“Rent paid for by my parents,” Culler says. Or that. “Think less of me?”
“I don’t think less of you.”
His apartment is on the third floor. I’m really nervous all of a sudden, realizing quickly how this is going to look. Unless Culler brings seventeen-year-old girls up to his apartment all the time. And now I am going to bleach that thought out of my head.
“It’s me,” Culler calls as he opens the door. I follow him inside. He takes off his shoes at the door, so I do too. “I brought someone. Hope that’s okay with you guys.”
“Do they bite?” A girl asks. Stella.
“No. It’s not okay with me.” That must be Topher. “Send them out.”
I take in Culler’s place. It’s small and minimalist. Photographs line the cream walls. I don’t think they’re Culler’s photos, though. They seem too innocuous. The kitchen and living room are separated by a beaded curtain and I make out the shapes of two people on a couch. Culler takes me by the hand and pulls me through the beads, which brush against my arms, my face. I like his hand around my hand.
Stella and Topher look around Culler’s age. Stella might be older. Her long black hair has been gathered up in a side bun. She’s wearing this really nice summer dress. Topher is exactly how I imagined him, based on Culler’s brief description of his attitude alone. An artiste. He’s dressed all in black and he has short, curly brown hair and his mouth looks kind of sneery.
“Jailbait?” The first thing he says to me. It shocks me into silence.
“No, her name is Eddie Reeves,” Culler replies, rolling his eyes. “Eddie, this is Stella Teng and Topher Green.”
“Do you bite?” Stella asks me.
“No,” I say.
She smiles. “Good to know.”
“Wait a second,” Topher says slowly. “Reeves … as in…?”
“I’m his daughter,” I say. “I mean, if that’s who you’re talking about…”
“Oh,” Stella says softly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Topher doesn’t say anything, but he keeps staring at me in a way that makes me feel really uncomfortable. Culler touches my back and says, “Drink?”
“Yes, please.”
He disappears back into the kitchen. I shift.
“Culler says you’re a musician,” I say to Stella. “I think that’s really cool.”
“Thank you, so much,” she says.
“What does he say about me?” Topher asks. I open my mouth and then I close it because I’m trying to make a decent impression. Topher snorts. “I thought so.”
Culler comes back with a pitcher of bright green liquid and glasses and pours a drink for each of us. I sip mine. Vodka and Gatorade. Tastes like high school.
“Like, how old are you?” Topher asks, watching me drink. “Fifteen?”
“Fuck off, Topher,” Culler says.
“Boys, boys.” Stella pats the space next to her. I smile gratefully and sit down. “Culler showed me some of your father’s work. It was really amazing how he took over a whole city, just to get it all out there.”
“Are you a photographer?” Topher asks me.
“No. Not really. At all.” I laugh nervously. Culler is glaring at Topher. This is really strange. “I don’t really get art. I don’t know.”
“That’s weird,” Topher says. “Did that bother your father?”
“No. Why would it?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Following in his footsteps and everything…”
“Is your father pissed you’re not an accountant?” Culler asks. Topher flips Culler off. I can’t even tell if they’re friends or not. Culler turns to me. “Topher’s extremely jealous, because where he gets to be taught about the Late Seth Reeves, I got to be taught by him.”
“You were taught about my dad?” I ask Topher.
“We briefly analyzed his later work and then his name came up once after he died,” Topher says. “That’s all.”
“Really?”
“Mostly speculation about why he killed himself.”
“Any interesting theories?” I have to know.
“Eddie,” Culler says. “Nothing Topher says is interesting.”
“You really want to know?”
I finish off the drink before I nod. Yes. I want to know. It’s all I want to know.
“Uninspired, tortured artist. Walking cliché.” Topher doesn’t even try to soften the blow, not even a little. “His grand pronouncement about leaving the art scene behind so he could ‘give his art back to himself’ was an excuse. He was dried up artistically.”
“Oh,” I whisper. Stella tops off my drink.
