Chapter 2

I never did stop by Powers Capital to meet Richard Powers in person. In fact I had all but forgotten about Paula in the intervening years. Now I was standing outside the Capital Grille waiting for her to punch out.

"Hi," she said. I regarded her. It was a cold night and she was wearing a long coat that was beginning to look a little worn.

"Where do you want to go?" I asked.

"Someplace warm."

We walked to a cafe that stayed open late She shucked off her tattered coat and draped it on the back of a chair. I ordered a couple cups of coffee.

"So, what happened?" I asked.

"Powers Capital is no more," she replied. "Surely you heard the news. It was all over the papers."

"When did this happen?"

"A couple years ago."

I looked upward in thought. "A couple years ago I was in Angola."

"Angola?"

"I was on a shoot documenting AIDS in that country -- for a book ... which won a Pulitzer Prize, by the way."

"Pulitzer Prize." She shook her head in amazement. "I'm impressed."

"I didn't win the Pulitzer -- the book's author did."

"Still..."

"Yeah ... It did open some doors for me."

"Are you successful?" she asked.

"I can't complain. I've got more than enough work -- I have a gig for Time Magazine."

"I thought I saw your name on an article on the Dominican Republic."

"Yeah -- that was about a year ago."

"As your star was rising, mine was falling," she remarked.

"I'm sorry to hear it. What about what's-his-name?" She held up her left hand -- her ring finger was naked. "What happened to the rock the size of Gibraltar?"

"It's all connected together," she said. "I'll start from the beginning. It turns out Powers Capital wasn't as profitable as the shareholders were led to believe."

"I thought Powers Capital was privately held."

"Sub-chapter 'S, ' she replied, 'we still had shareholders. It seems Dad was covering up some losses through a rather complex loan and repurchase scheme -- involving some offshores ... it was so complicated even I couldn't figure it out."

"Even with an MBA from Harvard?"

"Even with."

"Something like that is never sustainable," I observed.

"Precisely. Eventually it collapsed. The Feds came in and investigated and before long the principals were charged with fraud and tax and securities law violations ... including me."

"You? What did you have to do with this?"

"Part of Dad's schemes involved using my accounts to launder funds. My name was on the tax returns and I signed them -- so I was culpable. I learned a very important lesson in all this: When you're putting your signature to a document, make sure you read it and understand what it contains."

"You weren't reading them?" I asked.

"I trusted him." She shook her head. "Big mistake."

"Not even a Harvard MBA taught you that?"

"I had to learn that from the School of Hard Knocks. That's how they got Dad -- through me. The Feds threatened to put me away unless he copped a plea, and he couldn't bear the thought of me behind bars for something HE did. Eventually we came up with a plea agreement. Dad's doing seven years."

"Seven years?"

"We were looking at twenty."

"With good behavior..."

"It's a Federal sentence," she replied. "There's no parole. At least he's not behind bars."

"He's at a Kamp Kupcake type facility?"

"Yeah..."

"What happened to the company?"

"Our book of business was bought by Janus. The proceeds went for restitution."

"And you?"

"Well ... I plead guilty to a single charge of tax evasion and was given probation. The judge realized I was a patsy, but nonetheless ... They took all our assets -- everything, in order to make restitution to shareholders and investors. Before the plea deal I returned the ring to Raoul so it wouldn't be seized also. We decided to call it off. He didn't want a felon for a wife. That's why I'm here, too. Part of the plea agreement was a lifetime ban on ever working in the investment industry."

"So, your MBA in finance from Harvard..."

"That and five bucks will buy me a latte from Starbucks. The fact I'm now a convicted felon makes finding work a tad difficult. I have learned one thing -- what it's like to be underprivileged. That was a lesson for me."

"Gosh, Paula. I'm really sorry to hear all this."

"Well, there's one good thing."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Now you can't despise all I stand for because there's nothing left to despise ... It's been riches to rags for me..." She pressed her fist to her lips and tears began rolling down her cheeks.

"Paula -- I never despised anything about you and I'm truly sorry to see you in distress."

"Do you mean it?"

"Of course I do."

"You are a good friend."

"One thing I AM happy to see."

