An Absence So Great: A Novel (Portraits of the Heart) Page 3

  “May I sit here, miss?”

  Jessie looked up as a young man tipped his boater at her and nodded toward the seat her camera rested on.

  “Of course.” She lifted the case, then stopped herself. She set the case back down. “No. There are plenty of other seats. I suggest you take one of those.”

  “I believe we’ve been on this same car before,” he persisted. “I’m Joshua Behrens. And you are?”

  “Not wanting to be bothered,” Jessie said and turned to face the window.

  She didn’t mean to be rude, but empty seats dotted the car and she didn’t trust her ability to assess whether this man was being kind or heading her toward another “episode.”

  She watched him grip the ceiling handhold for a bit, and then he moved past her, the scent of distinctive cologne lingering in the air. She’d never been unkind to a stranger, but she’d had enough challenges sorting out good intentions from bad for one day. And maybe what she’d done wasn’t rude but appropriate for setting limits; independent women needed to know how to do this.

  The streetcar slowed as the next stop approached. It was hers, but she considered staying on board, riding to the end of the line. She might have if not for the sweet-smelling gentleman behind her. At least he hadn’t persisted in conversation. Besides, riding to escape wouldn’t change anything today. She sighed and pulled the cord over the window, signaling the driver, and at the next stop, she stepped off to an empty street. She still had a few blocks to walk to Stowell Avenue. Summer would soon change its clothes into autumn in the gardens of Milwaukee’s elegant homes. Despite her good intentions, she turned to look back as the streetcar rolled away. Joshua Behrens smiled down at her from his seat and waved. She didn’t wave back.

  She met a horse-drawn taxi, nodded at the driver, then rounded the corner. She stopped. Fred walked up the porch steps, talking to Marie Harms. No, it couldn’t be. She saw what she wanted to. It was probably a friend of Henry Harms, who removed his hat as he stood. She squinted. The figure did actually resemble Fred, his back a slender soldier stance. She swallowed a mixture of fear and anticipation. She’d earlier imagined talking over her episode with Fred, and now her imagination confused him for someone else. She lifted her hand to her throat, felt the rapid pulse.

  Marie spied her then, jumped up, swung her chubby arm in welcome. “Hurry up, Jessie,” she shouted. “Gottlieb’s here.”

  Of Shadow and Light

  GOTTLEIB. THE FAMILY CALLED FRED by his given name.

  Fred turned then, straw hat in one hand, the other wiping at his thinning hair before hanging loosely at his side. His smile widened his mustache as he looked at Jessie, urged her up the stone steps, reaching to assist by taking her camera. She couldn’t breathe. Her feet moved her forward without her knowledge.

  “He’s come for the photographic conference next week. Isn’t that grand?” Marie said. “You two can talk about cameras and whatnot. Want some iced tea?”

  “I …I wasn’t aware of the conference,” Jessie said. “And, no. No tea. Thank you. I can manage the camera, please,” she said, holding tight to the case. She could ask him to look it over, to make sure it wasn’t damaged. But then she’d have to tell him what had happened, and in truth, she’d decided she didn’t want to talk about it to anyone, least of all Fred.

  “Next year it’ll be in Minneapolis,” Fred said.

  “What? Oh, the conference.” She’d been so busy at the studio, she’d been unaware of the photographers’ association gathering. “How unfortunate that you had to travel so far from Winona to attend this one.”

  “I’m receiving an award,” he said. “For the double exposure I took. You remember, yes? Seemed I ought to pick up the plaque in person.”

  “Oh.” Jessie had been his model for that award-winning photograph.

  “He showed us the print, and you look smashing,” Marie said. “You never told us that you modeled.” Marie shook her adolescent finger at Jessie. “You’re holding out on us.”

  “I don’t usually. Model. Or hold out on you,” Jessie said. She didn’t dare look at Fred’s walnut-colored eyes for fear he’d see the confusion and pain within her own. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to.” She pushed past them, mumbling as she moved the camera case between Marie and Fred. “I hope your meetings go well.”

  Behind her she heard Marie say, “Jessie works hard. She must be tired to leave so quickly. So tell me, Cousin, what will the conference be like?”

