Page 24 of Heathens
His answer shocks me. Ever since I’ve known him, I’ve envisioned his past life. He’s never spoken about being a father, but he did hint at it once. If he does have children, he never speaks of them. But I always thought of him as the perfect husband, the perfect father... to think of him as imperfect feels wrong.
“Our doors are always open here, son,” he finishes, clearing his throat and turning to open the office door. “Whatever calls to you, whether it be priesthood or Lilith, I will always be and always remain one of your closest friends. I only hope that you can find it in your heart to feel the same way about me.”
He’s gone before I can thank him.
Diptych
Lily
Present
I spend all day working on the picture of Salem. I never use the same process twice—some images are a mix of different medias, and some are just plain, old photographs. I go with my gut, and for Salem's photograph, I commit a tremendous offense and cut out words from the bible.
I really am going to hell.
Once I'm done with getting the photograph to where I want it exposure-wise, I ruminate on what else it needs for a couple of days. During this time, I text the picture to Salem (to which he just replies with a heart-eyes emoji) and flip through an old bible, pulling words and phrases, but also trying to re-educate myself in Salem's world by reading passages and pages like I'm back in Catholic school all over again. I want to be able to talk to him about this stuff. I want to relate to him.
The only time I leave my apartment is to hang out with Rosemary. It’s like this sometimes—the art becomes all-consuming, and I don’t leave my building for days. The city is hot and sweltering in all of its late-spring glory, so she’s been sitting out in the hallway every day. Sometimes I wonder if she’s just simply lonely. Handing her a cigarette and taking one for myself, I light both and sit in her company without saying anything for a few minutes. I don’t have a chair, even though she always offers to bring her spare out, so instead, I sit with my back against the hallway wall.
“Where’s that pretty reverend of yours?”
“Priest. He’s studying to be a priest. Different religion.”
“It's all the same anyway,“ she says, waving her hand in front of her. She can't be more than four foot ten, and yet her presence is massive. “I don't trust anything that tells me what I can't do.“
“Touché,” I mutter, smiling.
I see her look at me sideways. We’ve both been living here for over two years, and we’ve spent a lot of time together. Sometimes we even eat dinner together, but I had to stop eating her food. She must’ve burned her taste buds off with all of the smoking because her food is always inedibly salty. So, I make sure to bring her lasagnas every Sunday.
“You fancy him,” she states, giving me a gummy smile. She always forgets to wear her dentures.
I shrug, taking a deep inhale of my cigarette. “It wouldn’t matter if I did.”
She makes a sound of disapproval. “I guess so.”
We both sit in melancholic silence for a few more minutes, the smoke hanging in the air our only companion.
“Don't you have any advice for me?“ I joke, standing and putting my Parliament out in her overflowing ashtray. Typically, she doles advice out like a vending machine.
She just shakes her head and chuckles, resigned. “Well, you know what they say. You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit.”
Laughing and shaking my head, I walk back into my apartment. I’m not even sure I understand her half of the time.
* * *
Two days later, I collect all of the words I've cut out. Setting the printed 8x11 photograph down, I study the composition. It's perfect. Salem is left of center, looking up with his arms thrown out to the sides. His dark outfit contrasts perfectly with the bulb lights behind him, and the headstones of Père Lachaise are visible to his right—as well as an unusually large cross.
Perfect.
I lightened only his skin in Photoshop, wanting him to appear almost glowing, and added a dark vignette on the corners of the rectangle. The effect is eerie and hopeful all at once.
I pull my glue stick closer and sit on my floor with my legs spread wide as I glue the words to form a messy sentence. I could easily do this on the computer, but I love doing all of this kind of stuff by hand. It feels more personal. What’s the point of art if you don’t get down and dirty? The words come together effortlessly.
Your halo’s full of fire.
Smiling, I bring it to my scanner to make an official digital copy, quickly adding a red filter around the words to make them pop. The effect is... stunning. I stare at it on my screen for a few minutes, smiling. I don’t know whether it’s the subject, the relationship I have with said subject, or simply the lighting and effect, but I am convinced it’s my best picture to date.
I go through the rest of the pictures from that night. We’d wandered for hours, talking and laughing and, at least on his part, praying. My breath hitches when I see a picture Salem took of me. It must’ve been when I was admiring Oscar Wilde’s tomb, when he had my phone. I make a few adjustments—making my skin darker, and the white of the headstone whiter. My hair is hanging in front of my face, and I’m kneeling as if in prayer. Printing it on the same photo paper that I printed Salem’s picture on, I let it dry for a few minutes before bringing it down onto the floor. Biting my lower lip, I study the hoard of bible words I’ve amassed.
