The verdict was in. The article had been given the go-ahead, per Mr. Baylor. Ellis felt so light on his feet, it was a miracle he didn’t drift up to the newsroom ceiling.
Yeah, it would have been nice to receive word from the chief himself, but Ellis wasn’t about to nitpick. If all went well, he could soon be assigned to City News, making his way to the crime or political beat.
It wasn’t such a stretch to believe, given the latest development: Ellis was now welcomed to submit similar photos, described as “human” with a “gut punch,” along with—and here was the kicker—articles to accompany them.
Not losing time, he sat at his desk and leafed through his personal file of pictures.
Nothing there of use.
Other photos were stashed at his apartment, but all were more of the same. From here on out, he’d be scouring the streets and alleys, the docks and barnyards with an alert eye and a loaded camera never far from his grip.
“Hey, Reed!” hollered a political reporter known as Stick. The skinny guy with slightly bulging eyes was refilling his cup at the coffee station. He wasn’t more than ten feet away, but his caffeine intake often made him as loud as a carney barker. “Just heard about your feature. Good for you!”
Several reporters suddenly glanced Ellis’s way. In seconds, their interest cut back to their Tuesday leads and calls and fact-checking. But the moment still caused his pride to swell.
He limited his response to a simple thanks, not wanting to seem overeager.
“By the way,” Stick said, “some of the fellas wanna try out a new joint for lunch over on Ludlow. Come if you’re free.”
“Sure. Why not?” More feigned nonchalance.
Stick gave a quick smile. Then he downed a gulp of coffee, probably his fifth cup of the morning, before jostling back to his desk.
Lunch outings were common bonding events among the core newspapermen. A year or so ago, Ellis happened to be at the same restaurant as a group of them and was asked to join. Eventually, out of their small talk arose standard wisecracks about Ellis being a “sob sister,” a reference to female reporters, since most were relegated to sentimental assignments. Like the Society section. After a run of inside jokes he couldn’t follow and tales from college days, which he’d never had, he’d slipped out with an excuse that was barely acknowledged.
But now, with a clear-cut invite, a respectable feature in the queue, things were taking a turn…
The thought was interrupted by a flash of burgundy. It was Lily’s blouse, and Ellis perked up at the sight of her standing alone. A few desks down, she’d stalled to scrawl notes on a steno pad. If his luck today was any indication, he had every reason to be confident. Either way, he needed to act.
He strode on over while trying to look unrushed. She was about to step away.
“Miss Palmer.”
“Mmm?” she replied, distracted.
He continued once she looked up from her notes. “I just wanted to tell you, in case you hadn’t heard. My piece about the kids is scheduled to run Thursday.”
“My, that’s marvelous, Mr. Reed. Congratulations.” She lit with enthusiasm, a good sign. One that would have cooled his simmering nerves if not for Clayton’s typing at the nearest desk. The guy’s precise rhythm perceptibly slowed as Ellis assembled his next words.
“Is there…something else?” Lily’s voice, while still pleasant, gained a trace of impatience. No doubt the chief had already thrown her an endless list of tasks.
“Actually, there is.” Though Ellis preferred not to highlight his Society duties, he dared to plunge in. “Tonight at the art museum, I’ll be covering a new exhibit. Ancient collectibles from China. Should be quite a thing to see.”
She gave a nod, waiting for his point.
No question, a woman like Lily deserved a proper courting—carriage rides, symphony seats, a dinner at the Ritz. None of which Ellis could afford. It was the main reason he’d tended to keep his distance. But after their exchange at the park—her going out of her way to help him, the surprising comfort of their talk, the way she’d blushed when he smiled at her—he figured he just might have a shot, even if the museum picked up the tab this one time.
“Anyway, they’re hosting a reception for bigwigs and some press. There’ll be food and music, the works. And I was wondering if you’d like to go. With me.”
Lily’s eyes widened a fraction. “Oh. Oh, I see.”
The pause that followed could have lasted mere seconds but seemed interminable. Worrying he had misjudged the signs, Ellis tempered the invite.
“I know it’s last minute, so don’t fret if you need to pass. Just thought it was a way to say thanks, you know, for your help.”
“Well, that’s really not necessary.” Lily hugged her notepad to her chest. Again, her cheeks held a pinkish hue, though in fairness, the afternoon heat could have been the cause. “And it’s a pretty busy night for me, I’m afraid. But I do appreciate the thought.”
