Frames Per Second

by Bill Eidson

  She took his hand and pulled it to her, kissing the back of his wrist, for the first time. He pulled her into his arms.

  They didn’t stop until the bedclothes were tangled and they were lying side by side, breathless.

  Those first few years, they just drank each other in. They moved together, sometimes for his jobs, sometimes for hers. New York first, then San Francisco. Andi quickly moved away from daily news into more in-depth articles for magazines. Then she secured a column in the San Francisco Chronicle soon after she learned she was pregnant with Jake. “Andi’s Attitude,” based upon the concept of a one-year weekly observation of a woman stepping away from her career to have a baby. Woman in workforce issues were big in the media then and her timing couldn’t have been better.

  “Andi’s Attitude” slowly began to build toward what it would eventually become—a nationally syndicated column that covered a wide variety of issues, from homelessness to race relations, all from her unabashedly opinionated viewpoint. But the way there was rocky. And, perhaps it was somewhere in there that her stated opinions made her rigid, made her unforgiving.

  They had moved back to Boston to be close to her family when she was pregnant with Lainnie. It was a tough pregnancy, and right after Lainnie was born Andi was laid low with a bout of pneumonia and unable to write. She had to set aside the column for six months, and with it, her income.

  Ben had been doing increasingly frequent shoots for Newsweek at that point; his career was essentially on the rise. But he ran into a dry spell just at the time they needed cash the most. As freelancers, neither he nor Andi had the best insurance coverage, and her medical bills had sapped their savings.

  A photo editor from the National Enquirer called right about that time saying they had been admiring his surveillance photography and the Enquirer wanted to hire him for a shoot right in Boston. The editor positioned the piece as an exposé on the plight of street hustlers.

  Ben didn’t believe the shoot would be that straightforward, but after a moment’s hesitation, he said yes. The rent was due.

  The night of the shoot, the reporter on the job, Larry Hall, set him straight, “Get me shots of young, pretty hookers with older-looking business guys. We’ve got to titillate the shoppers in the grocery stores, get them to buy an issue to cluck over those skimpy outfits, and wonder if hubby is one of the guys screwing around on the side with teenage pros.”

  “I don’t like this,” Ben said.

  “You don’t need the work, just drive away,” Larry said, looking through his binoculars.

  Ben took the pictures.

  Just around midnight Father Ray Caldwell showed up in the Combat Zone. He was wearing street clothes and even though Ben had covered him once—at a fund-raiser where both Caldwell and Andi were speaking—Ben didn’t recognize him until he was loading his second roll of film.

  Larry Hall recognized Caldwell at the same time and immediately pocketed the exposed roll. “Father Ray? The guy who’s always standing up for children’s rights? This is good shit. You keep shooting, follow him home while I get this in. If God’s on our side tonight, he’ll take her home and screw her brains out on film.”

  “Wait a second,” Ben said. “You’ve got to talk to him. See what he says. Maybe there’s another explanation, maybe he’s trying to help her.”

  Larry laughed as he slid open the door of the van. “Maybe. That’s not my job. I’ve got what I need right here.”

  Ben put his hand out. “Give me that and go talk to the girl after he leaves.”

  “If he leaves.”

  “Get the facts straight.”

  “We’ve got a deadline.” Larry slammed the door and ran like hell. By the time Ben got out of the van, Larry was in his car and gone.

  Ben got back into the van and refocused on Caldwell. He didn’t release the shutter until it became apparent the priest was indeed going upstairs with the young girl. He came out about a half hour later. Ben got the shot.

  Father Ray was on the cover of the next issue. Big XXXs behind him on a marquee reading “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Holding the hand of a young prostitute who could have been asking his advice, or could have been soliciting him.

  Either was possible.

  The headline read: “Got a Confession, Father?’’

  Larry Hall’s article nailed it home. Famous priest caught skulking around the Combat Zone “in disguise.” The girl wasn’t identified, but she clearly appeared underage.

  Speculation crossed over into the “legitimate” media within the day. Father Caldwell held a press conference two days later, denying any involvement beyond his counseling. He refused to identify the girl, saying he had gone upstairs to talk with her and give her money to return home. He said she came to him originally in confession. The camera flashes flickered across his face time and again, revealing the shine of sweat, the fear in his eyes.

  He looked guilty.

  With the number of priests who had been prosecuted in recent years for child molestation, Father Ray was openly doubted on the news night after night. “Man on the street interviews” judged him as guilty. “Smoke and fire,” said one woman. “You know the way it works.”

  David Letterman worked Father Ray into his opening monologue.

  At home, Andi said to Ben. “But you don’t know.” She was sitting in the chair by their bed, giving Lainnie a bottle. Andi was still weak from the pneumonia. Her cheekbones were more pronounced than usual and her eyes blazed with indignation. “You can’t know.”

  Ben was angry and trying to keep himself under control. “So that’s it? You just going to distance yourself from me?”

  “Don’t tell me you did it for us! You didn’t talk to me before you took this job.”

  Ben had put up his hand. “Look, I don’t like any of this either. But given Father Ray’s position, this is news. If he didn’t do anything, he should identify her. And the girl should come forward if he’s unwilling to give her name.”

