where he stays for a long time. I hear the shower running, but I suspect that he’s simply taking some time alone. He seems to be thinking a lot lately. The death of Edward Bates has really gotten under his skin.
Finally, the day of Edward’s funeral rolls around, and I’m hopeful that saying goodbye will help Cole to put the tragedy behind him. His despondency is hard for me to understand, considering he didn’t know Edward well. I wonder if Cole Tanner has been hit with the realization of his own mortality.
On the morning of the funeral, I kiss Cole goodbye as he gets in his car, and I watch him drive away. I’m sorry that Cole is hurting but incredibly thankful that he’s still alive. I don’t want to lose him.
When I get home from work, Cole is already inside. He’s dressed i
n his funeral attire; a tailored black suit and tie. He stands staring out the apartment window in the living room, looking out over the street. He has an open bottle of beer in his hand.
He turns around when I enter. He looks tired; there are dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and his usually perfect hair is ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it.
I place my purse down on the sofa and go to him. “How was the funeral?”
Cole’s eyes are dark. He takes a swig from his bottle. “There were hundreds of people there. Hundreds.”
I reach out and place my palm on Cole’s cheek. He turns his face away from me. There’s something on his mind, but I don’t know what. Everyone’s on edge after a funeral.
I step away and sit down on the sofa, kicking off my heels and massaging the sole of my foot. I keep my eyes fixed on Cole. He’s looking out the window again.
“How was the service?”
Cole nods. “Fitting. There were several eulogies and speeches. At the reception, they played a slideshow of his most famous shots. God, the man had talent.”
“Were there many people there you know?”
“Plenty. In fact, I got speaking to David Speller, my old boss at The New York Times.”
At the sound of his name, the hairs on the back of my arm stand on end. Even in the few short weeks that Cole worked at the paper during our marriage, I must have heard David Speller’s name a thousand times. When David said “jump,” Cole always said, “how high?”
“He must have been sorry to lose Edward.”
“He was. He was pretty cut up about it. He sent Edward out there.”
“I guess people have to go where the story is.”
“That’s right. Every journalist knows the risks.”
I rub my knees anxiously. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something that Cole’s not telling me. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
Cole turns around to face me, leaning his back against the windowsill. He grips the bottle by its neck and avoids my eye. “David had a proposition for me.”
I know what you’re going to say. “What’s that?”
“Nobody wants to go to Sudan.”
“That makes sense to me. That’s where photographers go to die.” I can hear the sting in my words, but I want them to be cutting. I can sense what Cole is going to say next, and I want to take the conversation in another direction before he has a chance to say it.
Cole moves closer to me and sits on the arm of the sofa, spinning to face me. “Atrocities are happening in Eritrea.”
“There are plenty of photographers, Cole.”
He moves even closer, taking a seat beside me on the sofa. He tries to take my hands, but I pull away. My eyes are already filling with tears. History is repeating itself; a panic rises in me.
“Nobody wants to go out there, especially now that Edward’s passed away.”
“Passed away!” I scowl. “He was shot three times, according to the news. Once in the head. Don’t phrase it liked he passed peacefully in his sleep. He was cannon fodder, and if you go out there, you will be too.”
“David practically begged me to come back. Do you know what that means?”
“It means that everything you’ve said to me in the last three months is complete and utter bullshit!”
I’m crying now, thick, ugly tears. My body is tense with rage and betrayal. “I’m only your top priority until something better comes along, right? And your ‘something better’ is getting shot at in a country recovering from a civil war. I can’t believe you, Cole.”
“The only reason I ever stopped working for the paper was because of my injury. You know that.”
“So what? I don’t care if you stopped working because of an injury or because you found Jesus and became a monk. The point is, you promised me a different life, but it was only because you thought you were past it as a photographer. At the end of the day, when you have a choice, you’re always going to choose that fucking camera.”
Cole stands up and paces the room in tight, angry circles. He becomes more animated as he defends himself. “You don’t understand. My parents never understood. Nobody gets it. Everybody thinks this whole thing is just some ego trip for me; a desperate man clinging to his Pulitzer dreams. Fuck the Pulitzer. Fuck my name in the paper. It’s not about me! It’s about what’s happening out there. Edward got shot because, in Eritrea, people are shooting. Do you think anyone over here gives a shit? Hardly. They’d give even less of a shit if the media didn’t put it right under their noses. We have a responsibility to shine a light on—”
“—Shut up!” I scream. “Enough of your speeches. I’m sick to death of you trying to spin it like you’re a misunderstood hero, the voice of the people. You’re an adrenaline junkie, and you do it because it gives you some kind of sick thrill to cheat death and take an artsy shot at the same time. You do it because you feel like you’ve got something to prove because your parents never supported your big dream. You do it because you can’t accept the fact that your time has come and gone. You need the recognition and the fame. You’re not taking the moral high ground, you’re disappearing again.”
