The Vanishing Point

by Elizabeth Brundage

  A few weeks later, when the cherry blossoms are in bloom, an old pickup truck pulls up the driveway. Simone stands at the window, her hand on the glass. A man gets out, his long silver hair pulled back in a ponytail, his blue jeans held up by suspenders. He walks around to the passenger’s side and opens the door, and another man gets out. This man is frail and has a walking stick nearly as tall as he is, and his hair, too, is long and gray. But he is someone she recognizes. In fact, she knows him very well.

  Rye

  After Boyd leaves, they hold each other for a long time, and Simone cries in his arms. I never believed you were gone, she says. Not even for a single minute.

  They sit together in the kitchen and he tells her his story, including the night with Magda in the city, what it was like for him seeing her again, and how the past and the person he’d once been had rushed back to him like the warm oblivion of a drug.

  I never wanted to hurt you, Simone. But I guess I did.

  We’ve hurt each other, haven’t we?

  Yes, we have.

  He looks at her face, something there in her eyes, a resolve he hasn’t seen before.

  I have something for you, she says, and hands him a small envelope. I should have given this to you a long time ago. It was an important letter, and I kept it from you. It was a terrible thing to do.

  He knows what it is, of course, but he opens it anyway, unfolding the thick stationery. He can feel her watching him. The letter in question is very short and to the point, and he can hear Magda’s voice as he reads the words. No matter what, it says at the end. I will love you always.

  I was afraid I’d lose you, Simone says. I’m sorry, Rye. I’m really very sorry.

  He nods.

  It was stupid. And I regret it. She starts to weep. I was a young woman.

  I know, Simone. But it’s not entirely your fault. I was part of it. Part of why you felt you had to do that. And I’m sorry too.

  Can you forgive me?

  I’m not sure, he says.

  They look at each other, their faces at once familiar and strange. He knows he can’t stay. The house isn’t his anymore. And he and Simone don’t fit. They both know it. They’ve known it for a long time.

  His old Porsche starts right up. He pulls out of the carriage house and takes a last look at the old house. He can see Simone standing at the window, watching. She raises her hand like a woman on a parade float, and he waves back, as if finalizing some obscure arrangement, then she tugs the curtain back into place and disappears.

  The newspapers print the story about his discovery and his time in the hut in the wilderness. They all use the same photograph, the one that makes him look like Jesus, with his long hair and beard, the crazy look in his eye, one that’s recognizable to anyone who’s ever lived on the streets—the one that says hungry.

  Magda

  She’s out on the beach when she hears his voice. She turns and watches as he slowly descends the stairs. As he nears, she sees the limp, the hard lines of his body, his blue eyes. Hey, he calls.

  Hey, she says, and smiles.

  They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, and she can see in his face that he’s been through something he can’t fully explain.

  It’s about time you showed up.

  He laughs and she does too, and then she cries. And he pulls her into his arms. And he holds her very tightly. And they stay like that a long time, holding each other under the bright sky.

  This is my fault, she says. None of this would’ve happened to you.

  It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.

  You went through a lot.

  We all did. How is he?

  He’s good. He went for a run. She looks off down the beach. There he is, see? Way down there. He’s been running a lot. It’s been really helpful.

  That’s good to hear.

  It’s been hard, you know. But we’re getting there.

  My God, you’re beautiful.

  She lets out a laugh. Am I?

  Hey, I finally got that letter.

  Okay, good. I’m glad. Took a while.

  Yup. Sure did.

  She must love you very much.

  No, he says. That’s not love. He touches her cheek. But this sure is.

  It’s like a bright heat inside her. She closes her eyes a moment, savoring it. And then he kisses her like it’s the first time.

  Hey, Adler, Theo calls, running up to them.

  It is only now they break apart, and Rye and Theo hug.

  I heard about what happened to you. You okay?

  Way better than okay, Rye says. You look really good, Theo.

