A half-naked white couple, clothing pulled
down to his knees and yanked up to her neck, screw on a kitchen table
with a refrigerator behind them. His penis looks like a pipe stuck
into her crotch.
Lamb looks sullenly at the image, flips through
the rest of the box: the same sort of thing, repeated dozens, scores,
hundreds of times.
Revealing nothing. Invisible behind their genitals.
A bad spell, those years, too many of them, when
the politics of the profession changed and he was considered too "risky,"
sensitive, temperamental, liberal, he was getting out of sync, he
was becoming "unprofessional."
I had to pay the bills some way.
He flips through a few more, feels a tickle in his
groin and a turn of self-disgust. He had
more than one dirty weekend with the models he used. Then he stops.
Years, he thinks. Too many years
In the next box are the pictures of Julia.
He hesitates, taking a moment to clear his mind,
to wipe it clean. He blinks and gazes outside, through the attic's
one, dusty window, its dim view of trees, the gable of a neighbor's
house a hundred yards off, a glimpse of far-away hills. He hears the
whisper of another car passing over the hill nearby. Then he turns
back to the box in front of him.
Julia grins gleefully on the boardwalk in Atlantic City.