repaired.”
He looks at me doubtfully.
“You think I don’t know a fixable window when I see one?” I say. “Will you get a bid for the roof?”
He nods. “Very well.”
But he throws up his hands in disgust when the quote comes in. “Prohibitive!” he exclaims. I don’t answer. “So discouraging,” he says, “I’m sorry, Love.”
When Lee’s daughter Elizabeth arrives, I ask her for help, and along with Stieglitz and her new husband, Donald, we spend the next few weeks making repairs. In August, it grows too hot for Stieglitz. He retreats indoors, but Elizabeth and I continue to work, nailing shingles to the roof, frying up there like strips of bacon. I wear my large floppy hat and peel down to chemise and bloomers. One afternoon, Alfred comes out to find us. He’s carrying his Graflex and triumphantly brandishing a newspaper.
“Historic day!” he cries with delight. “Ratified! Women have won the right to vote.”
“Joy!” Elizabeth says. “I can’t wait for the dinner-table scuffle tonight. You will be our champion, Uncle Al. How dull it would be around here if you were as conventional as the other males in this family.”
“Alfred isn’t one for dull,” I say.
“I hear it already,” Elizabeth says. “Father’s dismay, his very serious concern.” She drops her voice to a low somber tone to imitate her father, Lee. “I’m afraid it will skew the upcoming election.”
We erupt into giggles. Stieglitz throws us the paper. Reaching to grab it, Elizabeth nearly loses her balance off the roof. I grasp her arm and pull her down. She lies there, laughing, then spreads the newspaper out to read the lead article, her round cheeks flushed.
“Now I can be finished wondering why it took them all so long to see what was always clearly right,” Stieglitz says.
“Men can be stubborn,” I say.
“Ha! Look at me, Georgia. Look now.” He has the camera raised. I smirk and he frowns. “Please,” he says sweetly. I shake the hammer at him, then smile, the shutter clicks. I turn away, slip a square ticket of wood against another, set a nail to the shingle, swing the hammer and hit it squarely on the head.
—
W HEN THE SHANTY is done, Alfred spends the day inside it with me. I retrieve some bits of molding from the trash and make a frame. He builds a stool from a cast-off piece of wood.
“This side of the room will work for me,” he says, pacing out one end.
“Oh no.” Shaking my head.
“What do you mean,
no
?”
“Just that.” I come close to him, touch the V point where his shirt opens, the top button undone, my fingertip light on his chest, tracing the bone. “You have the run of everywhere else,” I say. “The shanty is mine.”
V
“ A WOMAN NEEDS a child, Uncle Al,” Elizabeth remarks one afternoon in late August. They are sitting in his corner of the porch. I am on the steps reading.
“Georgia’s not just any woman,” Stieglitz answers.
“I hear you,” I say.
Elizabeth smiles at me, then turns back to Stieglitz. “
Particularly
a woman like Georgia,” she answers. “Think of what the experience of a child will do for her art.”
“With a baby to nurse, burp, and clean, she’ll have no time for art.”
“I can help,” Elizabeth says.
“And how?”
“I can be not only your favorite niece, but also nanny, caregiver, kindergarten—any and all of what you and Georgia need.”
“We don’t even have our own home,” Stieglitz says. “There’s no place for a child.”
“There is always a place for a child where there is love.”
Stieglitz looks at her over the rim of his glasses, a stern look. “Verbose.”
“Romantic,” Elizabeth corrects. “And nothing wrong with it. You might have a dash of it in you.”
“I am practical.”
She bursts into laughter.
“Besides,” Stieglitz says. “Georgia is barely more than a child herself.”
“Really?” I exclaim. “I am all of thirty-three.”
“But young still,” he says earnestly,
He looks at me doubtfully.
“You think I don’t know a fixable window when I see one?” I say. “Will you get a bid for the roof?”
He nods. “Very well.”
But he throws up his hands in disgust when the quote comes in. “Prohibitive!” he exclaims. I don’t answer. “So discouraging,” he says, “I’m sorry, Love.”
When Lee’s daughter Elizabeth arrives, I ask her for help, and along with Stieglitz and her new husband, Donald, we spend the next few weeks making repairs. In August, it grows too hot for Stieglitz. He retreats indoors, but Elizabeth and I continue to work, nailing shingles to the roof, frying up there like strips of bacon. I wear my large floppy hat and peel down to chemise and bloomers. One afternoon, Alfred comes out to find us. He’s carrying his Graflex and triumphantly brandishing a newspaper.
“Historic day!” he cries with delight. “Ratified! Women have won the right to vote.”
“Joy!” Elizabeth says. “I can’t wait for the dinner-table scuffle tonight. You will be our champion, Uncle Al. How dull it would be around here if you were as conventional as the other males in this family.”
“Alfred isn’t one for dull,” I say.
“I hear it already,” Elizabeth says. “Father’s dismay, his very serious concern.” She drops her voice to a low somber tone to imitate her father, Lee. “I’m afraid it will skew the upcoming election.”
We erupt into giggles. Stieglitz throws us the paper. Reaching to grab it, Elizabeth nearly loses her balance off the roof. I grasp her arm and pull her down. She lies there, laughing, then spreads the newspaper out to read the lead article, her round cheeks flushed.
“Now I can be finished wondering why it took them all so long to see what was always clearly right,” Stieglitz says.
“Men can be stubborn,” I say.
“Ha! Look at me, Georgia. Look now.” He has the camera raised. I smirk and he frowns. “Please,” he says sweetly. I shake the hammer at him, then smile, the shutter clicks. I turn away, slip a square ticket of wood against another, set a nail to the shingle, swing the hammer and hit it squarely on the head.
—
W HEN THE SHANTY is done, Alfred spends the day inside it with me. I retrieve some bits of molding from the trash and make a frame. He builds a stool from a cast-off piece of wood.
“This side of the room will work for me,” he says, pacing out one end.
“Oh no.” Shaking my head.
“What do you mean,
no
?”
“Just that.” I come close to him, touch the V point where his shirt opens, the top button undone, my fingertip light on his chest, tracing the bone. “You have the run of everywhere else,” I say. “The shanty is mine.”
V
“ A WOMAN NEEDS a child, Uncle Al,” Elizabeth remarks one afternoon in late August. They are sitting in his corner of the porch. I am on the steps reading.
“Georgia’s not just any woman,” Stieglitz answers.
“I hear you,” I say.
Elizabeth smiles at me, then turns back to Stieglitz. “
Particularly
a woman like Georgia,” she answers. “Think of what the experience of a child will do for her art.”
“With a baby to nurse, burp, and clean, she’ll have no time for art.”
“I can help,” Elizabeth says.
“And how?”
“I can be not only your favorite niece, but also nanny, caregiver, kindergarten—any and all of what you and Georgia need.”
“We don’t even have our own home,” Stieglitz says. “There’s no place for a child.”
“There is always a place for a child where there is love.”
Stieglitz looks at her over the rim of his glasses, a stern look. “Verbose.”
“Romantic,” Elizabeth corrects. “And nothing wrong with it. You might have a dash of it in you.”
“I am practical.”
She bursts into laughter.
“Besides,” Stieglitz says. “Georgia is barely more than a child herself.”
“Really?” I exclaim. “I am all of thirty-three.”
“But young still,” he says earnestly,
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