Alison straightens her glasses as she gazes at the photograph.
It is a photograph she took three days ago, and which appeared two days ago in the Herald. She is proud of the photo, yet at the same time she is uncertain about it. She is not sure of her accomplishment. She has certainly seized an exhilarating moment on film. Photographs such as this one win awards, she tells herself. Photos such as this depict life at the extreme, at a moment most testing, most emotional: it is when the photo captures people at their most human moment that it steps into the higher realm of art. She tells herself all of this and yet doubt still remains.
The photo was taken outside a brownstone in the downtown section of the city. It was mildly cool on that October afternoon, such pleasant weather and such a clear sky that Alison decided to walk the ten blocks from the delicatessen where she had eaten lunch to the Herald Building. As she was walking she noticed on the side of a building two young boys playing on a rusted fire escape six floors above the ground. Alison paused to look, at the boys. They appeared to be brothers, their faces were so much alike. One of the boys was taller and stronger looking, perhaps eleven years old. The other boy appeared to be about seven years old.
The older boy was chasing his younger brother down the fire escape. The little, dark-haired boy was quicker. He looked up at his brother as he ran down the iron steps and teased him with the following: “You’re so slow, Joey. You run like a girl.” Joey, the older boy, fell as he was climbing down one of the ladders. He crashed down the remaining four rungs and landed sitting down on the steel platform. The younger brother stopped running. “Joey, you all right?” He ran up the one flight to his brother. Joey was rising, brushing orange rust off his pants.
Alison had taken her camera out of its case to take a picture of the boys playing. As she focused for a snapshot, she heard a voice call out to the boys. “Get down from there, boys! Get off that fire escape this second!” The boys’ mother, a widow, stood on the sidewalk looking up at the boys. She clutched a bag of groceries to her breast.
“Aw, Ma. Come on. We’re not doing nothing,” yelled down the older boy.
“You know it’s not safe. Get back in the apartment now or you’ll get the beating of your life.”
The boys lazily started to ascend to their apartment on the seventh floor. The mother still looked after them with concern. As the boys’ feet slapped onto the timeworn, rusted steel, Alison could hear an eerie moaning from the structure. The boys stopped. They stared down at the metal monster whom it appeared they had angered. The fire escape whined and released its grasp from the building. Somewhere in the framework a steel rod snapped. Then another piece cracked. The boys shook with the restless structure. Then, with almost a human sigh, the fire escape fell apart. It broke as easily and as quickly as one might crush a brittle autumn leaf. The break took place at the eighth floor of the building; the rest of the framework clumsily descended to the ground with the two boys trapped inside the plummeting steel cage.
While this happened Alison had kept her camera poised for a photograph. When the fire escape collapsed, she reacted quickly and pressed the shutter button.
This was the photograph: The two boys were suspended in midair amidst the falling wreckage of the fire escape. The older boy was above the younger, his arms and legs were spread as if her were skydiving. The younger boy below him was falling horizontally with his back to the ground. His slender body was arched like a bow and his mouth was opened in a scream of terror. The photo was taken from such an angle as to include in the right foreground a small profile of the mother’s face looking up as her children plummeted toward the ground.
The caption underneath the photo read as follows: Joseph Andrews (top), 11, and his brother Jeremy, 7, fell six stories yesterday when a fire escape they were playing on outside their building collapsed. Jeremy was killed from the fall. Brother Joseph remains in critical condition at St. Vincent’s Hospital. The mother, Barbara Andrews, pictured in the right foreground, watches up in horror.
“Alison. Alison, come here, will you, please?” It is the voice of the Managing Editor of the Herald, Steve O’ Brian.
He peeks his head out from behind the frosted pane of his office room door and beckons her to come forward. Alison rises from her desk and walks slowly over to him, so as not to gain attention. She thinks that people might look at her, might examine her like a photograph, as she makes the short walk to Steve’s office. She realizes in an instant that it is an utterly foolish thought; everyone is busy in the newsroom. The only care is the deadline.
