Nothing but a Smile

by Steve Amick

  Endearing, she thought, some stranger going to such trouble to make her husband look good—even if he ultimately muffed it.

  As he stood there telling it, his stomach suddenly growled. It was louder than any shop bell they'd ever hung on the door—if he'd walked in with that stomach rumbling, and she were back in the darkroom, she would have heard it just fine.

  “My goodness!” she said, laughing, and his face turned red. “Sounds like the call of a soldier used to three regular chow times.”

  He laughed a little, but he did look embarrassed. And he was starting to put on his hat.

  The Italian mother side of her kicked in and she insisted he stay for a home-cooked dinner.

  5

  She and Chesty lived right upstairs, it turned out. Most of the top floor was an apartment, with a kitchen and living area and everything—small but cozy: street-salvaged furniture and battered family heirlooms gathered around a dingy coil rug. He imagined the two newlyweds loving this place. Even with her father living in a smaller apartment right in back, as she explained he'd been doing up until his passing two years before.

  They were squeezing quite the operation into a small amount of real estate. She'd briefly showed him the darkroom lab in the rear downstairs, as they'd passed through on the way up, and there was a little studio area curtained off for shooting passport photos and the occasional baby. The stockroom, she explained, was down in the cellar.

  He pointed out that if you left the doors open between the apartments, the little one might make a nice kid's room for Chesty Jr.

  “Eventually,” she said with a smile. “That's the plan.”

  Dinner was some Italian concoction he didn't quite catch the title of, though delicious as all hell, but messy and rambunctious on the plate, with all kinds of little twisty noodles that skittered away from him and a sloppy red sauce that seemed be an out-and-out convention of items, not just tomatoes.

  She gave him an extra napkin and said it was fine to tuck it up into his collar—that her father always had when her mother made this sauce.

  He was glad to hear it, since he had no contingency plans for ruining half his wardrobe his first night in town.

  When she called him Sergeant Dutton for the umpteenth time, he told her straight and clear, he'd feel better her calling him Wink; that even when he'd been in uniform, folks tended to call him Wink.

  Which raised the issue of his uniform. “Seems to me,” she said, “looking for work as a vet in uniform—a decorated vet, I imagine—would be a far sight easier than just a suit and tie, nice as yours is.”

  So he explained the facts about his winning the Purple Heart; how he'd hurt himself through no fault of anyone but himself, and if that was his ticket home, it hardly felt right trading on the war-hero bit while meanwhile other good guys like her husband Chesty were still stuck there, only because they'd failed to get hungover and cause a stupid accident.

  She shrugged lazily, sipping her coffee, and gave him a smile that seemed like an absolution of his sin. “You don't need to be apologizing to anyone. You need to ‘get on with doing whatever you need to do to get on doing'—to paraphrase Ben Franklin or my parents or somebody ….” As if to illustrate he had a right to his share, she ripped the crusty bread in the basket before them in half and handed him his portion.

  It was odd, the pasta, the bread, the cannoli she said they could split for dessert—this claim she was part Italian. He wasn't quite sure he could see it. Her hair looked almost golden, backlit by the streetlight outside.

  It made him think of something else he wanted to say.

  “You should know, ma'am, Chesty was one of the best photographers I ever—”

  She stopped him with a gesture. “Is. Present tense. Please.”

  “Oh, absolutely! I was going to say he was one of the best I ever met while I was there. Sorry. Not to make him sound … you know.” Great, he thought. Start talking about the guy like he's bought the farm, why don't you?

  He was telling her this because he thought she'd want to hear it—a compliment he meant sincerely. They hadn't worked on the same assignments very often, because they were both essentially picture guys, but he'd worked beside him at the typewriter a few times. And he'd worked beside him more than a few times closing various bars, but she didn't need to hear about that.

  “I guess I'm trying to say he's more than just a drinking pal,” he said. “The guy's got quite a reputation. Professionally.”

  He realized he probably thought to tell her all this, how respected his skills were, because it had struck him since laying eyes on the guy's wife how odd it was that he'd never seen a picture of her. It got him to thinking how ironic that was, considering Chesty was, in fact, a damned fine lensman. Most of the guys serving—even those not as in love as Chesty or as talented in the tricks of photography or with as much to brag on as Chesty clearly had, he could see now—at some point pulled out a picture or two from their wallets or inside their caps and passed them around. Chesty had never done that.

  Of course, it didn't mean the guy hadn't carried the photos on him. Wink certainly would have, if this were his gal back home.

  6

  She loved that he brought news of Chesty—not only news, but actual stories, with details and conflict and tension and a running commentary of extra insights and asides provided by this charming, slightly goofy gentleman whom she could picture her husband immediately taking a shine to; hell, she'd already taken a shine to him herself in just a few short hours. Wink Dutton seemed to be able to take her right there, as if she were alongside the two of them lost in a jeep in some rutted road in the Solomon Islands, or sitting through a horrendous hymn recital from native schoolchildren in an unventilated brick building in which the only thing topping the acoustics and the tone deafness was the actual stink of the music director, standing between them and the kids, flapping her arms to conduct and wafting them with BO each time. It felt like she was there, whether changing flashbulbs for Chesty in a captured Jap hooch or helping barter with a village for a Thanksgiving meal, trading an admiral's personal rocking chair for a roasted goat and then trying to determine, before they got back to the base, if it was really a goat or if they'd been had.

