The Image Seeker

by Amanda Hughes

  In a flash, Billie was out of the shelter and on her feet. Two young boys were standing on the tracks, holding rifles, staring at the cardboard box peppered with holes.

  “We was just doing target practice, lady,” one of them said. “Honest, we didn’t know anyone─”

  Olive shrieked again.

  The boys bolted.

  With her heart in her throat, Billie rushed to the box. Hazel was face down, blood oozing from her head. “Oh, sweet Jesus!”

  She pulled Hazel out, scooped her into her arms, and ran across the meadow, headed for the closest home. Olive was right behind her.

  “Please, God, please God, please God,” Billie repeated as she ran. Hazel was limp in her arms.

  With no answer at the first house, they ran to the next.

  “Slam on that door hard!” she roared at Olive.

  Fist over fist, Olive banged on the front door. An elderly man answered. His jaw dropped. “Bring her inside. Ruth,” he called, “come quickly!”

  Billie staggered inside the dark parlor and put Hazel on the sofa, pressing her hand to the girl’s wound. She could hear the man in the hall speaking into the telephone mouthpiece. “Come quickly… little girl… yes, 872 Morgan.”

  “Are you hurt at all,” Billie asked Olive frantically.

  “No.”

  A gray-haired woman with a cane came in the room and bent over Hazel. “Oh my! Oh my heavens,” she said. She moved Billie’s hand to look at the wound. Hazel’s hair was soaked with blood. She was motionless, and her jaw was sagging.

  “Oh, dear girl,” she said to Billie. “I’m so sorry.”

  Billie stared at her thunderstruck. “What? She’s─”

  The woman nodded.

  Olive barked, “No!” and shook her sister. “Hazel? Hazel, Hazel, Hazel!”

  Billie staggered to her feet. “Target practice,” she mumbled.

  “What’s that?” the woman asked.

  “Boys were doing target practice. They didn’t know.”

  Olive started crying hysterically. When Billie tried to hug her, she pushed away and ran from the house.

  A siren sounded in the distance.

  Moments later, two policemen rushed inside, and it was chaos. After canceling the ambulance, they questioned Billie. “Take us to this box.”

  They grabbed Olive and barked, “You’re coming with us.” She resisted, kicking, screaming, and showering them with curses.

  A railroad detective was waiting for them on the tracks. He had been contacted by the police. He was a short, burly man holding a nightstick. His arms were crossed, and he scowled at Billie and Olive.

  It was twilight, and the sun cast a surreal orange glow on everything. The police started interrogating Billie again.

  Moments later, Luther and Felix returned. They were dirty from work and looked confused. The police exchanged looks. The railroad detective walked over with a swagger, jerked his head toward Billie and Olive, and asked, “You part of this outfit?”

  They were too stunned to answer. When Luther tried to step around him, the dick blocked his path, bringing up his club. “I’m talkin’ to you, Injun Joe. Are you part of this outfit?”

  “Yes,” Luther mumbled. “Let me pass.”

  Felix shouted to Billie, “What the hell happened? Where’s Hazel?”

  A policeman answered instead. “Your squaw says neighborhood boys killed her, but we know it was you. Where d’ya hide the gun?”

  Again, Felix shouted, “Where’s Hazel?”

  “You’re coming with us,” an officer said and reached for Felix, but he picked up a brick and smashed him in the side of the head, dropping him to the ground.

  Suddenly, there was shouting and swearing. Luther was struggling with the other policeman and the bull. He jerked an arm free and sent the detective careening onto his back. “Run, Billie!” he roared.

  Billie took Olive’s hand and sprinted down the tracks. The dick scrambled to his feet in pursuit. Billie pushed through the thicket, headed for the neighborhood. She hoped she could lose him between houses. But in no time, he was upon them. He caught the strap of Billie’s overalls and flung her to the ground. “Slut!” he snarled, swinging his club and hitting her in the ribs. She shrieked as bones broke through skin.

