Chapter One
What I remember most is climbing the stairs. Just thinking about it makes my heart skip a beat. I found myself mostly late at night, but also in the strangest and sometimes most public situations, succumbing to daydreaming, living every step vividly, from the creak of a loose board to the way her hair looked in the afternoon sun and the way her skirt moved as I walked behind her, watching her from behind. It was one of the strangest events of my life, so vivid, so indelible, that it gave me a level of urgency and intensity that, I am sure, is similar to the level of awareness and anticipation that a condemned man must experience, when he made his last long journey.
Her name is Cynthia, but I almost always call her Cynth. We are neighbors. Neither of our houses was very nice by today’s standards. We live in one of those lower middle class neighborhoods that seem to spring up in the cracks and edges of every big city. It’s nearly impossible to distinguish row after row of houses from the others, other than the occasional pink plastic flamingo on a small patch of front lawn, or maybe a slightly different paint color on the shutters or door.
That day I found her on her porch. It’s always very hot here in the summer, and by the end of July, there’s always an overwhelming feeling of boredom that sets in, anywhere they can find a place to rest. For those who stayed, time stretched on endlessly and people seemed to be able to easily count from one to ten between each tick of the second hand. Ironically, in these dog days, even the animals around fall into a monotonous confusion, and it’s rare to hear a dog bark, or for that matter, see a car pass by, which momentarily disturbs the mood that hovers over the sky. Heavy silence. The stillness of the air and the emptiness of the haze that hangs over the sky are depressing elements of summer.
My eyes fell on her as soon as I stepped out of the house. She was wearing a summer cotton dress. In fact, I still remember that it had a tiny blue flower pattern scattered on a pale yellow fabric. Cynthia Marshall, two and a half years older than me, was an effortless beauty with soft brown hair and lips that were a very deep, very luscious pink, and when she smiled, her bright green eyes melted my heart and took away my pitiful breath.
We’ve known each other for a long time; you can’t live your whole life without knowing them from fifteen feet away from someone else’s path. When I was little, Cynth would trick-or-treat with my brother and me, holding both of my hands as we ran from house to house. On the Fourth of July, our family sometimes hunts for Easter eggs and has barbecues together at our house. She’s always been kind to me, but also like a sister. However, she luckily gave me my first real kiss when we were playing Spin the Bottle at a neighbor’s birthday party. Even before that unforgettable afternoon when that empty bottle of Nehi flew toward us, she’s been the highlight of every fantasy for as long as I can remember.
But most things change as you get older. She was one of those girls who ran with the older kids long before I knew her. I got to know her better than I did. I remember lying in bed in the room I shared with my brother Mark, wondering and listening to stories of Cynthia ringing someone’s doorbell and running away, or joining with other kids to start a fight with a grumpy old woman who would stop her from exchanging or stealing their prized ceramic garden gnomes and cast cement figurines. A beauty like her is rare because she is funny and some might say a little grumpy. I never remember seeing her running or skipping down the street, her long braids flying as she passed. She is one of those girls who suddenly blossom as she matures. When she was a teenager, every boy I knew wanted to see her smile. Yet, beyond her budding physical attractiveness, she had a rare personality that matched her genuine sweetness and effortless confidence in herself. Later, when she was in high school and I was a lanky freshman, everyone I knew thought she was pretty special. Unfortunately for the rest of us waiting with bated breath, her boyfriend, a college sophomore with a car, was the lucky guy who was the apple of her eye.
But that afternoon, it became ours. It’s always clear in my mind. The frescoes on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel will never shine as long or as clearly as the clarity of this memory. I remember being bored, bored and just hanging out because that in itself was something to do. Seeing her standing on the porch, I shut the screen door a little too hard and it paid off when she sat up and looked at me. I sat on the porch railing and waved at her, and she waved back at me. I crossed my legs at the ankles and put my thumbs in my shorts pockets, with nowhere to go and nothing to do.
“Hey!” she yelled, giving another quick wave. “Jimmy! Jimbo! Come here!”
