The Nearness of You

by Dorothy Garlock

  “Ain’t no amount of money gonna delay me throwin’ you outta here,” the longshoreman cut in.

  Boone stared back hard at the man for a long moment, his jaw tense, then nodded. He put his wallet away and then bent down and placed his camera back in its bag, as if he was intending to leave, but the truth was he wanted to keep it safe from what he knew was likely to come next. When he leaned up, he folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The other man’s scowl deepened. “What did you say?”

  “I’ve been dreaming about snapping this picture for so long, there’s no way I’m leaving until it’s taken, whether you like it or not.”

  In his time as a photographer, Boone had talked his way out of plenty of pickles, but sometimes words couldn’t get the job done. Watching the other man sneer, then walk toward him, Boone understood that this was one of those times.

  Every once in a while, he needed to use his fists.

  Boone stewed in a chair in his editor’s office on the third floor of Life magazine’s building on West 31st Street. He was alone, but the familiar sounds of the newsroom barged in through the cracked door. There was the rat-a-tat-tat of typewriter keys as columnists hurried to meet their deadlines. He heard the incessant ringing of telephones, like some strange symphony where every musician had different sheet music. A dozen people were talking at once, their conversations occasionally punctuated by a burst of laughter or a name being shouted across the room. The stale smell of cigarettes and burnt coffee filled the air.

  Leaning forward, Boone took a picture frame off Walter Bing’s desk. The photograph was of a middle-aged woman and a youngish boy; Boone didn’t recognize either of them, though the kid shared enough of a resemblance to his old man that it was clear this was Walter’s family. But Boone hadn’t picked it up out of curiosity. He tilted the frame so that he could see his reflection in the glass.

  “Aw, hell,” he said for the second time that day.

  A dark bruise blossomed on Boone’s cheekbone, the result of a punch he hadn’t been able to avoid. Gingerly, he touched it with his fingertips, wincing from the sudden pain. The brawl with the longshoreman had been short but ferocious. Boone felt that he’d given as good as he’d gotten, better than might have been expected given the size difference between him and his opponent. But things had taken a turn for the worse when a couple of other workers had noticed the commotion and come running, tipping the balance and not in his favor. Fortunately for Boone, a beat cop had walked past the fence at that moment, blowing his whistle and putting a halt to the brawl. He’d hauled the photographer off to the precinct house and charged him with trespassing, but Boone knew he was lucky. Things could have been much, much worse.

  And they still might be…

  Boone was still looking at his nicks and bruises when the door to the office banged open and Walter Bing entered. The editor snatched the frame from Boone’s hand and put it back on his desk. “You want a better look at yourself, use the mirror above the sink in the bathroom,” he said, then took a longer glance at the photographer before settling into his chair. “Although I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Boone grumbled.

  Walter Bing had been in the publishing industry for longer than Boone had been alive. He’d gotten his start in newspapers, moving from the street corner hawking the evening edition to the office, then on to the glitzy “slick” magazines that made their money on Hollywood news and gossip, before finally joining Life. Walter was in his mid-fifties, thin with perpetual dark bags beneath his eyes, a testament to the late hours he kept and the countless cigarettes he smoked. Both demanding and fair, he didn’t play favorites and rewarded talent wherever he saw it, but employees quickly learned that they crossed him at their own peril.

  The editor leaned back in his chair. “You know, I’m not going to pretend that we don’t know why you’re here,” he said with a sigh. “It’s not as if this is the first time you’ve been sent to the principal’s office.”

  And it wasn’t. Far from it.

  Even though he was a talented photographer, Boone seemed to attract trouble like a magnet. There was the time he’d been chased out of Broxton, Florida, with the speedometer buried, racing to stay just ahead of an angry mob. After dashing into a burning building in Madrid, a fireman had barely yanked him out before the ceiling collapsed. And then there were the fistfights in Honolulu, Cairo, and Copenhagen, to say nothing of what had happened that morning.

  “It was a misunderstanding,” Boone said, defending himself.

  “Isn’t it always,” Walter replied, clearly not believing that explanation.

  “If that big lug would’ve just done what I told him and backed off, I would’ve taken my picture and been out of his hair. He’s nursing a black eye and a fat lip because he wouldn’t listen.”

  “You’re just lucky they didn’t charge you with more than trespassing.”

  “About that,” Boone began. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

  Fortunately, he’d only had to stew in a jail cell for a couple of hours, mostly spent fending off the drunks and drifters who thought pestering him would be a fun way to pass the time. When a policeman shouted his name and unlocked the door, Boone had been given back his camera bag and made a beeline for the Life offices.

  Walter shook his hand. “No thanks needed,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it. If it had been up to me, I would’ve let you spend a night or two in jail to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

  “Well if you didn’t do it, then who did?”

  The editor pointed at the ceiling. “The higher-ups around here admire your talent for taking pictures. They figure you’re worth the headache,” he explained. “Then again, they don’t have to deal with your crap as often as I do.”

  Boone thought about apologizing again, but couldn’t; he’d already done more of that than he liked.

  “And after all that, you didn’t even get the picture.”

