The Image Seeker

by Amanda Hughes

  Max stared at her.

  “So,” Billie said, dropping her eyes, “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be, Bassett,” he said, taking a sip of coffee.

  When she looked up at him, he was smirking.

  “Water under the bridge,” he added, putting a napkin in his lap. “Although I may have to smother Corky for telling you.”

  “Why is your past a secret?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not really a secret. I just don’t advertise it. I used to move in circles that would’ve scoffed had they known. For obvious reasons, I don’t see those people anymore.”

  “I won’t scoff,” Billie said.

  Max stopped with his cup in mid-air. “You really want to hear about where I grew up?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you have to tell me about your past too.”

  “Let’s see who can top who,” Billie said, grinning.

  “Great idea. We’ll get Rufus in here to make book.”

  After that morning, the friendship between Billie and Max grew. Hours spent together on the road gave them ample time to get to know one another. They shared everything from their past experiences to their views on politics, religion, and culture. They even argued about sports. They became intimately familiar with each other’s idiosyncrasies, and Corky had been right. Max was indeed prone to dramatic outbursts. Frequently, he lost his temper traveling down the bumpy, dusty roads. He would have trouble reading the map, or they would get lost, and he would throw his hat down and curse.

  “Things never go smoothly on the road, Max. Get used to it,” Billie would say.

  And without fail, Max would bark, “I’ll never get used to it, Bassett.”

  Billie was the opposite. She would withdraw when she was upset, and at those times, Max would call her on it. “What’s eating you, Bassett? Come on. Try a little emotion. You’ll feel better.”

  In July, they received word from Mr. Canfield that they were to circle down into Oklahoma to document the exodus of hungry, unemployed Americans heading to California. Highways were crammed with families going west looking for work. They traveled in old pickups jammed with household goods and furniture tied to the roofs. Children were dressed in nothing more than flour sack gowns and barefoot. People pushed wheelbarrows or baby buggies piled high with belongings.

  Billie photographed them on the road or as they cooked around campfires, while Max interviewed them.

  “What are you doing?” Rufus asked one day as Billie lined up children for a shot.

  “I’m photographing their little feet, bloodied from walking,” she murmured and snapped open an umbrella.

  “And what’s that for?”

  “It’s a little trick I do to create interesting shadows.”

  In the town of McAlester, when Max stopped to interview a group of men sitting outside a mercantile, Billie darted inside. “Another hat?” he asked, when she came out holding a bag.

  “Yes, so now we have to go to the post office to mail it.”

  “How many hats does your grandmother need?”

  “One from every state I visit. This time, I bought one for my father too, in case I ever see him again. He was born here, you know.”

  “In this town?”

  “I don’t know exactly where but in the area.”

  As they walked to the post office, Max said, “The group I was talking to were Choctaw. They were a tough group to crack, hesitant to talk. I’m guessing the Depression is hitting them harder than anyone. We really need to tell their story.”

  “They probably don’t trust us. Let’s go back. I’ll tell them about my father. It may help.”

  Billie’s heritage did open doors as they traveled across the state, and as a result, their best work came out of Oklahoma. By September, it was time to return, so they started circling back up into Kansas once more.

  One afternoon ,as they traveled down a lonely road toward Kansas City, they pulled up to an old gas station. “Damn, I didn’t think they’d have a phone booth way out here,” Rufus said, pulling over.

  Luckily, Max liked the fast-talking little bookie, so he tolerated his frequent stops, and Billie didn’t mind because she liked getting out to stretch her legs.

  She walked inside to buy soda pop and struck up a conversation with the owners while Max sat on the steps of the store. A school bus pulled up and dropped off their daughter, so Max started talking with the girl. He loved talking to everyone, no matter what age.

  It was a warm day, and Billie fanned herself as she drank a Coca-Cola and visited with the couple. The man was dressed in greasy overalls, sitting on a stool, talking about the weather, and his wife, a pale, thin woman, dusted merchandise.

