Read Online Grace's Pictures by Cindy Thomson - Free Book Online Page B

a lens. She took 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