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Show 20 he takes the camera from the tripod, tears from it the roll of film and hurls it in the half light of dusk over McPherson's newly-planted fieT-d, end over end toward the creek; then moves slowly to the house where he will wait for someone to come, for sirens, lights, the aftermath of an accident, the white stretcher and sheet; to the house where he will find himself sitting through the night, waiting for morning, first light, sleep. Gulls climb in the sky: dull white forms, flapping and turning on gray. Then another boat, further out in the harbor, lets out a long, deep-throated blast of its foghorn which thickens the air. It is a calling home, a calling away, and like a younger brother who has been left behind, the Naxos responds with a slip of its engine; and somewhere above, in the smoky steerage cabin, a chin-high lever is pulled by a man Garrett imagines in neat blue jacket with white braid trim, a blue-visored cap, and gloves. The lines are thrown from shore to deck, the echo of the foghorn sinks beneath the water, and the Naxos, released from all restraints, leans heavily into the sea. Like a tiny piece of dry ice sizzling in its own steam, the timeless moment evaporates and is gone. Now comes the blink, the aftermath of the moment, the living negative which appears behind the eyelids after the bright flash. The blacks and whites of the perfect photograph are reversed. In the awkward image, Garrett sees himself waving. Below, on the pier, Ahmed's sister waves one final time and turns to leave. |