“Say! Madeline, how about letting me take a picture of
our little waitress here?”
The child felt a strange tremor run up from her heart
to her throat. The mistress was silent, stunned by her
guest’s request. The child lowered her head and passed the
photographer a cup and saucer.
“What is your name, child?” he asked in his direct,
not-of-the-South voice.
“Girl,” she whispered, not looking at him.
“Madeline?” he asked. The child looked at his shoes.
“Oh, I forget if she ever had a name,” the mistress
huffed. “She’s just a girl. And I think you are perfect-
ly ridiculous, William. Who would want a picture of a
pickaninny?”
The photographer put his hand on the child’s chin and
made her look at him. She saw those eyes like skies.
“Let’s clean her up, get her dressed in something pre-
sentable . . .” He removed his hand, almost respectfully.
“That is, if you’d like to be photographed.” He was
speaking directly to the brown child.
She looked at the mistress, a storm of pale fury in her
holiday finery—and feeling frisky, almost cheerful—the
child grinned back at the picture-taking man and nodded.
“Well! I am most certainly not paying for this,
William!”
“Never mind. This will be art, and art is for the future;
don’t you know that? Now I know you have some of your
childhood frocks that you just couldn’t part with, selfish
101
