Clara at the Edge

by Maryl Jo Fox

  Arianna clears her throat. “Let me explain, Clara. I sent the photos to the curator like I said I would. He’s still got them.”

  “Still got them?” Furious, she knows she must contain herself. “Then why did you have me come here?” No one speaks for a minute. “What if the curator loses them? Who’s responsible? Those pictures are my only record.” She clasps her hands tightly together on the table.

  Lenore skitters across the restaurant floor. Clara grabs Lenore’s cloth bag and takes after her. She snatches Lenore just as she starts running up a cowboy’s boot, dusty and smelling of manure. “Don’t you ever go running off like that again,” she hisses. Looking bewildered, the cowboy reaches down to check his boots. Clara stuffs Lenore back in her bag and sits down again. Arianna and Haskell share a glance that says ignore whatever just happened.

  “Ben won’t lose the pictures, Clara.” Arianna leans confidentially toward her. “He wants them for ‘Hidden America,’ a photography show that opens July first at the Met. He wants to catch an invisible America just as the new century’s getting under way. Your house, your journey are just what he’s looking for.” She drains her iced tea. “He called last night, wants the negatives ASAP. There’s been a last-minute cancellation, so he can get you in. He’s very excited about it.”

  Clara relaxes. “So you have the negatives?”

  Arianna takes out a binder of negatives from her leather bag. “Look at them in your lap. The table will shade them.”

  She examines the negatives carefully, focusing only on the family pictures on her dresser and the lilac traces on the siding. And there they are—a dozen negatives from every angle. Her eyes glisten. Arianna got some great shots. How amazing they were preserved in celluloid just days before Edie and Dawson destroyed her house. Relieved, she returns the negatives to Arianna. Haskell has been watching this whole exchange. Even Lenore has been quiet for once.

  She’s confused. “But when will I get the pictures back?”

  “After the show closes on August tenth. No problem.” Coolly efficient, Arianna takes a manila envelope from her bag. “Here’s the release that lets the Met use your pictures. Don’t worry about the photos. The Met treats its properties with great care. When you sign, I’ll FedEx the release and negatives to Ben. He’s got some great ideas for their display.” She takes out a ballpoint pen. “So, are you ready to sign?”

  Clara’s in a panic. Too many things are happening. Lenore is jumping up and down in the bag, and this man is staring at her.

  She just wants her pictures back. Wants to find a place to live in Jackpot so she can sit at the kitchen table in the morning and calmly drink her coffee. She wants to listen to cars shrieking by on the highway, listen to NPR if she can find it. Have Frank and Stella over for good dinners and rum drinks. She wants to get a little tipsy. She wants to read the latest books Abigail recommends from a list she’ll send from Syracuse—a biography of Benjamin Franklin or Matisse, a novel by Haruki Murakami or Wallace Stegner, stories by Alice Munro. She’ll chat with the owner of Jackpot Video about his classics section, herd people into Desert Dan’s for Scotty. She’ll do crossword puzzles, volunteer at the little library she discovered the day before her house burned down. There’s got to be a school nearby. She can substitute teach.

  Right now these scenarios don’t really comfort her, though reading Murakami would help her feel better about Lenore and this quietly unnerving man sitting across from her.

  “If I refuse to sign, I could get the negatives right now, couldn’t I?”

  Arianna is dumbfounded. “Not sign? For the Met? But this is a wonderful chance to see the Big Apple. You can stay at my apartment, see the sights, go to the opening, have the town at your feet.”

  “But I hadn’t planned on going to New York.” In confusion, she looks from Arianna to Haskell. They stare quizzically back at her. The cloth bag is quivering against her foot really hard. After a long silence she says, “OK, I can’t deny it: I’d like to see what the Met will do with my pictures. I can’t imagine it.” Dazed, she looks at both of them. “This is completely new territory for me. I might need some help.”

  The bag is dancing. Haskell leans back in his chair and smiles. Arianna laughs. “Of course you’ll go to New York, and of course we’ll help you. You’ll be the talk of the town. The pictures will be a smash.”

