An Absence So Great: A Novel (Portraits of the Heart) Page 21

  “He’s… Catholic,” Lilly whispered.

  “Oh. Well. You could learn about his faith. Maybe—”

  “Mama would be flummoxed into her sickbed.”

  Lilly hung the towels, then began puttering, straightening the square salt and pepper shakers, wiping off the red caps. She appeared reluctant to join the others.

  “Maybe he’d come to one of Ralph’s tent meetings, and you could talk there about, well, faith matters and other things.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Lilly said.

  “In Eau Claire I didn’t go to church much because of the Eversons’ schedule, but they had church at home, and while I didn’t agree with everything they said, I never felt that I was violating my faith by being there. Why, in places in rural North Dakota or Montana and farther west, they rarely see a minister, so they have to find ways to worship differently than the way they grew up.”

  “I suppose… But still, there’s that ale.”

  “Ask him if he drinks.”

  “But I couldn’t be sure of his answer.”

  “Oh, Lil. There’s nothing sure. I’m sure of that.” Jessie laughed, and so did Lilly. “It’s just that life is made up of scraps of uncertainties that get quilted together in myriad ways. And people can change. It couldn’t hurt to ask, then see how you feel about his answer. Who knows? Papa might even find he enjoys talking to Joe, even if he does drink a beer now and then or is a Catholic.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Papa sees people for who they are,” Jessie told her, “and there’s no perfect man. Or woman.”

  “That’s true enough.” Lilly picked at her fingernail, wouldn’t look at her younger sister.

  “Maybe you need to change how you think about Joseph O’Brien. Remind yourself he’s a… gentleman. Let him prove it.”

  “Maybe I’ll let him meet Papa. It would be a place to start. Thanks, Jessie. It’s nice to have you home.” Her sister kissed her on the cheek. The spontaneous gesture of affection left Jessie caressing her cheek as Lilly left the room.

  Jessie thought of Ralph’s saying that people preferred to confess things to listeners they didn’t know. “True enough,” as Lilly would say. On the other hand, maybe family served that purpose best, family who loved you no matter what you did.

  Reverend Carleton told Mrs. Bauer not to think of things that distressed her. She’d poured out her outrage and the layers of betrayal she lived with. Perhaps she repeated herself; she couldn’t be certain. Reverend Carleton appeared distracted, reaching for his candies more often than usual. She liked it better when he ate walnuts, though the crunching annoyed. Gertrude, his new secretary, must have found that candy required less tidying up.

  Mrs. Bauer never told him about her relief the night FJ stayed with his sister. The reverend didn’t ask how she managed the time after FJ had called either. Instead they’d dealt mostly with his having also spent the evening with Jessie Gaebele sharing the house. Maybe she should tell him that she’d felt strengthened in the days since, reminding herself how well she’d handled the evening alone. The confusion of emotion kept her unsettled, pushing the thoughts deep enough to grow roots. She’d finished the session wondering what she’d do when Reverend Carleton traveled more. Who would she talk to then? She asked him out loud.

  “Stop by and see Gertrude,” he said, as though what she had to talk about with him was nothing more than an exchange of recipes. Then, on the day of her next appointment, she forgot that he’d be traveling and arrived at her usual time. She didn’t expect to see Gertrude, who came in only on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Maybe when Reverend Carleton traveled, she came in more often.

  “Oh, Mrs. Bauer,” Gertrude said. “Reverend Carleton began his tour this week. What arrangements did you make for your appointment times?”

  That Gaebele girl sat across the desk from Gertrude as if she belonged, her hat hung on the coat rack, her fingers black with ink. Her presence violated. Even here the woman intruded.

  “My appointment times? What are you talking about? You must be mistaken,” Mrs. Bauer said. “I just stopped by to pick up”—her eyes darted around the room—“posters. I came by to pick up posters. To share with the Congregationalists. My church. Goodness, no appointment needed for that. No indeed. You must be mistaken, Gertrude.”