  Hearing of him, picturing him, made her eyes get a little blurry. She wasn't going to blubber and “gal it up,” as her pop used to say—not until her visitor left and she maybe ran a bath. But as much as the joy of the evening was in hearing about her husband, it was also about something else—talking to someone, having a guest, playing hostess like a regular human being, for once. Like a regular female human being.

  And she found herself not exactly flirting with this man— that would be wrong, and he was clearly too much a stand-up guy not to bristle if she had been flirting—but she found herself feeling overly aware of her own movements, her physical actions, position, and poise, in a way she hadn't since long before she'd been married. And she knew it wasn't to attract this Wink, as much of a catch as he might be. It was something else. It was the notes she'd gotten on her girlie-shot attempts. On some level, while still taking in these marvelous tales of her beloved, she was thinking of those letters, too—the advice that the models should be more wholesome, posed in the behavior of an all-American girl. And so as she talked and listened and carried on this wonderful discussion, she also let the gears turn, imagining new, homier shots she might try—if she did try again: girl at the stove, bent over, checking the bread warming within; girl setting the table, silhouetted by the streetlight outside, girl curled up on her chair after dinner, one leg tucked up underneath her, listening with rapt attention to the young man seated across from her …

  7

  He could see from the way she talked about the camera shop and pointed out several of the furnishings that had remained in the apartment since back when she'd been a little girl that she was keeping it all going as much for her father—the original owner—as she was for Chesty. It seemed like something she cared a lot about and was s
truggling to hold on to.

  They were sipping coffee now, and picking at the cannoli crumbs off an old spiderwebbed saucer. He was pretty sure the coffee was actually chicory.

  “I'm sorry I can't offer you work here,” she said, completely unprovoked. “But things are just—”

  He stopped her before the details, telling her it was no problem, that it wasn't really the sort of work he had in mind, anyway. “Hey, I know next to nothing about cameras and such. I wouldn't mind learning a little something about it someday—might be handy to have in my bag of tricks now that I'm—” He waggled his bum right hand, thinking, Now that I can't draw a simple bowl of fruit. “You know … But no. Really. That's fine. I swear I wasn't fishing around for—”

  “Oh, I know,” she said. “But I wish we were in a position to.”

  He told her he had a whole list of places he hadn't exhausted yet, and then they talked a little of new movies he hadn't even heard of and actresses they both liked until the coffee was gone.

  She acted very impressed when he got to the sink before her and started in on the dishes. She didn't stop him but joined him, and they worked on them together. He let her take over the washing and worked the dish towel instead, not explaining why, but, frankly, she didn't appear to have a surplus of unchipped china, and he didn't trust his right hand in the slippery suds as much as he did drying.

  She went over and turned on the radio, and he didn't realize he was whistling along to “Paper Doll” until she joined in as well. It stopped him up short, and she laughed at him.

  “Pardon me,” he said. He'd sort of forgotten where he was, for a moment.

  “No pardons necessary for a man who does dishes. If you're staying put for a while, Wink, I'm sure I have a friend or two you could ask out on a date.”

  He told her that staying depended on the job prospects. “Otherwise, it's me for Michigan.”

  When she asked where he was looking, he showed her the list in his pocket, the contacts he had left. It looked sort of pathetic, he thought, with the four so far crossed off.

  She pointed to one still left—LD&M. Lampe, Deininger & Monroe. “One of these single friends I'm thinking of, actually, she works there now.”

  He asked what she did there.

  “I'm not sure. But look out for her. Her name's Reenie.”

  He said he would, but it was just an interview and it was a big company with a lot of employees, so …

  “You can't miss her,” she said. “She looks like a pinup.”

  Downstairs, saying his thank-yous, standing by as she unlocked the shop door to let him out, he felt, if he were to be honest about it, he hadn't quite completed the assignment. He hadn't said exactly what Chesty had told him to say, and who was he to decide if the wording mattered or didn't? Maybe it mattered. Say Chesty never made it back to say everything he wanted to say— if that happened, Wink knew he'd likely kick himself a little for not being more of a stickler about the thing. More verbatim.

  Besides, the idea of relaying the mush now felt just a hair more comfortable than it did a few hours back, when he was facing this woman for the first time. It felt like he knew her a hell of a lot better now. He could do this.

