Dashboard Elvis is Dead, page 24
I hope Devlin Carter deserved his good fortune. I hope the trauma of losing a son so young made him a better person in the intervening years. And I hope his close shave with death will create empathy for others where little evidence of it previously existed.
(Act iii) From Then to Now
I knew deep down that he was dead even as I added his picture to the rest of the lampposts. Life had never cut him much of a break before. It seemed inevitable that wouldn’t change when he needed it most. Some people are just destined to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Six months after the disaster, I receive confirmation. Hennessey’s remains have been identified using a comparison to the record held in New York-Presbyterian Hospital, in Queens, where he was treated following the beating from his relatives. I am his designated ‘emergency contact’. In the months that follow, survivor stories describe a maintenance man wearing a bright yellow T-shirt as a mask against the thickening dust cloud. Despite his slightness of frame, he summoned the strength from somewhere to force open an escape door. He yelled ‘Just keep going!’ to several people before heading upwards to look for more trapped survivors to help, minutes before the North Tower collapsed.
Hennessey wasn’t an ordinary man.
The telephone calls begin around the end of March 2002. Several a day. No-one speaks on the other end. Only heavy breathing before I hang up. Until one call in the middle of the night begins with the muffled threat: ‘I’m going to fucking kill you, black bitch!’ It seems inevitable that it’s Astrid Atard. She’d gradually receded to the back of my mind for over a year.
NYPD officers come, but not to my aid. They come because Astrid has accused me of stealing her jewelry, a fur coat and now a Persian cat. This is their third call-out to my apartment. The third occasion she has wasted police time. The officers are as irritated as me. I’m informed that this is a pattern of behavior, but since Julian Atard is ‘balls deep with Giuliani’ their hands are tied. They must be seen to be investigating. The most senior cop suggests I leave town for a while, until she gets me out of her system. Until she moves on to some other victim, is what they mean. This seems highly unlikely, I consider, since she has waited eighteen months for this. Astrid Atard is a woman who’ll be plotting retribution for a grudge as she draws her last breath.
Regardless, I take the advice.
A road trip south, away from all the emotional heartache of the city and the unpredictable chaos of a high-maintenance stalker, is in order.
I excite myself by making vague plans that will probably never happen for a book of photographs that celebrate the American hinterland. No publishing house is likely to accept the pitch, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the very idea of escaping the city that is sustaining me.
The drive south is languorous, as befits my cautious driving. I have no real destination in mind. My subconscious is navigating. I discover exactly what I expect to find. A huge transformation in rural America from when I initially crossed it eighteen years ago. Pictures of animals locked away in industrial prisons, vacant farmlands, bankrupt towns, hunched, destitute workers, and all the while, the sense that a resurgent political far right is building power in the countryside. It is a new heart of darkness. An introverted country, hidden away from the metropolitan spotlight, reconstituting itself along America’s traditional lines of race, poverty, and commercial advantage. I photograph numerous protests and several riots as I pass from city to city. There is no obvious common driver for the anarchy, except anger. From Harrisburg to Huntington, from Tupelo to Tulsa, from Stillwater to Santa Rosa. If one place voices fury at Bush’s abandonment of them, the next targets Clinton’s legacy in ignoring their plight. When it’s not our political leaders in the firing line, it’s the Black people, or the Hispanics, or the Muslims. I am making a visual record of a country living in perpetual fear of the other. Rage is the only constant.
I photograph so many dispiriting things in this tableau of middle America, that it’s almost a relief to find myself back in the familiar streets of Wickenburg. Little has changed, and in my mind’s eye I see Brandy, hot donuts in her hands, running along the street to get out of the rain and back to us. It was for Matt’s birthday. He’d have been twenty-four, I think.
And just because I told myself I would, I return to Frontier Street.
I press the buzzer.
Hello?
Um, hi … is this Mrs Forde?
Yes, is the reply. She sounds anxious. As if she doesn’t get many unexpected callers.
Hello, Mrs Forde. I don’t think you’ll recall but I briefly lived upstairs. It was a long time ago now. My name’s Jude Montgomery.
There’s a silence.
I came here in 1983. With Brandy and Matt.
Oh! she says. And then the lock releases. And I go back in time.
Brandy died at the beginning of 2000. But her wild, untamed spirit was extinguished years earlier. She had remained here and dealt with the consequences of that night at the Razzle Club, as she promised me she would. No blame apportioned.
Just the roll of the dice, Jude. Be lucky. Make us proud – the last words she said to me before I sullenly stomped up to Momma Em’s door without even saying goodbye. How I’ve wished I could take back that moment every single day since.
I’m very sorry, my dear, Mrs Forde says, pouring me a tea. It was terrible at the end. Brandy couldn’t look after herself, ne’er mind that poor boy. She just wore out, she did. Working all hours. I tried to tell her, he needs full-time care, I said. But I couldn’t help, not with my hip being so. And she wouldn’t call her folks…
She sees me crying.
Oh dear, let me get you somethin’ for that.