“But then, how bad off do you have to be if you think Culler’s work has any kind of merit whatsoever—”
“Hey,” Culler says sharply. “I know you’re taking the piss, man, but Eddie might not and that’s her father you’re talking about, okay?”
Topher manages a look of contrition. “Sorry.”
“I needed to know,” I mumble.
But I don’t think I can forgive him for what he said. Culler grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”
Part of me really hopes that’s a line.
Culler takes me to his room. There are no clothes all over the floor—not that kind of mess—but there are books everywhere. A futon against the wall. He has two desks. One with a computer and two monitors. The other desk is full of his equipment. A little tripod rests on its side. Some lenses and digital camera bodies just sitting out. I swear one of them looks like it’s collecting dust. Tiny memory cards—digital film. Some photographs have been printed, here and there. It’s so unorganized; almost careless.
“I know,” Culler says because he knows what I’m thinking. He always knows what I’m thinking. How is that? “I need to be better about that.”
Next to the wall beside his equipment are the photographs I gave him. The photographs my father took. Tarver’s looks out at me. The schoolhouse—I see it through my dad’s eyes and it’s nothing like what I saw today. The place looks silvery, the way he used the light. Silvery gray and so sharp, like it’s more clear about anything than I will ever be.
I open my mouth to say that, but instead I say, “I like your photographs better.”
“Oh—uhm, wow,” Culler says, surprised. “I mean—thank you. So much.”
“I like the photo of the couple. Together.” I don’t know where I get off saying that, but I do. I feel a little heady from the drink-and-a-half, brave. “Who were they?”
Culler smiles faintly. “Well—one of them was me…”
I’m speechless for a second. The two vague, unidentifiable people having sex—one of them was Culler. I have this funny thought: I wish the girl were me. I have this other thought: oh my God, that was real. I have a thought on top of that: if that was real, what about the other photos? The one in the hospital, the woman attacked …
Culler clears his throat.
“Anyway. We’ve done Tarver’s and we’ve done the school, and the gazebo”—he points to it—“is about six hours away from here, in a place called Valleyview. About three hours south of Valleyview is the house. That’s in Labelle. The church is in Lissie, and Lissie is about four hours from Labelle.”
“How did you figure this out?” I ask.
“I was with him for some of them. Those were easy. The gazebo was hard, but the water tower—see it way back there? First three letters on it, VALL—gave it away…”
“You’re like a Hardy Boy,” I say. He smiles. “When do we go?”
“It’s a lot of driving. I think we need a plan of action…”
A phone rings from another room. Nobody gets it.
“Probably my dad,” Culler tells me. “I’ll be right back.”
He slips out and leaves me alone with the photographs. The room feels small now. Just me, and the last art my father created, if you can even call it art. I crouch down and press my fingers to the face of each photograph, like I could go to these places just by touch. I want to stretch this whole thing out forever, but I want it to be over. I don’t know. All I know is I don’t want to be in this room alone much longer with these photos. I leave and meet Topher, who is coming out of what I guess is his room at the same time.
“So how old are you, seriously?” He asks. “Fifteen?”
“I’m seventeen,” I mutter.
“You really think he’s talented?”
“Culler?” I ask. Topher nods. “I think he’s amazing.” Topher smiles, like that’s amusing to him, and I blurt out, “Do you hate Culler or something?”
“I don’t hate Culler, no.” He pauses. “Think of us as friendly rivals. We both applied to the same schools. Ask him to show you all his rejections.” He shrugs. “He thinks I’m wasting my money. I think anyone can put a photo up on a Web site.”
“Art should be shared.” I raise my chin. “My father believed that.”
“Speaking of your father, that’s why I’m here. I forgot to tell you something—we thought he was scared too,” Topher says. “That’s why he killed himself. And I wouldn’t have bothered to tell you, but you said you needed to know.”
And then he walks down the hall and I’m still.
Scared.
My father wasn’t scared.
Was he?
No. But—
What if he was scared, all the time. For years, until he couldn’t take it anymore. What was he scared of? What could scare him so bad about living that he’d do that? What if he wasn’t tired, but just full of fear no one could talk him out of.
