Grace's Pictures (14 page)

In better humor after the children had a snack and settled down to play quietly, Grace began another batch of soda bread. This one turned out airy, and the caraway seed had mixed in perfectly. She sliced it and served it in the parlor with thick slabs of butter. She’d done it. All thoughts of her blundering nature dissipated.

“We can’t stay long, dear,” a lady in a maroon hat said, removing her gloves.

“You simply must have some authentic Irish bread,” Mrs. Parker said, smoothing her gown over her pregnant belly as though she could hide it. “My maid recently arrived from the old country and she is a superb baker.”

Did she mean it?

The taller woman spoke. “Very well. Have a seat, Doris.”

The other woman dusted a chair with her gloves before sitting. Their disapproval of Alice Parker was apparent.

Grace served the tea and more than once was tempted to spill it on the snobbish ladies. But she had not yielded to that temptation.

When they’d left, she caught Alice in the front hall. “Why, may I ask, do you put up with that?”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Status, dear Grace. Status. I do not expect you of all people to understand. Besides, I can’t get out in my state. This is better than nothing. I’m tired and my ankles are swollen. I’m going to retire.”

“Very well.”

Mr. Parker worked late and did not come home before Grace left. Once she had all the children tucked into bed, she waited a full hour to make sure they were asleep before locking the front door. She knocked softly on Alice’s bedroom door.

“What is it, Grace?”

Grace whispered into the door. “The children are all asleep. I’m heading for home.”

“Mr. Parker home?”

“He is not, ma’am.”

“Fine. Go on.”

11

A SUNBEAM BURST THROUGH
the stained-glass window on the right side of the church, sending sprinkles of blue and green at Owen’s feet. He glanced behind him and noticed Grace McCaffery sitting in Mrs. Hawkins’s pew on the other side of the aisle three rows back. She seemed to notice him and glanced down. He hoped he hadn’t embarrassed her.

When the services concluded, he made his way toward Grace and her companions. “Ladies.”

Mrs. Hawkins replied. “Officer McNulty, how nice to see you. You are looking dapper as usual in your fine blue suit.” She gave his lapel a tug. “I so prefer this to your police uniform.”

He grinned. “As do I. Lovely to see you too, Mrs. Hawkins, ladies.” He turned to Grace. “How are you getting along, Miss McCaffery?”

“Fine, thank you.” She seemed to focus on the colored windows that had lost some of their illumination now that the sun was higher.

He cleared his throat. “If I can be of any help again . . . giving directions . . . anything at all, please call on me.” He stood straighter and nodded toward Mrs. Hawkins and Annie. “That goes for all of you ladies.”

Grace dared to look him in the eye. “I will not need anything, thank you.”

She winced as Mrs. Hawkins’s elbow nudged her side. He pretended not to notice.

“You are very kind, Officer,” Grace said.

They said farewell and he watched them walk away, wondering if they felt the same way as those on his beat—that he was an outsider, someone who did not understand them or even care about the challenges they faced. Mrs. Hawkins did not seem like that. She always had an encouraging word when he needed it. But those Irish girls? Owen wasn’t sure at all that they saw him as anything more than just another rich American.

He was still contemplating what he might do to change his reputation when Reverend Clarke extended his hand. “Always nice to see you in church, Owen.”

“Always nice to be here when I’m not scheduled to work.”

The reverend gave him one of his famous smiles, his sparkling eyes open wide. “You keep showing Christ to those you meet, Owen. This town needs more like you.”

“Why, thank you, Reverend. I hope I’m up to the task.”

“God equips those he calls, you know.”

Owen basked in the reverend’s blessing all the way back to his apartment. Some days, like today, it was easier to believe that than others. He needed to hold on to that, bank it for a rainy day. He could have used such encouragement at Miss Amelia’s the other night.

On the walk back home, Mrs. Hawkins questioned Grace. “The day you were delayed with the raisins . . . was Officer McNulty the one who gave you directions, love?”

Grace tried to sound unconcerned. “He was. Why do you ask?”

“Well, as your guardian during the time you are adjusting to living here, I want to advise you to trust officers like Owen. He is a good man. I understand you are cautious. You didn’t know. That’s why I mention it.” She linked arms with both Grace and Annie. “My Harold used to say, ‘An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.’ Better to befriend someone like Officer McNulty in a big city like this, lovies.”

After a day off, Monday hit Grace like a steam engine. Ever so grateful to be returning to Hawkins House that evening, she climbed the stoop like her shoes were lead.

“There you are, Grace.” Annie helped her off with her cloak. “Look what came for you today.”

“My camera?”

“Aye, ’tis. Over there.”

Grace grabbed the package from the hall table and took it into the parlor.

“Open it. We have been waiting,” Annie said, following her into the room.

Grace untied the string and pulled away the brown paper covering the box. On the outside she noted the words
Brownie Camera for Pictures 2 1/4 x 2 1/4 Inches. PRICE $1.00 Made by EASTMAN KODAK CO. Rochester, N.Y.

