Grace's Pictures by Cindy Thomson Page A

inclination to come south of Gramercy Park. She’d never been down to Miss Amelia’s place before today, so far as he knew. He would make sure shestayed away from his ward. Not only would she find the area repulsive, she’d blow his standing with the department, to say nothing of the folks on his beat. Once they saw the woman in fur and pearls, strutting the way only the rich do and snubbing her nose at everyone she deemed improperly attired, no one would take him seriously.
    A noise at the end of the alley raised his senses. Rats? Maybe. But when he saw a figure move in the shadows, he knew it was human. “Who’s there?”
    “Whaaat?” A hobo emerged, clutching a glass bottle.
    “Move along, fella.”
    The man tottered off and Owen continued on, kicking blackened leaves from his boots. He had no big job in the department, no cases to follow. All he did was patrol and chase away vagrants. Maybe someday, if folks would just trust him, he’d be able to do something bigger.

    As they finished supper preparations, Mrs. Hawkins told Grace that she was invited to a lecture presentation that very evening.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Jacob Riis, love. I thought you’d be delighted.”
    “The man who took your husband’s photograph?”
    “That’s right. He’s giving a lecture and presenting some of his photographs. When I heard about it, I thought you might like to go since you expressed an interest in that photograph. And Mrs. Reilly will be attending as well. You’d like to see her again, wouldn’t you, love?”
    “I would. I enjoy sketching, and photographs interest me greatly.”
    “Right after supper, then.”

    Later, as Grace tied her hat ribbons into a large, looping bow and followed Mrs. Hawkins to the carriage, she realized that even though she was less than enthusiastic about the lecture topic, the plight of immigrants—didn’t she know what it was like to be one?—she was eager to see the photographs, examine the light and shadows, see how he positioned his subjects and what she could read in their eyes.
    The carriage’s sudden jolt as it halted to avoid hitting people in the street caused her to swallow hard just as a disheartening thought struck her. As much as she wanted to capture images and light and shadows, she wasn’t very good at drawing a person’s likeness.
    You are smart. You are able.
    She squeezed her eyes tight. The pencil sketch of Ma pinned to the wall in her room had brought Grace comfort, but Grace had not captured what she’d hoped to see. A camera could do that. Cameras froze a moment and forever captured the truth without bias. Photography was different from paintings, where the artist interpreted what he saw for others.
    As soon as the notion of taking photographs herself occurred to her, she heard the long-ago voice of her father in her head. “Weak. That’s what you are. Pitiful. You’re just lucky you’ve got a kind father, lass. There’s not another would put up with the likes of ya. You or your mother. Yous would not survive without me, and don’t you forget it.”
    Weak. Pitiful.
    She’d carried those messages with her to the workhouse, where no one retained a smidgen of self-respect. Grace could still feel her mother’s hands cradling her youthful head asher father hurled hatred. “Shh, child.” And then Ma would say those affirming words to her, words so smooth and even-flowing. Words that most times could not battle past her father’s harsh, steely assessment of his daughter.
    Grace leaned into the window of the carriage and gazed toward the tops of the skyscrapers. This was America. There need be no demise of aspirations any longer. Perhaps photography would suit her. It was worth finding out.
    They entered an ordinary clapboard-sided building and made their way to some folding chairs. Mrs. Reilly was already there.
    “Good evening, Edwina,” Mrs. Hawkins said as she sat, causing the chair to squeak under her weight.
    “Agnes, Grace. Lovely to see