other patches of grass. Yet the grown-ups stood there with their dusty blue, look-alike eyes smiling happily, certain that they and their children were being saved intact for future generations. James straightened up and shook his head.
“Nope,” he said. “You’ve moved every whichaway again. Close in tighter, now.”
He waited patiently, with his hands on his hips. For five years he had been going through this. Every year there was a picture of the Hammond family reunion to be put in the Larksville paper, and another two or three for the Hammonds themselves to choose for their albums. By now he was resigned to it; he had even started enjoying himself. He smiled, watching all those hordes of Hammonds close in obligingly with sideways steps while their eyes stayed fixed on the camera. Moving like that made them look like chains of paper dolls, brightand shimmering in the heat. Eyelet dresses and seersucker suits blurred together; their whiteness was blinding. James shaded his eyes with one hand, and then he said, “Okay,” and bent down over his camera again. But someone else was moving. It was Great-Aunt Hattie in the front row; she had started coughing. She was sitting in a cane-bottom chair, with children and animals tangled at her feet and the grown-ups forming a protective wall behind her. When she began her coughing fit, they closed in still tighter in a semicircle and the oldest nephew leaned down with his head next to hers. The coughs grew farther apart. After a minute the nephew raised his head and said, “She’s sorry, she says.” The others murmured behind him, saying it didn’t matter. “Swallowed down the wrong throat,” said the nephew.
Someone called out, “Give her brown bread.” And someone else said, “No, rock candy will do it.” But the aunt spread her old hands out in front of her, palms down and fingers stretched apart, signifying she was better now and wanted to hear no more about it. “Back in your places,” James said, and the twenty or thirty Hammonds closest to him drifted back to their original positions and made their faces stern again. Mothers looked anxiously down the rows, gripping their neighbors’ arms and peering around them to make sure their children were at their best, and fathers hooked their thumbs into their belts and glared into the lens. “Hold it,” James said. When he snapped the picture there was a little stirring through the group, and everyone relaxed. “That’s the second,” he called to the hostess. “You want another?”
“One more, James.”
While he was fiddling with the camera people begantalking again, still standing in their set places, and some lit cigarettes. He peered through the view-finder at them. If this were any other picture he would snap it now, catching them at their ease, but family pictures were different. He liked the way they stood so straight in jumbled, self-conscious rows, and molded themselves to make a block of tensed-up faces. “I’m ready,” he warned them, and they did it again—closed their mouths and narrowed their eyes and set their shoulders. He snapped the picture that way. Then he said, “That’s all,” and watched the children as they shook themselves and scattered off to play.
The hostess walked up to him, trailing white lace, sinking into the ground at every step in her high-heeled pumps. “There’s one more I want, James,” she said, and then stopped and let her eyes wander after her youngest child. “Joey, you
know
not to ride that dog,” she called.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you to photograph Great-Aunt Hattie alone,” she told James. “She’s getting old. Can you do that?”
“If she’s willing,” said James.
“She’s not.”
“Then maybe we should—”
“Now, don’t you worry,” said Mrs. Hammond. “I’ll talk her around. They’re serving up the ice cream over there. You go and get you some, and when you’re through I’ll have Aunt Hattie ready. Hear?”
“Well,
“Nope,” he said. “You’ve moved every whichaway again. Close in tighter, now.”
He waited patiently, with his hands on his hips. For five years he had been going through this. Every year there was a picture of the Hammond family reunion to be put in the Larksville paper, and another two or three for the Hammonds themselves to choose for their albums. By now he was resigned to it; he had even started enjoying himself. He smiled, watching all those hordes of Hammonds close in obligingly with sideways steps while their eyes stayed fixed on the camera. Moving like that made them look like chains of paper dolls, brightand shimmering in the heat. Eyelet dresses and seersucker suits blurred together; their whiteness was blinding. James shaded his eyes with one hand, and then he said, “Okay,” and bent down over his camera again. But someone else was moving. It was Great-Aunt Hattie in the front row; she had started coughing. She was sitting in a cane-bottom chair, with children and animals tangled at her feet and the grown-ups forming a protective wall behind her. When she began her coughing fit, they closed in still tighter in a semicircle and the oldest nephew leaned down with his head next to hers. The coughs grew farther apart. After a minute the nephew raised his head and said, “She’s sorry, she says.” The others murmured behind him, saying it didn’t matter. “Swallowed down the wrong throat,” said the nephew.
Someone called out, “Give her brown bread.” And someone else said, “No, rock candy will do it.” But the aunt spread her old hands out in front of her, palms down and fingers stretched apart, signifying she was better now and wanted to hear no more about it. “Back in your places,” James said, and the twenty or thirty Hammonds closest to him drifted back to their original positions and made their faces stern again. Mothers looked anxiously down the rows, gripping their neighbors’ arms and peering around them to make sure their children were at their best, and fathers hooked their thumbs into their belts and glared into the lens. “Hold it,” James said. When he snapped the picture there was a little stirring through the group, and everyone relaxed. “That’s the second,” he called to the hostess. “You want another?”
“One more, James.”
While he was fiddling with the camera people begantalking again, still standing in their set places, and some lit cigarettes. He peered through the view-finder at them. If this were any other picture he would snap it now, catching them at their ease, but family pictures were different. He liked the way they stood so straight in jumbled, self-conscious rows, and molded themselves to make a block of tensed-up faces. “I’m ready,” he warned them, and they did it again—closed their mouths and narrowed their eyes and set their shoulders. He snapped the picture that way. Then he said, “That’s all,” and watched the children as they shook themselves and scattered off to play.
The hostess walked up to him, trailing white lace, sinking into the ground at every step in her high-heeled pumps. “There’s one more I want, James,” she said, and then stopped and let her eyes wander after her youngest child. “Joey, you
know
not to ride that dog,” she called.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you to photograph Great-Aunt Hattie alone,” she told James. “She’s getting old. Can you do that?”
“If she’s willing,” said James.
“She’s not.”
“Then maybe we should—”
“Now, don’t you worry,” said Mrs. Hammond. “I’ll talk her around. They’re serving up the ice cream over there. You go and get you some, and when you’re through I’ll have Aunt Hattie ready. Hear?”
“Well,
Similar Books
