Unfinished Tales, Vol. 6

Depth of Field

He sat fidgeting with his latte, alternately checking his watch and looking down at the business section of the paper he had read a couple times over. He didn’t notice the noise of the street behind him. He didn’t watch the reflections in the glass of commuters and shoppers on their way to wherever.

He waited, taking the occasional sip. Every ten minutes or so, he reached down and patted a large black leather portfolio. He ran a hand across his head and down his face, feeling the features of a gnarled old man, complete with wiry gray hair that hung around the bald scalp like a halo. Sometimes, he even liked the feel of the baldness, but only sometimes.

            “Cromwell, how good to see you,” a deep voice said from behind his right ear. Cromwell turned to the voice, but saw no one. He turned back.

            A short, thin man approached from the opposite direction and slid smoothly into the empty chair across from Cromwell. The man’s face was the color of alabaster, skin tight over chiseled muscle and bone, chin was capped in an ebon goatee, which accented the whiteness of his teeth and skin and brought out the redness of his lips. His wore a black silk suit that echoed the hue of his hair.

            “Fuck off, Nicolas” Cromwell said.

            The man smiled, signaled for a waitress.

            “Can I get you another latte?” Nicolas asked.

            “No.”

            The waitress arrived and Nicolas pulled her to him, arm slithering around her hips, and squeezed her bottom. He looked up at her and in his crisp, courteous tone, ordered a double espresso. She walked off and he smiled at Cromwell again. Cromwell swirled the dregs in the bottom of his cup and stared back at Nicolas, not wanting to break the stalemate.

            “How have you been, Cromwell,” Nicolas asked, then not waiting for Cromwell to respond, said, “That’s great. Now, onto business. You,” he said, pointing a finger at Cromwell, “have a show Monday.”

            Cromwell looked down into his latte. “I’m not ready.”

            “How many do you need?”

            “Two, but I’m finishing one today.”

            “Perfect, then. That leaves you the weekend.”

            Cromwell laughed. “I don’t even have a subject yet.”

            “You’ll find one. I have,” he paused, “faith in you.” Nicolas smiled again.

Cromwell thought about jumping across the table and socking him in the mouth. Instead, he looked up from the coffee, then around at his surroundings. A short man in a threadbare brown suit hurried past, face red, arms pumping, eyes forward. Cromwell imagined him a child molester. A young mother dragged two small boys, twins he guessed, across the street by their armpits. She probably beats them at home, he thought. He looked down into his latte, sighed, then shrugged. “I can’t do it in a weekend.”

            Nicolas sat forward, leaned across the table, his smile vanishing. “Look at me, you lazy cur.” Cromwell thought about disobedience, then met the other man’s eyes. “Need I remind you of our contract?” The words came out low, almost a hiss, each word perfectly enunciated. They seemed to bounce around in Cromwell’s skull. He found himself staring at Nicolas’s lips, which he almost could’ve thought covered in lipstick, though he knew better.

            “You never let me forget.”

            “And how long ago would you have been a has-been if not for me? How would you have been anything, if not for me? You were not that good. The invitations have been sent. The magnificent Cromwell has a show on Monday,” Nicolas said, waving his hand in a flourish. He sat back in his chair, glanced around for a moment, then said: “How many, did you say?”

            “Two.”

            “Yes, and you are closing the first of those today?”

“Yes.”

“You are certain of this?”

“As certain as I ever am.”

“Right. So you only need one more. So close. Are you excited? You are almost free of me, after all this time.” Nicolas paused, considering. “How many years have I extended your deadline?”

            Cromwell looked away, back to the people who scurried by him without noticing. A tall woman in a grey suit walked past, eyes hidden behind small, oval sunglasses. She walked confidently, utterly certain of her surroundings, utterly certain the next moment would make as much sense as the last. He sighed. Nicolas was baiting him.

            “Enough.”

            The waitress returned with the espresso. Nicolas reached around her waist and pulled her close again. She looked down at him, smiling. He lifted her hand in his and kissed her softly on the underside of her wrist. “What about this one?” he asked.