I drive to the care home but once there, I can’t go in. Instead, I walk around back to peer through the painted fence into the garden, hoping to recognize him. I wait for thirty minutes or so, and eventually, a man is wheeled out into the sunlight. He is wrapped up against the cold but I’m sure it’s Matt. That greying quiff, that sparkle in the eye. I wave and imagine a goofy smile in response. But if it is him, there’s nothing there. It’s almost too much.
I knew Rabbit was Brandy’s daughter from my very first weeks at Lakeview. The same quirky mannerisms, the determination to do things perfectly. A sideways look when she was amused. And those eyes, alluring and mischievous and loving, all at the same time. It wasn’t my place to say back then. And Em closed down any of my questions about Rabbit’s background. For whatever reason, Brandy had been erased from her daughter’s life. And now she’s gone. It seems so unfair. All of it.
I call from the care home’s parking lot, but only after composing myself.
Momma Em? Hi, it’s Jude. I breathe in deeply. I’m really sorry to have to tell you, but Brandy’s dead.
I know, Jude, she says softly.
It takes me by surprise.
You know? Oh, I say. Uh … when did you, um…
I hear her sigh, like she’s just picked up an unwanted call from an aluminum siding salesman.
Uh, last year, she says.
It seems like I’ve caught her out.
But … you didn’t think to call me?
No. I didn’t, Jude. We thought it was for the best.
The best, I say.
My voice is rising.
How could it be for the best? She was my friend.
Jude, you only knew her for a couple of months, twenty years ago. Get some perspective.
I’m sobbing now. Barely able to speak.
Is Ben there?
Ben is out right now, she says, with the coldness of someone protecting a mob boss from an Internal Revenue Service rep.
Does Rabbit know? I ask.
Em doesn’t immediately answer, and I know from this that she doesn’t.
I’m in Wickenburg, I say. I can be there in twelve hours or so. Will I come home, Em?
This isn’t your home, she says. It hasn’t been since…
The fire is the unsaid end of that sentence.
Don’t you think poor Rabbit has been through enough? she adds, pouring peroxide into my open wound.
This stops me in my tracks. I have nothing to offer in response.
Goodbye, Jude.
The call ends.
Driving back east, I feel so totally and utterly alone. All bridges burnt. The only person I could call a friend entombed under 250,000 tons of steel and concrete. I sob uncontrollably, and the idea of shutting my eyes and letting the vehicle roll left across the highway into the path of an oncoming truck is only prevented by the pain and suffering it would cause another innocent family.
My return to Manhattan brings the not-unexpected news that I have been fired from Camel/De Souza. Astrid Atard kept her promise. I surprise myself by viewing this as an early release from a jail sentence. Better to consider that Astrid has done me a favour, rather than become mired in the notion that she has won. Feeling freed, I immerse myself in freelance work, and for the following few years, things stabilize and gradually improve.
It’s not until 2005 that my 9/11 photographs gain any acclaim. A Chelsea gallery puts on a show and there is good coverage – and some positive reviews, one in the New York Times. My trip across America did finally turn into a publication – a monograph entitled American Hinterland. I still get a steady stream of royalties from it.
Out of the blue, most likely in response to the NYT coverage, Janet Delaney reaches out. She composed the introduction for the book but it was following the publisher’s approach to her, not mine. I haven’t spoken to her in years although I’m delighted to hear from her now. A short-term teaching position has opened at the New York Institute of Photography. Janet recommends me for the position, which, following an unusual and prolonged interview, I am offered. The NYIP is moving exclusively into home-study courses, but to supplement revenue they are retaining one face-to-face class. The course forces me to reread my college notes, which is more enjoyable than I thought it would be. The fire at Lakeview meant I dropped out of Janet Delaney’s class, so I didn’t complete my formal training. But I allay any anxieties about my fitness for the role by reminding myself that I have gleaned all I needed to learn about taking good pictures through trial and error, out in the field.
I settle in quickly and enjoy the structure of a regular day that doesn’t have the pressure of the private sector. I compose lectures on Richard Avedon, photographic art in the service of advertising, and the early process of employing an iodine-sensitized silver plate and mercury vapor – otherwise known as a daguerreotype photograph. My class subscription grows quickly, and it seems that I have finally found a calling that suits my unsociable lifestyle and my fitful relationship with a schedule.
August brings the welcome news that a gallery show at MoMA will feature three of my photographs. A crassly titled exhibition, Capturing Disaster, is to run for two months up to Thanksgiving. I pick up a copy of Time Out, reading it on the train to my class. Coverage of the exhibition I’ll be part of is sparse, but in the ‘Coming Soon’ section there is this:
At the age of only twenty-seven, Bunny Menendez, the San Franciscan artist known as Rabbit, has taken the art world by storm. Largely self-taught, she is redefining portraiture and the nude, producing art of extraordinary honesty and vitality. Her subjects are unique and resist traditionally accepted notions of beauty. Rabbit challenges our understanding of ourselves and our place in a culture where the pursuit of flawless perfection has become the American Curse. She is a painter who emerges once in a generation. MoMA is honored to present the first full exhibition of Rabbit’s career. Don’t miss it.
From October 31st – February 28th.
