Page 61 of My Darling Girls

“It’s not that kind of picture,” Jo says. This is not working. Their plan is falling apart right in front of them. But they can’t back down now. “It’s a portrait. They can wear whatever they like.”

“Doesn’t sound like Ira,” Ada barks. “What does he want the picture for?”

Jo meets Ada’s eyes. “He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. My job’s to take a picture.”

“If you have doubts, why don’t you ask Ira yourself?” Grace takes a step forward. “And in the meantime, we’ll wait and maybe have tea with the girls. He asked us to be done by eight. What time is it? Six thirty?” Grace shrugs. “I guess we have time to waste.”

“Fine,” Ada barks. “The girls are in the back. You go and explain to them what’s expected.”

Jo and Grace make their way into the back of the house, following the sounds of clinking glasses, the clacking of silverware, and ringing voices. When they enter the dining room, the talking stops. Three girls sit around the table. There’s green, faded wallpaper on the walls and a thin carpet under their feet. A big, unlit chimney gapes at everyone like a cavern by the far wall. The plates in the middle of the table are overflowing with scrambled eggs, kidney sauté, clam cakes, a few buttered toasts, and pieces of ham.

“Hello,” Jo says, not sure how to address the girls. “My name’s Josephine, but please call me Jo. I’m a photographer, and I’m here on Ira’s orders. We’re to take a portrait of you.”

One of the girls laughs and shakes her head. “I can’t believe he sent a woman to do this dirty work.” The girl’s emerald-green eyes linger on Grace a little longer. “And sends his niece too. Ira must be losing his marbles.”

“I remember you.” The blond girl who was looking down from the window at Jo and Grace when they came to take Sally’s picture points at the empty chairs by her side. “We’re having lunch. Do you want to eat with us?” The girl is wearing a simple white-and-yellow frock. Her hair is brushed and smoothed and pulled back in a thick braid. Not a single loose strand. “I’m Rose.”

“Don’t be daft.” The green-eyed girl from the left side of the table clicks her tongue. There’s a measure of annoyance in her husky voice. “They’re not here to eat. They’re here to work.” She straightens her back, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “No one said nothing about the pictures. The photographer usually comes on Sunday.” A silky blue headband holds her thick honey-brown hair away from her face. Her wide eyes are sharp and appraising. She could be considered beautiful if not for her pale, hollowed-out face and the deep shadows under her eyes. Jo can definitely capture the remnants of her beauty in a portrait.

“We need you fully dressed for this session. It’s a different kind of photography,” Grace says. “Can we go to the main room? Get you seated and posed? And where are the other girls?”

“Sleeping,” Rose says, and bites down on a piece of toast slathered generously with jam. “Lula, should I go wake them up?” She puts the toast down on her plate and looks at the green-eyed girl for directions.

Lula ignores Rose and focuses on Jo with unpleasant directness. “What do you want us to wear? A pretty dress?” She leans forward, her shoulders curving. “And why didn’t Ira mention this when he left me this morning?”

“I don’t know how Ira thinks,” Jo says. “I’m not interested in that. But he asked me to do the job, and I’m here to do it.”

Lula smirks, slowly lifts her left hand, and puts it on the table.

Jo startles.

Grace gasps.

The pinkie is missing from Lula’s left hand, the stump wrapped in a white cloth.

“I’ll tell you how Ira thinks,” Lula says calmly. “Two weeks ago, one of his men almost choked me to death, but I lost my finger. You know why? Because I slapped the thug. Ira took my pinkie as punishment. His men are more valuable than his women. That’s what he said.”

“My god,” Grace whimpers.

Lula slides her hand off the table and hides it under the table. “Girls, we should get ready for the picture.”

No one says anything for a few breaths.

“Do we need to put flowers in our hair like Sally?” The third girl, a scrawny one with a flat nose and deep-set eyes, asks. “She looked so pretty.”

“She’s dead, Flora,” Grace says harshly, her lower lip trembling. “She’s rotting in the ground.”

Flora shakes her head and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “I miss her so much.” She stares at the plate with eggs and ham in front of her. “She should’ve waited. Just a little longer.”

Jo straightens. “What do you mean? Waited for what?”

“You daft cow,” Lula whispers through her teeth at Flora and turns to Jo. “She doesn’t mean nothing.”

The scrawny girl doesn’t move, her eyes downcast, but she twists her hands in her lap.

“Flora, what do you mean Sally should’ve waited a little longer?” Grace’s voice is hoarse. “Tell me. I need to know. Please.”

The girls fall silent. Exchange glances. Jo senses sorrow or maybe fear running through them. The current is so strong, the air is buzzing with it.