A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  Claire forced herself out of bed. She didn’t want the ringing to wake Charlie. In their house, telephone calls at odd hours weren’t unusual, the office trying to reach her with a question, or an unexpected assignment needing to be pursued immediately. Besides, 9:00 AM wasn’t early. Claire was surprised she’d slept so late. There was no reason that the ringing of the telephone at 9:00 AM on a weekend morning should fill her with dread. But it did.

  “Claire. Good.” It was Frieda, Mack’s secretary. “Glad you made it back.” With troops getting priority on trains, civilian delays had become standard procedure. Claire was indeed lucky to have returned home on schedule. “Hope the trip was okay.” Frieda was named after her German grandmother, but she and her parents were American—born and raised American, as Frieda was quick to explain after Germany had declared war on the United States. She’d come with Mack from the United Press and was one of the few secretaries without a Seven Sisters college pedigree. “I need a favor.”

  “Of course, Frieda.” Favors on a Saturday, prior to closing, also weren’t unusual, and Frieda was a good person to have on your side. She was known for her ability to push expense reimbursements through in record time, even though accounting wasn’t strictly her area. Conversely, people not on her good side could find their expense sheets mysteriously delayed.

  “Thanks in advance for helping me out.”

  “Frieda, you know you can always call me if you need anything.”

  “Not the case with everyone, I can tell you that much.”

  Some of Claire’s colleagues had reputations for being more demanding than generous.

  “Mack asked me to deal with this, and I’m asking you. He’s got a million things on his plate this morning. It isn’t even for us. It’s a photo request from Time. I don’t have an hour to go through a hundred contact sheets looking for a gal I wouldn’t recognize if I saw her. Remember when you did that shoot at the Rockefeller Institute?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You take any pictures of a woman named, where is it”—she flipped through some papers—“Dr. Lucretia Mott Stanton.” She said the name flatly, reading it.

  “Yes.”

  “Could you come over here and go through the contact sheets and tell me which one is her?”

  “Why?” There’s been a success, Claire told herself. A breakthrough. Tia’s made a terrific discovery and gotten herself in the news. In the grogginess of her interrupted sleep, Claire was prepared to be excited for Tia. Prepared to be thrilled for her.

  “Because I like you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Because I like you, I’ll let you choose your favorite shot. Aren’t you photographers always complaining that you never get to choose your favorite shots?”

  “No, not that. Why do you want a picture of her?”

  “Got a request from Time. Obit photo. They don’t have anything. Institute photo’s not good enough.” Frieda often spoke in a kind of code, dropping words that weren’t essential to her meaning, especially on Saturday mornings, when she was rushed. “Somebody knew from somebody, you did something over there, so Time came begging. Like we need begging on a Saturday morning. They don’t close until what, Monday? Tuesday? Anyhow, Mack asked me, I’m asking you. Pass the buck, how’s that for a motto?”

  “An obit request? Current, or for the file?” Claire was awake now. Her heart was flying. She tried to hang on to something, anything, inside herself so she wouldn’t start shouting at Frieda. Newsworthy people usually had obits prepared in advance, years in advance even, so when they died the file would be ready and would need only updating for recent career moves, newborn children or grandchildren, cause of death. How much greater the pressure now, in wartime, to keep the obit files in order before they were actually needed.

  “The file? I don’t think so. Request’s urgent. Hold on.” Claire heard more papers being shuffled. “It’s an AP report. Says, Miss Lucretia Mott Stanton, Ph.D., dead at twenty-eight. Born in Philadelphia, la-di-da-di-da,” Frieda was skimming. “Body found at the bottom of a cliff by the East River on Friday afternoon. Police investigation, accident, la-di-da…reading between the lines, I think they’re trying to hide suicide.”

  “Suicide? That’s not possible. I don’t believe it.” Claire’s mind was spinning. Tia lived for her work, more important now than ever. She wouldn’t commit suicide. Would she? “Read to me exactly what it says.”

