Lady on the Rocks

by Liz Zuercher

Cassie’s heart was racing again.  She wrapped her arms across her chest, trying to calm herself, but that only made breathing difficult.  She put her arms down at her sides and shook them to loosen tight muscles, but they still felt like two by fours hanging from rigid shoulders.  She took deep breaths and paced behind her desk.  Nothing that usually made her feel better was working.  This job was killing her.

Looking out her office window she saw the distant ocean and knew where she needed to be.  She used to love going the ocean, watching the sunset, listening to the waves.  There she could lose herself and find herself at the same time.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked on the sand.

She told Judy to lock up and she left early.  She never did that, but today she felt like she would die if she didn’t get out of that office.  She headed toward the ocean. Traffic was heavy and her fingers drummed the steering wheel.  Trapped in the car, trapped in the job.  Alone.  Tears welled in her eyes.

Finally, she reached Moss Point and found a parking spot.  She tossed her heels into the car and slipped into the sandals and hooded fleece jacket she still kept in the back seat, even though she never used them any more.  She negotiated the flight of rough concrete steps down to the beach and walked along the water until she came to an outcropping of rocks where she could sit and watch the sunset.  She hung her legs over the rocky ledge, holding them tight against the rocks.  She clasped her hands at her knees and leaned toward the water, her eyes searching the horizon.  For what?  Anything, she thought, give me something to grab onto.

* * * * *

           

Paul first saw her in the low light of late afternoon November at Moss Point, where he went to take sunset photos.  She sat on a distant rock looking out at the ocean and he could only see her in silhouette.  What drew him to her was the slump of her shoulders and the way her hands were clenched in her lap, as if in fervent prayer.  Yet her face, in profile against the coloring sky, searched the sea as if answers to all her questions floated on the horizon.  Her body was tense and defeated, but hopeful, wistful.  A paradox.

He couldn’t help it.  Even though he rarely included people in his images, he lifted his camera from his chest and took her picture.  Once, twice, again and again.  There was no way you could identify the subject, so he didn’t plan to approach her to ask if it was okay to take her picture.  She would never know his camera was capturing her solitary moment.

He continued down the beach until he came to the spot where he usually set up his tripod to shoot the sunset.  He took stock of the light and the clouds – his favorite small tufts across the sky.  He hoped they would last until the sun sank below the horizon and the colors got stronger.  Sometimes the clouds were perfect and ten minutes later they were gone, leaving a barren sky.  It was always a crapshoot, but he showed up as often as he could and hoped for the best.

As he waited for the sun to set, he watched the woman on the rocks.  She hadn’t moved at all, and he wondered if she was even real.  Maybe she was an illusion.  Maybe she was only a rock formation that looked like a woman.  Maybe she started out real but the longer she sat there, the more she became part of the rocky shore.  Lady on the Rocks, he named her.

By the time the sun slipped behind Catalina Island, the clouds had thinned to nothing and the sky was a flat gray.  Paul sighed and began to pack up his equipment.  He stood to dismantle the tripod, and there she was, walking toward him.  Real.  No longer a silhouette with no features.  Blond hair tumbled around her face, and he saw a far away look in her eyes as she approached.  He looked down at his camera bag, not wanting to admit she was flesh and blood, afraid if he acknowledged her as something more than stone, the spell would be broken.  She wouldn’t be his Lady on the Rocks anymore.  He hoped she’d pass him by without speaking.

“Hello,” she said.

He looked up at her very real, serious dark blue eyes.

“Hello,” he said, weighing whether to say more, wondering if he should tell her that his camera held her image over and over.  Or should he let her continue walking past him and never say another word?

“Is something wrong?” she said.

If she’d left it at hello, he could have left it at that, too.  But she had seen the struggle in his face, and he knew he had to let her know he had seen her struggle, too.

“I was wondering the same about you,” he said.  “I saw you sitting on the rock over there and you looked so sad, the way your hands clenched and your shoulders sagged.  The image was so compelling I had to take a photograph of you.”  He touched the camera that still hung around his neck.

Because she looked afraid of him then, he stammered an apology.

“It’s nothing perverted,” he said.  “You can’t even tell who the person is.  I can show you, if you like.”

She nodded and said she wanted to see the pictures.  They stood beside each other, close but not touching, as he pulled up the images one after another for her.

“I can’t tell it’s me,” she said, “but I can feel myself in the pictures.  How did you do that?”

The sadness overtook her again, the flat sky darkening her eyes.  He was overcome with a desire to comfort and protect her.  But she moved away from him and a cold curtain descended around her that he thought she probably had firmly in place most of the time to shield her vulnerability.  The moment was gone.

“What will you do with those pictures?” she asked.

“I don’t have to do anything with them if you don’t want me to,” he said.  Even as he said it, he felt like it was a lie.  He wouldn’t sell or display these images of her if she didn’t want him to, but he knew he would be working with them at his studio, printing them, studying them.  He would keep them for himself, he thought, no matter what she said.  He felt guilty about that.

“I don’t want anyone else to see them,” she said.  Her voice was cold, businesslike and he imagined her driving a hard bargain.

“I promise,” he said.  No one else, she’d said.  He could promise that - no one else besides the two of them.  “You can trust me.”

“Can I?” she said.  “How do I know that?”

“I guess you don’t know for sure,” he said.  “You’ll just have to take a leap of faith.”

She stared at him for a while, considering his words, taking stock of him.

“Okay,” she said reluctantly.  “I guess I have no choice.”

“I hope you don’t feel threatened,” he said.

“No,” she said.  “Just uneasy.”  She studied his face, her brow furrowed.  “I don’t even know who you are.  It’s a little creepy.”

He reached into his camera bag, pulled out his business card and handed it to her.

“Paul Baxter,” he said.

She took the card.

“Fine art photography,” she read.

“Yes,” he said.  He wanted to know her name, but he was afraid if he asked, she would feel more uncomfortable.  He didn’t want that, he realized.  He never wanted to make her feel uncomfortable.

She studied his face.  He smiled, hoping to know more of her than the images on his camera.

“Cassie,” she said, extending her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Cassie,” he said, taking her hand in a firm handshake.

She nodded and then walked away from him down the beach.  He watched her climb the steps to the street above and disappear as if she’d never existed.

* * * * *

           

Cassie wanted to turn and look at him as she climbed the stairs, but that might give him the wrong idea.  He seemed nice enough, but a girl could never be too careful.  Her trusty inner alarm wasn’t ringing, though, so maybe he really was what he seemed.  But he had taken her picture without her knowing, invaded her privacy.  That alone should make her cautious.  It was making her cautious.  Still, his photographs had touched her, calmed her the way nothing had in a long time. 

She didn’t look back until she was at the top of the stairs, hidden by the bushes that grew thick along the street.  He was no longer there, and she began to wonder if he’d ever been there at all.  But she had his card, so he must be real.  She fingered the card, turning it over so she could read his name.  Paul Baxter, Fine Art Photography.  “Who are you, Paul Baxter?” she said out loud.

Her drive home up the coast was easy and she decided she’d have to go to watch the sunset more often.