“What if—” he says in the bedroom. “What if we filmed ourselves doing it?”
He’s been undressing her, but her thoughts haven’t been on sex. Instead, her mind has drifted to her father, picturing him lost and hacking his way through thick jungle.
“Why would we do that?” she says.
“Because it would be exciting.” He runs a hand gently down her side.
“What, and then we’d show it to everyone?”
“Of course not. We’d watch it by ourselves. You know, some other time, as a turn-on.”
Maggie doesn’t think it would be a turn-on. She finds no pleasure in the thought of watching herself. She wants it to be just her and him with nothing added, no distance, only the press of their bodies. The camera is for the rest of the world.
“What about developing the film?” she says. “Someone at the lab—”
“Nobody watches that stuff. It’s done with machines.”
“I don’t know.” But he’s set on it, she can tell.
“Remember in Nantucket, when we did it in front of the mirror? It would be like that.” She hated the mirror. When she doesn’t reply, he sits on the edge of the bed. “Never mind, it was just an idea.”
She tries to think of some compromise. “What if it’s just you?” she suggests. As she says it, the notion seems reasonable enough. But Fletcher gains the same lonely, hangdog look as in the orchard. “All right,” she says. “Fine, let’s do it.”
Feeling nauseous, she takes the equipment from the closet and sets up the tripod she recently acquired at the St. Catharines mall. He stands behind her, kissing her neck while she adjusts the focus.
“The settings are all messed up,” she says. “Have you been using it?” He shakes his head. “Well, somebody has. Honestly, this place. Everyone’s always in your stuff.”
She senses that he wants to disagree but has decided it isn’t the time for an argument. Instead, he goes to the mattress and waits while she continues to make adjustments.
“The light isn’t very good,” she complains. “Maybe we should move the bed.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just get it going.”
On her hands and knees, her face toward the lens and Fletcher behind her, the room is a jumble of shadows and angles. It would be better if she were underneath him, not having to look at the camera. Her skin tingles in the places where she feels watched: the stretch marks from her growth spurt, the legs she hasn’t shaved in weeks. The camera’s clacking is the only sound in the room other than the soft slap, slap of flesh on flesh. The hands holding her are invisible; she can barely feel them. Where has Fletcher gone? Reduced to a guiding, pounding force. The fear creeps into her that someone will open the door, and every few seconds she turns her head to check.
“Nobody’s going to bother us,” says Fletcher, sounding impatient.
The noise from the camera stops.
“It’s out of film,” she says, pulling away.
“Already? Hold on.” He gets up and crosses the room, removes the cartridge from the camera, then reaches for another and tries unsuccessfully to tear open its foil envelope.
“Let me do it.” She doesn’t want him to touch the equipment. After he hands her the cartridge, he flops back on the bed, posing like a model. He seems free of cares, of self-consciousness.
Retrieving the first cartridge from the dresser, she lifts its plastic tab, then begins to pull out film by the handful.
It’s amazing that so much can be contained in such a small space, her body and Fletcher’s connecting thousands of times over, destroyed in an instant as she yanks them into day. At some unseen level, chemicals are going crazy. On the bed, Fletcher vamps a while longer before he realizes what she’s doing.
“Hey, why are you—”
At that moment, she reaches the end of the strip. “I changed my mind,” she says, tugging hard and snapping the final length of film in two.
“What’s wrong? Didn’t you like it?” He sounds genuinely confused. “I must be pretty ugly if the idea of watching me is so horrible.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just not my style.”
Going to him, she tries to smooth out the wrinkles from his forehead. Then his eyes widen as though he has just gained some deep and sobering knowledge.
“Maybe I understand,” he says. “I can’t take a leak when someone’s in the room. Is it the same kind of thing?”
Despite herself, she starts to laugh.
“What? What is it?” he asks, smiling too. “What did I say?”
“Yes, I think you’re right. It’s probably the same kind of thing.”
That night, she tells him it’s too hot and she’s going to sleep downstairs. It’s easier than saying she wants some time alone. When she arrives in the living room, it smells of weed but blessedly lies vacant. She collapses on the couch and tosses for an hour, snatched from the brink of sleep half a dozen times by creaking floorboards and noises from outside.
It’s after two when she hears someone come downstairs. Through the doorway, she glimpses the distinctive profile of Dimitri, his pot-belly overhanging his slim legs as he canters down the hall. At the sight of him she has a ludicrous, uncontrollable impulse. After listening for the sound of the mud room door opening and closing, she gets up to follow him.
From the back of the house, she can see a flashlight’s beam passing over the ground toward the orchard. She slips out to follow. The barracks is dark and silent. When she reaches the trees, there’s enough moonlight for her to make her way while keeping Dimitri well ahead of her. At the wrecking yard wall in the far corner, he comes to a halt. Taking a few more steps, she perceives his outline along with that of the thin girl from next door. They’re pressed together in a kiss.
For the first time, Maggie thinks she should have stayed inside. A second later she snaps a branch underfoot. The two bodies separate, and suddenly the flashlight’s beam is blinding her.
“What are you doing out here?” says Dimitri in an accusing tone.
“That’s the one I told you about,” Maggie hears the girl say. “The one who got heavy with me and Jacqueline.”
Feeling brave, Maggie steps toward them, shielding her face until Dimitri turns the flashlight away from her. “Hello again,” she says. The girl wraps her arms around herself and doesn’t reply. “Just you tonight?” Maggie asks her. “Where’s your friend?”
“Dead,” says the girl sourly. “From smoking that joint last month. It’s your fault for not stopping her. Thanks to you, my best friend is dead from a pot overdose.”
“Knock it off,” Dimitri tells her. To Maggie, he says, “It was her cousin, visiting for the summer. She went back home today.”
“Tell her everything, why don’t you,” mutters the girl.
“Lydia, maybe you should go home,” he says.
“What, because of her?” says the girl, gesturing to Maggie. “We just got here.” Dimitri stares at her until she gives a humph. “Fine, then.” Bending down, she picks up something that has been lying at her feet and hands it to him. Squinting through the night, Maggie realizes it’s an aerosol can. “You can explain this to her.” Before Dimitri has time to react, the girl kisses him on the lips, then turns and passes Maggie without looking at her.
“What does your father think of you coming over here?” Maggie asks. “I thought he didn’t like hippies.” She’s determined not to let the girl have the last word.
“My father’s an idiot,” says the girl. “Tell him everything if you want, I don’t care.” She turns back to face Dimitri. “If you decide to stop being so square, let me know.”
She walks off, following the curve of the wrecking yard wall. Maggie waits for the sound of her footsteps to disappear before addressing Dimitri.