  The Gaebele girl stood up and reached for a stack of the fliers. The girl was as thin as French embroidery thread and just as smooth. “These are for Reverend Carleton’s meetings near Rochester,” she said, handing Mrs. Bauer the posters featuring a picture of the reverend with his arms open wide and a row of bowed heads before him. Did FJ take that shot? “There’ll be events closer,” the girl said. “If you’d rather have those, I could drop the posters off when I get them finished. I’d be happy to do that.”

  “No! I mean, I’ll just stop by and pick them up. When might they be ready?”

  “Early next week. But I’d be happy to deliver them to the church for you if you’d like.”

  “Did my husband take that photograph? He proposed doing that for Reverend Carleton.”

  “I…I took the picture,” the Gaebele girl said. “I suggested it to Reverend Carleton myself. I… That is… It was my own idea.”

  “Harrumph,” Mrs. Bauer heard herself grunt. “I had that very thought and told my husband of it. Seems a violation of professional courtesy, stealing another’s idea.”

  She twirled around and, holding her head high, marched out the door. At least she had the satisfaction of seeing the girl flummoxed and open-mouthed.

  Jessie had been surprised by Mrs. Bauer’s visit, and she asked Ralph about it when he returned. He was distracted, she thought, because he tapped his pencil on the desk, looked up at the ceiling before responding to her musing about Mrs. Bauer’s charge that Jessie had stolen an idea from her husband.

  “She must have been confused… Now, wait.” He held his finger up to the wind. “FJ did mention doing something similar to what you proposed. I thought hearing the same idea from two different photographers meant it was probably a good suggestion, but I had to go with the person who approached me first. FJ was understanding. Perhaps he never mentioned that to his wife.”

  “She did appear upset.”

  “She can be,” he said but didn’t elaborate.

  Jessie had also probed Gertrude after the woman left.

  “That was strange,” Gertrude said.

  “That she wanted to pick up posters?” Jessie said. “Sounds like a good thing to do, if you ask me.”

  “No. She acted like she would be seeing Ralph again, just like she usually does on Mondays. But I know he would have told her he was traveling.”

  “He has a regular appointment with Mrs. Bauer?”

  “Oh,” Gertrude said. “I shouldn’t have said anything. He sees a lot of different people, to counsel them in their spiritual lives. It’s all confidential.”

  The revelation piqued Jessie’s interest, and once, when Gertrude could not come in due to a summer cold, she asked Jessie to please file away the folders she’d left on her desk. While tucking them away in the cabinet, Jessie spied a folder bearing the label Mrs. Jessie Bauer.

  Her heart caught just a bit at seeing her own name attached to Fred’s. She’d known Mrs. Bauer’s first name was Jessie, but seeing the complete name in writing still unnerved her. Later, she wondered—as she so often did after the fact—if that was why she pulled the file out.

  She didn’t open the file on Mrs. Jessie Bauer that day, though she longed to. The temptation was great. She fingered the manila edge, stared at is as though she could see through it to the information that lay within. But what would peeking gain her? Insights about the Bauers’ life together, proof of disintegration?

  She did wonder about the stability of the Bauers’ marriage. But Jessie didn’t wish an end to it. The pain a divorce would bring to both Mrs. Bauer and Fred, and to the children… No, she didn’t want that. She just wanted their marriage to never have been
. She wanted to have met Fred Bauer at a time and place when their care could flourish and enrich each other without coming at the expense of others. She wanted to have met him when they could have had a future together.

  She started to open the file but had the presence of mind to listen this time when that inner voice said, Don’t do it. She put the file back and never pulled it out again.

  Fred stepped around the cradle he’d permitted Voe Henderson to bring into the studio. What was wrong with him? He’d become weak-minded in his old age, giving in to his employee’s request that she bring her child to the studio while she worked. He would turn forty-six this August and ought to have been at the top of his photographic game. Instead he felt stuck with the daily grind of things. He supposed that was why he let Voe bring her little Danny in, to infuse his days with interest. It also helped out the young couple. Allowing it was like making a contribution to one of his benevolence funds, a kind of tithe. Or maybe an act of contrition.