            Cromwell looked up at the waitress. He guessed she might have been 20, and probably an aspiring actress. Actresses, as everyone knew, were always possibilities. He peered inside, then shook his head. She wouldn’t do; too pure. But then he wasn’t known for being picky. It was, after all, what had made him a celebrity among his adopted people. Still, he had his standards.

            Nicolas released the girl and she walked toward another table. “You were always too sentimental. You have until Monday. Monday, or I’ll consider you in breech of contract, and will prosecute you, ah, accordingly. No more extensions.”

            Cromwell looked down, sloshed up more dregs.

             “You understand what happens if you fail?”

            Cromwell looked up into Nicolas’s reddish eyes, and nodded.

            “Good,” Nicolas said, then stood and walked off down the sidewalk, hands tucked behind his back and his chin up, whistling an old Rolling Stones tune.

            Cromwell glared after him, still swirling the cup. The waitress returned to the table and asked if he needed anything. She looked after Nicolas.

            “He a close friend of yours?”

“No. Not that. He’s my, ah, agent.”

            She nodded, then said: “Fucking agents.”

†††

            Cromwell pulled the photo from his portfolio case and held it up to the man in the charcoal suit. Cromwell didn’t know his name, and didn’t care to. He purposely kept his clients as featureless to his memory as possible. The man bent to inspect the picture, muttering to himself, but serving what he thought his most astute observations to Cromwell. Feigning attention, Cromwell noticed a man walking along the back of the train platform behind them, a stride away. He turned his head enough so that the man would notice the motion and look his way. They met eyes and Cromwell reached out, sensing equal amounts fear and repression. The man looked away, suspicious. Cromwell smiled, then dug deeper, finding flitting images of books, a small dog, and black and white photography.

            “This was not what we discussed,” the suit said, pointing at the photo and wagging his finger. The photo was of a bright red Ferrari parked in a fairly large garage.

            Cromwell refocused. “But it’s exactly what you want.”

            The man straightened, towering above Cromwell. “Who are you to tell me what I want?” the suit said, voice hissing.

            Cromwell glanced sideways, taking in other man, who was still obviously eavesdropping. Behind him, he could hear the train coming. Cromwell raised the frame with one hand, positioned it beside him and pointed at it. “Look, you came to me, right? Look closer. You’re not seeing the truth of the thing.”

            “I can see just fine,” the suit said.

            “Listen, I don’t have time for this. If you don’t want it, then our business is concluded.”

            “Now just hold on. I never said I didn’t want it.”

            The suit leaned forward. Cromwell checked on the eavesdropper, who was checking his watch and looking toward the sound of the train, still thinking about his book and his dog. Without looking, Cromwell grabbed the suit by the back of the neck and pushed him into the frame. He imagined there was a sucking sound or even a cartoon popping noise, though there was not. He always tried to make it more exciting than the reality. The eavesdropper turned back toward Cromwell and their eyes met again. The man blinked several times, then scanned around the platform furtively, edging away from Cromwell and trying to avoid eye contact.

            Cromwell smiled. “Gotcha.” Maybe he would finish by Monday.

            He held up the frame. The suit was beating against the surface of the photo from the inside, screaming, though no one could hear him. Cromwell shook his head. “You deserved it,” he said. “Or maybe you didn’t, but I’m not sure that I care anymore.”

            He turned his back to the other man and lowered the frame into the portfolio. The train slid into the platform beside him, hissing and stinking of fuel and exhaust, and Cromwell thought of Strasbourg. He sighed, then hoisted the looping straps of the portfolio and camera over his shoulder and turned toward the train.

            He noticed the other man scurrying to board. Cromwell inhaled, concentrated, then took a twenty-foot step and bumped into the eavesdropper.

            The man stumbled back, then turned toward Cromwell, his eyes narrow and forehead scrunched. He started to say, “Hey, watch wh…,” then stopped as he recognized Cromwell. His mouth clomped shut, and Cromwell enjoyed watching the man try to make sense of the situation.

            Cromwell winked, then walked past, toward the front car. He stepped onto the train, letting his body revert as he did. It reminded him of holding his breath during hide-and-seek as a kid. No one could hear you, much less find you, if you held your breath, or so the theory went. The form felt natural, normal. Tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying seeped out of the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He swung into a seat as the train left the station and peered into the window. His normal reflection stared back, thin face, sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. Two-day’s worth of salt-and-pepper beard reminded him he needed to shave. He rubbed his hand across stubbled head and exhaled.

