She seemed to haunt the booth, much like she haunted the house. A mournful spirit, growing ever duller, until one day she’d fade away completely.

  It was one of the things that Wyatt feared for himself. To grow old and alone in this worn-out neighborhood and haunt that old house like she did.

  “Saal?” Saal looked up, abandoning his spoon in his bowl, as he waited for orders. “I wish Mrs. Cain was happy.”

  Saal blinked at him and gave him an odd little smile. After a moment’s consideration, a skinny tentacle of smoke escaped his lips to creep up the window and escape through a faint crack in the glass.

  At that very moment, the sky outside opened up, and the bells above the diner door began to ring as passers-by decided spending a little money on a piece of pie or a cup of coffee was better than being soaked to the skin.

  Among the small crowd of people now hunting for a place to sit was a man with a head a rusty red hair and two young children at his side in matching navy-blue dresses.

  He stopped abruptly at Mrs. Cain’s booth and she turned away from the window. “Simon?”

  “Mom.”

  Saal, who’d watched the whole scene play out, turned back to Wyatt looking pleased with himself.

  “I want to be a famous photographer.” Wyatt blurted out the words.

  “Well.” He smiled. “You’re getting braver. Define famous.”

  “Um…you’re messing me up.”

  “Famous can mean a lot of things.” Saal began to count them off on his fingers. “There’s babies on calendar famous. There’s hanging in every dorm room famous. There’s killed in your prime famous. So bad everyone knows your name famous. Leaked sex tape famous—”

  “Jesus. Maybe famous isn’t the right word.” Talk about making it more difficult than it needed to be. “Successful. I want to be a successful photographer.”

  “Define successful.”

  That was easier, he just had to remember the secret dreams he’d had the day he’d sent his application to NYU. “I want my photographs to be printed in magazines and hang in galleries in New York City. I want people who are interested in that sort of thing to recognize my name. Someday, when I’m gone, I want someone to love my photographs enough to publish a book of my work. Oh.” He’d almost forgotten. “And I’d like to make enough to pay the bills and own nice things.”

  Fingers of smoke began to creep from Saal’s nostrils and wind around his body. When Wyatt’s cell phone rang, Saal grinned.

  * * * *

  The phone hadn’t stopped ringing since.

  “Are you familiar with the work of Robert Doisneau, Mr. Calder?” Vanessa spoke with a posh accent and wore a snug black dress, her dark hair in a smooth ponytail.

  “I…”

  “He started photographing the streets of Paris in the 1930s. Prolific.” Vanessa came to the last photograph and started to flip through its pages again. “You remind me of him, a little. Though maybe a little moodier.”

  Wyatt made a note to look him up on his phone the moment he walked out the door.

  “My assistant should have explained that we’ve had an artist pull out on a show the last weekend of the month.” Wyatt nodded. “I have two individuals I go to for when these things happen, but neither of them could help me out. And everyone I spoke with suggested you.”

  Wyatt did glance out of the window then, and Saal, as if he could hear every word that was being said, took a bow.

  “Thanks for thinking of me.” He debated whether to tell her he’d never done a gallery show and didn’t know what was expected. In the end he decided against it. “I would love the opportunity to fill in.”

  “Wonderful.” She finally closed the leather case and handed it back to him. “Follow me and I’ll show you your display space.” They wound through the gallery, her heels making a loud click with each step, as she continued to talk. “We take a fifty percent commission, sixty if you leave matting and framing to us, and if you sell well, in the future we may negotiate moving to a possible purchase scenario.”

  She stopped, indicating three empty walls. An area on the south wall of the building, and two free standing walls across from it.

  “We need a minimum of twenty-six pieces for your area, and an additional one for the display in the front window. I would expect the hand-tinted pieces would go over well. For the display, I’d suggest the crowded street corner image with the young girl smoking a cigarette. Fourth page in. I would also suggest you make that the lead page in your portfolio in the future.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Wyatt made a mental note and scrambled for something to ask so he sounded like he knew what he was doing. “Do you need model releases?”