  “Educational,” Fred said. From the sound of his voice, Jessie knew he stared after her. “That’s the real reason I came for the conference. Education.”

  Jessie waited as long as she could before joining the Harms family and their newly arrived relative for supper. She changed her clothes three times in her third-floor bedroom, deciding on a simple yellow shirtwaist, a tight high collar despite the warm evening, and a dark linen skirt over her whalebone corset. She hooked a tiny gold pencil on a chain at the waistline to look as professional, as mature, as confident as she could.

  The meal of roast pork and hot potato salad with mounds of carrots and parsnips from the Harmses’ garden kept Jessie from having to speak much, though she ate little, pushing her food to the gold-rimmed edge of the china. The room felt warm despite a breeze lifting the lacy window sheers. Jessie barely tasted the vinegar bathing the potatoes as Henry and Fred discussed such invigorating topics as incandescent lamps in vehicles replacing carbide flame jets and what affect the formation of local conservation agencies would have on rivers and streams.

  “World’s changing,” Henry said. “May as well get used to it.”

  Fred turned to her. “Are you enjoying your work with Mrs. Johnson?”

  “It keeps me quite busy,” Jessie said. “It’s a much smaller studio than yours, but she serves a lot of clients. And she doesn’t make the photographs herself. Her husband did that.”

  “Maybe she’ll attend the association meeting,” Fred said. “The classes are quite instructive.”

  Jessie dreaded the week ahead, remembering that most photographers’ conferences began on Monday and lasted through Friday. Would he stay at the Harmses’? Oh please, God, no. She needed to keep as far from Fred’s path as possible.

  “I… She hasn’t mentioned it,” Jessie said.

  “Will you be staying with us?” Mary Harms asked Fred then. “We’d love to have you.”

  Fred looked at her, included Jessie in his gaze. “Thank you, Cousin, but no. I’ll stay at the conference hotel. Without my car, it’s easier.”

  “You could always ride in with me,” Henry said. “And I’d be happy to pick you up evenings. Or you could take a cab. But maybe you prefer hotel beds to Mother’s feather ones.” He chuckled, winked at his wife.

  Fred looked at Jessie as he spoke to the Harmses. “Your hospitality is welcomed, yes,” he said. “But I can meet with salesmen and other vendors after the sessions. And you have a houseful.”

  “Oh, there’s always room for family,” Mary said. “And I’m sure Jessie would like to hear about the day’s events at the conference, wouldn’t you, dear?”

  “I’ll encourage my employer to attend,” Jessie said. She fabricated that possibility. “She could use the time of refreshment. She still grieves her husband’s death.”

  “They’ll publish minutes,” Fred said, turning to Mary. Then to Jessie: “I’ll bring you a copy if you like. Or send you one,” he added when Jessie’s eyes grew large in alarm.

  She dropped her eyes. “That would be fine. If you sent it. Thank you.”

  “If you change your mind,” Henry said, “door’s open; a comfortable bed awaits. Let’s take our cigars on the porch, shall we?” And with that the two men stood and left.

  Jessie sat with Mary and Marie in the living room, the ticking clock background music to their embroidery. Jessie held a book in her hands but couldn’t read, her mind constantly drifting to the conversation on the porch, the scent of smoke a lifeline to the men
. She hoped her parents would never know that he’d been here, and so soon after she’d arrived. She hoped she wouldn’t ever be alone with him, then ached for a moment with just the two of them. All light casts a shadow, she thought. His presence brought a touch of home and with it a lessening of loneliness, and yet he’d added to the strain of his absence. Greater effort would be needed now to set her back on track.

  “I’m going to run Gottlieb to his hotel,” Henry said as the men came back into the living room. “Would you like to ride along, you three?”

  “I would,” Marie chirped. She plopped her embroidery hoop into the basket beside her chair. “I bet Jessie would too.”

  “Would you?” Fred said.

  “I…I think not.”

  “The award will be given on Friday evening,” Fred said then, gathering up his hat. “A boat ride is scheduled on Lake Michigan in the afternoon. Perhaps you’d join me? They display the week’s work then, too, and the award photographs.”

