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

  He stepped back then. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. It’s just that when I’m with you, I lose—”

  “Shh,” she pressed her gloved fingers to his lips. “Just say good night. This never happened and it won’t again.”

  Surrounded by silence, she pushed the door open to her room.

  “The boat trip, tomorrow night,” he said. He stood straight and stiff, professional. “Please say you’ll attend, yes? The scenes are beautiful. I’ll be on my best behavior. I promise.”

  “Fred…”

  “As friends. That’s all we are, just friends.” He raised both palms to her, the key still in one. “We’ll be surrounded by others.”

  She had planned to go. She loved the water, and she was sure they’d see gardens of estates on Lake Minnetonka. Why should she deprive herself of the evening?

  Why indeed.

  She nodded agreement. “I’ll be just one of many,” she said, then slipped through the door and closed it behind her. She would have to be careful, cautious. The butterfly in her stomach began to flutter once again, as did Freud’s words about conscience.

  He was invisible, his feet weightless. He was a boy again, and he had walked off with her key! Fred realized it as he reached the stairway. Maybe he’d call her from his room and leave it at the front desk. But that would be even more disconcerting, with the desk clerk wondering why he had her key. No. He turned around.

  One of his colleagues with his wife sauntered by, nodded a greeting. He waited until they entered their room. Maybe he wasn’t invisible after all.

  He knocked on her door.

  She heard the soft tap.

  “It’s Fred,” he whispered. “Please, let me come in.”

  Don’t do it.

  Why did it have to be the way it was? How was it that she had such a desire in her heart—to photograph, to engage with beauty, to bring joy to others with a mentor for her talent—yet here she stood, ready to throw it all away? She waited, as exposed as a blade of grass facing a prairie fire. Should she open the door to a passage of pain and sorrow, not just hers, but for so many others? Her mother and father and Lilly and Reverend Carleton, too, would say it was of her choosing to silence the voice keeping her safe, her turning her back on the desire to do what was right.

  He knocked again.

  She opened the door. “You forgot something?”

  “Your key and my heart,” he said and stepped inside.

  The Absence of Heat and Haste

  FRED COULD HARDLY BREATHE FOR HER BEAUTY, the scent of her, the way her hair fell in small, moist curls against her cheek, the inviting softness of her lips, the curve of her hips as he pulled her against him like a violin’s bow across a tightened string. She resisted only for a moment, and then the embrace they exchanged told him all he needed to know: that she loved as he did.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you and always will.”

  Their arms entangled as he lowered his face to her neck. He could feel her desire melded with resistance; the push-pull of a tryst grown of devotion and passion but tempered with truth.

  “Please,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if she wanted him to continue, to allow what they felt to find respite in each other, or to move back. He slowed, uncertain.

  She separated from him, and stood by the cold radiator beneath the window, her hands gripping the pipes and nearly as white, her eyes red. The window opened onto night; a soft breeze pushed the tendrils of her hair, and street sounds broke into the silence. Reflected light from the small lamp highlighted tears on her cheeks. She looked so vulnerable. But when she spoke, she sounded like a woman, certain and sure.

  “You have to leave, Fred. I came here…” She looked around the room. “Not for this. I have a business to run. I can’t afford an affair of the heart, a scandal, and that’s what it would be if you… if we… Please. Your children. Your wife. You have to think of them.”

  Anger rose in him, he wasn’t certain from where. “Leave the children out of this.”

  “I’d like to. But that means you’re left out too. You can’t be… We can’t be—”

  “We could.” He felt foolhardy, desperate. “No one would ever have to know. People have done this through the ages, listened to their hearts. I could take care of you. I would. And the children too.”

  “Fred.” She chastised him. “You don’t understand what it’s like. You’re accepted as a professional. What would people think if they thought we were…that we ‘traveled’ together? It would burden you as well as me. Don’t you understand? It’s…wrong.”

  She was right, and he knew it.

  “I have my life now, Fred. My profession. It’s what I cling to. No, it’s what I want to do, to be successful. I need to make this work. People are counting on me.” She clasped her arms around herself, shivered. Is she cold? “It matters how I live my life, Fred,” she whispered. “And I know in the end that it matters to you.” He took a step toward her. She put her palm up as though to stop him from coming closer. “I can’t live as ‘the other woman.’ I can’t… I won’t. It would demean me and you, your wife and your children. It would.”

  “Jessie—”

  “You know it.”

  Again she was right, and he hated that she was stronger, wiser, that his life was stuck in a hollow, empty place. His hands hung useless at his side. He felt an ache in his heart. And then instead of leaving, allowing another way to be made one day perhaps, or accepting that only he was responsible for the state of his life, he said the worst thing he could say, worse than proposing that she allow herself to be “kept.”

  “Of course,” he said, stiffening. “You’re right. Do you think I’m heartless?” He flexed his fists, held them at his side. “I look after my family, and I am capable of more. I have always been there for you, helping as I can.”

  “I know. I owe you so much.” She nearly wailed. “The camera you bought me, your contribution while I stayed in Milwaukee, supporting my efforts with George Haas. But I have to run my business on my own. For my own sanity, my own… integrity.”

