Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01]

by Grace's Pictures

  She glanced to her left. Mrs. Reilly sat stick straight, lips tight. She worked for a charity and likely felt that the indignation was appropriate, but she showed no emotion. On her right Mrs. Hawkins dabbed at damp eyes with a handkerchief. “Pity,” she said to Grace. She reached over and patted her hand. “So happy we could save you from that.”

  Grace pulled her chin down to her chest, fighting her own tears. She could not comprehend why anyone would want to save her. And there were so many immigrants. No one could save them all. But what struck her most in that moment was that these people even cared to try.

  After the lecture, when cookies and punch were served, Mrs. Hawkins urged her toward the door. “We have some ironing to do before bed, and I have seen enough suffering for tonight, love.”

  In the carriage Grace pondered further. “How do you suppose he learned the trade?”

  “Here and there at this newspaper and that, love. He worked with Governor Theodore Roosevelt back when the man was president of the police commission. If it weren’t for Mr. Riis’s photographs, the tenement situation would be worse than it is.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He brought knowledge of it to people and then reform. We’ve a long way to go, but with people helping, change can happen.”

  “Is he why you and the Benevolents opened Hawkins House?”

  “In part I suppose he was, love.”

  The influence an image could stir up enthralled Grace. She was unsure if she could afford photography equipment and doubted she could manage to use it anyway. But she could purchase pencils and paper. The possibilities were endless. You are smart. You are important. You are able.

  The next morning after Annie had gone off to do the mending, Mrs. Hawkins reached for Grace’s hand as the two of them sat at the breakfast table. “I see how interested you are in photography, love. Why don’t we look up that man who took your picture on Ellis Island? Still have that card?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Go and get it. I’ll go next door to telephone him, and if he’s available, we’ll go see him. I’m curious myself about the photographs he takes of immigrants. I wonder if they are anything like Mr. Riis’s.”

  Grace honestly could not remember many of the faces of her fellow immigrants on the ship, but the poor people Mr. Riis had photographed had probably walked down the same staircase at Ellis Island that she had when they entered the country.

  Mrs. Hawkins returned in short order. “He is available, love. Let’s go now.”

  “Oh, I . . .” Just as soon as Grace got the courage to do something, it seemed to wane.

  Mrs. Hawkins placed a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “It is all right, love. Like my Harold used to say, ‘Carpe diem.’”

  Grace shook her head.

  “It’s Latin, love. It translates roughly: pluck the day when it is ripe. You understand. Seize this opportunity. You are interested in photography. You told me so, and it’s clear from your admiration of my Harold’s portrait. So here is your opportunity to learn more and to see your own photograph.” She clapped her hands together. “Now, isn’t this lovely.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins.” How could she refuse when this woman encouraged her so? And she certainly wouldn’t want to deny the woman this memory of her husband. Grace had never heard a man spoken of so highly—and long after he was gone.

  Right before Grace and her landlady were to depart to see Mr. Sherman, the mailman came to the door, whistling as always. Annie appeared, unforeseen like a ghost, and opened the door before he could place the letters in the mail slot. “Here’s one for you, Grace.” Annie held it out, but Grace hesitated, stunned.

  “Another one?”

  Annie bobbed her head. “Sometimes the mail gets backed up and you get letters on the same day that were mailed a week or two apart.”

  “But so soon?” Grace found this strange.

  “Perhaps your mother wrote to you while you were still on the ship.”

  “I had not thought of that. I’m sure that explains it.”

  Mrs. Hawkins motioned to her housekeeper. “Leave it on the table, please, love. We’ve got to be going.”

  Annie placed the letter on the tray they kept on the hall table. “To see the Ellis Island photographer?”

  Mrs. Hawkins put on her gloves. “That’s right, but we’re just going a few train stops north. He is not working today and couldn’t see us if he was. The immigration station is remarkably busy these days.”

  “I’ll take it with me.” Grace snatched the letter. She could not wonder all day what was inside.

  Aboard the el, she tore it open.

  Dear Grace,

  We are so blessed with a good crop of potatoes this year, thanks be to God. So all is well here. You and I had a difficult time once, but it is all past. Isn’t that so, darling?

  Tears sprang to Grace’s eyes. While Grace was treated well and enjoyed enough to eat in America, her mother was still in the clutches of that man in damp, dismal Ireland.

  “Is everything all right, love?”

  Grace sniffed. “Aye. As well as can be expected.”

  “There, there. God has a plan.” The woman patted Grace’s shoulder.

  God would not have planned this. Grace read on.

  Do tell me all about your new home, Grace. Is the mistress there nice? Have you found work yet? Please write, even if you do not hear from me for a time. I need to hear from you and know that you are well.

  Grace folded the letter and tucked it away. She would answer before bedtime that very night. She would let her mother know that help was on the way.

  They exited at Christopher Street. When they approached a church, Grace paused. “Why are we here?”

  “He’s going to meet us at his church. He lives with his mother and several other boarders, love. He thought we could talk better here.”

  “But I thought I would be observing.”

  “To do that truly, we’d have to go over to Ellis Island. He doesn’t have room for photography elsewhere. And you know what it is like there, love, all those crowds.”