†††

            Cromwell tailed the man to a small house in the suburbs. He argued with himself for a couple of moments about whether or not he should wait or just go knock on the door. Sometimes the salesman bit worked, though generally, people were suspicious of a door-to-door portrait photographer. Not for the first time, he lamented the fact his reputation with Nicolas and his social circle did not carry over to the general public. A book or two would’ve helped, probably, he thought. Maybe something like his Ansel Adams books. He walked past the house, checking out the neighborhood with its old trees and sidewalks, and decided it would have been a good neighborhood to grow up in, someplace where kids played football in the streets and dogs didn’t have to be kept behind fences.

            He turned the corner and noticed a tall, weathered fence of rock columns and wood panels. The fence beckoned him as sure as if someone were on the other side, calling his name. He looked up and down the street, imagining unseen eyes. He walked up to the fence and touched it, the splinters of wood rough against his skin.

He walked its length, dragging his fingers along the rough surface like he would’ve done with a stick as a child, even imagining the click-click sound the stick would’ve made. When he came to the partially opened gate, he didn’t think twice, he simply pushed it open. The gate surprised him by not squeaking. Cromwell slipped inside, then closed it behind him. Old, tall trees, in the process of shedding their leaves, peered down at him; moss-covered koi ponds and tall grass ruled obscured what Cromwell imagined used to be an impressively landscaped yard.

The middle of the grounds was occupied by a freestanding fireplace surrounded by incomplete ivy-covered walls that looked as though they’d once belonged to a barn, though there was no hint of a roof line, nor any fallen beams. Cromwell let himself be pulled toward the fireplace, already scanning the area for wood. Standing before the fireplace, he glanced around and noticed several weathered stone benches and a dry, lichen-covered fountain. He glanced up into the canopy of the trees, with their turning leaves, and thought of God for the first time in years.

Cromwell noticed a stone path curving off from the gate toward the shadow of a large house. He started up the path, pushed by a gust of wind, leaves cracking beneath his feet, unruly branches slapping his body. The dirty stones lead to steps, which lead to a wide weathered wooden porch. Dark windows looked out onto the porch. Cromwell cupped his hands to his eyes and pressed them to the glass. He saw shapes of what he figured was furniture covered in old sheets, and smiled.

He walked over to the door and tried the tarnished brass knob, but it was locked. He concentrated for a moment, heard a click, then turned the knob and pushed.

            †††

            Cromwell hung his last photo on the wall in front of the overstuffed leather easy chair he’d uncovered. He’d saved it for last because it was his favorite, a shot of his old studio from the outside looking in. Through the glass, he could see his developing equipment and the small, wood-grain laminated refrigerator where he kept his stash of Crown Royal and Coca-Cola. He started to stand.

            “Have you found the last one yet?”

            Cromwell dropped back into the chair.

            He rolled his eyes. “Maybe.”

            “Maybe,” the voice said, but the way it said it both echoed his tone and mocked it at the same time.

            “Yes, I think I have.”

            “Well, have you or haven’t you?”

            He stood and walked into his developing room, stepping over to the refrigerator and bending down. He heard her slip in behind him.

            “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”

            “Why? Your heart racing from trying to keep up?” he said, instantly regretting the words. He reached inside the fridge and pulled out his half-full bottle of Crown and a can of soda, then began looking around the room for a glass. He could feel her staring at him, but resisted the urge to turn around, not just because he didn’t want to talk to her, but because the whole thing still sort of freaked him out.

            He felt her draw near, inhaled deeply, and looked up. “Sorry honey, I didn’t mean that. I just had a bad day.” She stood looking back at him, arms crossed under her breasts and shoulders hunched forward. She was wearing the same well-worn sweatshirt and jeans she’d had on the last time he’d seen her. She tapped her foot.

            “You had a bad day?” she asked.

            Fuck, he thought, here we go again. “I just mean, please, let’s not have this fight again tonight. Please? I had to meet with Nicolas today and I’m not up for it.”

