Sylvia goes over to the window and looks. The frame is nailed shut but she can hear Leni say, “Lemme in. I’m bored.”
Sylvia points to the rear of the building, then shuts down the lights and closes up the darkroom. Leni’s at the back entrance wearing an oversized mohair sweater, tiger-stripe spandex running pants and those old burnt-orange construction boots. Sylvia steps back to let her in and Leni motions for her to come outside.
They go out onto the back landing and Sylvia’s surprised at how mild the night is.
“God,” Leni says, “you’re gorgeous.”
Sylvia’s forgotten she’s wearing the nightgown and suddenly she’s feeling too stupid and embarrassed to ask what Leni’s doing here. She tries to think of an excuse for why she’s got the nightgown on, why she looks like she just stepped off the page of some elaborately illustrated fairy tale, but nothing comes.
“C’mon,” Leni says. “It’s perfect.”
“It was a gift,” Sylvia says. “From my … from Perry.”
But Leni’s not listening. She’s taken hold of the gown’s hem and is holding it out from Sylvia’s legs and studying the beading in the glow of the moonlight.
“What Hugo could do with this number,” Leni says, almost to herself.
Sylvia pulls the hem away and Leni looks up at her with this self-satisfied smile on the lips. And for some reason Sylvia feels as embarrassed as if she was standing here naked.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I brought your camera,” Leni says, bringing it out from behind her back. “You know, you’re pretty careless with your gear.”
“It’s been a bad week.”
“You’re too tense, Sylvia. It’s not right, someone your age being this stressed out. Ten years from now, you’ll be looking for organ donors.”
“Real pleasant, Leni.”
“I’m trying to help you out here, kid,” though they’re most likely the same age, “You need somebody—”
“I’ve got somebody,” Sylvia says.
Leni nods, “Sure. The guy that bought the nightgown.”
“That’s right.”
“So where is he?” she asks, looking past Sylvia at the stairs. “I’d love to meet a guy who can walk into a store and score something this campy.”
Sylvia’s taken back. “You think this is campy?” she says, looking down at herself.
Leni retreats immediately with a shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, Slyvie,” and Sylvia realizes no one has ever called her Sylvie before, “it’s honestly gorgeous. It’s really beautiful but in this, you know, retro-way. This Victorian decadence thing. White on white. All cotton. Just screaming purity. But then there’s the plunging neck. And the slit up the side. The color and material say one thing. Then the cut and the fitting contradict it all.”
Sylvia’s flinching from self-consciousness but she doesn’t stop Leni.
“It’s the kind of thing I’m always trying to get across to Hugo. Less is more. The tease is everything. It’s the covered pot that’ll boil with the most intensity. You know what I’m saying. I know you know. The greater the repression, the more over-the-top the revolution.”
“You think I’m repressed?”
“God, Sylvia, you take everything I say as an affront. This is a compliment, all right? You look like a dream. You’re more erotic right now than a year’s worth of centerfolds.”
Sylvia folds her arms over her chest. Leni hands the Canon to her and says, “I threw a fresh roll of film in there,” then turns to leave and says, “Get back upstairs to the boyfriend and revel in it for God’s sake.”
“He’s at work.”
Leni stops and pivots but doesn’t say anything.
“He’s in the middle of a pretty important project,” Sylvia starts and then can’t believe she’s trying to justify Perry to Leni.
“One question,” Leni says. “Were you wearing this when he left?”
Sylvia shakes her head no.
Leni looks her up and down again. “So why did you put it on?”
Sylvia starts to shrug, then says, “You said one question.”
“Turn around,” Leni says.
Sylvia squints at her.
“I want to see the whole thing. Turn around.”
She feels funny, but does it, a full circle with the gown flowing around her legs.
“Come here,” Leni says, no play in her voice. She steps off the landing into the backyard.
Sylvia hesitates and Leni says again, “Right here, Sylvia. Come on. Let’s go.”
They walk down onto the grass. Everything’s silent but for their steps on the leaves. Leni looks around a little, concentrating, then without saying a word she comes over and takes the camera, takes Sylvia by the arm, leads her to an old catalpa tree and positions her in a shaft of moonlight that falls next to it.
“You’ve got a good eye.”
“Keep quiet,” Leni says, lifting the camera to chest level and looking down at the settings, then up at her subject.
“You’ve got to let in all the light you can,” Sylvia whispers. “Try opening it up all the way.”
Leni twists the exposure, brings the camera up to her eye, and fires the shutter a few times, then lowers the camera and asks, “How’s it feel to be on the other side?”
“Awkward.”
“You’re a natural,” she says. “Do me a favor. Unbutton the top button. Just one.”
Sylvia shakes her head, but as Leni focuses and starts to shoot, she complies.
“Lean back against the tree.”
“I’ll be in shadow,” Sylvia says and Leni shushes her and says, “Just do it.”
Sylvia doubts the pictures will come out and she realizes this disappoints her. She feels the tree against her back, wonders if she’s staining the nightgown.
Leni comes in closer. “Slide down till you’re sitting on the ground.”
“It’s cold.”
“Don’t whine,” she says, a little harshly, and Sylvia moves down until she’s seated.
She lowers the Canon from her eye, bites her bottom lip for a second, studying the image.
“It’s hard,” she says and Sylvia just nods back at her, pleased with the comment.
“Okay, bring the hem up just a little. Maybe mid-calf. You think?”
“Your call,” Sylvia says.
“Try it. No higher.”
Sylvia raises the hem of the nightgown from her ankles up her leg. Leni seems to take forever focusing. Sylvia keeps quiet and waits until finally she hears a single shutter release. Then Leni walks over and hands the camera down.
“That’s it?” Sylvia says.
Leni nods, extends a hand and helps Sylvia back to her feet, then casually reaches up to Sylvia’s face and gently pushes some strands of hair back behind the ear. It seems like this unconscious, almost motherly gesture and it sends a lick of cold down from Sylvia’s neck. Without a word, Leni turns and starts to move toward the street.
“Leni,” Sylvia says.
Leni stops and looks back.
“I was just …” Sylvia takes a breath. “I mean, do you have plans? You want to come in and watch a movie or something? There’s this Peter Lorre festival.”
Leni smiles, bends her head back, looks up at the sky. She walks back, takes Sylvia’s hand, says, “C’mon, I’m parked out front.”
By the time they park down on Dupin, Sylvia’s still putting up a fight. “I’m not dressed. I can’t go to a party dressed like this.”
Leni kills the engine.
“You ever go to the Zone’s Halloween block party? It’s an annual thing, Sylvia. You’ve seen the pictures.”