The Photograph

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

I never intended to tell her what had happened to her. I knew that I had had a strange relationship with her, a fraught relationship that ran from college to marriage and then to an unhappy divorce.

She had always been a woman of her word. Her husband had always trusted her, and she had always respected him. She had always been devoted to her children, and her children were devoted to her. They had helped her to find her place in the world and her family. She had looked after her husband and her children.

In the summer of 1981, I was driving my neighbor's car down the road when I saw her. She was looking back at me from the window. It was the first time I had seen her since she had left me. She had a rather long black beard. I had seen her before, in the misty courtyard of the house she had lived in for years.

"I feel bad about what I have done," she said. "But I can't bear to think of how my husband hates me."

"I love you, Mrs. Wells," I said. "I'm glad you're still with me."

"I know I'll never be as good as you are," she said. "I'm afraid of what I might do if I ever know how I came to be losing my wife."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

"She's not here anymore," said the old man. "She was always with a friend. She was always the one to go to the river and dance."

"Don't blame her," said the old man. "She's not a traitor. She's a good girl."

"She's awfully nice, too," said the old man. "How many times do you want to tell it? She's done for her own good, go and tell her the truth."

"She has a good eye for trouble," said the old man. "I don't think she can be induced to change her ways."

"And I regret to say," said the old man, "I think it's a very bad idea. I'll have her arrested."

"I don't intend to pull her out of jail."

"She must go to the hospital," said the old man. "I shall be glad to have a little help with the law."

"All right," said the old man. "It's just a little Christmas present for her. I'll see her in a fortnight. I'll give you a little money for your trouble."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

"She's been dead for a long time," he said, "and she's still here."

I looked at the old woman, to see if she had any obvious features. She was old, most of her hair had been pulled out, and her face was oval, and her eyes were sunken. Her mouth was wide open, and she had a gray square of dark hair that hung halfway down her back.

"She was a lady," he said, "and she was married, and she never got to know her husband."

"Oh, you mean she died," said the old woman, "and then she came back."

"But she never heard from him!" he said sternly.

"He was away in England when he died, and he never came back."

He had never told me what had happened to him.

"Well, I suppose he was with a woman that he married," he said, "and she was a maid, and she never came back."

"But she never came to see me!" said I, pointing to the picture on the mantle-rack.

"Well, this is the last I know of her," he said, and he was a good-hearted old man, and he was quite honest.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

But, as we all know, she is not here.

I've been searching for her in the last two years, but I can't find her.

I have no idea how she slipped away.

I've watched the news constantly, and I've read every newspaper that has come into the U.S. since she disappeared. I've flown to other countries and from there to Mexico, where I've found her drifting slowly into my mind.

But I still have no idea how she got away.

I've always been afraid that she would be caught up with me, and that my family would find out. But she never got away.

All I know is that I can see her now, and I can see that she is still alive, and that she has returned to San Diego.

I have a painting, of her lying in the sun, with her face marred by a yellow sunburn. It is good to see her again, my dear wife.

January, 1970

Dear Linda:

I'm an old lady who finally got to see my wife in person. It was during the last visit to San Diego. I've always been a fan of your photographs. They are the bravest of all the photographs I've taken over the years. I always thought that you were the finest photographer I ever saw.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

The door swings open and a young blonde girl has walked out. She's only 5'6" with a medium build. She looks utterly gorgeous and her hair is always in a wild bun. She's wearing a large blue dress with a lovely red ribbon that runs down the front of her neck. The dress is soaked in oil and she has a dazzling smile on her face.

"Hello, Mrs. Wright," she greets me as I walk down the hall.

I think she's a bit of a sight for a girl her age, but I prefer to think of her as gorgeous. She may look like she's been through a lot, but she's a true American dream!

"It's great to see you again," she says, "what a shock to find you in this wretched little corner of town."

"I wasn't looking for anyplace else," I reply. "We're just trying to get away from here and don't want to bother anybody. I was just thought that you would be the one to help me out."

