When Horses Had Wings by Diana Estill Page B

more to kill before Kenny came home. I’d already whipped up some tuna salad and cooked fried fruit pies for dinner, so looking at photos seemed as good a way as any to pass the time.
    “I’d love to, if you don’t mind.” He stepped inside and immediately zeroed in on Sean. “Hi, there, buddy. Whatcha got? Is that your friend?”
    Sean handed the toy bear to the chatty visitor. “Bo-bo!”
    “Bo-bo?” The photographer made a silly face.
    “That’s what he named it.” I sat down on the couch, thankful to have earlier wiped the grime stains from the cracked vinyl armrests.
    “Maybe I can take a picture of you with Bobo.”
    I smiled. “Would you like a fried blackberry pie and some tea?” I’d made the fried pies from some dewberries Momma had picked from the farm fencerows. Not many people knew the difference between dewberries and blackberries, so I hadn’t bothered to make the distinction. With enough sugar added, the two tasted pretty much the same.
    The photographer sat down on the sofa next to me and opened his notebook. “I’d love a fried pie.” He sighed. “My grandmother used to make the best fruit pies.”
    “I doubt mine’ll live up to your grandma’s, but my husband says they’re half decent. Be right back with one.” I motioned for Sean to follow me to the kitchen. He tottered behind, dragging his bear by one ear.
    From a cabinet, I grabbed two Milk Glass saucers I’d received as a wedding gift but had never found an occasion to use. The plates were too small and “phoo-phooey” for Kenny’s liking and too fragile for Sean’s active hands. I slid a dessert onto each saucer: one for my guest, the other for me. For Sean, I broke off a piece of my fruit pie and squeezed out the berries so nothing was left inside the pastry but a thick, purplish filling. He dropped his stuffed toy and reached his chubby fingers to grab the fried crust. I hadn’t yet taught him how to say “thank you,” but his eyes glinted with appreciation.
    In the living room, I set down the saucers and backtracked to retrieve two glasses of sweet tea. Already the photographer had opened his binder to display a pair of eight-by-ten photos. I glanced at the perfectly posed preschoolers in their nice, clean outfits. Then I looked at Sean in his Kmart-special corduroy pants and stained T-shirt that, like his lips, were smudged with blackberry jam. My imagination had to stretch far to envision how differently the children in those portraits lived.
    “Ohmigod,” he exclaimed, “this is soooo delicious.” I grinned and sat down next to him, leaving an appropriate distance between us.
    The visitor told me how he could photograph Sean using an assortment of backdrops. He flipped through his notebook and showed me examples of each one—various colored screens and props, including a white rocking horse that looked like it had come to life right out of a children’s storybook. His photography was crisp and distinctive, and I could tell he had a talent for working with kids. But even more than a portrait of Sean in one of those lavish settings, I wanted my son to have the lifestyle those images implied.
    I studied the last pages of what the photographer called his portfolio . “What a great prop!” In one picture, a little girl holding a paintbrush stood before an artist’s easel. The child, who looked to be about three, wore a royal blue smocked dress with a red painter’s palette embroidery stitched to her bib collar. Her hair, pulled up on the sides and fastened at the crown, was accented by an enormous cherry-colored bow.
    “That’s my daughter.”
    “She’s adorable.”
    “Yeah, she’s a sweetheart.” The man’s posture straightened. “She wants to be an artist when she grows up, just like her mother.”
    The salesman quoted his photography rates, which exceeded my weekly rent, and said to call him when I was ready to schedule a session. He thanked me for the pie and my hospitality as the screen door