  “Hold your horses, Claire. This has got nothing to do with the picture.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” A sixth sense told Claire that revealing her closeness to Tia Stanton’s brother would be a mistake. She’d be drawn into the company chain of gossip. She and Jamie would be talked about, speculated over. She liked to keep her personal life to herself. “Sorry for the bother, Frieda, but I did a fairly powerful story with Lucretia Stanton, even if the story got killed. Spent days with her. You get to know people.”

  “I suppose so. Okay, here goes.” But even now Frieda wouldn’t read the report aloud, she’d only summarize as she read. “Nationally renowned mycologist, whatever that is, awards of this and that, publications on and on…”

  Jamie had told Claire of Tia’s accomplishments, had talked about his admiration for her, but hearing her accomplishments recited from an Associated Press report made them seem that much greater.

  “…pursuing research vital to the war effort, doesn’t say for what. You ask me, she’s not all that important.”

  Claire heard the tinge of jealousy in Frieda’s voice. What dreams, unfulfilled, had Frieda had for herself when she was younger?

  “Must be they’re having a slow week for obits over at Time. First big death comes in, this piece gets killed. Mark my words. We’re wasting our time, but we have to do it anyway.”

  “Is that all it says?”

  “Let’s see…only survivor an older brother, Naval Lieutenant James Stanton, M.D. Lucretia. That’s some first name, like an Italian, but it says they’re Quakers. From Philadelphia. Sound high falutin. Never met a Quaker. Lutheran church has always been good enough for me. ‘No indication of recent despondency.’ That means they’re trying to claim it’s not suicide, a line like that. Wonder why she killed herself.”

  “She didn’t kill herself.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Frieda was right: how could Claire be sure? She couldn’t be. “I got the feeling she was too…invested in life, for that.”

  “Now, now, you never know. People do the strangest things. Have all kinds of secrets you’d never guess. In my experience. Hold on, Mack, I’m talking to Claire.” Frieda’s attention was diverted. “That paperwork went out already.” Frieda became impatient. “So, Claire, can you come over and look through the contact sheets, or not? Bring Charlie if you need to. Or if I pull the sheets, can you tell me which one is her over the phone?”

  “I’ll come over, Frieda. I’ll get Charlie organized and I’ll be right over.”

  “Thanks, Claire. You saved me. If you have a minute to make the print and take it to Time, that would cut out some arguments for me.”

  “Sure.” Frieda’s resentments toward the Time staff were legendary and of mysterious origins. “I’d be glad to.” Frieda wouldn’t see anything amiss in Claire’s quick agreement to print the shot. The photo staff was always complaining that they were kept so busy shooting stories, they never had a chance to work in the lab.

  “Owe you one, Claire.”

  “After all these years, I owe you more than one, Frieda.” Claire heard herself sounding normal, clinging to the sound of normal. They said good-bye and hung up.

  Where was Jamie? How could she reach him? She wanted to be with him, to help him. Not knowing what else to do, she phoned the Institute. Maybe he’d left word of his exact schedule.

  “I’m trying to reach Dr. James Stanton,” she said.

  “I can take a message for Dr. Stanton,” said the swi
tchboard operator.

  “It’s urgent that I reach him.”

  “I’ve been instructed to take messages for him.”

  Where was he? Was he even in New York yet? His telegram hadn’t said when he was arriving. Did he know about his sister? Claire felt at a loss. “Is Dr. Nick Catalano available?”

  “I can take a message for Dr. Catalano.”

  Claire wasn’t accustomed to having a wall placed before her. “He knows me.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you want to leave a message or not?”

  Claire left messages for them both. She dressed. She woke Charlie, helped him get dressed, made him breakfast. While he was eating, she took Lucas for a quick walk and gave him his breakfast. She called Ben’s house. His mother, Constance, answered.

  “Forgive me, Connie, I’ve got a problem at the office. Can Charlie come over for a few hours?”

  “We were about to call you. We’re organizing a picnic to Prospect Park. I was hoping you’d both be able to come, but we’ll settle for Charlie.” With four sons, Connie was the prime organizer of the Grove-Bedford-Barrow Street blocks, the mom who always had brownies and milk waiting and baseball gloves at the ready. Claire felt maternally inadequate by comparison.