  Suddenly, they heard Max say outside, “No, not true.”

  “It is too,” the girl argued.

  “Is not.”

  “Is too!”

  Billie rolled her eyes. “Maturity is not my friend’s strong suit.”

  They laughed. “Our daughter is very opinionated as well.”

  When they went out to the steps, the woman said, “This is our daughter.”

  Billie stopped, thunderstruck.

  It was Olive. She looked a bit older but was still dressed like a boy with a cap on her head and the Egyptian necklace around her neck. She stood up slowly, looking at Billie, recognition on her face.

  “What are you two arguing about?” the man asked.

  Olive did not reply.

  Max answered, “She says her necklace was Cleopatra’s, and I say it was Nefertiti’s.” He winked.

  Olive suddenly woke up and barked, “You’re wrong! It was Cleopatra’s.”

  He started to laugh.

  “Olive came to us one day, walking down the road like a gift from God,” the woman said. “She had just lost her mother and her sister, and she was without a home.”

  Billie swallowed hard and stammered. “I—I like your necklace, Olive.”

  “She got it from her mother,” the woman said.

  “Is that true?” Billie asked Olive.

  “That’s true,” Olive murmured.

  Just then, Rufus stepped out of the phone booth and announced, “All done, folks. Let’s hit the road.”

  They thanked the owners and started off. The wind had picked up, swirling dust, and when Billie turned around to look, she could barely see Olive, but she was still there. Billie raised her hand in farewell, and so did Olive.

  Chapter 18

  Billie and Max did not return directly to New York City. They traveled instead to Washington D.C., where they met with Leo Steiner to review their work.

  Billie had her hands full trying to keep Max calm all the way out on the train. “The government will want to dictate what I write,” he said. “I can see it coming.”

  “Just show them a few notes and then write what you want,” she told him. “Don’t get in a big fight. You’ll never win with the government.”

  Nevertheless, she understood how Max felt. She was struggling with her own worries. All her film had to be sent to D.C. for developing, and she wondered what they would do with it or if she would ever see it again.

  By the time they reached the capital, the staff had indeed gone through her photographs and made their decisions. The outcome infuriated her. The unwanted pictures they had defaced by punching holes through them.

  She bit her tongue and attended the meetings, but it was difficult. Max even managed to stay quiet, although she could see the veins in his neck bulging. It was a long, tedious ordeal with Steiner, but in end, he had nothing but praise for them. “Many thanks to you both,” he said. “This work is outstanding. The president will be so pleased.”

  They returned home, glad it was over. After settling back in, Billie realized she was without a job. As each day passed, she grew more anxious, so she decided to apply again at the precinct. Just as she was about to leave, the phone rang. It was Edward Canfield, and he offered her employment at The Times as a staff photographer.
r />   Billie hung up and shrieked with joy. She had, at last, realized her dream. She was now a paid photojournalist.

  Over the next few weeks, she met with Mr. Canfield and two other new photographers to design their job descriptions. Staff photography was a new profession in newspapers, and they were breaking new ground. There had always been the occasional picture, but now technology allowed more and more photographs.

  The field seemed to be expanding before Billie’s eyes. Photographs were in all the periodicals now, not just The New York Times. She had even heard of a magazine about to hit the stands dedicated exclusively to photojournalism, called Life.

  Although Billie worked at The Times, she had not talked to Max since their return. His desk was across the room from her, and she could see him working feverishly day and night.

  “He sits hunched over that typewriter compulsively writing stories from your assignment,” Corky said to Billie one evening as they were about to leave. “He smokes one cigarette after another and barks at me whenever I interrupt him.”

  Billie shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I actually miss his inane chatter.”

  “I know,” Corky replied, laughing. “Me too.” She opened her desk drawer and retrieved her handbag. “Come on. Let’s go get that drink. Lillian’s waiting.”