            “Not up for it?” she repeated, knowing he hated it when she turned his words back at him.

            He found a glass, blew it out, and set it on the counter. He popped open the can of Coke, unscrewed the bottle of Crown then poured both into the glass. He let it fill almost to the brim. He took a gulp, swished it around in his mouth, the swallowed, savoring the fizzing burn in his throat.

            “Do you really understand the kind of pressure I’m under?”

            “Yes, I think I do.”

            “You do.”

            She sighed. “I’m just so lonely. And the sooner you finish, the sooner we can be together again.”

            He walked out of the studio and back into the living room of the house, collapsing into the big chair. He swirled his drink, took a sip and savored the warmth that was starting to seep into his limbs. He inhaled, letting his chest expand, then let it out slowly.

            She stepped out of the studio and leaned against the wall next to the photograph. He noticed a tear start to form in her left eye. “You don’t care anymore. You don’t. I should just go.”

            He stopped himself from saying, yes, you should, and instead said, “Honey, you know I love you, but, well, what do you think I’m going to do? After all these years and all this work to get out from under him I’m just going to…

            “I mean, I know we’ve never actually talked about that part of this whole thing, but when it comes down to it, I’m just not ready to make that kind of, uh, commitment.”

            She wiped a tear from under her eye. “It would be so easy. I’ve thought about it a lot and…”

            “I’m sure you have, but think about this for a minute. Would you really… Wait a minute? Easy? Easy? You think that it would be easy do what you’re asking me to do if you were me?”

            “But we could...”

            “Fuck! I…” He heard a dog bark from the direction of the yard. He stood quickly and strode to the window. “Well I’ll be damned.”

†††

            Cromwell watched out the window as a small brown and white dog raced amongst the leaves, barking occasionally, but more often stopping and hiking its stubby legs. He watched the dog sniff the ground, then turn at look at the house. It started sniffing and peeing its way up the path toward the house.

            Cromwell refocused on what had caught his attention first – the dog’s owner – the man he’d followed from the train station. Cromwell couldn’t believe his luck. In fact, it was almost too coincidental. He frowned.

            “What is it?”

            He blinked. He had forgotten she was there, which was not hard to do considering she didn’t make any noise. “It’s my new client.”

            “Let me see.”

            He felt her move closer as a wave of chilly air flowed across his arms, breaking his skin out in goosebumps. Then she was next to him, peering out the window.

            “Hmm. I suppose he’ll do. Go talk to him.”

            He put a pace in between them.

            She looked at him sideways. “What?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Are you going to talk to him?”

            “Yes, dear, I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse, just like always.”

            “I don’t see your feet moving.”

            “Why don’t you go get in your frame and let me handle this?”

            “Fine.”

            “Fine. And make yourself scarce. I don’t want him freaking out.”

            Her brow crinkled and she frowned.

            Crowell frowned back until she vanished into a photo of a wood house deck overlooking the ocean at sunset, then he gulped down the rest of his drink. He stared at the photo for a moment, then turned back to the window just in time to see the dog pad up onto the porch, its toenails clicking on the old wood.

            He opened the door. The little dog peered up at him, wagging its tail and looking as though it was smiling. Cromwell kneeled down and scratched it behind the ears. The dog craned its neck to the side, guiding Cromwell’s fingers to the sweet spot, at which point it began tapping its back paw.

            “You’re a friendly little guy, aren’t you?”

            The dog reared up and put its front paws on Cromwell’s knee and licked him on the chin. He responded by roughing it behind the ears again. He felt around its neck for the collar, then spun the collar until he came to the tag. “Merlin” was stamped into the blue metal surface of the tag, as well as a phone number.

            “Merlin?”

            The dog wagged its tail, then dropped down and slipped under Cromwell’s legs and into the house. Cromwell started to watch where the dog was going, if for no other reason than to keep it from hiking on his portfolio, when he heard the yell.

            “Merlin!”

            Cromwell stepped out onto the porch and watched the man look about the yard then start to make his way up the path to the house. The photographer stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the door frame. Merlin came out of the house and sat down in front of him, tail wagging and watching the path.

