by Lisa Samson
“Guess who’s in town?” Finn asks, leaning against my desk.
“I don’t know. Tell me.”
“You have to guess,” he says.
“I love you, baby, but you’re working my last nerve.” I’ve just sent the e-mail to Holly with a link to the website we’ve spent the last three weeks building from the ground up. What I want to do at this moment is sit quietly at my computer, hitting the Refresh button every few seconds for Holly’s reply. I hit Refresh for good measure. “Just spit it out,” I say.
“You’re not going to at least try? Okay, okay. Ethan and Dora called. They want to meet up. They’re over at the Walters Art Gallery and want us to join them.”
“You mean right now?”
“Yeah, right now. Let’s get out of here. You could use the break—besides, it’s Ethan and Dora, so you can’t say no.”
And of course he’s right. I smile and offer him my hand and we whisk away as if suddenly invited to the coolest party of the year. Which, in a way, we have been.
Dora Katz and Ethan Lime own a Brooklyn lifestyle store, one of those über-curated bastions of taste that sells everything from high-end designer furniture and coffee table books to imported European toothpaste. When they decided to add a section of paper goods, instead of flipping through the Kikkerland catalog they went out and made their own discoveries, including an obscure line of letterpress posters and greeting cards created here at the Firehouse. It was only once our work showed up at Katz Lime that the retail side of the business became viable. Though it’s still small—supplementing the income from local clients without threatening to replace it anytime soon—I have high hopes, thanks in part to the way Dora and Ethan have embraced us.
You don’t meet the couple behind Katz Lime in the ordinary way for lunch or dinner. They don’t show up at the office for a meeting. Instead, Finn will get a call from Ethan out of the blue, saying they’re in Baltimore unexpectedly and inviting us to meet them at some artist’s warehouse space, or at Edgar Allan Poe’s house, or at the Walters, where we find them side by side on one of the brown leather sofas, looking at a nineteenth-century Spanish painting of a bunch of shawled women huddled in the rain on the steps of a church as a black-clad minister approaches beneath an umbrella. The doors of the church are framed in dark green wood, the baroque ornamentation of the tiny window beside them in stark contrast to the building’s gray-white stucco plainness. Dora and Ethan watch the painting with rapt attention, the way people sit and watch movies, as if the figures might suddenly move and the scene change.
Dora wears black leggings and an amorphous dolman-sleeved top that’s part dress and part cape, the loud pop-art print rather striking in a gallery full of eighteenth-and nineteenth-century paintings with their fancy gilded frames. Not my kind of thing, but it works for Dora Katz. Bright red lipstick, big smoky eyes, Dora’s face is more of a mask than a face, as much an accessory as her hoof-like ankle boots or her black leather clutch. Small and squarish, without the advantages of height or natural beauty, Dora is one of those women who dresses for other women without reference to the taste of men, her look every bit as curated as her famous store. None of her attraction is inherited or genetic. It is entirely earned. I am in awe of her and always have been, because she is so utterly self-made.
Ethan, on the other hand, always looks like he’s walked out of the Katz Lime look book, dressed in whatever the store is selling at the moment—in this case, the American workwear look, which his slight frame lends an innate irony. An immaculately tailored plaid shirt with snap buttons, Japanese selvedge jeans rolled at the ankle to reveal very expensive-looking shell cordovan work boots, the kind no actual workman would dream of wearing to a construction site. He gazes at the painting through clear plastic-framed glasses I’d bet a thousand dollars were handmade by a luxury craftsman.
Their respective looks sum up their personalities well: Ethan is always on trend, and Dora is a trend unto herself. Ethan’s money comes from Wall Street, though he had the good sense to retire early and pursue his true love. I’m not sure about Dora’s background. She probably sprang fully formed from the forehead of Zeus, or emerged out of a bedazzled seashell.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Ethan says, motioning us over to see the painting.
