Falconer+-+John+Cheever

Falconer 132
to the yellow of hot piss. One would have liked to do better, but
that was the color of the flag under which Farragut had marched
into battle. Then there was the photographer.
He was a slender man with a small head—a dandy, Farragut
thought. His camera, on a tripod, was no bigger than a wrist-watch
box, but he seemed to have a relationship with or a noticeable
dependence upon the lens. He seemed to take his squinted eye
away from it reluctantly. His voice was croupy and elegant. Two
photographs were taken. The first was a picture of the form with
the prisoner’s number and the designated address. The second was
of the prisoner himself, taken with a little gentle guidance. “Smile.
Lift your head a little. Bring your right foot closer to your left.
That’s it!” When Chicken took his place and held up his form,
they all read: Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. Icicle Street. The North
Pole. The photographer smiled broadly and was looking around
the room to share this joke with the rest of them when he suddenly
grasped the solemnity of Chicken’s loneliness. No one at all
laughed at this hieroglyph of pain, and Chicken, sensing the
stillness at this proof of his living death, swung his head around,
shot up his skinny chin and said gaily, “My left profile’s my best.”
“That’s it,” said the photographer.
At his turn Farragut wondered what role to aim at, and trying to
look and feel like a constant husband, a comprehensive father and
a prosperous citizen, smiled broadly and stepped into the intense
brightness and heat of the light. “Oh, Indian Hill,” said the
photographer. “I know that place. I mean I’ve seen the sign. Do
you work there?”
“Yes,” said Farragut.
“I have friends in Southwick,” said the photographer. “That’s it.”
Farragut went to the window, where he had a broad view of
cellblocks B and C. They looked, with their ranks of windows, like
some obsolete Northern cotton mill. He looked in the windows for