Grace's Pictures (9 page)

Grace narrowed her eyes. “Truly.”

“There are some connections, very old friends, who will stick beside you through life’s journeys, no matter if you see them often or not. The Benevolents, you know.”

“Oh, I see.”

Mr. Sherman rubbed his hands together. “Well, if you will come this way, I’ll show you my camera. Normally I don’t have it here, as cumbersome as it is to cart around, but I needed to do some repairs.”

They followed him to a side vestibule where a camera stood on a tripod. The cloth the photographer blanketed himself in while operating the camera was pulled back, revealing the mechanical-looking box with a lens. She took a step toward it but stopped when Mr. Sherman hurried to stand in front of it.

“Please wait over there.” He pointed to one corner. “The minister will be here shortly. I’m to take his photograph and you can watch.” He smiled.

From another door in the room, a man entered wearing a black suit with large buttons and no collar other than a white clerical one with a protruding tongue, distinguishable from the Roman collar the Irish priests wore, a detail Grace remembered. It was the little things she noticed about people, the facets a photograph could capture long after memories fade.

The man dipped his chin toward them and then sat on a chair. Mrs. Hawkins grinned and nodded at Grace.

Mr. Sherman adjusted the shade on an electric light hanging from the ceiling. Someone must have lowered it earlier so that he’d have better light. Mr. Sherman held a finger toward the bridge of his subject’s nose and drew his hand back toward the lens. When he seemed satisfied, he drew the camera’s fabric over his head.

Grace stared at her shoes. This taught her nothing. She’d seen photographers take photographs before, even Mr. Sherman. She wanted to try it herself. The exact moment the shutter closed, it was done—an indelible moment solidified for all time. The photographer had to pick the precise moment to capture the expression, the light in the eyes, the meaning behind the face. That was what she wanted to learn.

When the session was finished, the minister retreated through the back door.

Grace stood. “May I have a closer look at your camera?”

Mr. Sherman froze as though she’d asked him for his soul. After a moment his expression warmed. “Of course.” He wiggled his fingers at her.

She peered through the finder, amazed, but jumped back quickly when the man’s shrill voice told her she’d looked long enough.

“You will allow that a camera is a very expensive piece of equipment, Miss McCaffery. I’m afraid I’m a bit protective of it.”

“Of course you are, Gus.” Mrs. Hawkins took Grace’s arm and pulled her a step back.

“How expensive?” Grace asked.

Mr. Sherman raised a brow.

“I mean, could I perhaps find some old equipment to purchase at a secondhand shop and get started myself?”

“Young lady, do you know how much pigment-bearing colloid to apply to the photographic paper? Have you heard of the gum process? Do you know how to use a print roller?”

“Well, no, but—”

“I do have something to show you,” he interrupted. “Shall we return to the chapel and have a seat?”

Reluctantly she obeyed his outstretched arm and headed back toward the sanctuary.

“Up here, please.” He led them to the front pew, where a leather folder lay. “Please, ladies, sit.”

They perched on the pew as he stood before them, untying the folder. “I thought you’d like to see the photograph I took of you the day you arrived.”

He handed the photograph to her. Peering into the eyes of the girl before her, Grace felt as though she stared at a stranger. There was her usual unmanageable hair, her rounded chin, the subtle print of the dress Ma had given her. But somehow it just didn’t look like her. This lass was terrified. She stuttered. “I look . . . I . . . I . . . Is that really me?”

Both Mr. Sherman and Mrs. Hawkins laughed. Mrs. Hawkins took the photograph from Grace. “It most certainly is. Shall we purchase this from Mr. Sherman, love?”

The man waved his fingers in a manner that was beginning to irritate Grace. “Oh no, ma’am. You may have it with my compliments. Look here.”

He handed her several other photographs he’d taken of immigrants. A thickly bearded Russian Jew who, like Grace, stared off into the air. A side-facing image of a Hindu boy that featured his long locks and ceremonial headpiece. Lapland immigrant children dressed in odd hats with tasseled belts tied around the waists of their dresses. A gypsy woman in a headscarf and multiple beaded necklaces. If only the native colors of the clothing hadn’t been grayed out.

Mrs. Hawkins put a gloved hand to her throat. “I’ve never seen immigrants in such clothing, Gus.”

“That’s why I photograph them on Ellis Island. As soon as they get to Battery Park, they shed their native trappings for more contemporary American clothing. Everyone wants to fit in and not appear foreign. But I think the costumes of their homelands are quite fascinating.”

Grace saw more than that. Despite the lack of color, he had captured something vital. Poignant expressions. She admired his ability to capture them in all the photographs but one. Hers. He had not caught her indomitable Irish spirit, her desire to start anew. She did not want this reminder of the misery she’d endured.

She handed the photographs back and rose. “Thank you for your trouble, but we shouldn’t tarry any longer. You’ve been most gracious.”

Mrs. Hawkins stood too and embraced her friend. “Give your mother my love, Gus.”

“Certainly.” He handed Grace’s picture to her.

“No thank you. I’m not worthy of such a gift.”

“But—”

“Truly. It should stay with the others.”

He seemed surprised. “Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

7

HAVING FINISHED CHECKING DOORS
on the west side of the street, Owen crossed to do the same on the opposite side. There was a “café” on this side, a place that was more of a drinking and dancing facility than an eating establishment. All Owen had to do was make his appearance known.