  Clara looks sharply at Arianna. “But I don’t want to be the talk of the town. I just want my pictures back when it’s all over. All of them. Undamaged.”

  Slowly Arianna says, “I’m beginning to understand—better than I did in Jackpot. Your house is central to your life, almost like a diary, right?” Her voice has softened. She looks at her uncle, as if to draw him in.

  Clara nods. “A visual diary, yes.” She thinks to herself, So why should I let strangers look at my visual diary? And how do I tell THESE strangers my house has just burned down and I’ve lost everything—when I can hardly speak the words to myself?

  Haskell watches her closely. “You can’t understand why you should let strangers look at something as private as the house your husband built for you. He did build it, didn’t he? This looks like a house made with a lot of love.” He puts a tentative hand on hers.

  She quickly takes her hand away. “Mr. Roberts—Haskell, you don’t know anything about me or my life. So don’t make a lot of hypothetical statements just because you want your niece to get a credit at the Met. I’m no fool. I know some things.”

  It’s his turn to look dumbfounded. Before he can reply, the cheerful waitress reappears and sets a pitcher of iced tea on the table, her pencil poised above their ticket. “You folks ready for some dessert today? We have pie—coconut cream, lemon meringue, apple. Cake—we have carrot cake and chocolate. Ice cream—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry.” They shake their heads; the waitress bustles off.

  Dead silence at the table. Haskell looks chastened; Arianna looks worried. Clara sits with no expression.

  “All right,” Clara finally says in a soft voice. “I guess so. I’ll sign.” Not a word, she murmurs to the quiet bundle at her feet.

  Watching her closely, Arianna slides the paper slowly toward her. “You’re sure? I want you to be sure, Clara. Please read it first.”

  She reads it, not really understanding it after this amazing day, needing now to simply trust.

  She signs.

  All business now, Arianna puts the document in the leather bag. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to FedEx the negatives and the release right now from the hotel. Ben was really very insistent last night. I can’t thank you enough, Clara. I don’t think you’ll regret this.”

  “I hope not,” she says weakly.

  “Back in a few.”

  They watch Arianna disappear. Both start talking at once. Lenore is dancing in the bag again.

  “I didn’t mean to assume anything,” he says.

  “I shouldn’t have spoken so sharply,” she says.

  He laughs; she frowns. “I don’t know you, Haskell. I haven’t set eyes on you before this day.”

  “I understand.” He fingers his silverware.

  She’s trying to get a fix on this man. He plays with his water glass, takes deep breaths. An air of stillness, complete receptivity lies beneath his words and gestures. He takes his time asking and answering. Sometimes he seems puzzled, but his knowing look suggests he wouldn’t be startled by whatever came his way—that naivety is a planet he left long ago—that he’d be calm even if she sprouted an extra head. She’s never met a man like this. She remembers how he sneezed and nearly fell into his chair when he first sat down. She smiles to herself. He’s not perfectly varnished.

  If she’d admit to it—which she certainly will not—she wonders what it would be like to touch that scar above his left eyebrow, his honey-colored hair, those somewhat crepey eyelids. My stars, it’s been decades. Could she really curl up beside this man, his barnacled voice going on about this or that? Her beleaguered brain notes that her solar plexus
has released tension she didn’t know was there. This will never do. Get a grip, girl.

  She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, as if preparing an interview for national media. “Just what kind of photography do you do?” she asks primly.

  He turns weary. “Catalogue shoots. That’s what I do. I spend too much time setting up shots of some gizmo that no one needs. I know all the bells and whistles—the lighting, the filters, the product enhancers—tricks to make the gizmo look better than it really is. It’s just a job, but it pays well if people know your name. My work is nothing like Arianna’s. She’s an artist. My job just pays the bills.”

  “So people ‘know your name.’” She’s checking to see if he’s vain.

  He shrugs, then smiles. “I’ve built up a clientele. I know how to butter people up.”

  She’s disarmed by his honesty. Maybe he’s buttering her up. In a way she doesn’t mind. It’s been a long time since anyone tried to butter her up. She can handle it. She studies her hands folded neatly in her lap.

