The Photographer
Photo by Skyler Ewing
Mom wanted professional photographs of Brother and me for the grandparents for Christmas. She complained that our recent school pictures didn’t look like us and my eyes were closed. She was frustrated because she wrote a note in the order form to warn them about me, but they obviously didn’t read it.
"What's wrong with this world?" Mom said. "Quality isn't what it used to be. When I worked in Foundations at Capwell’s Department Store, I knew everything there was to know about women's undergarments. Today, you can't even find a warm body to fit you for a bra!" Mom stashed our school pictures in the back of her file cabinet and closed the drawer. "I shouldn't have to pay for shoddy pictures of my kid with her eyes closed," she grumbled.
Across the street from Miss Maidie Du Fresne’s School of Ballet was a weary two-story house made of black bricks. Its massive porch and a bright green lawn of winter rye wrapped around it like a winter scarf. Around Halloween, when it got dark early and Mom had to park a block away, it felt like someone was watching me from its upstairs window when I walked by. Someone said the place was haunted by three ghosts: one with a hammer, one with a temper, and one with a sense of humor. The funny one played with light switches at night. A wooden sign with crisp white letters advertising an award-winning photography studio hung near the street.
While I foundered like a duck among swans at Miss Maidie's, Mom sat in the VW bug outside and waited for me. She disliked the busybodies in the lobby, each comparing their daughter's achievements. Ever since I fell off the stage during Miss Maidie's production of Alice in Wonderland, things weren't the same for either of us. Mom preferred half an hour of peace and quiet. She pushed her seat back, stretched her long legs, and blew cigarette smoke out the wing. Every week, she watched families, men in uniform, and young couples in love come and go at the photographer's studio across the street. Then one day, she made an appointment.
Then came the day of our appointment, a Saturday morning as the Tule fog lifted off the streets of Bakersfield. When I woke up, my eyes were glued shut. Mom soaked them with a warm washcloth and detangled my hair with a cold, dripping comb. Goosebumps erupted all over my body.
Hanging on my closet door was the sleeveless orange summer dress grandma made with its yellow sunflowers and tiny white polka dots. It was Mom's favorite. She paired it with a white button-up sweater, white cable-knit knee-highs, and my school shoes resurrected with brown polish.
I followed Brother up the steps and onto the porch of the photographer's studio, where the floorboards creaked like old bones. Mom knocked and opened the door before a reply.
"Hello? Is there anyone here?" she said. "I have an appointment."
"I'll be right with you," said a muffled voice from a back room.
Mom licked her palm and pressed my bangs to my forehead, but it didn't help. She fussed with Brother's shirt collar. "Keep your hands to yourself, both of you, and no fighting," she warned.
The photographer's studio felt as spooky inside as it did outside. It was cold, dark, and smelled like the inside of Mom's cedar chest. On the fringe, among ghosts and shadows, were props, antique chairs, an old wooden rocking horse, and rolls of painted backdrops against the back wall. In the middle of the room, across from a box camera on stilts, masking tape marked two spots where wooden stools sat in front of a painted brown backdrop. Sunbeams peeked through a stained-glass window onto the floor like a kaleidoscope at my feet.
Standing there, the shadows triggered my fear. I’d always believed that my first introduction to life on this earth was a flash cube explosion. I'm sure of it. Mom had documented Brother and me since we were babies, mailing snapshots to the grandparents every month, as well as for special occasions and milestones. She had to because we lived far from family and only visited on holidays. When the grandparents received their envelope of pictures, they'd call long distance just to say Brother and I had grown like weeds and how much they missed us.
The truth was, I hated getting my picture taken. The anticipation, the blinding flashes, and the lingering dark spots made me psychotic, and Mom madder than a fire ant. My eyes always closed. I couldn't help it, no matter how much I tried or how much Mom threatened me. It was the same with lightning flashes and thunder. Mom thought something was seriously wrong with me. Still, the pediatrician said I'd probably grow out of it someday, but I never did. Instead, I worried more than any kid should at the sight of a camera, picture day at school, the Fourth of July, or whenever thunderheads filled the sky on a summer afternoon. So there I was, trapped in my worst nightmare when I should’ve been home watching Saturday morning cartoons.
The photographer was so tall that he had to duck when he entered the room. His green pants and turtle neck made him look like a string bean.