  Theo accepts the compliment gratefully. It’s been a gift to be here. Thank you for this.

  You’re welcome. I’m glad it worked out.

  Theo smiles. I’ll let you two lovebirds get reacquainted. I have another few miles to do.

  See you inside, she tells him.

  They watch him run off, each of them grappling with this new reality, the possibility of a life together as a family.

  He looks great, Rye says.

  I’m really proud of him. She sighs and laughs a little and shakes her head. It’s been really good for him here, she says. Like he said, a gift. Thank you, Rye. Really. This place—

  You don’t have to thank me.

  Yes, I do. You’ve helped us a lot. More than—

  But now she’s crying again.

  Hey, now. It’s okay, it’s going to be all right.

  She nods, wiping away her tears. I know. I know it is.

  He takes her hands. I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time. It kind of kept me going, you know? This feeling I have for you and Theo—

  He shakes his head. There are no words to explain it.

  You don’t have to, she tells him. Because I already know.

  Rye

  He follows her into the house, nearly stumbling over her clogs. She takes his hand. Welcome home.

  In the time she’s been here, the house has come to life. It’s no longer the empty old place. Now there is the smell of her cooking, the counters laden with oranges, avocados, dates the size of his thumbs, the table scattered with crumbs from breakfast, the leftover toast, the jar of jam. The open wings of half-read books.

  Is it weird?

  No. It’s wonderful.

  Are you hungry?

  Very, he says, and takes her hand.

  They hurry upstairs to his old bedroom and she closes the door. There are the tall windows, the pale blue sky, blocks of sunlight on the floor. There is the sound of the ocean. The cries of birds.

  Even with Theo out on the beach they are very quiet, as if any sound might disrupt the ghost of his long-dead mother. The wood floors are cold under his bare, sandy feet. The bed, with its iron fists, waits. Slowly kissing, staggering like drunkards, they undress each other, and then she is naked, standing before him, her hands open at her sides, waiting to be filled.

  Epilogue

  Like everybody else, Julian was amazed that Adler had survived. He’d been flipping the channels one morning, getting ready for work, when he happened upon the report. Soon after, all the papers covered it, and most of the magazines, touting the renowned photographer as the most adventurous man of the year. Vanity Fair devoted several pages to Adler’s story, beginning with a man knocking on his window in the hospital parking lot, a man he’d identified as a total stranger.

  A total stranger? Hardly. Why had he said this? Maybe he’d been so traumatized, he didn’t remember. Amnesia could happen to people when they experienced bad things. Something in the brain allowed them to forget. Julian certainly hoped it was the case. But what if it wasn’t? What if Adler’s statement had been deliberate? What if it had been meant entirely for him?

  The article mentioned the couple who’d found him and nursed him back to health over a period of nearly four months and their strange little cult in the wilderness. All in all, Adler said, the experience had been life affir
ming; he’d been irrevocably transformed.

  Truthfully, relieved as Julian was, it made him want to puke. Once again, it seemed, Adler had prevailed.

  Over and over he reviewed that night in his mind. The drive in Adler’s truck, the almost primal intimacy they shared, anticipating the unknown. How he’d forced Adler up on the bridge, his loyal prisoner, the satisfaction he’d felt during those precarious moments, how they’d fought in the shattering cold, the blood, the sounds they’d made, grunting and groaning like animals. How he’d had no choice but to finish it.

  He’d disposed of the gloves, of course, which had traces of blood on the knuckles. He’d cut them to pieces with a pair of pinking shears and buried them in his mother’s garden out in Jersey.

  After the news broke, and for days afterward, a desperate panic set in. He lay in bed, feverish, his sheets soaked with sweat. His hair was long and shaggy, his skin oily, his eyes red and glassy. He felt unable to leave his apartment, his shades drawn. Only at night did he open them, staring out across the courtyard into the bright rooms of his neighbors. He didn’t go to work and told them he was suffering from a prolonged medical condition. Often, he woke in the night, convinced there was someone in the apartment. He would turn on all of the lights and open the closets. He finally dug out his father’s gold medallion, which he’d bought on a trip somewhere, with an evil eye on it, and wore the heavy chain around his neck to keep him safe.