  “Model releases aren’t strictly required for street photography, but we do ask for them if the image is more of an individual portrait. Just to be safe. So, keep that in mind as you pick your pieces for the show.”

  As he left, Wyatt made sure to weave through the gallery, checking out the other walls to see how the artists presented their own work, before hunting Saal down across the street.

  “What’s next?”

  “The interview with Underground Magazine is in forty minutes, and after that you need to return a call to Out Loud. And on Thursday, as part of the estate for a man name Lee Ren, a self-portrait you shot when you were eighteen and sold at a community art fair, will sell at Sotheby’s for $2,100.”

  “Sotheby’s?” How was that even possible?

  “Sotheby’s London. He purchased it while visiting colleges with his daughter. It will be mentioned briefly in Art, and picked up again in three smaller publications—”

  “Wow. I feel guilty.”

  “Why? I told you, the perceived value of anything is influenced by how others value it. The woman in that gallery? Her reaction to your work was genuine—the same will be true of the bidders at the auction—but they feel justified in their appreciation due to the circumstances. For the gallery owner, that was your recommendation from people she respects. For the auctions, it’s the location.”

  “It wasn’t because of me, was it?” Saal stopped talking and blinked at him. “This guy, Mr. Lee, he didn’t die because of me, right? Because of my wish?”

  “No.” Saal shook his head, with an expression Wyatt found completely unreadable. Which was odd, considering almost everything about Saal’s emotions thus far had been obvious and extreme. “But because of your wish, your photo was a last-minute addition.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled and Wyatt decided he needed to take Saal’s picture too.

  * * * *

  Wyatt woke up the next morning and left Saal asleep in bed. He hurried to get ready and was out the door before nine, his camera strap across his chest and a ball cap pulled on over his wet hair.

  As he hit the stairs, the door across the hall opened.

  “Where have you been?”

  It was Clay, and Wyatt was happy to see him. “I’m in a rush. Want to grab the bus with me?”

  “Of course.”

  They hurried down the stairs, passing Mrs. Cain who was watering two new pots of plants as she hummed happily to herself, and ran to catch the North High bus before it pulled away from the curb. They grabbed the bench along the back, both grinning and out of breath.

  “I take it you’re feeling better.”

  “Much.”

  Wyatt pocketed the lens cap and started clicking photos of the nearly empty bus.

  “So, who’s the guy?” At Wyatt’s look, Clay snorted. “Samuel told me. And I keep asking myself, how does someone on his deathbed manage to meet a guy? He a nurse or something?”

  “He’s…” Wyatt hated to lie, especially to Clay. “He’s Mr. Walters’ grandson.”

  “No fucking way!” The bus driver shot them a look in the mirror above the windshield, and Wyatt hushed him. “So, now two people in that family have touched your dick?”

  “Will you shut up?”

  “Has he met Teddy?”

  “No.” At least this time he didn’t have to lie. “I don’t want him to.”

  “That’s a good call.”

  The bus eventually bounded to the curb at their stop, and Wyatt dragged Clay through the camera store. He hated to use his credit card again, but he loaded up on the things that he had to have—fresh darkroom chemicals, photo paper, an extra enlarger bulb just to be safe—and a few rolls of film and a larger paper easel that wasn’t strictly necessary. And on impulse, picked up a new set of watercolors and gel pens, and a T-shirt for Saal.

  “Why do you need all this stuff?” Clay asked as they made their way back to the bus stop.

  “I have a gallery show coming up. It’s a week from Saturday. You should come.”

  “Really? Yeah, of course I will. That’s great.”

  “You know, you could bring Samuel if you want.” Wyatt shrugged, trying to act casual, but Clay stopped and turned to look at him.

  “Please tell me you’re fucking kidding.” When Wyatt didn’t say anything, Clay threw up his hands and started walking again. “Jesus Christ.”

  “You don’t get it.” Clay had never gotten it.

