by Julie Weston
“I met Mrs. Ah Kee and Sammy in Twin Falls. I don’t think they would come to have their photos taken by me.” And maybe Sammy would be in jail soon.
“So Mabel said. It’s a wonder anyone else will stay at her place—”
“And maybe the sheriff?” Nell interrupted.
Mrs. Bock shifted in her chair and continued her list. “Then there’s brides and such in the spring.” She patted Nellie’s knee. “People up here hate to go all the way to Twin. It’ll make our little town a nice place to be with pictures in everyone’s parlor.” The gleam returned. “And Goldie’s Pies in their stomachs and larders. And don’t forget all the tourists in the summer.” She grinned and held out her rough hand.
Nellie took it and they shook. Nellie didn’t raise more doubts about Sammy Kee nor ask why he would come to Ketchum. She would cross that Rubicon later. First, she would tackle the parlor.
When Nell opened the door, a series of odors wafted out: old brocade, ancient incense, camphor from mothballs, and an overlay of tobacco from a pipe, long unused. Such a combination of smells conjured in her mind social evenings of another time when men sang harmony, women displayed themselves in whalebone-corseted dresses, foursomes played games of pinochle, and cordials were served in small crystal glasses with cut cherries on the sides. A wave of nostalgia for an era she had never known filled her.
How ridiculous, she thought. The room was dark, smelly, overcrowded with heavy furniture, freezing cold, and totally unsuitable for a studio. She began to close the door to her “new” profession, but noticed a sliver of light from the opposite side of the room—a window covered over with heavy drapes. It wouldn’t hurt to pull them and see more of the parlor.
Any room closed up for a while would smell. Her own room in her mother’s apartment in Chicago would smell of paper, glue, the slightly acid odor of celluloid film, the chintz of curtains and bedspread she had sewn during a high school home-skills class, hating every stitch but proud of the end product. Perhaps even the faded roses from a corsage souvenir of a long-ago dance where she fell in love with someone else’s husband. She couldn’t even remember who took her, but she could never forget the attractive, saturnine features of the man who whispered words in her ears while they danced to the “Tennessee Waltz,” telling her he felt the same strong emotion toward her. And then he was killed at Verdun.
Her heel caught on the heavy rug, but she kept herself from falling by grabbing at a lamp with a fringed shade. She pulled the string hanging down and was pleased that light sprang on, muted by pink velvet. On the table under the lamp was a blush-toned wedding photo revealing a slender bride, lovely in a satin dress with a train gathered around her feet, and a rather plain-looking man with a square, determined-looking jaw and carefully slicked-back dark hair, parted in the middle, and gray sideburns. He was quite a bit older than the bride. She replaced the photo, thinking both the man and the woman seemed somewhat familiar, but the woman didn’t look like Goldie.
At the window, Nell pulled back the draperies and light spilled in, even though the snow continued to fall. There were two wide windows rather than a narrow single one as in her room upstairs. This room was not large, but not small either, and completely square except for an alcove where an upright piano stood. She was right about evening singing. Maybe Goldie played. Another lamp stood on the piano, which meant a second electrical outlet. Good. The alcove should work well for photos of two or three people, like a bride and groom or a small family grouping.
The furniture might have come from a Victorian castle, it was so ornate and dour appearing. All of it would have to go and the walls painted white or at least ivory to reflect more light. The carpet should go too, depending on what was underneath it. Nell lifted up one corner and saw a parquet pattern exactly like the wood floor of the house where she grew up, her grandparents’ home in Chicago. She sat down, fighting off the desire to be back at her dull job at the Scotto Studios, to enjoy the quiet evenings with her mother when one sewed and the other read and a grandfather clock ticked and chimed away the days, to be safe.
And yet, working for Scotto had not been safe.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Bock rushed in. “The furniture has to go—I’ll get Rosy to help move it out and store it somewhere—and you and me can paint the walls, liven ’em up a bit.” She turned in a circle. “Take down those moth-eaten drapes—good riddance to them, I say. Maybe keep the piano. Might work as a prop. Henry can rig up some wheels or a dolly so’s you can move it around without breaking your back.”