  Arianna rejoins them. “Well, that was easy. The negatives will arrive tomorrow morning.” Her gaze is relieved, birdlike. “So, what’s on the agenda, folks?”

  He grins. “How about if I order some champagne to toast the soon-to-be star of ‘Hidden America: Photography in the New Millennium’ at the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”

  “Champagne? I’d fall right asleep,” Clara says briskly. “I’d prefer a walk.”

  A little smile curls Arianna’s mouth. “I agree with Clara. Let’s sit awhile and get our check.”

  He turns to Clara, speaking intently. “You focused on the siding and some pictures on a dresser. Any particular reason for that? Tell me if I’m being nosy.”

  She sees he’s trying to be sensitive and respectful. Her hands are damp as she realizes she’ll have to tell them about Dawson and Edie. Somehow her encounters with these young people are personal. She wanted to guide them and look what it got her.

  She leans back in her chair. The crushing reasons to come to Nevada return—the needed reconciliation with Frank, her quest for redemption with Samantha (from which she’s running like hell), and her desire to just change her life, turn a corner somehow. This man better git while he can. I can never have a plain, normal life.

  She lays her hands flat on the table. “You are being nosy,” she smiles, “but I’ll tell you anyway.” She tells them how, over the years, house painters didn’t truss up her lilacs properly, so the bushes would flip back onto the wet paint, trapping petals in the paint. “I didn’t really notice this until my son got my house jacked up on the flatbed to come here. Lilacs are in my past, shall we say. Any souvenir of how I used to live interests me very much.”

  She takes a deep breath. “As for damage, a young man in Jackpot slashed my window screen and climbed into my house with the intent of robbing me. I scared him off, but he came back later with his girlfriend and tied me up. They robbed me and pretty much burned down the house and tried to set me on fire, then took off with my valuables, such as they are, in a stolen car. This happened a few days ago. His girlfriend destroyed my family pictures. I don’t know why.”

  Haskell scrapes his chair back. “Are you serious?”

  Arianna leans forward. “Assaulted you? In Jackpot? Burned down your wonderful house? My god, Clara.”

  “Black. Any remaining siding is singed black.” She takes in their startled looks. “My house was untouched for almost fifty years. They went south, but the police haven’t found them. They’ve disappeared.” She examines her napkin with lowered eyes. “This young man has a prison record, grew up in foster care. He’s twenty-seven. I feel sorry for him, even though his actions are inexcusable.” Haskell and Arianna stare raptly at her. “I guess they’ll be robbing mini-marts and gas stations to get wherever they’re going. His girlfriend is a tough case too—she saw her father kill her mother. I hate what they did to me, but somebody’s got to reach out to them—if we want to call ourselves civilized.” She studies her hands still spread out on the table.

  Haskell leans forward. “Did you get the license number?” She nods. Quietly he asks, “What did they take, Clara?”

  She looks at him. “Some cash, my son’s coin collection, my wedding ring, a pearl necklace and the opal ring my husband gave me.”

  Speaking softly, Arianna catches Haskell’s eye. “The police no doubt have an all-points bulletin out on them.”

  “I’m sure of it.” His eyes are gentle. It occurs to him that Clara didn’t have much to take. Those people probably took all she had of value in the world. He’s somewhat awed by this idea, a little envious.

  He himself feels throttled by possessions. So many things tie him down, things like expensive Manhattan real estate, beautiful carpets made overseas by small children, heavy silver and copper pieces bought in seething Middle Eastern countries, furniture handmade from rare woods, covered with special hides. Things he himself was indifferent to but his wife hotly wanted. She bought all these things. Stuff was her drug. He feels laden, won’t feel free until the entire loft is bare and he has left it.

  He looks at this trim, clear-eyed woman with her plain green blouse, worn Levi’s, no jewelry, and hardly any makeup. He feels lighter just by looking at her.

  He flashes on his small study back at the flat, furnished simply with a secondhand desk, faded couch, two lamps, some books. His wife never touched that room. “The Salvation Army special,” she called it. But the simple room always calmed him. What would Clara think of it?

  She blurts, “I don’t want these kids in a shootout or something crazy. They just need to stop this nonsense.”