"Well, I've been here before," she says. "I was a kind-hearted man back at home. I've got a lot of friends here, Mr. Wright, and I'm sure they're all looking after you."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

She's already been to a few conventions, but she hasn't yet shown up in my office. I can't get her to stop stopping at my desk and standing by it, either.

I've seen her before. One of my old college buddies once gave her a photo of her in a study coat, which I kept in my office. She was a member of the student's union, and she was always dressed in a pair of dark glasses.

She was a rather shy creature, but her smile was always on her face, and her eyes were always sparkling. Though she was handsome, she never had the slightest hint of vanity.

She's been my wife for fifteen years, and for most of that time she's been an employee at the newspaper. But she's always been in the habit of leaving my office for a short time, and when she's seen me, she often leaves her seat to look at me.

I've never been able to get my mind off of her.

I've thought of her often, and I've always found her charming and generous. She seems to me to be the only woman in the world who is ever almost as happy as I am. But she seems to me to be more troubled than I am by an obsession with power, and she's always been a demagogue.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile. But she's not there.

I've been able to keep her picture near my tombstone for many years, when I was ready to give up my life.

I have three daughters, all of whom have grown up today. I live alone with my wife, and we have a son, a daughter, who is married to my friend.

I had always believed that my wife would be faithful, but a year ago, a strange idea struck me. I first thought of her as a good-for-nothing girl, and I had no better idea of her as a good-for-the-girls. She is an intelligent, articulate woman, and she is a kind, loving, hard-working woman. But I have never seen her with any kind of commitment, and I tell you, if she were a good-for-nothing girl, she would never be a good-for-him.

I have often laughed at the absurdities of women who believe they are good-for-nothing girls: I once saw one woman in my hotel on a trip to the United States with a bag of white hairs. She came out with a much thinner woman's hair, and she said that she had been a good-for-him.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile. It's a life she took, but I'm sure she never will again. She's not a monster.

The next morning, I went out to visit my friend. It was a cold, windy day, but the streets were lively, and the crowds were large.

"It's all right, darling," said I. "I'll stay on my bicycle, and maybe I shall clean up the road in the street, and then I shall ride home to my family."

"You'll come with me, darling," said she. "Come on, I'm sure I'll get you to a hotel."

"I don't know how I can make it home in time to catch a train," said I.

"You'll get the rest of the way, and you'll come in peace," said she. "But then you'll never know it, and I'll be damned if it's better than a lonely ride home."

I was at that hotel in the dark of the night when I heard the sound of a road-block. It was the sound of a car coming down the street, and at the very moment when it was coming down, a policeman was striding up beside it. He stood up at the same moment as the light came on. A few minutes later he was gone.

"Where has he gone?" I asked the policeman.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile. JULIA Well, it's been a long time since I last saw her.

I looked into her eyes and saw a determined smile on her face.

"If you won't let me see her, I will have to let someone else look at her."

I turned her over to the monitor. She looked like a giant, red-eyed bird, with a big black wing. She was wearing a white dress, with a black satin skirt. She looked like she had a look of great confidence about her.

"I have not looked much since the last time I saw her," I said.

"I should know," she said. "I have a long career ahead of me."

"I wonder if you could give me some advice about your new job."

She was sitting on the edge of the bed with a cigarette in her mouth. She was dressed in a black tunic, and she had on a fine black skirt. It was a great day for her.

"I have not been very handsome since I left you," she said. "But I have a good eye for a woman. And what I have seen has not been in the least flattering. So I will have to learn to use it."

"You would do well," I said.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

"Happy birthday, Miss Beryl!" she said with a smile.

"And thank you for believing in me. I still believe that you will be a good mother and husband. I know that you will always love me and always love your daughter."

"She's still with me, darling. I'll miss her dearly."

"I'll be delighted to send her to school. I know she'll come to school with me as well, young lady."

"We'll be glad to see her."

"I'll always remember you."

"We'll never forget it."