            Cromwell glanced over his shoulder to make sure the wife had hidden herself, then glanced over at the photos he had on display and decided they would be suitably impressive. It wasn’t every day someone got to see photography like his, after all.

            He saw the man pause at the edge of the porch, noticing Cromwell for the first time. He wondered what thoughts were flitting through the man’s head and whether or not he was afraid. For a moment, Cromwell battled the irrational fear that the man recognized him from the platform, but logically, there was no way. He’d been a completely different person.

            Cromwell raised his right hand in greeting and smiled.

            The man waved back.

            “Uh, hello,” the man said, finally stepping onto the porch.

            “Hello.”

            “I was under the impression no one lived here…” he said, leaving something unsaid and sounding vaguely accusatory.

            Cromwell smiled. “It’s the old family home,” he lied. “I stop in from time to time to check on it. Couldn’t stay here permanently, you understand, bad memories and all, but I like to make sure it’s still standing and see what repairs need to be made.” He smiled again, imagining himself charming.

            “Oh. I didn’t know that. Sorry. I’ve been bringing my dog over here for awhile and letting him run around in the yard. He seems to enjoy it.” They looked down at the dog, which in turn looked at each of them, wagging its tail and panting.

            “You want to come in, mister…” Cromwell said, offering his hand.

            “Uh,” the man said, “Joe MacKensie.”

            Joe reached out and shook Cromwell’s hand. Cromwell’s head exploded with images of beaches and sunsets, castles, and cameras of all things. He made himself blink to clear his head.

            “Would you like to come in?”

            Joe looked down at the dog, which promptly turned and went back into the house.

            “Yeah, I suppose so.”

            Cromwell went into the house, walked over to what he assumed was a couch, and pulled off the sheet, revealing a leather couch the match of his chair. “Have a seat,” Cromwell said, indicating the couch with his hand. “You want something to drink?”

            Joe walked in, sat down, and started looking around at the photographs. Cromwell had them propped on furniture, a couple hung on the walls, and even one on an easel.

            “Did you take all of these?”

            Cromwell walked over to the print of his workshop. “Yes.”

            Joe stood and walked over to the picture of the porch. “Wow, that’s really amazing. It’s so lifelike. I can’t believe the color and the detail.” He lifted up a hand as if to touch the photo like one would a painting with texture.

            Cromwell shrugged his shoulders, then stepped into the shot of his studio. He wished he had eyes in the back of his head to watch Joe’s expression. He counted to three, then turned around. “You like Crown and Coke? I hope so. It’s all I have.”

            Joe collapsed back onto the couch.

            Cromwell stuck his head back out of the frame. “Joe? You still with me?”

            Joe nodded, then closed his mouth and swallowed as though parched. “What the… How?”

            “Well, let’s just say I have a gift.”

            Joe looked back at the shot of the deck, then back to Cromwell, then back to the shot of the studio. Cromwell turned his back and went to make the drinks, almost chuckling to himself. When he finished finding another mostly clean glass and mixing the drink, he stepped back out of the studio.

            Joe was standing, staring into the photo of the house deck. Cromwell walked up beside him and handed him the glass. He took a swig. Cromwell imagined he could hear the gears turning in Joe’s head.

            “Is this one too?” He said, turning to Cromwell.

            Cromwell pointed with his glass. “See for yourself.”

            Joe looked back at the deck, then reached forward slowly, first with his fingers, then with his whole arm. There was some optical distortion, as if his arm was bending to fit the perspective of the photo. The effect often reminded Cromwell of dangling his feet in a pool and wondering why the angles didn’t align.

            “It feels warm. I think I can even feel the wind,” Joe said, pulling his arm back and examining his fingers. He looked at Cromwell, who smiled.

            “All you have to do is step forward. Here, watch.” And Cromwell stepped onto the deck. He walked a few steps and inhaled the sweet smell of the beach, and listened to the waves wash into the shore. He glanced around for his wife, but didn’t see her. Then he heard Joe step in behind him.

            “I don’t believe it.”

            Cromwell smiled and took another gulp. He felt his neck start to loosen up. He had mixed it a bit strong, but didn’t mind. He looked out at the ocean and took a deep breath. It really was incredible, in spite of how it came to be.