“Maybe another time, then?”
From the handful of girls he’d dated during and since high school, he knew her next response would be telling. Her tone, above all, would clarify where she stood. But before she could answer, Mr. Baylor swooped in from the side. The hue of his bare head rivaled that of Lily’s blouse.
“Reed, we gotta talk.”
And with that, Lily was gone.
Ellis worked to suppress his irritation. It took a moment to regroup and center on the issue Mr. Baylor was relating. Something had happened…with a picture…of the kids…the negative.
Ellis’s mind snapped to attention. “How’s that?”
Mr. Baylor huffed. He didn’t like to repeat himself. “I’m saying the damn thing’s ruined.”
“Ruined?”
“A new blockhead upstairs was cleaning an ink spill. Ended up knocking over some goddamn bleach. Your file’s one of the casualties. Still got a copy of the article, but the print and negative are goners. We’ll need a replacement.”
Ellis stared at him, the impact of the situation taking shape. A tightness wound around his middle, a lasso of dread. “But, I-I haven’t got one.”
“Doesn’t have to match exact. Just something close enough for the chief.”
When Ellis stumbled across those kids, work had been the farthest thing from his mind. He hadn’t even absorbed the words on the sign before clicking the shutter. Need extra images of a charity gala or any other event he’d covered over the past two years? He had mountains of them. But a photo of the two boys? He’d taken just that one. How could he have guessed it would find its way to Howard Trimble?
As if on cue, the chief hollered from his office, beckoning Mr. Baylor, who raised a hand in acknowledgment. Turning back to Ellis, he added, “I’ll need it by end of workday. Got that?” Then he headed off, not waiting for a response.
And thankfully so, because Ellis had no answers. In fact, he doubted he could scrounge up a voice.
A thick waft of smoke blew into his eyes, delivering a sting. Clayton was taking a break from his hunt-and-pecking to light a fresh cigarette. He picked a speck of tobacco from his bottom lip and lifted his square chin toward Ellis. “Don’t sweat it, pal. Not the end of the world.”
There was no sarcasm in his tone. But as he returned to his work, tucking his cigarette into place, his mouth gained its standard tilt. Or was it a smirk?
At this point, what did it matter?
Ellis marched back to his desk, battling an onset of panic. In the row of wall clocks, the second hands were relentlessly sprinting as if in a race. Local time was 11:08.
So much for his lunch plans.
He needed to knuckle down and stay calm. There was time to salvage this. He could plead with Mr. Baylor, ask him to run the article on its own.
Considering the chief’s temperament, that was decidedly a last resort.
Ellis scoured for other solutions, yet all the while he knew he was skirting the most obvious one.
Although it was far from ideal, what better choice did he have?
- • •
Once again, there was no indication of a presence inside. The house looked still as stone.
Ellis stepped out of his parked car and onto the pebbled dirt. The hour-long drive had allowed for ample doubts and second-guessing. He’d had to remind himself of the message in his article, the hope and determination it could spark for folks in need.
Of course, it would be a lie to say he’d trekked to Laurel Township solely for the good of others. Raised in a home shadowed by a ghost, he learned early on that to be seen is to matter. But wasn’t that what everyone wanted deep down? To know their lives actually made a difference? To leave their mark. To be remembered.
Now, though, with the sale sign nowhere to be seen, Ellis’s concerns returned entirely to those boys. Only a few weeks had passed since his afternoon spent here. It had been safe to presume the brothers remained. Their farm road wasn’t the type to draw traffic.
Ellis assured himself of this as he climbed the porch steps. A pair of one-dollar bills rustled in his trouser pocket. At his apartment, before fetching his car, he’d grabbed the cash out of his rent fund. He planned to offer the donation before taking the new photos. A simple trade for a few pics, he’d explain if the father was the prideful type. It could buy milk for the kids, some butter and bread. Even meat and potatoes for stew.
Holding on to that hope, Ellis swung open the screen door and knocked. Waited.
He knocked again, louder.
Still no answer.
That was when he spotted the wooden slat. It lay on a far corner of the porch, piled atop old firewood. He released the screen door, which rattled when it shut, and picked up the board. He flipped it over, cautious of the rough edges.