"What's that?" she asked.

"That you farted. Otherwise you'd still be in that hospital in the Antilles."

She pressed her fist to her mouth again, this time to stifle laughing. "Yes -- it was a day and a half before I satisfied the nurses that my internal plumbing was leak-free."

"You made a full recovery. How long were you laid up?"

"It was about a week before I was on my feet again, and another couple before I was back to my routine. I swear, though -- I could taste ether for two weeks afterward."

"Do you have a scar?"

"Yeah and it's a beaut."

"May I see it?"

"Why not?" She stood and glanced around the cafe. Then she pulled her white blouse from her slacks, hooked her thumb on the waistband and pulled it down. "Here..."

I examined the thin line on her belly near her hip. "That's a nice one. He did a real good job."

"I suppose..." She tucked her shirttail back into her slacks and returned to her seat. "I'll never wear a swimsuit again."

"I think a scar like that is sexy," I replied. "Will you let me take a picture of it?"

"What?"

"I'd like a photograph of your scar."

"Why?"

"I'm kinda fascinated with appendectomy scars," I replied. "I work out of my apartment. We could go back there and I could take some pictures..." I held up my hand. "Nothing weird, Paula."

"You mean, nothing weirder than you taking a picture of my scar."

"Exactly."

"As if that isn't weird enough..." She regarded me for a long moment. "You know ... if you hadn't been such a help to me on that cruise ... if I didn't know what a nice guy you are ... I'd be outta here so fast your head would swim."

"You're not outta here."

"Not yet..." She regarded me more. "All you want is a picture of my scar?"

"That's all I want."

"What'll you do with it?"

"Keep it in my collection."

"You have a collection of appendectomy scar photos?"

"Of sorts ... It's not going anywhere further, Paula. It's just for my own personal use."

Paula looked into my face. "Why the hell not?"

"You'll do it?"

"Yeah, I'll do it."

"Shall we go to my place?" I asked.

"It's late and I'm exhausted," she replied. "I've been on my feet all day and just want to lie down. I'm off on Thursday. Maybe we can do it then."

I pulled out my wallet and dug a business card from it. "Like I said, I work from my apartment." I handed it to her. "Thursday at six? We'll do dinner and then have our shoot."

"It's a date."

Paula and I walked, holding hands, from a hole-in-the- wall Indian place toward my apartment on the upper West side near Lincoln Center. That's one thing I love about New York City -- the nearly infinite dining possibilities ... and that's just in Manhattan.

"One thing," I said as we strolled, "kept rolling through my head after we sailed on without you. You accused me of attempting to seduce you..."

"To which you confessed," she interrupted.

" ... and you implied had your illness not parted us that..."

"I might have succumbed to another fever?"

"Were you really warming up to me?"

"I'll say I was," she replied. "You did make me re- evaluate Raoul. Before the cruise, marrying him seemed inevitable. Afterward, it began to feel ... evitable. I kept dragging my feet when it came to setting a date. Then, the thing with Dad blew up and Raoul dropped me like a hot potato. That he dropped me didn't hurt. I knew it couldn't be. HOW he dropped me did hurt..." She shook her head. "Water over the dam."

"Have you had other boyfriends since Raoul?" I asked.

"No. My ... living situation isn't conducive to dating. Let's leave it at that ... What about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

I shook my head. "I was seeing a girl who was a med student."

"What was her specialty?" Paula asked. "Surgery?"

"No -- OB-GYN."

"What happened?"

"She moved upstate for her residency. I thought we could manage a long-distance relationship. I was wrong."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"It's okay ... really."

"I want you," she said, "to explain to me your fascination with appendectomy scars."

"I think it stems from my cousin," I replied. "I have a cousin who's about two years older than me. Her family and mine used to rent a cottage on the coast for summer vacations. Once when she was about twelve she came down with appendicitis. I remember the day ... Her case wasn't as cut and dried as yours -- it took them a while to diagnose it. She spent a good part of her vacation in the hospital and then recuperating.

"As I approached puberty I developed a crush on her. One summer -- when I was thirteen I think -- we went on our trip to the coast. Cynthia had really blossomed, and she wore this skimpy bikini, and it showed off her scar -- and more. I think that's when it became imprinted on me."