  Grace frowned. She did not wish for mere conversation.

  “Don’t fret, love. He’ll have his camera and his photographs. He’s being quite generous to take the time.”

  They mounted the steps to St. John’s. They stepped inside, their movements echoing in the cavernous building. Grace gazed at the stained-glass windows over the altar. She didn’t hear the man approach until he spoke her name.

  “Miss McCaffery, a pleasure to see you.”

  She turned to find the man with the receding hairline and a small bow tie that she vaguely recognized from her arrival on Ellis Island. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Sherman.”

  “I’m most pleased to.” He turned to greet Mrs. Hawkins.

  The woman held his hand in both of hers. “You are looking fine, Gus. How is Stella?”

  Grace stared at her landlady. Mrs. Hawkins obviously knew Mr. Sherman well. Of course Mrs. Hawkins was the reason he was being so generous. Not for Grace alone.

  “My mother is fit,” Mr. Sherman answered. “A bit of the rheumatism but otherwise sound.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Mrs. Hawkins turned back to Grace. “I’ve been acquainted with Mr. Sherman’s mother since before my husband passed away, Grace.”

  Grace narrowed her eyes. “Truly.”

  “There are some connections, very old friends, who will stick beside you through life’s journeys, no matter if you see them often or not. The Benevolents, you know.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Mr. Sherman rubbed his hands together. “Well, if you will come this way, I’ll show you my camera. Normally I don’t have it here, as cumbersome as it is to cart around, but I needed to do some repairs.”

  They followed him to a side vestibule where a camera stood on a tripod. The cloth the photographer blanketed himself in while operating the camera was pulled back, revealing the mechanical-looking box with a lens. She t
ook a step toward it but stopped when Mr. Sherman hurried to stand in front of it.

  “Please wait over there.” He pointed to one corner. “The minister will be here shortly. I’m to take his photograph and you can watch.” He smiled.

  From another door in the room, a man entered wearing a black suit with large buttons and no collar other than a white clerical one with a protruding tongue, distinguishable from the Roman collar the Irish priests wore, a detail Grace remembered. It was the little things she noticed about people, the facets a photograph could capture long after memories fade.

  The man dipped his chin toward them and then sat on a chair. Mrs. Hawkins grinned and nodded at Grace.

  Mr. Sherman adjusted the shade on an electric light hanging from the ceiling. Someone must have lowered it earlier so that he’d have better light. Mr. Sherman held a finger toward the bridge of his subject’s nose and drew his hand back toward the lens. When he seemed satisfied, he drew the camera’s fabric over his head.

  Grace stared at her shoes. This taught her nothing. She’d seen photographers take photographs before, even Mr. Sherman. She wanted to try it herself. The exact moment the shutter closed, it was done—an indelible moment solidified for all time. The photographer had to pick the precise moment to capture the expression, the light in the eyes, the meaning behind the face. That was what she wanted to learn.

  When the session was finished, the minister retreated through the back door.

  Grace stood. “May I have a closer look at your camera?”

  Mr. Sherman froze as though she’d asked him for his soul. After a moment his expression warmed. “Of course.” He wiggled his fingers at her.

  She peered through the finder, amazed, but jumped back quickly when the man’s shrill voice told her she’d looked long enough.

  “You will allow that a camera is a very expensive piece of equipment, Miss McCaffery. I’m afraid I’m a bit protective of it.”

  “Of course you are, Gus.” Mrs. Hawkins took Grace’s arm and pulled her a step back.

  “How expensive?” Grace asked.

  Mr. Sherman raised a brow.

  “I mean, could I perhaps find some old equipment to purchase at a secondhand shop and get started myself?”

  “Young lady, do you know how much pigment-bearing colloid to apply to the photographic paper? Have you heard of the gum process? Do you know how to use a print roller?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “I do have something to show you,” he interrupted. “Shall we return to the chapel and have a seat?”

  Reluctantly she obeyed his outstretched arm and headed back toward the sanctuary.

  “Up here, please.” He led them to the front pew, where a leather folder lay. “Please, ladies, sit.”

  They perched on the pew as he stood before them, untying the folder. “I thought you’d like to see the photograph I took of you the day you arrived.”

  He handed the photograph to her. Peering into the eyes of the girl before her, Grace felt as though she stared at a stranger. There was her usual unmanageable hair, her rounded chin, the subtle print of the dress Ma had given her. But somehow it just didn’t look like her. This lass was terrified. She stuttered. “I look . . . I . . . I . . . Is that really me?”

  Both Mr. Sherman and Mrs. Hawkins laughed. Mrs. Hawkins took the photograph from Grace. “It most certainly is. Shall we purchase this from Mr. Sherman, love?”

  The man waved his fingers in a manner that was beginning to irritate Grace. “Oh no, ma’am. You may have it with my compliments. Look here.”

  He handed her several other photographs he’d taken of immigrants. A thickly bearded Russian Jew who, like Grace, stared off into the air. A side-facing image of a Hindu boy that featured his long locks and ceremonial headpiece. Lapland immigrant children dressed in odd hats with tasseled belts tied around the waists of their dresses. A gypsy woman in a headscarf and multiple beaded necklaces. If only the native colors of the clothing hadn’t been grayed out.

