The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society

by Darien Gee

  Isabel shakes her head, incredulous, and looks to Yvonne for confirmation about how nuts this whole scrapbooking thing is. But Yvonne is already hard at work, strategizing with one of the ladies about whether she should cut a mat for a photo and, if so, whether it should be vertical or horizontal.

  “I can’t decide,” Yvonne says, more to herself than anyone else. “I think most of my pictures are horizontal, though.” She looks up at Isabel and begs, “Come on, don’t make me do this by myself. It’s fun!”

  A smart retort is on the tip of Isabel’s tongue when she sees her neighbor across the room bend down to pick up a piece of paper that’s fallen to the ground. Despite her age Bettie is quick on her feet, but for a second Isabel sees something else, a look of confusion crossing her face, a sudden intake of breath as she glances around the room, her brow furrowed. No one else is paying attention as Bettie is frozen for a moment, lost, the piece of paper still in her hand.

  And then she’s back, striding across the room at a clip, tossing the paper into the trash, giving suggestions and helping people rearrange different scrapbooking elements on their pages.

  “Isabel?” Yvonne is looking at her. “Come on. You game?”

  “What?” Isabel looks back at Yvonne, probably the only other person in the room that she has any interest in talking to and who seems to be fine talking to her. Isabel sneaks one more look at Bettie but she’s laughing now, holding up a paper flower and pointing to one of the petals, demonstrating some kind of technique with a needle and thread. Maybe she was imagining it, but Isabel can’t be sure. Either way, Isabel has no place to go until this whole thing is over and done with. Resigned, she breaks the seal on the cellophane packet and spreads the contents on the table in front of her.

  Max is asleep in Ava’s bed. Ava tries not to make a habit of it, knows that the parenting books say it’s a big no-no, but she loves having him snuggle up next to her, his soft skin, his little fingers winding around hers. The closeness is reassuring for both of them and it’s such a small thing.

  Today was another hard day at preschool. The teacher told her as Ava was buckling him into his car seat, and Ava was livid that they hadn’t called her, hadn’t given her a chance to come and pick him up, to make it all better. The teacher didn’t see what happened, a squabble over some plastic blocks that ended up with one child hitting another. Max, in the middle, didn’t get hurt but was upset. He stopped talking for the rest of the day, didn’t eat his lunch, didn’t want a snack. He did nap, the teacher said, brightening. As if that made it all better.

  Ava listens to her son breathe, his breaths short and even. He’s pressed against her, not trusting her to roll even an inch away before he reaches out for her again.

  Ava sighs in the dark. This is the hardest part for her, the part that makes her turn away when she sees families where both parents are there and engaged, backing each other up and tag teaming. She belonged to a moms’ group for a while but dropped out because she couldn’t stand hearing the other women complain about their husbands and what they didn’t do. What about what they did do, however small? It’d have to beat being on your own all the time, having it all come down to you and you alone. No one to talk to, to bounce ideas off of, to formulate a parenting strategy. There’s no room to get sick, to take a break, to have a major meltdown.

  After an hour Ava is able to carefully slip out of the bed. She tucks pillows around Max and gently closes the door, leaving it open a crack. She needs to unwind, needs to put her unsuccessful day of job hunting behind her. The Jeep died again today, and fortunately someone was able to give her a jump. Her savings are at an all-time low and she doesn’t know what she’ll do when they officially run out of money.

  She makes her way into the living room, to the corner farthest away from the bedrooms. She switches on a small lamp clipped to the side of the makeshift bookshelf and feels herself relax as she looks at the space around her. Her creative corner. It’s small, but it’s hers. It’s the one place where she can lose herself.

  Dishes of colorful, gleaming bottle caps are lined up on a shelf, waiting to be transformed. Ava sits down, turns on the small radio, and preps her worktable. When it’s ready, she begins.

  She places a bottle cap on a steel bench block and begins to flatten the edges with a rubber mallet. It’s satisfying, especially after the day she’s had, but it goes by fast—only a few seconds around the rim and then again on the other side. After ten minutes she has a nice pile and even though she could do more, she stops.

  She’s going to be making hair clips and bookmarks tonight, and maybe a bracelet if she has time. A lot of the local gift shops are trying to source products locally instead of having them shipped in. Ava knows she probably can’t make a living doing this, but it’s something she can do on her own time and doesn’t cost her a lot of money.

  She’s always had excellent fine-motor skills—it was one reason being a dental assistant came so easily to her—and there’s a simple precision that comes with jewelry making. She has good technique and an eye for color, even though she can’t put much into her inventory. She’s gone beyond simple magnets and earrings, and has found ways to make bottle-cap jewelry look good.

  Ava knows it would solve a lot of their problems if she could find a way to go back to work as a dental assistant, but the truth is she hasn’t even tried. After Bill died, Ava wondered if people knew about what had happened. She felt certain that news of their affair circulated among the other dental offices in the area. Her own embarrassment kept her from applying at first, and now too much time has passed. Any dental office she applies to will want job experience and a recommendation, and there’s only one person who can give her one, the one person Ava hopes she’ll never have to see again. Bill’s partner, Dr. Strombauer.