"And I'm sure she'll go to school."

"God bless her!" she exclaimed.

"I'll always love her!" she repeated. "And she was so beautiful and so innocent!"

"She was killed in the house at the inn."

"I hope she's already dead. You should have seen her face when she was laying down on the bed."

"But she didn't say anything!"

"She was going to say something about herself, but she never did."

"Well, you could have anticipated that she would have been interested in the story. She would have been very interested. Now you have the whole truth."

"You look at it from the side; you see it as it is."

"It was a pretty story."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile. She's a beautiful woman, but she's, as I said, a very troubled woman. Every Sunday she goes to church as a member of the First Baptist Church, but not a member of the church of her youth. She'll go to church as a member of the Rev. John Holt's church, but not a member of the church of her youth. She'll go to church as a member of the First Presbyterian Church, but not a member of the church of her youth. And why should she be? She's a woman of her own making. She's a woman whose mind is entirely her own. She's one of the most gifted and intelligent women I ever knew. And she's one of the most beautiful women I ever saw.

The world is the only thing which has ever been so well able to correct a woman's sense of her own beauty. It has brought her under the control of Dr. Holbrook.

I enjoyed the whole family life of Mrs. Holt. I was the youngest of four children, but after the death of my father in the sevenies, Mrs. Holt was neglected by his wife and children.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

"But I suppose she is at home just now, and I never know whether she will ask me to come and see her again. I have heard that she has a nice house, and is big enough for two people. The house is nice enough to take a few walks along the bank of the river.

"In the spring alone, when the sun beams down upon me from over the mountain, I could easily have had a couple of days of my own in that country, but I have had a much longer stay with her. She has been to see me once before, and had a very good look at me. She has seen my drawing of some of my pictures, but I think that it is always better to have it free from any unnecessary or unnecessary pictures, for it is easier to see them than to take them out of my own mind."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

My wife and I still have our son, and we put him up in a small apartment in town. He lives out in the country with us, and we still have his picture, just in case.

I wonder if I can ever get my wife to tell me what happened to her when she left me. It was a strange, mysterious affair, very difficult to explain, and still going on. It took her to Paris, and we were robbed of everything we had. She made a trip to Australia to try to trace it. She found it, but the old papers were in the system—the old Journals. She hid the papers in the attic, but I had broken into the house and took them away with me.

When the boys were gone, I had my wife and myself to rest in the house. We had, of course, been talking of the Green-house, and I had told her that I had very much hoped that it had been destroyed. She had said that she had been told that it had been destroyed, but that she had never seen it.

She was quiet, and when she came to me one morning, she was quite silent. "You have better luck in finding it," she said. "I really don't know how you have got away."

"I told you," I replied, "that you would find it, and I certainly should have heard of it."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

She's in her right mind, really, being a woman of many different social backgrounds and beliefs. And she's never been afraid to talk about her own life and her own prejudices.

She said something to me once: 'I used to feel like I had a tendency to judge other people, but now I just feel terrible for judging myself.'

I still think she's right, though. I've got to admit I've come to regard her as a very capable observer of people, too.

She has a book about homosexuals on her shelf. I've read it. I don't know whether I've understood it all.

The last time I saw her she was in London, on the train to see her friend. She had one of those warm little white shoes that women wear when they're out for a walk and she loves to think of herself as a woman in heels.

She had a very serious expression on her face, and I saw her when she walked into the room. She was so quiet that I could have sworn I saw her sink into a chair and look up at me.

She was dressed in a blue dress, and the light in the room was not better than the light in the street. She had a light-colored skirt and a pair of bright blue socks, and she had a waistcoat which had a white ribbon running down it.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile. But I don't think I'll ever get her pictures down.

I'm sure that the photographer didn't realize that she was an old man in his late 60s who had spent some years off work. But he had only been as old as he was in the old days. It was a great pity that he had retired to a very small cottage at the back of Ayr.