  “Thanks, Connie. I’d love to go on a picnic, but I can’t.”

  “You sound upset. What’s wrong?”

  Claire was talking on the phone in the kitchen. Charlie was listening.

  “I’m just rushed. You know how it is.” She tried to convey to Connie the urgency she felt without alarming Charlie. “Something at the office.”

  “Don’t worry,” Connie said, understanding. “Just do what you need to do. We’re always happy to have Charlie.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it. We’ll be over soon.” She hung up the phone.

  Charlie had finished eating and was staring at her. “Can I walk over to Ben’s alone?”

  Claire paused before responding. Charlie had been slow developing the confidence to walk a few blocks through the neighborhood on his own, the way the other kids did. The neighborhood was safe, during the day at least, in part because of the old people who sat in folding chairs along the sidewalks, two here, three there, basking in the sun and surveying the street. “Okay.”

  “I’ll call you on the telephone when I get there,” he promised, putting on a grown-up tone.

  “That sounds good. I’ll wait for your call.”

  At the front door, he set his shoulders straight, as though a cheering audience were watching him from across the street. He walked down the steps firmly and turned sharply right. Claire closed the door, to show her confidence in him. She watched from the window until he was out of sight.

  She gathered her coat, hat, gloves. She put the latest issue of The New Yorker into her tote bag to read on the subway. Something to make her feel normal.

  The phone rang. “I got here a few minutes ago,” Charlie confided, “but I had to say hi to Murphy, so I forgot to call right away.” Murphy was the family’s chocolate Lab.

  “That’s fine. I knew you were safe.”

  “How?”

  “Because I know you’re old enough to walk to Ben’s without a problem.”

  “Thanks.” She heard his pride. “Love you, Mommy.”

  “Love you, too, sweetheart.”

  They hung up.

  As she made her way to the Sixth Avenue subway—down Grove, across Sheridan Square, down West Fourth—Claire looked around, forcing herself to act normal. The breeze was warm against her cheeks. The afternoon would be hot. The windows of her neighbors…blue-star banners filled the windows, announcing that a family member was serving in the military. Here and there, she saw the silver-star banners, reporting that a family member had been wounded. And she saw two gold stars, the emblems of death.

  She reached Sixth Avenue and the subway entrance. Walking down the steps, putting her nickel in the slot, making her way along the underground ramp that led to the trains, she focused on her surroundings in order to stop thinking about Tia.

  The West Fourth Street station was built in three levels. She went downstairs to the middle level, and then down the stairs again, to the Sixth Avenue train. Surely this lowest level was deep enough to serve as an air raid shelter. She imagined herself explaining this to Charlie. She knew he worried that the IRT tunnel on Seventh Avenue wasn’t deep enough in their neighborhood to serve as a shelter. But how did oxygen get down to this lowest level? Charlie would wonder about that. She’d never noticed any air vents or pumps. Here on the lowest level, the air was fetid. The tunnels were dank, rats scurrying over the tracks. During a bombing raid, Claire and Charlie might survive down here, but if rubble from the raid blocked the exits to the street, they’d be trapped three stories down—most likely with hundreds of their neighbors—without an adequate source of oxygen.

  She boarded a train headed for Rockefeller Center. Although several seats were available, she stood. The train jolted into motion, and she gripped the vertical handrail. That precarious path along the cliff where Tia had fallen…Claire remembered it from the afternoon when she toured the Institute with her camera. The wind had whipped around her. What was Tia doing there, Tia in her high heels and tight skirts? No matter why she was there, most likely her fall was an accident. Not suicide, of that Claire felt certain. Tia had never sounded defeated. Frustrated, yes. But not defeated.

  And yet…suddenly Claire realized that she didn’t actually know Tia very well. Guilt overwhelmed her. Claire should have made more of an effort with Tia. She could have, should have—included Tia in more family events, whether Jamie was in town or not; set her up on dates with her colleagues at the magazine. Claire thought back to the one dinner they’d shared at home. She remembered Tia reviewing Charlie’s homework; recalled the apple pie Tia had made from their grandmother’s recipe, and how much Jamie had enjoyed it. The evening had been easy and relaxed, and Claire had assumed it would be the first of many. Except it wasn’t.