We sit beside them, quietly observing. Finn gives me a subtle nudge, and I can imagine him regaling Huey and Diana with the whole story afterward: “We barely said hello, we just sat and looked at this painting! Talk about eccentric!”
After a few minutes, Ethan leans over and thanks us for coming.
“We thought you two would enjoy this,” he says. “It’s called Coming Out of Church, and it’s not normally on display, so this is a treat.”
“Did you drive down just for this?” Finn asks.
Ethan shakes his head pleasantly, as if the thought of doing anything for just one purpose seems baffling to him.
Dora reaches across for my hand, a stack of chunky bracelets shifting on her wrist, squeezes, then lets go. “Don’t you just love it?”
I nod my head. I do. After spending so many hours watching Aunt Bel’s idea of art, it’s nice to see a picture again, with recognizable shapes and colors.
We take a stroll through the rest of the gallery, the four of us advancing and pausing based on Dora’s whims, while Ethan murmurs about an idea he’s just thought of. Suppose he were to put together a line of Field Notes–style notebooks exclusively for Katz Lime? Would printing the covers be something we could do for him, or would it be too much? This inspires Finn to give a blow-by-blow account of the Iron Maiden’s restoration, implying that our capacity for large print jobs is ever-expanding. I stay out of the conversation for the most part, knowing that only a fraction of the ideas Ethan throws out ever come to fruition. His success, I suppose, is the result of thinking of everything, but only doing what makes the best sense. If I leave Finn alone with him long enough, perhaps the magic might rub off.
“You know what I like about you two,” Dora says to me, taking my arm in hers. “You and Finn are young entrepreneurs. We’re the same, though maybe not so young. Do you know how rare that’s becoming, people your age or younger wanting to go into business? Our daughter goes to college in the fall, and you know what she wants to do? She wants to work for a nonprofit. When I was her age, I don’t even remember that being a thing.”
“It’s a big thing now,” I say.
“Right. This is going to date me, but I think it’s the problem with the younger generation. I wanted to get out from under authority, be my own authority—but them, they’re happy to go on taking money from authority and resenting it at the same time, just like they do their parents.”
I’m not sure I follow this, but I smile and nod anyway.
“Which got me thinking, Sara. They need role models. That’s what’s missing. And when I told Ethan, he realized, ‘We have the role models right here,’ meaning the shop is full of them, Katz Lime is full of them. They’re people like you and Finn, the ones that design and make all the beautiful things we sell.”
“Ah,” I say with what I hope is an encouraging tone.
“And Finn was telling Ethan about your photography.”
My what?
I’ve been to museums with Dora and Ethan before, so I am not surprised when we end up in the gift shop, where they buy an armful of trinkets to haul into the café, where we have an afternoon snack and discuss how a Katz Lime gift shop would differ from what we’ve just seen. “That’s what we should do,” Dora says, “open a museum gift shop. We’d need a museum first.” Across the table, Ethan starts daydreaming about the sort of museum that would suit them best, while Finn looks anxiously for a way to help, perhaps not realizing the castles being built here are in the clouds. I tap his shin under the table, and he responds with a wink. Maybe he does realize and is only having fun.
When a gap opens in the conversation, I hoist my shoulder bag onto the table and pull out the proofs Huey made of the new card
line—the trash-talk literature greeting cards. I spread them out on the table without explanation. Sometimes it’s best not to preface the experience with words: just let the client look at the work and have a natural reaction, good or bad.
“Oh, these are wicked!” Dora says.
She and Ethan take turns opening cards, handing them back and forth. I can tell they’re charmed. The more sarcastic the lines inside get, the more Dora keeps glancing at me, as if to say, I didn’t know you had it in you to be so catty. Oh yes, sister. I do.
“Did you tell Sara about our idea?” Ethan asks. Then he turns to me, staring very intently through his clear plastic glasses. “The thing is, we think you should be the one to do it. There would be some travel involved, obviously, because we need to capture each individual in his or her natural habitat. I like the idea of those classic portraits, you know? Where some navigator or explorer is standing there in his ruffled collar, with his finger pointing to the spot on the globe that we wouldn’t even know about except for him. Literal and symbolic at the same time. But I don’t want to box you in too much. The point is, they have to have layers, pictures you can look at more than once and find additional meaning.”