He was still a block away when he heard voices coming from a door well. Newsboys, he thought. He approached and called out so he wouldn’t surprise anyone. He was not on a mission to catch illegal activities, just to help deter them with his presence.

A grunt.

He moved closer. “Who’s there?”

He heard the scramble of feet, and then a man emerged, a dirty white handkerchief tied over one eye. “McNulty, aye?”

“I am. Who’s with you?”

“Just a few mates.”

“Send ’em out here.”

He chuckled and turned toward the dark alley. “Mates, this copper wants to meet your acquaintance.”

No reply.

The man pulled the collar of his coat to his chin. “They say they aren’t coming out. Reckon you’ll have to go get ’em.”

“What is your business here? If you have none, you fellas better move along.”

“I know who you are, and people don’t like you snooping around.”

“Just doing my job.”

Suddenly someone sprang from the alley, a black-clothed figure with something in his hands. Before Owen could react, the thug whacked him on the knees with a metal pipe, and the bums lunged away like rats in the sewer.

Owen limped to the other side of the street. He wasn’t hurt too badly, only his pride, but laughter bellowed from the dark buildings. “Pretty society boy! You don’t belong here!”

Owen took a side street over to Broadway, where he met up with a couple of other officers. He told them what had happened and assured them he was all right.

“We’ll check it out,” the man he knew as Murphy said. “You stay over here, though. They’re used to us, and they won’t give us no grief.”

“Used to you, huh?”

“Yeah, well, you might not be an official rookie cop anymore, but to the lowlife you’re still a greenhorn, McNulty.” He held up both palms. “I ain’t saying you are, but they’ll think what they want.”

“They shouldn’t be allowed to believe they can intimidate me. I’ll go with you.”

The man held a hand to Owen’s chest. “No. Not a good idea. We’ll let ’em know we’re standing up for you. They’ll understand we stick together.”

Owen agreed and watched as the two men skirted down the street toward the alley where Owen had been jumped. As soon as they’d reached an intersection, Owen hurried, his legs
throbbing, to get to the next block. He knew they would not be moving as fast as he was, and when he got to the next side street, he was not surprised to see the officers moving northward instead of toward the alley. Just as he thought. They had no intention at all of “standing up” for him.

An hour later Owen saw his fellow officers in a coffee shop. He stood gazing at the plate-glass window for a moment and then decided to go in. The warm smell of coffee mixed with the musty, furnace-heated air, easing the ache in his joints. No wonder the roundsmen preferred this place to standing on street corners in December. He approached Murphy. “Did you talk to those thugs? The fella with the white handkerchief tied on his head?”

“Oh.” Murphy shrugged. “They’d already run off by the time we got there. You know how those riffraff are.”

“Sure. I know.”

8

ONCE THEY WERE ON THE TRAIN
heading home, Mrs. Hawkins turned her beady eyes to look fully at Grace, reminding Grace again how odd it was that the woman’s name reflected her appearance in some ways and her instincts perfectly. She was a sharp-eyed hawk for certain.

“It seems your years in the workhouse retarded the maturity of some social decorum, love,” the Hawk said.

“What do you mean?” Embarrassment rose up like fire in her throat.

“You stood too close to his camera. You refused his gift.”

“I did not mean to be rude.”

“There’s not another would put up with the likes of ya.”
She pushed away her father’s voice, trying to ignore it. “You said I could learn about photography.”

The woman smiled. “Well, you did learn how much you like photography, didn’t you? I saw the way those images captivated you.”

Grace drew in a breath. The woman wasn’t truly angry.“I don’t know how he does it. A moment forever preserved.” She wished she had a photograph of her mother. She was beginning to forget what that light in her eyes looked like, and that left her cold and melancholy.

She blinked away the thought. “Why didn’t you tell me you were acquainted the first time I mentioned Mr. Sherman?”

“I haven’t seen him in years. I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case I wasn’t able to arrange a meeting. I thought you wanted to see your photograph.”

“I did. Thank you.”

Foolish, that was. She never wanted to see it again.

Mrs. Hawkins gave her a tight squeeze. “Well, no matter now. You said you liked to draw. Why don’t we shop for some charcoal pencils, love? Perhaps some watercolor paints as well. We have time before Mr. Parker comes by.”

“Mr. Parker?”

“Oh, my. Did I forget to mention it? Reverend Clarke believes Mr. Parker may want to employ you. Though he lives uptown, he serves at First Church as an usher. He’s going to come by to meet you.”

Grace checked the condition of her hair bun, suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. “I see.” Grace’s mouth ran dry. She still battled those voices but desperately wanted to squeeze them out. “I look forward to meeting him.”

“Now, about those supplies.”

“Uh, thanks. No need. You have done so much already, ma’am.”

“You must cease from addressing me so formally, love. Mrs. Hawkins will do.” The woman smacked her lips. “So no drawing supplies today. As you wish, love, but we will stop for some ice cream.”

“Ice cream?”

“You’re right. Too chilly. We’ll get some fried pies from the little shop around the corner, then. My Harold always used to say, ‘Life is uncertain, so eat dessert first.’”

“I’m beginning to grow fond of your Harold, Mrs. Hawkins.”