An Absence So Great: A Novel (Portraits of the Heart) Read online

  She didn’t tell him that she hadn’t prayed for something so selfish as a studio of her own. Prayers were reserved for important things, like the healing of her brother’s speech or her father’s strange stomach ailments or forgiveness for poor choices.

  Concentration eluded her as she waited in the bank’s reception area. She scanned the headlines, a few stories inside the paper, another article about the affair of the architect Frank Lloyd Wright and his paramour. She looked at the personals in the Republican-Herald, read the story of the surprise birthday party for their neighbor, Arlan Duff, which she’d attended. The paper reported on the guests, the games they played, refreshments served. The reporter gave credit to Ellen Plantikow’s lovely solo sung to Mr. Duff’s musical accompaniment. And there was Jessie’s name along with Selma’s and Lilly’s, and the mention of Bertha Fisher, Ella Gussman, Emma Roeling, and Art Roeling—Selma’s beau, whom her parents knew nothing of. No Joseph O’Brien. Lilly had failed to invite him to the surprise party. It had been a fine evening nonetheless, and Jessie had winked her approval to Selma as Art brought punch to their table. Jessie watched him press Selma’s slender hand just a moment longer than needed.

  “Miss Gaebele? Mr. Horton will see you now,” the secretary announced. Jessie stood, took a deep breath as she absently slipped the newspaper into her folder, and walked toward a hopeful dream.

  A Turning Toward Yes!

  After all the saving, all the frustration and begging, after nearly offering up her firstborn child as collateral, all that had previously brought her no now turned into yes. The bank president in his gray suit, white collar stiff above a bluish shirt, sat behind the desk telling her he’d had a change of heart, had reviewed his notes and her work history and professional presentations, spoken with George Haas again, and the bank was now willing to enter into the entire amount of the loan. She would have to move her savings to First National, of course. And she would need to keep her tenants happy so their rental payments could help reduce the principal of her loan.

  “Anything at all,” she told Mr. Horton. “Anything.”

  “We’ll expect quarterly reports of your earnings and expenses.” His white eyebrows lifted as he stared at her over his glasses. “You should consider us your partner in this, Miss Gaebele. For we are. Every successful businessperson has a wise banker, a skilled lawyer, and an accountant, honest all, working on their behalf. If you do not yet have such people—well, you have a banker now, of course—but you must finish out your team with an accountant and lawyer. Keep them apprised of all your efforts so we can foresee potential problems and forestall disasters. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” she nearly sang it out.

  As she signed various papers, she asked if she should have her lawyer look the papers over first, and Mr. Horton smiled. “Our lawyer has. It’s the standard form, but certainly, when we’ve finalized things, have your new lawyer review it and come to us if he has any concerns. Using our lawyer here is also fine.” Jessie wondered if that might not present a conflict, a lawyer looking out for the bank and a bank’s client at the same time, but she didn’t argue. Nor did she want to delay and perhaps have him change his mind while she chose a lawyer and accountant. Besides, she intended to wait on the accountant. She’d kept the books for the Bauer Studio and for the Johnson Studio, so she could save money by doing the bookkeeping on her own. Three thousand dollars was an enormous debt. She’d have to manage her finances carefully.

  Mr. Horton offered his hand, and she took it and shook it once, then again, not letting it go until he pulled away. He walked around from behind his desk and escorted her to the door. “We wish you the very best, Miss Gaebele. Will you change the studio name?”

  “No. I’ll keep it as the Polonia. But I’ll put an ad in the paper telling people it’s under new ownership. I want to assure people who already have proofs that the good work George has done will be continued.”

  “You’ll do well,” he said. “I have every confidence in you.”

  Impulsively, she turned to the grandfatherly looking man who had just handed her the future she’d longed for and unprofessionally planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you so much,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  His white eyebrows raised and lowered, and he cleared his throat as Jessie waved good-bye and stepped out into the light of her new world.