  “Oh, Jessie, wouldn’t that be grand? They’d see you as the model. Maybe you’ll get an award too,” Marie said.

  “Isn’t it nice that our Gottlieb offers advancement for your professional growth, Jessie?” Mary said, continuing to stitch.

  “Yes. Mr. Bauer’s been of great influence in my life,” Jessie said. “I can never repay him.”

  “Not necessary,” Fred said. He stiffened as he spoke. She could tell she’d offended him, keeping the conversation strictly business, but that’s what it had to be. “I thought you might like to see how the association works. Some other time.”

  “I’ll hope to attend a conference myself one day,” Jessie said. “But I thank you for the invitation and regret I cannot accept. I’m working on Friday, and the evening is already filled. I congratulate you on the award. It’s always nice to have one’s work recognized.”

  He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly at his waist. “Miss Gaebele,” he said.

  Jessie rose, the book sticky in her sweating palms. “Good evening,” she said.

  “Mary, Marie. Thank you for a lovely evening,” Fred said. “Henry? I thank you for the lift to the hotel.”

  “Wait,” Marie said. “Aren’t we coming with you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Fred said, turning to her. He looked at Jessie, but she shook her head. “Until our paths cross again then.”

  Jessie walked straight-backed up the stairs and didn’t let herself look back through the banister to see if Fred watched her go. She heard the car start up, Marie’s happy laughter lifting through the window. She reached her bedroom and stared at the image in the mirror. “You did well,” she said. “You did well.” Her voice shook, but she’d kept her dignity in this dangerous situation. She’d made the wisest choice, though she longed to take a ride on the lake, to immerse herself in photographic images and talk. She flung herself on the bed and wept.

  August 30, 1910

  Dear Sister,

  How are you? I am fine.

  I miss you. The summer drags without you here, when it used to move so quickly. I’m working hard at Lottie Fort’s now, making new hats, learning to shape the felt and everything. Mrs. Bauer came by. I know I shouldn’t mention her, but she’s a good customer of Lottie’s. She wasn’t so sad looking as when I worked for them, so maybe Melba Laehn, that new girl they have, has brought her happier thoughts. She picked out an ostrich fan. Lottie trades them now, and I trained Mrs. Bauer in fan language, showing her how fanning slowly meant she’d marry someone, which she said was ridiculous, as she was already married, didn’t I know? Well, I said of course I knew, but this was how one talked with a fan, giving information without words. She urged me on then, though I could see she thought me daft.

  A closed fan says, “Don’t be sassy,” and an open fan against the cheek drawn slowly says, “I love you.” A half-open fan against the lips invites a kiss. The pink feather tickled so much when I did that that I sneezed three times in a row! She laughed at that, and I saw how nice it was to hear her laugh, and I realized how seldom I heard it when I worked for the Bauers.

  There was one last fanning word, and that was how to tell someone to keep a secret. You place the open fan over your left ear. That means, “Don’t tell.”

  I’m sorry I told your secret, Jessie. I know that’s why you went away to Milwaukee, and I’m sad for that. Maybe if I’d known this language, then you could have reminded me what to do before I did it and you could have stayed home forever instead of moving away to forget Mr. Bauer.

  Lottie also sells gloves and hankies and scarves and parasols and purses. She says it’s necessary to branch out in uncertain times. She even sells hatpins I just love, with intricate flowers at the top, and one has a metal butterfly so while it’s holding a hat, the butterfly sits nestled inside a cluster of dried flowers. I have to learn all about each hat or pin or parasol so I can match them up with their new owners. That’s how Lottie puts it. I eavesdrop while women are searching, or I find ways to talk about what they like in life so I can hand them the perfect accessory. Lottie says dresses are fine, but it’s the small things, the accessories, that distinguish us as unique and that everyone, even me, needs in order to feel special.

  After all my sneezing, Mrs. Bauer decided against an ostrich feather fan and bought instead a cream silk gauze embroidered with tiny flowers. The ivory sticks are pieced and look like small picket fences holding the gauze. She said she liked the little blue flowers and that it would go with her blue hat, the one like you have. She was wearing a blue hat, and it certainly looked like yours, but I didn’t dare ask to see the label to be certain that Lottie had made it. Ido wonder what makes me distinctive. Do you wonder what makes you special?