  She reaches for a plastic shoebox, pops off the lid. Inside she has bags of images, sorted generally by color, already cut in one-inch circles. She doesn’t overthink this part, will use whatever calls out to her. A hummingbird, a music note, a man on a bicycle. She’ll drop a few beads into the resin, knowing that they’ll float around until the resin sets. Ava likes the randomness, likes how you don’t know how it will turn out until it’s all done. Ava chooses a handful of possibilities and fans them out on the table.

  Her favorite part is next. Her fingers glide through a plastic container of beads, mostly glass, some lampwork, some seed, some crystal. They sparkle under the light, small bursts of color that seem so hopeful, so happy. Look at us, they seem to say. She scoops out a thimbleful and pours it carefully onto her bead mat.

  She works quickly, quietly, her ear trained to the bedroom as the local Avalon station plays late-night favorites. A familiar song comes on and she stops, pliers in hand, as she listens and remembers. Smiles. Laughter. Love. This same song playing in the background, piped into the dental office from the stereo in back, a selection of hits that they got in the mail each month.

  She misses Bill.

  The thought stops her, paralyzes her. Ava forces herself to breathe, not wanting the emotion to take over, but not wanting to forget, either. She can’t ever forget him.

  Bill, the man she loved, the man who gave her Max. She wishes Bill could have seen his son, held him once, had a chance to brush his lips against Max’s sweet brow. She wishes she could give that to Max, that little piece, but she can’t. Bill died before Max came into the world. Max will never know his father.

  Ava closes her eyes.

  And it’s not just Max, it’s her, too. She wishes Bill was here, wishes he was still making plans with her, telling her it’s going to be all right, that they’re going to find a way, that things are going to work out fine—no, better than fine. Great. Beyond expectation. A new life for both of them, together. He’d said this, and she’d believed him.

  So now … what? This aloneness is the hardest part for Ava. The separateness. Bill’s mother, Max’s biological grandmother, has made it clear that she wants nothing to do with them, so there
is only one person left.

  Ava has written her letters but hasn’t received a response. Ava doesn’t even know if she still lives in Avalon. It’s been four years, after all, and maybe she’s moved on, like Ava should, but can’t. Or maybe it’s still too soon, and Ava can’t take a hint and leave well enough alone. If it was just about Ava, she’d already be gone, her bags packed. But it’s not just about Ava—it’s about Max.

  The wire slips from the pliers and sends beads flying across the living room. Ava gasps—she’d brought out the Swarovski crystals especially for this bracelet, wanting it to be the centerpiece of her collection. She watches as the crystals scatter in the air and then drop into the thick carpet, instantly obscured.

  She drops to her knees, wills herself not to cry. She knows how life works, at least her life up to this point—if you wait for the other shoe to drop, it will. She isn’t going to be like that anymore. She’s going to think only good thoughts for her and Max. She’s going to find a job, she’s going to fix the car, she’s going to find each and every crystal. She’s going to do what she can to give him the very best life she can. And it’s all going to be fine. Strike that—it’s going to be beyond expectation. Good things. One miracle after another.

  Yes.

  For a moment Ava believes it so fully her eyes spot the first crystal, sparkling from within the deep pile. But when she reaches for it, it transforms itself into a piece of plastic, a small broken piece from one of Max’s toys. And then she hears it, a small cry from her bedroom as Max discovers that she’s not there. He calls for her, his voice sleepy and uncertain, and then full of panic. Ava knows the room looks dark and murky through his eyes, thick blurs that won’t correct themselves into recognizable shapes until he puts his glasses on. Ava is torn, but only for a moment. She stands up, turns off the lamp and radio, plunging the apartment into darkness once again.

  “I’m coming, Max.”

  Christopher Barlowe, 55

  More Than Meets the Eye Photography Studio

  “Oh, you look great. Really, you do. You’re going to love this! You’re a natural and, wow, that’s it, that’s the look! That’s a definite keeper. I think you’re going to be happy with these. I really really do.”

  Christopher Barlowe has been taking pictures and snapping shots since he was twenty, and some of his travel and creative work has shown up in magazines, won a few awards. In the past couple of years he’s earned enough not only to support himself and his family, but to buy the lot next door and build a studio. He can walk to work in his pajamas, though he never has—he still gets up and shaves and dresses exactly as if he were going to his old place down on Main Street. He’s proud of what he does, and doesn’t take it any less seriously because his studio is less than sixty seconds from his kitchen.

  When people ask him what he does for a living, he hands them his card. They see the collage of portraits on the back, see the word “Photographer” on the front and write him off as some guy who only takes senior portraits and wedding photos. He does that, too, and actually enjoys it, but there’s so much more to the job than standing behind a lens.

  Once he had an apprentice who thought getting into photography would be a way to make a quick buck. Christopher told him, “If you want to be good, you’re not just a photographer. You’re part psychologist, part sociologist. You have to understand your subject, help them feel good about themselves, about being in front of the camera. If they’re having a bad day or feeling nervous, you have to help them feel better. They should leave feeling really good about the shoot, and about themselves.”