  One morning, the phone rang, and to Billie’s surprise, it was Max. “Bassett, it’s happening.”

  “What is?”

  “They’re publishing our work.”

  “I’m on it!” she said, grabbing her coat.

  Billie ran down to the newsstand and bought a copy of every paper and magazine she could find. The first thing she saw were Max’s articles on the front page of The New York Times. And much to her delight, her photographs were splashed all over magazines and periodicals. She knew then that the government had made them available nationally.

  When she returned home, the phone was ringing. It was Life Magazine calling to inform her that her work would be profiled in their premier issue.

  That evening, as Billie was about to leave the newsroom, she heard Artie Prince, one of the staff reporters, shout, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  There were several loud pops, and she realized champagne was being opened.

  “Congratulations!” the staff roared.

  Harry Johnson, who sat across from Max, jerked him to his feet. Everyone applauded, slapping his back and jostling him. Max smiled sheepishly and thanked them.

  Mr. Canfield emerged from his office and walked over to Billie. Taking her hand, he said, “A job well done, Miss Bassett. Way above and beyond expectations.”

  Corky ordered food later that evening, and the celebration continued late into the night.

  The next day at lunch, Max asked Billie, “Are you hung over?”

  “A little,” she laughed.

  “Me too. Food is the best cure. Have lunch with me today. There’s a place I want to show you.”

  “All right, let me put my equipment away.”

  An hour later, Max was leading her through the lobby of The Algonquin Hotel. It was a richly furnished building erected at the turn of the century, with high ceilings, chandeliers, dark wood paneling, and tall ferns. Guests lounged in club chairs in the lobby, sipping cocktails.

  Max and Billie walked back to the Rose Room.

  “Hello, Mr. Rothman,” the maître-d’hôtel said.

  “Anyone at the Round Table yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Parker, Miss Ferber, and Mr. Benchley are there.”

  Billy gasped, “Max, no─”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll love you. Your work impressed the hell out of them.”

  The maître-d’hôtel raised an eyebrow at her.

  Max took Billie’s hand as they wound through the busy dining room. “We don’t meet regularly anymore,” he said. “But today is a special occasion. Edna is in town, so it’s a great opportunity for them to meet you.”

  Billie could see the three literary giants smoking at a large, round table with a white tablecloth. She would have known them anywhere: Edna Ferber, bony and long-faced with graying hair, now fifty; Dorothy Parker, a petite brunette in her forties with big, dark eyes; and Robert Benchley, a paunchy middle-aged man with thin hair and a tiny, black mustache.

  “It’s the Kid!” Dorothy said to Max as they walked up.

  “The older I get, the better that name sounds,” he replied. “Are we too late for lunch?”

  “No, we just ordered,” Robert said, standing up as a courtesy to Billie.

  All eyes turned to her.

  “Here she is, as promised,” Max announced. “This is my colleague, Billie Bassett.” He introduced each of them.

  Edna patted a chair and said, “Sit here, Miss Bassett. I’ve seen your work and am dying to talk to you.”

  Billie murmured her thanks. She wanted to say more, but her mouth was dry, and her heart was racing.

  Dorothy put down her cigarette and said, “Max has told me all about you. But I have my own questions.”

  “Now, Dorothy─” Max warned.

  “Oh, come now. How cruel do you think I am?”

  They started a round of good-natured bickering as Billie sat twisting her hands in her lap.

  “Billie,” Edna said suddenly. “May I call you Billie?”

  “Of, course.”

  “Tell me about─”

  “Edna!” Robert interrupted. “Let the poor girl have a drink before you start grilling her!” He signaled to the waiter.

  Max reached under the table and squeezed Billie’s hand. Mr. Benchley was right. What she really needed at that moment was a good, strong drink.

  * * *

  “I was their whipping boy for many years,” Max told Billie later that night at the 21 Club. “But I didn’t mind. I was happy just to be included at the table. I was too young to keep up with their caustic tongues, but I listened and learned.”