  “No,” Boone said with a frown, a flare of anger igniting in his stomach. “And to make matters worse, I’m out a camera.”

  As soon as he’d gotten out of jail, Boone had opened his camera bag on the precinct’s front steps and found that his brand-new Mycro was broken. He had no idea if it had happened during the brawl or if the policeman had been careless with it when he’d hauled Boone away. Either way, he was now out one valuable piece of equipment. He’d have to make do with his old Perkeo for a while.

  “That’s too bad,” the older man said without much sympathy.

  “Look, Walter, I give you my word it won’t happen again,” Boone began, laying on the charm for a promise he wasn’t certain he could keep. “Now, if you could help me out with the camera, maybe get the magazine to front me the money for a new one, then I can head down to Havana next week and take the—”

  “You’re not going,” the editor interrupted.

  Boone was momentarily stunned into silence. “Wait…what’re you saying…?” he stumbled.

  “You might have skated out of that jail cell without much of a scratch,” Walter answered, pointing at the mark on Boone’s face, “but you didn’t think there weren’t going to be consequences for this, did you? You’re off any plum assignments, effective immediately.”

  “Oh, come on!” Boone snapped, rising out of his chair. The Havana trip had been planned for months, long enough for him to have spent plenty of time imagining the sandy stretches of beach, cold beer, and lovely senoritas waiting there for him. He wasn’t going to let it go without a fight. “I just got in a little scrape, that’s all! Now you’re telling me I’m shelved? This is ridiculous!”

  “First things first, sit back down,” Walter said with a hint of steel in his voice, pointing at Boone’s recently vacated chair. Once the young photographer had reluctantly done as he’d been told, he continued. “Second, I didn’t say you were being suspended, only that you’re not going to Havana.” He slid a folder across the desk tow
ard Boone. “I’ve got somewhere else in mind for you.”

  Boone snatched up the folder and began to quickly read its contents. With every passing word, his mood soured. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Hooper’s Crossing, New York,” the editor said with a smile, crossing his arms behind his head. “They have a fall festival that apparently draws quite the crowd. Music, crafts, food, that sort of thing. Hell, maybe there’s even a hayride, a barn dance, or a contest where you bob for apples.”

  “I’ve never heard of this place.”

  “It’s upstate somewhere,” Walter replied with a shrug. “There’s a few thousand people, one of countless other towns just like it. I’ll get you a map.”

  “And Life wants pictures?” Boone asked in disbelief.

  “It’s for a new section that’s going to go in the back of the magazine. ‘Slices of America’ or something like that. Little snapshots of here and there to make readers feel as if they know the rest of the country.” He grinned broadly. “And you’re going to take the pictures that will show them what they’re missing.”

  Boone tossed the folder back on the desk. “I’m not doing this.”

  Walter shrugged. “Then you’re fired.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Boone said, although he was pretty sure he didn’t sound as confident as he hoped.

  Once again, Walter pointed toward the ceiling. “It was one of the conditions of bailing you out,” he explained. “Besides, think of how many photographers are out there waiting for you to fail so they can have your job. Hotshots fresh out of school who only want a chance to show what they can do. I bet that I could hire someone within an hour of you walking out that door. And to keep that from happening, all you have to do is drive up there, take some shots that really capture the festival, the people there, and bring them back to me.”

  “I’m too good a photographer for this.”

  “You are,” the editor agreed. “One of the best I have, but that doesn’t change the assignment. This is what you’ve got.”

  “Fine,” Boone grumbled, grabbing the folder. “I’ll go.”

  Walter started to chuckle.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “It’s just that you’re already bent out of shape and I haven’t even told you the best part.”

  “Which is?” Boone asked, a shiver of dread running down his spine.

  “Clive Negly is going with you.”

  Up until that moment, Boone had assumed that things couldn’t get much worse for him, but Walter had just shown him how wrong he could be. Clive Negly was the newest writer the magazine had hired. Fresh out of college, he was as green as May grass. The few times Boone had been in the office with Clive, he’d been bombarded with questions about his travels, quizzed on how to get ahead in the business, about practically everything under the sun. The idea of traveling to Hooper’s Corner or Crossing or whatever the heck the place was called, with Clive beside him, couldn’t have appealed less to Boone.

  “Are you trying to make me quit?” he asked.

  “From where I’m sitting, it makes a lot of sense,” Walter replied. “The kid needs experience and who better to give it to him than someone who’s seen it all. Show him the ropes, keep him from making the same mistakes you did.”

  Boone frowned. “What could I possibly teach him? Clive’s a writer and I take pictures. We aren’t speaking the same language.”

  “Sure you are,” the editor disagreed. “How different is looking for just the right word from finding the best angle for a shot? In either case, you’re trying to be professional, to tell the story as best you can. You’re saying that there wasn’t a writer you’ve worked with who taught you a thing or two?”

  Deep down, Boone knew Walter was right, even if he refused to admit it.

  “If I go, I’m taking Daisy with me,” he said, desperately trying to throw a monkey wrench into the works.

