Maude Brown's Baby (25 page)

Nina turned to the man who had been poking his finger in Clifford’s chest.

“And Donald, this noisy fellow is Leonard Hoffman, president and brains behind the
Granbury International Free Press
.”

“Nina, my dear, you are too kind. I merely sign the checks.”

“Nevertheless, Donald, Mr. Hoffman is a respected publisher who has gathered some of America’s finest journalists for a magazine he is launching next spring. Leonard, may I present Mr. Donald Brown.”

Hoffman extended his hand, gripping Donald’s firmly as he spoke.

“I hear that you are interested in photography.”

“
I hope to become a professional someday.”

Hoffman released his grip. It was surprisingly strong for a man who spent his days in an office.

“Nina has shown me some of your photographic prints. Do you have any experience with publications?”

“No sir, but I have a position waiting for me at the
Houston Chronicle
. That’s one of our local newspapers.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with it.
I’ve known Mr. Jones more than twenty years.” Hoffman paused, considering his next words.

“What would you be doing at the newspaper?”

“In the beginning, I would get the easiest assignments, photographing construction sites, meetings and public events.”

Elsie stepped up with another tray of sherry. Hoffman fingered his own drink, while Murray and Mrs. Carhart nodded their thanks. Donald
held up his glass to show Elsie that it was still half full. She smiled, turned slowly and walked away. Donald watched her go.

“Do those things interest you, Donald?”

“Sir?”

“Construction sites, meetings and public events. Does making photographs of them interest you?”

Hoffman had used the word “making” instead of “taking” pictures, a distinction that caught Donald’s attention. He and Mrs. Carhart had discussed it many times.

“I know those subjects are mundane, sir,” Donald said carefully, “but I see every photograph, no matter how simple, as an opportunity to do more.”

“Oh? What do you mean by that? Photography is just a matter of capturing an image using a simple box and a few chemicals, don’t you think? The job of the person holding the device is to get the exposure right.”

Donald glanced to Mrs. Carhart, whose eyes said, “Go on.” He sensed that she was studying his performance, as a coach might evaluate a young athlete.

“When I have a camera in my hands, I see more,” Donald said. “I notice things others might not see, then capture them in the frame.”

“Very poetic.”

The men standing nearby had stopped their conversation, as had Ida Templeton and Mrs. Carhart’s mother, still sitting together on the sofa.

“So you consider yourself an
artist
?” Hoffman said a bit too loudly.

The man’s words were clear, but Donald knew he meant something else. This was no idle question. Hoffman’s mood had turne
d serious, combative and cold.

“No,
sir, I don’t see my images as art.”

“What then?”

“My photographs are documents.”

“Documents? What do you mean by that?” Hoffman’s shoulders may have relaxed a fraction of an inch. Hard to tell.

“Documents, sir. I want my pictures to tell a story, so that the person who sees them gains an understanding of what’s happening, even if they can’t read.”

Hoffman relaxed a
nd took another sip of whisky before speaking.

“That’s a great deal to ask of a photograph.”

“Yes, but it can be done. I think photographs should be read, as one would read a book or a newspaper.”

Hoffman looked past Donald
and nodded toward the adjoining room, where Kamal waited.

“So, you believe a good photograph tells a s
tory? But tell me, Donald, are you ever concerned that the story might be wrong?”             

“Yes, sir,
I think about that often.” Donald paused while Hoffman thoughtfully placed his empty glass on Kamal’s tray and took the fresh one.

“Go on.”

“Yes, Mr. Hoffman. I think it is possible to reveal the truth with a photograph, but it’s also possible to lie, as easily as a person can lie with words. I believe it is the photographer’s duty to tell the truth to the best of his or her ability.”

Hoffman smiled and clamped his free hand on Donald’s shoulder. He raised his glass and looked him in the eye.

“So do I,” Hoffman said.

He turned to Mrs. Carhart, still gripping Donald’s shoulder. “Nina, I like this boy already.”

Nina
hadn’t noticed that she’d been holding her breath. Now, as Donald continued his visit with Leonard Hoffman, it was time to move on. She patted Donald’s arm and stepped away toward the two gentlemen a few feet away.

She addressed the older one first, a man whose most striking features were hi
s shiny bald head and muttonchop whiskers. Nina spoke to the powerful banker as if he were a childhood friend.

“Well, Jules, I understand that you are financing Leonard’s latest venture.”

Davenport and the man beside him both laughed.

“At least that’s what Leonard thinks,” the banker said, loud enough for the publisher to hear.

“Need a ride, Don
?” Cliff said, pointing to his two-passenger coupe parked near the curb. Compared to Jake’s rough-and-tumble Model T, the tidy green Nash seemed like a sporting, no-nonsense car. Cliff had left the upper half of the windshield and the side windows open, so even though the roof was black and the day warm, the tan leather seats inside felt cool when Donald opened the door. Cliff cranked the engine himself, then got in next to Donald.

“Where to?” Cliff said as they headed north on Heights Boulevard.

“I live on Dennis Street, near the orphanage.”

“You’ll have to show me where that is, I’m new to Houston.
”

“Circle back here at 18
th
Street, then head south.”

The Nash handled the brick street more smoothly than Jake’s tin lizzie, and it didn’t rattle as much, probably because of the white balloon
tires. Cliff looked at ease, with one hand gripping the top of the steering wheel, the other on its side.

