Mrs. Munhall with Sons, Edgar left and Walter Jr., right, by Walter Munhall
With only one photo left, Fred still wants to get the group shot. The boys are roughhousing in the field, Paul trying to do some physical damage without getting caught, Sonny on the losing end. Fred and his brother, Al did the same thing. They could get into an argument about almost anything – who was smarter, who had the better haircut, who the dog liked more. Like Paul, Al had the upper hand—larger, less fastidious, and more willing to take chances. Fred glances over at Sonny. Sonny doesn’t want to be the sissy. He endures but he’s not happy about it.
Molly sits crocheting with her back against an old oak, pointedly ignoring the conflict, Fred thinks. Their hushed-toned argument from last night lingers in her stiff shoulders. Money worries again. He’d insisted on this trip to Conneaut Lake even though funds were low. Last night, tired of her consternation, he’d rolled over and fallen asleep on his side facing the wall.
After Fred proposed to Molly, Al had bullied him about marrying her. He’d called her a Papist, someone Dad would never approve of. Thinking only of their lovemaking the night before and how he’d massaged the tiny furrow on her broad brow, assuring her everything would be alright, Fred had told Al to shut up. Al had folded his arms, pompous, smirking, “You can say that now with your tidy little monthly allowance in your pocket but what about when Dad cuts that off?” Fred remembered balling up his hands in his pockets and turning away before he used them.
“C’mon, all of you, one last shot before it gets too dark. Boys tuck in your shirts!” Without meeting his eyes, Molly puts her crocheting down. She grabs a comb and runs it through their windblown hair. Taking a hanky from her pocketbook, she mops their glistening faces. She eyeballs first Paul then Sonny—the sit-still eyeball, the quit fidgeting and sweating eyeball, the take a deep breath and calm down eyeball. All the while, Fred fusses with his camera, checking the light and his watch. “Hurry up,” he says.
Molly nods. Sonny leans into her protection a bit too late. Paul, barely tucked and tidied stands tall and folds his arms like an Indian Chief in a cigar ad. Fred, feeling a spark of anger, barks, “Put your hands at your sides!” Molly eyes him, confused, and his heart stops, but only for a moment. She gently pulls down Paul’s arms.
“Look at me now.” Fred says. “Don’t smile.” As if they might.