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

  Jessie sighed. “It’s what I do best. Disappoint. They’ll get over it. Besides,” she said, brightening as she pulled the dress up over her head, “You’ll be there. That’s all that matters. And you can tell me all about it. I’ll wait up for you.”

  “It is not all that matters. I’ve given my word.”

  “Then you’ll have to take it back,” Jessie told her, regretting that she’d even tried the dress on.

  “Papa said I couldn’t go unless you did, that it would be rude to leave a guest at home while I went off partying. This is the first big cotillion of the season, Jessie.”

  “Let me talk to your father,” Jessie said. “I’m sure I can make him understand that I won’t mind being left here while you’re off dancing.”

  “How will you explain the expense of the dress?” Marie said. She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Guilt does not work on me,” Jessie lied. “I’ll find a way to pay for it. It’ll take time, but I’ll do it. I can’t have your family supporting me any more than they already do.”

  “Gottlieb pays for all that,” Marie snapped, arms crossed over her chest.

  “What?” Jessie felt silk and beads slipping from her palms.

  Marie’s eyes grew large as a gargoyle’s, and she pressed her hands to her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to tell about Gottlieb!” she whispered.

  “What does Fred—Gottlieb—have to do with my expenses here?”

  “Don’t tell Mama that you know. Please, please. Gottlieb said to keep it secret. It was just a kindness, he said, for his past employee, and he was afraid you wouldn’t accept it, so he gives the money to Mama. Oh, oh, oh. Mama will be furious! I probably won’t be able to go to a dance until I’m fifty!” Marie threw herself back onto Jessie’s pillow. This time the tears Jessie saw were real, the girl genuinely sorry for having let the secret slip out.

  “It’s all right,” Jessie told her as she sat beside the girl on the bed, brushing tear-drenched hair from her cheek. “It’ll work out.” Confusion made Jessie’s stomach hurt. She wiped at Marie’s eyes with her handkerchief, her own heart trying to make sense of this truth.

  “Can we wait to tell Mama and Papa? Until after we talk about the dance?”

  “Deciding when to tell them is the least of my worries,” Jessie said. Whatever was Fred thinking, paying the Harms family for her care? What was his intention? She couldn’t ask him. But she didn’t like it, that was certain.

  Dressing Up Disappointment

  JESSIE TOLD MARIE SHE’D KEEP the secret until Sunday. It gave Jessie more time to think. That morning she dressed for services she’d attend with the family. Visiting their German Lutheran congregation worked better than trying to find an Evangelical Reformed church, the denomination she’d grown up in. It seemed kind to share the Harmses’ services, and Jessie liked their pastor.

  In the quiet reverence of the sanctuary, she hoped to resolve this complication of Fred’s payments on her behalf, which made her the “kept woman” her mother had once charged she was. Her parents would be horrified at Fred’s generosity. It wasn’t right, and yet his kindness warmed her, made her face hot when she thought of his wish to care for her. She didn’t deserve his generosity. That’s all his offers had been when he’d visited. He’d violated no borders, never even returned for a final supper with the Harmses, just attended the conference and must have taken the train home. But paying for her room and board…

  The choir sang, and Jessie let the music wash over her. When had Fred worked out this payment plan with the Harmses? She shook her head. Marie looked at her. Jessie patted the girl’s hand to reassure her. Maybe staying with the Harms family helped Suzanne Johnson in an indirect way. Suzanne didn’t have to worry about sharing her small apartment with Jessie or what influences might plague a young woman alone in a big city. Most working girls her age stayed in boarding houses or lived with the families they served. Yes, staying with the Harmses might help Suzanne, but it didn’t sever the thread that now attached to Fred.

  The pastor spoke of “listening to the Lord,” then from the book of Matthew, chapter ten, he read, and Jessie turned her thoughts there. “‘And into whatsoever city or town ye shall enter, enquire who in it is worthy; and there abide till ye go thence.’ We are told to seek out worthy people, but even more, to abide with them, allow them to cover us, the original meaning of the word ‘abide,’ and comfort us until we go.” Maybe that was all she was doing by accepting the goodness of the Harmses and, by extension, Fred. Allowing them to cover her, to help her to remain safe until she left.