  He spoiled it all then, any future they might have had, however precarious.

  “It’s not essential that you succeed, Jessie.”

  “Yes. It. Is.” She was angry now; he could see it in the flash of her eyes. She straightened her glasses, which had slid down on her slender nose. “You have no right to tell me that I don’t have to succeed, that because I’m a woman I will always have a way out, be picked up by a father or brother or husband or son, be a kept woman. That isn’t why I joined the profession. I love what I do.” She jabbed at her heart with her fingers. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. I want to do it well enough to support myself and help my family. It’s not a hobby. It’s who I am. I have to succeed!”

  “I only meant that you needn’t feel such pressure. I’ve taken care of things. You can’t fail. I’ve—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The studio. Your studio. I secured the loan at the bank. It was the least I could do. If anything happens, I’ve covered it. It would simply revert to me if you couldn’t make the payments.”

  “You…you secured the loan?” She looked confused. “I don’t… You hold the note? Not the bank? You provided the money?” She stopped her pacing, wasn’t talking to him now. “That’s why the bank called me back. Not because I’d convinced them, but because you had. You and George and Mr. Horton conspired to—”

  “I did it for you, Jessie. I did it—”

  “Get. Out. Get out of this room.”

  “Jessie—”

  She pushed at him. Tiny as she was, she possessed the force of a tornado. “Leave or I’ll call the desk and ask to have you removed.”

  “Jessie, I didn’t—”

  She reached for the phone. He obeyed.

  Jessie managed to lock the door behind him, despite her sweating palms. She shook. How could she have been so naive? She sat down on the bed, turned off the light, got ba
ck up. She had to think; she had to decide what to do. She listened to the night sounds of St. Paul, the clop-clop of a late cab, the putt-putt of a car engine moving slowly. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a church bell, maybe from St. Adalbert’s Catholic Church, calling people to an early morning Mass. She sat in the dark; what kind of a plan was that?

  And then an old verse, one she’d memorized years before from Micah spoke to her. “When I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the LORD shall be a light unto me.”

  She sat in darkness.

  She knew what she had to do.

  She changed into her traveling clothes, packed her valise, including the program, and started the walk to the train station. Let him have the studio. It was his money. Let him take it over. She’d…she’d leave. She’d go…west, to Seattle. She’d always wanted to go there.

  Walk out on a commitment?

  But who was the commitment to? Not the bank. They’d been in on it, patronized her, weren’t truthful or honest with the arrangements. Moving her own savings to help cover the loan was nothing to them; it gave them more to loan out to some other unsuspecting soul while they had all they needed from the hands of Frederick J. Bauer.

  She stopped. Should she even go back to Winona? She could write a letter to her family. She was sure they’d take Neggie in. Fred could figure out what to do about the tenants, the bank, her clients waiting for their proofs. He could hire some other young woman to take over the studio and make her fall in love with him.

  Why hadn’t he just bought it and asked her to run it?

  Because she would have refused. He’d pretended that she was skilled enough to do it on her own and then denied it by the very act of putting a net underneath her. She thought of circus acts, the high wire, and how much more amazing the feats were when they lowered the nets and the walkers or trapeze artists soared on their own. It was the same physical movement, requiring the same grace and grasp as with the net up, but when the safety disappeared, the act was so much more thrilling, the performers so much more admirable, the success so much sweeter.

  He’d put a net under her life for the last time.

  Fred looked for her in the morning but didn’t see her at any of the sessions. Perhaps she’d stayed in her room. He looked for her at lunch, then went to her door afterward and knocked, but she didn’t answer. When people gathered for the boat ride on the lake at two o’clock, he joined them and made small talk he couldn’t remember. The evening had nothing scheduled, and he knocked on her door again without response. He smiled at colleagues walking down the hall, embarrassed by his exposure. He had trouble breathing as he walked around the hotel grounds, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Roses bloomed. She so enjoyed the gardens. Why wasn’t she here? Why had he told her about the loan? The fact had only hurt her more. What kind of man am I?

  Her absence haunted him. He loosened his collar, had to sit on one of the benches. The evening felt hot and sticky, adding to the weight on his chest. He fanned himself with his hat. One moment he thought he caught a glimpse of her beyond the reflecting pool, but when he stood, he heard the woman laugh and knew it wasn’t Jessie. He would likely never hear her laugh again.

  Jessie had just enough to afford the ticket to Seattle. It would take her west to places she’d never been before, to mountains and streams and waterfalls higher than anything in Minnesota. Her adopted aunt’s half sister had written of the beauty of the “other northwest,” as she called it, “where your Mississippi bluffs could be nestled like little pillows in the shadows of Mount St. Helens.” It was just what Jessie needed: shelter in shadows, where she could find out what she was truly made of and what really mattered in her life. But she had to do this right. She took the train back to Winona, catching the streetcar to Mr. Horton and his bank.

  “I’m sorry,” his assistant chirped when Jessie walked in, demanding to see him. “You need an appointment.”

  “I’ll see him now,” she said, then fast-walked past the desk and opened the door. Mr. Horton was on the phone, but her expression must have told him he needed to end his conversation, for he hung the phone in its cradle and pushed it aside, clasping his hands on the desk.