This morning has been very cold. I have no doubt that the weather had been colder than usual. No snow had fallen since yesterday.

The night has been cloudy with rain.

This morning I had a beautiful view of the Highlands. I could see the hills and the grey foothills, and the braided streams of the Kirk, with the grey fields and yellow hills.

I must say that I was almost tempted to write a story of this nature, but I could not resist my own fancy, and began with a picture of the cottage in the West End of the Old Port. I had found it, in the midst of the thick fog, in my dreams, and I had gone into it with my eyes shut, and I had been carried away by a strange feeling of fascination, as though I were in some mysterious, terrible place.

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

The same year she went missing, I had a very good chance of finding her. I had a great chance of getting her. I had a great chance of finding her.

I was working in the field at the time, and I was responsible for keeping her safe, and I had her in my pocket.

I had her in my pocket, and I kept her in my pocket.

I found her in a field some miles from where she had been seen. I saw her dusty and worn and down, and I saw her face: she was a young girl, with a little curly hair. She wore a blue shirt and a blue tie, and I saw her eye-glass broken. She had a large black ring on her finger, and her eyes were wide and frightened when she looked around her.

I took off my watch, and looked through it. It was about ten o'clock. At ten o'clock I was out in the field, and I could see her again.

I was ready to leave, when she stopped me. She said, "I'm going to be a nurse, and I want to sleep with the doctor here."

"No, no, no. I don't want to be a nurse," I replied. "I've got to be a doctor."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile. But I won't put my money on it.

"I'll never forget the first day I saw her."

"I always loved her to bits," said Dean. "She always had a lot of friends."

"Only once did I talk to her about something." He turned to face me, and his eyes lit up with a new intensity. "She'd always say, 'I'm all alone.' "

"And if I'd seen her once, I wouldn't have thought of calling her."

"I didn't mean it that way. I just thought that she was quiet and slow."

"But now, she's no longer quiet. She's fast. She's fast enough to catch you up in the dark."

"She's found that she can drive you right over the line."

"She's going to make you drive straight out of town. You'll wonder where you got all your courage."

"I'd like to see her."

"I wouldn't wager a coin on it."

A cold sweat ran down Dean's back. It was only because he was so used to being in the act that he had not noticed the sharp edge in my eye. "And that's when she got into my car."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

The clock begins to tick away, and I quickly rush to the office door.

"Shall we go?" I ask my secretary. "I haven't had the pleasure of seeing her in years."

"She must be a lovely woman," she says, turning to me. "It was just to show that she was not alone."

"Ah, she was a beautiful woman indeed," I say. "I've always enjoyed seeing her."

"She had to wait for the tears to dry," she says, "and she still can't get over the pain of it."

"But she is happy," I say, "and she will have us back in the country. She is so fond of me that she has even been willing to travel to the land of her ancestors and her father."

"Oh, I saw her," she says, "and she was just as happy riding into town on the roller-coaster of her own errand."

"Oh, I remember her well, Miss Captain, and she's never come home for supper."

"She is very restive, Miss Captain. She hasn't forgotten the way she got here."

I've kept her photograph in my wallet ever since she disappeared four years ago. I still hope that she will somehow somewhere show up again, with her big beautiful smile.

My last visit to the camp was over two years ago, and I gave her a place in my tent. If my wife had not been so cold, her winter clothes would have been a waste of money. I know that she wants to go back to London, and I can only ask that she does so without delay.

She is an old woman, but she has not lost her spirit. She has lived long and well in our common camp. I will make her a bed, and she will lay out her room as much as she likes. I will bring her a warm coat for winter; she will wear it throughout the night. In the morning she will rise and walk to the door, where she will bid her husband farewell.

She is a pretty woman, she was kind to me when I took her to my room, and she has always been my friend. But she has been a lonely woman. I have travelled far behind her in the world, but I have never seen her, nor have I heard her talk, and I have never tried to understand her.

I have studied her papers, and I have made a good search for her. I have drawn a map of her camp, and I have put it into a book.