An Absence So Great: A Novel (Portraits of the Heart) Page 26

  “The facade they’d sit on.” As I write that, I’m reminded of the facade I created for myself before that journey to St. Paul, how thin the veneer of certainty I carried with me.

  The studio prop is made of layers of wet newspapers and plaster, dried, then painted and decorated with embellishments made to look like marble. It’s all quite elegant, hiding the fact that there is no real value behind it. Just paper, easily crumbled. As props, the seats can be moved around, and we created this scene reminiscent of a Roman room, but of course it was all pretense. It was nothing but two fine people from Winona pretending to be what they weren’t.

  It turns out such was true of Fred and me in St. Paul.

  Oh, it began without pretense or show. I knew exactly why I’d gone to St. Paul. After arriving, I took several shots of gardens and made my way quite easily around the city on streetcars and on foot, keeping myself aware at all times of how far I’d meandered from my hotel, getting myself back well before dark. I enjoyed meals in the restaurants and didn’t feel at all alone despite being the only person at my table in a room filled with men or couples.

  I went to church and relished the music. I felt grateful for all the grace heaped upon my life and prayed my thanks. I felt as full as at any time in my life, sure, strong.

  On Monday morning, I went to the hotel center early and purchased the Association program. “Criticism and Lecture,” a Wednesday program, would be given by Miss Lena McCauley for the Federation of Women Photographers. I hadn’t even realized there was such a federation, and this woman, an art critic for the Saturday Evening Post, would be speaking of it. My investment in this trip had already been paid back! I did chuckle when I saw the program note to that session: “All members are invited to this,” as though a group of women meeting alone might be seen as fodder for tyranny. Apparently “all members” were needed to keep us females in line.

  Lectures on adding backgrounds to negatives, on uses of artificial lighting, and on applying “Scientific Salesmanship” and “Modern Publicity” methods filled the program. I noted that a “coaching party” for the ladies overlapped a scientific meeting, and I thought I might never find out what that was about since I planned to attend the salesmanship lecture instead. A theater event and a boat ride on the lake were scheduled for later in the week. The program also carried portraits—mostly of women—and a drama portraying issues of our art.

  Outside the auditorium, in the lobby area, booths advertised new cameras, Photo-Era magazine, and Eastman Kodak and their sign, which read, “Active Chemicals tested by experts bear this mark.” Ads in the program helped remind the reader of the booths. Salesmen hawked their wares like they were at a street fair, though dressed in fine three-piece suits instead of straw hats and patchwork vests. Manufacturers offered suggestions for new mounts and lenses, papers including Sprague-Hathaway Company’s promotion of sepias for “portraits that never disappoint,” and chemicals like duratol and hydroquinone for those “susceptible to poisoning by other coal tar developers.” That ad made me think of Fred and his susceptibility to illness.

  I especially liked the program quote from Pirie MacDonald, a well-known photographer from New York City, which read, “Success is not getting the best out of the other fellow—but from getting the best out of yourself.”

  I was overwhelmed by the majesty and abundance of it all but intended to get the best out of my self as a photographer because of it. That first day, I did well. I took in the lectures, made notes in the program, and attended a reception that evening. I delightfully inhaled the smells of the shrimp and garlic hors d’oeuvres, took in the stage decorations, and milled around noticing the fashion of women—not only of the photographers but of the wives. I wondered once if Mrs. Bauer ever came with Fred, then put the thought aside.

  We photographers wore ribbons to distinguish us from mere guests. I’ve saved my ribbon, though it now reminds me more of sadness than of those first hours when I felt that I truly belonged at such an event, knowing exactly what would develop in my life and that I had the strength and faith to correct any unwanted exposures. Ah yes, I thought later: certainty shadows the face of temptation.

  During the reception, strolling musicians played, and I introduced myself to a cluster of men and women, garnering my courage to enter conversations already underway. Ieven made the others laugh, talking of my tenants. Many of them nodded, commiserating with what a photographer must do to bring out the best in themselves.