  Just before the collection plate passed by her, Jessie decided she’d find a way to repay Fred’s gift, costly as it may be. Even if it meant not being able to save as much for her own studio, repayment was the right thing to do. Depending on how much it was, in the end she might have to move out, find a less expensive place to live. Maybe the Young Women’s Christian Association could house her. It was quite a distance from the studio, but she could likely afford the YWCA. Maybe she should assess the Milwaukee Settlement House. She would pay him back. Doing this on her own turned one of the wheels on the train that would eventually take her home.

  After church, a light snow covered the REO’s top. Henry sat at the wheel, Marie already in the backseat with quilts wrapped around her. They could almost walk home from church. It wasn’t that far away, but Henry loved to drive his car.

  “Come along, Jessie,” Marie shouted to her. The girl lifted the quilt, and Jessie slipped in under it, her hands warm in her muff.

  “I already told Mama that you know about Gottlieb,” Marie whispered to her. “I just had to confess.”

  One problem was already resolved then, Jessie thought. They’d surely understand when she refused to accept the dress, which she’d decline over dinner. She’d whisper another prayer and hope the rest of the complications would take care of themselves. “Don’t borrow trouble,” her mother had told her more than once.

  “He specifically didn’t want you knowing,” Mary Harms told Jessie after raising the subject over pot roast. “Just like Cousin Gottlieb to do it that way. He’s a generous man.”

  “He is that,” Jessie said. “He bought my Graflex for me.” Mary nodded, dotted the corners of her mouth with the pressed linen napkin. “It was a thank-you gift. I’d done extra work for him, while he was ill,” Jessie explained. “Photographers often become sick from the mercury poisoning; that’s why he gave me the camera.”

  Henry Harms brushed away her defense. “We know Gottlieb. He’s done some foolish things in his life, leaving that good employment he had with his great-uncle in Buffalo, but he’s made a name for himself since. Fine wife and family he has too. Good citizens.” Jessie picked at her beans, kept her eyes on her plate.

  “His uncle helped him during his youth. He’s just passing that on,” Mary said. “And you’re the recipient, Jessie. Nothing wrong with that at all.”

  “Sometimes people like to give gifts as a way of saying they’re sorry,” Henry mused, holding his fork halfway to his mouth. “Gottlieb’s been known to lose his temper.” Jessie looked up at him. She’d never seen evidence of it.

  “Oh, I’m sure that isn’t the reason Gottlieb secured Jessie’s stay here,” Mary said.

  “I wasn’t implying,” Henry defended. “Just thinking of why people give gifts. People have motives. I certainly prefer a necklace to speak for my stupidity than having to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ don’t I, Mother?”

  Mary Harms nodded. “Yes, you do, even if it does distress me not to hear words of contrition.”

  Jessie fidgeted. This conversation was much too personal for her ears and not at all like the conversations she’d spent her life around. Besides, it turned her thoughts to home, and she needed a tether keeping her here. Abide till ye go. She recalled the morning scripture. The words might also be admonishment to keep her mind on this moment rather than wandering into the future or the past.

  “I’ve decided to pay Gottlieb—Mr. B
auer—back,” Jessie said. “It will take time, but I will. And I’ll look for another place to stay so he doesn’t expend any more on my care than he already has.”

  Mary frowned. “That would put us in a terrible state, Jessie. We couldn’t return the money to him because then he’d know that you know. If you pay him directly, he’ll know too, and we’ll have disappointed him. And ourselves.” She glared at Marie, who lowered her eyes and picked at her peas. “No, your best hope is to just let him help you. You’d be doing us a huge favor, you must know that. The dress and jacket and purse are yours to keep anyway. Marie said you might reject them too—Now let me finish,” she said when Jessie opened her mouth to protest. “The dress gave work to Madeleine, so you see, you contributed to her family. By receiving, you are giving.”

