An Absence So Great: A Novel (Portraits of the Heart) Page 36

  I continued to help with the studio work, though Virginia and I thought that developing prints in my condition wasn’t wise. I had to tell her of it, because my morning illness wasn’t confined to the morning. I spent most of my time photographing, even carrying the heavy camera and tripod to the bluffs one day. Nothing so filled me as when I captured a bit of God’s creation to preserve it for when I left it behind. I talked to my baby about my day. And when I curled into my bed at night, I held the child inside, leaving loneliness behind.

  By October, though, I’d had enough. Winter threatened, and I told Fred if he didn’t come for me soon I’d have the baby in Seattle, since he’d obviously changed his mind about wanting to live with me in Winona. I made it sound like I’d always wanted to see Puget Sound—which I had—but I also wanted him to know that I was capable of moving on if in fact he’d found reason to reconsider.

  He arrived three days later to help me pack and put trunks onto the train. I never was so joyous!

  We arrived in Minneapolis late in the evening. He’d arranged for a minister to marry us in Anoka, not far from the city, the next day. He’d planned ahead and already possessed the marriage license.

  I dressed in the hotel room, wearing what I have on in this photograph, a dress Lilly sewed for me, and we repeated our vows at the parsonage. We didn’t ask the minister to take our photograph together; in fact, to this day we have few pictures with both of us, as one of us is usually standing behind the camera.

  We relished our time together after so long an absence, visiting Minnehaha Falls and driving past gardens. This marriage, this life with Fred, was what I’d always wanted. That was the truth. But to have this marriage, my love of making photographs, and soon a child…well, this was abundance indeed.

  Fred drove me out to show me the forty acres at Pine City (which I loved for its rolling hills and woodlands) before we boarded the train to Winona. There, we took a cab to the apartment he’d rented for us on Broadway and began planning to celebrate our marriage. Marriages.

  For the photograph I stood in the parlor of our second-floor apartment in front of the piano Fred gave me as a wedding present. It was there, waiting for me when I arrived, a gift better than roses. I squealed, I know I did, and kissed my husband. He did know what pleased me; he hadn’t procrastinated about the piano or finding new sheet music to display either.

  On the day of the portrait, Selma did my hair up for me, twisting pearls in the roll and adding a string of them to the shoulders of the gown. Lilly had embroidered roses on the sheer shoulder veil. She adjusted the waistline, as she’d tailored the dress in early July, when I’d written to my family that we were married and would be married again in Minnesota because I just didn’t trust those North Dakota weddings. She’d sent the package with Fred when he traveled out to get me. My belt is a ribbon clustered with cloth roses. I carried chrysanthemums that Roy grew. “Fer-fer-fertilized by my chi-chi-chickens,” he told me, his dimples deepening into a smile.

  The meeting with my parents had caused me worry. They’d failed to answer my letter telling them where I lived and about the marriage; only Selma, Roy, and Lilly kept the channels open. I imagine they struggled to find a way to explain to themselves and perhaps to their friends about my part in the story of the Bauers. But they arrived, all of them, shortly after the delivery men carried our trunks up to the apartment.

  “Roy’s been riding his bicycle by here every day since FJ left for North Dakota,” my father said. “FJ told us he was heading out to get you.”

  It surprised me that Fred had spoken with my parents. I would chastise him later for not telling me, but then, I’d failed to let him know I was worried.

  “It’s good to see you, Papa,” I told him. I listened for criticism in his voice, prepared for a stern response, but received neither. Instead he pulled me into his chest, which smelled of leaf burn. “It’s good to have you home, girl,” he said. “Good to have you back safe and sound, and now just down the street.”

  Roy hugged me then, and I exclaimed about how tall he’d grown.

  “N-n-nearly as t-tall as you.” He beamed.

  Selma asked about the trip as I fussed in the cupboards, found tea, and put the kettle on to boil. “I don’t know what’s here to serve you,” I said.

  “Hush now,” my mother said. She stood with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her knitted sweater, buttoned up nearly to her throat. “We brought cookies. Selma, put them on the table, please. Now come here, Jessie, and let me hold you.”

