by Steve Amick
The picture was incredibly moving. It made her sad, of course, but also a little angry. And, also, almost want to laugh.
“I got to thinking,” Wink said. “You told me all about depth of field—what it is, how to adjust it—but you never told me why you'd want to use it.”
He was right. She'd never asked Pop either, and she didn't think Chesty ever had. It was just a tool, to use or not use.
This is an artist, she thought. That's the difference.
For the first time in a long time, she wished her pop could be there, just to put his two cents in.
Wink had his hands shoved down in his trouser pockets now. She hadn't seen him look this anxious since the time he tried to convey Chesty's message, that first night in June of ‘44, nearly two years back. “You know,” he said, “maybe this doesn't make any sense and this is probably crap here, just something I'm goofing around with, but … it's the first time I've done anything since …” He held up his right hand, the uncooperative one. “You know—that feels like when I used to do my cartoons. Like I'm almost saying something, you know? Leastways, working with juxtaposition, irony, all that good stuff. Not just making an interesting picture or a cute picture or—”
“It's exactly like that,” she told him. “And it belongs in print.”
She told him she'd talk to Bob at the Trib and see if he'd take a look at it and gave him a little cuff on the shoulder on the way out of the darkroom, the way she imagined Chesty would have.
51
There was a male face at the front door of the shop. Wink had been expecting Reenie for more than two hours, but that hardly looked like her. Not so much around the mustache; the much rounder, Germanic-looking head.
But she was there, too, about to let herself in. He heard her husky laugh and another woman's, too, and the rattle of her keys.
They'd been planning to do a shoot of Reenie doing calisthenics with a set of chest expanders and fake barbells she'd made the night before with balloons and a carpet tube, all painted black. She'd been clear she'd come straight over after clocking out at the Stevens-Gross Studio. Now here it was almost nine, and she'd brought guests?
He'd been heading down the back hallway, making strides into the darkened front part of the shop, intending to throw the bolt on the door just to save Reenie the trouble of unlocking it and to impress upon her, with his quick steps and glowering, that she'd been wasting his evening and there was lost time to make up, when he stopped up short, only halfway down the hall, recognizing the face in the glass.
It was a face that took him back five years now, before the war, to art classes here in town—classes where he could properly hold a brush or a piece of charcoal, pinched precisely between his marvelously engineered fingers.
It was Gil Elvgren. His hero.
Why in the wide world had she brought him here?
Sidestepping into the cellar doorway, he peered back just as Reenie's spare key finally came through for her and they burst in, the shop bell jangling. He heard the click of the front lights and the other woman say, “Looks like maybe we kept you a bit late, dear …”
There was a reason Wink had never gone over to see her during her day job. He didn't want to run into Elvgren. He thought she understood that. So the maniac tells him he should swing by?
Elvgren would look down on all this, he bet. When he'd taken a class with him, Wink remembered how his uncle back in Michigan frowned at Elvgren's calendar work, which was vibrant and lustrous, with glowing skin and masterful composition. His uncle was of the mind that that was smut, because the girls were overly pretty and underly clothed. But it was all relative: Elvgren would frown in turn, he was sure, at what they were doing now—comparatively, the basest sort of puerile provocation, having so little to do with art.
If she brought them all the way in, they'd see everything. There was no time to hide the props and break down the lights they had set up in back, and he had no idea what this lunatic he sometimes considered his girlfriend had told the great artist.
“Whoopsadaisy …,” the other woman said, and he took it to mean she'd realized they were no longer alone. Wink had heard it, too—the shush of slippers on the backstairs; Sal clicking on the light on that end and heading down the hall toward them. He was caught in between, flanked at both exits.
From the top cellar step, pressed against the open door, he watched as she approached, wrapped in her housecoat. She paused for a second and looked directly at him, then kept going, not giving him away. He withdrew down into the cellar, creeping step by step so they wouldn't hear, hoping Reenie's introduction of her guests would cover the sound of his retreat.
