He pulled out a large wooden box with knobs, and Billie exclaimed, “You bought a radio!” She clapped her hands. “But can we afford it?”
“No,” he laughed. “But we will never regret it. Here’s a guide that tells us what time programs are on.” He handed her a booklet. Across the top it said, “What’s on the Air for this Week.” When she opened it, there were rows and rows of listings with everything from Amos ‘n Andy to Morning Devotions.
She looked at the time and asked, “Aunt Betty says Little Orphan Annie is cute. Can we listen to that?”
“Of course.”
Billie dished up supper as Virgil pulled off his heavy work boots. After throwing them by the door, he swung around in his chair and fussed with the dials, trying to find Little Orphan Annie.
“Now we are just like every other married couple in America,” she said, putting Virgil’s dinner down in front of him. “Listening to the radio at night.”
Virgil pulled her down in his lap. “How about we become that old married couple for keeps?”
She smiled, running her hands up and down his tattooed arms. “I’m ready.”
“I’ll speak with Father Kilpatrick right away.”
* * *
But Virgil did not speak with the priest right away. Weeks passed, and every time Billie brought up marriage, Virgil would make an excuse; he was too busy, or the priest was not available. She decided not to pursue it until his work slowed down in the winter.
One cold, fall afternoon, Billie emptied the cookie tin and counted out enough change to take the bus to Manhattan. She decided to see this Rockefeller Center. Putting on a blue tweed coat Virgil’s sister Peggy had given her and a felt hat, she made the journey across the river.
The moment the bus arrived in Manhattan, she noticed a difference. There were no women with baskets shopping, no children playing, no vendors, and no laundry overhead. Tall office buildings lined the streets, not tenements. Men in overcoats and fedoras rushed up and down the sidewalks as if they were late for work. She walked several blocks and found the job site. It was a huge fenced-off area gouged out of the earth, acres wide. Inside were trucks, heavy machinery, and the massive skeleton of the Rockefeller Center soaring into the sky. Around it were hoists and cranes swinging steel beams like tinker toys. It took Billie’s breath away. One false move from the operator and dozens of men could die.
Holding onto her hat, she looked up. Somewhere up there was Virgil. She felt her throat tighten. This is what he confronted every day. Yet, this is what he loved.
Billie didn’t stay long. She had seen enough, and it terrified her. On the bus ride home, she vowed never to return.
* * *
“It’s been a week since Les has had a good meal,” Virgil roared one night when he returned home from work.
Les was behind him and smiled shyly at Billie, removing his cap. Virgil’s older brother was a huge, hulk of a man, who was awkward and withdrawn. His held his head low, and when talking, he would only glance up occasionally. He had soft, brown eyes with long lashes and stringy dark hair. He combed it back, but strands continually fell over his face. He was kind, reserved, and respectful, the complete opposite of his wife Bunny. Virgil told Billie that Les talked more to her than anyone he had ever met.
Billie turned around from the stove. “Lester Sims, it’s about time you visit us! Come in here and sit down. I’m making pot roast.”
The men sat down at the table.
“When will Bunny be back?” she asked.
“Next week,” Les said, holding out his glass of beer, so Virgil could add whiskey.
“Now we’ll bring this piss-thin legal beer up to where it should be in alcohol content,” Virgil stated.
“Is Bunny visiting her sister at the reservation?” Billie asked.
“Yes, on the St. Lawrence.”
Virgil turned on the radio, searching for a station. “What should we listen to?”
“Is that Cab Calloway you just passed?” Billie said, taking the roast from the oven. “Can we listen to that?”
“Sure.”
Over dinner, the three visited about work. The weather had remained mild, so construction was continuing well into December.
“Who’s having Christmas this year?” Virgil asked.
“I think Uncle Artie is having it at The Lodge,” Les said. “There are too many of us to have it anywhere else.”
“Speaking of which,” Virgil said, pushing back from the table, “I’m going to run down to The Lodge and get some more whiskey. You’re staying, aren’t you, Les? After all, it is Friday.”
He nodded and wiped his mouth. “I’ll stay.”
Les helped Billie clear the dishes and then walked over to a picture hanging on the wall. She’d found it in the trash. The frame was cracked, but she glued it back together and hung it up.
“That’s Klimt,” Les said.
Drying her hands on a dish towel, she stepped up beside him. “Yes, I like what he does with patterns. You like art, Les?”
“More than anything. From the time I was a kid, I wanted to become an artist. Still do.”
“More than a skywalker?”
He chuckled and sat down at the table. “Not every Mohawk wants to be an ironworker. I just go along with everyone because I’m supposed to. I actually hate it. I would much rather stay home and paint.”
The radio was playing “Let’s Have Another Cup O’ Coffee,” and Billie turned it down, sliding onto the edge of a chair. “So, do you still paint?”
“No, I used to, but everyone said it was for sissies, so I stopped.”
“That’s a shame, Les. You should get back to it. What did you paint?”
“I liked watercolor, mostly landscapes.”
“I hear it’s a hard medium.”
He shrugged. “I like the challenge. I used to be─” he hesitated, “I was pretty good.”
