Detroit, March 1963
Nora stalked off to find Diane. It didn’t take long, as she was eavesdropping just around the corner and pounced on Nora the minute she laid eyes on her.
“Oh my word,” she whispered loudly, “I can’t believe that guy! And frankly, I can’t believe they’ve allowed someone like that to enter this contest. Deplorable.”
Nora ignored her friend’s outrage and pulled her keys from her purse. “Let’s go. I have to buy a camera and you’re coming with me.”
“We can’t just leave. I told Mrs. Rasmussen we would help with the reception afterward.”
Nora grabbed Diane’s elbow and began steering her toward the front door. “We’ll be back before anyone knows we’re gone. Come on.”
“Ooh! Are we going to Hudson’s?”
“If you can get your feet to move, yes.”
Nora shoved the exhibit hall doors aside and hurried down the sidewalk to where she had parked, Diane trailing her. She pulled into the traffic on Woodward Avenue and headed downtown. Several minutes later they were standing at the elevator bay near the northwest entrance of the twenty-five-story department store that covered almost an entire city block.
During the drive, Diane had not ceased talking. Now she was silent as the elevator operator took them to the correct floor. But once the doors closed behind them again, the barrage picked up where it had left off.
“Nora, you’re not really going to buy that guy a camera.”
“Yes I am.”
“You can’t buy those people nice things. They don’t take care of them.”
Nora pressed Diane forward. They turned a corner and nearly collided with a woman in a fox fur coat. Nora didn’t even slow down to make a proper apology.
“Why do you think your father was so angry?” Diane went on. “The guy obviously insulted him or something worse. You shouldn’t reward him for that.”
They drew up to a long glass case filled with cameras. Lens filters hung from a spinning rack on the counter. Behind them stood an older gentleman in an impeccable suit and bow tie.
“Hello, sir, I’m in need of this camera.” Nora slid the piece of paper across the counter. “Do you carry it?”
The man smiled. “Of course, miss. We carry all top-of-the-line models.” He fiddled with a lock, slid open the cabinet, and reached under the counter for the floor model.
“Do you have a box?” Nora asked.
“Well, yes, of course it comes in a box, but allow me to show you—”
“I’m so sorry, sir, but it’s not for me. It’s a gift. Could you simply ring it up? I’m in a terrible hurry today.”
The man seemed irritated by the interruption, but relented at her constant smile and fluttering eyelashes. “Of course, miss.”
Nora exchanged a stack of cash for the camera, money she had planned on using to purchase a painting at the exhibit. A few minutes later, to Diane’s keen disappointment, the women were back outside pushing through the sea of Saturday shoppers. The sun was shining, but the March wind was still bitter and promised snow. By the time they got back to the Detroit Artists Market, parked, and walked back to the exhibit entrance, Nora’s face matched her pink suit.
She was patting her hair back into place as they came upon the hall with the handsome and infuriating photographer. She turned to Diane. “Stay here.”
At the quick clicks of Nora’s heels on the floor, the photographer looked up. “Well, well. That was fast. You change your mind?”
She thrust the bag at him. He eyed it a moment, took it, and pulled out the box. He chuckled and shook his head.
Nora felt her heart rate tick up. “What? Is it the wrong one? It’s what you wrote.”
“No, it’s the right one.”
She let out a relieved sigh. “Then why are you laughing?”
“Because you just bought me a new camera.”
He was so pleased it almost made Nora smile. Then she remembered the photo. “Where’s the picture?”
He stopped smiling and looked at her thoughtfully. “You want to know what happened? Why he was so mad?”
Nora wanted to get the photo and get out of there as fast as possible. Yet she had to know. She gave a little nod.
“It was an accident. I wasn’t watching where I was going ’cause I was looking through the viewfinder up at the GM building. I was backing up and backing up, trying to get more in the frame, and I backed right into him. I stepped hard on his foot and he dropped a bunch of papers. I said I was sorry and I tried to help him pick it all up. Then he called me a stupid nigger.”
Nora winced.