  Voe had hoped to hire a girl to look after the baby, but financially the young couple struggled. Daniel traveled on the railroad, so he certainly couldn’t stay at home with the boy. They were a team, this couple. When Voe spoke about the family’s decisions, she always said we: we decided, we bought, we worked things out. Fred tried to remember the last time he and Mrs. Bauer—Jessie—had decided anything as a we.

  When the toddler babbled, Fred responded. “Having a good day, yes?” he asked the child. “Not having such a bad one myself,” Fred answered the boy’s coos. He smoothed the boy’s blond hair and let himself remember with fondness those weeks after the mercury poisoning waned, when he was finally feeling better and he’d had both Winnie and Robert close at hand. He loved their presence even though he found himself short-tempered at times. The boy reminded him of Donald, but then, every tow-headed toddler did.

  Voe’s cheerful spirit never wavered with her baby, and she did well by Fred’s customers too. None seemed to think the presence of the child was unprofessional, though one or two did ask if the baby was a grandchild of his. Such comments never failed to disturb him, as he didn’t think he looked old enough to be a grandparent, though his hair thinned and he’d noticed new wrinkles at his ears of all places. He also knew that Voe was similar in age to Jessie Gaebele.

  “I do have a little to celebrate,” he told Voe’s boy. In June he’d been elected as an alternate delegate to the North-West States National Association of Photographers representing Minnesota, North and South Dakota, and Iowa. “Only men are allowed to be delegates,” he told Danny. It was still something to be noticed by one’s peers. The boy offered up his gooey toy. “Already had my breakfast,” he said and smiled. He must ask Mrs. Bauer about having Robert spend time at the studio now and then, the way Russell had as a child, and Winnie too. He was in favor of bringing them into the business young.

  Why wasn’t he content? he wondered. Why wasn’t having healthy children, a successful business, and recognition from his colleagues enough to make him look forward to each and every day?

  Maybe it was the previous evening’s argument with Mrs. Bauer that rankled. He’d finally remembered to ask about Ralph Carleton’s strange comment the day he’d stopped by. “Why was Ralph Carleton expecting you?” he asked. “I stopped by there, and he thought I came by to find you. Why would he think that?”

  “I have no idea what you mean.” She put her needlework down, holding her hands as still as the calm before a storm. He didn’t want to be the cause of a thunder burst.

  “Not accusing,” Fred said. “Just remembered what he said. Nothing of import.” He returned to his newspaper and resumed reading of the progress of the breakups of Standard Oil and the American Tobacco Company. He chewed Cuban cigars so didn’t imagine the latter would affect his supply, especially since marines had landed in Cuba to protect Americans and their property. Congress had established an eight-hour workday. He wished he had to work only eight hours, but the law would mean Voe couldn’t spend more time at the studio than necessary. The senate had also passed a bill allowing for the direct election of senators rather than appointments. He wondered idly how that might work out. World news was less aimless: tensions in the Balkans increased; American troops had been sent to Tientsin in China to protect American interests, but the article didn’t say which ones.

  “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he said when he became aware that his wife spoke. He lowered the paper.

  “I said, I saw your Miss Gaebele at Reverend Carleton’s earlier this week, since you mention the reverend. I went there to pick up posters for his tent meeting. Your Miss Gaebele worked on a poster using a photograph, just as I once suggested you do. You agreed it might be a new revenue source for the studio.”

  Your Miss Gaebele. He stepped over the remark. “Did you?” he said.

  “Did I what?”

  “Stop at Ralph Carleton’s.”

  “That’s what I said. But of more importance is that the young woman we so kindly mentored those years ago has now stolen our idea. You should be appalled.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said.

  “But you told me—”

  “Yes, yes, it was an idea. I did tell Ralph about it—”

  “And he told her, and now she’s doing it.” Her voice had risen to its warning note and pace. “That woman can’t be trusted. I don’t know why we ever hired her—”

  “I did stop by to talk with Ralph about his proofs, and I mentioned your idea then. But he said he’d already been given that very suggestion by Miss Gaebele. A mere coincidence of good ideas expressed at the same time.”