No one would need to employ a photographer once these became popular. Grace pulled the lid off the box, eager to try it out.

“How does it work?” Annie asked.

Mrs. Hawkins clicked her tongue. “Give her time, love.
There should be instructions in the box. Even a child can operate it, you know.”

The camera was a mere cardboard box, covered in black paper, nothing like the colorful box it arrived in. There was a lens on one end and on the top a winding mechanism she assumed was to advance rolled film. Grace could not imagine how something so simple-looking could take photographs. She began studying the instruction booklet and practicing with the shutter, which is what the booklet recommended you do before loading the film.

The Hawk cleared her throat. “Did you know, girls, the camera is named for the Brownie character, those darling little drawings Palmer Cox made for his stories in the
Ladies’ Home Journal
? Maybe you’ve seen them.”

“Like on the box?” Annie asked, picking it up.

The Hawk laughed. “Oh yes. There they are.”

“Aye, like Irish fairies,” Annie said, winking at Grace.

“The druggist down the street carries the film,” the Hawk said. “Fifteen cents a box. You mail it back to Kodak and they will develop it for you.”

“It doesn’t get much simpler than that,” Annie said.

Along with the camera, Grace had ordered two boxes of film, each with six exposures. The directions said the camera could be loaded in daylight. Amazing.

“Do you think you can operate it, love?”

She aimed the camera box at Mrs. Hawkins and clicked the shutter. The Hawk jerked back in her chair. “Don’t waste your shots, Grace.”

“Relax, Mrs. Hawkins. The film isn’t loaded.”

Grace and Annie giggled.

The woman put her hand on her chest. “Gracious. You
already know all about the thing. When you are ready, let us all know and we’ll line up for portraits. What do they call these? Snapshots? Yes.”

“I would be happy to.”

It was Thursday and she’d gotten a half day off. But she was not anticipating the maid’s dance. Grace had a new camera, so she was preparing for her first leisure outing alone. She was headed to the park with her newly purchased drawing supplies and her Brownie camera.

The sun set early on December days. She needed to remember that even on fairly warm days like this when she was tempted to forget. She hadn’t loaded film in the camera yet, but she wanted to practice while she was alone. The chatter in Hawkins House didn’t allow time to choose a fitting composition for her first snapshot. She thought that if she could first sketch the image of what she wanted to capture, she could then discern whether or not it was worthy of photographing. She did not want to waste her film.

When she passed Bowling Green, she was only steps from Battery Park. She had only moments to spare while the light was just right. She positioned herself under a tree and began to observe the activity around her. Finally she settled on a bicycle for her subject. Someone had leaned the contraption against a tree and she thought it made a wonderful image. Nature and man. She sketched the scene from two different viewpoints, then moved on, her fingers growing a bit numb from the cold.

Late afternoon rays of sun kissed her cheeks even if they did nothing to warm her. She rested on a stone bench near a statue of a man and pondered who it might be. A war hero? He
did not wear a uniform. A statesman? Perhaps. Odd. He held something like a child’s toy, a boat, in his hand. A fat pigeon interrupted her thoughts. She laughed as she watched it land on the statue’s boat and bob its head.

She’d heard that America was a considerable country, much bigger than Ireland. New York was only one city, and there were fields and trees and vast open spaces somewhere. She inhaled, taking in the smell of the harbor, nearby food vendors, and even the sooty smell of burning coal.

“Did you know rain has no smell of its own?” a girl in the workhouse had once said. “It takes on the scent of whatever it falls on.”

Grace now knew it was true. Rain on pavement and horses had a whole different odor than rain on grass. Thank goodness there was some green here in America—or would be come spring.

A discarded newspaper blew to her feet. She kicked it away. With all the crowds, garbage, and smokestacks in New York, the rest of America was hard to imagine.

She closed her eyes to try. But there was still sound. Lots of it. Trolley car bells, children laughing, people chattering, boat horns blasting.

She opened her eyes and rubbed her face. If she were going to survive, much less thrive, in this place, she would have to do what she had done in the workhouse. Look for the beauty—the lone flower, the glimmer of fresh raindrops, the carvings high on the facade of city buildings, the delicate differences in the shapes of people’s noses, the shades of their hair, their expressions, the color that she knew had to be there somewhere. She looked around her and bemoaned the fact that her scribbling had nearly used up her only pencil.

As she contemplated the cost of fresh paper and charcoal
pencils, she removed her camera from her satchel. The low hum of a private conversation caught her attention. A trio of men, each one with a top hat and black coat, stood on the other side of the statue chatting with a more modestly dressed fellow. She began to wonder if there were enough differences in each individual’s appearance to draw them uniquely. Was the cut of their coats the same? Perhaps one had deep-set eyes and another, freckles. Maybe one would dare to wear a red tie. Even if he did not, she could paint him that way or try to.