Gryphon_ New and Selected Stories - Charles Baxter [127]
As early as it is, Jeremy’s already down here, watching the flood and selling popcorn, which at this time of morning no one wants to buy. Actually, he is standing near a card table, flirting with a girl Conor doesn’t quite recognize. She’s very pretty. It’s probably why he’s really here. They’re laughing. At this hour, not quite midmorning, the boom box on the table is playing old favorites by Led Zeppelin. The music, which sounded sexy and feverish to Conor years ago, now sounds charming and quaint, like a football marching band. Jeremy keeps brushing the girl’s arms, bumping against her, and then she bumps against Jeremy and stabilizes herself by reaching for his hip. A morning dance. Jeremy’s on the basketball team, and something about this girl makes Conor think of a cheerleader. Her smile goes beyond infectiousness into aggression.
Merilyn is nowhere in sight.
The flood has made everybody feel companionable. Conor waves to his son, who barely acknowledges him with a quick hand flick. Then Conor gets back on his bicycle and heads down to his photography studio, checking the sidewalks and the stores to see if he can spot Merilyn. It’s been so long, he’s not sure he’d recognize her.
Because it’s Saturday, he doesn’t have many appointments, just somebody’s daughter, and an older couple, who have recently celebrated their fiftieth anniversary and who want a studio photo to commemorate it. The daughter will come first. She’s scheduled for nine thirty.
When she and her mother arrive at the appointed time, Conor is wearing his battery-operated lighted derby and has prepared the spring-loaded rabbit on the table behind the tripod. When the rabbit flips up, at the touch of a button, the kids smile, and Conor usually gets the shot.
The girl’s mother, who says her name is Romola, has an errand to run. Can she leave her daughter here for ten minutes? She looks harried and beautiful and professionally religious, somehow, with a pendant cross, and Conor says sure.
Her daughter appears to be about ten years old. She has an odd resemblance to Merilyn, who is of course lurking in town somewhere, hiding out. They both have a way of pinching their eyes halfway shut to convey distaste. Seated on a stool in front of the backdrop, the girl asks how long this’ll take. Conor’s adjusting the lights. He says, “Oh, fifteen minutes. The whole thing takes about fifteen minutes. You could practice your smile for the picture.”
She looks at him carefully. “I don’t like you,” she says triumphantly.
“You don’t know me,” Conor points out. He checks his camera’s film, the f-stop, refocuses, and says, “Seen the flood yet?”
“We’re too busy. We go to church,” the girl says. Her name is Sarah, he remembers. “It’s a nothing flood anyway. In the old days the floods drowned sinners. You’ve got a beard. I don’t like beards. Anyway, we go to church and I go to church school. I’m in fourth grade. The rest of the week is chores.”
Conor turns on the little blinking lights in his derby hat, and the girl smiles. Conor tells her to look at the tinfoil star on the wall, and he gets his first group of shots. “Good for you,” Conor says. To make conversation, he says, “What do you learn there? At Bible school?”
“We learned that when he was up on the cross Jesus didn’t pull at the nails. We learned that last week.” She smiles. She doesn’t seem accustomed to smiling. Conor gets five more good shots. “Do you think he pulled at the nails?”
“I don’t know,” Conor says. “I have no opinion.” He’s working to get the right expression on the girl’s face. She’s wearing a green dress, the color of shelled peas, that won’t photograph well.
“I think maybe he did. I think he pulled at the nails.”
“How come?” Conor