She enters Steve’s office and shuts the door behind her. She smiles nervously at Steve and runs her hand down the side of her skirt as if to make certain that everything is in order.
Steve smiles. “Come on, Alison. I’m not going to bawl you out, so don’t be nervous. Before I say anything, let me tell you that I’m very happy with the work you’ve done. Especially this month. Quality stuff. Your pictures are special. I don’t know how you do it but lately you’ve been in the right place at the right time.
“That’s my job, ” Alison says nervously.
“Right. And you do it well. But I called you in for another reason. It’s sort of delicate so I thought I’d inform you about it before we ran with it. Today I received a letter-to-the-editor from a Mrs. Andrews. She’s the lady–”
“In my picture.”
“Yes. And she’s written a rather strong letter. It’s directed at the editorial staff of the paper, but it relates to the photograph so I thought you should know about it.”
“So you’re printing the letter?”
“Alison, that was a great picture you took. There’s no denying that. A great picture, the kind that sells thousands of papers. You’ll probably win a Pulitzer for it. I’m afraid it’s hit a little hard, though. People have complained. We’ve gotten a few calls, a few canceled subscriptions. Anyway, I just wanted to show you the letter before we ran it on today’s Op-Ed page. I don’t want you to be upset by this. We all respect your talent very highly.”
Steve picks up the letter from his paper-strewn desk and hands it to Alison.
She reads it slowly.
Dear Editor,
Two days ago my family suffered through the most grievous, heartbreaking nightmare that it has ever experienced. In a terrible accident, one that I witnessed in agony, my sons fell to the ground when our fire escape for our building collapsed. My youngest son, Jeremy, was killed. Joseph, his older brother, is in the hospital, his condition now stable. Mere words cannot describe our pain and suffering in the face of such a tremendous catastrophe. I feel as if my life has had the rug pulled out from under me. I pray for the soul of Jeremy, that he may be content at the side of God. I pray also for my son Joseph. I pray that he will be able to face the many months it will take for him to recover. He may never walk again.
My family will overcome these hardships. However, we ought not to have to endure the hardship that the Herald places on us by invading my life in its most profound moment of misery and allowing the entire city to leer at us while we are amidst a time of unbearable tragedy. The photograph printed in yesterday’s paper was an invasion. It was an invasion of my life, of my privacy, of sadness that was rightfully only ours. I will not share my tears with you or anyone else who mocks my misfortune. Your photographer who took the picture can only be an unfeeling leech — a leech who sucks the tears from victims of tragedy. You watch us from a careful distance analyzing our pain and sorrow.
I do not ever want to relive that terrible moment. Yet you have done that. You have not only done it for me but for thousands of people. You are sadistic. I imagine you place a photographer at every intersection to wait for an accident to occur, perhaps to snap a photo of someone squirming for life. You exploit pain and violate privacy. You do not reaffirm life, you debase it. You are not a responsible newspaper. You are the lowest of pornographers.
Barbara Andrews
Alison is finished reading. She hands the letter back to Steve. She straightens her glasses even though they do not need straightening.
Steve says, “I thought you should see it before we ran it. We’re cutting it a bit, the part about the leech and all that.”
“Run it whole,” Alison says. “It’s okay.”
“Look, Alison, don’t get ruffled by this. You can understand why the lady’s upset. In time she’ll get over it. She’s voiced an opinion, however, and we feel obligated to print it. It’s not my opinion, though, Alison.”
“That’s okay, Steve. You don’t have to apologize.”
Alison appears disturbed.
“Well, I am sorry. Because you do good work, Alison. And I want to see you continue to do good work. Don’t let this bother you. “
Alison’s eyes are red. She sniffles once. “If I weren’t upset by it then I’d be exactly what the lady calls me: an insensitive leech.” She turns to leave. Before she reaches the door she hears Steve’s voice.
“Alison. “
She turns toward him, then looks down to hide her swollen, red eyes.
“Let me patch up everything over lunch. Your choice; pick your favorite restaurant.”
