Grace's Pictures (10 page)

Later, alone in her room, Grace pondered her visit with Mr. Sherman. Somehow she had in her head that she could take photographs as a hobby. But photography was a trade, much like being a blacksmith or a tanner. Learning how to prepare photographic plates and develop images would take many years to master and more funds than she could hope to come up with. She must try harder to improve her drawing if she really wanted to capture the faces she saw around her.

Grace rose from her bed to check her appearance in the washroom mirror. Surprised by the disheartened expression on her face, she pinched her cheeks and smoothed her collar. She could go about mending, sweeping, and preparing simple but tasteful meals.
That’s all an American housemaid does,
she reasoned.

She swallowed hard. She had to meet the master of the house first.

She knew, in her head, that not all men were like her father or those awful peelers, but in her heart she feared that she might be wrong. It was one thing to speak to a merchant or observe a photographer. Quite another to work for a man and spend all her working hours in his house.

She stared into the mirror, watching her eyes go wide. She’d study his face, look for the expression, the nuances, something she could trust. If she could find that, she would be all right.

After forcing some resistant strands of hair back into place, she headed downstairs to wait in the parlor.

There she met Annie, who was dusting the breakfront cabinet. “Good luck with your interview.”

“Thank you for that. You know that dance you told me about, Annie?”

“Aye. The
céilí
, the maid’s dance on Thursday nights. ’Tis like at home—dancing, fiddles . . . every Thursday because the maids have the evening off.”

“If I get this job . . . maybe I can’t come.” She let her gaze fall to the floor.

“Most folks follow the convention. Let’s wait and see, Grace.”

Just as Annie was leaving the room, a loud knock came from the front door. Grace got a glimpse of a man’s coat as Annie took it from him. Mrs. Hawkins clambered up the hall from the kitchen to greet the man.

Grace stood as she was introduced.

“Mr. Parker, may I present Grace McCaffery.”

The man smiled and crossed the floor with his hand outstretched. He was perhaps a decade older than Grace, a half foot taller, and dressed in an expensive-looking wool suit. As he came closer, Grace detected the scent of a perfumed toiletry much like what Reverend Clarke used on Sundays. Well-to-do enough to afford to pay her salary, but not so rich as to employ numerous servants. Mr. Parker seemed pleasant enough, though she dared not look directly into his face. Not yet.

A quarter hour later the matter was agreed upon. Mr. Parker stood. “I wanted to see the nature of the girl before I decided. I do not care so much about your skills but about your disposition.” He turned to Mrs. Hawkins, who nodded at Grace to stand as well. “I can see that your Grace is reserved and agreeable.”

Mrs. Hawkins squeezed her fat fingers together. “I am so happy you are pleased. Do you have any further instructions for her before she arrives for work tomorrow?”

He held up a finger. “Ah, yes. The children’s names. My wife is quite the horticulturist. That is why she needs domestic help,
so she can spend more time in the garden. Small plot, being here in the city, but she insists, you know.”

Mrs. Hawkins folded her hands. “Lovely. And their names?”

Children? No one had mentioned children. Grace didn’t know if she could handle them. What if he mistreated his children? What would she do? Her stomach churned.

Mr. Parker shook out his calfskin gloves, preparing to put them on. “They are named after trees, you see. Hazel is ten, Holly is six, and the youngest for now is Linden. He is three. None are in nappies, but we are expecting in a few weeks. Big as a house now, my Alice. She’ll need your help, Grace.”

“Oh, delightful. Won’t you enjoy that, Grace?” Mrs. Hawkins gave Grace a sharp poke with her elbow.

“Aye. Children. Three of them.” She could barely find words.

Mr. Parker accepted his hat from Mrs. Hawkins. “And another coming. Either Willow or Douglas.”

“Douglas?” Mrs. Hawkins escorted the man to the door.

“That’s right. She agreed to the name because of the Douglas fir.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Hawkins called to Grace, “Say good-bye, love.”

“Thank you, Mr. Parker. I look forward to the job.”

As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Hawkins burst into laughter. “Trees in the park. Parker. See the humor in that, love?”

“Amusing.” Grace slumped down on the sofa.

“Come now, love. Plenty of maids also look out after children. The two oldest will be attending school during the day. It won’t be too much trouble, I’m sure.”

“I am delighted you think so.”

The woman sat down next to Grace. “I know you are troubled, but you’ll see. Before long you’ll be so busy you won’t
have time to fret. You have employment now. You can send money home.”

“I know.” She sucked back tears. “And I’m grateful.”

The truth was, the only children Grace had ever been around before were the sick, troublesome peers she had shared the workhouse attic with. She had told herself that she would do whatever she had to, even shovel horse manure, to get her mother away from that policeman. Cleaning a stable might be easier than taking care of the Parkers’ garden of children, though.

After supper, in the hour between kitchen duty and bedtime, Grace retreated to the parlor to find something to keep her mind off her anxiety. She picked up the Sears and Roebuck catalog lying on the sofa.

She flipped pages and paused at the photographic department. Amazing. It seemed she could order whatever she needed by mail, even an instruction book. She read further. No. The instruction book was free when you purchased a camera. Her fingers trembled as she turned to the next page. How would she know what to order even if she did have the money? Mr. Sherman had spouted off a list of equipment and supplies that she had never heard of. She wondered if this mail-order store would send her the instruction book first.

The Perfection Complete Viewing Outfit. The Empire State Photographic Outfit.
These were inclusive packages with all needed supplies. She wouldn’t have to order things separately. How much easier could it be? She’d show everyone that a woman could be a photographer.