He was surprised to see Sal coming down to investigate. Earlier, when Reenie had failed to show at the appointed hour, he'd gone upstairs to wait with her for a while, in the back of his mind wondering if this might be the night that Sal decided it was time to pose again. But she'd told him she was going to heat up a hot-water bottle, of all things, and curl up with her old cookbooks and plan some hearty meals she'd been without for a few years, on account of the rationing. He'd thought to himself, What are you now, lady—sixty-five years old? but he'd just told her, instead, that it sounded like a great idea.
Below the floorboards, the conversation was muted, with sudden snatches breaking through intact. Sal was no more than a low, silky sound, the genteel murmur of a lady playing the well-mannered hostess. The mysterious other woman, Wink decided, was Elvgren's wife.
“We wanted to make certain our Reenie got to her destination,” Mrs. Elvgren said, her voice rising, emphatic with apology or alcohol or both. “We're so sorry it's so late, but Gil and I had to drag Reenie out to dinner with us. Look at her! The girl requires fattening.”
“Pure rot,” Elvgren said, and Wink could picture him up there, looking even more than he remembered like a sort of Ernest Hemingway. “Don't listen to the missus. It's claptrap. We understand you've got one of my former students here, so we thought we'd tag along and—”
“Intrude,” Mrs. Elvgren said.
There was polite laughter and some muffled pleasantries Wink couldn't quite make out regarding restaurants and which places were back to snuff, menuwise, and which ones still needed to get back on their legs. He couldn't tell what Sal was saying about where he was. He assumed she offered some excuse, or was at least playing dumb. Except for Sal, they all sounded tipsy, which seemed like a swell idea.
Wink fished out the flask he'd been carrying to loosen Reenie up for the shoot—not that she ever needed anything to loosen her up, but it made the thing more fun for both of them, especially since they'd lost Sal. He wasn't sure how he could go back up there now.
There was an old wooden display counter down there, smack in the center of the cellar, that was missing all its glass sides and now served as storage for stocking cardboard boxes, keeping them off the damp floor. Rearranging the row on top so the boxes were all relatively level, he took off his jacket and spread it out for a makeshift navy bunk. For a pillow, he propped up the busted bellows from a portrait camera he estimated as old enough to be Mathew Brady's, climbed up, and stretched out.
Lying there in the dark, staring up at the low beams, he tried to imagine what his hero would have said to him, if he'd faced him.
Maybe he'd be polite. It was possible. Maybe he'd say, Say there, fella, I saw a few illustrations of yours that ran in Yank and Stars and Stripes and I recognized the name and I was proud to recall that you'd studied with me …
Maybe he'd call him son or kiddo or my good man— something more encouraging than smutmonger. Maybe he wouldn't tell him he was a disgrace.
Sure, Wink thought, pulling back on the flask. Dream on, pal.
Gnawing, Wink thought, opening his eyes in the dark. He supposed he'd nodded off. He didn't think he heard anyone moving around up there. Feeling around, he couldn't put his hands on the flask and couldn't remember if there was much left but backwash.
There'd been laughter, hadn't there? Hearty g
ood nights and shuffling and footfalls and the jangle of the shop bell on the door?
He couldn't be certain and so wasn't going anywhere yet, just to be safe.
Easing himself down to stretch, he found his way carefully to a nearby filing cabinet where he'd hidden a stash of black market Glenlivet that one of Reenie's brothers had acquired for him.
It was in behind the unclaimed wedding photos, which had their own drawer. The file went back a few decades, but it still seemed surprisingly large, and he'd wondered, when he'd discovered them, how many were unclaimed out of an inability to pay or pure forgetfulness and how many because things had all gone to smash.
Quietly slipping the bottle out and unpeeling the seal, he climbed back onto his nest. Lying there waiting, with nothing to do but imagine, put him in mind of the year he got scarlet fever, and how he thought his mom was still out there in the other room. At least then, he was able to draw his Rube Goldbergs to pass the time. Plus, he could turn a light on.
Pathetic, he thought. And if that man caught you here, he'd tell you so to your face.