Billie smiled a crooked smile. “I have a confession to make too.”
He looked up through the strings of his hair.
“I love photography.”
“Photography! Really?”
“Really. That’s how I met Virg.”
“I thought you met at the carnival.”
“I was working as a photographer there.” She sighed. “As much as I like keeping house, I still sometimes walk the streets looking for great shots, even though I don’t have a camera.”
“You don’t have a camera?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Do you still have your paints?”
“Ya, in the back of my closet.” Les looked up at the Klimt print again. “Does photography nag you the way painting nags me?”
“It sure does.”
He sighed. “I tell you the damnedest things, Billie.”
“Me too, Les.”
Just then, Virgil returned with more whiskey.
Chapter 14
1934
Winter came to New York City, and construction slowed. Virgil and Billie’s income dropped drastically, but they never complained. They knew they were lucky compared to many of their neighbors. The homeless, unemployed, and hungry were everywhere, loitering in doorways, warming their hands over steel drums fires, or standing in bread lines. Billie worried constantly about Olive, Luther, and Felix. Were they someplace warm? Did they have enough to eat? Were they even alive?
Every Sunday at Mass, special collections were taken up for the needy, and Billie worked three days a week at the soup kitchen in the church basement. The Sims were devout Catholics, and often, Virgil’s sisters worked alongside Billie, cooking and distributing food. She liked most of the women at Sacred Heart, although she knew many of them disapproved of her living arrangement with Virgil.
One morning, after returning from daily Mass, she saw Les standing on the steps of her building. It was snowing hard, and he stood hunched over, looking cold. Her heart jumped into her throat. “What’s wrong?” she cried, racing up the steps
. “Is Virgil alright?”
He stared at her with surprise. “I scared you. I’m sorry. Virg is fine. He’s working at ground level today.”
“Oh, good.” Billie sighed with relief. “Why are you standing out here, Les?”
“They sent me home. There wasn’t enough work, so I stopped by with this.” He handed her a bag. “I can’t stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Ya, I’m sure,” he said.
Burying his hands in his pockets, he walked down the steps. “See ya.”
“See ya.”
Billie watched him as he shuffled away, snow falling on his shoulders. When she got inside the apartment, she took her coat off and opened the bag. Inside was an Ensign E20 camera.
Billie gasped and pulled it out. It was nothing more than a common, folding camera for home use, but to her, it was magnificent.
Les had enclosed a note.
We got a new camera this Christmas. Thought you might like our old one.
P. S. I got my paints out again yesterday.
Billie looked back at the camera, murmuring, “Les, you’re one in a million.” She remembered that summer day long ago when she received her first camera from the Hofmanns—gifts from people who believed in her.
Just then, Virgil walked in. “There’s my beauty!” he boomed.
“Look what Les just gave us,” Billie said, holding up the camera.
“Well, I’ll be damned! Looks more like a gift for you.”
“He said they got a new one for Christmas, so we could have his old one. There’s film and everything.”
Virgil threw his jacket on a chair. “He told me he was thinking about doing this. I know you’ve been missing photography.”
“I do love it.”
“I’d be willing to bet his tart of a wife doesn’t know he gave you this.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sure not.”
* * *
It surprised everyone at the soup kitchen the next day when Bunny Sims sauntered in and put on an apron.
“Well, Bunny Sims, is that really you?” Edie Lacroix, Virgil’s older sister, asked. Tiny and full of energy, she ran the church kitchen. “I didn’t think you got out of bed before eleven.”
“Not often,” Bunny replied, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “I thought I’d get up early today and do what you good Catholics do.”
Edie handed her a knife. “You can start by chopping carrots.”
Bunny tossed it back on the counter, drinking her coffee instead. “I’ll get to it after my hangover’s in check.”
Billie didn’t want to be anywhere near Bunny, so she moved out front to set up tables. She managed to avoid her until after the meal when they were all back in the kitchen doing dishes.
“Is everyone going to the Bouchard wedding this weekend?” Christina Sims asked.
“We are,” Billie said.
“Be sure to bring your new camera,” Bunny sneered, lighting a cigarette.
Not looking up from the sink, Billie replied, “Thank you for giving it to us.”
“Uh, huh,” Bunny grunted, blowing smoke. “And speaking of weddings, when are you and Virg tying the knot?”
“Stop it, Bunny,” Edie intervened.
Billie did not reply.
“It’s a simple question, one that’s on everyone’s lips.”
“We haven’t set a date yet.”
Bunny crossed her arms and leaned back on the counter. “Father Kilpatrick is next door. Why don’t you ask him why Virg is dragging his feet?”
Billie did not respond, and everyone in the kitchen grew quiet.
“Well, it looks like everything is cleaned up. Let’s call it a day,” Edie announced.
That night, Billie asked Virgil what Bunny meant. Rather than answer, he grabbed his coat and stormed out of the house.
* * *
Billie didn’t sleep well that night. Virgil returned home late, and when he crawled into bed, she could smell alcohol on him. She had a sick feeling about what he was hiding, so instead of tossing and turning, she rose early and took her camera to the streets of Brooklyn. It was the balm she needed, and in no time, her ennui lifted.