Grace subconsciously tugged at her only Sunday dress. She did need new clothes, but that must wait. She glanced back down at the page. All she required, according to the catalog, was $15.35 to “start in a pleasant and good paying business.”
There it was, right there in print. People did make extra money this way. The advertisement also said that if you had current employment, this camera outfit would allow you to gradually learn photography until you could start up a business. It did not ask if the person buying the product was male or female. Who needed an instructor when you had a free instruction book? She read further: “This will afford you a means to start until you can build up a business and satisfy that desire that constantly agitates the mind of every ambitious man.” Well, she was an ambitious woman. She would just order under her initials.

She had only a small amount of the money S. P. had given her, and she wanted to pay him back. Her salary from Mr. Parker would only be five dollars a week. She had to save for Ma, and for what that camera outfit cost, she could send her mother a remittance for her travel. And Ma needed even more than that. She had to have money for other expenses—a trunk, traveling clothes, some American money so that when the immigration inspector asked to see what she had, she could produce something to show that she had a place in America. Grace could not risk sending too little and thus cause her mother not to come. Having a side business might help her reach her goal faster. If only it wasn’t so expensive. She laughed at herself. A ridiculous idea. She closed the catalog.

Mrs. Hawkins came into the room toting a magazine. “I thought perhaps you’d like to see this.” She handed it to Grace.

“
The Youth’s Companion
. What’s this?”

“It’s a magazine a friend from Boston mails to me. I enjoy reading it. Mark Twain, Booker T. Washington . . . many interesting authors have contributed to it.”

“I don’t feel much like reading tonight.” She handed it back, but the woman didn’t take it.

“Turn to an advertisement in the back, love. Eastman Kodak. After our visit to Mr. Sherman, I recalled having seen some Kodak advertisements featuring a woman photographer.”

“Truly?” Grace flipped the pages.

“No woman in this advertisement, but I think you’ll be interested. Seems they are introducing a new type of camera.”

Grace found it.
Eastman Kodak Co.’s Brownie Camera.
“One dollar?”

“That’s right, love. Look at what it says right below that.”

“‘Operated by any schoolboy or girl.’ Mrs. Hawkins, where can I get one of these?”

“You can send for it, love.”

She had a dollar. She would do that.

Morning dawned earlier than Grace was prepared for.

“Hurry along, love. The early morning streetcars fill up fast.”

Grace tried to straighten the stiff collar Mrs. Hawkins made her wear but finally decided it must be her neck that was crooked. She blew out a breath as she stepped from the kitchen washroom. Annie seemed to have taken up residence in the bathroom upstairs.
Please, God, don’t let me ruin things.
She forced a smile as she turned to her landlady. “You really don’t have to come with me.” She didn’t want Mrs. Hawkins to witness any mistakes she made.

“Remember when you went for raisins, love.”

Grace was about to explain that she would be more careful, but she decided to take to heart the Irish expression: “’Tis not a trout until ’tis on the bank.” She’d not proven herself yet. But she would in time.

“Just for today, love. It’s better that we’re both assured you won’t get lost.”

Grace agreed. Everything had to go as planned.

They found seats on the edge where they could watch the traffic on the street. Grace studied first the mission houses on State Street, their many windows and varied iron fire escapes wiggling up the facade like misplaced fence pickets. Rounding onto Broadway, they whisked past Bowling Green, which was more fountain than green, she thought.

The Hawk nudged her with an elbow. “Once there was a statue of King George there, love. Before independence.”

America had not been a British colony for a century and a quarter. “What happened to it?”

Agnes Hawkins squinted her eyes. “Well, it’s been said that it was hauled north and melted into musket balls for the continental army.”

“That so?”

“Can’t say for sure. But leave it to the Americans to do something so . . . so emblematic. As my Harold used to say, ‘There are two sides to every question.’”

Grace turned back to observing traffic. As if the British were beyond symbolic gestures. Mrs. Hawkins was English born, though truly different from how Grace had judged the British previously.

Before long they passed the tenement buildings and then smaller clapboard structures and shops as they moved northward. When the view changed to the hue of bare tree branches and brownstones, Mrs. Hawkins turned to her. “Nearly there.”

After exiting the car, they walked up the sidewalk along a partially treed lane. Grace spied a group of lads playing stickball in an alley.

“Even when Linden Parker is big enough, Mr. Parker will not allow his son to participate in such pastimes, love. Reverend Clarke told me the man is extremely protective of his children. We’ve never even seen them at First Church. He doesn’t allow them that far from the house. You’ll have to keep them all close.”

“Where are we, Mrs. Hawkins?” The surroundings were unfamiliar, as though they’d left the city in only a few short blocks.

“Middle class neighborhood.” She squeezed Grace’s hand. “See why I wanted to come to show you the way, love? Look for landmarks. There is a flower shop one block south of the Parkers’ house. See there? And a newsstand across the street. Follow the landmarks after you get off the stop, and you’ll do fine.”

“The wealthy live here?”

“We are still several blocks west of Fifth Avenue, where the wealthy live, love.”

Grace drew in a breath as they marched up the steps to a limestone building bearing no fresco-plastered flowered facade. There apparently was not a servants’ entrance. Mrs. Hawkins rapped the brass knocker three times.

A thin, pale lass opened the door. She turned her head to the side and hollered in a voice that should have belonged to a much heartier child.

A woman came lumbering up the hall. “Hazel, mind your manners. Invite the ladies in before they catch cold.” Mrs. Parker was indeed heavy with child.

Hazel had to be the eldest, although she looked to be younger than ten. When the lass sighed heavily and shut the door, her actions betrayed her age. One thing Grace remembered—probably because she had been the same way—was that once a
human being passed the decade mark, all childhood joys vanished. Innocence was fleeting. If this child was going to be difficult, she prayed the others would be more complacent.