  “You told the girl. You shared your idea with her.”

  “I didn’t… Jessie. Don’t arouse yourself over this. I just didn’t get to Ralph first,” he assured her. “Nothing to worry over.”

  “A source of revenue is taken from us, and you say there is nothing to worry over? Are we so wealthy, then? We have money to send Russell on to school?” By now she was standing, her hands gripping the needlework. “You’re blind, F. J. Bauer. Just blind. That woman is trouble. Mark my words.”

  She stomped from the room as he said to her back, “It was just poor timing. That’s all it was.”

  Such was the story of his life, which, as with photography, was all about timing.

  Recipients

  JESSIE LIKED TRAVELING TO PLACES like New Prague, Northfield, and Red Wing, seeking the parks and watching weather roll in across the fields of corn and wheat or tremble low over the bluffs. The reverend’s entourage usually stayed with parishioners, and Jessie became adept at saying kind things about a meal provided, even though she might have had the same boiled cabbage and pork roast at the home they’d stayed in the night before. Ralph rested in hotels, as he needed his private preparation time, but the local people put effort into their hospitality and took extra pride in hosting those involved in the ministry. They wanted to nurture and give sustenance. The best way to assure the reverend’s success was to accept the hosts’ generosity.

  It surprised Jessie that she enjoyed helping with Ralph’s evening services, handing out hymnals, standing next to people at the altar to assist them if they fell to their knees with the weight of emotion. Fireflies danced around the tent opening to the outside, competing with the tiny lights strung along the tent ropes. Cigarette smoke drifted in through the opening as men took a final puff before being pulled inside by their wives. Oh, a few came of their own accord; Jessie could see that as they slipped quietly toward the side aisles, eyes downcast. But most needed the encouragement by sticks or sweets of another to get through that tent opening so they could hear the good news.

  The music, too, soothed and inspired Jessie—and others, judging by the expressions of rapture as the pianist pounded out the hymns. Jessie hoped one day she’d take piano lessons, but for now, all her resources went into the bank. She didn’t have a strong voice like Selma or an apparent gift for playing instruments like Roy. She was more like Lilly, able
to enjoy music without having to produce it. But sometimes she wanted to make music too. She surprised herself in a small country church outside of Lake City one afternoon while Ralph and his men stood beneath elm trees shading their discussion. She pulled up the stool and played a tune that rolled through her head and directed her fingers, even though she had no notes before her. Maybe she did have a talent in music; she just needed to hear the song first and let her fingers follow along.

  Jessie watched as Ralph spoke to each person who came forward while the pianist played “Blessed Assurance.” Maybe taking piano lessons would be the only real dream she could fulfill. George Haas never again mentioned his plans to sell the Polonia, let alone to her, and she hadn’t seen his ad in the paper or the photographic magazine. Neither had he mentioned taking her employment to full-time status. He’d been distracted of late with his wife’s illness, though, so maybe in the spring she’d ask again.

  At least working for Ralph had given her chances to photograph unique people and places. She captured experiences without having to hold on to every detail, knowing she could call up the emotion of the day simply by looking at the image. Her pictures witnessed the face of a woman filled with the joy of forgiveness, or the gnarled hands of a farmer grasping his hymnal. They evoked feelings of her own, and others told her the photographs moved them as did a work of art. It was an added bonus that some of those photographs appeared on posters the advance men hung around town, a chance to share her efforts, what every artist needed. It was not enough to paint a beautiful picture or write a glorious song: someone else must see it or hear it for the work to be complete. She didn’t sign her pictures the way many photographers did. She noticed that a recent postcard of the canoe races on Lake Winona contained a tiny embossed seal. On close inspection, she saw it bore Bauer Art Studio and the date. She smiled. Fred made sure people recognized even his “tramp” work. Maybe she should do that too… one day.