  Then I felt a warm hand on my elbow. The circle of guests and members gathering with me widened, and Fred Bauer entered in.

  Self-Deception

  FRED SAW JESSIE DURING THE DAY, just a glimpse as she moved between lecture rooms. He hadn’t thought she would attend, being so new to her studio; but then, she’d been in the business since she was fifteen, and now she was what? Twenty-one. She wasn’t new at all. But he made no move to try to say hello, not sure he trusted himself to honor the distance she’d set up.

  He’d decided to go to the conference—he was a delegate after all—even though finances pinched and the conference always cost him more than he intended. In addition to the expense of the conference itself, he usually picked up new supplies, placed orders for Seed Company’s dry plates, and considered different developing chemicals. Those were business expenses. But he also managed to visit the shopping sections of the host cities, where he’d purchase sweets and toys for the children, order a tailored suit, and maybe pick up a piece of jewelry for his wife. Minneapolis and St. Paul weren’t new to him, as he’d lived there for a time when he and Mrs. Bauer first married. But he hoped this conference would infuse him with new interests, resurrect that spark he needed as a photographer. He wouldn’t spend any more than was required for the hotel and the conference registration. Not this time.

  That first evening, he left his cane in his room. When he entered the reception area beneath the hotel’s gas chandeliers and heard the music of the string ensemble, his eyes immediately found her: she wore a cream-colored gown in the slender new style, revealing white rounded shoulders, the satiny material molding her tiny waist and flowing in straight lines to the floor. The back of the dress exposed ivory skin, and a shawl hung artfully across her waist and draped around porcelain arms. He made himself take a glass of ginger ale from the tray being passed around by white-coated servers before he did anything foolish, trying to decide if he ought to approach. He watched the faces of those around her, heads cocked to her soft voice, followed by a spurt of laughter and nods. She could do that to menor women—make them laugh, feel good about what they did, and it was never at the expense of others, only herself. She had not a mean-spirited bone in her delicate body.

  Their laughter is what made him decide to join. He felt envious that the luster of her presence shone on others. The very closeness of her is what made him reach with familiarity to touch her arm as he stepped beside her.

  “Oh, Fred,” she turned, glanced at her elbow. “Mr. Bauer.” He dropped his hand. “I’m sure you know the Lewises from Toledo, Mr. Steffens from Louisville, Miss Carnell from Philadelphia, Gertrude Käsebier from Denver.”

  “New York,” the elegant photographer corrected.

  “Of course,” Jessie said. “I’m sorry. You have that incredible portrait of the sailor printed in the conference program. Truly wonderful use of light. The skin tone is exceptional.”

  Gertrude graciously acknowledged the compliment, and Fred was certain the New Yorker would hold no grudge over Jessie’s having given her a different city for her studio. Jessie introduced three others in the group and never missed a name. He was impressed with her memory, her apparent comfort with these new people. Something else to admire.

  “Mr. Bauer was my first employer in Winona,” Jessie continued. “He introduced me to the art nearly seven years ago.”

  “And now she has her own studio,” Fred told them. “In Winona.”

  “Ah, competition,” Mr. Steffens said. He had one hand stuck into his wh
ite vest; a champagne glass sparkled in the other. “Always makes us better men, competition does.”

  “You must have been a mere child when you began your career,” one of the women said.

  “Fifteen,” Jessie said. “When did you start, Miss Carnell? I’ve long admired your portraits of children. Phillips’s book With Other Photographers highlights your work so well.” She was deft at moving past any subject that might distress, he noticed, and turned people to talk about themselves. Always the best policy. The mark of a fine salesman.

  “I didn’t really like the print work on the plates in that book,” Miss Carnell said.

  “The quality still sang through,” Jessie told her.

  “I’m glad you think so. Are children a specialty of yours?”

  “I don’t think I have a specialty yet,” Jessie said. “I love gardens and landscapes, female character studies too. But I do admire those who can capture the essence of a child without making them appear stiff for the posing.”