  Her enthusiasm brought smiles from the receptionist and other patrons waiting to deposit their money. She approached the street, which looked cleaner, brighter than it ever had before. She looked inside her folder to touch once more the papers signifying this day. “Oh, their newspaper,” she said, realizing she still held the bank’s Republican-Herald. She turned to take it back and place it on the wicker table. As she laid it down, her eye caught the last item in the personals column: “F. J. Bauer has sold parts of lots 2 and 3, block 12 in Sanborn’s Addition, for $3,000.”

  Jessie paused at the amount. But it was business news; it surely had nothing to do with her.

  That day, Jessie made contact with each of her tenants. In the several months she’d been working for George, she’d only nodded to them in passing as they went up the stairs. She told them that for now the rents would remain the same, feeling quite generous as she did.

  The optometrist said, “Good, because if you raise the rent, I’ll have to ask you to turn the heat up.”

  The doctor said his lawyer would be in touch about the need for a new privy. “I’ve spoken to George about that often enough,” he said. “My patients need to be reassured that they are in professional surroundings.”

  She realized she’d never seen those offices. That probably wasn’t very wise of her. Of all the research she’d done, she hadn’t asked to look at the entire building, had accepted George’s word that the structure was sound. She swallowed. “Do you have a water closet in your suite?”

  “Of course not. That’s why the chamber pots must be taken out frequently, though patients often choose to use the privy, which needs, well, tending to, especially in summer.”

  When she ran the Bauer Studio, she’d asked her father how to keep the privy smelling bearable. She’d have to see if George had lime in the garage and make sure it got added regularly. Maybe he hadn’t spent much of late on upkeep, thinking he’d soon be selling, or perhaps he was distracted by his wife’s poor health. She’d have to make sure her investment was well cared for.

  “I’ll make sure things improve,” she told the doctor, who grunted as he returned to his work. Had he mumbled something about female landlords?

  They’d all been tenants for as long as she could remember—at least three years—so George must have been attentive at one point. Their leases went for two more years, so that was good. She had time to make improvements and get accustomed to being a landlady in addition to running a studio. She just didn’t want that doctor’s lawyer coming her way before she even had a lawyer of her own.

  That night her stomach ached. Maybe she’d bitten off more than she could chew. Ha, she thought. I finally get what I ask for, and I’m still not happy.

  She wasn’t alone in this. The bank had approved it. They wouldn’t have gone along with making the loan if they didn’t have confidence in her and her abilities. That’s what she’d remember when she felt nervous. She’d set goals, meet them. This was just another step toward improving, being a professional photographer, investing in the currency of her talent.

  She planned to attend the big photographic convention next summer. Only men could be delegates, but female photographers participated. She wanted to meet Belle Johnson of Monroe City, Missouri, whose portraits of kittens were her claim to fame. Oh, she did other fine work too, but Jessie had seen the cat portraits and wanted to tell the woman in person how much she admired her technique. Jessie might even meet the infamous Frances Johnston of Washington DC. Miss Johnston had been asked by Collier’s Weekly to photograph Admiral Dewey on his way home after the war in Manila, so she had
gotten to travel as a part of her professional life. And then there was her inspiration, Jessie Tarbox Beals, whom Jessie had seen standing on that twenty-foot ladder at the St. Louis World’s Fair, first sparking her interest in photography. Jessie saw possibilities ahead if she was willing to work for them, and she was.

  After everything was signed and George had headed to southern sunshine, Jessie cleaned out the back room, which had a small sink and a daybed, a table, and a chamber pot. From the prop room, she brought one of the folding screens to separate the bed and chamber pot from the table and sink. It bore a Japanese print of a large white bird within greenery. She found a small Frigidaire icebox and Monarch stove, along with a cabinet for her dishes and staples. She did all this in between taking photographs, developing them late at night, and then hurrying home for a few hours’ sleep before heading back in the morning, until the studio’s living space was ready for her.

  “This is like a playhouse,” Selma said when she stopped by as Jessie put the finishing touches on the wainscot. The room smelled of paint, and Jessie warned her not to touch the door frame, as the cold November weather kept it from drying despite the open windows. “Will you really live here, all by yourself?” Selma asked.