  “Miss Gaebele. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me the truth, for once,” she said. “Is my loan secured by my savings and my record, or is it secured by F. J. Bauer?”

  “Well… both, I’d say. Of course, we have confidence in your abilities. And the rents assist in making this a good business loan.”

  “And Mr. Bauer’s involvement? Is there any?”

  “I’d need to look at your file.”

  “It looks like my name on that folder, there on your desk.” She pointed. Fred must have called him, assuming she’d show up here.

  “Yes,” Mr. Horton said, opening the file. “Yes, he has placed money to help secure the loan.”

  “The full amount? Three thousand dollars?” He nodded. “Then F. J. Bauer has just bought himself a studio,” she said. “I’ll have the tenants send their payments to the bank from now on; I’ll leave a portion of my savings to cover the interest incurred thus far and withdraw the remainder. Apparently you don’t need it.”

  “But you can’t walk away from—”

  “Why can’t I? You made the loan under false pretenses. Maybe you were right. Maybe I couldn’t make it without its being secured.

  We will never know. You can write me off as a bad risk, but you still have your money.”

  “Mr. Bauer meant nothing but goodwill,” Mr. Horton insisted.

  “And I wish him the same,” she said and strode out of the bank.

  Separations

  AFTER THE BANK MEETING, Jessie walked immediately to the studio, met with each tenant, and told them to send their rental payments to the bank. She didn’t give them any other information except to say she’d enjoyed having them as tenants and hoped they’d like their new landlord. Then she went inside, turning the key for the last time.

  The studio felt cool, darkened by the drapes drawn for several days. She walked through the reception area, picked up the small book on the appointment desk. She’d call each client and refer them to Voe or maybe to Van Vranken’s studio. She could finish up the orders she had, would take care of them before she left.

  She moved slowly through the prop room, memorizing. What pictures should she take with her? Maybe none. This had all been hers and hers alone, she’d thought, but it wasn’t. It had never been. Maybe nothing tangible ever was. “So much for independence,” she said out loud. She heard a sound. Neggie. “Is that you? Mama’s home.”

  Chairs scraped. She expected to hear the cat’s meow, but it was muffled talk that greeted her, then Lilly’s voice that called out to her. “Jessie?”

  “Oh,” Jessie said when she entered the kitchen. “I didn’t expect you here.”

  Lilly stood quickly. So did Joseph O’Brien. At least Jessie assumed the gentleman having coffee with Lilly was her beau. “This is Joe. Mr. O’Brien. My…friend. I hope you don’t mind. I mean we didn’t do anything. He just stopped by—”

  “Have you been staying here, Lilly?”

  “I was just leaving,” the young man said. He picked up his hat, bent to kiss Lilly on the cheek, thought better of it. Lilly blushed scarlet. “I’ll catch you after work tomorrow, Lil,” he said. “Miss Gaebele.” He nodded to her and swiftly shut the door.

  “We didn’t do anything, honest we didn’t.”

  Jessie pushed her hand to silence her. “You’ve no need to confess anything to me,” she said, and she sank into the chair Joe left.

  “I only stayed one night.” Lilly sat back down. “I told Mama you wanted me to… to help Neggie adjust.” Jessie raised an eyebrow. Lilly groaned. “I just wanted to see what it was like not to have to share a bed with a sister. I wanted to see what you liked so much about being on your own.”

  “What did you find out?” Jessie asked. She removed her hat, gloves, then stood to heat a pot of tea.


  “It wasn’t nearly as nice as when Joe stopped by to have coffee. That’s all we did, honest, Jessie.”

  “I don’t mind your being here, Lil. It’ll save me time. I’ve got to pack anyway.”

  “The conference isn’t over, is it? I didn’t expect you back until Sunday.”

  “Things have changed,” she said. She didn’t look at her sister. She forgot about the tea and began pulling things from the hook on the wall: her linen suit, her simple shirtwaist, the blouse Lilly had given her for her birthday years before that still fit her perfectly.

  “Can I help? What are you doing?”

  “I need the trunk from the garage in the back. If you can bring that in—”

  “Jessie, stop!” Lilly grabbed her hands. “What’s wrong?”

  Jessie grabbed up the picture Fred had taken of her, held it momentarily, put it back beside her bed. “It’s all wrong,” she said. “I’ve… Just get the trunk for me, please?”

  “That man,” Lilly said.

  “No. It’s me,” she said. “Please. The trunk, if you want to help.”

  While Lilly raced out the back door, the cat sauntered into the room. Jessie stuffed dresses into her bag, special earrings her parents had given her. Her Bible. “I definitely need to spend more time with it,” she told the cat. I won’t think about leaving the cat. She chose two pair of shoes.

  “What… Where are you going?” Lilly said, returning with the trunk.

  “He…” She didn’t know how much to tell Lilly. Lilly had never trusted Fred, always thought he had his own interests at heart. Perhaps she was right. “It’s Fred. He was at the convention, and—”

  “Oh, Jessie, I worried about you living alone here, how convenient it would be for you and… anyone. I mean, look what just happened with Joe.”