  When he finally had nothing left in his refrigerator, he walked the three blocks up to the market. He shopped quickly, impulsively, tossing random items into his cart—potatoes, sardines, a jar of pecans—and hurried home, avoiding the glaring faces on the street, convinced that they were watching him. Convinced that they all knew. As he shuffled past the news kiosk on the corner, he saw Adler’s face on the cover of Time. He grabbed the magazine and tossed down his money, and the man behind the counter pawed the bills, staring at him with cold, knowing eyes.

  The opening is at Henry Cline’s new gallery. The critics describe Adler’s photographs as transcendent. He doesn’t plan on going in. Still, he buys a new suit for the occasion and a new pair of loafers. He pays a visit to the barber, enjoying the sensation of the man’s fingers in his hair, the blade of his razor crossing his face.

  It’s a chilly night in October and he pulls on his old cashmere coat, the lining a little torn, and his stiff new shoes. They pinch his toes, and he regrets not getting a larger size. He rides the elevator down with the woman who lives next door to him. She nods but refuses to meet his eyes, and when the doors finally open, she flees.

  Out in the cool air, he clutches the collar of his coat and hails a cab. The gallery is on 19th Street, between Tenth and Eleventh. There’s a bar across the street. He orders a double whiskey and sits at a table by the window, watching the people going in and out through the wide double doors. With the drink inside him he feels more confident, and he heads out to the corner and crosses the street. It is a kind of theater, he thinks, glancing through the huge plate-glass windows at the bright space within, the white walls and high ceilings, the blond-wood floors. He can’t avoid seeing the work, of course. Luminous, life-size photographs of the forest and its multifarious inhabitants, reminiscent of Adler’s earlier work, but better somehow, more informed and truly, undoubtedly, brilliant.

  A bitter taste fills his mouth. The taste of blood, he realizes; he has bitten his lip.

  Aren’t you going in? It’s a man’s voice. He turns to see a thin, bald stranger who has come outside to smoke.

  No, Julian says. I’m not interested in photography.

  Too bad, the man says. It’s a great show, you should check it out. The guy’s a fucking genius.

  It’s only then that he notices Adler, standing at the far end of the room surrounded by his acolytes. He sees Magda, the woman he called his wife for over twenty years, dressed all in black, beaming, you might say, with happiness, as she receives their guests, and Theo, the boy he raised from birth, standing beside her, wearing a blue work shirt and black jeans, just like Adler, seemingly content to be part of the celebration—to be alive, Julian imagines, here and now.

  Feeling nothing, he stands there another moment before he notices Rye staring at him from across the room. Julian wonders if he actually sees him through the glass, or if he’s looking at something, someone else. But his gaze persists, and Julian knows.

  They stare at each other, transfixed.

  They are like duelists, he thinks. Forever linked by this singular and final moment.

  But it doesn’t last.

  Julian turns and walks away, instantly losing himself in a crowd of weekend tourists, a man in a long black coat against the gritty city night, indiscernible, anonymous, just one more stranger among many.