“Good morning, everyone, my name is Mr. Carson, but you can call me Wayne,” he said.
Wayne shook my hand and Brother's, too, and said it was a pleasure to meet us, calling us by our first names, as friends do.
“Are we ready to get started?” he asked.
Satisfied we were in good hands, Mom retreated into the shadows with my sweater.
Wayne asked Brother and me to sit on the stools in front of the backdrop. "So, I hear you're a ballerina over there at Miss Maidie’s," he said, turning my shoulders to the right. “Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake is my favorite. Maybe someday you'll be famous and dance the part of Odette with the San Francisco Ballet."
Who was Odette? I wondered.
"I bet you practice every day, am I right?"
I waited for Mom to rat me out, but she never did.
Wayne tilted my chin to the left, Brother's too, and retreated under the hood of his camera. "Scoot in a little, a little more, close like family,” he said.
Brother always sat with his legs wide open for some reason. When I scooted in as Bobby said, one of Brother's legs pressed against mine, which was too close for comfort, and I pushed it back.
"There, now that's picture perfect."
I knew what was coming. There'd be a click, a blinding white flash, and then Mom berating me for closing my eyes. I was Jiffy Pop inside, ready to explode. I started blinking and twitching in anticipation.
"Good God almighty, here we go again. I am so sorry, Mr. Carson," Mom said, emerging from the shadows.
Wayne motioned for Mom to leave, dragged over a chair, and sat down, blocking my view of her.
"I'm sorry," I stammered.
Brother didn't say a word for once. I almost thought he felt bad for me, even if only for a hot second.
Mom went outside to smoke.
"Are you okay?" Wayne whispered.
I nodded, trying to fight back tears.
"I want you to look right here," he said, pointing to the tip of his nose until our eyes locked, and even Brother disappeared.
"I know exactly how you’re feeling right now," he said. "I hated getting my picture taken when I was your age, too. Every time I saw that blasted flash, I'd jump out of my skin. Once, I jumped so high I scared the photographer, and he knocked over his expensive camera." Wayne sat back and threw up his hands. "And look at me now; I'm a professional photographer!" he laughed.
"Do you see those big, friendly umbrellas over there? Those are special lights, magic lights, so you don't have to close your beautiful hazel eyes. Here, let me show you."
Wayne counted to three. I squinted, waiting for a white flash and the black spots that would follow, but they never came. When Bobby clicked a button on the end of a long wire, the entire room flooded with a soft, warm glow.
"See, you've been bathed in light," he said. "Here, you push the button."
I pushed it. Brother did, too. And it wasn’t scary.
Wayne re-arranged Brother and me, re-titled our chins, and returned under the hood. "Now that's what I call picture perfect. On the count of three, I want you to say pickles…one, two…”
Pickles made me giggle.
"Beautiful!" shouted Wayne. "Now, look right here at my finger. Pickles!"
Click.
"Turn your head a smidge to the right, sweetie pie, chin up, you two. Great!"
Click.
"Perfect!"
Click. Click. Click.
A few weeks later, Mom reviewed the proofs from our photography session. She was thrilled and decided to order the deluxe package of various sizes. The 8x10s slid into silver frames for the grandparents, while the smaller ones went into everyone's wallets. Mom wrote the date on the back of the medium ones, and they went into our family photo album.
When Christmas arrived, Grandma unwrapped her portrait. While she studied our picture, Mom boasted about Mr. Carlson, her personal photographer. She claimed he was the best in the business and a rare find, especially in a small town like Bakersfield. Mom praised him as a serious artist who had captured her children's personalities better than anyone else ever could.
The pictures turned out okay. My bangs were crooked, and Brother looked like a squirrel with his chipped tooth. But to Mom, those photographs represented a higher standard of quality she missed in her life.
Colored lights twinkled in the mirror above the stereo console while Bing Crosby dreamt of a white Christmas. I climbed onto Grandma's lap and melted into her cable-knit sweater, feeling her arms wrap around me.
"Thank you for the lovely picture, sweetie,” she whispered. "I'm so lucky to have such a beautiful granddaughter like you."
“Stay right there, you two,” Mom said. “I want to get a picture.” She loaded a flashbulb onto her camera and pointed it at us.
“On the count of three, say cheese. One… two… three…”
My eyes closed.
Click.