  All at once Claire imagined herself as Tia, slipping from that cliff. Not jumping. Never jumping. How does it feel, to see the land rushing up against you? Or do you fall too fast for feeling, seeing, screaming, regretting?

  Claire got off the train at Rockefeller Center and walked to the lower-level concourse of the RCA Building. Shops and restaurants lined both sides of the concourse. Bustling during weekday lunch hours, they were quiet on Saturday morning. Sandbags were stacked in corners to stop fires during bombing raids. Instruction sheets for electrical blackouts were posted at regular intervals. She reached Rockefeller Center’s sunken plaza with its outdoor café. Waiters cleaned the tables, preparing for tourists, and military men with their dates, to arrive for an outdoor lunch.

  Claire took the escalator up to the street level. She stepped out of the RCA Building into the glory of Rockefeller Center in the springtime. The Channel Gardens were lush, green, and bedecked with multicolored flowers. The golden statue of Prometheus, where she’d posed Aurora Rasmussen and the Rockettes just six months ago, gleamed in the sunlight. Claire felt herself drowning in sunlight as she crossed the plaza to the Time & Life Building, Forty-ninth Street and Rockefeller Plaza.

  Now she was upstairs in the maze of offices that constituted Life magazine. “Hi, Frieda.” She was acting normal. Gripping on to normality as if it were the handrail on the subway. Duncan Daily might be in today. He often noticed what others didn’t. She needed to move along quickly.

  “Hi, Claire.” Frieda was a tireless, petite woman who dressed demurely. Today she wore a plain shirtwaist dress with pearls. She was always moving, her swivel chair a command center from which she completed eight tasks at once while balancing two phones.

  Mack was on the phone in his office behind Frieda. Claire waved to him. He acknowledged her with a wink. He was a small, beefy man, and he, too, could never sit still, reviewing piles of prints, filling out order forms, approving layout boards, taking calls.

  “You’re an angel, Claire,” Fri
eda said. “Here’s the story number.”

  Frieda passed Claire a slip of paper, but Claire already knew the story number. She’d unconsciously memorized it. She went to the archive room, where the negatives, contact sheets, and caption notes from the past two years were filed in rows of wooden filing cabinets, well dusted and shiny from furniture polish. The perfectly ordered files were supervised by Miss Robbins, called Admiral Robbins behind her back by the photographers because she prided herself on running what she called a tight ship.

  Miss Robbins was at her desk, labeling folders. “Good morning, Miss Robbins,” Claire said as cheerfully as she could manage. Miss Robbins wore a navy blue suit. Her brown hair, touched with white at her temples, was twisted into a bun at the back of her head. “Frieda’s got me pulling an obit negative for Time.”

  “I’ve been informed.” Miss Robbins didn’t look up. Her glasses, which she didn’t need for reading, dangled from a chain around her neck. “Put the story number and your name on the clipboard. You know the drill.”

  “Thank you, Miss Robbins.” She completed the paperwork.

  Claire searched the cabinet labels for the story number. When she found it, she was grateful the cabinet was out of Miss Robbins’s vision. Claire didn’t like being scrutinized. The heavy file drawer screeched on its hinges as she pulled it out. She found the folder for the Rockefeller Institute story, thick with contact sheets, negatives, and notes. She placed the folder on top of the cabinet and flipped through the contact sheets. This was how her colleagues did it. This is what Miss Robbins expected her to do. Claire felt as if she were watching herself from a distance. She used a magnifying loupe when she reached the sheets with potential. She mulled over the alternatives. She realized she had an opportunity to prove a point, to show a woman scientist both feminine and committed to her work. A fitting memorial to Tia.

  She was limited in her choices, however. An obit shot couldn’t be overly emotional, couldn’t be part of a picture story, because there was no context to explain the emotion. An obit shot had to stand alone. She wished she’d taken a standard, clichéd photo of Tia holding up a test tube to the light, the type of shot Mack had warned her against, perfect for an obit.