Patricia Gaffney Read Online Free Page A

portrait, so she’s the one bringing the kids. And I don’t think there’s—well, we’ll see what happens, but when I did the preshoot consult, I didn’t notice a lot of affection between the boys and their grandmother. But we’ll see.”
    “So you met the kids already?”
    “Yeah, I always do that.”
    “Wow.” She has squinty blue eyes, pale-lashed and pink-rimmed; they look intelligent but myopic. I hope she’s wearing contacts. “I love what you do,” she says. “I think it’s the coolest job.”
    “Why?” I ask, amused.
    “Well, working with kids and all, plus you’re an artist. ”
    “Ha. Sometimes. But there’s a lot to it that’s not all that artistic.” It’s good to hear she wants to be an artist , though. A lot of the young ones these days are only in it for a quick buck, and because they think it’s easy. God, I sound old.
    Very quickly I show her where the basics are: the hair light, the fill, the key lights, what props I expect to use. “The bathroom’s over there, the kitchen’s there, that’s a little dressing room. I can do most of this by myself, and I usually do, but since it’s twins…”
    “Oh, sure. Double the trouble.”
    “Right, plus the whole grandmother deal. This isn’t a Christmas shot, by the way. It’s for the kids’ birthday, January fifteenth, so that’s why we won’t be using Christmas props.”
    “Gotcha.”
    “What else? Mrs. Thorpe, the grandmother—when I asked her what the boys were into, she said chess. So I got a chess set and we can put it on this table, these chairs—but you know, I just doubt it, they didn’t seem like chess guys to me. But, again, we’ll see.”
    The doorbell buzzes.
    “Damn, they’re early. Okay, Greta. Are we okay?”
    She takes a deep breath; her skinny shoulders go back, little breasts stick out. “I’m ready.”
    “Good. Oh—no, never mind.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing.” I started to give her the most important instruction, which is, basically, keep quiet and in the background so everybody focuses on me. Makes things much simpler. But in Greta’s case, I don’t think it’s necessary. Unless I’m mistaken, this is her first pro shoot. Her problem’s more likely to be taking initiative, not taking charge.
    Mrs. Thorpe is a ghastly woman on almost any level I can think of. Why Mrs. Thorpe the mother didn’t come today with her children and protect them from her I can’t imagine, unless she’s as scared of the old lady as they are. She should’ve come anyway: These children need her. Grandmother Thorpe looks particularly humorless and formidable, like a Cold War Russian soldier in a full-length sable coat she won’t take off—my studio’s too cold, she says—matching hat, and knee-high leather boots. It’s not going to be easy keeping her out of my way.
    The twins, Kevin and Eugene, are identical, but I can tell them apart by Kevin’s slightly darker crew cut and Eugene’s glasses. They’re six, going on seven. When I greet them, they give no sign of having met me before, but they’re cowed little guys; they don’t meet anybody’s eyes, and even though their sullenness is a cover for fear right now, any minute it could morph into really bad behavior. Already I don’t like how this is going.
    I have to roll the backgrounds down myself because Greta has never seen a motorized lift before. What are they teaching in photo school these days? We set up the chess scene with a background that looks like wood paneling; Mrs. Thorpe is going for that two-gentlemen-in-a-library look, I presume. Greta takes flash meter readings like a pro, thank God. We get something preliminarily okay for the lighting, but it doesn’t work. Kevin and Eugene, especially Eugene, can’t relax, they look like mannequins, like firing-squad victims.
    “This isn’t what I wanted at all ,” Mrs. Thorpe tells me in a loud aside. “This is just not right. I’d heard good things, but frankly…” Her blonde pageboy doesn’t