“No. I mean, thanks, but I think I’d rather be alone. To think over some things.”
“Sure you’re all right?”
Steve steps forward and gently lifts up her chin with his hand. She blinks once and a small teardrop falls down her cheek.
Alison nods quickly and rushes out the door.
Alison rides on the subway. Some days she spends hours on the subway. She is fascinated by the people. She never feels threatened.
While on the subway Alison absorbs the faces of the people around her. She sees depression, anxiety, bitterness, strength, hope, and love all on this crowded subway car. She removes her Nikon from its case and takes a photograph of the people. It is a tender photo. The only action in the picture is done by an elderly lady who is turning toward the camera. She has a look of fright on her face. She is like those African tribesmen who insisted the British explorers not take photographs of them; they thought that the camera stole part of a man’s soul. Enough photographs could turn a brave warrior into a ghost. This lady on the subway does not wish to be a ghost.
Alison exits the subway at the next stop. She does not know why she leaves at the stop. She rises up into the hazy sunlight of the city, greeted by automobile horns, screening tires, police sirens, and the frantic footsteps of a pedestrian army. She is at peace as she gazes across the avenue, where a graceful marble building rises in powerful splendor. It is the Oppenheimer Museum of Modern Art. She crosses the avenue and disappears behind the thick, protective walls of the museum.
Wherever Alison turns the museum offers an arresting image. It is all art, art no different than what she strives for with photography. She is dazzled by these images and feels as though she has entered a sensual dream. She gazes at the painting in front of her. It is called The Pyre. It is one of 16 oil paintings represented in the exhibit by modern artist Jackson Cooper. She steps closer and bends her head forward to observe the detail.
“It’s callous,” a ghostly voice beside her declares. She is startled for a moment for she was not aware that anyone else was in the room with her. She turns to see a handsome, blond-haired teenager.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“No. It’s it’s all right.” She turns to the painting. “It’s an interesting painting, don’t you think?”
The boy does not say anything. He simply steps up beside and together they observe The Pyre. It is a painting of a car accident. It shows a close-up view of the driver-side window, behind which is the cloudy figure of the young driver. Evidently the car has been in a terrible accident. The side of the red vehicle is smashed. Fire, in orange, swirling brush strokes, surrounds the scene, inside the car and out. The driver has his badly burned hands on the window. He is pounding. His whole body is pushing out at you, the observer. The window, as well as the flesh of his hands, appears to be melting from the heat. The boy in the car knows he is only seconds from death, the car door will never be opened in time, his body will soon be enveloped completely in flame. His blue eyes, painted in brilliant clarity amidst the blurry atmosphere, are opened wide in horror. His mouth is stretched in a scream that begs to be heard, that stings in the heart of the viewer, and now remains captured forever, silently, on canvas.
Alison is clearly disturbed by the painting. The young man does not seem pleased or interested. He is simply angry.
“It’s provocative,” says the boy, “but heartless.” His voice seems to break for a moment, as if on the verge of crying. His blue eyes shyly glance away.
“Heartless?” She looks at the boy and then nervously down at the blood-red carpet.
“You know,” the boy says, “Cooper saw the accident. He was there, one of those curious onlookers. He stared at the helpless victim as the flames surrounded him. And then he went back to his safety of his studio and captured it all on canvas. It’s a cruel mockery of someone’s suffering, that what it is.”
Alison no longer feels safe in the museum. She is uncomfortable, perhaps the first time she has ever felt uneasy while in the gallery. “I didn’t know it was of a real accident. My God, though, it is real.” To know it is real, that the boy is actually burning to death in the painting, sends a chill through her. “You can almost feel the pain that boy must have suffered.” She pauses and looks at the boy. “He looks your age, the boy in the painting.
“He is.”
She looks at the boy. Something is odd about his appearance. His blond hair is short and well-groomed. It glistens and smells of Brylcreem. He wears a red, plaid flannel shirt, tan slacks, and penny loafers. They are new. She stares at the shoes. Do they still sell such shoes? she wonders.
