Free Winter Birds by Jim Grimsley Page B

made her self-conscious. She wondered if he thought she was pretty. He waved his arm elaborately in the air and she could see the patches again, a fabric like velvet. “The house looks the same whether you own it or the government owns it. I rent my house too.” He pushed past her into the living room. “May I come in? Sorry, I don’t have much time. My name is Frank DeCapra. I take pictures of houses like yours.”
    She closed the door slowly, smoothing her skirt. She watched the photographer without seeming to, while he explained that he was at work on a project for the university sociological resources center. He didn’t say which university. He was taking pictures of rural people—and ruralhouses too, he added at the end. She nodded politely to everything he said, and when he paused she nodded to show she understood. All the while he hardly seemed to notice her; he kept busy browsing the room, the furniture, the plastic curtains at the windows. Mama found herself wondering what his house looked like inside, and whether or not it was better than this one.
    He tapped his finger on the camera. Mama moved to the window. “That little car belong to you? Don’t you get scared driving around in something that little?”
    â€œI get good gas mileage,” he said, lifting a glass ashtray off the couch arm, holding it to the light and setting it down again. “It’s not what you drive that matters, it’s the way you drive.”
    â€œA good strong wind would blow you right off the road.”
    â€œA car is much too heavy for the wind to blow around. But this car is hard to find parts for, because it came from another country.”
    Mama nodded pleasantly. In the kitchen she could see the clock. “My husband will be home soon. He doesn’t like me to have strangers in the house, so I’ll have to ask you to get all your pictures taken as quick as you can.”
    DeCapra circled the room, inspecting the walls. “How old is this house?”
    â€œForty or fifty years old. An immigrant man built it, the lady told me, and they bought it off him before he died, for next to nothing. He said he didn’t want the government to get it, and he didn’t have any people in thiscountry. I can’t remember what country he came from.” Mama walked to the kitchen. “I don’t have a good memory for things like that.”
    He raised the camera to his eye.
    She found herself staring into a circle of black glass and turned away from it. “Don’t be pointing that thing at me.”
    He laughed. “It won’t steal your soul, you know.”
    â€œI look like a mess this morning,” Mama said.
    â€œNot at all,” he said. “In fact I’d like to take a picture of you in front of your house. That’s actually why I came to the door.”
    â€œOh I don’t think I can let you do that.”
    â€œYou don’t think a camera can hurt you. Here, I’ll let you hold it.”
    She shook her head. “I’m afraid I might drop it.”
    â€œThen look at it. See? It can’t hurt a thing. It’s a box to collect light.”
    â€œOh, I’m not afraid of it.” She turned to the window and frowned where he couldn’t see her. Papa would be home soon. She didn’t want him to see this man here—especially she didn’t want Papa to see a man like this one, young, with both his arms intact, dressed in clothes like these and driving a car like that, with that arrogant look in his eyes. But she kept her tone bright and was conscious, as she spoke, of trying to sound a little stupid. “I don’t see why you want to take my picture. I’m not pretty. The only pictures I ever see are of pretty people, like movie stars.”
    â€œI think you’re pretty enough or else I wouldn’t ask to take your picture. But pictures don’t really have to be of pretty people.”
    â€œThey