Billie was alive once more. Having a camera in her hand felt like the most natural thing in the world. She took shots of North Gowanus first, images she had wanted to capture from the moment she arrived, and then moved on to other neighborhoods. She photographed men on street corners smoking, a boy selling newspapers, a mother going through a trash can with a child on her hip, and a beautiful 1934 Packard parked next to a bread line.
Billie walked for miles capturing images, stopping only once to buy more film. When the sun started to set in the late afternoon, she blinked and looked around. She had no idea where she was and had to ask a grocer how to return to North Gowanus. As she rode the bus home, she was amazed at how far she had wandered, and she was incredibly hungry.
When she returned to the apartment, Virgil was sitting at the kitchen table. He had dark rings under his eyes, and he looked tired. “I just got home—a full day of work.”
She nodded, put the camera on the table, and said, “I’ll start supper.”
“Can we talk first?” he said, grabbing her hand.
Billie nodded and sat down.
“You must know more than anything I want to marry you,” he stated.
“But,” she said, swallowing hard.
“I’m already married.”
Billie pressed her eyes shut a moment and bit her lip, nodding. “I had a feeling.”
“It happened back on the reservation years ago. I was only sixteen. She was even younger. We were stupid, impulsive kids and thought it would be fun to get married. But in no time, we were running around on each other. After a few months, she took off with a guy and never came back.”
“Is she still alive?”
Virgil nodded. “Every once in a while, she turns up. So, I talked with Father Kilpatrick about an annulment. He told me about the rules. It’s next to impossible to get one. The only chance was that she was too young. She was only thirteen when we got married.”
“Holy smokes, Virgil!”
He nodded and dropped his eyes. “For the marriage to be recognized by the church, the boy has to be sixteen and the girl fourteen. So, Father Kilpatrick wrote for her birth certificate. It arrived just before Christmas, and it was bad news. She had just turned fourteen when we got married.”
“So, it was valid?”
“It was valid.”
Billie sighed and slumped back in her chair.
Virgil reached for his pack of Lucky Strikes and lit a cigarette. “I’m sorry, Billie. I really didn’t think the marriage with her would stick. I love you so much.”
They sat for a long time in silence.
Billie was numb. She wondered why she didn’t rage or cry; instead, she stared straight ahead. She should be scared, feel betrayed or hurt, but she felt empty. Perhaps the reason was that a part of her had known the answer for a long time.
At last, she stood up and said, “I’ll start supper.”
* * *
It took weeks for her to sort things out, but in the end, Billie decided to stay with Virgil. She knew they would face disapproval from church members and be shunned by many, but it was worth it. She also wondered what Father Kilpatrick would do. For now, he looked the other way.
By spring, the whispers and gossip died down, and the scandalmongers found someone new to crucify. Through it all, Billie consoled herself with her photography. Frequently, she would go to other boroughs, making new discoveries. Every part of the massive city seemed to have its own distinct flavor.
One afternoon, when she returned home from the Germantown district of Manhattan, she decided to write a letter to the Hofmanns. Ever since she had received the camera from Les, she had been thinking about them, and seeing the German community that day made her feel nostalgic. She hoped they were still alive.
To Billie’s delight, she received a r
eply a few weeks later. The Hofmanns were alive and well and still farming. They were happy to hear she had found a good man, a home, and that she was still taking pictures. They urged her to visit as soon as possible. Her old room was ready and waiting for her, as well as her camera.
Billie folded up the letter and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. Life had taken her a long way from home, and their affectionate words made her feel homesick. She glanced at the clock. It was time to go. Every Thursday night, she would meet Virgil down at The Lodge for a beer, which was now a legal bar, since Prohibition had been repealed.
After splashing water on her face, she grabbed her coat and hat and left. When she arrived, Virgil was sitting on a stool talking with Les. They did not look up. Les was staring down into his beer, not moving. Uncle Artie was wiping the bar and watching Les closely, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He nodded a greeting to Billie.
“Virgil?” she said.
He looked up, put his arm around her waist, and said, “Sweetheart, Aunt Betty is over there. Why don’t you join her?”
“All right.”
When Billie slid into the booth, Betty Lawrence frowned.
“What is it, Betty?”
She shook her head, her double chin jiggling. “That damn Bunny Sims. God, how I hate that woman!”
“What happened?”
“She ran off with a guy in their apartment building.”
Billie gasped and put her head back on the seat of the booth. “And Les is completely devastated.”
Betty nodded. “We all know he’s better off, but he don’t see it that way.”
“Is he talking at all?”
“No, just drinking. Christ, a man that size can really knock ‘em back.”
Billie looked at Les’ back hunched over the bar. Virgil sat next to him, looking tiny.
An hour passed with a steady stream of friends and family coming by to console Les. He never looked up, never acknowledged anyone. He just continued to drink the watered down whiskey Artie served him.
At last, Virgil came over to the booth. “Billie, you may as well go home. I’m going to spend the night with Les. I want to make sure he doesn’t go to work tomorrow.”
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