The scotch burned beautifully, and he made it a double.
No, he wouldn't, he corrected himself. He wouldn't say that. This is my make-believe, damn it. I'll cook it up any way I see fit, thank you very much.
The gnawing was some critter off in a corner. He wanted to fling something over there, get it to back off, but he remembered he was hiding and so lay still.
Listen, Elvgren would tell him, slurring just a little, because, in his mind, Wink had joined him for dinner and drinks. Good ol' Gil had treated. I know about your hand, he'd say. I know about these naughty pictures you're doing, and no, it is not what you had in mind, I'm sure … And it's not necessarily what I'd have in mind for any of my students—ideally. And if you could still paint and draw, I'd say get to it! What's keeping you? But …
It was a significant but, looming there like the low beams overhead. He'd take this moment to pull out his pipe, tamping down the cherry tobacco, and Wink decided he would smoke one, too. They'd draw on their twin pipes like respectable bankers knocking back a few at the country club … no! Better yet—chaired professors emeritus hobnobbing in the oaken faculty lounge. Some ivy-covered ivory tower where they could look out through stained glass and watch coeds crossing campus in tight sweaters. But you ready for the speech? Elvgren would say. Here it is, friend. There can be a little art in anything you do. Even stuff you do because you have to do it, there's no other ready option … The thing is, that little bit of art isn't just in there, automatically, rising and bubbling like yeast in a loaf of bread. You have to go to the trouble of putting it in there.
He could see the crackling fireplace, the wingback club chairs, their wool blazers with suede patches on the elbows. Hear, hear! Chesty would chime in, and how swell it was that he was there, too, to hear this pep talk, hardly looking even the least bit blown up. The putting-it-in-there step! Indeed! Quite crucial!
They'd nod together, gesturing with their meerschaums as the great man elaborated: If you get up and do something every day— even if it's working a camera, even if it's shooting snapshots of Ree-nie's very pretty legs and immaculate keister, you're still doing more than some blowhard who's decided he's Rembrandt but is holding out for a patron of the arts to come calling—some sponsor nobler than a razor blade company or bottler of soda pop or the makers of in-home laundry machines …
Now he'd clamp his solid hand on Wink's shoulder. (And in so doing, not really look all that different from his uncle's neighbors back in St. Johns, the simple farmers of German, Dutch, and Swedish stock. Pry them out of the barn coat or overalls, catch them in town on Sunday—sure: hardworking, God-fearing men, all. Elvgren included.) His former teacher would pause a moment, either for effect or because he was slightly wobbly on his feet, a little in his cups, and, finally, give the command, Now say “Amen” and get to work.
“Amen,” Wink said now, barely a whisper, though he knew no one was still upstairs to hear him. The little coffee klatch had no doubt broken up very soon after he'd started drinking. Even the girls, he imagined, had given up on him for the night.
He was going to have to hang out down there and sleep it off. And unless he cared to go up and face them, he realized that if he needed to water his horse or get sick, it was all probably going to have to happen in the laundry tub.
52
“It's like going to a candy store, nowadays,” Reenie said, “coming in here.”
This comment, said to her, not the butcher, nonetheless seemed to get his attention. Through the display case, Sal saw his gaze move from the veal he was scooping onto a little paper boat to the long loveliness of her pal, who was digging through her pocketbook, waiting her turn along with Sal for the fat German-looking lady to get her makings for her Wiener schnitzel.
Sal knew what she meant—it was a treat just shopping for meat, no longer having to hassle with ration stamps. The restrictions for buying meat and butter had finally been lifted around Thanksgiving.
The butcher gave them a wry smile when it was their turn, pointing a big thick finger at Reenie. “Candy store, huh? That's a hot one.” Then he cocked his head to one side like the RCA Victor dog. “Hey, I think I know you …”
Sal spoke up, pointing out that she came in here all her life. “Well, more before the war, of course.”
