Free Coal River by Ellen Marie Wiseman Page B

red, and thought back to when they left the house that morning. Aunt Ida had insisted they take a family portrait, goading Uncle Otis until he went back inside to get his Folding Pocket Kodak. They could stand on the porch steps, her aunt said, and get a nice picture with the house in the background.
    “We’re all dressed up,” she said. “And the light is just right. Let’s take the picture before you and Percy get to rabble-rousing and mess up your fine clothes.”
    “It’s too hot,” Percy said with a groan.
    “And I’d have to go back inside and all the way upstairs to get the camera,” Uncle Otis said. “Just get in the Lizzie so we can be on our way.” He flicked his hand, as if dismissing a servant.
    “Now you listen here, Otis Shawcross,” Aunt Ida said, putting her fists on her hips. “You insisted on spending all that money to buy that fancy new camera, and now you never use it. It’s been sitting in the bedroom closet for the better part of a year collecting dust! What on God’s green earth are you saving it for?”
    Uncle Otis shrugged.
    “Well, go inside and dig it out so Emma can take our picture!”
    Uncle Otis did as he was told, but not without cursing under his breath. He emerged a few minutes later with a camera and a roll of film, his face red and his hair disheveled, as if he’d been digging through linens and hanging clothes. Aunt Ida directed Percy onto the steps and stood beside him, waiting while Uncle Otis loaded the film, pulled out the lens panel, and showed Emma how to take a picture.
    “Hold it steady like this,” he said, demonstrating. “Then look through here and push this exposure level.”
    “All right,” Emma said, moving to take the camera.
    He pulled it out of her reach. “And whatever you do, don’t break it,” he said. “It was expensive.”
    “I won’t,” she said.
    Reluctantly, Uncle Otis gave her the camera. Then he climbed the steps, stood beside his wife, and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. Percy stood on the other side of his mother. Just then, Cook came around the side of the house, a crate of canning jars in her arms. She set down the crate and hobbled over to Emma.
    “Let me take the picture,” she said. “You get on up there and stand beside your kin.”
    “That’s not necessary,” Uncle Otis barked. “Just push the button and get it over with, Emma.”
    “I can do it,” Cook said. “So Emma can be in the picture too.”
    “We’re taking a family portrait,” Aunt Ida said. “She can pose for her own afterward, if she’d like.”
    Cook gave Emma a weak, wavering smile that was both kind and sad.
    “It’s all right,” Emma said. “They’re not my real family.” She reached out to touch Cook’s arm and thank her for her kindness, and somehow the camera slipped from her grasp. In what seemed like slow motion, it fell through the air, then hit the dirt with a solid thump. Emma’s stomach dropped. Before she could retrieve the camera, Uncle Otis flew down the steps, his eyes wild, and shoved her out of the way. He picked up the camera. Then there was a loud crack, and Emma was on the ground, not at all sure how she’d gotten there. She tasted blood and looked up to see her uncle standing over her, his arm raised. He blinked and lowered his hand. Percy hurried down the steps.
    “Are you all right?” he said. He helped her up.
    She touched her burning cheek, her chin trembling, and nodded.
    Percy gazed at his father, contempt flashing in his eyes. “It’s just a camera,” he said.
    Uncle Otis ignored him. “I told you to be careful!” he snarled at Emma. “Now go wait in the car! And for Christ’s sake, don’t touch anything! Just get in and sit still!” He handed the camera to Cook, then stomped back up the steps. Cook took the picture, gave the camera back, picked up the crate, and disappeared around the side of the house. Otis took the camera inside, and Percy and Aunt Ida climbed into the Tin