  “Fine by me,” the other man replied. “She’d love to get out of the city for a while. The poor girl probably spends too much time cooped up indoors anyway.” Seeing that Boone’s mouth was opening to raise another complaint, Walter added, “My advice to you it to take this seriously. Do it right, work with Clive, bring me back some good pictures, and you’ll get the good assignments again. But if you screw up, well…”

  Walter may have left the rest unsaid, but Boone heard him loud and clear.

  Another mistake and he was out on his ass.

  Without another word, Boone took the folder and left his editor’s office, stomping across the newsroom, headed for the door. By the time he reached it, he was already formulating a plan, one that would get him in and out of this Hooper’s whatever-it-was as fast as conceivably possible.

  Walter, Clive, and everyone else be damned.

  Chapter Four

  WHO COMMANDED THE BRITISH FORCES at the Battle of Yorktown?”

  Lily looked up from her place behind the front desk of the Hooper’s Crossing Library to find Sherman Banks staring expectantly at her. Eighty-six and as wrinkled as a prune, though dapperly dressed in a tweed suit, Sherman was one of the library’s regular patrons. Every weekday morning like clockwork he came slowly through the front door carrying the newspaper and a pencil, bound and determined to complete the crossword puzzle. It was a task that usually took him until lunch, sometimes longer. He perused dictionaries and encyclopedias, examined biographies and pored over novels, searching for answers. But when he was really stumped or couldn’t find the resource he needed, he asked Lily for help. Over the years, she’d answered plenty of questions.

  “What is the chemical sign for table salt?”

  “In what key did Beethoven write his Fifth Symphony?”

  “Where is Victoria Falls?”

  And on and on and on. Lily didn’t mind; in a way, she learned right along with him. “Why don’t we go find out,” she said, and started for the stacks with Sherman shuffling behind her.

  The library was one of the oldest buildings in Hooper’s Crossing, having been donated by the grandson of the town’s founder. Steps led from the front door to an impressive wall of shelves holding thousands of books. Past the card catalog and the desk where Lily worked, another entryway opened onto a space with large windows; bright sunlight streamed across the wooden floor. Reference tomes, newspapers and magazines, as well as desks and chairs, were arranged around the room.

  “You said the Battle of Yorktown?” Lily asked as her finger slid across the spines on a history shelf, looking for just the right book.

  “The seventh letter is an l but that’s all I have,” Sherman answered, still staring at the folded newspaper in his slightly shaking hands.

  “Ah, here it is!” Lily exclaimed as she finally found the volume she was looking for, then pulled the dusty book from the shelf and handed it to the older man. “This should give you the answer you need.”

  “Thank you,” Sherman mumbled as he began shuffling back toward his usual corner desk, already flipping through the pages.

  Lily smiled. Another satisfied customer.

  But before she could turn around and head back to the front desk, a woman’s voice hissed behind her. “Now that you’re done with all of that nonsense, maybe you can do some actual work for a change.”

  Just like that, Lily’s good cheer faltered. Ethel Wilkinson had a way of ruining the best of moods.

  For several generations of patrons, Ethel had been the bitter pill that had to be swallowed in order to use the library. In her late fifties, she was a self-proclaimed spinster, though Lily had trouble imagining the sort of man who’d want to romance Ethel. She dressed matronly, with blouses buttoned all the way to their collars, drab skirts and plain shoes, as well as butterfly glasses that hung around her neck, attached to a bulky silver chain. But it was Ethel’s personality that was truly as sour as a lemon. Nothing Lily did could please her, and no mistake was too small to escape being pointed out. But she wasn’t the only one who had to face the librarian’s w
rath. Ethel shushed children for making the slightest of noises. She frowned disapprovingly at patrons who forgot their library card. Once, Lily had watched her berate Pastor Matthews for bringing a book back a day late, arguing that he was setting a poor example for his congregation.

  It was a struggle, but by the time Lily turned, she’d regained a sliver of a smile. “I was helping Sherman with his crossword,” she explained.

  “When I think about how many hours and how much money is wasted every year on that man’s ridiculous puzzles, it’s almost enough to make me sick,” Ethel said with a sneer. “Mark my words, people like Sherman Banks are what’s wrong with this world. Selfish! They think only about themselves.”

  Lily held her tongue. She knew from experience that if she argued with Ethel, if she tried to explain to the old librarian that she was wrong about Sherman, that he was exactly the sort of person they were meant to help, it would just make things worse. Much, much worse. Ethel didn’t just hold grudges, she squeezed them until they’d been strangled. For years, Jane had tried to get Lily to complain about Ethel to her father, to ask him to use his influence to make the old crone come down off her high horse, to be a little nicer to people. If that failed, Jane hoped Morris would fire the witch. But Lily never complained about Ethel, for several reasons. First, she doubted it would work. Ethel wasn’t the least bit intimidated that Lily was the daughter of the mayor. In fact, it gave her an excuse to complain about all the ways that the town neglected the library, that they didn’t properly care for the books, that there was never enough money for the things she needed. But second, and more important, Ethel was Lily’s problem. She wanted to deal with the belligerent woman on her own.