As I stepped onto her porch, she stopped the swing on her porch glider, walked over quickly, patted the spot for me to sit down. “How were you there, Jimbo?” Her voice was warm and friendly, as if we had just talked yesterday. “I haven’t seen many of you this summer.”
“I haven’t seen you before either.” I replied. There was absolutely no feeling of discomfort around him. Some friends who don’t see each other often sometimes take a while to get over the awkwardness and get back on track. But everything about Sins was so easy, so friendly, so genuine, totally relaxed, totally disarming. “Where is your boyfriend, Sins? I haven’t seen him much either.”
He kicked and sent the swing into an easy arc. “He and his family went to the mountains. They were going to be gone by Labor Day.” “He left me here to wilt while he went to play chess with his dad and fish with his brothers. But more likely, he lay around all night like a big idiot, drinking beer and sleeping most of the day.
“Sounds like life,” I replied.
“Yes.” Her small smile was distant and longing, and her eyes seemed far away. “I miss him.”
We sat like that for quite a while, maybe an hour, maybe more. Who knows? Time has no meaning on such a drowsy summer day. I hadn’t said ten words to her in several months, just the occasional “hi” every now and then. But just like old times, we were back to ourselves and soon we were reminiscing about old stories, reminiscing about the kids we knew and the things we did, just chilling and talking and being best friends again. After a while, she went in and brought us lemonade. We talked and drank through straws and laughed because she always made people laugh. When my lemonade was finished, I leaned back in my chair, sucked on ice, and just listened to her aimless chatter, which was exactly what I wanted to hear.
“How is your brother?” she asked suddenly. “Does Mark still have that lovely girlfriend?” she raised her hand above her head. “Is she the one with all the hair?”
I wasn’t really focusing on anything, just looking across the street, but watching his little mime made me laugh again. “Yeah, I think so,” I said, smiling. “Anyway, last I heard. You know, he’s graduating from college next semester.” He whistled sharply, the sound of genuine surprise coming from his lips. For some reason, my eyes were fascinated by the shape of those lips.
“Where did the time go?” she asked after the whistle blew. “It seems so long since I last saw him, I think it was Christmas.” She crossed her legs, put her feet under her skirt and put her hands in the middle of her skirt for me to swing. “I’m so excited that next fall I’ll be transferring to a pretty close college. I can go home on weekends and holidays. Being away from everyone, I’ll get lonely pretty fast. I guess I’m just a hometown boy but, Mark, who knows where that guy will end up.
“He’s just a no-nonsense guy.” I returned, happy to hear him laugh.
“I forgot,” she asked. “What is he reading?”
“Photography,” I replied, “just like my dad. His plan after graduation was to work in my dad’s portrait studio for a while. But he really wanted to join an agency in New York or Los Angeles, and do some advertising photography, maybe even some freelance work or art work, maybe photographing weddings to make some extra money.” I raised my eyebrows, leaned in closer and told him in a low voice, “He even did a boudoir shoot a few months ago.”
“Boudoir?” Immediately, her eyes lit up and she leaned over me, nudging me with her shoulder. “Isn’t it?” she said softly, “Isn’t it where women pay to be photographed in sexy lingerie or bathing suits, just like their husbands or boyfriends?”
She was so close, almost nose to nose. And the way she looked at me. It was as if the air around us suddenly went still and the heat around us grew. She looked directly at me and I could tell she was thinking about something. I was a little nervous and couldn’t believe I missed this. I don’t know what I was thinking of saying so stupidly. Mark, I definitely don’t want this to get out there. Even though it was 1965 and Playboy had been around for a long time, some of our local Neanderthals would still get very offended by this sort of thing. Mark told me this when he came home on Memorial Day. I haven’t seen the photos, but I know she had to borrow my father’s personal darkroom to develop the negatives and print the photos because if she tried to take the photos to a regular lab, she would probably be arrested.