“No, no,” he said, leaning on the glass case, revealing the marine insignia, a bluey splotch, tattooed on a hairy forearm. “You I recognize, sure. How you doing, ma'am? Nice to have your trade once again. But your friend here—her I think I know maybe …”
Reenie gave a little saucy shake of her head, and for a second, Sal thought she might actually strike one of her sexy poses. “You think you know me,” she said with a broad wink, “or you think you wanna know me?”
The butcher laughed hard, big stevedore-style har-hars, jabbing that thick finger in Reenie's direction again. “Don't you start with that, doll! Believe you me, the missus can handle a cleaver better than yours truly, so we gotta scuttle any of that talk!”
Sal bought sirloin, and Reenie said she wanted the same. When he was ringing it up, Sal tried to indicate What the hell was that? with her eyes, nodding toward the butcher with his back turned to them, but Reenie was acting oblivious. So she said something to her instead about how Wink was really going to get his fill of beef, only Reenie explained that the steaks were in fact for another gentleman—her old partner at LD&M, a copywriter named Cal. She was going to make him dinner that night.
Sal wondered to herself if Wink knew about this, but then again, it had been clear for a while that their relationship ran pretty catch-as-catch-can, so who was she to judge?
Reenie went on to say she was going to see if she couldn't get the skinny from this Cal on some so-called after-hours clients they could possibly steal away. “Maybe take one of their big calendar deals,” she said. “Fix that old goat Deininger's wagon.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sal said, unsure if it was. She was watching the butcher over her friend's shoulder, and he was definitely checking out her figure like she was different from all the other respectable lady customers whose trade he depended on. He just had to know who she was. Reenie, that is—he wouldn't have known Sal from a veal. In fact, when they left, he gave Reenie a big wink right back at her.
Out on the sidewalk, Sal had to let her have it. “That man completely recognized you. From the … you know!”
“No, he didn't! He was just handing me a line, flirting with me a little.”
“Maybe.” Though she wasn't buying it, she decided to drop it for now. And she didn't raise, as pretty damning evidence that he had recognized her, the fact that he had clearly given Reenie the better cut of meat. Which, besides being a little alarming—men on their block possibly drawing the connection to the girlies—it just wasn't fair. So she hadn't posed for a while—she had done it first, after all. It wasn't as if Reenie had become a Hollywood starlet. Lord love a duck, di
dn't she have just as much right to the good steaks?
It was around this time, the spring of ‘46, that a wave of mail descended on the camera shop. Most of it had been delayed some time. Both Stars and Stripes and the civilian places they'd appeared—Wink and Titter and Giggles and At Ease—were still playing catch-up with much of the correspondence received from soldiers back when the war was still on. The military censors had loosened their restrictions, and so, like an unclogged drain, the mailbags now arrived with stacks of forwarded fan mail. “My, my!” the mailman said. “Someone's popular!”
But it was unclear who. Half of them loved Weekend Sally. The other adored Winkin' Sally. It still wasn't clear to Sal who was whom in the minds of either the editors or the readers or if they even knew there were sometimes two of them. The editors had been playing so fast and loose with the titles and “copy,” as Reenie called it, who knew what the fan mail meant—other than they'd done something right.
Looking at it all, piled up like bags of loot, she started to feel as if she owned something—something beyond the camera shop. There was something here that belonged uniquely to her. And to Wink and Reenie, of course, but no one else. Not even, really, the publishers of these magazines.
She wasn't certain she had the right word when it first hit her, but trying it on, mulling it over, then walking up to the library on Michigan Avenue and looking it up in the big dictionary in the reference section, she was pretty sure this was what she was talking about: franchise.
53
The Kilroy shoot was Reenie's brainstorm. Kilroy had been popping up everywhere in the past year, mostly since the boys started coming back—that enigmatic announcement KILROY WAS HERE! sometimes with a snout-nosed creature peeking over a straightedge, implying a fence or rim of some kind.
He'd first started noticing the graffiti on the trip to fetch Chesty home—it was all over the naval yard, on crates and even buildings—and then coming back, he saw it on the train, left by troops heading home, inland, scratched on the walls when he visited the head.