            “How far does it go?”

            “As far as you can see from right here, but no further. There are limits, after all.”

            “Right. There would have to be, after all. Your darkroom… it was only as big as the room itself. That makes sense. But still, this is amazing. I’m a bit of a photographer myself,” he added.

            Sure you are, Cromwell thought. He said, “Oh yeah?”

            “I teach it at Northwest State.”

            “Really?”

            “For about six years now. I got tired of the low wages the newspapers were paying, so I went back and got my master’s degree and started teaching.”

            Cromwell gulped down the last of the drink, and thought for a moment that he’d misjudged the man. “Yeah, I wanted to be Ansel Adams when I was younger,” he heard himself say. “He always captured these vistas I thought I could just lose myself in. I used to follow his shows around to museums the way Dead Heads followed the Dead.”

            “I know what you mean. I probably have five or six books of his work.”

            Cromwell noticed the man’s posture seemed to be better than he remembered. He wasn’t as stooped, perhaps. Or it might be that this was his element. He sensed the moment was approaching, but decided to put it off a bit longer by fixing another drink.

            “You want another?” he asked.

            “No,” Joe said, “I think I’ll just wait right here.”

            “Suit yourself,” Cromwell said as he stepped out of deck and into the house. The dog was sitting on the couch, leaning against an arm and looking back at him. “Hey,” Cromwell said, to which the dog responded by thumping its tail repeatedly into the couch arm. He stopped. The dog cocked its head to the side and continued to thump its tail. Cromwell said: “He’s in there. Go get him.”

            The dog hopped up onto the arm of the couch, walked over to the picture of the beach and sniffed. It looked back at Cromwell, then whimpered.

            “Bah.” Cromwell stepped into his studio and began mixing another drink.

            “Well?”

            He rolled his eyes.

            “He’s about to ask for it.” Cromwell said, stirring his drink. Satisfied, he turned to face her. “Meanwhile, you’re supposed to make yourself scarce.”

            He heard sniffing and looked over her shoulder, out of the frame. The dog’s head took up half the wall, and behind it, the room appeared as though the shot had been taken with the aperture set low. The dog looked over its shoulder, then turned and walked out of Cromwell’s line of sight.

            “Dammit, get out of here.”

            “Fine.”

            He stepped back out of the photo. Joe was seated on the couch, scratching Merlin behind the ears and muttering in some version of dog/baby talk. He looked up when Cromwell reappeared.

            “How does this work?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “How do you work? Do you have some other works someplace else? Can you sell me one of these?”

            “Oh, that.”

            Cromwell took a drink. Joe waited.

            Cromwell said, “Well, it’s different for everyone. It’s a kind of magic, so to speak. I take a photo of you. Doesn’t matter when or where or what you have on. You won’t be in it. But, each of these photos comes from a part of you, or whoever. All of these are a part of me. Each place represents something I need or want out of life. Got it?”

            “If you took a picture of me, you won’t know what’ll show up until you develop it.”

            “Pretty much.”

            “How did you get a photo of your darkroom?”

            Cromwell took another drink. “Practice.”

            “What would it cost me for one of these?” Joe said, nodding toward the beach scene with his chin while still scratching the dog behind his ears.

            Cromwell started to speak, then noticed his wife, naked, walk out onto the deck in the beach photo, then make her way down toward the water. He remembered when that would have been enough to make him strip down and run in after her. And then he had a thought.

            “Well,” Cromwell said, “it’s different for everyone. Let me get my camera and we’ll talk.”

†††

            The gallery was crowded, which should’ve made Cromwell happy, but didn’t. All he wanted to do was talk to Nicolas and leave, but so far, the agent had been a no show. He checked his watch, then looked around the room.

            All the occupants could have been brothers and sisters. All had blonde hair and prominent facial bone structure, like they could’ve been models for Michelangelo. The clothes were solid shades of white or black, all silk and all designer cut. If he stared too long at any of the women, his mind would fill with borderline perverted imagery, so he looked at the ground, or the walls, or the door, but never for more than a second at any of women. And never at all at the men.  He shuddered. He listened for a moment, but could hear nothing, though he was sure they were speaking.