  “That’s my plan,” Jessie said. “All by myself.”

  “But I can stay over sometimes.”

  Jessie hugged her, careful to keep the paintbrush from touching her sister’s dark hat and coat. “Anytime. But first, let me get the paint smell out and see what it’s like on my own. I heard the steam heat in the radiator the other night and nearly jumped out of my skin, thinking it was an intruder.”

  “You’ll need a cat,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I just saw a mouse race across the floor and hide behind that box.”

  “I guess I’d better look for one then. It’ll be good company and, between you and me, a better companion than Roy’s chickens. I haven’t enjoyed sharing the porch with them all that much.” Jessie wiggled her nose. “But don’t tell our Frog that.”

  “I’ll find you a cat,” Selma said. “It can be my house gift. People give gifts when someone moves into a house. Lilly told me that.”

  “Do they?” Jessie remembered her grandparents and uncle bringing food when the Gaebeles moved from the Wisconsin farm into Winona. “That would be swell.”

  She ran ads announcing that the studio was under new ownership: “Jessie A. Gaebele, Proprietor.” She loved how that looked. But in the second ad she used “Jessie A. Gaebele, Photographer” instead. It suited her better. She was a professional woman more than a businesswoman; it was the artistry of photographs that fueled her passion.

  Then she planned a tea at the studio to welcome her patrons. That’s what women photographers in New York did, to ease people’s concerns about a female-owned business. Having it before Christmas might bring in additional clients too. Her sisters helped by hanging bunting and greenery, and her father and Roy brought in a small tree they all decorated. Her mother baked cookies. “You can’t have a tea without food,” she told Jessie. “It does concern me that you’ve chosen to live alone here, when you’re perfectly welcome to stay at home,” she added.

  “I know, Mama. But here I can work late without troubling anyone else.”

  “You’re not eating well, thin as a shoe hook,” she said.

  “I’m fine,” Jessie told her, secretly pleased that her mother missed her company.

  “I suppose you noticed the ads,” Fred’s wife said.

  Fred sighed. “What ads would those be?” He’d just come in from shoveling the walks of snow. He had to be careful since his heart could thud-thud-thud when he exerted too much, and he’d have to stop, lean on the handle, and take deep breaths. His lungs resisted bringing him air; they expanded, but it caught in his throat. He ought to get Russell to do the shoveling, but the boy was often busy in his room making things, fixing things. He did a good job of repairing electric lamps and changing cords when they became frayed. Besides, Fred liked being outside in the fresh air when he could. It was what he longed for at the ranch in North Dakota, where the wide prairie grasses looked like water as the wind rushed up and down the swales. He’d planted shelterbelts of trees, rows that outlined the fields and broke up the winds near the big house before it burned, and a few had survived the fire. But he didn’t like the necessary windbreaks because the trees also interrupted the expansive views. It seemed he could inhale more easily in North Dakota, even though the place carried with it the suffocation of loss. On a morning like this in Emmons County, Fred imagined hoarfrost layered like lace against the barbed wires he and his partner, Herman Reinke, used to pen the few sheep. He didn’t relish his partner’s having to work in this sort of weather; maybe it was best the cattle had perished in the fire, turning Fred mostly toward farming rather than ranching.

  He inhaled, sat, began taking off his boots. He was here in Winona, in his own kitchen.

  “The ad for Polonia Studio,” his wife insisted. “Didn’t you see it?”

  “They’ve advertised for years,” he reminded her. “Why should I notice them now?”

  “Your star pupil is the new proprietor, or didn’t that come up at your lodge meetings? Surely you knew that George Haas moved with his wife to Tampa and sold his studios to Miss Gaebele.”

  He’d known of the studio purchase. He’d seen the ads. But he’d found no sense in bringing it to his wife’s attention.

  “I did know of that, yes,” he said. “On days like today with the snow piled to the rafters, I wonder why we don’t do the same,” he said. “Go to Tampa.”

