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Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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home, and at his worktable, brooding over a print of the now famous “Crime in America’s Streets” photo of Lizzie Davis. In this shot, Craig held the photograph at an angle at which it was recognizable, and in his other hand he held his head in the manner of a man with a terrible headache, or tortured by guilt. Tom chuckled a little as he snapped this one. “Good angle, yeah, your feeling sorry for the girl. She’s doing fine, I heard, with her modeling work.”
Craig straightened up. “But I do feel sorry for her. Sorry about her shame and all that stuff. She sure called her marriage off.”
“She wasn’t mad about that guy. And he wasn’t about her. One of these things the parents were keen on, y’know?—Everybody in town knows that. You haven’t been paying much attention to town gossip, Craig old boy. Too busy with your big-town newspapers lately.” Tom smiled good-naturedly.
In a curious way, Craig realized that he had to hold on to his conviction that Lizzie Davis’s life had been altered, ruined—or he couldn’t make a success of the article-plus-photos that he had in mind. “You think she’s a phony?” Craig asked in a soft, almost frightened voice.
“Phony?” Tom was putting away his camera. “Sure. Little bit. Not worth much thought, is it? All the public wants is a sensational photo—someone killing themselves jumping off a building, somebody else getting shot. The hell with who’s to blame for it, just give the public the action. The sex angle in your Lizzie picture gave it its kick, y’know? Who cares if she’s telling the truth or not?—I don’t believe for a minute she was raped.”
That conversation gave Craig something to chew on after Tom Buckley had departed. Craig was sure Tom was right. Tom was a bright fellow. The public wanted pictures of buildings bombed high in the air, a wrecked car with a body in it, or bodies lying on pavements. Action. Even the story wasn’t terribly important, if the picture was eye-catching. Now Craig struggled like a drowning person to hang on to the Lizzie story, that she had been raped and had broken her engagement because of the rape. Craig knew he would have to talk to Richard Prescott as if he believed what he was saying.
Craig did. He prepared himself as if he were an actor. He emoted. He struck his forehead a couple of times, grimaced, and a genuine tear came to support him, though Prescott had a tape recorder and not a camera, unfortunately.
“. . . and then the awful moment—moments—when I realized that in my last-minute shot that day, I’d caught the nineteen-year-old girl and her anxious parents at maybe the most dramatic moment of their lives.” Craig was giving this monologue in his parents’ living room, both his parents being out at their respective jobs. Prescott had a few questions jotted down in his notebook, but Craig was going along well enough on his own. “And just after that,” Craig continued, “the terrific, unbelievable acclaim that my photo got! Reproduced in the New York Times, and then winning the Pulitzer Prize! It really didn’t seem fair. It made me rethink my whole life. I thought about Fate, money, fame. I even thought about God,” Craig said with earnestness, and a thrill passed over him. He believed, he knew now, that he was being sincere, and he wanted to look Prescott straight in the eyes. “I began to ask myself—”
Prescott at that moment stuck a cigarette in his mouth, reached for his lighter, and stared at the little black machine that was recording all this.
“—what I’d done to deserve all this, when the young girl—Well, she didn’t get anything from it except suffering and shame. I began to ask myself if there was a God, and if so was he a just God? Did I have to do something in return for my good luck either to him or to—I mean—maybe to the human race? I began—”
“End of tape, sorry,” Prescott interrupted. “In fact, this might be enough. You’ve talked
Craig straightened up. “But I do feel sorry for her. Sorry about her shame and all that stuff. She sure called her marriage off.”
“She wasn’t mad about that guy. And he wasn’t about her. One of these things the parents were keen on, y’know?—Everybody in town knows that. You haven’t been paying much attention to town gossip, Craig old boy. Too busy with your big-town newspapers lately.” Tom smiled good-naturedly.
In a curious way, Craig realized that he had to hold on to his conviction that Lizzie Davis’s life had been altered, ruined—or he couldn’t make a success of the article-plus-photos that he had in mind. “You think she’s a phony?” Craig asked in a soft, almost frightened voice.
“Phony?” Tom was putting away his camera. “Sure. Little bit. Not worth much thought, is it? All the public wants is a sensational photo—someone killing themselves jumping off a building, somebody else getting shot. The hell with who’s to blame for it, just give the public the action. The sex angle in your Lizzie picture gave it its kick, y’know? Who cares if she’s telling the truth or not?—I don’t believe for a minute she was raped.”
That conversation gave Craig something to chew on after Tom Buckley had departed. Craig was sure Tom was right. Tom was a bright fellow. The public wanted pictures of buildings bombed high in the air, a wrecked car with a body in it, or bodies lying on pavements. Action. Even the story wasn’t terribly important, if the picture was eye-catching. Now Craig struggled like a drowning person to hang on to the Lizzie story, that she had been raped and had broken her engagement because of the rape. Craig knew he would have to talk to Richard Prescott as if he believed what he was saying.
Craig did. He prepared himself as if he were an actor. He emoted. He struck his forehead a couple of times, grimaced, and a genuine tear came to support him, though Prescott had a tape recorder and not a camera, unfortunately.
“. . . and then the awful moment—moments—when I realized that in my last-minute shot that day, I’d caught the nineteen-year-old girl and her anxious parents at maybe the most dramatic moment of their lives.” Craig was giving this monologue in his parents’ living room, both his parents being out at their respective jobs. Prescott had a few questions jotted down in his notebook, but Craig was going along well enough on his own. “And just after that,” Craig continued, “the terrific, unbelievable acclaim that my photo got! Reproduced in the New York Times, and then winning the Pulitzer Prize! It really didn’t seem fair. It made me rethink my whole life. I thought about Fate, money, fame. I even thought about God,” Craig said with earnestness, and a thrill passed over him. He believed, he knew now, that he was being sincere, and he wanted to look Prescott straight in the eyes. “I began to ask myself—”
Prescott at that moment stuck a cigarette in his mouth, reached for his lighter, and stared at the little black machine that was recording all this.
“—what I’d done to deserve all this, when the young girl—Well, she didn’t get anything from it except suffering and shame. I began to ask myself if there was a God, and if so was he a just God? Did I have to do something in return for my good luck either to him or to—I mean—maybe to the human race? I began—”
“End of tape, sorry,” Prescott interrupted. “In fact, this might be enough. You’ve talked
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