Suddenly, Cynthia leaned back, stood on her feet and stopped the swing. She clapped her hands in her lap and looked at me with a wild smile on her face. “You take pictures too, right?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “I bought a new 35mm Ricoh lens for my eighteenth birthday last month. It has a 28mm wide-angle lens, f1.4, and my dad also bought a 100mm lens to go with the stock 50mm lens. I’ve always been proud of it.” I jumped at the opportunity to talk about my camera. I walked around him for a moment to face him better. “It also has a flash! My dad has been helping me understand it; flash is hard, but if you want to get the perfect shot indoors, you need it. Of course, my dad knows all about it. He has a whole set of background lights with filters and gels, and he used an umbrella flash system synchronized with his large format Hasselblad camera.
She put her hands on my knees. “You have movies and stuff too, right?”
“Sure, in color and in black and white.” She put her hand on my knee, which made me suddenly realize how close we were. Maybe it was the change in the wind, but we seemed very lonely on the veranda. Being so close, I realized I could even smell her. She doesn’t have any special fragrance or floral scent, just fresh, a sinful scent, clean and sweet.
She moved her hand back and turned a little more so that her face was towards me. She wanted to say something but did not say anything. Perhaps it was because the weather was very hot, her cheeks looked hot and red.
When she didn’t say anything, I asked, “What is the matter?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Come on, Papis,” I urged. “It’s me, Jimbo. What are you going to say?” I remember thinking she could come up with some infamous joke or prank to play on someone.
“I don’t know.” She pulled her feet out from under her skirt and bent her legs down, wrapping them around her ankles and locking her knees. “I just had a silly idea.” She tilted her head, looking embarrassed for the first time she remembered me. “You know me.”
“Yes, I know you,” I replied. I must be crazy because another crazy confession slipped out of my mouth. “You’re the one who gave me my first kiss.”
Her mouth opened for just a moment, and then she gave me her most wonderful smile, and then she laughed. “Do you remember?”
I fell backwards on the glider, trying to show him I was broke. “Remember! Do you remember?” I stuttered. “Are you kidding me? Do Texans remember the Alamo?”
Her emerald eyes were literally burning. “I don’t know, Jimbo. I’m happy.” She seemed stunned and she slowly placed a hand on his chest. “Is this really your first kiss?”
I nodded. It was my turn to lock my knees and wrap my ankles.
“Well, well, Jimbo. I’m sure it won’t be your last.”
Now I’m really embarrassed. It seems like I don’t want to look at anything more than my sneakers at this point.
“Don’t worry,” she said, obviously sensing my discomfort. “You’re already so handsome. When you become a senior next semester, everything will change.” She put her hand on my knee again. “You’re going to be a real lady killer, mark my words. You have everything you need. You’re handsome.” She noticed my sadness and gave me a playful nod. “You are! Don’t sell yourself short, Jimbo. But most importantly, you’re a good person, and let me tell you,” she said, staring at me, “it’s amazing. That, plus your body, what more could you want in a girl?
I looked at him. I don’t know what made him shine more, the way he acted genuinely concerned, or the genuine openness in his voice.
“Hey!” he suddenly clapped his hands. “I want to ask you to do me a favor, a big, very big favor.”
If he had asked me, I would have run blindfolded down a busy highway. “Anything,” I replied. “You tell me.”
“I wanted to send my boyfriend Peter a picture of me, not any old picture, but a nice, professional picture. You know, to remind him what he was missing out on when he was eating fish instead of kissing me.
I got up and sat down. “Now?”
“Of course. I mean, if you don’t do anything. I want to send something to surprise the guy.”
I barely remember what the last words he said were. I’m already thinking about where, indoors or outdoors, whether to have a flash or not, wide angle lens or telephoto, intense depth of field or soft focus.
“Hey!” He shook my knee. “How do you say that?”
I jumped up and flew off the porch. As I crossed his path, I yelled, “Don’t go anywhere, I’m going to get my camera!” I was right behind, camera bag on one arm and tripod in hand.
I stood on the porch, panting. “Where do you want to do it?” I immediately realized how stupid that sounded.
It’s a shame I didn’t have my camera ready because the adorable way she smiled at me from her glider was priceless. She rested her elbows on her knees and spread her arms. “Hey, you’re the photographer, let me know.” She stood up and struck a pose without thinking, extending her arm against the ceiling. “I’m all yours, Jimbo.”
