The Tin Can Tree

'Fifteen!' Mrs Pike said.

'India Indians, of course,' said Ansel. 'Not American. Hey, James.'

Miss Faye's pencil had just hit the bottom of James's neck. She finished off with that same little bump at the base of it that sculptors put on marble busts, and then James stretched and turned toward Ansel.

'What, 'he said.

'Funny feeling in my feet, James.'

James sighed and rose to go over to the couch. 'Well, thank you, Miss Faye,' he called over his shoulder.

'No trouble at all. Joan, dear, it's your turn.’

'How about Simon?' asked Joan.

'They did me first,' Simon told her. 'I'm the guest of honour.'

'Oh.' She stood up and went over to the Potters, still carrying her glass of wine. 'My hair's not combed,' she told them.

'That's all right, we'll just smooth over that part on the paper. Will you have a seat?'

They sat her down firmly, both of them pressing on her shoulders. The lamp glared at her so brightly that it made a circular world that she sat in alone, facing Miss Lucy's steadily breathing bosom while Miss Faye, strange without gloves, skimmed the pencil around a suddenly too-big shadow of Joan. Outside the circle was the noise, and the beating music and the dark, faceless figures of the others. Their conversation seemed to be blurring together now.

'I had a cousin once, who did group silhouettes,' said Miss Faye. 'I don't know how. It's a talent I never had – he could make everyone be doing something so like themselves, even in a silhouette of twenty people you could name each person present.'

'That was Howard,' Miss Lucy said.

'Howard Potter Laskin. I remember him well. If he was only here tonight, why, we could put him right to work. I wish I knew how he did it.'

'Where is he now?' Miss Lucy asked.

'I don't know.'

Joan looked at her shadow, staring almost sideways the way James had done. 'There is a whole gallery of silhouettes in this house,' she said suddenly.

'Quiet, dear, you've moved.'

'Didn't I have this blouse on the last time? There was that same sticking-up frill around my neck.'

'Yes,' said Miss Faye. She sighed and her pencil moved briefly outside the shadow of the frill. 'Simon had the same shirt, too,' she said.

'How do you remember?'

The collar's worn out. Little threads poking up.'

Joan looked over at Simon; he nodded and held up the corner of his collar. 'This is the shirt I ran away in,' he called.

'Didn't you get dressed up to go?'

'You didn't do the laundry yet.'

'Oh,' said Joan, and she turned back to fit her head into the silhouette. Miss Faye started on the back of her hair, skimming past the shadows of stray wisps the way she had promised.

'The mornings after parties,' she said, 'Miss Lucy and I cut these out and mount them. Don't we, Lucy? We talk over the parties as we cut.'

'I think we should take a picture,' said Simon.

'A what?'

'A picture. A photograph. With a camera.' He took a swallow of wine.

'Sixteen,' said his mother, still counting.

'I know. James could take it when you're done with Joan here. Me in my shirt that I ran away in. Everybody else standing around.'

'Cameras are all very well,' Miss Faye said. 'But who can't press a button? If Howard Potter Laskin was here -'

'Howard did everything well,' said Miss Lucy.

'I could take you and Miss Lucy drawing silhouettes,' James called. He looked up from rubbing Ansel's feet. 'Could Howard Potter Laskin do that?'

'Well, now-'Miss Faye said. She lowered her pencil and frowned into space a minute. 'A silhouette of a silhouette? I don't know. But Howard could -'

'I'll get my camera, then,' said James. He left Ansel's couch and crossed toward the darkroom, stepping carefully through the other people. But the minute he was gone, Miss Faye finished Joan's silhouette with two quick strokes, ending in a point on top of her head that wasn't really there.

'You weren't supposed to finish,' Joan said. 'How will we have you doing a silhouette if there's no more left to do?'

'Oh, now,' said Miss Lucy. 'People don't get photographed making silhouettes. We'll just sit down, I think -maybe on Ansel's couch, if he doesn't object.'

They began gathering up their pencils and paper. All over the room, people were getting ready for that camera. Simon had buttoned the top button of his shirt, so that he looked as if he would choke, and Ansel was sitting ramrod-straight with his numb feet on the coffee table in front of him. By the time James returned the whole room seemed tense and silent. Even the radio had been turned off. James said, 'I don't hardly recognize you all,' and everyone laughed a little and then got quiet again. 'You're going to have to bunch up now,' he said.

They moved closer in, heading toward Ansel who for once allowed someone else to sit on the couch. 'Simon can sit on the floor,' said James. 'That would help. Miss-Faye, can you move your silhouettes in?'

'Oh, I don't think -' said Miss Faye, but James cut her off as if he already knew what she would say.

'Sure you can,' he said. 'Everyone gets photographed making silhouettes these days.' And though Miss Faye smiled, to show she didn't believe him, she brought one of her silhouettes over and set it on the back of the couch against the wall. "That's better,' he said. He was carrying his little box camera, and he held it in front of his stomach now and squinted into the viewfinder. 'Almost,' he said. 'Joan, where are you? All I get is your foot.'

Joan moved over, squeezing in against Simon on the floor. 'Ouch,' said Simon. 'James, are you going to get in the picture?'

'Not while I'm taking it I'm not,' said James.

'You should,' Miss Lucy said. 'You're the one that went and got him.'

'No. I hate being photographed.'

'Then what's the use?' Simon said. He looked around at the others. 'James made that special trip -'

'I'll take it,' said Joan. She stood up. 'You show me how to aim it, James.'

'How to-'

'No, Joan should be in it too,' Simon said.

But Mr Pike came to life suddenly and reached down to touch Simon's shoulder. 'Can't have everything, boy,' he said. 'Come on and get in the picture, James. Joan didn't go nowhere; she don't mind.'

'No, I don't,' Joan told James. 'Give it here.'

'Well, all right.'

He put it in her hands and then showed her the button. 'This is what you press,' he told her. 'It's not all that hard.'

He went over to sit on the arm of the sofa, next to Ansel, and now even James looked self-conscious. When Joan peered at them through the view-finder she saw all of their faces made clear and tiny, with their smiles stretched tight and each person's hand clamped white around a glass of wine. Ansel's feet were bigger than anyone. He still had them propped up, and when Joan raised her head to glare at them he ducked a glance at her and said, They hurt.'

'They're in the way,' Joan told him.

‘They hurt.'

'If you'd get the right size shoes' said James.

Mr Pike bent forward to stare at Ansel's feet; his elephant bell clanged again and Ansel said suddenly, breaking in on what James was saying, 'I had a cousin engaged to a India Indian. I ever mention that?'

'No,' said Joan. 'Your feet, please, Ansel.' She lowered her head and stared into the finder again, but Ansel showed no sign of moving his feet.

'I'd nearly forgotten about it,' he said. 'This particular Indian used to sing a lot. All the time long songs, India Indian songs, without no tune. He'd finish and we'd clap and say, "Well, wasn't that -"when oops, there he'd go, on to the next line. Got so we were afraid to clap. On and on he'd go, on and on.'

'Are you sure we shouldn't just sit in a chair?' asked Miss Lucy.

'Wednesday came and went,' James said. 'When will you remember your shots?'