  “Get what, Wyatt? That you like being treated like shit?”

  “Forget I said anything.”

  “I will.” A bus pulled up, but it wasn’t theirs and after a few minutes it drove away again. “Samuel has been such an asshole to you, man.”

  “I deserve it.”

  “You don’t. It was his decision to turn down that scholarship.”

  “Yeah, but we were supposed to go to New York together.”

  “Your mother had just died.” Clay poked him in the chest. “And he didn’t turn that scholarship down because of you, no matter what he says. He turned it down because he was scared. But this way, he gets to blame you.”

  Wyatt didn’t say anything.

  “He likes to play that grownup card, but that shit goes both ways. It means his decisions are his decisions.”

  They didn’t talk after that, not even on the bus ride back. Not until Wyatt spoke before they disappeared behind their apartment doors again. “You’ll come to my show, right?”

  “You’re my best friend. You know I will.”

  * * * *

  Wyatt let himself back into the apartment, his good mood obliterated by Clay’s burst of temper. He couldn’t expect Clay to understand, not any more than Samuel had understood why he hadn’t been able to abandon Teddy for New York. But Samuel had been the only one in Wyatt’s life that had made him feel like he was worth something. It was a painful thing to lose.

  Inside, he found Saal sitting on the couch. His eyes were closed, and a wisp of blue smoke danced around him.

  He was so focused on whatever he was doing that he didn’t seem to notice Wyatt, even when he closed the door and said his name.

  It took touching him on the shoulder before he opened his eyes.

  “You’re back.”

  “Yeah.” Wyatt lifted his camera to look through his view finder and began to click the shutter, happy when Saal didn’t ask him to stop “What were you doing just now?”

  “Nothing.” Wyatt didn’t think it looked like nothing. “Just thinking. What’s in the bags?”

  “I’ve been shopping.”

  “Oh.” Saal frowned and the smoke dissipated almost instantly. “I would have liked to go.”

  “I’m sorry. You were asleep and I just needed to pick up a few darkroom supplies.” Wyatt stopped shooting and sat his camera on the coffee table. “I brought you something.”

  “Really?”

  He pulled the T-shirt from the bag and held it out to him.

  “It’s for me?” Saal hesitated a moment and Wyatt felt momentarily silly.

  “I know you can conjure things yourself, I just thought—”

  “I love it.” Saal grabbed it from his hands. “Thank you.”

  “You haven’t seen it yet.”

  But it didn’t seem to matter. Saal yanked off the shirt he was wearing—an old one of Wyatt’s—and pulled the new one over his head. It was black, and a little too big, with the word paparazzi written in dark pink across the chest.

  He admired himself in the mirror for several long seconds, and then smiled at Wyatt. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” If felt oddly good to make Saal happy. “I have to develop some film, but after? Want to help me develop some prints?”

  “Like a detective on television?”

  “Just like.”

  Chapter 12

  Saalik watched old movies while Wyatt spent days in and out of the darkroom and sitting at the coffee table sorting through prints—switching out some, changing the print size of others—and hours upon hours strategically hand-tinting lips and eyes, or whatever he saw in his mind.

  “Why do you take your photographs in black and white but then paint on them?”

  “My mom, I guess.” Wyatt shrugged, standing up and stretching before returning to his work. “I used to help her in her dark room, and I loved it. I still use her old camera.”

  “And the painting?”

  “When my mom died, Teddy and I went through her closet. We moved around a lot after my father left for good, and always traveled light, you know? But we found a banged-up lock box that Teddy managed to open with a flathead screwdriver and a hammer.”

  “So?” Saalik turned off the television, enjoying hearing Wyatt talk, and dropped down by the table to clink through the little glass bottles of color, oranges, blues, and reds, as he listened. There was even a pretty one called Cotton Candy that reminded Saalik of Wyatt’s hair the first time he’d seen him on the fire escape. “What did you find?