  Roy wants chickens. Mama says we have enough, but he wants them as pets, he says, since Mama doesn’t want dogs or cats around. It’s what they argue about over supper, though Mama always wins because Roy can’t get the words out. Since you’ve gone, Mama has forgotten not to finish his sentences for him, so I try to remember when we’re alone. I always wait, even though it seems like hours, especially when I know that what he wants to say is “r-r-rooster.”

  What are you doing in Milwaukee? I just wonder. Are you still at that nice place you sent a note to us about? Lilly said you shouldn’t have such a lovely home when you’re supposed to be there for your “mea culpa.” I had to ask her what that word meant. Lilly says it’s two words. She spends time with Catholic girls, so maybe that’s where she got the idea we’re each to carry blame for our mistakes, all the way to Milwaukee. But I think there’s a time for everything; isn’t that scriptural too? If being in Milwaukee shortens the time it takes for you to feel forgiven, then your being away will be worth it.

  That’s all I have for now. I hope you’re well and that you’ll write soon. When we receive your letters, we read them out loud over supper because they paint a picture, Roy says, though he isn’t the one who gets to read them to us. I am. You share pictures even when you don’t send a single photograph, so we can see how you are. I’m fine too.

  Your little sister, Selma

  Delegate of Change

  “CAN YOU HANDLE THE RAYMOND SITTING this morning?” Suzanne Johnson asked. “I’ve a terrible headache, and the smell of Mr. Raymond’s cigar aggravates it.”

  “Of course,” Jessie told her employer. It was Suzanne’s studio, after all; she could ask Jessie to do anything she wanted. The tall, slender owner of the photographic business often had headaches. In the five months since Jessie had started working for her, Suzanne had excused herself several times a week, rubbing her temples with her fingers, shaking her head ever so slightly, as though the movement could brush away the pain. Jessie remembered Fred’s telling her that Mrs. Bauer often suffered from headaches. She wondered if there was something in the air at the studio that caused them, in the same way that mercury poisoning from the developing solutions made photographers ill. She had occasional headaches but hadn’t associated them with chemicals. She needed to b
e alert to that possibility. Suzanne often colored prints. Perhaps the lead paint contributed to her headaches, though at least Suzanne didn’t put the brushes in her mouth the way Mrs. Bauer once had, to keep the brushes moist.

  Suzanne had not attended the photographers’ gathering. She said she had no desire to learn to photograph the way her husband had. As the holidays approached, Jessie hoped Suzanne would feel well enough to bear more of the load though. As it was, Jessie often returned to the studio on Saturdays to work on retouching or reordering supplies. Not that she minded. The work kept away thoughts that shouldn’t develop. Besides, the walk back and forth was good for her. Despite the cold winds off the lake, she stayed healthy, hadn’t even had a sniffle. Of course, each morning she followed the health routine suggested by her women’s magazine. She ate two poached eggs with dry toast, then exercised by lying on the floor and rolling first right, then left, while keeping her feet off the floor. She repeated it twenty times. Even if the actions didn’t keep her healthy or slender, she’d continue them just to be free of her whalebone corset a few minutes longer.

  Jessie watched Suzanne run her hand along the back of the chair, stop a moment at the edge of the desk as though waiting for pain to pass, then open her apartment door and disappear. Jessie wondered what sort of treatment Suzanne used to ease her discomfort. Her employer still grieved the death of her husband, and that could well be why she had those nagging pains. Everything in her life had changed with his death, creating in her a gasp of distress rarely followed by a satisfying breath. No one Jessie was close to had died, but Fred had lost a child to an accident, and she’d seen in him death’s deep burrow into the world of “what might have been.” She’d met Fred years after the boy’s passing, and yet Fred still grieved. She could see it huddled there in his dark eyes. One needn’t have faced death to feel so great an emptiness. There were other kinds of losses that Jessie knew well. She still ached from Fred’s unexpected visit just as she’d started to move past the memories. Handling the encounter without complication built her confidence, but it also required starting over again, facing the truth of what could never be.