Winter of the World

The cab halted outside her house. ‘Don’t come in,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lie to my parents about where I’ve been, and I don’t want you blabbing the truth.’

Woody reckoned he was probably the more discreet of the two of them, but he did not say so. ‘I’ll call you later.’

‘Okay.’ She got out of the taxi and walked up the driveway with a perfunctory wave.

‘She’s a doll,’ said the driver. ‘Too old for you, though.’

‘Take me to Delaware Avenue,’ Woody said. He gave the number and the cross street. He was not going to talk about Joanne to a goddamn cabby.

He pondered his rejection. He should not have been surprised: everyone from his brother to the taxi driver said he was too young for her. All the same it hurt. He felt as if he did not know what to do with his life now. How would he get through the rest of the day?

Back at home, his parents were taking their ritual Sunday afternoon nap. Chuck believed that was when they had sex. Chuck himself had gone swimming with a bunch of friends, according to Betty.

Woody went into the darkroom and developed the film from his camera. He ran warm water into the basin to bring the chemicals to the ideal temperature, then put the film into a black bag to transfer it into a light-trap tank.

It was a lengthy process that required patience, but he was happy to sit in the dark and think about Joanne. Their being together during a riot had not made her fall in love with him, but it had certainly brought them closer. He felt sure she was at least growing to like him more and more. Maybe her rejection was not final. Perhaps he should keep trying. He certainly had no interest in any other girls.

When his timer rang, he transferred the film into a stop bath to halt the chemical reaction, then to a bath of fixer to make the image permanent. Finally, he washed and dried his film and looked at the negative black-and-white images on the reel.

He thought they were pretty good.

He cut the film into frames, then put the first into the enlarger. He laid a sheet of ten-by-eight photographic paper on the base of the enlarger, turned on the light, and exposed the paper to the negative image while he counted seconds. Then he put the print into an open bath of developer.

This was the best part of the process. Slowly the white paper began to show patches of grey, and the image he had photographed began to appear. It always seemed to him like a miracle. The first print showed a Negro and a white man, both in Sunday suits and hats, holding a banner that said BROTHERHOOD in large letters. When the image was clear he moved the paper to a bath of fixer, then washed it and dried it.

He printed all the shots he had taken, took them out into the light, and laid them out on the dining-room table. He was pleased: they were vivid, active pictures that clearly showed a sequence of events. When he heard his parents moving about upstairs he called his mother. She had been a journalist before she married, and she still wrote books and magazine articles. ‘What do you think?’ he asked her.

She studied them thoughtfully with her one eye. After a while she said: ‘I think they’re good. You should take them to a newspaper.’

‘Really?’ he said. He began to feel excited. ‘Which paper?’

‘They’re all conservative, unfortunately. Maybe the Buffalo Sentinel. The editor is Peter Hoyle – he’s been there since God was a boy. He knows your father well, he’ll probably see you.’

‘When should I show him the photos?’

‘Now. The march is hot news. It will be in all tomorrow’s papers. They need the pictures tonight.’

Woody was energized. ‘All right,’ he said. He picked up the glossy sheets and shuffled them into a neat stack. His mother produced a cardboard folder from Papa’s study. Woody kissed her and left the house.

He caught a bus downtown.

The front entrance of the Sentinel office was closed, and he suffered a moment of dismay, but he reasoned that reporters must be able to get in and out today if they were to produce a Monday morning paper and, sure enough, he found a side entrance. ‘I have some photographs for Mr Hoyle,’ he said to a man sitting inside the door, and he was directed upstairs.

He found the editor’s office, a secretary took his name, and a minute later he was shaking hands with Peter Hoyle. The editor was a tall, imposing man with white hair and a black moustache. He appeared to be finishing a meeting with a younger colleague. He spoke loudly, as if shouting over the noise of a printing press. ‘The hit-and-run driver’s story is fine, but the intro stinks, Jack,’ he said, with a dismissive hand on the man’s shoulder, moving him to the door. ‘Put a new nose on it. Move the Mayor’s statement to later and start with crippled children.’ Jack left, and Hoyle turned to Woody. ‘What have you got, kid?’ he said without preamble.

‘I was at the march today.’

‘You mean the riot.’

‘It wasn’t a riot until the factory guards started hitting women with their clubs.’