In the boardinghouse the following week, while returning from the bath one evening, Lily had overheard her name. Her ears tuned right in out of habit. Behind a partially opened bedroom door, a couple of new tenants had been sizing her up.
She’s a bit snooty, don’t you think?
Oh, I don’t know. Just seems too prim and proper to me.
If only they knew.
With a tendency to keep to herself, Lily could scarcely take offense. She was no old biddy at twenty-two; her priorities were just different from those of all the other young boarders. In the evenings, they would moon over celebrity rumors, or the newest talkies, or which boys they had eyes for at the last community dance. Early on, some of the girls had invited her on outings, yet she always declined. They learned not to waste their efforts.
Now, on a shaded bench at Franklin Square, she was starkly reminded of where her own interests lay. All around, smitten couples and cheerful families were prattling and strolling through the lunch hour. She drew a breath and rubbed the oval locket at the hollow of her neck. She envisioned Samuel’s latest kiss goodbye, his sadness mirroring her own. It won’t be this way for much longer, she’d told him, a phrase repeated so often she began to doubt her own promise.
The thought squelched her appetite.
She stuffed her lunch into her pail. Together with her book, she headed back toward the paper. Perspiration and humidity glued the stockings to her skin. Despite having time to spare, she cut through the city park. She was just passing the central fountain when honking and shouting broke out. A cabbie and an ice-truck driver were clashing over right of way. After a moment of gawking—their colorful language made them difficult to ignore—she spied a familiar figure seated at the base of a large maple.
Using a palm-size notebook, Ellis Reed appeared to be penciling and scratching out words in equal measure. Pages lay crumpled on the browning grass. Such doggedness made perfect sense to Lily, as she had acted much the same way in her proud days of working on the school bulletin.
All week, since learning of Ellis’s opportunity, she had been tempted to inquire about his progress—his photo of the children still haunted her deeply—but his agitation had supplied the answer. It was clear the situation wasn’t improving as he now wadded another page and threw it with force. Startled by the disruption, a lone mallard quacked and fluttered its wings before waddling off.
Ellis slumped against the tree, hands on his knees. His hat toppled to the ground, joining his pencil and pad, surrendered in defeat. Even his suspenders sagged heavily, bound to the dark trousers he wore with no jacket, his white sleeves unequally rolled.
Sensibility warned her not to involve herself—but far too late. She was, after all, largely responsible for his predicament. The least she could do was offer encouragement.
Nearing the tree, she navigated his rejected pages and corresponding demeanor. “You do realize,” she said, nabbing his attention, “if you’re looking to take out that poor duck, a shotgun would be considerably more effective.”
His features relaxed as recognition dawned. He glanced toward the bird and murmured, “Only if it’s made of gelatin.”
She tilted her head, not following.
He appeared about to explain but shook his head. “Story for another time.” A faint gleam shone in his eyes, blue as a robin’s egg. After a beat of silence, he asked, “Would you…care to sit?”
Lily had no plans to stay long but felt odd looming over him as they spoke. When she agreed, he grabbed his strewn jacket and spread it out beside him. She eased herself down to sit properly in her skirt—oh, how she missed her girdle-free weekend wear—and set aside her belongings. Ellis was making a half-hearted attempt to straighten his black tie when his stomach growled, loud as a revving engine. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t hide her amusement.
“Guess I missed lunch,” he said, a smidge embarrassed.
She reached into her pail and produced the last half of her sandwich. “Pastrami and Swiss on rye.”
He hesitated only briefly before accepting. “Thanks.” His smile delivered a pair of curved lines, like parentheses, to his cheeks. They brought to mind Samuel’s dimples, which bore equal charm. Ellis’s complexion even had a similar olive hue.
She returned to her purpose. “I take it things aren’t going well with the article.”
Ellis swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. He swiped crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand with an air of frustration. “I just don’t see what the chief wants. Fine, he didn’t like my first take. But I put everything I had into the next one. Spent almost a week poring over every blessed word.”