  “And leave my mother and sister here alone? Why would you think such a thing?”

  “Your brother could come by and look after them… if we went for a few weeks. He acts like he lives far away. And your sister does have a husband.”

  “Orrin has a business to run, repairing jewelry and such.”

  “As do I,” he reminded her.

  “Well, Ellsworth is miles from here. And Eva isn’t the easiest to be around,” his wife reminded him. “Mother counts on me.” She waved her hand, dismissing him. “I don’t wish to talk about my family. I wanted to know what you thought about the ads.”

  “What’s there to think? She bought a studio. She’s a photographer. Am I supposed to do something about that?”

  “I’d think you’d be distressed, that’s all. I am. You trained her, and see what she does?”

  Fred sighed. “She served us well in our time of need… Jessie. Let her be.”

  “Let her be. I declare. That’s all you can say? A competitor steals clients from under your nose, and you say, ‘Let her be.’”

  If only he could.

  Jessie danced around the room in the white eyelet dress she’d saved so many months to buy when she and Voe worked for Mr. Bauer. Dancing alone was surely allowed.

  The apartment stood ready. Selma had given her a cat, all black with four white paws and white whiskers. Roy named her Negative for the glass plates exposed in black and white. Jessie called the cat Neggie, telling her, “Today is my big day!”

  She’d named the tea Polonia’s Party, planning a festive occasion. She’d placed general invitations in the paper and sent several picture postcards to addresses of people she knew and local businesses, including other photographers. It seemed wise to let the competition know what they’d be up against. Selma addressed the cards, as her elegant penmanship looked more professional than Jessie’s, so Jessie didn’t really cull the address list as she might have, which is likely how Mrs. Bauer got the invitation she held in her hand on that December afternoon.

  The invitation read “One O’Clock to Three.”

  Mrs. Bauer arrived precisely at one o’clock.

  “Mrs. Bauer, come in,” Selma said. “Jessie, look who’s here.”

  Jessie stepped away from the reception table, which was now covered not with ferns but a lace tablecloth and dishes of cookies and candies. A silver te
a set, a loan from the church (along with extra chairs), sat at the other end of the table. Lilly prepared to pour.

  Jessie wished for the presence of other guests. She wished she had asked Selma to sing or Roy to play his banjo softly—anything to absorb the presence of this woman Jessie never imagined she’d see inside her studio, let alone as the very first guest. Would she remain until the end?

  “Welcome. I’m so pleased you could come,” Jessie said while her stomach turned somersaults. Why is she here? What does she want?

  Neggie purred her way from beneath the table, heading for their guest. Jessie looked at Selma, who read the eyebrow message, whisked up the cat, and locked her in the apartment.

  “I needed to see what you’ve done with all that training my husband gave you years ago. Or have you forgotten that we gave you your start, my husband and I?”

  “I… No, I certainly haven’t forgotten. I’m very grateful.”

  “As well you should be.” Mrs. Bauer gazed around the room. “Not likely you’d be here today without the Bauer Studio.”

  Jessie saw her studio as she might for the first time: older furnishings left by George; no awards such as those hanging at the Bauer Studio; a smaller reception area without as much lovely light pouring through, even on this blue-sky December day; props of peacock feathers and scarves; a toy train and dolls Jessie’d added for child portraits. Compared to the Bauer Studio, the Polonia looked more like a second thought than a defining dream. Yet the woman’s words suggested that Jessie threatened. Oh, she’d be competition, but surely not more than George Haas ever was.

  Mrs. Bauer eased around the room, her gloved hands crossed on her umbrella. She studied each of Jessie’s framed works: portraits of Minnie Raymond, Marie Harms, the Russian baby, Misha, the Marquette girls. She’d hung the colored character study of Patricia Benson too, and it occurred to Jessie as she followed Mrs. Bauer around the reception room, telling her stories of the different pictures, that only females graced her walls. Maybe she’d begun to specialize without realizing it.