  “What if he is telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben said, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t know.”

  And he still didn’t.

  Because Father Caldwell killed himself after the fourth day of intense media scrutiny. Hung himself in the basement of the rectory. He left no note, and the girl was never found.

  Public speculation swung evenly between this being the proof of his guilt to outrage over the impact of the media on a man of God. For the first time in his career, Ben found himself on the other side of the lens. And so was Andi.

  Tabloids—particularly those that didn’t carry her column—ran shrill headlines: “What’s Andi’s Attitude about Paparazzi Husband?’’ “Andi—Did Hubby Drive Priest to Suicide?’’

  One morning, Andi opened the morning edition of the Boston Herald to see a photo of herself and Father Ray standing together at their speaking engagement a year back. “Andi & Father Ray’s Story. Page 4.”

  The media storm was over within a few weeks.

  It took Ben not much longer than that to realize that the damage between him and Andi was permanent. She looked at him differently, as if his goal was to reveal the ugliness of the world. But by the very nature of who she was, dispensing advice about forgiveness and understanding to the public at large, she couldn’t admit that and still be married to him.

  Instead, she rehashed his time away from the family, worrying it.

  “We need you here,” Andi said. “Not on the other side of the world for a month at a time.”

  “You know I can’t. Not in my business.”

  “The kids need more of you,” she would say. “Do you see how tentative Jake is? Do you see how he’s trying to force himself to be like you even though he’s very different? And Lainnie is acting out—she swears like a trooper. It’s not just the travel, it’s your attention when you’re here.”

  He was stabbed with guilt knowing what he would be saying next. “I’m going to Nepal tomorrow.”

  Or Burma or Moscow
or Topeka.

  “You make your own priorities,” she would say. “You could build your own studio right here in Boston, or work with Leonard Penn and do advertising or corporate work. Do you still want to be living out of a suitcase when you’re fifty? Peeping at people, catching them at their dirty tricks? Don’t you want to be here while your kids grow up? You make your own priorities, Ben.”

  One of Andi’s famous attitudes, published nationally. You Make Your Own Priorities.

  That’s convenient, Ben would think. Sometimes he would say it.

  Ben sat up in the rowboat, and grabbed the oars. He spun the boat around and headed back toward the cabin, suddenly angry. Damned convenient of her.

  Reinventing himself into a commercial photographer would involve far more than developing different skills—he simply had no passion for the work. And he couldn’t see that killing his own ambitions for the sake of the children would serve them well.

  Particularly since the real problem wasn’t his time away. Or that sometimes his photos revealed things that were base and ugly about the world around them.

  The real problem was brutally simple.

  She didn’t love him anymore.

  CHAPTER 7

  “HE’S HERE,” LISA SAID.

  Kurt didn’t look up from his laptop. “Send him in, please.”

  A few minutes later, Ben stepped into his office. As always, Kurt had to steel himself from withdrawing a bit in his presence. Ben was an inch or two taller, more athletically built.

  “Have a seat,” Kurt offered.

  He asked Lisa for some coffee and she returned immediately with a carafe. Kurt and Ben didn’t speak while she poured, both simply observing each other politely enough, waiting until the door would be shut. “Peter called this morning,” she said to Ben. “He said he’s got something for you.”

  “Good.”

  Kurt realized he had never seen Ben without the beard. His eyes were clear, his skin ruddied by the sun.

  “Have you talked to Peter at all?” Kurt asked. “He’s been busy.”

  “No, I drove in from Maine early this morning.”

  “You’re looking well. Good vacation?”

  “Great.” His voice was flat. “Good honeymoon?”

  Kurt smiled, but didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “Obviously, this has every opportunity of being awkward for us.”

  Ben nodded and sipped his coffee.

  “The solution to me seems to be that we maintain absolutely the same professional courtesy that we have already established. I’ve always respected your work and integrity and would hate to see you go elsewhere.”

  “Bullshit,” Ben said, quietly. “You would love to see me leave. But you know Andi and everyone else would think you pressured me into it, and you don’t want that.”

  Kurt shrugged. It was true, but he saw no sense in confirming it.

  Ben continued. “And it may come to that. My first reaction was to quit. But, I like working for this magazine and I like the people I work with. I think I’ve made some remarkable images on behalf of Insider.’’

  “Who could disagree?” Kurt pointed to a framed cover of Insider on his wall.

  “So, I’m staying for the time being. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let you know. As for you and Andi, it’s taken me a week of being alone to really work it into my system, but I’ve accepted that she made her choice.”

  “She has.”

  “But when it comes to the children, you’ve got to remember they’re mine.” Ben’s eyes were hard now. “What I’ve also come to in the past week is how much I’ve let them down. And I know you’ve got a role with them, but I’m still their father.”

  “Well, if you’re talking about increasing visitation rights, we’d need to talk that through with Andi.”

  “I realize that. And I will talk with Andi. But right now I’m talking with you about how you see yourself with my kids.”

  Kurt tried for a calming tone. “Look, Ben, as you know, my first wife and I were divorced. So I have some sense of what you’re going through.’’