“How old are you?’ she asks the boy. It seems improper to her now to have asked. He is a stranger, after all. But she wants to know the boy. Strangely, she thinks she knows him from simply gazing at the painting.
“I’m 18. I’ll always be 18,” he says sadly. “I suppose that’s not such a bad thing. Most people would like to be 18 forever. ” He drops his head a little and brings his hand to his mouth to bite a nail. His hands, she now notices, are horribly mutilated. The flesh is torn away, burned away. His arm has been eaten by fire. She is not alarmed, but entranced. Events seem to flow by her like brush strokes on the canvas.
“Your hands,” she says with concern, “do they hurt?”
“No, no, don’t worry.” He touches her arm to comfort her. She does not feel his grasp, but senses a cool breeze pass by her shoulder. “You can’t know what it’s like. You can only know that it’s over, that it’s on canvas. Forever.
“While looking out through the window of the car I could see the whole crowd. I could see Cooper through the flames. Was he concerned? Did he care? Or did he just witness a moment of painful death and then ask himself, ‘Is that real? Is that Death? Will it be that way for me?’ Fear and mystery, that’s what it is. Maybe that’s all art ever is.”
She wants to tell the boy that she cares, that every good person cares. She hangs her head while searching for the words. When she looks up to speak he is no longer there. He has vanished as quickly and as silently as he appeared. All that remains of him is the ghostly echo of his words.
She turns back toward the painting to look at the anguished face, the frightened blue eyes. It is the finely chiseled face of an 18-year-old boy who died in a tragic car accident in 1967 driving home from his girlfriend’s house. No one told Alison this, nor does she feel it to be imagined. She knows it to be true.
She stares at the painting for what seems an endless slice of time. Sorrow, that is all she can feel. She feels at fault for everything — for her photograph and for this painting. In the face of something so terrible, so sorrowful, what can she so? What can she do to help?
Upon returning to the Herald Alison is approached by Bob DeWitt, the photo editor of the paper. DeWitt is a close friend of Alison. The balding, round photo editor, although he cares little for the order of his appearance, does care for Alison, and he has guided her career with the Herald with the same patience and concern he would show for a daughter. He takes Alison by the arm, slaps the afternoon edition of the paper onto her desk and says in a serious tone, “Alison, this really stinks.”
“Bob, what is it?”
“Alison, you know what it is. You shouldn’t have let O’ Brian sneak that letter in. It’s a slap in the face for you and the entire photo department.”
“Bob, I have no argument with Steve over the letter. It was his decision and a justifiable one.” She pauses. “Look, Bob, thanks for your concern, but I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”
“Well, I want to talk about it. That picture was the best shot by any Herald photographer this month, perhaps this year.”
“I don’t need a pep talk, Bob. I’m okay. I’m proud of my picture, of my work, though I’m not sure it’s all proper. The mother of those boys was right to feel exploited.”
“I don’t want to hear any crap about exploiting someone else’s suffering. You captured a great social tragedy on film. The landlord is being sued. The Fire Department is now inspecting every fire escape in the city. Warnings have been announced on radio and television about the dangers of playing on the fire escapes. And it all comes back to you, to your picture.
“Wouldn’t all that have happened anyway?”
“No. Your picture made everyone conscious of the problem. Without the picture there would be one dead kid and a lot of misery, without any hope for change.”
Alison does not look at Bob, but stares down at her desk. Her lips quiver in an attempt to say something, but she hesitates and then remains silent. Bob notices her quiet anxiety. He touches her hand on the desk.
“Listen, Alison, take the rest of the day off.” Bob removes Alison’s coat from the rack near her desk and slips it around her shoulders as she rises from her chair.
“Come in tomorrow with a bright attitude. Because no matter what that idiot O’ Brian thinks, the fact remains, Alison, that you’re the best the Herald’s got.”
Alison smiles reluctantly at Bob’s affecting compliment. She embraces him with a quick hug. “Thanks, Bob. You may not always be convincing, but you’re always kind.”