I glance at Dora, then Finn. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
They all laugh, then it dawns on them that I’m serious.
“He’s talking about the portraits,” Dora says. “We want you to do them.”
“What portraits?”
Finn clears his throat.
“The young entrepreneurs! I want to see them at their printing presses and their computer screens. In their offices or their garages or their bedrooms—some of them are pretty small enterprises, intentionally. There’s a woman who makes our candles, and you should see how she does everything—”
“You want me to take people’s pictures,” I say.
Ethan nods. “Not just for the website either. This is going to be a display in the shop. We’re going to blow them up, some of them wall-sized, and make a storewide theme out of it. Promoting the artisans behind Katz Lime, that kind of thing.”
“I’m not sure if I’m the right person. I’m not a photographer, really.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Finn says. “She would be perfect for this. She has the eye.”
Under the table I give him another tap, this time much firmer. A warning blow.
“She really does,” he says anyway.
“I know she’s the one,” Dora says.
“It’s like Holly said,” Finn continues. “You have the talent for making things beautiful. That’s what this needs.”
I curse myself for making Holly’s words a personal mantra—or at least for confiding that mantra to Finn. The approval is wonderful, and the idea of taking on something like this, having my work showcased so prominently inside Katz Lime, is truly exciting. But that excitement gives way almost immediately to fear. They must know plenty of photographers much better than me. What if I agree to the job and can’t deliver? What if my work doesn’t measure up? The same doubts that plagued me after Holly Ringwald’s commission recur again, as they always do. I’m not sure how much affirmation it would take for me to believe in myself without reservation. I only know I’ve never come close.
“This is for real?” I ask, hoping it isn’t, hoping it’s another of Ethan’s blue sky ruminations that will never get off the ground.
“When we get back to Brooklyn, I’ll have our girl e-mail you the list. There are twenty-odd names—all of our artisans. Obviously, we’re just talking about the artisan lines, but that’s still a good portion of the business. A lot of them are on the East Coast, but you’ll have to travel farther afield for a few.”
“We love to travel,” Finn says, which surprises me. Since we put out our shingle, I don’t think I’ve traveled more than two hours outside Baltimore. The last time was Antigua, for our honeymoon in the sun.
“Then it’s settled,” Dora declares. “I’m so excited about this.”
“Me too,” I admit finally. “And a little scared.”
“Sara, there’s fear and then there’s the desire to do as well as your standards are good. Don’t confuse the two. You can do this.”
Ethan leans forward. “I can’t tell you not to doubt yourself, but don’t doubt Dora. She’s got the instincts of a newborn colt.”
“What a lovely thing to say, darling!” Dora grins.
And I do feel a little better.
When we leave the Walters, I expect them to say good-bye, but instead Dora and Ethan express an interest in visiting the Firehouse. Dora in particular wants to see the “funky old camera” Finn told her about, the birthday present that takes such incredible portraits. They follow us in their car, and on the way back I unload all my doubts on Finn, who brushes them aside.
“You’ll do great,” he keeps saying. “In fact, you know what would be interesting? What if you brought Bel into this? She might enjoy working with you, and you remember those pictures she took of you? She’s got an eye for it too.”
I remember the photos. The one of me sleeping is pinned up in Finn’s cubicle, which makes me feel flattered and vulnerable at the same time.
“I don’t think this would be Aunt Bel’s thing,” I say.
“Try her and see. You never know.”
So I call Aunt Bel from the car to ask if she’ll bring the Autocord from the house to the studio so Dora can see it. “I left it on the nightstand, I think.”
“All right,” she says.
“We’ll be about ten minutes.”
“I’ll beat you there.”
