Free Grace's Pictures by Cindy Thomson Page A

not surprised to see the officers moving northward instead of toward the alley. Just as he thought. They had no intention at all of “standing up” for him.

    An hour later Owen saw his fellow officers in a coffee shop. He stood gazing at the plate-glass window for a moment and then decided to go in. The warm smell of coffee mixed with the musty, furnace-heated air, easing the ache in his joints. No wonder the roundsmen preferred this place to standing on street corners in December. He approached Murphy. “Did you talk to those thugs? The fella with the white handkerchief tied on his head?”
    “Oh.” Murphy shrugged. “They’d already run off by the time we got there. You know how those riffraff are.”
    “Sure. I know.”

8
    ONCE THEY WERE ON THE TRAIN heading home, Mrs. Hawkins turned her beady eyes to look fully at Grace, reminding Grace again how odd it was that the woman’s name reflected her appearance in some ways and her instincts perfectly. She was a sharp-eyed hawk for certain.
    “It seems your years in the workhouse retarded the maturity of some social decorum, love,” the Hawk said.
    “What do you mean?” Embarrassment rose up like fire in her throat.
    “You stood too close to his camera. You refused his gift.”
    “I did not mean to be rude.”
    “There’s not another would put up with the likes of ya.” She pushed away her father’s voice, trying to ignore it. “You said I could learn about photography.”
    The woman smiled. “Well, you did learn how much you like photography, didn’t you? I saw the way those images captivated you.”
    Grace drew in a breath. The woman wasn’t truly angry.“I don’t know how he does it. A moment forever preserved.” She wished she had a photograph of her mother. She was beginning to forget what that light in her eyes looked like, and that left her cold and melancholy.
    She blinked away the thought. “Why didn’t you tell me you were acquainted the first time I mentioned Mr. Sherman?”
    “I haven’t seen him in years. I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case I wasn’t able to arrange a meeting. I thought you wanted to see your photograph.”
    “I did. Thank you.”
    Foolish, that was. She never wanted to see it again.
    Mrs. Hawkins gave her a tight squeeze. “Well, no matter now. You said you liked to draw. Why don’t we shop for some charcoal pencils, love? Perhaps some watercolor paints as well. We have time before Mr. Parker comes by.”
    “Mr. Parker?”
    “Oh, my. Did I forget to mention it? Reverend Clarke believes Mr. Parker may want to employ you. Though he lives uptown, he serves at First Church as an usher. He’s going to come by to meet you.”
    Grace checked the condition of her hair bun, suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. “I see.” Grace’s mouth ran dry. She still battled those voices but desperately wanted to squeeze them out. “I look forward to meeting him.”
    “Now, about those supplies.”
    “Uh, thanks. No need. You have done so much already, ma’am.”
    “You must cease from addressing me so formally, love. Mrs. Hawkins will do.” The woman smacked her lips. “So no drawing supplies today. As you wish, love, but we will stop for some ice cream.”
    “Ice cream?”
    “You’re right. Too chilly. We’ll get some fried pies from the little shop around the corner, then. My Harold always used to say, ‘Life is uncertain, so eat dessert first.’”
    “I’m beginning to grow fond of your Harold, Mrs. Hawkins.”

    Later, alone in her room, Grace pondered her visit with Mr. Sherman. Somehow she had in her head that she could take photographs as a hobby. But photography was a trade, much like being a blacksmith or a tanner. Learning how to prepare photographic plates and develop images would take many years to master and more funds than she could hope to come up with. She must try harder to improve her drawing if she really wanted to capture the faces she saw around her.
    Grace rose from her bed to