“I didn’t say whether I was going or not, Sophie. I was just telling you what David said.”
“If you were just ‘telling me,’ the tension in this room wouldn’t be so thick that I can taste it. You wouldn’t have that pained look on your face. You want to present it as a conversation, but you’ve already made up your mind.”
“I haven’t decided anything.”
The tears stream down my face. My skin is getting hot, my hands are shaking. There’s a lump in my throat so big that I can barely swallow. “Lena was right! She warned me that this was going to happen. She said you’d drop me again.”
Cole tries to approach me. “Calm down, Sophie. You’re getting hysterical.”
I rip myself away from me. “Get away from me! I can’t stand to be around you right now. The fact that you’re even considering this shows how little you think of me. All that talk about stepping up and putting me first, about finding happiness and being content, it was all talk. It’s so easy to say the right things when you think you’re out of better options, isn’t it? Fuck you, Cole. I’m going to Lena’s.”
Cole
It’s three days before Sophie calms down enough to talk to me. We meet at her apartment.
As soon as I see her, I can tell she’s been crying. She’s wearing gray sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Her apartment smells like Chinese take-out.
She lets me in without saying a word and retreats to the living room, where she sits on the arm of the sofa with her arms folded across her chest, staring at me. “Well?”
I sit down on the seat beside her and try to take her hand. She pulls away from me. I take off my jacket, and Sophie glares at me like even that small act means not having my priorities straight.
I let out a long breath and hold up my hands helplessly. “What can I say, Soph?”
She lets out a scornful laugh and shakes her head. “That’s it, then. Clearly, you’ve made up your mind. When you said you wanted to talk, I thought there’d be a discussion, but obviously not. It’s history repeating itself all over again.”
“I’m not doing this to hurt you.”
“Aren’t you? Let me tell you to your face, Cole: you’re hurting me.” She raises her hands in anger. Her eyes are filled with tears. “It was you who sent me a message. It was you who decided you wanted to meet when you realized it was me you’d texted. It was you who begged for a date and pursued me. It was you who wanted to move in. You’ve been the one pushing this whole thing along, convincing me that it was everything you wanted, and now you’re dropping me like that.” She snaps her fingers.
“I’m not dropping you.”
“Of course, you are!”
I rise from my seat and stand in front of her, my hands held out besee
chingly. “It’s you who insists it has to be either-or. Why do I have to give up my career to be with you? Why does that have to be a choice I make?”
“It doesn’t work. We’ve tried it before.”
“For all of six weeks, when we were in our twenties. We’re both more mature now. We’ve both gone ten years surviving without each other just fine, so what makes you think you can’t survive without me while I’m away on assignment?”
“‘Just fine’? Maybe you’ve been ‘just fine,’ Cole, but I haven’t. I loved you with everything I had, and I’ve never loved anyone like that since. I’ve gone on hundreds of first dates, and nothing has come close. I put you on a pedestal and pushed away any guy who didn’t compare. And what was even on that pedestal? Some egotistical jerk who’ll pick me up and drop me again whenever he feels like it.” She rakes her fingers through her hair in anguish. “You think that I don’t want you working far away because I’m some pathetic woman who can’t fall asleep without you holding my hand? No; it’s because I can’t handle always being second-best. When you’re working for the paper, you’re unreliable, selfish, and you couldn’t give a damn about me.
“How many times did you stand me up because some new crime had just gone down? How many times did I go to dinner with your dad without you because you canceled last-minute? How many times did I make apologies for you because you weren’t there? Sometimes, I didn’t even think you heard me when I was speaking. You would nod along, then switch the conversation to the next huge disaster you were obsessed with. I meant nothing to you in that headspace. You thought you were someone so significant, and I was nobody.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? You walked out on my parents’ anniversary party. You stood me up on my birthday. And those are just the big things. I can’t count the number of times I asked you for the smallest thing, and you didn’t deliver. Cole, can you pick up some milk on your way home? Cole, can you defrost the chicken? Cole, can you record a show? The whole relationship became one-sided. I supported you financially. I cooked your dinners. I washed your clothes. And you didn’t even have the time of day for me.