  The apprentice didn’t listen of course. He started his own portrait business the following spring, offered cut-rate discounts and coupons, bragged about how good he was and how bad the competition was, including Christopher. He didn’t make it to Christmas.

  More Than Meets the Eye is still here, and business is thriving. No small feat since everyone has a digital camera or some kind of photo-editing software, and can easily order large prints online, even on canvas. For a while, business slowed to a stop and Christopher was worried, not sure if things would pick up again and if they didn’t, what he would do. He loves Avalon—both he and his wife grew up here and now the same can be said for their girls—but things got dicey for a while.

  The month he thought he’d have to close shop for good was the worst. He was in the old location looking at a stack of bills, wondering if this was it. It was very depressing and his wife had gone home crying, sad that they might have to leave and start over somewhere new. He was sad, too.

  Someone knocked on his door then. He looked up and saw that he hadn’t even remembered to turn the sign from closed to open, that’s how distracted he was. He saw an umbrella and a bob of silvery-blue hair. It was one of the ladies from his neighborhood. Bettie Shelton.

  He hurried to let her in. It had been raining outside that day, cats and dogs as it sometimes does in the spring, and she stamped her feet on the welcome mat to get all the water off her galoshes. She leaned the umbrella against the outside of the door.

  “Just stopping by to give you this,” she said. She handed him a stack of business cards. They had her name on them, along with her phone number and address. Scrapbooking supplies, it read, for all your memory-keeping needs.

  “Um,” he’d said, not sure what to do.

  She pulled out a small business card stand adorned with fake jewels and ribbon. “It was a good day when they invented the glue gun,” she said. “So, Chris, I’m thinking if you put these out for your customers and they buy anything from me, I can give them an extra five, make that ten, percent off. They just have to show the card. I have a little code in the corner, see? So I’ll know the business came from you. I’ll extend the discount to you, too.”

  He put her cards and stand by the small cash register. “I’ll put them out,” he said, “but you should know that I may not be in business much longer. People aren’t spending money on items like photography anymore.”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Bettie scoffed. She looked around the studio, took in the pictures on the walls, the books of photographs in the seating area. “It’s a matter of adjusting to the times, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, if you figure out how to do that, let me know.” Christopher turned his attention back to the mess on his desk, but not before he saw her scowl.

  “What, you’re throwing in the towel already? You haven’t even begun to figure this one out.” Bettie shook her head, obviously disappointed. “For instance, I’ve been noticing that more people are using stock images these days. You should as well.”

  “But everyone’s doing that,” he told Bettie. “I don’t see why anybody would want to buy stock images from me when they can get them from lots of other places online.”

  “Holy smokes!” she retorted. “With that attitude I’m amazed you’re still in business at all!” She pointed to one of his favorite photos on the wall, an image of a man with his grandson, sitting on a bench in Avalon Park. “Look at that. You capture not only the connection between the two of them, but where they are. That boy will always have special memories when he goes to the park—he’ll always think of his grandfather. Or why not spend your free time taking pictures of landmarks around Avalon? I’m sure lots of businesses might like you to get photos for them, too. Proprietors standing in their doorways, for example. Like Hal at the butcher shop, swinging his cleaver. Or Mason Cribbs, driving his snow plow in the winter. Or Tessa Bridges when she’s taking out a fresh loaf of bread from her oven. We’re always telling people to buy local, maybe show them what buying local means, you know?” She played with the ribbons on her business card holder, trying to figure out how they’d look best.

  Christopher was skeptical, but intrigued. What was he doing moping behind a desk, waiting for someone to call with business? He should be doing what he does best—standing behind a lens.

  And then he got discouraged again. “But who would buy those?” he asked.
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  “I would,” Bettie said, standing tall. “In fact, I’d like to commission you to take a photo documentary of me and my scrapbooking society. A few nice black-and-white photos from our meetings that we can save in our archives. I might also use them for Christmas cards.”

  Bells started going off in Christopher’s head. Not warning bells, but the kind that let you know that inspiration is brewing.

  Christopher thought about what Bettie said, about putting a face to a name, about encouraging small business owners to show their customers what they were about. He knew he could capture this better than anyone else. These people put their hearts into what they did. It was their passion. And it was up to Christopher to show that to everyone else.

  He started with Bettie and the Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society. He took pictures at a meeting, then went to the homes of some members and took pictures of their craft spaces, their albums. The result was four more jobs, and he started shooting pictures for people who wanted to get grants for their nonprofit organizations, who were chronicling their businesses, who wanted compelling, well-shot images for their own marketing and promotional purposes. He used this same approach with his own business, setting up self-portraits so people could see him in action. Six months later, he was out of debt. Nine months later, he’d made almost as much money as he did the previous year. By the end of his second year, he’d had his best year ever.

  Anyone can take a picture, and that’s the truth. But what he tells prospective clients is that not everyone can capture a person, or an image, or an emotion. There’s a creative engagement that happens when you look through the lens. This is not a haphazard endeavor, but one that you enter into with great care and focus. You see what matters most, and then you snap a picture of it for all the world to see.