The older woman’s enthusiasm brought Nell to her feet. “I thought the alcove might work for wedding photos, and what a good idea about the piano. The rug is too dark and this floor is beautifully crafted.”
“Ain’t it? Reason I bought the place as I remember. Can’t think why I covered it up, but I had all these odds and ends of furniture, including that old Oriental rug, so I stuck it all in here.”
There went Nell’s imaginings of a more graceful era than the one in which she lived. She laughed. “But someone must have used this furniture and room. I could even smell pipe smoke when I opened the door.”
“Before my time,” Mrs. Bock said. “Nobody I know ever smoked a pipe in here unless maybe it had opium in it. Never know who’s took up that filthy habit.” She picked up the wedding photo from the table, touched the front gently. “You’d never think Rosy was handsome once, would you?”
“That’s Rosy?”
A commotion at the front door interrupted them and Mrs. Bock ran to stop someone from tracking water into her front hall. The telephone rang and rang until Nell answered it.
“Hello. This is Mrs. Bock’s boarding house.”
“I wish to speak with Miss Nellie Burns, please.”
Only Mr. Levine spoke so formally. “This is Nellie Burns. How are you feeling?” She felt guilty all over again for his injuries and the damage to his studio.
“I am quite well, thank you. It is kind of you to inquire.” He paused and Nell wondered if she should ask whether the darkroom door had been repaired.
“You must think it unusual of me to telephone you in Ketchum,” he finally said.
Until then, she hadn’t.
“The reason I am making this telephone call to you rests upon the photographs you kindly showed to me in the hospital. They were so distinctive and, I think, unusual, that I have returned to them frequently in my mind while recovering. Not that my recovery was prolonged.”
Having another photographer’s good opinion of her work was important to Nellie. She had been unable to assess objectively her own abilities, and Mr. Levine’s words gave her some corroboration upon which to hang her determination. “Thank you, Mr. Levine. I appreciate your kind words.” She kicked herself for adopting his speech patterns. He might think she was making fun of him.
“You are probably much more aware than I of a photography magazine published in New York City by Mr. Alfred Stieglitz, himself a famous photographer, as well as a supporter of the arts.” Mr. Levine’s voice, modulated but distant traveling through the wires, reminded Nellie of their ease working together in the darkroom.
“I’m familiar with Mr. Stieglitz’s work, and in Chicago I recall seeing several issues of the magazine, but I believe it was discontinued. Camera Work was the name.” She remembered how expensive the magazine had been. One photo in particular had spurred her to seek her own artistic avenues for photography after she was forced to leave the Scotto Studios. It was a photograph of New York City at night with a brightly lit skyscraper in the background and in the dark foreground, white wash hanging on a line and two lit windows. His portrait photography, too, showed real people, not posed mannequins, as she herself came to think of her subjects.
“It was discontinued,” Mr. Levine said, “but several photographers in San Francisco, among them a woman, are doing photo work not dissimilar to Mr. Stieglitz, art photography. You should send your photographs to this group for critique and possible showing.”
This sudden presentation of an opportunity, however far-fetched it might be, sent shocks through Nellie. Could she? Would she? Dare she?
“Miss Burns, are you there?”
She took a huge breath. “Yes, I’m here. I’m just floored by your suggestion that I should send those photographs to such a group. I—I had no thought myself that they were good enough even to consider showing them.” She gripped the telephone earpiece so hard, her hand ached. “They need so much work.”
“Yes, that is another reason I called. I know you will need a darkroom and that you have none available there. I wished to offer mine to you and also to suggest that I could offer you some work from time to time with my developing if you were able to come to Twin Falls.”
“Mr. Levine, thank you so much for your suggestion and your offer. I’ll have to think about what I could do with my photos, but yes, I would appreciate doing some work for you.” Now was a good time to test her new project. “I hesitate to be bold with this counterproposal.” She heard the telephone lines softly zing. “I am going to do some portrait work here and could trade work for you in exchange for using your darkroom after hours for some development time for myself.” Again zing. “I’ve been asked by several people to take portraits, and I need to begin earning a living. I wouldn’t want to compete with you, of course, but I don’t think these people would come to Twin Falls for portraits . . .”
