Nothing but a Smile Read online

  Not that he didn't like it. And it reminded him about something that he'd strangely pushed to the mental back burner since he'd moved into Sal and Chesty's spare apartment—the idea that a major element of being back among civilians was being back among civilian women. It seemed his thoughts had roamed almost exclusively in that direction at the time of his discharge— or even before, lollygagging in the navy hospital, watching the nurses and wondering what they'd look like in something other than white. And yet, since he'd moved into the back apartment, the only lady friend he was spending any solid time with was the lady of the house.

  Sure, her friend Reenie stopped in, too, and he was relieved to hear she was employed again, back at the Stevens-Gross Studio, doing pretty much her old job there. He felt a little sorry for her, that it hadn't worked out in a creative position at LD&M, but try as he might, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret his part in getting her out of there. What else could he have done— sat back and let that masher go about his business? Maybe she was right back where she'd started, performing menial clerical duties for the pinup illustrators. Maybe it was unfulfilling. But at least she wasn't getting herself pawed in the supply room.

  It was ironic, he thought, that an illustration studio where the artists were known for producing some of the nation's most popular pinup paintings was kinder and more civil in its treatment of a vulnerable young girl than a prominent and supposedly upstanding ad agency that produced work for America's most wholesome packaged goods.

  “That's not entirely true,” Reenie pointed out. “I heard LD&M gets calendar contracts and stuff, too. They just don't flash it around. Bad for the image. Their big clients think it's kind of lowbrow.”

  He told her “lowbrow” was carrying on the way that wolf had and then canning her for it. She told him he was sweet, and that felt like the end of it.

  In the time since the two of them had been fired, she began to drop by in the late afternoons and evenings, ostensibly to see Sal. He couldn't help feeling a little flattered by the frequency of her visits, until Sal picked up on it and told him, “Don't get a swelled head. She used to hang out here all the time before she started at that ad agency and was always working late and trying to brainstorm some winning idea and just trying to keep up and one step away from the creeps. So this isn't new for her—this is back to normal, Mr. Swellhead.”

  Wink told her he didn't have a swelled head, he'd just wondered how her friend was doing, is all. He told her he wasn't planning on bothering her or anything.

  “Oh, go ahead and bother her,” Sal said, smiling now. “I did want you two to go out, remember? I'm just saying she's not currently coming by to see you. Doesn't mean she won't be, eventually, if you get off your rear end and talk to her like you're halfway interested.”

  He was interested, sure, but Sal had been keeping him more than busy, showing him the ropes. He wasn't exactly twiddling his thumbs, looking for ways to kill time by trying to decipher the intent of a complicated big city girl like Reenie. He had skills to learn.

  He was getting it.

  He'd always done well in science, back in school. Especially chemistry. So the darkroom part of Sal's photography lessons, breaking down the development of the negatives and the prints, felt to Wink like it was falling into place pretty logically. Every once in a while, he required just the slightest adjustment—a subtle eyebrow or intake of breath from Sal, teaching him in the womblike reddish haze behind the heavy curtain. But he hadn't yet made one move so completely wrong she had to raise her voice. He didn't want to get too cocky too soon, but it seemed like he was really getting it.

  He liked the narrow margin of error in this part of “Sal's Crash Camera Course,” as they'd been jokingly calling it. For once, at least some part of producing a picture was measurable. All his life, he'd worked in the terrifying abyss of relatively few restrictions that was the other two-dimensional arts. He had taken one ceramics studio class, before the war, and with that, too, like this, he'd been comforted by the limitations of the medium and the part that seemed almost like a recipe out of a cookbook, as tried-and-true as something from the Farmer's Almanac—”Corn should be picked when acorns are the size of squirrels' ears …” With a drawing or a painting, you started down a path, and you either kept going in that direction or altered what you'd done and tried something else, but there weren't the same absolutes, no Crosshatching must always be done at a diagonal angle to the object being textured, except in the case of a herringbone suit … The human nose must be drawn for no more than ten and no less than five minutes … He'd never felt the comfort of the rigid parameters Sal laid out for him here in terms of stop bath, developer, fix. There was security in the control of a measuring cup.