When we arrive, the twin-lens camera is sitting on the counter next to Diana, who is just finishing up a consultation with one of the brides we scheduled at the Expo.
“Where’s my aunt?” I ask.
Diana gives me a funny look. “I’ll tell you later.”
While Finn shows off the Iron Maiden to a fascinated Ethan, I show Dora the camera and a few of the photos I’ve printed out from the scanned negatives. I did one of Diana leaning against the Vandercook with her arms crossed to reveal her inked sleeves, the focus razor sharp against the blurred background. Dora exclaims right away that this is just what she has in mind.
“You’re a role model, you know that?” she says to Diana, who, despite having received plenty of compliments in life, may just have experienced a first.
When Dora and Ethan leave, Diana’s portrait goes with them. They promise to send the list by e-mail and to confer with me on the schedule, then they’re gone.
The studio is quiet in their absence, everyone pleasantly shellshocked.
“Wow,” Diana says. “She’s something.”
“Yeah. So what happened to Aunt Bel? Did she just drop off the camera and go? Finn was thinking she might want to help with the portraits, so I wanted to introduce her to Dora and Ethan.”
“It’s kind of weird,” she says, leaning over the counter and lowering her voice. “I think maybe something’s wrong.”
“What happened?”
“She came in while I was with the client, so she went and sat at your desk to wait. While she was back there, a man came in. He was foreign, with a thick accent. A loud-talker, you know? I met him at the door. He wanted to see you, Sara.” She laughs. “It was funny the way he asked. He said, were you the one who made the bird that goes ‘tweet-tweet’? I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. I could tell he was making the bride a little nervous—he was a scruffy-looking guy, kind of burly, with a big mustache, like out of a Bourne movie, and like I said, he talked too loud. So I told him you weren’t here, and he wrote a message for you on a slip of paper. I could have told him to wait, but I had my hands full and really, I just wanted to get rid of him, you know? Anyway, he left the note and then he was gone.”
“And Aunt Bel was at my desk the whole time?”
She nods. “I was kind of hoping she would come and talk to him, so I could focus on the client. But she stayed hidden until he w
as gone. Then she left the camera on the counter and snatched his note. She read it, then crumpled it up and took off.”
“You said this guy had a foreign accent? What kind of accent, exactly?”
Diana glances at the ceiling, trying to capture the words in her memory. “I can’t do a good impression,” she says, “but kind of Russian-sounding. Eastern European, I guess.”
“And he didn’t say what he wanted?”
“You’ll have to ask Bel. She’s the only one who read the note.”
12.
The Man from Uralsk
Aunt Bel should get a phone. In the weeks since her arrival, I’ve suggested the idea more than once. “Who would I call?” she always protests. “Who would call me?” When I give the obvious answer—I would—she brushes me aside. Whenever I want her, I can always find her. Call the house, call the office, and if she’s not at either one, then I’ll find her somewhere in between. Bel lives a small, circumscribed life, and she sees a mobile phone as an unnecessary intrusion. I should have tried harder, though, because she’s not at the office, not at home, and nowhere in between.
A few minutes after I get home, as I’m ascending the basement stairs, Finn walks through the front door, dropping his messenger bag on the couch.
“She’s not here,” I say.
“Did you check upstairs?”
I tap on her bedroom door. No answer. Turning the knob, I peer inside. The bed is made and the room stands empty. As I pull the door shut, a sudden panic overtakes me. My father’s voice rings in my ear: She ran away in high school. Back inside, I pull the closet door open, making sure her clothes are still hanging in a forlorn row that barely takes up half the rod. On the closet floor sits her crumpled duffel bag, and her framed pictures are still on the dresser. She’s not here, but she hasn’t gone away either.
“I’m worried about her,” I tell Finn downstairs.
He has already kicked off his shoes and switched the television on, scrolling through the list of trending clips for the day on Hulu. Seeing my agitation, he puts the remote down and sits up straight … but he doesn’t actually get up or switch the TV off.
