Lenswoman in Love - a novel of the 1960s/'70s

I've always remembered my father in the golden light of late afternoon.

The first time he handed me his camera changed the course of my life. He sat in a chair opposite a window when the sun was low in the sky, casting a warm glow, and he said, "Look at me through the viewfinder, Maddy. Look at the way light reflects off my eyes. Look at the highlights and shadows. Shoot when you're happy with what you see in that little rectangle."

My first portrait was of him, only a few months before he was gone.

With the thrill of capturing that moment, photography became my passion and the catalyst for my career. It was the main source of joy in my life…

…until Jake.

CHAPTER ONE. Police Riot

1967, Century City, California

The throng of peaceful marchers began to move forward together toward the front of the hotel, singing and chanting “Hey, hey, LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?”

With the shrill of a police whistle, row after row of cops suddenly charged into the mass of unsuspecting protestors. The chants turned to screams.

The crowd in front of me parted, and I saw a woman fall to the ground, blood gushing from her scalp. For a fleeting moment, I saw my dad’s face instead, covered in blood, and that feeling of utter terror came flooding back. I froze for a second, then I took a deep breath, lifted the camera to my eye and began to shoot.

A man to my right gripped his injured arm, calling out for help, but all those attempting to aid the wounded were plowed down by the relentless lines of cops moving forward attacking everyone in their path.

Adrenaline pumping, I clutched the borrowed Bolex camera protectively against my chest and fought my way through the panic-stricken crowd to the sidewalk. Determined to capture the entire range of the bloodshed in the street, I turned on the camera and braced my legs in a broad stance to steady the shot.

Lines of police in full riot gear advanced into the screaming crowd and swung their billy-clubs again and again. Bloodied bodies fell in their wake, only to be beaten by a second line of police and then a third.

Dusk was swiftly turning into night, and I was no longer sure I’d have enough light to capture the horrors unfolding in front of me, but pure adrenaline and fury kept me shooting.

Our student film crew had scattered throughout the crowd of peace demonstrators when the police attack began, and I had no idea where they all were. I had last seen our sound man, Danny, trapped and helpless where he'd fallen into a hedge, hopelessly entangled in the mass of wires from his microphones and recorder, being battered by police.

I pushed through the throng and broke free to run up a small rise, where I had a perfect view of the no-man's-land between the back of the crowd and the steadily advancing police lines. The street lights glinted off endless rows of white helmets. Shouts and screams tore the air, along with the cries of hysterical children and the thudding sound of batons hitting flesh and bone. I gritted my teeth and braced my elbows against my sides to steady the camera as I panned across the advancing troops and the panicked crowd.

A sudden flash of black and white in my peripheral vision was my only warning, a split-second before a cop slammed me in the back and I careened, rolling and sliding, down the hill.

Clutching the camera to my chest to protect it as the world blurred around me, I landed in a dazed heap in the street, my blue work shirt ripped and gravel burns on my arms and shoulder. I lifted my head and saw the uniformed line advancing toward me, nightsticks raised.

Suddenly, strong arms scooped me up, whisking me out of the line of fire, away from the advancing batons and deep into the frenzied crowd. I tried to struggle free.

"I'm okay. Put me down!" I was dizzy and shaken but knew I had to record what was happening or no one would believe it. "I've got to go back!" I insisted, shoving against my rescuer's chest and forcing him to put me back on my feet.

I looked up into the astounded face of my hero.

Blood was dripping from a deep cut above Jake's right eyebrow. He held me tight, trying to protect me while the crowd swirled around us.

"Don't be an idiot," he shouted above the din. "You'll get killed back there!"

I was tempted to surrender to the protection of his arms, after three years of longing for them, but the imperative to record the history happening around us was stronger.

"Please, I've got to get this on film!"

I broke away and rushed to the danger zone at the back of the fleeing crowd, outrage making me heedless of the risks. Despite the darkness I continued to shoot, dodging swinging clubs and documenting every detail.

From somewhere in the night, the sound of a whistle halted the troops in their tracks and called them back to regroup. The police marched away in formation, leaving the dazed civilians to search for their missing family members and provide first aid to the injured.

The unprovoked violence against the peace marchers shocked and angered me to the core. I’d always assumed that the stories I’d heard about police brutality had been exaggerated, but now I had witnessed it firsthand. A veil of complacency had been lifted from my eyes, and I suddenly felt much older than my eighteen years.

Frantic parents ranged across the lawn, calling desperately for their children. The Bolex heavy in my hands, I searched for my fellow UCLA film students in the dim light among the bruised and hysterical survivors.

I finally spotted our teacher Wild Bill’s broad, hulking form kneeling on the grass, his black cowboy hat miraculously still in place. As I got closer I saw that he was supporting Danny, who was clutching a badly injured arm, his face contorted in agony, his breathing quick and shallow.

My roommate, Darlene, stumbled toward them, sobbing, her long, red hair tangled with leaves and her elfin face streaked with dirt. She huddled next to Bill and Danny on the grass as our camera operator, Terry, dodging broken equipment and smashed picnic remnants scattered everywhere, rushed to the nearest apartment building to call an ambulance.

