Free The Tin Can Tree by Anne Tyler

photographers.”
    James grinned and bent over his camera again. “As far as things that’re all one way,” he called, “I can name—”
    “No. Not a thing, not a person, Mr. Green. Take your picture.”
    He gave up. Through the frame of his viewfinder he saw her standing just the way he wanted her, old-fashioned-looking and symmetrical, with her hands across her stomach and her mouth tight. Her face was like a turtle’s face, long and droopy. It had the same hooded eyes and the same tenacious expression, as if she had lived for centuries and was certain of living much longer. Yet just in that instant, just as his hand tightened on the camera and his eyes relaxed at seeing the picture the way he had planned it, something else swam into his mind. He thought of Miss Hattie coughing, in the center of that family reunion—not defiant then but very soft and mumbling, telling them all she was sorry. He frowned and raised his head.
    “Well?” said Miss Hattie.
    “Nothing,” James said.
    He bent down again, and sighted up the haughty old turtle-face before him and snapped the picture. For a minute he stayed in that position; then he straightened up. “I’m done,” he said.
    “I should hope so.”
    “I’ll get one copy made, for Mrs. Hammond.”
    “I’m going in then. I’m tired.”
    “All right,” he said. “Goodbye, Miss Hattie.”
    “Goodbye.”
    She nodded once, sharply, and turned to go, and James watched after her as long as she was in sight. Then he stared down at his camera. Just to his right Connie Hammond materialized—he caught a fold of lace out of the corner of his eye—but he didn’t look at her.
    “Well, now!” Mrs. Hammond said brightly. She was out of breath and looked anxious. She came around in front of him and went to stand where Miss Hattie had stood, with her eyes intent on the ground, as if by tracking down the print of Miss Hattie’s Wedgies she could suddenly come to some understanding of her. “I’m sure it’ll come out good,” she called over her shoulder.
    “Well.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Yes, I’m sure it will,” James said. He folded up his tripod and gathered the rest of his equipment together. “I’m leaving now,” he told her.
    “Oh, are you?”
    “I’ll have the pictures ready in a day or two.”
    “That’ll be fine,” said Mrs. Hammond. But she was still staring at the ground and looking anxious; she didn’t turn around to say goodbye.
    James’s pickup truck was parked on the road at the edge of the lawn. He circled around the children, being careful to stay clear of the ones playing statues. Their game was growing rougher now. Little Janice Hammond was frozen in the exact stance of a baseball pitcher, her right arm drawn back nearly out of joint, and even her face was frozen—she was grimacingwildly, showing an entire set of braces on her teeth. But she unfroze just as James passed her; she shook out her arms and smiled at him and he smiled back.
    “I want to come out
pretty
in them pictures,” she said. “You see what you can do about it.”
    “I’ll see.”
    He placed the camera on the leather seat of the pickup and then went around to the driver’s side and climbed in. It was like an oven inside. First he started up the motor and then he rolled down his window, and while he was doing that he caught sight of Maisie Hammond. She was standing high up on the lawn, waving hard to him and smiling. He waved back. This time when the heavy feeling hit his stomach he didn’t shrug it off; he sat turning it over in his mind, letting the motor idle. As long as he sat there, Maisie went on waving. And when he had shifted into first and rolled on down to the bottom of the hill, he looked in the rear-view mirror and saw her still waving after him. He thought suddenly that she must be having two feelings at once—half one way and half another. Half angry at him, and half sorry because she had told him so. And now she had to keep on waving.
    He looked