Mrs. Hammond said, “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” James said.
“You look kind of tired.”
He straightened up and tucked his shirt in. There was Great-Aunt Hattie, only a few yards away now, being led gingerly by Mrs. Hammond. Aunt Hattie looked neither to the right nor to the left; she seemed to be pretending Mrs. Hammond wasn’t there. The closer they got to the camera, the farther away her eyes grew.
“Right here would be a good place,” said Mrs. Hammond. “Don’t you think so, James? In front of the roses?”
“Fine,” James said. He had started adjusting his camera and wasn’t really looking now. But when he raised his eyes again he saw that the old woman had been placed directly in front of a circular flower bed; she seemed to be rising from the middle of it, like an intricately sculptured garden decoration. James smiled. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t think she should have those flowers behind her.”
“They’re so pretty, though,” Mrs. Hammond said sadly.
“Well. But I think she should have just grass behind her. You mind moving over, Miss Hattie?”
“I have just one thing to say,” Miss Hattie said suddenly.
“Ma’am?”
“Don’t push me. You can tell me where to go, but don’t push me around.”
“Oh, I won’t,” said James.
“The
last
time I had my picture taken—”
“I think he wants you to move over,” Mrs. Hammond said. “Could you step this way, dear?”
The aunt stepped stiffly, jerking her chin up. “I was saying, Connie,” she said, “the
last
man that took my picture was in need of an anatomy lesson. I told him so. He came right up to me and pushed my face sideways but my shoulders full-front, and my knees sideways but my feet full-front, so I swear, I felt like something on an Egyptian wall. You should have seen the photograph. Well, I don’t have to tell you how it looked. I said—”
“If I were you I’d let my beads show,” said Mrs. Hammond. “They’re such nice ones.”
“Well, just for that I won’t,” snapped Aunt Hattie. She raised her hands, heavy with old rings, and fumbled at the neck of her crepe dress until she had closed it high around her throat, hiding the beads from sight. “Now
no
one can see them,” she said, and Connie Hammond sighed and turned to James with her hands spread hopelessly.
“I try and I try,” she told him, and he looked up from fiddling with his camera and smiled.
“Why don’t you go on and see to the others,” he said, “and I’ll call you when I’m through. I bet you haven’t even had your ice cream yet.”
“No. No, I’ve been so busy. Well, I might for just a minute, maybe—” She trailed off across the yard, looking relieved, and the last part of her to fade away was her voice, which still flowed on and on.
“She’s putting on weight, don’t you think?” Aunt Hattie asked.
James had the camera ready now, but he was waiting because he wanted the picture to be just right. He bentdown and cleared away a dandelion from one of the tripod legs, and then over his shoulder he called, “You comfortable like that? Don’t want to sit down?”
“No. I’ll stand.”
Connie Hammond wouldn’t like that, but James was glad. To him Aunt Hattie looked just right this way—standing against a background of bare grass, holding her shoulders high to hide the beads and jutting her chin out at him. She had terrified high school students for forty years that way, back when she taught Latin I. People still told tales about her. She had declined her nouns in a deafening roar and slammed her yardstick against her desk on the ending of every verb. While students could lead other teachers off their subjects just by asking how they’d met their husbands, Miss Hattie had only strayed from Latin once a year, at Christmastime, when she read aloud from a condensed version of
Ben Hur
. James could picture that. He wished he had her in a classroom right now, to photograph her the way
“I’m fine,” James said.
“You look kind of tired.”
He straightened up and tucked his shirt in. There was Great-Aunt Hattie, only a few yards away now, being led gingerly by Mrs. Hammond. Aunt Hattie looked neither to the right nor to the left; she seemed to be pretending Mrs. Hammond wasn’t there. The closer they got to the camera, the farther away her eyes grew.
“Right here would be a good place,” said Mrs. Hammond. “Don’t you think so, James? In front of the roses?”
“Fine,” James said. He had started adjusting his camera and wasn’t really looking now. But when he raised his eyes again he saw that the old woman had been placed directly in front of a circular flower bed; she seemed to be rising from the middle of it, like an intricately sculptured garden decoration. James smiled. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t think she should have those flowers behind her.”
“They’re so pretty, though,” Mrs. Hammond said sadly.
“Well. But I think she should have just grass behind her. You mind moving over, Miss Hattie?”
“I have just one thing to say,” Miss Hattie said suddenly.
“Ma’am?”
“Don’t push me. You can tell me where to go, but don’t push me around.”
“Oh, I won’t,” said James.
“The
last
time I had my picture taken—”
“I think he wants you to move over,” Mrs. Hammond said. “Could you step this way, dear?”
The aunt stepped stiffly, jerking her chin up. “I was saying, Connie,” she said, “the
last
man that took my picture was in need of an anatomy lesson. I told him so. He came right up to me and pushed my face sideways but my shoulders full-front, and my knees sideways but my feet full-front, so I swear, I felt like something on an Egyptian wall. You should have seen the photograph. Well, I don’t have to tell you how it looked. I said—”
“If I were you I’d let my beads show,” said Mrs. Hammond. “They’re such nice ones.”
“Well, just for that I won’t,” snapped Aunt Hattie. She raised her hands, heavy with old rings, and fumbled at the neck of her crepe dress until she had closed it high around her throat, hiding the beads from sight. “Now
no
one can see them,” she said, and Connie Hammond sighed and turned to James with her hands spread hopelessly.
“I try and I try,” she told him, and he looked up from fiddling with his camera and smiled.
“Why don’t you go on and see to the others,” he said, “and I’ll call you when I’m through. I bet you haven’t even had your ice cream yet.”
“No. No, I’ve been so busy. Well, I might for just a minute, maybe—” She trailed off across the yard, looking relieved, and the last part of her to fade away was her voice, which still flowed on and on.
“She’s putting on weight, don’t you think?” Aunt Hattie asked.
James had the camera ready now, but he was waiting because he wanted the picture to be just right. He bentdown and cleared away a dandelion from one of the tripod legs, and then over his shoulder he called, “You comfortable like that? Don’t want to sit down?”
“No. I’ll stand.”
Connie Hammond wouldn’t like that, but James was glad. To him Aunt Hattie looked just right this way—standing against a background of bare grass, holding her shoulders high to hide the beads and jutting her chin out at him. She had terrified high school students for forty years that way, back when she taught Latin I. People still told tales about her. She had declined her nouns in a deafening roar and slammed her yardstick against her desk on the ending of every verb. While students could lead other teachers off their subjects just by asking how they’d met their husbands, Miss Hattie had only strayed from Latin once a year, at Christmastime, when she read aloud from a condensed version of
Ben Hur
. James could picture that. He wished he had her in a classroom right now, to photograph her the way
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