  Acknowledgments

  When I started this book, I knew I wanted to write about photography as an apt metaphor for our changing times, not only for its rapid technological ascent but for its reflection of who we are as a society. I began what I’d like to think of as a thorough investigation of the medium, reading countless books and magazines, interviewing photographers, and taking my own pictures. Some of the key books that helped to shape the characters in this novel are The Ongoing Moment by Geoff Dyer, a beautifully written investigation of several remarkable photographers and their work, as well as Dyer’s The Street Philosophy of Garry Winogrand; Annie Leibovitz’s At Work, a fascinating memoir about her extraordinary life and career; The Nature of Photographs by Stephen Shore, what he calls a primer, which helped me fundamentally understand how photographers see, and how one might understand what is happening inside the frame, as well as his collected photographs Uncommon Places; John Szarkowski’s Looking at Photographs and The Photographer’s Eye; Roland Barthes’s Camera Lucida; On Photography by Susan Sontag; Understanding a Photograph and Ways of Seeing by John Berger; Aperture Conversations and Aperture magazine; Master Photographers by Roberto Koch; Hold Still by Sally Mann; The Nine and The Ninety Nine by Katy Grannan; The Americans by Robert Frank; The Decisive Moment by Henri Cartier-Bresson; Half Past Autumn by Gordon Parks; Walker Evans: The Hungry Eye by Gilles Mora; Modern Color by Fred Herzog; Where I Find Myself, by the extraordinary Joel Meyerowitz; Revelations by Diane Arbus; 2¼ by William Eggleston; In the American West and Evidence by Richard Avedon; The Open Road by David Campany; Genesis by Sebastião Salgado; Road to Seeing by Dan Winters; Lee Friedlander’s Street: The Human Clay; Saul Leiter, Early Black and White by Max Kozloff; The World of Atget by Berenice Abbott; Kodachrome by Luigi Ghirri; Miroslav Tichý, edited by Roman Buxbaum; Nationality Doubtful by Josef Koudelka, edited by Matthew S. Witkovsky; Edges by Harry Gruyaert; The Family Album of Lucybelle Crater by Ralph Eugene Meatyard; and too many more to name. I also want to thank Magnum Photo’s Learn with Magnum Workshops, Alec Soth: Photographic Storytelling and The Art of Street Photography, two excellent courses, as well as Dyanna Taylor’s extraordinary documentary about her grandmother Dorothea Lange, Grab a Hunk of Lightning, which helped me to better understand what it feels like to be female in a male-dominated profession, and the sacrifices so many artists make for their work. I want to thank photographers everywhere, masters and amateurs alike, who continue to reaffirm what it means to be human in this complex and ever-changing world.

  It has been a gift to work with Judy Clain, whose visionary insight and editorial precision helped me discover this novel’s true and essential shape, for which I am entirely and wondrously grateful. Thanks also to everyone at Little, Brown, for their extraordinary expertise: Miya Kumangai, Jayne Yaffe Kemp, Laura Mamelok, Jeff Stiefel, and the incomparable copyeditor Pamela Marshall, whose remarkable detailed work greatly improved every page of this novel.

  I want to thank my agent, Linda Chester, for always being the first person to lay eyes on my work and for her swift and critical feedback, which is worth gold to any writer and for which I am grateful beyond measure. Thanks also to the indispensable Gary Jaffe, Laurie Fox, Darlene Chan, and Michelle Co
nway of The Linda Chester Literary Agency, all devoted and outstanding professionals. Thanks also to Alice Deon, Robbert Ammerlaan, Elena Siebert, Michael Keusch, John Froats, Robert Zakin, Angelo Denoucous, Susan Turconi, Renee Pettit, Elizabeth Karl, Kevin O’Dea, Avie Hern, Patricia VanAlstyne, Guy Mastrion, and Donald J. Moore.

  The book Beyond Addiction: How Science and Kindness Help People Change, by Jeffrey Foote, Carrie Wilkens, and Nicole Kosanke, with Stephanie Higgs, is a miraculous resource for anyone suffering from addiction and for their families.

  Finally, I want to thank my husband, Scott Morris, who works harder than anyone I know and whose stories always inspire me to write better, to work harder, to keep going, and my parents, who, with their love and enthusiasm, keep the engine of our family running, every single day. And finally, and most important, this book is dedicated to my children, Hannah, Sophie, and Sam, who have taught me so much about life, and the changing rhythm of this world. I couldn’t have written this book without them.

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