Her ticket was tucked safely in her handbag, along with two weeks’ spending money. Mr. Canfield would wire money as needed after that. Billie would be taking the train with Max to Kansas City, and from there, a driver would be waiting for them. They would cross the Great Plains, documenting the lives of farm families impacted by the economic depression and the drought-stricken prairies.
Billie’s heart jumped when she stepped out of the cab and walked into the station. It was a massive space with tall cathedral ceilings, pillars, benches, ticket booths, and shops. Travelers rushed back and forth carrying luggage as announcements blared over the loudspeaker.
Everything was new to her. She straightened her suit, took a deep breath, and walked over to the huge board displaying train times and track numbers. Billie saw that her train was boarding, and she walked through massive doors down to the tracks. It felt odd walking the train platform smartly dressed in a hat and high heels with a ticket in her hand. She wasn’t waiting in the weeds outside of town dressed like a man ready to jump into the first open boxcar that passed by. That was easy; traveling in style was intimidating.
A part of her felt guilty. There were thousands of people out there hungry and destitute, and she was here about to board a train, well-fed and employed. Yet, she knew her photography would help those in need and bring support to F.D.R. and his New Deal program.
She gave her ticket to the conductor and stepped onto the train with a smile. It was her first “legal ride.”
The Times had paid for a roomette, and although it was small, to Billie, it seemed like Buckingham Palace. After tipping the porter, she looked around. Two long seats faced each other on either side of a large picture window. Beds were hidden in the walls that could be lowered at night, and there was a drop-down table for dining. What delighted Billie the most, though, was the tiny bathroom with a small, round sink, a stool and fluffy, white towels.
A half hour later, they were off. A few miles out, she saw a Hooverville jungle. Only a short time ago, she was part of that hobo world. She thought of Luther, Felix, Olive, and Hazel again. A day never passed without thinking of her former family.
It wasn’t long before the sleepless nights caught up with her, and Billie dozed off. When she opened her eyes again, she had slept for several hours. Her dinner seating was in an hour, so after freshening up, she decided to explore the train. She passed from car to car, savoring the luxury. She counted three Pullman cars, two roomette cars, a dining car, and many coaches filled with rows and rows of comfortable, cushioned seats. Porters walked up and down the aisles, selling snacks and cigarettes. The passengers talked quietly, dozed or read. When Billie stepped into one of the vestibules between cars, she encountered Max Rothman.
“Glad I ran into you, Miss Bassett,” he said, shouting over the roar. “We should probably get to know one another.”
Billie smiled. “Yes, we will be spending quite a bit of time together.”
“I’ll buy you a drink.”
They walked to the club car and sat down. Low round-backed upholstered chairs were arranged around small tables, and there were ashtrays on pedestals. A small bar stood at one end of the car with a bartender. Waiters, many of them Negros clad in white coats, brought drinks on trays.
“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks,” Max said to the waiter. “And what’s your poison, Miss Bassett?”
“An old fashioned.”
“The lady will have an old fashioned, please.”
When he left, Max offered her a cigarette.
“No, thank you.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
He lit up, blew his smoke, and said, “Now, tell me about Billie Bassett.”
“I’m sure Corky has told you plenty.”
“Some.”
Billie sat back and crossed her legs.
Max’s eyes darted down to her knees and back up again.
“Did she tell you I used to ride the rails?”
“She did. She said you were a regular on the ‘Spartan Limited’.”
“That’s right. Did she tell you I’m Chippewa Indian?”
He nodded and added, “Und dass du Deutsch sprichst.”
She laughed. “And she told you I speak German. Are you fluent?”
“Sort of, I was born in Hamburg. We moved to New York when I was ten. What did Corky tell you about me?”
Billie shrugged. “Very little, just that you’re temperamental.”
He laughed. “Don’t hold back.”
“And that you were married to Rebecca Klein Allen.”
“That’s all she told you?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, it’s disconcerting hearing your life summed up in so few words.”
The waiter brought their drinks, and Billie asked, “Do you still have relatives in Germany?”
“My brother is over there now.”
“What does he think of the new German chancellor?”
Max frowned. “He thinks he’ll be the ruin of Germany, maybe all of Europe, and I agree. The American people need to know what’s going on over there. I fought Canfield hard for an overseas assignment, but instead, I was saddled with this domestic drivel.”
Billie drew her eyebrows together. “Drivel? What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s rubbish, propaganda to help F.D.R.”
“You think they expect us to inflate the amount of suffering?”
“I don’t intend to. If I have to do this project, I want to do it right. I don’t want it to be sentimental slop.”
“Agreed. I have a few ideas already. May I run them by you?”
“By all means.”
* * *
Billie and Max talked until their seating was called in the dining car, where they continued their discussion. They had similar ideas about the project, and before the evening was complete, they had established the overall goals of the assignment.
Billie found Max charming, but Corky had warned her not to be deceived. “His charisma hides his ambition. If Max doesn’t get what he wants, there’s hell to pay. Fortunately, his tantrums never last long.”
