she stood in his mind. But all he had was this wide lawn, and he would have to make do with that. He stood there, pressing a dandelion between his fingers and squinting across at her. “That’s right,” he told her. “That’s what I want.”
She shifted her feet a little. “How many prints you plan to make of this?” she asked.
“Ma’am?”
“How many copies.”
“Oh. As many as you want.”
“Well, I want
none,
” she said. “I’d like to request that you make the one picture asked of you and have that be that.”
“Oh, now.”
“Connie can have one, if she wants it so much. Butthat’s because I don’t like her. Nothing she could
do
would make me like her; I just constitutionally don’t. Danny can’t have one.”
“Danny who?” he asked. “Raise your chin a little, please.”
“Danny Hammond. Is there anyone in this world whose last name isn’t Hammond?” She raised her chin but went on talking; James leaned his elbow on his camera and waited. “Danny I put up with,” she said. “How long will they hide him away from me?”
“Danny
Hammond?
Why, I saw him only last—”
“
You
saw him. You saw him. But do you think I do? They rush him away the moment I come around; he looks back over his shoulder all bewildered. He’s only seven.”
“Could you turn more toward me?” asked James.
“They think he insulted me last Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh, I don’t think Danny would—”
“Made me a present. None of these easy-breaking things from the gift shop. Made me a ceramic saltshaker in school, and it was the exact shape of my head, with even the wrinkles painted in.”
“That’s nice,” said James.
“Do you know where the salt came out?”
“Well, no.”
“My nose. Ho, out my nose. Two little holes punched for nostrils, and out came the salt. Can you picture Connie’s face?”
James laughed. “I sure can,” he said.
“Well, of course she hadn’t
seen
the thing, prior to my unwrapping it. She thought it was a bobby-pin holder or something. She said, ‘Danny
Hammond!’
and made a grab for it, but I was too quick for her. I meant to
keep
it; it’s not often I get such a personal present.But Connie rushed him off like I would eat him and there I sat, all alone with my saltshaker. No one to thank.”
“Maybe you could—”
“I still use it, though.”
“Ma’am?”
“The saltshaker. I use it daily.”
“Well, I would too,” said James.
“Then you see why he shouldn’t have my picture.”
That stumped him; he had to consider a minute. (If Miss Hattie Hammond was fading out, should he not just let it pass and agree with her?) But Miss Hattie seemed the same to him as ever, as sharp as a rock against the green of the lawn. “I don’t see what you mean,” he said.
“Ah well.”
“I don’t understand what pictures have got to do with it.”
“Not much,” she said. “But they’re photographing me because I’m old, you know. They think I’m dying. (I’m not.) They think they’ll have something to remember me by. But pictures are merely one way, Mr. Green. Should a person that I
like
have a picture of me?”
“I wouldn’t let it worry me,” said James. “I find no one ever looks at pictures anyway, once they get hold of them.”
“
I
don’t want Danny remembering just a picture. Remembering something flat and of one tone. What is ever all one way?”
“Well,” James said. He frowned down at his fingers, sticky now with dandelion milk. “Well,
plenty
of—”
“Photographs,” said Miss Hattie, “are the only thing. Don’t interrupt. Everything else is a mingling of things. Photographers don’t agree, of course. Why elsewould they take pictures? Press everything flat on little squares of paper—well, that’s all right. But not for people that you’d like to stay
interested
in you. Not for Danny Hammond.”
“Now, wait a minute,” said James, but Miss Hattie held up her hand.
“I already know,” she said. “I know
She shifted her feet a little. “How many prints you plan to make of this?” she asked.
“Ma’am?”
“How many copies.”
“Oh. As many as you want.”
“Well, I want
none,
” she said. “I’d like to request that you make the one picture asked of you and have that be that.”
“Oh, now.”
“Connie can have one, if she wants it so much. Butthat’s because I don’t like her. Nothing she could
do
would make me like her; I just constitutionally don’t. Danny can’t have one.”
“Danny who?” he asked. “Raise your chin a little, please.”
“Danny Hammond. Is there anyone in this world whose last name isn’t Hammond?” She raised her chin but went on talking; James leaned his elbow on his camera and waited. “Danny I put up with,” she said. “How long will they hide him away from me?”
“Danny
Hammond?
Why, I saw him only last—”
“
You
saw him. You saw him. But do you think I do? They rush him away the moment I come around; he looks back over his shoulder all bewildered. He’s only seven.”
“Could you turn more toward me?” asked James.
“They think he insulted me last Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh, I don’t think Danny would—”
“Made me a present. None of these easy-breaking things from the gift shop. Made me a ceramic saltshaker in school, and it was the exact shape of my head, with even the wrinkles painted in.”
“That’s nice,” said James.
“Do you know where the salt came out?”
“Well, no.”
“My nose. Ho, out my nose. Two little holes punched for nostrils, and out came the salt. Can you picture Connie’s face?”
James laughed. “I sure can,” he said.
“Well, of course she hadn’t
seen
the thing, prior to my unwrapping it. She thought it was a bobby-pin holder or something. She said, ‘Danny
Hammond!’
and made a grab for it, but I was too quick for her. I meant to
keep
it; it’s not often I get such a personal present.But Connie rushed him off like I would eat him and there I sat, all alone with my saltshaker. No one to thank.”
“Maybe you could—”
“I still use it, though.”
“Ma’am?”
“The saltshaker. I use it daily.”
“Well, I would too,” said James.
“Then you see why he shouldn’t have my picture.”
That stumped him; he had to consider a minute. (If Miss Hattie Hammond was fading out, should he not just let it pass and agree with her?) But Miss Hattie seemed the same to him as ever, as sharp as a rock against the green of the lawn. “I don’t see what you mean,” he said.
“Ah well.”
“I don’t understand what pictures have got to do with it.”
“Not much,” she said. “But they’re photographing me because I’m old, you know. They think I’m dying. (I’m not.) They think they’ll have something to remember me by. But pictures are merely one way, Mr. Green. Should a person that I
like
have a picture of me?”
“I wouldn’t let it worry me,” said James. “I find no one ever looks at pictures anyway, once they get hold of them.”
“
I
don’t want Danny remembering just a picture. Remembering something flat and of one tone. What is ever all one way?”
“Well,” James said. He frowned down at his fingers, sticky now with dandelion milk. “Well,
plenty
of—”
“Photographs,” said Miss Hattie, “are the only thing. Don’t interrupt. Everything else is a mingling of things. Photographers don’t agree, of course. Why elsewould they take pictures? Press everything flat on little squares of paper—well, that’s all right. But not for people that you’d like to stay
interested
in you. Not for Danny Hammond.”
“Now, wait a minute,” said James, but Miss Hattie held up her hand.
“I already know,” she said. “I know
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