  Olive sunk her teeth into his wrist. He roared and backhanded her across the face. She fell backward, knocked senseless.

  Billie tried to stand, but the dick slammed her again with his club, shattering her elbow. When she fell, he tossed it to the side. “Now, you’ll learn a lesson,” he growled and started yanking down her overalls.

  Billie was unable to help herself. The bull dropped to his knees and started unbuttoning his pants. But his eyes widened in surprise as a kid in a fancy necklace swung a club at his face.

  Chapter 11

  The cool air from the open boxcar felt good on Billie’s face. She stared at the stars, trying to recall what happened. She remembered Olive helping her to her feet, and they stumbled along the tracks in the dark.

  And there was the hobo who bandaged her with rags. “You two better get the hell out of here,” he said. “They’ve been combing all the rail yards and jungles looking for you. Our only hope is to get you into a car after they searched it. But we’ll have to watch and wait.”

  After that, things became blurry. Billie recalled two men lifting her into the boxcar but not Olive.

  “Olive?” she murmured.

  No answer. “Olive?” she called again.

  There was still no reply.

  Billie tried to sit up, but she dropped back down again. At least they were safe for a while. Somehow, she would find a way to carry on. She must.

  She looked back at the stars. How she would love to photograph them. They were so breathtakingly close tonight.

  What was the poem again by Wilde? Something about, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

  * * *

  When Billie opened her eyes again, she was in a hospital. There were long rows of white iron beds, and the sun was streaming across spotless linoleum floors. Nurses glided around the room attending to patients. It had been a long time since Billie had slept in a bed. The ward reminded her of the dormitory at St. Matthews.

  What happened? How did she get here? She tried to sit up, but pain shot through her hip. There was a cast on her arm and a tight bandage on her torso. Everything was so confusing. She slumped back and slept.

  Gradually, Billie gained strength and was cognizant enough to recall the horrors of Hazel’s death and the assault by the railroad detective. But she still had no memory of coming to the hospital. “What town is this?” she asked an aide one day.

  “Dubuque, Iowa.”

  “I-I can’t remember getting here.”

  “That’s not unusual.”

  When they released her, the staff gave her a faded print dress, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and a comb. “If you need more clothes or a place to sleep, the Salvation Army has a residence for women in town,” the nurse said. “See you in two weeks to cut the cast off.”

  Billie nodded.

  It felt odd wearing female clothing again. She walked down the steps of the hospital feeling unsteady. All her muscles were sore, and the thought of being alone flooded her with anxiety. Everyone dear to her was gone, and she hadn’t a soul in the world. Weak and shaky, Billie made her way down the street, pedestrians and motorcars rushing past her. Images of Hazel flashed before her eyes. And where was Olive? Had she been taken by the authorities, or was she being used by licentious hobos? Hopefully, she was back with Luther and Felix, but a dark suspicion nagged her that the men were somewhere on a chain gang.

  Billie looked around Dubuque. She had always thought Iowa was flat farmland, but here was a picturesque little community on the Mississippi surrounded by rolling hills.

  She found a bread line in front of a church and stood in it, her knees shaking. After eating a bowl of soup, she walked to the rail yard water t
ower, hoping to find a note scratched in hobo code from Luther, Felix, or even her father. There was nothing.

  Billie sighed. She must look for a job, but who would hire a woman with a cast? And what about her stamina? She could barely stand in the bread line.

  For days after her release, Billie searched for jobs but without success. The competition was fierce, and the lines were long. When, at last, the hospital removed her cast, she considered hopping a freight to find work elsewhere, but she doubted her strength. Vivid memories of the railroad detective attack haunted her, so she decided to stay in Dubuque until she was stronger. At least she could stay at the women’s residence where she felt safe.

  When not looking for work, Billie would walk along the Mississippi and fantasize. Her dreams had become her companions. At one time, she had wanted a studio, but now she longed to photograph people in their natural settings. She wanted shots of men at work, mothers with children, or friends visiting in a park. She even wanted to photograph suffering: families skeletal with hunger, men in bread lines, girls selling their bodies. She wanted to photograph all facets of life, not just the pleasantries.