“Say, Don, you held your own with Leonard. He can be difficult. I saw him talking to you all through the meal. Did he offer you a job?”

“It’s more of an apprenticeship, but yes. He used an odd term.”              

“Stringer?”

“That’s it. He said I could photograph stories in this area for his new magazine. The company will pay my expenses and something extra every time they use one of my pictures. Turn left at the next intersection.”

“And he will give you the assignments?” Cliff stuck his left arm out the window to signal the driver behind that he was turning. He slowed for a bicycle crossing Washington Avenue, then waited again for a buggy to pull over in front of the feed store.

“That’s what I liked most about Mr. Hoffman’s offer.” Donald said. “He, or one of the editors, will give me assignments, but he also wants me to keep my eyes open for stories that would fit the magazine.”

“He asks that of the writers as well,” Cliff said. “It’s one reason I agreed to join the venture several months ago. Leonard plans to give us a great deal of freedom to develop leads.”

“Leads?”

“S
tory ideas. I like to have at least three good leads at a time. It keeps me on my toes.”

“Three good leads,”
Donald repeated, “I like the sound of that. How many are on the staff now?”

Cliff thought for a minute, moving the fingers on his left hand to keep count.

“Ten in New York. Four in Washington D.C., two in Chicago, two in Los Angeles and two in San Francisco. He’s looking for someone in Denver. Looks like you and I are the staff in Houston.”

“That’s all? I thought he would have more in Texas. Oh, turn at the next street.”
             

Cliff signaled with his left arm for the right turn,
his arm out the window, bent smartly at the elbow, hand pointing up. Donald chuckled to himself. Jake would rather die in a crash than signal what he planned to do.

“Say, Don, have you done any writing?”

“Only what I put in my journals, but Mrs. Carhart thinks I could be a good writer.”

“Work at it, Don. If you stick with Leonard, he’ll push to see what you can do. Someone who can take the pictures and write about the
m is a real asset.”

“You’re a writer. Are you a photographer, too?”

“I have a camera, but that’s about it. I took a couple of pictures that my former editor used, but his standards weren’t high. Leonard expects only the best.”

“Then you must be a very good writer.”

Cliff looked at Donald and grinned. “I try.”

Before they reached Dennis
Street, Donald remembered he wanted to check the Stokes’ postal box for mail.

“You’re sure you have time, Cliff?”

“I’m glad to, Don. Where’s the post office?”

They stopped in a small asphalt parking lot adjacent to the building. Cliff left the engine running while Donald ran in. He walked quickly down a wall of ornate brass boxes, each with a combination lock, until he found the right one.

Through the small glass window, Donald could see there was mail. Two turns right to three, one turn left to nine, then back to five. The thick door swung open. Inside, an envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Stokes, and a post card from Galveston. Donald snatched the card. On the front, a rotogravure illustration of the seawall and buildings along the boulevard. He flipped to the back side to read Clara’s one-line note.

Galveston, Sept. 13, 1918

Dear Donald,
It was a pleasure meeting you as well.

Regards, Clara Barnes

T
he energy drained from his arms and legs. He forgot the prospect of a challenging job with a new publication. Donald slipped the letter and Clara’s card into his pocket and walked toward the post office door. Only when he reached the steps outside did he remember Cliff waiting in his car.

“Bad news, Don?”
             

“N
ot exactly. I was expecting too much, I guess.”

“Too much of what?”

“I got a card from someone I met a few days ago, but she didn’t say much.”

“That’s too bad.”

Cliff sat for a moment, the engine of his car still idling. Donald looked straight ahead, resting his elbow on the open door and touching his thumbnail to his front teeth.

“Where’s your house, Don?”

“Oh, Cliff, sorry. It’s just a few blocks from here. I think I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself. Here is my card. Until Leonard hires more people in Texas, we won’t have an office, so this address is the boarding house where
I stay. If I'm not there, leave a message with the landlady.”

“Thanks, Cliff. I’ll be in touch.”

Donald stepped back from the car and felt a solid thump when he closed the door. He was halfway home before he realized he should have offered his own address and the Stokes’ telephone number.

Clarence kept a burn barrel near the alley gate in the far corner of the yard, and that’s where Donald found him, loading a few combustible
items that hadn’t sold. Clarence balanced a heavy apple crate on the rim of the barrel. He was holding an old copy of
Popular Science
magazine and muttering to himself. He didn’t hear Donald walk up.

“No reason for
throwin’ this away, ‘cept for The Queen Herself demands it.”

“Hi
, Pa.”

Startled, Clarence nearly dropped the whole box into the burn barrel. Luckily, it wasn’t lit.
             

“Hi
, Donny, I didn’t know you was there. I think I don’t hear so well any more.”

“What’s in the box?”

“Some perfectly good magazines your ma says I got to throw away.”

“Are those the ones you’ve had in the garage for years?”

“I read ‘em when they come in, then store them in case I want to read ‘em again.”

“But you never do.”

“Now, don’t go takin’ her side. There’s valuable information here.” Clarence found an issue that was barely a year old. Cockroaches had eaten the top edge of the cover and half the spine, but otherwise it was in good shape, except for the mildew smell.

“Now look here.” Clarenc
e held open an article called
Listen to the World
. The photograph showed a man seated at a workbench, wearing what looked to be metal earmuffs connected by wires to an electrical device. His left hand rested on one dial, but his eyes had a glazed, far-away look. The pencil in his right hand was poised over the beginnings of a message he was writing down.