  Despite that, preparing himself to say it, standing in the open front door, he chuckled a little. Even being just the messenger, he felt sheepish and tongue-tied. He turned to look down the street, in the direction of his hotel. He'd forgotten how desolate the Loop got at night, and it seemed even more so now, with all the rationing and belt tightening. “It feels a little personal to be slinging this around, but anyway, Chesty wanted me to tell you that he really … uh, loves you … Present tense!” It made him chuckle again. “There you go! And I'm to make it real clear he's being … true—you know—uh, faithful …” He caught her eye now, looking up at him seriously in the dim shadows of the streetlights. She wasn't chuckling. “But anyway, I'm sure you know all that, ma'am. Goes without saying.” He could picture his friend's face, the last time he saw him, and it didn't take any flashing of wallet photos to see how much the guy missed her, and it was hard not to think of that, of what his friend would give to be standing there in his place in this dim doorway, in the glow of his home and his wife, without getting a little choked up himself. “And I knew it, too,” he said. “Obvious to anyone who knew him—knows him, I mean, present tense—for even five minutes, him always keeping it in his … Anyway, it's true.” Finally, she said, “Truer than the coconut story?” He felt his ears heating up, but he knew she knew he was giving her the straight dope. “Absolutely.”

  8

  All the next morning, she never heard the bell jangle once. Which wasn't all bad—she had plenty to distract her without the public wandering in to buy very little or just look. And at least this one morning she had things on her mind to fill these restless, panicky hours in which the store was officially open but usually vacant. She had those new ideas she'd dreamed up for homier, girl-at-home girlie shots, and she hoped to get them down on paper somehow by the end of the day. Maybe this time she wouldn't bother shooting them just yet, but she'd thought she was on to something with this angle last night—the young lady in the kitchen—and it would be smart to jot them down in some manner.

  Before she could get to that, though, she had the past evening's wonderful visit to recount, as best as she could piece it together, most of which was going directly into a long letter to Chesty that she'd started right after her chicory and toast. Maybe it was silly, retelling every little thing his friend had told her, since most of it Chesty probably had already heard before, and much of it he'd actually participated in himself, but she wanted him to know just how much it had meant that he'd sent this man to check in on her and, in a sort of indirect, intermediary way, call on her and share a little slice of his life there. It was romantic of Chesty, in a way, reaching out to her by proxy from across the globe.

  She got so caught up in getting it all down, she started to thank him for the coconut before she had to scratch it out, forgetting for a moment that there wasn't actually a coconut, and even if there had been, it hadn't originated with her husband, but with his friend.

  Plus, she had an idea to propose:

  An idea has come to me, dear, that I think you may think a good one. I do not know the outcome of Mr. Dutton's job search today, but if he does in fact find a means to stay in Chic, I suggest we consider offering to rent him Pop's apartment—at a very nominal rate, of course. In exchange, maybe he could help out with some of the occasional heavy lifting. This is all only if you approve and think it wise, of course.

  She decided it would be best not to upset him with two additional points: her last restocking order for some of the darkroom chemicals had been refused for a past-due back payment. Which was fine—a minor setback. And anyway, they were all set on developer, just running a little low on fix. Not that they were developing enough film these days to make the shortage an imminent crisis, exactly—that was the crux of the problem, after all: lack of customers—but if she had to dilute it much more, the quality would begin to suffer, and besides, it just felt unprofessional, running low on something so basic. Not to mention the fact that it made the shop look bad to the chemical company, an outfit that had been supplying her pop for two decades and with whom, until now, they had yet to welsh on a tab.

  The second factor driving her to consider renting to Wink was the break-ins. As unpatriotic as it struck her, it being wartime and all, there'd lately been a rash of petty robberies in the neighborhood. It was probably juveniles—too young for the draft, too unsupervised with all the men away. She'd even felt nervous a few times walking home alone from the movies. Most of the other shops were dark at night, and there were sometimes groups of young boys sniffing around in the shadows, probably mostly trying to act tough to one another, having their jokes, but you never knew. It felt threatening, and the emptiness of her pocketbook was no safeguard. It was enough to keep her moving, glancing over her shoulder, and some nights, even with the do
ors locked and the windows grated, it got pretty spooky up above the shop. Every little sound, all the way down Adams—a distant trash can rolling or the tinkle of glass—could sometimes jangle her nerves, make her go for the radio and crank it up, let them know there were folks, plural, living there.

  She didn't write Chesty about this second concern, either. There was no sense giving him the Tokyo Rose treatment, getting him worked up. But it was further reason to consider this idea of renting to Wink.

  The biggest argument against it, of course, would be how it might look. As desolate as it seemed some nights, she still knew a few other people on the block—not only fellow shopkeepers but also several dear old busybodies living a few doors down, in particular, Mrs. Brablec and Mrs. Mulopulos, and she expected they'd get a lot of mileage out of a tall handsome mystery man coming and going as if he lived there, using his very own key at the door of the shop, pocketing it, and whistling on his way to work, bold as can be. They'd sprain their tongues.

  One solution, of course, was to put out a sign in the window that said ROOM FOR RENT, let them get the idea ahead of time that she didn't have a boyfriend or anything like that. No, better still: APARTMENT FOR RENT. Sure. Make it clear it was a whole separate living area.

  She'd do that for a week or so—hang it out there and sort of let the concept sink in. Also, she could give him a key to the back, so it would appear even more separate. Even folks working and living right on the block probably didn't know the upstairs apartments were only divided by a hallway. They might assume it was completely separate and walled off, with its own rear stairway and everything. That would certainly be upstanding and proper enough, if it were true.