  In a way, it was a little like being in the service. When he'd been in, he'd grumbled as much as the next guy about the whole lousy deal, plotting the demise of everyone from that day's mess cook on up to FDR himself, but the truth was, the structure and lack of freedom did make it easier to concentrate on the fun part—what he would do on his next leave or what he could possibly trade for in exchange for painting another cheesecake bomber girl. And in the darkroom, not being able to wing it—not just throwing various chemicals into a tub like a Creole gumbo and hoping for the best—made it easier to concentrate on the parts of it over which he could make choices, the whole art part of it.

  The choices available through selection of shutter speed, as she'd been showing him, plus the range of diaphragm openings—the list of oddly sporadic and specific fractions called f-stops—he found as exciting as a full palette of fine oils. He'd never really thought about it, even watching a pro like Chesty at work back in the PTO, but there were more options found in these gizmos than properly utilized by the average weekend slob peering down into his Brownie in the park, waiting for his kid to stop drilling for boogers, so many choices that could affect lighting, color, and that area Sal particularly wanted him to help her with, composition.

  Besides, being in the darkroom for any length of time soon felt peaceful; removed. If the store was closed and they didn't have to listen for customers out front, he would commandeer Sal's radio, and between the low music and the low lights, it was almost like he was back in the better parts of the Pacific theater, like that illegal speakeasy hooch, and there weren't any car horns honking or El trains rumbling or newsboys crying out about destruction, just the night and the close proximity of a nice-looking girl.

  Except, of course, if they were both there now, in the PTO, back on the bottom of the world, Sal would be too busy to be giving him photography lessons. She'd be off with her husband on a three-day pass, enjoying herself a hell of a lot more than she had to be now, and Wink would have to find himself another date to stand beside, talking low, lost in the dark of the Corncob and the tropical night.

  Part of his side of the bargain was to teach her a little art theory, such as the elements of composition, and he wasn't sure at first how serious she was about this, nor how he would teach her. He wasn't an instructor—had no lectures worked up, nor the patience to ever design such things. If he had a good textbook, with full-color examples from the masters, he could much easier lay out the whole deal about the Golden Ratio and the rule of thirds and balance and framing … But the only textbook he'd ever owned like that—this would have been back when he was taking classes at the Academy in 1940—had been swapped, if he remembered right, for a half-drunk pint of mint schnapps and a pair of winter gloves.

  It wasn't long, though, before he realized he was staying right in the neighborhood of what amounted to perhaps one of the world's largest art textbooks—guarded only by two stone lions. Being right on Adams, it was only a matter of blocks to the Art Institute. And on Mondays, admission was free.

  26

  At first, she wasn't quite clear what he wanted her to see in this room and began to glance around, hoping not to appear nearly as dumb and inartistic as she felt. The one dead ahead, barely taken in, registered only as something as mun
dane as a claim check for the cleaners, found at the bottom of her purse.

  But he was pointing at it, redirecting her. Okay … Yes, it still struck her as commonplace, in the way of a magazine ad or a billboard or a snapshot taken out the front window of the camera shop, just to get the roll spooling. Maybe a candid at the Berghoff. And as modern as this summer's ladies' fashions—it could have been painted earlier that day. Maybe the day before, to allow the paint to dry.

  And yet, despite that first reaction, there was actually something captivating about it. It drew her in, physically, pulling her into the room, right up close.

  NIGHTHAWKS, the plate on the wall said. EDWARD HOPPER.