“I would be delighted to work out such an arrangement with you, Miss Burns. When can you come again so we can discuss a mutually agreeable working relationship?”
Nellie was so relieved, she barely heard an argument developing at the front door between Mrs. Bock and a man’s voice. “I could come early next week, if that would work.” She would check into the train schedule, if there was one. “I’ll call and let you know.”
“I will expect to see you, then. Goodbye, Miss Burns.” He rang off.
“You can’t come through this door like you owned the place!” Mrs. Bock’s anger was evident. Her voice was shrill as she guarded the door with her body.
“Me see Missee Picture-Taker,” another voice answered, almost as shrill. The door wavered, pushed on one side by Sammy and pushed back by Mrs. Bock.
No one was in the house but the two women. Nellie worried that the Chinese man might hurt Mrs. Bock, so she headed for the door. “I’m here, Mr. Kee. What do you want?”
Mrs. Bock ceased her push-push war with Sammy and opened the door wider. “You be polite to Miss Burns, or I’ll tear out that pigtail of yours.” She looked as if she could do it.
Sammy no longer wore his servile expression. He was angry and his dark eyes swept Mrs. Bock with contempt. Nevertheless, he bowed slightly to Nellie, who found herself bowing in return. From a bag, the strap of which circled his neck and right shoulder, he brought forth three contact prints—Nell’s photos. “You take these pictures.”
“You know that I did. You stole the negatives from my room.”
“You mean this Chinaman was in my house?” Mrs. Bock turned from one to the other, her mouth slightly open. “I knew they were all thieves.”
Sammy ignored her. He bowed again to Nellie. “You took photo of dead man. My mother wants picture of my father.” He sorted out the photo of the iceman. “This not my father. Where my father?” He showed the other two photos of the moonshadows. “Father not here.” His voice rose again. “You hiding picture!”
Nellie turned to her landlady, knowing that Mr. Kee should have some explanation because she knew where his father was, or at least, who had him. “Could I take Mr. Kee into the parlor and talk with him?”
“Humph. Don’t let no one see him.” She glared at Sammy and stomped to the kitchen.
In the parlor, Nellie did not sit down, nor did Sammy. The standing lamp was still lit and the draperies pulled back. In the snow-filled light, his face reflected some of the same character of his grandmother’s photo in Mr. Levine’s studio.
“I think I found your father buried under snow across the Big Wood River from the Last Chance Ranch.” Bluntly told, but she didn’t know how else to begin.
“We know he dead,” Sammy said. “Body in cold room in Hailey.”
His eyes seemed teary to Nellie, but she couldn’t be sure. With relief, Nellie sat down. The sheriff had expressly warned Nellie not to tell anyone she had found the Chinese man. If his family already knew, then it didn’t matter if she told Sammy.
“You found him at Ranch. You covered with snow. Where picture?”
“Indeed I did not find him at the Ranch and I did not cover him with snow. Thank heavens someone did, though, or the coyotes would have eaten him.” Few people had ever accused her of lying. “And I did not take his photograph. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
Sammy struck a menacing pose. “My father like me. Warriors.” He dropped the pose and melancholy invaded his features, dampening them in the waning afternoon light. The lamp shone on one side of his face and Nellie regretted she had left her camera in her room. Could such sorrow be captured? She could hardly say “Wait here while I get my camera.”
“Mr. Kee, I am very sorry about your father’s death. You must have loved him very much. I did not take his photograph. I thought this man—” she pointed to the photo in his hand “—was the person buried in the snow. Look at me. I’m too small to carry a man across a river by myself.” She held out her hands in a pleading fashion. “But if you look so much like your father, I could take your photograph. Perhaps that would be some consolation to your mother.” She was almost afraid to suggest another idea, the one that had generated the photo of the iceman. “In Chicago, where I came from, the Midwest, a huge city—”
“I know Chicago,” he said.