Billy glanced up as I approached.

"Fuckin' hell, Maddy. You're a crazy woman! Nothin' stopped you from shooting," he drawled, obvious admiration in his voice. "You must have gotten some goddamn amazing footage."

A familiar voice from behind me said, "Jesus, Billy! Are all your students that fearless?"

I turned and looked up to see Jake gazing at me.

Billy laughed. "Hell, no, compadre! This one's special. Maddy's got balls of steel!"

"Yeah," Jake said, grinning. “Even as a kid she was a ballsy chick.”

I blushed with pride and embarrassment under the scrutiny of the two men whose opinions of me I most valued. I suddenly became acutely aware of my tangled hair, free from the now-dangling clasp that had held it in place, and my badly torn shirt, which revealed more of me than I had realized.

Jake gallantly removed his bloodstained jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. It was filled with his warmth...and it still had the peace button I’d given him pinned to it.

"I didn't have a chance to thank you for saving my ass back there," I stammered, finding it hard to return his steady gaze. I kept imagining myself surrounded by his arms again, my head against his chest, inhaling his strength. The intense attraction to him made my stomach ache.

A lopsided smile began to lift the corner of his mouth. "Anytime," he whispered.

"Hey, Jake, you gonna put this in your script?" Billy glanced back and forth between us, grinning at what must have been obvious electricity in the air.

"I just might," he replied, his eyes never leaving my face.

Where are my "balls of steel" when I need them?

I forced myself to return his gaze. The cut above Jake's right eye had blazed a red trail down his cheek that was dripping onto the shoulder of his denim shirt.

"God, you're still bleeding!" I took him by the arm and sat him on the grass.

Terry returned from making the phone call and said, "The ambulance should be here any minute."

I knelt on the grass, tore a strip from my badly mangled shirt, and pressed it against Jake's forehead to stop the flow of blood. He stretched out his long frame and rested his head in my lap. It gave me an opportunity to brush his disheveled hair back from his bloody face for an unobstructed look. The streetlight accentuated his elegant bone structure and patrician nose. He closed his eyes and sighed. I stroked his head, feeling for lumps.

“Do you have a concussion? Y’know, I learned all about phrenology in my psych class at Berkeley, and you have prominent amatory bumps.”

He laughed. “I do? Does that make me a great lover?”

“I wouldn’t know. You split before I could find out.”

CHAPTER TWO

Meeting Jake

1964, Berkeley, California (Three Years Earlier)

"Maddy, shoot us! Shoot us!"

My schoolmates stood in clusters outside our high school gym in the warm afternoon light, laughing and hugging each other. They had crowded together to celebrate the last day of our junior year as I posed them in small groups, full of joy and radiating their friendship, all looking their best in that soft illumination. Since I was the photographer for our high school yearbook, everyone was used to me and my camera.

As always, nothing gave me more pleasure than capturing a moment that others would treasure forever, but halfway through my second film roll, I glanced at my watch and panicked. The legendary Pete Seeger was appearing at our family’s folk music club for one night only, and I realized that I should have been back to help my mother half an hour earlier. Our lone employee had just flown back to Idaho for the summer, and my mother wouldn't be able to handle the baking and the advance ticket sales for the show all by herself.

I shot the last few frames, rewound the film, and ran all the way down Telegraph Avenue to The Folk Scene, the two-story, wood-frame residence that my parents had long ago converted into a coffeehouse. In the fifties they’d opened up the bottom floor and added a small stage, and we lived upstairs.

The local community of folk-music lovers was already lined up around the block, and I rushed past the ticket line and in the front door.

My mother's voice echoed through the empty club from the kitchen in back. “Maddy! Thank goodness you’re here. Go sell tickets!”

I yelled a quick apology, dropped my book bag and camera on one of the small, round tables near the stage, rushed back through the lobby again, hiked up my forever-sagging knee socks, and climbed up on the stool behind the ticket window.

After everyone in line had bought their tickets, I started to close up the till when I heard a firm knock on the front door. I called for whomever it was to come to the window, and a tall, lanky guy strode into view. The sun was setting behind him, casting his face in shadow.

"Can I help you?"

He bent down. "Is the manager here?"

He appeared to be few years older than me—maybe even over twenty—and was unshaven, with dark, shaggy hair that almost reached his shoulders. I leaned forward to get a better view and was momentarily distracted by startling green eyes framed by long, black lashes.

"We won't be open until later," I told him, "but I still have a couple of tickets for tonight's show."

He held out a scrap of the local paper. "I don't need a ticket, kid. I'm here about the job."

Kid? Ten seconds into the encounter and he'd already pissed me off.

"Hang on a second."

I slammed the window shut and went to unlock the front door. He stepped into the cool darkness of our lobby. With as much authority as I could muster, I directed him to a chair and went to get my mother.

She followed me back out, wiping her hands on her apron and wrapping a stray grey curl behind her ear.

He rose to his feet, held out his hand, and grinned.

Damn, he was cute when he smiled.

"I'm Jake Morganstern. I saw your ad in the Daily Californian on campus." He waved the clipping as proof.