“He sounds like a two-year-old,” Billie observed.
“That’s a perfect description, harmless but annoying.”
When they arrived in Kansas City the next day, their driver met them at the station. He was a tiny, fast-talking man with cuts on his face and a bandaged nose.
“Salutations, I’m Rufus Noonan,” he said, holding out his hand and snapping his gum.
Max shook his hand and looked at the dirty, broken-down automobile he was driving. “What is that?”
“A 1929 Model A Roadster. This old gal is the most reliable motorcar in all of Kansas,” Rufus said. “She’s been everywhere. I used to run bootleg in her. Now that the juice is legal, I have other forms of employment.” He winked.
“But one of them is working for the local paper, right?” Max asked.
“Sure thing, pal.”
Rufus opened the door for Billie, who slid into the front seat. She mumbled to Max, “Is this best The Times could do?”
“Well, you know the paper has so little money,” he replied sarcastically and plunked down in the back seat.
After Rufus threw the luggage alongside Max, they set off.
“You work for the Kansas City Star?” Max asked.
“Yup, when I’m not making book. That’s my main job now.”
“Uh, huh,” Max replied with a chuckle.
The top was down, and Billie was holding onto her hat. “What happened to your nose, Mr. Noonan?”
“That? Oh, ah, a horse kicked me. By the way, call me Rufus.”
“All right, Rufus.”
They traveled through town, turned, and crossed train tracks. Suddenly, Billie’s heart jumped. It was not far from the spot where Hazel had been shot. She looked the other way, anxiety flooding her. I must turn my attention to other things. She took a deep breath and thought instead about
her time with the carnival here in Kansas. Driving Clara Bow down dusty roads, laughing with Florence and the girls, working with Mr. Marzetti, and even moments by the carousel with Virgil. Slowly, she calmed down.
Gradually, the landscape became rural. The effects of the Dust Bowl became apparent. Homes were abandoned, fields were dry and withered, and the farmers looked like scarecrows.
“You two know about Black Sunday?” Rufus asked as they bounced along.
“Read about it, that’s all,” Max said.
“Scary as hell, a black wall of dust carried on the wind. It was a mile high rolling across the land, choking us all. There was no hiding from the goddamn thing. We thought it was the end of the world.”
Max leaned forward in his seat. “I heard there was no escape, even inside.”
“That’s right,” Rufus replied. “The dust blew in and sat right down, like the devil himself, covering the furniture and the floor and the beds. It was in your hair, on your skin, and in your teeth, but worst of all, it was in your lungs. It killed many folks, just suffocated them.”
Billie pointed suddenly and exclaimed, “Stop here, Rufus!”
He pulled over and stopped. When her car door would not open, she jumped right over it.
“Good thing she has on a pair of pants,” Rufus exclaimed to Max.
Billie yanked her camera and tripod from the backseat and rushed over to set up a shot.
“What’s the hurry?” Max called after her. “It’s an abandoned house. It’s not going anywhere.”
“It’s the light. I have to grab the light before it changes.”
An old wooden farmhouse sat forlornly on the open plain, its weathered walls bleached a sickly gray. Behind it stood a tall windmill and a leafless tree. A huge mound of dust had accumulated along one wall, obscuring a window. A barn with a caved-in roof and a shed stood in the distance.
While Billie was setting up her shot, Max got out, walked over, and picked up a rope that was on the ground. One end was attached to the barn and the other to the back door of the farmhouse.
“They followed that rope so they wouldn’t get lost in the dust storm on the way to the barn,” Rufus said.
Max stared at him, flabbergasted, and then took out a pad of paper, starting to write.
“You two, out of the shot!” Billie yelled.
“Yes, ma’am!” Max said, jumping.
He started back toward the car with Rufus.
“Is she always bossy like this?” Rufus asked.
Max shrugged. “I guess. What I do know is she has an eye for things the rest of us would never notice.”
Once Billie had her shots, they set off again, spending the rest of the day driving up and down country roads, looking for good photos for Billie and people to interview for Max.
Sometimes, Max would have Rufus stop, and he would visit with farmers and their families, asking them about their experiences and why they stayed. Occasionally, he was rebuffed, but usually, people told their story.
Billie was awed by Max’s talent for thawing people. She was beginning to realize why he was considered the best in the business.
“How the hell does he do it?” Rufus asked, scratching his head. “When we drive up, I swear they’re about to raise a shotgun, and in less than a minute, he’s laughing with them.”
Billie shook her head. “Beats me.”
She walked over just as the farmer was saying, “Strangest thing you’d ever seen. The static in the air before that dust storm was God awful. The wife’s hair stood straight out. And you’d get a shock when you touched the pickup.”
The farmer’s wife was a stout woman in a shapeless, print housedress and apron. She nodded. “The birds knew something was coming too. There were swarms of them flying out ahead of the cloud.”
“Terrifying sight,” the farmer said. “Terrifying sight.”
Billie jumped in. “Would you mind if I took some shots of you when you are done visiting with Mr. Rothman?”
The couple looked at one another with sheepish smiles and nodded.
