Picking Up the Pieces. Barbara Gale

      “It will take a few weeks,” Althea said. “Will I see you again? Will you call me, if you have a chance? We can’t not see each other another ten years. And I would like to meet James.”

      “I’ll call,” Benicia said vaguely.

      Althea got into a cab, wondering if she would. She rode back home, her head filled with thoughts of Alabama, memories she usually preferred not to examine suddenly clamoring for attention…

      Her mother leaving every night at nine to work the night shift at a local factory so she could be around Althea during the day; standing in line every other Monday, rain or shine, waiting with her mother for their food stamps; Tuesdays, free cheese distribution at the welfare center; Thursdays, the day stale bread was distributed by a nearby package outlet, and if Althea had been really good that week, if she had passed all her tests in school, her mother gave her fifty cents to buy a box of stale cupcakes.

      All her mother’s hard work scrimping, Althea thought bitterly, and the most they had ever had to show for it? An ugly shack with four unpainted walls that barely supported a tin roof. The day Althea handed her mother the keys to a little red brick house, they had stood together on the porch and cried. They didn’t need words to know how far they had come, how long the walk had been. Her mother’s first steps into her new home had been Althea’s proudest moment.

      Had it been worth it?

      Yes, she thought, thinking back to Benicia’s question as she entered her apartment thirty minutes later. Throwing her keys in the blue Depression-glass bowl that sat on a gleaming refectory table, hanging her fur coat in the huge cedar closet, putting the tea to boil on her Viking stove. Yes, she thought, as she looked out at the view over the brawniest city in the world—and she a part of it—yes, it had been worth it.

      Chapter Three

      Althea left the Niles Model Agency shell-shocked. Numb with disappointment, she stumbled twice in the snow, she was so distraught. Suddenly the sun wasn’t so bright, the city’s hoary skyscrapers seemed as gray as her prospects. If she hadn’t been afraid to rash her cheeks with salty tears, she would have cried.

      The only thing that saved her from a complete breakdown was the sight of Harry Bensen when she arrived at Elmhurst Hospital, soon after the disastrous interview with her old employer. When she walked into his hospital room, her arms filled with flowers, he was sitting up, dozing against some pillows.

      “Harry?” she whispered. Slowly he opened his eyes. They were still glassy, but he did seem more alert. Hollowed as they were, they could not hide the beautiful curve of his smile or the deep cleft of his chin when he saw who had arrived.

      “Althea? I know you said you would stop by,” he whispered, “but I just assumed you were being polite.”

      Carefully Althea set the flowers on the window-sill. “Harry Bensen,” she said lightly as she shrugged off her coat. “Weak as can be, mouthy as ever.” Coming on top of her disastrous visit to the Niles Model Agency, Althea was hurt by his seeming rejection and resolved to make this a quick visit.

      Harry’s lips stretched into a lopsided grin, and his voice grew stronger as he spoke. “And you. Still as beautiful as ever. And look, yellow roses, in the middle of winter. Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “I’m grateful to you, coming all the way from Manhattan to see me.”

      “My pleasure.” She had to admit he looked very appealing lying there in the hospital camouflage that did very little to conceal the hard planes of his body. Whatever disease he was harboring had not affected his appeal. Throwing her coat across the back of a chair, Althea gingerly approached the edge of the bed. “You’re looking much better, Mr. Bensen.”

      “I feel better, even if it has been a long couple of days.”

      “I’ll just bet. Tell me, how long were you sick before you collapsed? You must have been ill on the plane. Didn’t you realize?”

      “Oh, I knew what was happening, but I tried to fight it. I was on a shoot in northwest Brazil when I took sick, about thirty miles outside of Manaus. That’s a small town on the Amazon River. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get there?”

      “What, no subway?” Althea asked, her eyes wide with mischief.

      “It must not have been running,” Harry drawled. “Anyhow, there I was, in the middle of nowhere, boiling my water like a good boy, and I’d had all my shots, and I was careful what I ate…. I guess my resistance was low. I started getting headaches…then chills…. The initial attack wasn’t too bad, I thought I had malaria at first, but the doctors in Manaus assured me it was just a garden-variety virus. I had a bout with malaria years ago and once you’ve had malaria, you’re susceptible to its reoccurrence. I was prepared for it, too. Malaria, that is. I had my meds in my backpack and plenty of aspirin. Let’s just say the quinine wasn’t working as fast as it should. Turns out it wasn’t working because whatever I have, it’s not malaria, thank God.”

      “But when you knew you were getting worse, don’t you think you should have left Brazil?”

      “Hey, I was in the middle of some really interesting work. I’m trying to get a handle on the rainforest decimation in that area. It’s going to be a real scandal when the word gets out, let me tell you, and with a book coming out—well, it’s supposed to come out this spring—my photographs are going to be the centerpiece. It was way important to finish the job and I had so little left to do. Like I said, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to fly back and forth to South America. We won’t even talk about the cost of the plane fare. To be honest, though, I barely made it back to Manaus. From there, I was lucky enough to grab a boat up the Amazon to Macapa. I only left Manaus in the first place because my hands were shaking so much I could hardly hold my camera steady.”

      “Harry, how unwise.”

      “Yeah, I know. I spent a week in Macapa General Hospital, but when I got the chance to jump a military transport back to the States, I took it. I had just landed—flown twenty-two hours, nonstop—when I ran into you.”

      “But you have your pictures,” Althea said with a sad shake of her head.

      “I have my pictures,” Harry agreed, “that’s the important thing. You know I hate to say it, Allie, I know I’m the one who’s sick, but you’re looking a little off yourself. Is anything wrong? You never did tell me why you were back in the States.”

      So much for spending two hours in front of her mirror, Althea thought. She affected innocence, but Harry wasn’t fooled.

      “Come on, Allie, I won’t give away your secrets. You always had a certain look when you were upset. Watching you frown, I remembered.” The worry in her eyes was more than apparent, it lived in a tiny crease above her brow.

      “I have no secrets.”

      Suddenly overcome by an explosive cough, Harry didn’t challenge her. Frightened, Althea held a glass to his lips and he managed to take a few sips before collapsing back on his bed. “It’s okay… I’m okay. Thanks. They’re not sure, they took X-rays, I may have a touch of pneumonia.”

      “A touch of pneumonia,” Althea gasped. “Next time, I’ll bring cough drops instead of flowers. Do you want me to call a nurse?”

      “No, don’t, please, don’t. I’m medicated to the gills, and they’re so busy, as it is. Tell me about yourself, instead,” Harry insisted as he lay back and closed his eyes. “That will distract me.”

      Althea hesitated, unsure what to do. Harry was white as a ghost from the coughing spell. Smoothing his sheets back into order, she gave in gracefully. Privately, she decided that if he had another coughing fit, she would not ask his permission to ring for a nurse.

      “Sometimes,” she said with a shake of her head, “I think I should save the paparazzi some legwork and send out bulletins, the way my life