  “No, I didn’t know you were married before.”

  “Well, I was. Beyond the financial ramifications, which were bad enough, I remember the loneliness. Once she remarried, I found myself trying to reestablish some relationship—”

  “That’s not what this is about. I’m talking about the children.”

  “And I’m the children’s new stepfather,” Kurt said. “That means I will love them and try my damnedest to form a new family with the woman I married.”

  Ben’s face flushed.

  Kurt kept himself steady; kept his face calm and understanding until he saw Ben settle back.

  “Fair enough.” Ben rubbed his face. “What I’ve got to do is find a way to keep my relationship alive with them without screwing up yours. And that means some help from you as my boss in not sending me off to the far ends of the world, at least for a while.”

  “Your career will suffer if I can’t send you where the stories are … and with your vacation, you’ve already blown off so many of those interviews that would’ve helped you secure outside projects.” Kurt glanced at his notebook. “The fact is, I was planning on sending you off to Oregon. Seems that the clash between the timber companies and the environmental groups is coming to a head again. I wanted you to go out, spend some time with both groups, including some of the small logging operations. Show it’s a two-sided issue, not just do a knee-jerk support on the side of the environmentalists. You handle that kind of duality well, and if I’ve got you pegged right, a little more time tramping through the woods wouldn’t hurt you or your career. Maybe even capture some shots on our dime to help that book of yours along.”

  “Thanks, but no. I need to be here, and for once, I’m going to let my career come second. I’m talking about regaining something of my family before it’s too late.”

  Kurt looked dubious. “I’m just trying to help you readjust to the new reality here.”

  Ben paused. “Losing myself in my work isn’t the answer for any of us.”

  Kurt nodded, but he still didn’t look convinced.

  “Instead of cold professionalism, I think you and I will have to find a way to be friends,” Ben said. “Even though it’s not going to be a natural for either of us.” He put out his hand.

  Just as Kurt was reaching out, Lisa stuck her head in the door. “Excuse me, but Peter is on the line. He’s on his car phone and said he’s just pulling up and that I should, quote, ‘Tell Ben to get his ass out front.’ “

  “Duty calls,” Kurt said, withdrawing his hand.

  “You heard it.” Ben started for the door. He looked back. “We’ll keep talking. And you should tell Andi I will be calling her about those visitation rights.”

  “I’ll tell her to expect it.” Kurt smiled genially. “Thanks for coming in.”

  Kurt straightened his desk and took the coffee cups out to the sink.

  “I’ll do that,” Lisa said.

  “Not a problem.” Keeping his hands busy was calming. When he went back into his office, he looked out the window onto Clarendon Street. It was a beautiful, sunlit morning and he had a corner office that also gave him a fantastic view of Copley Square. He caught sight of Peter pulling up across the street in Ben’s old van.

  Kurt felt a sharp pang of jealousy.

  Both Peter and Ben were doers. They got in, they got close, their talent was in capturing stories and ideas on the fly. Somehow, they weren’t afraid of following and then challenging guys like Johansen, or now this young hood Peter had been following, Jimbo McGuire.

  Kurt had his own talents measured to the inch and he knew he was an office man. A competent editor with a good visual sense. A fair administrator. Before Andi, no one saw more than that in him, no matter what he knew was inside. Even she used terms like “steady” or “loving” to describe him; words that didn’t begin to convey the passion he felt for her.

  Kurt could feel in
his gut that with just a little more effort on his part, Ben could dramatically improve his relationship with his children. They would love him for it.

  Kurt had to work so much harder.

  Some people are loved more easily than others, he told himself.

  Through the passenger window, Kurt could see Peter grinning as Ben started to cross the street. Peter was holding up something gray.

  And then that something exploded.

  Kurt would remember it afterwards, the flash igniting right in Peter’s arms. The police would say later that it pretty much vaporized him before bursting windows up and down the block and leaving the van engulfed in a fireball.

  But that was later.

  Then, Kurt stood behind his own cracked window, momentarily confused into total inaction. His eyes were focused on Ben, lying in the street, obviously bloodied, maybe dead.

  CHAPTER 8

  NO SOUND, AT FIRST.

  Ringing, but no identifiable sounds.

  Blurred vision.

  Crazy corner view. The street. Lying in the street, smelling the oil in the asphalt.

  Color off to one side, bright orange.

  Heat.

  Try to look. Can’t see it clearly. Still blurred. Yellow, orange, and black. Moving.

  God, not my eyes.

  Ringing louder.

  People suddenly there. Someone dragging him.

  Faint voices. “Watch his neck, watch his neck!”

  Try the eyes again. Seeing. Seeing someone over him.

  Pain. Incredible white pain. Taking his breath away.

  Looking again. Seeing Kurt above him now, pushing people away, yelling something. Not hearing a goddamn thing now except for the louder ringing.

  Jesus! The fire. Fire burning his legs, the back of his hands, his head.

  He sat up to look again, to see if the bright orange had moved onto him, if he was inflamed. Someone pushed him back down. He wondered mutely why they hadn’t pulled him away far enough.

  But the flames, the orange, was still in the blurred distance.