  Billie was ashamed of herself. What morbid inclination compelled her to record such things? What was wrong with her?

  She could argue that Charles Dickens had done it in his writing, and Remarque, even Dali in his surrealistic paintings. So, why couldn’t she photograph all aspects of the human experience?

  Late one afternoon, Billie saw a flyer nailed to a telephone pole about a carnival, and she decided to go. Even though she had no money, it was a beautiful day, and sightseeing was free.

  She followed the road out of Dubuque and found the carnival set up in an open field by the river. There were striped tents, a carousel, and an arcade. Towering above all was a splendid Ferris wheel. Music, as well as the smell of popcorn, drifted up on the breeze.

  She wished Olive and Hazel were here. They would have loved it.

  Her first stop was the merry-go-round. Under the colorful canopy, ornately carved horses strained at their bridles, orange striped tigers pounced, and giraffes craned their necks. They rotated endlessly around a giant calliope that pumped out cheerful music. Parents watched their children as a bored carny operated the ride, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

  Billie smiled. Someday, she would ride a carousel.

  She continued walking and soaking up the gaiety. There were tents of every size with brightly colored pennants waving in the breeze. Vendors were selling peanuts, cotton candy, hot dogs, and lemonade. Children raced from ride to ride, their faces flushed with excitement. Toddlers trotting alongside their parents held colorful balloons.

  Billie passed a giant slide where children careened down on burlap bags. And she stopped in front of a new ride called a Tilt-A-Whirl. The riders whirled around and around in cars, the smell of diesel fuel filling the air.

  When Billie’s legs started to feel wobbly, she sat down on a bench near King Tut’s Maze. Again, she was reminded of the girls. The sign had a picture of an Egyptian pharaoh with a geometrically cut hairstyle and a neck collar full of jewels.

  Billie looked around. She was amazed at the number of carnival patrons during these hard times. No one looked prosperous, but still, they were here. The men were in dusty jeans. The women were in faded dresses with cheap felt hats. Everyone was having fun.

  She watched a young man slam a mallet onto a platform, trying to ring a bell. His girlfriend stood nearby, watching and eating a caramel apple. He was unable to win a Kewpie doll for her, so they walked away laughing. Boys at booths threw balls at stacks of milk bottles or threw darts at balloons. Others tried their luck at the shooting gallery. The area was alive with bells, the snap of guns, and the shouts of hawkers.

  Then Billie noticed a young man rush by with his hand over his mouth. He darted behind the maze and retched. She chuckled. He must have been on the Tilt-A-Whirl. When he came out wiping his mouth on his sleeve, a short, bald man in a dark suit dashed up. Billie heard him say, “You’re fired!”

  The boy put up his middle finger and stomped away. The man marched back inside a tent with a banner overhead that read, “Get Your Picture Here.” It had a gaily painted picture of a magician holding a camera.

  Billie stared. That boy had just lost his job. There would be an opening at that shop.

  Should she? No, she chuckled. She was not qualified. But that boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. How much could he know?

  Billie brushed off her dress, tied up her hair, and cleared her throat. What could it hurt? She walked over and stepped inside. There were four wooden folding chairs and a counter displaying photographs. Sample pictures were scattered around the makeshift foyer. They were photographs of children holding balloons, couples with stuffed animals, or entire families. There were shots of circus performers as well, dressed in sequined costumes.

  The tiny man Billie had seen a moment ago came out. He had a black mustache and a big toothy smile. He boomed in an Italian accent, “Welcome to Marzetti’s! Would you like your photograph?”

  Billie licked her lips. “Um, no, sir. I was─” she stammered, “I was wondering, are you in need of an assistant?”

  “No, good day to you.”

  “But─”

  “No buts, goodbye!” he exclaimed, taking her elbow and edging her out the door. “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. I am busy man.”

  “But sir, I am a hard worker.”