  Mrs. Hawkins put a gloved hand to her throat. “I’ve never seen immigrants in such clothing, Gus.”

  “That’s why I photograph them on Ellis Island. As soon as they get to Battery Park, they shed their native trappings for more contemporary American clothing. Everyone wants to fit in and not appear foreign. But I think the costumes of their homelands are quite fascinating.”

  Grace saw more than that. Despite the lack of color, he had captured something vital. Poignant expressions. She admired his ability to capture them in all the photographs but one. Hers. He had not caught her indomitable Irish spirit, her desire to start anew. She did not want this reminder of the misery she’d endured.

  She handed the photographs back and rose. “Thank you for your trouble, but we shouldn’t tarry any longer. You’ve been most gracious.”

  Mrs. Hawkins stood too and embraced her friend. “Give your mother my love, Gus.”

  “Certainly.” He handed Grace’s picture to her.

  “No thank you. I’m not worthy of such a gift.”

  “But—”

  “Truly. It should stay with the others.”

  He seemed surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite.”

  7

  HAVING FINISHED CHECKING DOORS on the west side of the street, Owen crossed to do the same on the opposite side. There was a “café” on this side, a place that was more of a drinking and dancing facility than an eating establishment. All Owen had to do was make his appearance known.

  He was still a block away when he heard voices coming from a door well. Newsboys, he thought. He approached and called out so he wouldn’t surprise anyone. He was not on a mission to catch illegal activities, just to help deter them with his presence.

  A grunt.

  He moved closer. “Who’s there?”

  He heard the scramble of feet, and then a man emerged, a dirty white handkerchief tied over one eye. “McNulty, aye?”

  “I am. Who’s with you?”

  “Just a few mates.”

  “Send ’em out here.”

  He chuckled and turned toward the dark alley. “Mates, this copper wants to meet your acquaintance.”

  No reply.

  The man pulled the collar of his coat to his chin. “They say they aren’t coming out. Reckon you’ll have to go get ’em.”

  “What is your business here? If you have none, you fellas better move along.”

  “I know who you are, and people don’t like you snooping around.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  Suddenly someone sprang from the alley, a black-clothed figure with something in his hands. Before Owen could react, the thug whacked him on the knees with a metal pipe, and the bums lunged away like rats in the sewer.

  Owen limped to the other side of the street. He wasn’t hurt too badly, only his pride, but laughter bellowed from the dark buildings. “Pretty society boy! You don’t belong here!”

  Owen took a side street over to Broadway, where he met up with a couple of other officers. He told them what had happened and assured them he was all right.

  “We’ll check it out,” the man he knew as Murphy said. “You stay over here, though. They’re used to us, and they won’t give us no grief.”

  “Used to you, huh?”

  “Yeah, well, you might not be an official rookie cop anymore, but to the lowlife you’re still a greenhorn, McNulty.” He held up both palms. “I ain’t saying you are, but they’ll think what they want.”

  “They shouldn’t be allowed to believe they can intimidate me. I’ll go with you.”

  The man held a hand to Owen’s chest. “No. Not a good idea. We’ll let ’em know we’re standing up for you. They’ll understand we stick together.”

  Owen agreed and watched as the two men skirted down the street toward the alley where Owen had been jumped. As soon as they’d reached an intersection, Owen hurried, his legs throbbing, to get to the next block. He knew they would not be moving as fast as he was, and wh
en he got to the next side street, he was not surprised to see the officers moving northward instead of toward the alley. Just as he thought. They had no intention at all of “standing up” for him.

  An hour later Owen saw his fellow officers in a coffee shop. He stood gazing at the plate-glass window for a moment and then decided to go in. The warm smell of coffee mixed with the musty, furnace-heated air, easing the ache in his joints. No wonder the roundsmen preferred this place to standing on street corners in December. He approached Murphy. “Did you talk to those thugs? The fella with the white handkerchief tied on his head?”

  “Oh.” Murphy shrugged. “They’d already run off by the time we got there. You know how those riffraff are.”

  “Sure. I know.”

  8

  ONCE THEY WERE ON THE TRAIN heading home, Mrs. Hawkins turned her beady eyes to look fully at Grace, reminding Grace again how odd it was that the woman’s name reflected her appearance in some ways and her instincts perfectly. She was a sharp-eyed hawk for certain.

  “It seems your years in the workhouse retarded the maturity of some social decorum, love,” the Hawk said.

  “What do you mean?” Embarrassment rose up like fire in her throat.

  “You stood too close to his camera. You refused his gift.”

  “I did not mean to be rude.”

  “There’s not another would put up with the likes of ya.” She pushed away her father’s voice, trying to ignore it. “You said I could learn about photography.”

  The woman smiled. “Well, you did learn how much you like photography, didn’t you? I saw the way those images captivated you.”

  Grace drew in a breath. The woman wasn’t truly angry.“I don’t know how he does it. A moment forever preserved.” She wished she had a photograph of her mother. She was beginning to forget what that light in her eyes looked like, and that left her cold and melancholy.