The first thing I notice, apart from the vastness of the canvases, is the thickness of the paint. As if it was applied with a trowel rather than a brush. I wonder if injury has forced this less dexterous technique upon her. Then, as I examine the paintings, I begin to feel as if I am intruding on her intimacy. It makes me uneasy at first, but Rabbit has captured the strength and fragility of the human body in every one of these artworks. Particularly the self-portraits. I stare, breathless, at abstracted images of the woman who was the little girl I once knew. Her work is genuinely breath-taking.
I stand at the back as the opening speeches are made by various top-level members of MoMA management, and their sponsors. Trying to remain inconspicuous as I scan the heads in the crowd for a sign of her. I don’t know what she looks like now. Rabbit’s paintings of herself have her facing away, presumably to fix the gaze on parts of her body the viewer might initially be uncomfortable looking at. Is she the small, shaven-headed woman with the full-length black sari? Or the tall, statuesque, mini-skirted redhead over to the right? Or the sallow skinned…
Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, friends of MoMA, please welcome … Rabbit.
And there she is. None of those I’d guessed. She is small, and reassuringly ordinary. Shoulder-length black hair that has surely been dyed. She is wearing army boots, turned-up bleached jeans, and a long white sweatshirt that has had one sleeve ripped off, putting her extensively scarred arm on show.
Uh … um, hello. Thank you all for coming. I’m, uh, not used to speaking in public. So, um … uh, I’m gonna keep this short. As you can see, my body is imperfect … and for as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by our society’s perception of my imperfection. Of all imperfections. Um, why people will sometimes stare when I leave my arm exposed like it is now. Or recoil from a person missing a limb. Or, um, feel uneasy talking to a person with a visible curving scar from a neurological operation. The subjects I paint have imperfections that aren’t detractions. In most cases, they are the evidence of survival, and that is, uh, surely life-affirming.
The assembled group applauds.
So, can I just thank MoMA, and its sponsors … Angelique, my agent, Em and Ben, my momma and pop, and again, you all for coming. I hope the exhibition positively challenges your perceptions. Thank you.
Glasses are raised and more applause follows. Music plays: ‘Make Your Own Kind of Music’ by Cass Elliot, and I wilt. I am tearful. The enormity of what she has achieved in such a short time hits home. I stand at the back of the hall, in the shadows, watching her move uncomfortably between pretentious people desperate to shake her hand or have a catalogue signed. There are even those who ask for a photograph with her.
She doesn’t know I’m here. I’ve been in two minds for the weeks leading up to this opening as to whether to approach her or not. I decide to leave. All these years and I still can’t face up to the psychological and physical harm I caused her. It’s enough for me to have witnessed her happy and enjoying this success. I turn and thread my way through the bodies towards the lift.
Jude? Is that you? I hear as the doors slide closed behind me.
Two days later, I notice a Twitter DM notification. It’s from Rabbit:
Hi Jude. I saw you at my show opening the other night. Why didn’t you say hello?
The message was sent fourteen hours ago. I’m not a regular user of social media. I dip in to observe, rarely to participate. But I know enough about the currency of Twitter to realise what the lack of an immediate response can imply. She’ll think I’m deliberately avoiding contact, which, weirdly, is the exact opposite of what I crave. I just don’t have the tools. Tentative, distanced communications are the best way to start.
Rabbit, I’m sorry. I had a deadline to file. Your show was amazing. I’m so so pleased for you.
I send this and then stare at the words, analyzing them. Three dots appear under my message, jumping up and down in sequence. My heart rate increases. She is reading.
Thank you. I’m glad you liked the work. How are you?
I’m well. Living quietly as always. Are you still in New York?
No, I had to fly back east right after the show. I didn’t know you were in town. We should’ve met up. There’s a lot of time to catch up on. X
I notice the kiss. It seems significant.
How’s Momma Em, Ben? Are there still lots of kids running around. Jx?
They’re fine. No more kids though. They’ve retired from fostering. It was getting too much for them. Em told me you’d been around California a couple of years ago. But you’d been too busy to make it to Lakeview.
There’s no kiss this time. That also seems significant. Maybe she’s angry with me. I don’t know how to respond. I desperately wanted to see her then, but Em prevented it. I walk away from my phone. Twenty minutes pass before I type…
I really wanted to come and see you. To speak to you. To tell you things.
An almost equal gap and then …
Oh. What things?
It’s like these are coded messages, and a team of FBI analysts are deciphering them before permitting a response. This last one especially. My heart is beating furiously as I weigh the consequences of what I’m preparing to type. She should know about her mom. Em should’ve told her. I’m rattled at her lying to Rabbit about me. Why say anything at all? I’m torn between a responsibility to keep Brandy’s memory alive and appreciating the sadness it will cause Rabbit. But she has a right to know what a vibrant, inspiring soul her mother was. I’m certain it’s where she gets her creative spark. My heart is racing ahead of my brain. I should ask her for her number. I should call her and talk to her. But I don’t know how I’d say the words. So instead, I carelessly write…
Rabbit, I desperately wanted to see you, but Em prevented it. I was visiting the place where your mom and I stayed for a couple of months before I came to Lakeview. Your momma was the most alive person I’d ever met. She made me the person I am today. She died five years ago and I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you more about her before now.