Around him, there were no marbles, no other toys or small shoes. No clues to say that the boys hadn’t been pawned off to the highest bidder. Or, more likely, anyone who’d offered.
“They’re gone.”
Ellis turned, startled at first by the voice, then the message. At the base of the porch stood a girl, seven years old maybe, holding dandelions at her side. The overalls she wore, shirtless, covered the chest of her petite frame, but were well short of her bare feet and ankles.
He steeled himself. “You’re talking about the two boys who live here?”
The girl nodded, bobbing her blond ponytail. “Rest of the family too. Ma says their pa got lucky, getting a mill job over in Bedford County, and right in the nick of time. Mr. Klausen’s been threatenin’ to… You know Mr. Klausen?”
Ellis shook his head.
The girl huffed to herself. “You ain’t missed nothing there, that’s for sure. Mr. Klausen owns a bunch of the houses ’round here and looks like a potato. You know, the bumpy kind with sprouts every which way. And when the rent’s late, he turns mean real fast.” Her emphatic expression said she’d seen the effect firsthand. From what Ellis gathered, so had the family of the boys who were no longer here.
“That’s good news, then. About the job.” He was relieved for the family. He truly was.
Granted, now knowing they were okay, he just wished he’d snapped a couple more shots when he had the chance.
“You want any?” she asked.
Ellis missed the reference.
“Only a penny a bundle. I made ’em myself. See?” She held out dandelions that looked to be twined in several groups of a dozen. Some drooped from the heat more than others. “A little water, and they perk right back up. I give you my word on that.” She gave a solid nod to underscore her integrity on the matter.
Ellis honestly needed to hoard every cent he could, now more than ever. But he surveyed her thin cheeks and pink, rounded nose. Her eyes brimmed with such hope. As much as he tried, he couldn’t refuse.
He shed a sigh. “Let me see what I got,” he said and descended the stairs.
She grinned in anticipation as he fished through his trouser pocket and found three pennies. His first instinct was to surrender only one. But lessons ingrained from years of attending Sunday services with his mother—and his father too, though only in the physical sense—compelled him to be charitable. Just minutes ago, he was ready to give two full dollars to a family he didn’t even know.
“Guess I’ll take whatever this’ll get me.” When he placed the coins in the girl’s hand, she gaped as if receiving a collection of rare jewels. Then she abruptly masked her exuberance with a steady, businesslike manner.
“That gets ya three bouquets.” She handed him all but one of her slumped bundles.
Perfect, actually—for the funeral of his career.
“Thanks, mister.” She kept her smile to a minimum, though the glint in her eyes betrayed her. Not waiting for him to change his mind, she wisely dashed off with pennies secure in her fist. In a blink, she crossed the road and started up the long dirt drive that led to another house.
A drop of sweat trailed down Ellis’s cheek. The afternoon sun bore down on his back, his shoulders. Weight accumulated as much from the air as the pressure of the waning day.
Don’t give up yet. Lily’s words echoed back to him.
A downward glance, and he realized he was still holding the sign. He could always take a picture of the chalked words, include the house in the background. It wouldn’t be nearly as powerful as the original image, but better than nothing.
He opened the car door, set the sign and flowers on the front seat, and retrieved the loaded camera from his satchel. Rising too fast, he banged his head on the ceiling. The vehicle creaked from the impact, and Ellis gritted his teeth through his cursing.
He was rubbing the sore spot under his felt hat when he glimpsed the girl, stopped at a large apple tree beside the house across the way. She was waving a smaller boy down from a branch, presumably with news of her big sale.
Despite the throbbing in Ellis’s head, the makings of an idea came to him. They slid together like beads of sweat, like raindrops pooling on glass, forming an altered shape.
He had the sign and the setting. All he needed was a pair of boys. Maybe a brother was playing inside. Or a cousin, a friend.
If not, heck, the girl would do. With her boyish clothes and hair pulled back, who would notice? Only a few had actually seen the first photo, and likely none of them with a close eye. It wasn’t a tactic Ellis preferred, but a reporter’s success often depended on his ability to be resourceful.
Besides, if three pennies so easily raised the girl’s spirits, maybe her parents would feel the same about two dollar bills. It would be no different from, say, paying models for a fancy advertisement in Ladies’ Home Journal.
He checked his pocket watch. Half past twelve. No time to debate.
Leaving his car, he grabbed the sign and headed across the road.
