conceded. “Yes.”
Dooley returned from the bathroom, looking less green but more martyred.
“Daddy!” the girls said.
He winced. “Shhh. My head.”
“Daddy, Joan and I agree that September is our favorite month of autumn and November is our least favorite month. Do you want us to explain why?”
“Unless it snows in November,” Joan said.
“Oh, yes!” Rosemary said. “If it snows, then it’s the best month. Joan, let’s pretend it’s snowing now. Let’s pretend the wind is howling and the snow is melting down our necks.”
“Okay,” Joan said.
Charlotte set the toast in front of Dooley and gave each girl a kiss on the top of the head. Her love for her daughters defied understanding. Sometimes the sudden, unexpected detonation of it shook Charlotte from head to toe.
“Charlie, I wouldn’t mind a fried egg,” Dooley said.
“You don’t want to be late for work again, honey.”
“Oh, hell. Pete doesn’t mind when I come in. I might call in sick today anyway.”
Pete Winemiller owned the hardware store in town. A friend of Dooley’s father, Pete was the latest in a long line of friends and clients who’d done the old man a favor and hired his wayward son. And the latest in a long line of employers whose patience with Dooley had been quickly exhausted.
But Charlotte had to proceed with caution. She’d learned early in the marriage that the wrong word or tone of voice or poorly timed frown could send Dooley into a wounded sulk that might last for hours.
“Didn’t Pete say last week that he needed you bright and early every day?” she said.
“Oh, don’t worry about Pete. He’s full of gas.”
“But I bet he’s counting on you. Maybe if you just—”
“Lord Almighty, Charlie,” Dooley said. “I’m a sick man. Can’t you see that? You’re trying to wring blood from a stone.”
If only dealing with Dooley were so simple or so easy as that. Charlotte hesitated and then turned away. “All right,” she said. “I’ll fry you an egg.”
“I’m going to lie down on the couch for a minute. Holler at me when it’s ready.”
She watched him exit. Where did the time go? Only a moment ago, Charlotte had been eleven years old, not twenty-eight. Only a moment ago, she’d been barefoot and baked brown by the long prairie summer, racing through swishing bluestem and switchgrass as tall as her waist, leaping from the high bank of the Redbud River, cannonballing into the water. Parents always warned their children to stay in the shallows, on the town side of the river, but Charlotte had been the strongest swimmer of any her friends, undaunted by the current, and she could make it to the far shore, to parts unknown, with hardly any trouble at all.
Charlotte remembered lying sprawled in the sun afterward, daydreaming about skyscrapers in New York City and movie premieres in Hollywood and jeeps on the African savanna, wondering which of many delightful and exotic futures awaited her. Anything was possible. Everything was possible.
She reached for Joan’s plate and knocked over her juice. The glass hit the floor and shattered. The dog began to jerk and grimace again, more forcefully this time.
“Mommy?” Rosemary said. “Are you crying or laughing?”
Charlotte knelt to stroke the dog’s head. With her other hand, she collected the sharp, sparkling shards of the juice glass.
“Well, sweetie,” she said, “I think maybe both.”
SHE FINALLY MADE IT DOWNTOWN AT A QUARTER PAST EIGHT. “Downtown” was far too grand a designation. Three blocks square, a handful of redbrick buildings with Victorian cupolas and rough-faced limestone trim, not one of them more than three stories tall. A diner, a dress shop, a hardware store, a bakery. The First (and only) Bank of Woodrow, Oklahoma.
The photography studio was on the corner of Main and Oklahoma, next to the bakery. Charlotte had worked there for almost five years now. Mr. Hotchkiss specialized in formal portraits. Beaming brides-to-be, toddlers in starched sailor suits, freshly delivered infants. Charlotte mixed the darkroom chemicals, processed the film, printed the contact sheets, and tinted the black-and-white portraits. For hour after tedious hour, she sat at her table, using linseed oil and paint to add a golden glow to hair, a blue gleam to irises.
She lit a cigarette and started in on the Richardson toddlers, a pair of identical twins with matching Santa hats and stunned expressions.
Mr. Hotchkiss puttered over and bent down to examine her work. A widower in his sixties, he smelled of apple-flavored pipe tobacco and photochemical fixative. He tended, as preface to any important pronouncement, to hitch up his pants.
He hitched up his pants. “Well, all right.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said. “I couldn’t decide on the shade of red for the hats. The debate with myself grew heated.”
Mr. Hotchkiss glanced at her transistor radio on the shelf. The AM station that she liked broadcast from Kansas City, so by the time the signal reached Woodrow, it had gone fuzzy and ragged. Even after Charlotte had done much fiddling with the dial and the antenna, Bob Dylan still sounded as if he was singing “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” from the bottom of a well.
“I’ll tell you what, Charlie,” Mr. Hotchkiss said. “That old boy’s no Bobby Vinton.”
“I fully agree,” Charlotte said.
“Mumble, mumble, mumble. I don’t understand a thing he’s saying.”
“The world is changing, Mr. Hotchkiss. It’s speaking a new language.”
“Not here in Logan County it’s not,” he said, “thank goodness.”
No, not here in Logan County. On that fact Charlotte stood corrected.
“Mr. Hotchkiss,” she said, “have you had a chance yet to look at that new photo I gave you?”
In addition to his duties at the studio, Mr. Hotchkiss served as photo editor for the local newspaper, the Woodrow Trumpet. Charlotte coveted one of the freelance assignments. Several months ago she’d persuaded Mr. Hotchkiss to loan her one of his lesser cameras.
Her early attempts at photography had been woeful. She’d kept at it, though. She practiced on her lunch hour, if she had a few minutes between errands, and early in the morning before the girls woke. When she took the girls to the library on Saturday, she studied magazines and art books. Taking pictures, thinking about the world from a perspective she otherwise wouldn’t have considered, made her feel the way she did when she listened to Bob Dylan and Ruth Brown—bright and vital, as if her small life were, just for a moment, part of something larger.
“Mr. Hotchkiss?” she said.
He’d been distracted by the morning mail. “Hmm?” he