“I’m yours!” These words echoed in my mind. Ten thousand thoughts rushed through my confused mind. But thankfully, I found a moment of clarity. “Just stand there!” I said, and as I opened my bag, the tripod fell awkwardly. “Hold it, don’t move, don’t move!”
My fingers were shaking so hard that the lens cap bounced off in the blink of an eye like a wild shot. I didn’t care where it went. I kept glancing at it as I tried to get the camera on the tripod. Once the camera was set up, I looked for the light meter, convinced that if a fugitive didn’t want to be found, all he had to do was find a way to hide in a dangling camera bag and he could disappear completely. Eventually I found the thing and ran back up the stairs, waving it around as if I remembered what I was doing. The synth stayed in this position, just relaxed, and she expressed an amused expression at my panic and confusion that was almost perfect.
“Okay!” I yelled. “Okay, okay.” I stepped back and carefully set the shutter speed and aperture value. I walked around behind the camera, looking into the viewfinder, marveling at the pictures I saw, then came to my senses and adjusted the angle so that her framing was just right. I don’t want to cut this girl’s head off. I held the shutter release, thumb steady, and wanted to say to her, “Cheese.” But on second thought, I decided I didn’t want to do anything to ruin the perfection of that almost classic Mona Lisa-quality smile. “Don’t move,” I yelled, and then counted: “One, two, three!” There’s nothing there!
“Do you understand?” he asked. “I didn’t hear a click.”
I look down, confused. Everything is correct: shutter speed, 30; f-stop set to 5.6; film speed indicator reads 100. I forgot to run that lousy film ahead of time. “Wait! Wait!” I yelled. Pressing the lever with my thumb, I had to reset the frame in the viewfinder, and I felt a wave of relief when I pressed the button and heard the click of the shutter.
Cynthia heard this too, and she walked away from the pillar, stood up, raised her arms and held out her hands. She winked at me. “I think that’s like kissing, the first kiss is always the hardest.”
“Do you want anything else?” I replied.
She lowered her arms. “Is there another movie?”
“Half a roll.”
She stopped and walked forward. She looked very feminine in that dress, and she seemed to cross her knees in an easy, swift motion as she walked. Her hair, which looked golden in the sunlight, seemed to outline the lines of her neck and shoulders, while the two buttons at the top of her dress were open, allowing us to see only the plump breasts hidden underneath. I also noticed for the first time that I was now taller than her, which was a nice surprise.
She reached forward and ruffled my hair. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
Over the next hour, I began to feel the unique thrill that any photographer must enjoy when meeting a beautiful and willing model. Slowly, I began to relax and apply what I knew. I took a photo using a long focal length 100mm lens. I stepped back and left Cynthia standing near a mulberry tree that extended over the city sidewalk in front of each house. Compressing the depth of field so that the trees on the entire block were just inches apart, I angled her to the edge of the nearest tree trunk, lifted one leg and pulled up her skirt while her hair fell over the edge. I took another photo of her sitting on the hood of the car, and another photo of her up in a tree. It was so fun and even a little exciting that she was so willing to obey and follow my every command.
But then, I had a revelation. I laid her down in front of the camera in Mrs. Wilburn’s flower bed. She did as I said, resting her elbows on the grass and her chin on her palms. I went in for a close-up, putting down the tripod and setting up the 28mm wide-angle lens. As she lay back, the tops of her breasts rested comfortably beneath her arms, adding a touch of eroticism to the postcard-like pose. Kneeling in front of her, I probably stared at the scene for too long, because she broke her pose momentarily and followed my gaze downward. My ears perked up when she saw what I saw. But to my surprise, she wasn’t offended. Instead, she sat up, gave me one of those wild, doorbell-ringing smiles I’d heard so much about, tilted her head in a “what the fuck” salute, and proceeded to loosen the second button. Then she lay back, moving so that her breasts pressed to the ground under her weight, and said, “How about this? Is this a little more than what you wanted?”
