Every fall they had their picture taken for the church directory, a slim, no-frills compilation kept with the latest White and Yellow Pages in the front hall table, and especially handy now that so many of their contemporaries were moving to condos and retirement homes. Though Henry disliked having his picture taken, and everyone at Calvary knew who they were, as a member of the vestry he felt compelled to lead by example, and so, the day of their appointment, he shaved and put on the same suit and tie he’d worn the year before.
“I think it’s time for a new suit,” Emily said.
“I like this suit.”
“It’s old and it doesn’t fit you anymore.”
“It fits fine.” He showed her the sleeves, perfectly even with his wrists.
“It’s too tight through the shoulders.” Which was true, it did bind him. “We should go look at Nordstrom this weekend. They’ll have something nice. You’re going to need one for Sarah’s confirmation.”
“That’s not till February.”
“February’s going to be here sooner than you think.”
“I still like the suit.”
“Do you remember when you bought it?”
“I don’t know. When I was still working.”
“So at least ten years ago. How much did you pay for it?”
“No idea.”
“Whatever it was, you’ve gotten your money’s worth out of it. Time for a new one.”
“What about the tie?” Navy with diagonal gold stripes—Pitt’s colors—which she’d given him ages ago.
“The tie’s fine.”
Driving over, his checkbook in his jacket pocket, he was still ruffled. Whether she was right or wrong, he would never think of criticizing her clothes. Not because he had no fashion sense (as a designer and a craftsman, he liked to believe he had a good eye), but because he respected her. He wasn’t a ten-year-old getting ready for church. The suit was fine, just a little tight, but, as with most of their minor disagreements, he knew he’d eventually give in, if only because she cared more.
During the shoot, he was afraid the camera would capture his displeasure and tried to disguise it with his best vestryman’s smile, beaming into the bright lights. The photographer, a beanpole of a young man with brilliantined hair and a bow tie, was a one-man band, constantly adjusting his reflective screens, checking an open laptop and fiddling with his lenses, keeping up a nonstop barrage of questions, sometimes laughing before they answered, at others outright ignoring them. He was flirty and theatrical, dropping in and out of a not-quite-British accent. He brought over a stool for Henry to sit on and had Emily stand behind him, a pose Henry thought odd but went along with.
“Now if the gentleman could turn to his left, like so. Left, left, right there, yes. Knees together. And if the lady could put her right hand on his shoulder. Head straight, chin up. Lovely. And if the gentleman could look up here. And a smile. Wonderful. And again. Very nice. You’ve done this before, I can tell. Are both of you right-handed?”
The basic package—not cheap—included a single four-by-six print of the shot they used for the directory. Normally, as they previewed their choices on the laptop, the photographer used the opportunity to upsell them, pushing eight-by-tens and wallet strips to share with family members, forcing Henry to politely decline, but this one didn’t bother.
“I’m surprised,” Emily said on the drive home. “Isn’t that his job?”
“I’m assuming they work on commission. Is it my imagination, or was he wearing makeup?”
“He had on more eyeliner than I do. And he smelled like cloves.”
“‘The lady.’”
“‘The gentleman.’”
“He was interesting.”
“I’m sure it’s not an easy job.”
“No,” he said, and thought of Kenny with his degree, developing other people’s pictures. Henry had done his best to counsel him but feared none of his advice applied.
Reconciled, they rode in silence.
“We can go look for a suit tomorrow, if you want,” he said. “Traffic won’t be as bad.”
“Well! What got into you?”
“The power of suggestion.”
“I guess so. I’d say that was almost too easy if it hadn’t taken ten years.”
The next day she held him to it, helping him choose a suit he couldn’t live long enough to get his money’s worth out of, but which, because it was roomy and made her happy, became his favorite. Yet the real legacy of the shoot belonged to the photographer, who they gleefully imitated around the house, exaggerating his tics, turning him into a goofy cartoon. “The lady,” Henry would say, finding her on the john. “If the gentleman could move his lazy carcass out of the lady’s way.” “If the canine could pee and poop today. Yes, wonderful.” They weren’t being cruel, or didn’t mean to be. Theirs was a private language, not shared with the rest of the world, and so exempt from censure, sheer burlesque. One reason they fell back on it so often, Henry thought, was because they liked playing him. Their impressions were as much a tribute as a spoof. He was a character, free to do or say anything, and when the directory arrived, they had to admit, after everything, he took a pretty good picture.