Page 41

Ten Minutes After

was never good at sleeping on planes. The years of travel have not improved matters, so by the time he arrives at the Crane residence, it’s been two days since he last slept.

So when he sees her, the woman from the airport in Sydney, emerge from a taxi in front of the same house he’s just parked his rental car in front of, he assumes he’s hallucinating. He had spent the long flight regretting not getting her number or email address or even last name so he could track her down. And now he’s hallucinating her.

But if he is, it’s a very realistic vision because it’s laughing and crying and waving at him.

“What are you doing here?”

manages to sputter.

“I’m here for the party,”

she replies. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with the family, the Cranes and—”

He stops himself, remembering her beautiful sadness. What was it she’d said in the airport when he’d told her about Sorry Business? I don’t appear to be so good at letting go.

“Amber Crane was your . . . ?”

trails off.

“My niece. But also like my sister. We grew up together. Her mother, Gloria, practically raised me. I haven’t seen her . . .”

Now it’s her voice that breaks.

takes her hand and clasps it, and something in his restless spirit stills.

She squeezes his hand back. “Do you want to go to a party?”

“I’d love to,” he says.

She rings the bell. It opens. A woman opens the door. Amber’s mother. sees the resemblance immediately.

“Gloria,”

she says as Gloria says, “Pauline.”

Pauline. Her name is Pauline.

Pauline and her sister hug for a long time, crying and laughing in each other’s arms. has long grown accustomed to being an observer of such things, but usually the lens allows a barrier between himself and this intimacy, this messy thing called life. But now he doesn’t have his camera and he doesn’t want to hide. He wants to dive in. To all of it.

And then, another car pulls up and out steps Arnold King.

Okay, he must be hallucinating.

“Arnold!”

he calls. “Is that you?”

“?”

Arnold replies. “What are you doing here?”

Just then the back door of Arnold’s car opens and out steps a woman, silver curly hair, a kind face. This, he knows, is Nancy. From the other door emerges a man younger than but who seems, in his stooped demeanor, older than Arnold.

The younger man spots the house and leans over to retch into a patch of rosebushes alongside the driveway.

Both women recognize the change in the air. “What’s going on?”

Pauline asks.

“Miracles! Brian, come here,”

Gloria calls.

Brian steps out, followed by a young woman with short blue hair who squeals when she sees Pauline and hugs her.

Then, Pauline once again takes his hand.

The young woman turns toward the driveway. “Mr. King?” she asks.

“Yes, hello, Melissa,”

Arnold says, and can hear in his voice the teacher he once was. “Brian, Gloria,” he says, nodding at the Cranes.

One of the things that makes such a good photographer is this sense for when things are about to happen, a surfer about to emerge from the maw of a forty-foot curl, a sunrise about to explode. And he knows this is one of those moments. He stands still, he pays attention, he holds on to Pauline’s hand.

Arnold steps forward, along with the woman and the terrified-looking man. “This is Nancy Halyard, my soon-to-be wife, and this is her son, and I suppose in a way, soon to be my son, Jeremy.”