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transgression
was visceral because it was so detached. When it first appeared, Mors was
dismissed as a form of malign spirit photography, and the 1970 pirate volume
only made things worse, with its over-the-top intro by Kenneth Anger. It would
be decades before that book's influence was acknowledged by people like Sally
Mann or Joel-Peter Witkin. And me, of course. But no one was listening to me.
    The
thought of seeing those original photographs is what set my heart pumping. More
than the thought of money or escaping the city. More even than the notion that
Aphrodite Kamestos had asked specifically for me, or that if I went up there, I
might shoot some decent work myself again.
    Though
I'll admit, I was curious—more than curious—about what the hell had happened to
her. A nervous breakdown? Failure of nerve? Failed marriage? Her husband had
been a minor poet, a kind of fringe person in the Beat movement, and my
understanding was that he'd been gay. Kamestos met Haselton in 1955, and they
married just a few weeks later. As a wedding gift, his wealthy father gave the
couple a house on an island off the coast of Maine.
    And
that is where I was now headed: Paswegas Island.
    I'd
never known its name before. The thought gave me a weird feeling. It was like I
was going off on some strange, creepy pilgrimage; like a Nabokov fan setting
out to find the motels where Humbert Humbert slept with Lolita.
    Because
Paswegas was where Aphrodite shot the dreamscapes in Deceptio Visus. It
was a place I'd thought and dreamed about for almost thirty years, a place I'd
never quite believed was real. You know how you can look at a painting or
picture and wish you could walk into it and just disappear? That's what I'd
always wanted to do with those photos. Now I'd have my chance.
    The
night after I ran into Phil, I called my father. We hadn't spoken for a while,
and as always, I could tell he was relieved to hear my voice: I wasn't dead.
    "Cassandra.
Good to hear from you. Everything all right?"
    I
told him about my conversation with Phil. "Didn't you used to go up
there?" I asked. "Fishing or something?"
    "Sure.
Fishing and hunting. Up in the Allagash. I used to go with your grandfather.
We'd stop in Freeport in the middle of the night and ring the bell at the
little L.L. Bean store, and they'd let us in so we could buy our gear.
Beautiful place, Maine. I haven't been since your mother and I made a few trips
down east," he said, his voice suddenly sad. "That was before you
were born."
    "Do
you know how to get there? I'm renting a car."
    "Maine?"
I heard the rattle of ice in his highball glass. "Sure. Drive to the New
Hampshire border. Then turn right."
    We
spoke a little longer, catching up. Catching up with him, I mean. I had nothing
else to report.
    "Well,
Cassandra, I wish you luck," he said at last. "Anything comes up,
call Ken Wilburn. He's in South Salem now. Here, I'll give you his
number—"
    I
wrote it down then said good-bye. Two days later I received a check for a
thousand dollars, along with a note.
    BUY
YOURSELF SOME GUM BOOTS. LOVE, DAD
    I
blew a big chunk of the money on a pair of Hedi Slimane drainpipe jeans. I do
have my little luxuries, and I figured the investment would pay off if I
actually sold a story. The rest I stashed in my wallet.
    That
night I took out my copies of Deceptio Visus and Mors. I'd bought
them cheap in a used bookstore in the city in 1978, when Kamestos's reputation
was in deep decline. Now I thumbed through Deceptio Visus, hoping to
find some hint as to what the island might be like in real life, or where.
    It
was like trying to get a compass reading from a postcard. So I went back
online, poking around till I hit www.maineaway.com , Your News for The
Paswegas Peninsula And Beyond! The site banner showed a scroll of cloudless
sky and a windjammer racing across a cobalt sea. There were lots of pictures of
romping Labrador retrievers, autumn foliage, children eating corn on the cob
and lobster, snow-dusted