Lily hadn’t read either of his attempts, but she’d caught enough of the chief’s responses to gather the gist. As stale as week-old goddamn toast, he’d so eloquently told Mr. Baylor, who had submitted Ellis’s second version. It went without saying that the feature wouldn’t survive a third strike.
“So, what was it about?” she asked.
“The last draft?”
She nodded, genuinely curious.
“Well…mainly it blasted the Smoot-Hawley Tariff.”
Her confusion must have shown because he squared his shoulders to her before presenting his case. “Look, a bunch of DC lawmakers—they swore up and down that tariff was going to be great for all Americans. Plumb out of solutions? Tax ’em. Because that worked just swell for the Brits.”
Lily wasn’t opposed to his stance necessarily but failed to grasp the link. “And…the picture you took?”
“Don’t you see? It’s blatant proof of how wrong they were.”
The correlation was a million miles from the personal chord the photograph had struck with her. When she failed to respond, Ellis’s face dimmed, though he managed a weak smile. “I take it you’re not a fan either.”
She should have continued right on through the park. Her attempt to help was only worsening the matter. “I’m sure another idea will come,” she said, a paltry offering. “Don’t give up yet.”
He looked almost puzzled. “Give up? On this? Not a chance.”
She worried the implication had offended him, but just for an instant. He was merely resolved to reach his goal.
Perhaps for that reason she sensed she could prod—an act she normally avoided—to expose the raw relevance of that heartrending image. Not for her, of course. For others.
“If I may ask, Mr. Reed, what does that picture really mean to you?”
His brow knotted. The question was unexpected.
“Because I would guess,” she ventured, “that while you were taking that photo, you weren’t musing about some tariff or the lawmakers in DC. When you first saw those kids, what were you thinking?”
He opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, his answer reeled back in. She thought he would leave it at that or regroup with another economic stance. Rather, he gained a light rasp as he replied, “My younger brother. How he might’ve been.”
Lily nodded, attempting to hide her surprise. It was clear his sibling had passed and, more tellingly, that Ellis was accustomed to keeping this part of his life tucked away. A relic in a dusty attic.
“I didn’t realize it at first,” he went on, “but that’s what drew me over to that house. And then I saw the posted sign.” He shook his head as if recalling its words. “Sure, I could’ve been appalled, wondering how a parent could do that. Sell them off like that. But I didn’t feel that way.”
“No?”
“As I drove off, I just kept thinking about those boys. They didn’t ask for the bum score they’re getting, but somehow they’ll make do. Adults, we’re all so busy griping about our tough breaks, and kids like them, their lives change in a split second and you hardly hear a peep. Not about the big things anyway.”
Gaining conviction, he quickened his pace. “Even when life’s downright lousy, most kids are still so resilient because…well, I guess ’cause they don’t know any different. It’s like they only realize how unfair their lives are if you tell them. And even then, all they need is the smallest amount of hope and they could do just about anything they set their minds to…” Voice trailing off, Ellis appeared to have said far more than he had intended.
Lily couldn’t help but smile. There was such passion and honesty in his words. As with his photos, he had captured a perspective, a profound depth in details, that people often missed. A view that needed to be shared.
“I believe, Mr. Reed, you’ve found your story.”
He narrowed his eyes. As he shifted his frame of reference, his face lightened. His gradual smile was the infectious sort, lined with just enough warmth to unsettle her.
“Well,” she said, “I’d best be off.” She gathered her belongings as she got to her feet. When he politely started to rise, she urged him to remain seated. “After all, you have a lot of work to do.”
“You are right about that.” He laughed a bit. “I sure owe you one, Miss Palmer.”
“Nonsense. It was my pleasure.” With that, she left him to scribble and ponder.
True, she hadn’t been forthcoming about her own reaction to the picture—about what had compelled her to pass it along to the chief, ushering the image toward publication. Perhaps at the root of her efforts, more than all else, was a yearning to feel less alone with choices she had once made.
Whatever the cause may have been, there was no reason to elaborate. She had said enough to help.
