“Got it!” Sandy’s exclamation broke a long silence. He gestured with the tiny camera he held in his hand. “I knew this thing must have a delayed-action timer on it some place—it’s got everything else. And I finally found it.”
He made a few swift adjustments on the little mechanism, moved a lever, and then set the camera down on the table, lens toward the room. It made a faint buzzing sound. Sandy waded through torn papers to his mother’s side, putting his arm around her shoulders an instant before the buzzing stopped with a sharp click.
“How do you like that, Mom?” he demanded. “I just took our picture.”
“Doesn’t seem possible that anything so tiny could really work,” Mom said.
“It does, though,” Sandy assured her, returning to the table to reset the camera that was only half the size of a cigarette package.
“No more of me,” Mom said firmly, getting up and putting her box on an already well-laden table. “I have to get those dishes cleared away. Any volunteers?”
Pop peered at her through the haze of smoke. “My old army training, Mom, taught me never to volunteer for anything.”
“In that case,” Mom said, “I’ll have to draft you.”
Finally they all got up and followed Mom into the big Allen kitchen. She excused Sandy and Ken from duty, on the grounds that they had done the dishes the night before, and put Bert to work at the sink. Ken’s father and Pop dried.
“Bring me my box, Ken,” Mom said, when she had everyone organized. “I’ve got so much help here I can get back to work on my velvet lining.”