He also couldn’t make himself look at any of the photos. He focused on the door and waited. The patrons all avoided him as though he was a piece of furniture, or a wall fixture.

            After half an hour, Nicolas showed up, a tall, thin, brown paper-wrapped package tucked under his arm. It looked to Cromwell like another photo. As Nicolas made his way through the crowd, many of the tall people stopped him and free hand, smiles all around. Nicolas made his way to Cromwell.

            “You’re late.”

            Nicolas smiled. “You are not my only client.”

            “Whatever. Do we need to shake on it or what? I’m ready to get out of here.”

            “Where are the two?”

            Cromwell nodded toward the back corner of the room.

            “Show me.”

            Cromwell weaved through the crowd, leading Nicolas, but not looking up. He never liked seeing the faces of his fans or his past clients, all of whom he knew were now looking at him. They arrived in the corner.

            The suit stood on top of the Ferrari, face close to the surface of the photo, screaming and yelling. His hair was frazzled, eyes bloodshot, and he needed a shave.

            Nicolas shook his head. “Not bad, but it would’ve been better if it could’ve aged some before the show. The subjects are always more interesting when they are properly broken.”

            Cromwell waited, staring at the ground and saying nothing. He knew what was coming. He heard Nicolas suck in a breath, and his stomach tightened.

            “Cromwell, is this what I think it is?”

            “Yes.”

            “After all these years and all this…” Nicolas said, gesturing to the room behind him.

            “I had a change of heart.”

            “If you had only given her up years ago, we might have avoided this whole thing. Really, this has all been your fault. If you’d never resorted to the book when she had the accident.”

            “I realize that.”

            Nicolas looked up at the photo of the beach, and Cromwell looked with him. His wife sat on the edge of the deck, her back to them. Cromwell thought she was sobbing, bust wasn’t so sure he cared anymore.

            “What happened?”

            “She wanted more than I could give.”

            “Ah. Well then, I guess our business is concluded. Whatever are you going to do with yourself?”

            “You’ll never know.”

            “I would not be too sure of that, if I were you.”

            “You won’t miss me. Like you said, you have other clients.”

            “And I got a new one just this evening, which incidentally, is why I was late.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            Nicolas reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment. With a long fingernail, he broke the wax that sealed the paper and unrolled it. Cromwell watched his eyes scan the page as his lips moved. At the end, apparently satisfied, Nicolas nodded, then re-rolled the paper..

            “Everything seems to be in order. Hold out your hand.”

            “Why?”

            Nicolas said nothing.

            Cromwell stuck out his hand, and Nicolas set the parchment in it. As Cromwell started to close his fingers around it, the paper burst into flame. Cromwell screamed, “Jesus Christ,” and leaped backward, flinging the burning paper away. It burnt to nothing as it flittered to the floor.

            Nicolas smiled, then said, “No blaspheming here.”

            “What the hell was that?”

            “The cancellation of your contract, of course.”

            “That was necessary?” Cromwell said, checking his hand for burns.

            Nicolas smiled.

            “So am I free to go?”

            Nicolas swept his arm toward the door to the studio, and as he did, the crowd parted, leaving Cromwell a clear aisle. Cromwell looked from Nicolas to the door, and then back to Nicolas. He flexed his fingers, then smiled.

            “Don’t take this personally, but I hope I never see you again.”

            Nicolas smiled at him again. “Should you not be going?”

            Cromwell, still smiling, inhaled deeply, then started toward the door. As he walked through the crowd, the tall people began to clap. He stopped when he reached the door and looked back at the crowd, who were now all clapping and watching him. He noticed that they were all smiling and it made him feel good. He waved, then turned and stepped through the door, out onto a wooden deck.

            He could hear the sound of waves washing onto a beach, and he found himself looking directly into the setting sun, mind reeling. He suddenly felt as though he’d been kicked in the balls, and looked down.

            “Fuck,” he said.

            His wife still sat on the edge of the deck, and at the sound of his voice, turned. Her eyes were red from crying, and she hurriedly wiped her cheeks with the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

            Cromwell spun back toward the door, but saw only a large window with many faces peering in at him, all smiling and clapping.