  “This one's new since I was here last, back before the war,” he said. “Brand spankin'! Two years old. Kind of different, may not be your cup of tea, but I think you'll see a lot of what we've been talking about at work here. The way the fellow's got it worked up, compositionwise …”

  It was just three people and a soda jerk or maybe a short-order cook, late night at a lunch counter. These people weren't special, they weren't doing anything fancy, they weren't even shown in enough detail to qualify as a portrait, to determine the degree of their beauty or grotesqueness or what the heck they even looked like. They were just sitting there like lumps. Lonesome lumps.

  But the triangle of yellow—the bright light of the seedy little eatery—did cut through the darkness, the brackish gray-green of the dead intersection, to frame them so sharply.

  And the way they were isolated off to one side, counterbalancing the empty, darker, practically unused portion of the composition—it did really focus her eye on them in a way that began to feel not only intentional but powerful, even masterful.

  Moving right up to it now, she started calling out things she saw in it; things he'd been teaching her. They'd been talking about framing and lines of perspective and balance and something he called the rule of thirds.

  With all she'd known of photography, learned from her pop and then Chesty, they'd never bothered getting into any of this with her. All she'd managed were the practical fundamentals of recording a pretty image: how to determine if something was worth the cost of film and photo paper, how to determine which part should be in focus, how to get it in focus, and how to line it up inside the frame.

  “Also, there's the juxtaposed complementaries …”

  It sounded like Reenie. She turned to see her sitting on the bench at the back of the room, reading from a brochure. She wasn't sure how long she'd been there.

  “Or are you two not covering color theory today?”

  With a smile, Sal greeted her, noticing that Wink was looking away now, drawn to something across the room that looked like a storm at sea. He didn't appear particularly surprised that Reenie had joined them.

  Rather than make a scene, Sal did what any dignified person would do—she announced she was going back downstairs to the ladies' room, knowing Reenie would feel duty-bound to tag along.

  It worked, but her friend didn't volunteer any explanation once they were down there, just grabbed a smoke by the sinks and waited.

  After faking it in a stall, then pretending to wash up, Sal told her, at the mirror, “Say, Reen? Why don't you just meet us after, hon? You're not missing out on anything … social. He's just giving me a little art tutorial, you understand?” She pulled the steno pad she'd been scribbling on from her pocketbook and flashed it at her friend. “I'm actually trying to learn something, so—”

  “So I'm not? I'm just the dumb bunny?” Reenie slipped into a comical breathy voice, somewhere between Mae West and Baby Snooks. “ ‘Looka all the pretty pischers! Ooh … !' ” She stubbed out her cigarette against the marble. “Who's the blonde here, sister?”

  Sal took a deep breath and waited, hoping to calm the impulse to smack her. When she thought she could say it nicely, she told Reenie she'd never called her names like that and did not think she was dumb, but that she was serious about this, that she was trying to improve her understanding for the sake of her business, not just—

  “Listen.” Reenie was shaking her head now. “That business back at the ad agency? That's not over. I intend to be an art director again one day, maybe even an artist—a great artist. And I'm not going to let a bunch of wolves like that Rollo Deininger get in my way, either.”

  “That's great, Reenie.” She checked her lipstick. “I want that for you, too, and I'm sorry. But if you're really serious about it— like it sure sounds you are—maybe you should actually apply to an art school.”

  Reenie smirked. “And pay the tuition with what—my good looks? No, I'll have to do this myself. Big picture, down the road, I see myself marrying a guy rich enough he doesn't need me playing housewife, he can just put me through art school.”

  Sal told her it was a hell of plan. “Do it all yourself …”

  “Darn tootin',” Reenie said. “In the meantime, though, I wouldn't mind soaking up anything ‘the Handsome Hothead' has to say on the subject.”

  “I take it that's your nickname for Wink now.”

  “I figure it will do,” she said, “until such time as he graduates to ‘the Shover Lover.' ”

  The first part, Sal figured, was a reference to him shoving Reenie's former boss in the supply closet. The latter part meant she'd set her sights on him—as more than an art teacher. Maybe already had her hooks in him.

  Which was fine, really. It was what Sal wanted all along, the two of them to hit it off.