They shook hands as my mom replied, "Nice to meet you, Jake. Welcome to the Folk Scene. I'm Blanche Garfield, and this is my daughter, Madeleine."

"Is the job still available?"

"It is, indeed! Let's go inside to talk."

We went into the main room, and I grabbed my backpack off the table. My mother and Jake sat down opposite each other, while I stood behind her, a few feet away from the stage, with my camera strap over my shoulder, and studied him.

The single, bright work light, mounted on a raised tripod behind me, cast just enough shadow to define his strong bone structure and illuminate those extraordinary eyes. I was totally dazzled until I realized I had missed hearing the beginning of the interview.

That kind of tunnel vision normally only happened when I was taking photos. I would get so wrapped up in watching for that special moment when my subjects revealed themselves—a laugh, a reaction to a riff, a clear shot with no microphone in the way, a meaningful gesture, a moment of exceptional beauty—that my other senses shut down, and all my consciousness centered in my eyes. As a result, I hadn't actually heard most of the music as it was performed live by the artists I'd photographed in the club. That was kind of sad to contemplate, but since I was pleased to have captured so many memorable moments visually, it was well worth the tradeoff. Up until now, that intense focus had never happened when I wasn't looking through a camera lens.

I forced myself to pay attention to the conversation.

"...so, after I graduated from NYU, my buddy Bill and I took a long road trip across the country. He’s gone ahead to L.A. I'm joining him at UCLA in the fall to work on my master's, but in the meantime, I could use a summer job." He smiled at her again.

Oh, my God. He even had dimples, almost hidden in several days' growth of beard.

A pleased expression crossed my mom's weary face. "Sounds like you're having a great adventure. When is your birthday, Jake?"

He looked a bit surprised but answered, "November thirtieth."

She appeared even more pleased. "Ah! Sagittarius."

He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

I just shrugged in response. I'd always thought her astrology stuff was pretty cool.

According to my mother, Sagittarians made good associates. They tended to be knight-in-shining-armor types, galloping around rescuing people, but flexible enough to deal with anything. My dad was a Sagittarius, so I knew she was already predisposed to like Jake.

Apparently, he had no local references or even a permanent address—just a pack, a sleeping bag, and that killer smile. But it didn't matter to Mama. She had an uncanny bullshit detector—an ability to ascertain a person’s character instantly that had never failed us — and I could tell that she had already adopted him.

"I think you'll be perfect for the job," she told him. "Where are you living currently?"

He looked a bit embarrassed. "Actually, I slept in the park last night."

"Oh, dear! Then you must stay with us. We have a spare room in back. Maddy, show him where to put his belongings."

As he rose, he glanced at me and grinned again, and my stomach did a strange back flip. Trying to maintain my composure, I led him past the kitchen and down the rear hallway.

“Your mom sure makes decisions quickly.”

“She has good instincts. Usually.”

“You have your doubts?”

I shrugged. “I’m reserving judgement.”

He laughed.

I showed him where he could stash his pack and sleeping bag.

"Thanks, kid."

"Don't keep calling me 'kid.'"

"Well, you aren't exactly a grownup."

Jeez, he was exasperating.

My expression must have clued him in on how pissed I was.

"Okay, okay. My apologies, Miss Garfield. But it's not an insult. Bogie called Ingrid Bergman 'kid' in Casablanca, y'know."

I crossed my arms and gave him my most intimidating steely stare.

"Got it. I'll just call you Garfield."

I wasn't sure why that pleased me, but it did.

* * *

Just before I opened the house for the show, I noticed Jake looking at the photos hanging on the theater walls. Feigning nonchalance, I asked what he thought of them.

"They're all amazing.. Who took them? Who's M. Garfield? Your dad?"

"The M is for Madeleine."

"Wow. You shot these? You captured some terrific moments."

"Thanks."

My surge of pride had no follow-up. Flustered, I scrambled for a way to continue my end of the conversation. "My dad took some of the ones in the lobby—shots of the club back in the late fifties. Some poets... a few jazz musicians."

"Oh, yeah. I saw those. It had a different name then?'

"When they first came out here from New York, it was called Greenwich West. They were beatniks," I told him proudly. “I grew up surrounded by musicians, poets, comedians…”

He finally discovered the portrait of my father.

“Wow. That’s a beautiful shot.”

“My dad. He’s gone now.” My throat tightened as I fought down rising tears.

“I’m sorry. You sure took a great photo of him.”

I nodded, but words deserted me. After his death, it had been months before I could speak at all.

He kept reviewing the rows of labeled photos, and since I figured that my pictures spoke for me, certainly better than any feeble attempts at witty banter, I left him alone with the images.

During the show that night, I couldn't stop staring at Jake as he made the rounds, delivering cups of coffee, clearing tables, laughing and interacting with patrons. Even in an apron with a tray full of dirty dishes, he seemed effortlessly masculine and endlessly appealing. When he glanced up at me, his amused expression embarrassed me down to my toes. My cheeks started to burn, and I turned away abruptly to concentrate on photographing the performance.

It was really unnerving. I'd never reacted to a guy that way before. I was always much more interested in books than in a bunch of immature high school boys. But Jake was no pimply adolescent.