  “No females. You should be home with your husband and children.”

  “I am unmarried and a very hard worker.”

  Ignoring her, he returned to the tent.

  “I have knowledge of photography,” she called.

  There was still no response.

  With a sigh, Billie starting walking away, but she heard, “Come back here.”

  Billie dashed back inside.

  Mr. Marzetti crossed his arms and stated, “Very well, you say that you know photography. Tell me what you know about shutter speeds.”

  Billie gave him a detailed answer about preferred speeds for daylight, overcast days, indoor shots, as well as motion.

  He scowled. “Name the supplies used in a darkroom.”

  “Silver halide, ammonium thiosulfate, an enlarger, a safelight─”

  He raised his eyebrows and stopped her. “Enough. What is the best camera for studio work?”

  “That would depend.” She started listing cameras.

  He stroked his mustache and stared at her. “Are you able to travel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a good girl?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want no trouble,” he warned, shaking his finger. “No boys and no drinking! We run a clean carnival here. No girlie shows or freaks. Just family entertainment.”

  Suddenly, a red-faced man in a tight suit stepped into the tent with a tiny woman. She had an armful of stuffed animals. Billie moved out of the way.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” Mr. Marzetti roared.

  “We’d like our picture taken,” the man said.

  “But of course! Right this way!” Mr. Marzetti opened the canvas flap for them to enter the studio. He jerked his head for Billie to follow.

  She smiled. She had her first job in photography.

  * * *

  Billie loved working for Mr. Marzetti. She moved subjects for him, manipulated props, and held lights. She calmed babies, entertained children, and with her gentle demeanor, made customers relax.

  She asked Mr. Marzetti endless questions about setting up shots and technique, soaking up every bit of instruction he had to offer. After only a few days, he put her to work in the darkroom, where he taught her how to mix the chemicals and expose film. She never grew tired of the alchemy, loving the magical way photographs appeared before her eyes in the solution.

  After a long weekend in Dubuque, Majestic Carnival packed up and left for Kansas. They looked like a gypsy caravan traveling across the plains, a long line of dirty truc
ks pulling trailers and old buses. It was a small carnival visiting mid-sized towns in the Midwest during the summer months. In the winter, they toured the South.

  Billie was assigned to ride in one of the buses with a mother and her two daughters. They ran the food concessions. The mother, a gaunt woman with no chin and dishwater blonde hair, was behind the wheel. Her cheeks were sunken slightly from missing teeth. She looked at Billie’s tiny bag of belongings and asked, “Is that all ya have, dumplin’?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Alrighty then,” she said, yanking the handle to close the door of the bus. “Here we go. May the Lord keep us safe.” She lit a cigarette and talked through the exhale, smoke billowing around her head. “I’m Florence Hickson, and these are my daughters, Ruby and Opal.” Slapping the dashboard of the bus, she added, “And this here is Clara Bow.”

  Billie smiled and looked back at the girls. They bore little resemblance to their mother, having dark skin and curly black hair. They smiled back at her.

  “I’m Opal,” the girl with glasses announced. “I’m older and smarter.”

  “You’re a liar on both counts!” the other one barked. She was not wearing glasses, was plump, and had blue eyes like her mother. “I’m fifteen, and she’s only fourteen. How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty,” Billie replied. There were two sets of bunk beds on either side of the bus. “Is this where I’ll sleep too?”

  “That’s right,” the woman replied, turning the key to start the engine. It sputtered and rattled.

  “Where should I put this bag?” Billie asked.

  “Throw it on the lower bunk,” Ruby said. “You’re across from Mama. We got the upper bunks.”

  Billie sat down and looked around. The Hicksons had done their best to make the bus feel like home. They had quilts on the beds, a doily on a tiny table, and a rag rug on the floor.

  “This is your home now too, Miss Billie,” Florence said, looking in the rearview mirror. “The Lord has seen fit to send you to us.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I see you have books in your bag,” Opal said. “Do you like to read?”