Deborah Shapiro - The Sun in Your Eyes

“You’re not fetishizing an aesthetic in order to distance yourself from real human feeling.”

“You make Kirsten sound like a fascist.”

“A pretty, put-together fascist. Whatever else is going on, don’t the trains always run on time for that girl?”

“Whereas you and I get stuck in stalled cars.”

“You get stuck. I get fucking derailed.” She released the curling iron and my hair fell into what Kirsten, guest-blogging on a lifestyle site, would call loose, romantic waves. “Oh, perfect,” said Lee, regarding her handiwork. “We’ll do it exactly like this tomorrow.” It was only when she arrived at my apartment the next morning, styling tools in hand, that I realized the knot in my stomach had been worry she wouldn’t show. Maybe that was why Lee still figured in my life: to be a lightning rod and to be the lightning itself.

AFTER SPENDING Anight in a Narragansett bed and breakfast, we met Bill Carnahan at the marina where he docked his yacht. Carnahan and his wife welcomed us aboard a forty-foot motor boat, what he referred to as their “smaller cruiser,” the one that he captained himself and that required no crew, which meant it would just be the four of us out there. Before too long, we were anchored and floating somewhere in Block Island Sound.

As it turned out, my knowledge of yacht culture, which had to that point relied mostly on music videos from the 1980s and James Bond movies, wasn’t entirely off the mark: the exclusive tone, the trashy heart. The day was so brilliant, the surfaces so shiny, that the sun bounced off the railing of the deck and sliced through our champagne flutes when we toasted to “new acquaintances and old habits.” Carnahan had the look of an actor in a high-production-value commercial for cholesterol management, erections, or retirement funds — exactly what handsome graying men in JFK-at-sea clothes are meant to sell. He leaned back on a white leather cushion, his hands locked behind his head, legs crossed to reveal a tanned inch of bare ankle between his chinos and Topsiders. “What did I tell you? Worth your while?”

Carnahan’s wife, Kara, stirred in her chaise.

“I love this,” she said, rolling on her side to face us. She was going for languid, but a hardness about her — blond, freckled, late-forties lip and eye work, diamond jewelry, slim white jeans and a loose white top that in the breeze conformed to her remarkably alert breasts — made her action stagey. As did the trace of a rough Northeastern accent she tried to rid herself of. “You get out here and you almost forget where you came from.” Kara Carnahan, in all likelihood, came from an unpleasant place you could never completely forget. “I remember, Bill, the first time you asked me to the beach house. I was expecting the Hamptons. But practically every other yard had a car in it on blocks.” Her disbelief was palpable.

“No, it’s America out there.” Bill nodded landward.

“What does that mean?” Lee asked. She was sitting next to him and inched closer.

“It means they like their trans fats.” He reached his hands toward her face and lifted her red sunglasses onto the top of her head so that he could look straight into her eyes. She didn’t blink in the gleaming whiteness, but returned his gaze with beckoning skepticism. “Now don’t frown. I know what you are. You’re a sophisticated, progressive, cosmopolitan type who is so sophisticated, progressive, and cosmopolitan you’ve come out the other end. You think there’s dignity out there, right? You think there’s something noble and romantic and dare I say authentic about small-town bullshit salt-of-the-earth struggles. That it’s all one big Bruce Springsteen song? Well, it ain’t, babe. It’s a murder ballad. It’s a fucking freak show. It’s the fucking American nightmare.”

“If it’s so intolerable, what are you doing there?”

“I didn’t say it was intolerable. I said it was a fucking freak show. I happen to like freak shows. By the way, you have the loveliest eyes. Blue like those Dutch dishes. Delft blue.”

“I’d say it’s more of a Wedgwood, babe,” said Kara, exchanging with her husband a look that belied another attempt at languor. Carnahan shook his head and looked to the skies, all God help me but I love this woman!

Carnahan then continued his assessment silently, looking Lee up and down. Which is what Flintwick had done. Which is what most people, myself included, did. Only when we did this, it involved a kind of surrender, a giving in to our own desire and curiosity about this woman. Carnahan’s stare was colder, less impressed. It registered Lee’s beauty as a snake might identify its next snack. Lee must have encountered this reaction before — she didn’t flinch — but it struck me that I hadn’t. I had relied on her allure, had successfully used it for my own benefit so often in the past that I didn’t know if I was more frightened now to consider what that made me or to watch Lee fall short.

With a tight smile, as if something wasn’t going according to plan (as if there was a plan), Kara suggested a light lunch and how would Bill like to come help her prepare it in the galley?

“Lunch! I like it. Let’s do it.” He clapped his hands and followed his wife, but not without glancing back at Lee, a glance that promised his return and left little doubt as to where his thoughts would be in the meantime, before slipping below. Carnahan had assured us that this was merely a nautical prelude to a viewing of the Haseltine photographs, but the longer we stayed out there, the more concerned I grew that we might never make it back.

“He likes freak shows,” I said.

“I know,” said Lee. “But we’ve come this far. And it’s not like we can go anywhere now.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“They’re probably down there preparing a cheese plate or something.”

I rose to my feet too quickly and nausea took hold. Seasickness? Morning sickness? The former provided a convenient cover for the latter, though the Carnahans may have had their suspicions when I declined a mimosa, opting instead for orange juice. (Bill said “fresh-squeezed,” and you wanted to find a decontamination station.) Lee rubbed my back slowly but it didn’t help.

The Carnahans returned from the galley, Kara with a tray of sandwiches and Bill carrying an extra baguette like a sword. Neither of them had fetched implements with which to tie us up, but they still looked as though that might be their intention. At the sight of the food I remembered I was hungry all the time now. It didn’t matter that I was nauseous or that the Carnahans watched us eat as though they were fattening us up for slaughter. I downed everything on my plate and went for seconds.

“We should talk about your father,” said Bill.

“I’m curious to know why you find him compelling,” said Lee, “why you wanted those pictures.”

“I consider myself to be a collector. In my younger days, I used to collect records. I liked Jesse’s stuff, sure, but I was never much of a concert-goer. Never picked up a guitar. Now I collect people, in a way. Hedge fund, shmedge fund. I collect. My art advisor said David Haseltines were a must, no collection would be complete without them. But what I love about the photographs is that they transcend my personal bullshit. Not only do they not want anything from me, they don’t give a shit about me. They don’t even care that I’m looking at them. I don’t know if that’s because of Parrish or because of Haseltine. Either way, I think I’m drawn to them because they have absolutely nothing to do with me.”

Lee kept her composure, even as doubt, derision, and, finally, interest, crossed her face. Kara, meanwhile, was rhythmically clicking the tines of her fork against her teeth and I nearly lost it. I reached for more bread.