"But -- what's the deal with one?" she asked.

"I think it's one of those surprises you discover about someone -- like a birthmark or a tattoo. I've always liked the looks of a girl's abdomen. An appendectomy is like a birthmark. It does nothing to detract from her beauty -- it enhances it, I think."

Paula nodded. "I think I can buy that."

"If a mole can enhance the beauty of her face; why can't a scar enhance the beauty of her belly?"

"Why not?" she replied.

"This doesn't sound too weird to you, does it?"

"Not TOO weird. I'm open to other folks' kinks. I have a few myself."

"Unlike a birthmark, an appendectomy scar is something you earn. It means you've experienced pain ... you've been strengthened by it. You've suffered and gone through an ordeal and come out the other side. It's a tribute to your strength and courage."

She regarded me and nodded. "I guess I can buy that, too."

"Your ordeal in particular, Paula -- the hospital in the Antilles ... the ether anesthesia ... not many share your experience. You should wear yours with pride."

We walked a bit further. "Do you know what you've done?"

"What have I done?"

"I've been regarding it as a blemish; and you've shown me it's a thing of beauty."

We reached my building. I opened the front door with my key and we trudged up three flights to my place. I took Paula's coat and she blew on her hands to warm them.

"I'll turn up the thermostat," I said, "and give you a chance to take the chill off. Would you like something to drink?"

"I've quit -- remember?"

"Yeah -- sorry."

"Don't let me stop you."

"I hate drinking alone," I replied.

She looked at matted prints of some of my photos. "You've been around the world," she remarked.

I took some equipment out of a foot locker. "I'm not really set up for portrait work," I said. "It's not the sort of work I usually do, and I'm not too sure about the best way to light a living subject. We'll try some things and see how they work."

"I'm game," she replied. She watched as I set up a couple of tripods. "What are those?"

"These are slave flashes. I'm going to try to get the light soft."

"Won't three flashes be too much?"

"It's why I'm putting diffusers on them..." I took a light meter and held it near the sofa. "Pick up my camera and push the button."

She complied and all three flashes went off. I regarded the reading on the light meter and then made some exposure adjustments.

"Okay ... Ready for your close-up, Nora?"

"Nora?"

"To paraphrase Sunset Boulevard..."

"What should I do?" she asked.

"Stand by the sofa and show me your scar."

She stood, pulled her blouse from her slacks and pulled down her waistband. "Do you want me to smile?"

"If you like..." I snapped about four images and then popped the memory card from the camera. "Let's take a look..." I slipped the card into an adapter and brought up the thumbnails on my laptop. "You take a good picture, Paula."

"Let me see..." She reviewed the photos and shrugged. "Is that it?"

"That's it."

"You're going to add these to your collection?"

"That's right."

"Exactly how do you meet girls with appendectomy scars in the first place?" she asked.

"I don't. You're the first."

She eyed me. "Then, where DID you obtain your collection?"

"I downloaded them from the Net."

"Do you mean," she asked, "that there's a site that specializes in appendectomy scar photos?"

"No..."

"Do you go into chat rooms and trade?" She gasped. "You're not going to trade pictures of me..."

"Of course not. Like I said these aren't going anywhere."

"Then where..."

"I go to sites that feature art nudes..."

"Do you mean porno sites?" she asked.

"No -- art nudes. I'm not interested in X-rated stuff -- just tastefully done nudes. I've never been able to do figures, so I appreciate the artistry that goes into a well-done nude. Sometimes the models have scars and when they do, I download them."

"May I see?"

I looked at her. "I suppose..." I brought up thumbnails and we flicked through some images.

"Interesting," she remarked. "I'm not in the habit of looking at nude women, but I think I'm beginning to appreciate what you see."

"I think it's interesting to see the variation in position and direction of the incision..."

"You're a true connoisseur," she remarked. She regarded the images. "That one and that one ... they're of the same girl."

"I hadn't noticed ... I think you're right."

She continued to view the screen. "Wait -- go back one..." I hit the backpage key. "My God," she remarked. "What happened to her? It looks like they took it out with a garden trowel and stitched her shut with butcher's twine!"