  Billie sighed. “Thank goodness they were nice to me.”

  “I knew they would be. They only sharpen their wits on each other. Back in the Twenties, that table was always full,” he said, blowing smoke.

  “Who was there?”

  “Woollcott, Sherwood, Kaufman, a lot more than what you saw today. It was mostly writers, but even Harpo Marx was a regular.”

  “So, why did it fall apart?”

  “Things change; people go in different directions. I remember Edna saying, ‘I knew it was all over when I came here a few years ago and a family from Kansas was seated at our table.’’’

  Billie laughed. “They asked me if I was your girlfriend.”

  Max darted a look at her and then looked down at his cigarette. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Well, it surprised me. It’s so outrageous.” Billie laughed again. “Mrs. Parker told me on the sly to watch out. You have a string of girlfriends from here to Albuquerque.”

  “Oh, she did, did she?”

  “Say, speaking of which, there is someone in the newsroom interested in you. I told her I’d put in a good word,” Billie said.

  Max shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  “You don’t even know who it is yet. She’s very attractive.”

  “I said no thanks,” he snapped. “I have to get up early tomorrow.” He put out his cigarette. “Let’s call it a night.”

  “All right,” Billie replied, standing up. She felt as if she may have said something wrong, but she didn’t know what.

  * * *

  Billie saw little of Max over the next few weeks. He was hunched over the typewriter again, endlessly smoking and hammering the keys. Every time she tried talking to him, he put her off.

  She missed him, but she had plenty to do. Work kept her busy. When she wasn’t out with Leonard, Corky, or Lillian, she was walking the streets of New York capturing shots.

  Although work was fulfilling, it was structured. She was unable to be creative. Mr. Canfield appreciated some artistic treatment, but he r
eminded Billie that the job of The Times was to tell the news, not make art. So, in her spare time, Billie haunted the streets. Sometimes she would travel to other boroughs, but usually, there was enough to photograph close to home.

  One evening late in December, she dressed warmly, took her Graflex, and headed down the steps of her apartment building to comb the neighborhood for subjects. It was unusually quiet. There was a light snow falling, and the crunch of snow under her feet seemed loud.

  It was Christmas time, and all the shops had garlands and holly in the windows. She stopped and took several quaint shots, but this was not her specialty. She would leave cozy photography to Leonard.

  As she passed down 90th Street, she heard cheering in the distance. Curious, Billie followed the noise and came upon a rally of some kind. Maybe one hundred people were gathered outside the German American Center. With their hands buried deep in their pockets and stomping their feet to stay warm, the crowd listened to someone speaking on the steps. It was cold, and you could see his breath as he shouted in a thick German accent. He was a broad-shouldered man with a square face, narrow eyes, and dark brows that ran together over his nose.

  “I have just returned from Germany, and it is enjoying prosperity once more. Under the new Chancellor, the economy is steadily improving. But let us talk about our own home here in the United States. What has happened since the rich, Jew boy Franklin D. Rosenfeld was elected? Nothing! We are still hungry!”

  The crowd cheered, and there were shouts of agreement.

  “This is why I am here today to tell you that the National Socialist Party will return America to greatness. Once again, it will be the land of our forefathers. Small businesses will flourish once more. Industry, as well as our military, will be strong again. But most importantly, the National Socialist Party will create jobs for you by stopping the immigration of the Jews!”

  Thunderous applause.

  “No more Jew Deal!” someone shouted.

  They cheered some more. A chill traveled up Billie’s spine.

  “Who is this?” Billie asked the man next to her.

  “His name’s Fritz Krugh. The man is brilliant,” he said as he applauded.

  She remained for the rest of his speech then headed over to Shulman’s Tavern. As suspected, she found Bud Runyon sitting on a stool. Pulling the camera strap over her head, she put her camera on the bar and sat down next to him.