“Now, I understand being upset,” he went on, “but there’s no call for that. And I told him so. Well, that made him real mad. He got so mad he started spewing things I wouldn’t repeat in your presence, even if he wasn’t your daddy. I knew I could either get mad or do what my mama always tells me to do when someone’s like that.”
“What’s that?”
“Laugh it off. Just laugh and they know they ain’t got you. So I laughed. And the more I laughed the angrier he got, which started to get funny for real. He looked like a cartoon, face all screwed up and red and sweating. You understand, I had to take a picture. And that’s when he came at me and smashed up my camera.”
Nora wasn’t sure what to say. She knew her father was an impatient man who did not tolerate incompetence in any form, whether from his staff, his tailor, or his family. However, she had not imagined he would use such crude language, let alone physically attack someone. To even consider it seemed ludicrous.
The man removed the print from the frame, rolled it up, and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she almost whispered.
“No hard feelings?” he said, catching her eye.
Nora managed a small smile, her first genuine smile of the day. “No.”
He grinned. “Now don’t you go and burn your fingers when you destroy that, okay?”
She laughed in spite of herself. She would have turned around and walked off just then, but for some reason she hesitated, caught in his steady gaze.
“Hey,” he said, “before you go, I better test this thing out, make sure it works. Wouldn’t want to get scammed by a pretty girl. Never hear the end of it.”
Again Nora failed to suppress her smile. “Go ahead.”
He opened the box.
“Oh!” Nora said. “I didn’t get you any film.”
He reached into his pocket, producing a roll of 35mm film. “Never leave home without it.”
“Even with no camera?”
He shrugged. “Habit.”
In less than thirty seconds, the man had the lens on the camera body and had loaded the film. He closed one eye and looked through the viewfinder, scanning the hall for a subject. He stopped on Nora.
“No, not me,” she said, holding up a hand toward the lens.
“What else? We’re in a hallway. There’s nothing here but you.”
He snapped a photo and advanced the film.
“Please don’t.”
“What?” he said with feigned surprise. “I didn’t take your picture.”
“You did.”
He snapped another.
“No, stop!” she protested through laughter.
The shutter clicked again. She could see him grinning behind the camera.
“Knock it off,” she said, putting a hand to her face, more to cover her own smile than to ward off further pictures.
“Aw, that wasn’t of you. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Click. Twist. Click. Twist. Click.
“Stop.” She rushed up to him and covered the lens with her hand.
“Oh, hey, hey, hey now. Don’t do that,” he said with a laugh. “That’s what your daddy did right before he threw it to the ground.”
Her smile disappeared. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder and stalked off.
“Wait! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. That was stupid. I didn’t mean it.” He caught up with her and put a hand on her arm.
She pulled away from his touch and turned to face him. “Thank you for keeping your promise,” she said stiffly.
“Don’t do that. Don’t leave angry. I got some great shots of you. Don’t you want to see them when they come out?”
She pressed her lips together.
“Of course you do,” he went on. “So you give me your number and I’ll give you a call when I develop them. Maybe you’ll want one for your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Why had she told him that?
“Well then, you might want copies for your friend over there.”
Nora turned and saw Diane’s face disappear behind the corner.
“Okay, fine,” she said, though she wasn’t sure why. She tucked the rolled-up picture under her arm and pulled out her pen, but no amount of digging in her purse produced any more scraps of paper.
“Give me the Hudson’s bag to write it on.”
He held out his hand to her. “Just write it here.”
Nora’s cheeks flushed as a self-satisfied half smile touched the man’s lips. She reached out, cradled his hand in hers, and wrote her name and phone number across his palm in black ink. Then she dropped the pen in her purse and shoved her hands into her coat pockets.
“Nora Balsam. That’s a pretty name. All right, Nora. I’ll see you later.”
When he waved, Nora could see her own precise penmanship on his hand. She gave a little return wave and started to walk down the hall. Then she turned back. “Wait, what’s your name?”
“Will.”
“Just Will?”
“William Rich.”
“Oh,” she said. “I like William better than Will.”
“Then you can call me William.”