  “Where’s your son, Clara?” Arianna asks gently.

  “Frank would just deck the boy. He’s mightily upset with Dawson. As you would suspect.”

  Almost to himself, Haskell says, “Amazing. They do these things to you, and still you want them to survive well.” He pauses. “You’re not looking for these kids, are you?”

  “Certainly not.” She gives him an impatient look, not used to being challenged by anyone except Frank.

  Arianna is puzzled by Clara’s interest in these losers. The hard-luck cases just get you off track. She worships light, form, and composition, at almost any cost. She relishes the fact that she’s just sent off necessary documents to get her photos shown at the Met. Another notch. Things are picking up at last. She’s been in anonymous hell for twenty years. Triumphantly, she pushes her glasses up on her nose.

  Clara glares at the fabric bag. Every time Haskell opens his mouth, the bag quivers, as if Lenore is beside herself that a man has entered the scene. She will give Lenore a good talking to back in the car. The creature should stick to entertainment. She said she’d guide Clara. So guide. She clenches her hands under the table, feeling thoroughly lost.

  The talk turns to other matters. As they wait for the check, Clara excuses herself to call Scotty from the lobby, taking Lenore in the bag with her. He answers, sounding beleaguered. “Clara! We’ve been worried sick! Where are you? Hold on—Frank, here.”

  “Mother! How could you disappear like this? And with Scotty’s car? I thought you were kidnapped! Unbelievable. What’s going on?” He is clipped and hyper.

  “Didn’t you read my note? I’m in Elko having lunch at the Rancher’s Hotel. I told you everything.” She turns toward the window, as if facing an invisible judge. She agrees it was irresponsible to take Scotty’s car, but she had no choice. “I had to get down here, Frank, before Arianna disappeared on me again. The house pictures will be at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in July, in a photography show. Can you imagine that?”

  Long silence. “So when are you coming back? We had a nice time together the last few days—a really nice time. After all these years. I think you would agree.”

  She flinches, surprised at his bitter tone. “Don’t, Frank,” she says in a whisper. “It was a wonderful time. More wonderful than you could ever know.” He’s right. What was I t
hinking? She frowns. But he’s a grown man. Doesn’t he realize I have other issues to settle too?

  He barrels on. “Sometimes I don’t understand you at all. I really don’t. Sometimes you don’t seem . . . sensible.” His voice trails off in exasperation.

  “The damage to the house made me crazy, Frank. It’s been my cocoon. The pictures Arianna took are the only record of my life. I would have crawled on my hands and knees to get those pictures. Of course I’m coming back. Give me a day or two.”

  Scotty grabs the phone. “Now don’t worry, Clara. You’ll be safe driving that car. Just keep in touch, OK?” His tone brightens. “Maybe it’s good to get out of Jackpot for a few days, after what you’ve been through. Is that the idea here?”

  “I don’t know, Scotty. The only thing I thought about was getting the pictures.”

  He’s reassuring again. “Just check in every once in a while so we won’t worry, OK? And don’t worry about Frank. I’ll settle him down. The wasps are fine. We checked on them right after we got your note.”

  Somewhat pale, she sits down at the table again. The waitress has brought two checks. Haskell picks up hers. “Here, let me take care of that. Are you all right, Clara?”

  She slaps her credit card on the table. “I’ll take care of my check, thank you.”

  “Is everything all right?” Arianna asks.

  “Everything’s fine. My son is very upset that I took Scotty’s car.”

  Arianna and Haskell raise their eyebrows, say nothing.

  Clara sees their look. They think I’m nuts. Fine. Let them think that. Now she’s on the verge of tears and struggles mightily to control herself. Quickly she tells them about moving down from Oregon and needing a car to get to Elko. As they listen intently, Lenore in her bag is warm against Clara’s ankle.

  Abruptly she stands, hefts her purse and the cloth bag over her shoulder. “Scotty knows I’ll take care of his car. He trusts me, even though nobody else seems to. And now that you think I’m insane, I need to get going. Thank you very much for your company.” She grabs her check and heads for the cash register.