  Miss Carnell agreed and spoke of her early years and encouraged Jessie to pursue her talent. Then the subject turned to the events scheduled later in the week, but Fred didn’t hear much of that. He was aware only that he stood beside this woman, and being there was unlike being in any other place in his life. She was the source of his renewed energy, the source of his feeling alive. It was enough simply to stand beside her. He’d almost passed this moment up by not coming. What a foolish decision that would have been.

  Jessie felt his presence even when she separated herself from the gathered group and left him behind in it. She knew he wouldn’t follow her, and she acted as though she had somewhere else to go, even though she would have loved to spend the evening with Miss Carnell. It irritated her that Fred had joined them, because now she was conscious of him instead of gleaning all she could from the other professionals. Fred’s presence, the smell of tobacco on him, the textured linen weave of his suit against her bare arm, distracted.

  She didn’t attend the concert, fearful that with the rush of music in a darkened auditorium, her eyes would seek his. She was unsure if she’d be troubled more to find him or miss him. She went to her room that night without further interaction, but she remembered his presence in the reception room along with those anxious flutters in her stomach. Those thoughts annoyed her sleep.

  On Wednesday she slipped into the lecture with the art critic and was relieved to see that Fred wasn’t there. That evening another lecture by the director of the Toledo Museum of Art, about photography as art, held her attention even though she saw Fred enter, watched as he sat and began talking quietly to a matron beside him. The gentleman next to her was most gracious, a salesman from the Lieber line of frames—he gave her his card—in Indianapolis. They exchanged comments about the conference, and he asked about her studio. She told him of her interest in garden photography and also candid shots.

  “You ought to go west,” he said. “North Dakota. Colorado. Pikes Peak attracts people, and photographs are developed on the mountaintop!” At intermission, she listened intently to the frame salesman while she kept her back toward Fred.

  An illustrated lecture by Mr. Phillips, whose book Jessie had referenced to Mary Carnell, provided the second half of the evening’s event. His subject, Constructive Criticism, held her attention, though that night in her room she wondered if the words weren’t contradictory. She never felt she gleaned anything about how to construct a better photograph before hearing what was right in a photograph first. She hoped he’d gotten permission to use the enlargements in which he pointed out problems. She’d die of embarrassment if one of her photographs had been critiqued in that way. It had been difficult enough when Fred did it all those years ago.

  She thought she’d survived the week when on Friday morning she arrived early and sat near the front so she could see better and hear everything that was said. Afterward, though, Fred waited for her. “Would you take lunch with me, Jessie?” he said.

  Don’t do it.

  She did it anyway.

  They nearly missed the next event because the meal was so pleasant. They laughed and talked “lectures” and got into a debate about the role of photography within art circles. For the most part, her fluttering stomach ceased as they carried on a perfectly normal conversation, like two old friends catching up. It was as she hoped it could be: professional. Then, after the second lecture about lighting, during which Jessie sat next to Fred, he invited her to join him that evening for the theater party.

  “Surely you’re going, aren’t you? I was sad to see you missed the concert.”

  “Just too tired,” she evaded. “I’m not sure about tonight.”

  “You have to come. They do a special performance, and the entire audience is made up of PA & A members.” She frowned. “Photographers Association of America. And their guests, of course. I think tonight they’re doing a rendition of Scott Joplin’s new folk opera. It’ll be fun, yes? You can’t come to these conventions and do nothing but work.” He shook his finger at her as he smiled.

  “All right,” she said. She could keep this on the straight and narrow. Hadn’t she done so all week?

  “It’s been a while since you’ve been to Lottie’s, Mrs. Bauer.” Young Selma Gaebele spoke to her in Lottie Fort’s millinery. “I think it was cold outside when you last came in. I hope that muffler worked out well.”