Billie retrieved her Graflex. Her heart was pounding with excitement; she had an idea for a good new angle.
When Max was done, she got started. She had the couple stand on the sagging porch of the farmhouse while she squatted down and took shots. Next, she moved them to the barn door and did the same thing. Finally, she took photos of them with the wide expanse of sky overhead. Satisfied, she thanked the couple and left.
“Why did you shoot them from that low angle?” Max asked when she returned to the car.
“I wanted them to look taller to show their strength and dignity. I want people to understand through the photograph that, although they’re hit hard by this Depression, they are still full of fight.”
Max nodded. “Yes, I think fighting back is what we Americans do best.”
Chapter 17
For the next two weeks, they crossed rural Kansas documenting the lives of ordinary Americans in the Midwest. Dressed in an old work shirt, trousers, and suspenders, Billie engaged in every manner of acrobatics to accomplish her shots. She climbed trees, balanced on fences, traipsed through fields, and sprawled in the dirt. The sun burned her skin and dried her hands, but she didn’t care. She was in her glory and doing what she loved.
Max was equally engrossed in his assignment, although his job did not demand the same physical activity. He dressed in an old suit, fedora hat, and he carried a pad of paper in his breast pocket. Usually, a cigarette was hanging out of his mouth.
“I have to admit, Bassett, I didn’t want this job at first,” he said one night as they sat in a diner eating a meatloaf dinner.
She nodded and took a bite. “I could tell.”
“I didn’t want to hear the stories of deprivation,” he continued. “But it’s different from what I thought.”
“How so?”
“These people are strong and proud to the core. They aren’t looking for help. In fact, I think the government will have a hard time getting them to take any kind of aid.”
Billie stared at him. She thought of the emaciated hobos on the road she had known, the hungry families searching through garbage cans, and the prostitutes selling themselves on the street. And then she thought of Max’s pampered life of martinis and night clubs in Manhattan. She was astounded. It had taken this long for him to understand the realities of the ordinary American, and suddenly, she was repulsed by his snobbish naiveté. “Of course, they don’t want help,” she snapped. “They have their pride. You really don’t know what it’s like to go without, do you?”
Max looked up suddenly from his meal, his eyes black eyes flashing. He wiped his mouth and said, “No, darling, nothing at all.” He pushed his plate away and sneered. “I know this may offend you since there are so many Americans starving, but suddenly I can’t eat.”
Max threw money on the table for his meal, put on his hat, and left.
* * *
Things were frosty between Billie and Max after that. Whenever they pulled into a gas station, which was often because Rufus was making book over the phone, there were long silences.
They took their meals alone, and many nights, Billie ate in her hotel room. Starting to get lonely, she made a long distance call to Corky one evening. Corky asked, “How has it been traveling with Max?”
Billie hesitated. “Fine, just fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“No, it’s gone well.”
“All right, fess up, kid. What’s wrong?”
Reluctantly, Billie told her, and Corky said, “Well, I hate to tell you this, but you owe him an apology.”
Billie gasped. “Me! Why? He’s the one who’s out of touch. He has no idea what it’s like to go without the niceties in life.”
“But he does. He just doesn’t talk about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He grew up on the Lower East Side.”
“What?”
“The Lower East Side of New
York.”
There was a long silence.
“Billie, are you still there?”
“Isn’t that one of the roughest parts of New York?”
“The worst. His parents were poor Jewish immigrants. He managed to claw his way to the top with brains and fast talk. If he puts a little too much emphasis on money, that’s why.”
Billie moaned. “How could I have known? He was married to Rebecca Klein Allen, and when he’s in New York, his clothes are the finest─”
“Well, now you know the truth, but he’ll kill me for telling you.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Billie said grudgingly.
* * *
Max was furious at Billie. He believed she was nothing more than a self-righteous, avant-guard, do-gooder, and if he never spoke to her again, it would be too soon. Yet, damned if he knew why, there was something about her that mesmerized him. He had known a lot of females, but this one was unique. Was it her confidence, or the way she moved with a camera, or those seductive eyes under those arched brows?
He scowled. He mustn’t think about her in flattering terms. She is intolerant and judgmental, another working-class hero, who never lets you forget they came up the hard way.
Max lit a cigarette and watched her walk over to him. He had a lot of questions about Billie Bassett, but one thing he knew for sure, those suspenders stretched over those full breasts drove him wild.
* * *
Billie could see Max studying her as she walked up. She knew he looked down on her. I don’t care what his upbringing was; he is still a snob. He thinks I’m nothing more than a hobo with a camera. No matter how many baths I take or chic clothes I wear, I will always be that vagrant from the Midwest. And now I have to apologize to him!
“Buy you breakfast?” she asked stiffly.
“I never turn down a free meal.”
They walked into the Preston Café and sat down. After ordering, Billie took several gulps of coffee, a deep breath and said, “Max, I owe you an apology. I made a rush judgment about you before I knew the whole story. Corky told me about your childhood, and you most certainly do know what it’s like to go without.”
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