"Yes -- most are less conspicuous than hers. I suspect she had the procedure at an early age and the scar grew as she did."

"Which is your favorite?" she asked.

"I really don't have one."

"Which one would you put on a screensaver or as a background?"

"None of them," I replied. "I use this laptop in my business. I don't think it would be appropriate."

"If you had to pick one and only one -- and delete the rest, which one would you keep?"

I flicked through them. "Her, I think..."

"What do you like about her?"

"Well..." I squinted at the image. "She has a sweet face ... her body is athletic but soft ... in just the right proportion. A woman should have some softness. Hard bodies belong on men."

"What about her scar?"

"It's in the classic location ... like yours ... prominent without being too large..."

"I'll have you know," Paula said, "that my stomach is better-looking than hers."

"Do you think so?"

"I know so. Let's take some more pictures."

Paula unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it from her shoulders. Then she unfastened her slacks, slid them down and stepped from them. She stood before me in matching pale-green satin bra and briefs. "Well ... not bad, huh?"

"Yes," I replied, "you do have a very nice body." I grabbed the memory card and stuffed it back into the camera. I looked through the viewfinder, then pointed to her legs. "Let's lose the knee-highs," I said.

She slipped her black-and-white striped knee socks off. "They'll leave lines."

"I won't be looking at lines..."

"How do you want me?" she asked.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," I replied. "I've never done a fashion shoot. Just ... pose. Show off your scar."

I snapped a dozen images as Paula struck poses. Then I popped the card from the camera and reviewed the photos on my laptop. "Very nice," I remarked.

Paula looked over my shoulder. "I don't think so," she replied. "Unh-uhn ... nope ... don't like that one..."

"I told you I don't know what I'm doing. I'm not happy with the lighting. Portrait photogs have specialized lights. They can wash an area with light."

"The lighting is fine," she replied. "I know what the problem is. I was trying to show off my scar. The other girls in your ... collection weren't."

"Do you think they were trying to hide it?" I brought up some of the downloaded images and flicked through them.

"That's not it, either," she said and stroked her chin. "I know what it is -- they're oblivious to it. Look at her. She's completely un-self-conscious about her scar."

"I think you're right."

"Let's take some more pictures." She headed out of my study and into the living room.

"Hey -- wait up," I called after her as I grabbed the memory card and poked it into my camera.

She had slipped on her blouse and was standing before my sofa. "Why don't you..." I began to suggest.

"You just shoot," she replied. "Leave the posing to me."

I began shooting. Paula did a little strip-tease, unbuttoning her blouse from the bottom up and pulling it back to expose more and more of her abdomen; all the while assuming a do-you-want-a-piece-of-me attitude.

Paula unbuttoned the top button and pulled her blouse wide open. I hadn't realized she had removed her bra. Her breasts were spectacular, round and perfect B-cup sized. "God, Paula," I gasped. "You're gorgeous..."

"Shut up," she snapped. "You'll make me laugh."

I kept pressing the button and the flashes kept igniting. Paula threw her arms backward so the blouse fell to the floor. Then she posed on the sofa, finishing on her back with her arms stretched above her head and her eyes half-closed.

"There," she said hopping off the sofa. "Let's see how these look."

I handed her the blouse and she slipped into it. "I don't know how many I took," I said, "but it was a lot..." I brought up the images on my laptop. There were nearly seventy of them. "Paula -- these pictures are amazing."

She looked over my shoulder and grasped my upper arm. "Do you really think so?"

"They're fantastic ... We could sell these."

"You said..."

"I mean it, Paula. You could make some serious money posing like this."

"I wouldn't want anyone to see them."

"Then -- no one will."

"I want you to delete them."

"Delete them? But -- they're so good!"

"You can keep a couple for your collection -- a couple where I'm not topless. Delete the rest."

"They're your pictures," I replied. "I'll copy a couple for my collection and you can have the memory card."

"I don't have a computer. Please -- just delete them."

"I will -- I promise."

"Now."

"If you insist..." I highlighted all but a couple and pressed the delete key. "Gone." I stood and faced her. "Why would you pose like that if you didn't want to keep them?"