images of Phil with his nose broken.
Aphrodite moved with small darting steps; that and the Klaus Nomi makeup made
her look even more like some bizarre automaton. As we walked through the hall,
heaps of kindling gave way to stacks of magazines and books, shoes in varying
stages of decay, fifty-pound bags of dog food, cases of bottled water, cartons
filled with empty liquor bottles, and baskets of plastic film canisters.
I
glanced at one of the baskets then looked up. Aphrodite stood in a doorway with
her back to me. I grabbed a film canister, shoved it into my pocket, and went
on.
"Do
you have your own darkroom here?" I asked.
"No.
Sit down." She looked at me irritably. "You should have left your
jacket in the mudroom—no, give it to me, I'll do it."
I
handed her my jacket but kept my camera bag. As she retraced her steps, I
looked around at a big old-fashioned kitchen. A woodburning cook-stove stood in
the center, deerhounds flopped beside it like mangy fur rugs. There were
fragments of Turkish carpets on the floor, and a trestle table covered with
papers and the remains of breakfast. I set down my bag, wandered to the window
and stared out at the cove. A small dark shape loped along the water's edge
then disappeared beneath the pines. It was too small for a deerhound. I
wondered if it was a fox, or a lost cat.
"I
see Toby got you here in one piece."
I
turned. A man was beside the stove, pouring coffee into a mug. I stared at him,
incredulous, as Aphrodite came back into the room.
"This
is my son, Gryffin Haselton." She picked up a kettle from the stove and
walked to the sink to refill it. "Do you want coffee or tea?"
"Coffee
would be my guess," said Gryffin. He crossed the room to hand me the mug
he'd just filled. "I took your berth on Everett's boat earlier. Toby said
he'd make sure you got here okay. The way you were putting it away last night,
I figured you'd sleep in."
"You
figured wrong." I took the coffee.
"Well,
you got some local color, anyway."
Gryffin
turned to get another mug. The deerhounds moaned softly as he stepped between
them, and I reached down to stroke one warily. Its head felt like a skull
wrapped in worn flannel. Aphrodite leaned against the kitchen counter and
regarded me with those glittering black eyes.
"Tell
me what this imaginary interview is supposed to consist of."
I
told her, glossing over the fact that Mojo was not a photography
magazine and I was not, in fact, anywhere on its masthead. When I mentioned
Phil Cohen's name again, she frowned.
"Phil
Cohen." She stared at her moccasined feet then shook her head. "I
never heard of him."
"He
said he used to come up here sometimes." I fought to keep desperation from
my voice. "He said there was, I dunno, a commune or something."
Gryffin
glanced at his mother.
"Denny,"
he said, as though that explained everything. He stared at me in disgust.
Aphrodite
gave him a quick look then turned back to me. "I have to check the
woodstove."
She
left. Gryffin settled at one end of the trestle table. He pushed up his
sleeves, displaying that scrawled scar on his wrist, crossed his long legs at
the ankle and surveyed me with bitter amusement.
I
drank my coffee and looked more closely at his face for any resemblance to
Aphrodite.
Yeah,
I should have seen it, I thought.
Once, I would have.
That
odd sense of recognition I'd felt when I'd first seen him outside the motel? It
was his eyes. They were Aphrodite's eyes, oblique, the green spark in his left
iris a sort of optic smirk. His smile, too was hers; though what was cold in
Aphrodite's face became wry, even rueful, in her son's. I thought of the joy in
his photograph and wondered if he'd inherited that from his mother as well. I
doubted it.
But
I felt no recurrence of what I'd sensed earlier; no damage. He wouldn't have
waited for you, you know." Gryffin glanced out the window at the cove.
"Everett. I would've gotten a ride with Toby like I'd planned, and you'd
still be sitting there in Burnt
Aphrodite moved with small darting steps; that and the Klaus Nomi makeup made
her look even more like some bizarre automaton. As we walked through the hall,
heaps of kindling gave way to stacks of magazines and books, shoes in varying
stages of decay, fifty-pound bags of dog food, cases of bottled water, cartons
filled with empty liquor bottles, and baskets of plastic film canisters.
I
glanced at one of the baskets then looked up. Aphrodite stood in a doorway with
her back to me. I grabbed a film canister, shoved it into my pocket, and went
on.
"Do
you have your own darkroom here?" I asked.
"No.
Sit down." She looked at me irritably. "You should have left your
jacket in the mudroom—no, give it to me, I'll do it."
I
handed her my jacket but kept my camera bag. As she retraced her steps, I
looked around at a big old-fashioned kitchen. A woodburning cook-stove stood in
the center, deerhounds flopped beside it like mangy fur rugs. There were
fragments of Turkish carpets on the floor, and a trestle table covered with
papers and the remains of breakfast. I set down my bag, wandered to the window
and stared out at the cove. A small dark shape loped along the water's edge
then disappeared beneath the pines. It was too small for a deerhound. I
wondered if it was a fox, or a lost cat.
"I
see Toby got you here in one piece."
I
turned. A man was beside the stove, pouring coffee into a mug. I stared at him,
incredulous, as Aphrodite came back into the room.
"This
is my son, Gryffin Haselton." She picked up a kettle from the stove and
walked to the sink to refill it. "Do you want coffee or tea?"
"Coffee
would be my guess," said Gryffin. He crossed the room to hand me the mug
he'd just filled. "I took your berth on Everett's boat earlier. Toby said
he'd make sure you got here okay. The way you were putting it away last night,
I figured you'd sleep in."
"You
figured wrong." I took the coffee.
"Well,
you got some local color, anyway."
Gryffin
turned to get another mug. The deerhounds moaned softly as he stepped between
them, and I reached down to stroke one warily. Its head felt like a skull
wrapped in worn flannel. Aphrodite leaned against the kitchen counter and
regarded me with those glittering black eyes.
"Tell
me what this imaginary interview is supposed to consist of."
I
told her, glossing over the fact that Mojo was not a photography
magazine and I was not, in fact, anywhere on its masthead. When I mentioned
Phil Cohen's name again, she frowned.
"Phil
Cohen." She stared at her moccasined feet then shook her head. "I
never heard of him."
"He
said he used to come up here sometimes." I fought to keep desperation from
my voice. "He said there was, I dunno, a commune or something."
Gryffin
glanced at his mother.
"Denny,"
he said, as though that explained everything. He stared at me in disgust.
Aphrodite
gave him a quick look then turned back to me. "I have to check the
woodstove."
She
left. Gryffin settled at one end of the trestle table. He pushed up his
sleeves, displaying that scrawled scar on his wrist, crossed his long legs at
the ankle and surveyed me with bitter amusement.
I
drank my coffee and looked more closely at his face for any resemblance to
Aphrodite.
Yeah,
I should have seen it, I thought.
Once, I would have.
That
odd sense of recognition I'd felt when I'd first seen him outside the motel? It
was his eyes. They were Aphrodite's eyes, oblique, the green spark in his left
iris a sort of optic smirk. His smile, too was hers; though what was cold in
Aphrodite's face became wry, even rueful, in her son's. I thought of the joy in
his photograph and wondered if he'd inherited that from his mother as well. I
doubted it.
But
I felt no recurrence of what I'd sensed earlier; no damage. He wouldn't have
waited for you, you know." Gryffin glanced out the window at the cove.
"Everett. I would've gotten a ride with Toby like I'd planned, and you'd
still be sitting there in Burnt
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