  I sank into my mother’s arms. “It’s been so long,” I said. “Thank you for coming.” She stepped back, still holding my shoulders, a glisten in her eyes as she stared at my waistline. “Yes,” I whispered, taking a deep breath.

  “You’ll be grandparents in March,” Lilly told them.

  “How did you know?” Selma charged.

  Roy clapped, and I winked at Lilly, who had kept the secret. “I had to tell Lilly because she made the dress.”

  “And had to keep altering it.”

  “Because your husband didn’t bring you back as fast as he should have,” my mother said.

  I heard annoyance in her voice and intervened. “Fred had a lot to take care of before it made sense for him to travel out to get me,” I said. “It’s not easy running two studios, taking care of his children…” I realized I’d stepped onto a path of discussion I didn’t want to be on during this first day back. But it would be the path that weaved through the rest of our lives. Fred had two families. I didn’t want us to sidestep what was so, either. Perhaps it was best to talk of such things. “He’ll take care of them and of me. Us,” I defended.

  “That he will,” my father said.

  “As I’ve vowed to,” Fred said.

  Both men stood like feuding dogs, jaws set, tails up and still. Then my father stepped back and nodded his head. “As I’ve vowed to,” Fred repeated and reached for my father’s hand. It was taken and clasped, the beginning of two men having settled a score.

  And so Fred did take care of us until his death earlier this year, 1939. He cared for all of us, me and the five children I bore him, beginning with Fern in March of 1916. Grant and Pearl brightened our Winona days further, and then in 1920 we moved to Minneapolis, where I gave birth to two more children, Stan and Corinne. Fred was sixty-five when our youngest, Corinne, was born. His lodge gave him cigars on the occasion.

  When we moved to the Twin Cities, he brought my entire family with us. We ran a new Bauer Studio in Minneapolis, mostly retouching and coloring, making contracts with dozens of other photographers in the area. We kept the Hazelton Studio for many years, with Virginia Butler doing the local work until we sold the studio in the thirties. Then Fred had another heart attack, and hard times fell upon the country. We sold the ranch then, too, and the Pine City property, because we could not pay the taxes. That one broke my heart. I loved those rolling woodlands that reminded me of Cream, where I’d grown up.

  The wedding photograph I look at now is filled with memory. That morning my mother gave me the necklace I’m wearing. It had been her mother’s, given to her to wear on her wedding day.

  Fred’s sister, Luise, and her husband came on that celebration day too and treated me like family. I was so grateful. We’d decided ahead of time not to include Fred’s children. It might be confusing for them, and there would be time enough for the pull and tugs that would stretch our threaded family into the comforting quilt it became.

  I try to remember Fred’s first children’s birthdays. Winnie’s is easy since it’s the same as mine. Often, when Mrs. Bauer needed caring from her mother, the children came by in the morning before school, and I’d braid Winnie’s hair and talk with Robert about his lessons and his interests in building things. They’re good children who have been good to me as well.

  Mama died in 1930 and Papa two years later. I was always grateful that the snags we felt those early years did not ruin the garment of our lives. My mother never mentioned
again my being a “kept woman” or how much older Fred was than I. My mother must’ve held the philosophy of letting the water of past decisions flow under the bridge, as there was no sense trying to get it back.

  I did encounter Mrs. Bauer soon after the Republican-Herald reported that “Mrs. and Mrs. F. J. Bauer” had given birth to our first baby, a girl. The paper added that “Mrs. Bauer is the former Jessie A. Gaebele.” Mrs. Bauer surprised me by knocking on the apartment door. I’d rarely seen her when I shopped or ran errands. She never came to the studios. You’d think as small as Winona was back then that our paths would have crossed close enough to have a conversation. But they didn’t. Fred went to church with me at the evangelical church, though we made certain to attend the congregational recitations, where Robert and Winnie often spoke. Mrs. Bauer and I nodded feathered hats to each other on those occasions but didn’t speak. I had not talked with her since the Polonia Tea.

  I opened the door to her, holding Fern in my arms.

  “So it’s true,” she said.