She walks briskly out of the newsroom. Her eyes glance left and right at the busy people she passes. She glides through the door without interrupting her swift and nervous pace.
Alison rides in a taxi later that day. She has left her camera behind. She does not plan to take any shots today.
Dusk has stifled the glow of day. The city becomes illuminated with thousands upon thousands of glimmering lights. The headlights of the taxi eat at the night, plowing forward toward Alison’s destination.
Alison holds in her hand a small slip of paper. On the paper is written an address. She is oblivious to the passing cars and the noise of the traffic as she fumbles with the piece of paper. She does not really need the paper, because she remembers the address well.
The trip is short, but she wishes it were over sooner. The taxi roughly comes to a halt. The cabby looks into the rearview mirror. “We’re here, lady,” he says. Alison slips the cabby some money and walks onto the sidewalk and through the entrance a large, red brick apartment building.
Alison knocks on the door in front of her as she fumbles with the slip of paper. “Who is it?” inquires a soft, female voice behind the door. The door opens as far as the chain permits. Apprehensive eyes stare out through the opening. “Yes? What do you want?”
“Mrs. Andrews?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“My name is Alison Lock. I, uh, I saw the picture, the picture of your sons in the paper. I just thought, well, what I want to say is I’m sorry. For everything that’s happened.”
What follows is an unbearable canyon of silence. Mrs. Andrews stares at Alison. Alison struggles for something to say. She takes off her glasses, plays with them, hopes that they will provide her with the articulateness she needs.
“Is that all you came to say?”
“No, I —”
“How did you get my address?”
“Mrs. Andrews, I don’t want to intrude. The picture, the picture of your sons…I took it, I’m the one. I’m the photographer who was there.” Alison is on the verge of tears.
“Yes.” This is all Mrs. Andrews can say.
“Today I read your letter and I’ve never felt so conflicted about something I’ve done. I…I just can’t…” Alison puts her hands up to her eyes. Tears stream down her cheeks. “I can’t tell you…how really sorry I am.” Alison leans on the door frame. She turns and steps away from the door. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Mrs. Andrews opens the chain and puts her arm on Alison’s shoulder. She brings Alison inside and closes the door. She seats Alison on a sofa and runs off to fetch some water. She returns with a glass. Alison wipes her nose and sniffles. She takes the glass and drinks from it. In a few moments Alison becomes calm again.
And what can be said between the two?
Mrs. Andrews might say how she did not intend the letter she wrote to the newspaper to cause such sorrow. She was angry when she wrote the letter, but she is past such anger. All that she wishes to remain is hope.
Alison might say how she took the photograph in hopes of capturing the horror and grief that come from witnessing such a tragic event. She only wished that everyone could identify with the agony that these people must have gone through.
Mrs. Andrews might say how the photograph, while sensitive and sympathetic, can only intensify her pain. She would say, however, that she is now beyond such pain; she will not allow it anymore. She will not allow it to interfere.
Alison might say that on that day she delighted in the boys’ playfulness, in their youth and energy, and then at the terrible moment it was her own sorrow that commanded her to take the picture. For surely something horrible was occurring in front of her. Her instant decision to freeze it on film was concurrent with the frightening fact that the image would be forever frozen in her memory.
Yet none of this, none at all, is said. Nothing need be said. Understanding and compassion precede all language.
Both women embrace tightly. They embrace in their common sorrow and regret.
Their shoulders become dampened from each other’s tears.
One thing is said, and that is this by Mrs. Andrews:
“I’ m going now to visit my son at the hospital.”
Alison prepares herself to leave.
She reaches the door, turns the knob, and proceeds to pull open the door when she hears Mrs. Andrews say, “Would you like to come with me? It’s getting dark and I’d prefer a companion.”
Alison thinks to decline for fear of intruding further. She does not say no, however. She turns toward Mrs. Andrews while bringing her left hand up to touch her opposite shoulder, a nervous gesture. She smiles as she realizes that she is unconsciously fumbling for the shoulder strap of her camera.
A camera that she has left behind.
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