Nellie regretted her assumption that he was somehow not knowledgeable about the world. “I often took photographs of the deceased for their bereft kin. Would your mother consider . . .” She let the idea drift between them. Perhaps such a suggestion was total anathema to the religion of Sammy and his mother. And she had no idea what Mr. Ah Kee might look like, although if he had been in snow for days he might be well preserved. Still, a macabre suggestion. A photo of a murdered man. She corrected herself: a photo of a second murdered man.
“You no have picture of father?”
“No, I don’t.” Nellie made her face as resolute and open as she could. He peered at her.
“You take picture of dead men?” The idea seemed to intrigue Sammy.
“I have in the past. And I took that photo—the one you stole from me.” She couldn’t let it go. “How did you know I had it?”
“Honored mother want picture of dead father.”
“Do you know this man?”
Sammy held up the photo. “Three-Fingered Jack. Opium-eater. Dead at ranch?”
If Sammy knew, then the sheriff must know too. “I thought he froze to death. His face was covered with ice. That is why his features aren’t clear.”
“Ice?” Sammy, too, studied the photo. A soft “ahhhhh” escaped him; a look of understanding filled his eyes when he glanced again at Nellie, puzzling her.
“I ask mother.” He brushed past Nell and opened the door.
“Wait, I want my photos back. Those are not yours to keep!”
Sammy ignored her, trotting to the front door where he slipped out.
“Damn that man.”
“No lady talks like that.”
Nell spun around. “How would you know?” she snapped at Rosy, who stood in the dim hall. How much had he heard? The grief she’d just seen in Sammy’s face filled Rosy’s. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no call to say that to you. What do you want?”
“Goldie says you’re gonna take pictures. I want one. I’ll be your first customer, girlie.”
CHAPTER 15
“Take that greenish-yellow chair up to Room Four. It’ll fit next to the bureau.” Mrs. Bock ordered and Rosy obeyed. They’d all begun work early in the morning. “That plushy lamp will work fine in
the dining room.”
“There ain’t no room for it.” Rosy picked it up, nevertheless, and wrapped the cord around the stand. “And no plug either.” He leaned it on his shoulder as if it were a baseball bat.
Gladys Smith appeared in the doorway. “So this will be your portrait studio. How nice.” She pinned her black hat to her hair. “Rosy, dear. I’ll take the lamp.” She touched his sleeve.
He thrust it toward her without a word.
“Oh, could you please bring it up to my room? I don’t want to get my skirt dusty.” She turned, and he followed her.
Nellie wondered if Mrs. Smith had set her sights on Rosy. She was always so . . . what was the word? . . . flirty around him. Nell waited until the two were out of sight and then whispered to Mrs. Bock. “Do you think Mrs. Smith and Rosy might get together?”
“The parson’s table there might fit in the entry. Give us a place to rest bundles and such.” Mrs. Bock glanced over at Nellie. “And no, I don’t think Gladys and Rosy will get together. Gladys had her fill of men, taking care of her brother. He wasn’t so nice to her. And who’d want an old drunk when there’s scads of men around and hardly any women? You, now, you could take your pick, if’n you felt like pickin’.”
Nellie moved the table. The end pulled out as an unmarked drawer; the opening motion caused something inside to roll back and forth. She scooped it up and noticed it seemed to be a child’s toy. Mrs. Bock snatched it from her. “Don’t let Rosy see that.” As if in explanation, she said, “No place for children’s things.” Her face lost its moving-day animation. “No one around here wants children.” She tucked the toy in her pocket. “No one but me.”
Mrs. Bock pointed to the davenport. “Rosy’ll need help with that. See if you can scare up Henry. He ain’t so broken down he can’t lift one end.”
When Nell walked back from calling Henry in the dining room, she saw Rosy and Gladys deep in conversation at the top of the stairs. Rosy emphasized something with a strong arm gesture. Gladys placed her hand on the arm. He shook it off, saying something. Her response was not audible either, but Gladys stepped back and raised her own arm, as if to fend off an attack, then moved out of sight. Rosy scurried down the stairs to where Nellie stood. Henry joined Rosy and Nellie and the three walked into the parlor.