  I stepped back. Not that she looked wild-eyed, but she hadn’t greeted me, and I didn’t know the social graces for speaking with a husband’s first wife as she stood in the doorway. She was finely dressed, and I felt a bit dowdy. “Yes,” I said. “Won’t you come in?”

  “It’s not his first child, you know. Russell is.”

  “I know. Won’t you have some coffee or tea?” My heart pounded as she crossed in front of me. She glanced around.

  “Those Indian pots.” She pointed. “I never did like them.”

  “Fred appreciates the designs,” I said.

  “Always reminded me of that ranch. Flat. Takes too much money for whatever gain there is. It took Donald from us.”

  I nodded. “A place can hold hard memories,” I said. “And farming of any kind takes work.” I thought of my father, who had left the dairy in Wisconsin because of his chronic pain.

  “Especially when you’re an old man,” Mrs. Bauer said. “And FJ is. An old man. You know that, don’t you? You’ll be a widow before long. Alone like me.”

  “Maybe,” I said. But who could predict a life’s end? Donald’s young death was the reminder of that. “He could outlive me,” I said. “Until then, I’ll appreciate the time I have.”

  She’d grunted then and sat down.

  “I want to know something,” she said. She pointed to a place for me to sit. Fern started fussing, probably in response to my own loudly beating heart. I continued to stand, patting her diapered bottom. “Before the divorce, did you and my husband… Did you …?”

  What could I tell her? What wouldn’t I tell her? The silence felt explosive, and I took a breath to speak.

  “Never mind,” she said to my hesitation. She flapped her hand as though swatting at flies. “I don’t think I really want to know.” She shook her head with certainty. “No, I do not wish to know. Reverend Carleton told me I should just forgive, not for your sake but for my own, so I can make the best of what is. I just wanted to see where he lives now.” She scanned the room cluttered with laundry, newspapers, and prints I hoped to frame during any spare time. “I’d like that tea.”

  Shaking, I prepared it, and when I returned she drank it slowly. We sipped in silence. Finally she offered, “I’m retouching again. Did FJ tell you? I suppose not. Something to fill my days. I use FJ’s old bedroom. Doing it for a few studios in town. Could do it for you Bauers if you wanted. Didn’t know I’d miss it. I can make my way too, you know.”

  She rose to go.

  “Thank you for the tea. I will always be his wife,” she said with her gloved hand on the glass doorknob. Gloves. A protection and a cover; we all wore them. It reminded me of Selma’s letter sent years before: “If that from Glove, you take the letter G, then Glove is love and that I send to thee.” I did send love to Mrs. Bauer, but I’ve never known if she received it. “He will always be the father of my children, and he will always take care of us,” she added.

  “That won’t be challenged or discounted,” I told her. I didn’t want to argue the intricacies of words like wife.

  “Good. Then we have an understanding. I am in this family portrait until the day I die, and then maybe even after.” She left then, as abruptly as she’d arrived.

  I pulled this wedding photograph out of the album today to remember. Using the magnifying glass, I checked to see who was in the framed picture on the piano, and then I remembered. It was Donald, his absence filling a space perhaps larger than had he lived.

  There’s a smudge on this photograph of me, off to my right shoulder. I should rewash the print to get rid of the teardrop, but I haven’t yet. It reminds me that Donald and his father are together at last. We buried Fred in March, on Pearl’s twentieth birthday. We had twenty-four good years together, Fred and me. I never regretted for an instant my decision to marry him, despite the hard financial times, the health problems of Pearl and Stan as children, and Fred’s deteriorating health, these past eight years especially. We almost lost the house after he died, but I convinced the banker to give me more time, and he has. I took a job as a nurse’s aid, and I still do retouching for several studios in the city. Virginia Butler even sends me work. We remain good friends. I rent out rooms, just as the other Mrs. Bauer does in Winona. I do so to help support my three children still at home.

  Our children see their father’s older children, and all think of themselves as family. It’s as it should be.

  When I’m feeling low, I pull out my photo album and remember as I did that day that photography was my life only until I discovered what life is really made of: the settings, props, and poses we encounter, then put aside so we can cherish family and faith, live fully, and abide until we go. It’s what I was thinking in that wedding portrait when my husband made me look more beautiful than I am. His caring eye behind the lens captured a love that now helps fill an absence so great I could not have prepared for it on my own. God remains my guide.

  Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments

  While I alone am responsible for the words, errors, and omissions in this text, I still send acknowledgments on wings of gratitude to Craig and Barbara Rutschow—my brother and sister-in-law—Ron and Corinne Bauer Kronen, Helen Kantorowicz Bauer, Molly Bauer Livingston Hanson, Patricia Bauer Butenhoff, Jeanne Bauer Strand, Joanne Bauer Krejca, Bruce Bauer, and posthumously to my aunt Fern Bauer Griffin, especially for her family book researched and written in 1985 about the lives of Jessie Gaebele Bauer, Jessie Otis Bauer, Frederick John Bauer, and their descendants. The Portraits of the Heart series based on my grandmother’s life could not have been completed without the care and support of each of these relatives and other cousins, who read drafts, made comments, looked for answers, and sent me missives that gave authenticity to the story. I am deeply grateful.

  Marianne Mastenbrook of the Winona County Historical Society provided constant access to archival documents, answering questions ranging from toboggan slides to streetcar bridges. Her devotion to original research and her positive spirit made asking for help an easy task. Audrey Gorny read an initial draft and offered insights about early Winona. I continued to use the digitalized records of the Republican-Herald newspaper, which provided me material of daily life in Winona for the first book, A Flickering Light. Similar digitalized city directories of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, provided ways to authenticate Jessie’s time in that city, as did audiotapes made by family members when she was in her advanced years. The Milwaukee Journal archival material provided information about early photography in that city, the sporting dances, the journalist Robert Taylor, and the North-Western School for Stammerers.

  Providentially, Lori Oser, a volunteer for the North Dakota State Library, contacted me while reading one of my books to thank me for writing words she loved to read. Imagine my delight at finding someone living in Bismarck who loved history, is a writer herself, and who was willing to paw through archives and other musty places to locate information for me about railroad timetables and la
nd grants. Lori suggested a reading list I followed to get to know North Dakota better. Roxanne Henke, another writer and North Dakota lover, made trips and notes of landscapes—as did Lori—so that along with the photographs in my grandparents’ collection, I could capture the prairie richness of this north-border state so beloved by Teddy Roosevelt and my grandparents. I thank Oregonian Bette Wright, who grew up in Bismarck, for her copies of newspaper articles, clippings from her own scrapbook, answers to questions about the state, and good cheer as I wrote this story. Florence Thompson, whom I see each Sunday morning in Moro, Oregon, also spent her childhood in North Dakota. She offered insights as I came to know the state that stole my grandfather’s heart and brought my grandparents together. I’m grateful to each of these special women. I’m also grateful to Susan Andrews, general presbyter of Hudson River Presbytery, for her words, “Joy is the fruit of despair truthfully confessed and providentially transformed,” written as part of a Lenten reflection in Christian Century magazine (March 24, 2009), which provided insights for Jessie’s journey from despair to forgiveness, from self-recrimination to joy.

  Many events described in this book, including Jessie’s Milwaukee and Eau Claire work and the events in North Dakota, are based on family stories. The encounter of my grandparents in North Dakota was inspired by audiotapes made with my aunts and uncles, and by my grandmother’s remembering of events. She told the story as though she and FJ were introduced for the first time by Virginia Butler, though she had worked for him many years before that. I took this discrepancy as evidence that between story and history lies memory. We don’t always remember the facts and details; we remember the emotions of the experience.

  That Jessie loved the Ferris wheel, high bluffs, daily exercise, and travel is remembered by her children, even if it meant merely riding the streetcar to the end of the line and back.

  The two marriages are a part of the family story. During the audio interview when Jessie was in her eighties and still sharp as a hatpin, she was asked by my genealogically astute aunt to explain about the two marriage licenses. There was a pause. “Did you have to get married?” one of her children asked. She quickly said, “No, of course not.” Still more pause. Then my uncle said, “Maybe Minnesota didn’t recognize North Dakota’s marriage license at that time.” “That’s right,” she said, happy to move on to another question. We’ll never know the why of the two marriages. But given the dates of other events, the story portrays my speculations.