  “It was adequate. I’m here for a new purse,” she told the girl. Her eyes searched the room. She felt alert and aware despite her lack of sleep. In FJ’s absence, she’d repeated her invigorating evening by staying up late, first playing a board game with Russell and Winnie while she bounced Robert on her lap, then by talking with Melba over tea until the girl nodded off at the table. After sending Melba to bed, Mrs. Bauer wound up the Victrola. FJ had purchased it almost as soon as they’d been produced, but then he’d had to wait to find the vinyl plates, called records, to play on it. But she put one on and found herself dancing around the parlor to the music. Afterward, she sat smiling to herself on the settee, and then hummed as she went up to bed and read until nearly three in the morning.

  FJ was at one of his conventions, but she knew how to reach him if she needed to. She felt quite safe and content and admitted to herself yet again that she enjoyed her own company and how very strange that was.

  She decided that when she arose that morning, she’d shop. She called her mother with an invitation to go along, but Mother was busy looking after Orrin’s son. Normally that would have set her off, but today she had the enthusiasm to go out and shop alone. She decided on finding a purse and could have gone to Stott’s, but Lottie carried a fine selection, and it usually wasn’t crowded, so she got good service.

  “I’m partial to this one,” Selma said. She held up a silver-toned mesh bag with a coral and green and black enameled design that reminded Mrs. Bauer of FJ’s Indian art, which he kept in his room. It was as much the fringe as the bold design, but the purse brought memories of North Dakota, where FJ had picked up most of his Indian artifacts. She didn’t want anything to remind her of that place.

  “What about that one?” Mrs. Bauer said. She pointed to a silver mesh bag with a pleasant frame. The label German silver was inscribed inside the clasp.

  “Oh, that’s perfect for you, Mrs. B.—I mean, Mrs. Bauer. Just the right size for a handkerchief and a compact for when Mr. Bauer takes you to a lovely photographic party. Will you join him tonight in St. Paul?”

  Mrs. Bauer sniffed. “He hardly does anything of the kind. And no, I don’t attend with him because it’s strictly business, as you might imagine. I wanted one for our after-dinner drama productions.”

  “Sure. It’ll be good for that.”

  “First it was ‘swell,’ and now it’s ‘sure.’ What will you young people think of next?”

  “I sure don’t know.” The girl giggled. “Shall I wrap it up for you?”

  “Yes, please.” Mrs. Bauer looked around. She could use new lacy summer gloves, and Lotti
e had a butter yellow pair on display.

  “Here you are.” The girl handed her a string-wrapped package. “I’ll be interested to hear what my sister says about the photographic meeting. She said it would be all work, but she packed her silver purse and sheath dress. I sure hope she finds a place to wear it.”

  Jessie didn’t think he planned it. He’d taken her key after the theater, unlocked her door, and then, standing there in the hall, he’d lifted her chin and sighed. “Jessie,” he said, then lowered his lips to hers. A kiss, light as fog and all-consuming.

  It was as though the years of his absence spilled away like a telescoping rush into history. She felt her legs tremble, heard her heart beat against her cheek, the fluttered kiss now at her neck, which arched on its own. It wasn’t her body responding, and yet it was, oh, it was. There was no denying that. The facade she’d worn all these years fell away. This was no schoolgirl crush, no platonic relationship gone awry for a season. Even in the intervening months when they’d encountered each other, she’d done nothing to promote it, had she? Had he? No. She hadn’t been strong enough, though she moved away, stayed away, kept the distance. What was happening now was the result of proximity and opportunity.

  And his absence having tinted every pose of her life these past six years.

  “Please. Don’t,” she said. “I can’t. We can’t.” She pushed her hands against his open suit coat. “This can go nowhere, nowhere.” She could feel the tears rise, and she swallowed. “There’s nothing to hope for, Fred.”

  He still held her key, and she felt it pressed against her back as he moved in closer to her, his arm wrapped around her, his face still just inches from hers. She could feel the brush of his whiskers against her neck now and the prickle on her lips. With her hands holding her purse, she pressed his chest, retreated. “Please,” she whispered. She’d started to cry.