  27

  Wink ignored the jingle of the shop bell. Sal was out front and would handle it. Besides, it sounded like it was just the mailman.

  This was his first solo turn at developing a customer's roll of film, and he needed to concentrate. He couldn't afford to botch this.

  He would have assumed Sal was even more concerned than he was about staying on good footing with the customers these days. So he was surprised when she bothered him, speaking to him through the curtain, telling him to be sure to come out and see her as soon as he could.

  He gave her a muttery Yeah, fine, considering for a moment that she might just be trying to test him further—heap on the distractions to make him concentrate harder on his work. Like the kind of crap they pulled back in basic training—the DI putting his foot on your back and barking obscenities and unintelligible Arkansas slang while you did your push-ups, just to make you really sweat. Hell, maybe this roll wasn't even from a customer—maybe it was all just a test.

  “How's it coming, by the way?”

  He told her it was fine, no problem.

  He found this initial stage, developing the negatives, to be the least fun part of the whole process—fumbling around in the pitch dark, trying to distinguish small details of the wire spool and load it by touch. There was too much pressure and chance to screw the pooch. Too Houdini; too much like his earliest, heart-pumping battles with a brassiere, on the dark rural roads back in Michigan.

  When he was pretty sure he was done with the last step, he ran through the checklist again, in his head. And then once more, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything. With so few customers these days, Sal couldn't afford to get one of them riled up and screaming at her and never returning. And as for him, he'd become even more convinced, handling the cameras and working in the darkroom, that he was seriously going to have to make this his new medium. He hadn't entirely abandoned his growly, teeth-gnashing practice sessions, trying to draw with the old hand and retrain the new, but the results hadn't yet shown much improvement. The other night, while trying to sketch his bedroom dresser—a simple rectangle, at its heart—he ended the evening by punching a nice hole in the plaster wall. He was pretty sure Sal had heard him, though she hadn't mentioned it.

  Finally, taking a deep breath, he decided to turn on the safe-light.

  As near as he could tell as he hung up the strips to dry, it appeared to be shots of a toddler at his first birthday party— judging from the size of the blob that was the baby and the size of the darker
blob that was the little birthday cake.

  Then he took another breath, pulled back the curtain, and walked up to the front counter, a little wobbly as his eyes readjusted to the daylight.

  She stood behind the counter, beaming, her hands flat on the display case. There on the glass was what looked like a check.

  He stepped closer, saw the amount: seventy-five dollars. The payer was some publishing company. The payee was S. Dean Chesterton.

  “The girl-in-the-kitchen photos,” she said. “They bought them.”

  He was surprised she hadn't rushed to the bank to deposit it yet, and he told her so.

  “I wanted you to see it first. And admire it.”

  “Nice one,” he said admiringly.

  “That's it?” She sounded disappointed.

  “It's gorgeous,” he said, laughing at her. Picking it up for a closer inspection, he noticed the memo line read Titter 7/44. Jabbing a finger at it, he explained that that had to be the magazine issue.

  She looked like he'd notified her that she was pregnant. “You mean—it's—it's out? It's on newsstands and—? Lord love a duck!”

  “My sentiments exactly,” he said. They grabbed their hats and headed out to find it. Somewhere out there—not just somewhere, but all over out there—Sal was sashaying around in a flipped-up skirt, showing off her legs, and making some lucky, unseen GI a wonderful home-cooked meal.

  The grouchy newsdealer eyed him suspiciously, but maybe he wasn't sure he had a browser this time or saw that Wink was quicker about it now, finding the one he wanted, because this time he didn't make with the wisecracks. Perhaps he thought Sal was a whole different gal or they weren't even together. She waited off to one side while he made the purchase, not having brought her disguise, the black wig.

  Wink suspected she might not listen to him—wouldn't wait till they got back to the shop to search through it for her pictures, and so he bought a copy of Life as well, and tucked it in there.