  “Cards mostly. Anniversary and birthday ones. A few Valentines. And there were photographs. Teddy was so pissed.” Wyatt laughed. “Like he thought we’d find cash or something. Instead there were old greeting cards and older photographs of people I didn’t recognize, with names like Mary Catherine and Great-Great-Grandma Whilter’s first husband written on the back in my mother’s handwriting. They were mostly hand-tinted and I kind of became obsessed, and went out and bought some colors and brushes for myself.”

  “Did it take a long time to learn to do it well?” So far, Saalik thought Wyatt seemed to do most things well. Like the cooking and the kissing. “You make it look easy.”

  “It just takes a steady hand and patience, mostly.”

  Saalik stood again, and something caught his eye out of the living room window just as an alarm went off on Wyatt’s phone and he started cleaning up his mess.

  “I have a frame order to pick up. You want to go?”

  “I don’t think so.” Saalik glanced back out the window. “I want to stick around here.”

  “Really?” Saalik thought Wyatt looked disappointed, and that pleased him. “Well, after I have everything framed and delivered to the gallery, I’ll buy us dinner to celebrate, if you want. You know, before my credit card officially melts.”

  Saalik agreed, distracted, and as soon as Wyatt closed the door behind himself, he grabbed something from the refrigerator and climbed out of the kitchen window onto the fire escape. The dog was still there, a skinny, filthy mongrel of a thing, eating out of a trashcan that had been tipped over.

  He hurried down the metal steps, dropping the last several feet onto the cracked sidewalk and walked to the corner of the house. The dog looked up from her search for garbage scraps but didn’t run.

  “Hello.” Saalik squatted down, pulled some leftovers from his pocket and placed them on the concrete near his feet.

  The dog didn’t hesitate, walking over, tail wagging, and Saalik reached out to stroke her fur. It was cold and damp to the touch and crawled with fleas. He wished it all away, a cyclone of smoke appearing and disappearing just as quickly. When the bowl was empty, Saalik stood up.

  “I would love you to come home to live with me? But only if you want to. Every living thing deserves to have a choice.” He started walking around to the front of the house and by the time he was climbing the steps, the dog was next to him. “Thank you.”

  Since the day at the diner, the landlady no longer spent her days in the public spaces, instead Saalik could hear music playing and the sound of children laughing from behind her door, and he and the dog made it up the steps without questions.

  On the second floor landing, they found Samuel at the door of Wyatt’s apartment.

  “I’m afraid he’s not home.” Saalik was surprised at his own disappointment. “Can I give him a message?”

  “Oh.” Samuel looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t realize—”

  “How were you to know?” Saalik interrupted him, slipping past to let the dog into the apartment. “He’s out picking up things for his gallery show. Can I tell him you stopped by?”

  “Well.” Samuel hesitated and Saalik wondered why he’d ever thought the man more handsome than Wyatt. There was no comparison. “Yeah, just let him know Samuel stopped by.”

  “I will.” Saalik thought of Wyatt and forced a smile. “His show is this Saturday. Corbyn-Ross Gallery. I’m sure he’d love it if I told him you’d be there.”

  “Yeah?” Samuel looked Saalik over, and he wished he’d dressed a little nicer. “Absolutely. I’ll be there.”

  Inside, Saalik gave the dog a look and the dog looked back as if she understood. “Wyatt will be pleased, but that doesn’t mean we have to be, does it?”

  Chapter 13

  Saal had not wanted to leave his new pet, so instead of celebrating at a restaurant as Wyatt had planned, the three of them walked down the street to grab food from a taco truck for dinner and ate at one of the stone chessboards in the park that were a hotspot for old men on Sunday mornings.

  It was pleasantly cool, but not cold, but they’d bundled up just in case.

  Saalik was so happy with his dog that Wyatt didn’t have the heart to tell him they weren’t allowed to keep pets in the building. But then, maybe they’d eventually be able to find someplace else, and could sneak her in and out of the house until then.

  It was starting to get dark when they threw their trash away and started back to the apartment house.

 

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