  “We make contributions to the settlement house and the church with Gottlieb’s money,” Henry said. “You don’t cost nearly as much to keep as he sends us.”

  Would accepting their explanation put other people first, or would it justify her taking undeserved treasures while burrowing deeper into bad prospects?

  “Let me think about this,” Jessie said. “But can we settle this one issue today? Please don’t restrict Marie from her first grown-up dance because I’m not willing to be there. It would be one less weight I’d carry knowing I wasn’t the cause of such disappointment.”

  “Marie told us of your position about dancing. We had no idea,” Mary said.

  “Dancing is to a German as kielbasa is to a Pole,” Henry said.

  “Not in my family.”

  “These dances are merely social gatherings with a Virginia Reel thrown in to wear off energy,” Henry told her.

  “It’s just not right to leave you here alone while we go off,” Mary said.

  “Couldn’t you at least come along and watch?” Marie pleaded. “Wear the new dress for Madeleine’s sake? Maybe you could help serve the cakes, couldn’t you? There must be something.”

  What could I do there?

  The idea came like a flash-light explosion.

  “Do you think people might be interested in purchasing a print of themselves at a dance?”

  “A fine idea all around,” Henry enthused. “I’ll get the organizers’ permission for you to photograph people for a small fee.” Jessie would have to speak with Suzanne about developing the film. She’d need the studio’s darkroom. Maybe she could give Suzanne half the commission. That way she’d make money, and so would Jessie. She’d be working at the dance. It wouldn’t be as though she was… dancing.

  She’d have to make up a listing so customers would know how much a print might cost and how soon they could expect it back. She’d need a way to get addresses and phone numbers for those who had telephones. She began thinking about the kind of backdrop she’d want, to create portrait shots rather than photographs of people dancing. With the extra funds, she’d be able to set aside money to reimburse Fred. And she could put off the decision about moving to a rooming house, at least until after Christmas. Why, she might even have more to send home for Roy’s treatments.

  Only one problem remained: Jessie would have to work out why she couldn’t wear the dress. A beaded sheath wasn’t at all what a professional photographer would wear while she worked.

  Jessie entered the Johnson Studio excited. Suzanne sat at the appointment desk as she usually did in the morning, a cup of tea no longer steaming near her fingertips. Dark shadows lingered beneath her eyes, which she lifted to Jessie’s.

  “Good morning,” Jessie said. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  “You’re in a cheery mood,” Suzanne said.

  “I am,” Jessie said. She shook the snow from her coat and removed her rubber boots from her shoes. “I have an idea that could make us both extra money, and it wouldn’t take any of my time away from the studio.”

  “Continue,” Suzanne said.

  “I can meet my other obligations, I’m certain.” She pulled the pins from her hat and decided right then that she would buy a different hat, one with a much smaller brim that needed only one pin at the most. Something like a man’s hat, without plumes. That would work. She could leave it on while she photographed the outdoors without having to worry about the feathers getting in her way. Maybe she could wear it indoors too, when she photographed professionally off site.

  “I’ve been offered the opportunity to participate in the Lake Drive cotillions held through the winter. The people I stay with, the Harms family, attend those events with their daughter. I’ve never been to a dance, but they thought people would like having their photographs made when they’re all dressed up and looking beautiful.”

  “It’s been years since I’ve been to a dance.”

  “Oh… Well, sure.” Jessie paused. “I didn’t think about your wanting to photograph people. I thought I’d do that. I wanted to use the developing room here to make prints and all, but of course you might want to do this sort of thing yourself.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Suzanne asked.

  “I could pay you half of the fees, and I think we’d both come out ahead. But if you want to do the photographing…”

  Suzanne shook her head. “No. I never took pictures.” She sighed, picked up the teacup, and sipped, wrinkled her nose at its tepidness or maybe its taste. “I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t married a photographer and he hadn’t…died. I have so few photographs of us together. He was always behind the lens. Photographs at a dance,” she mused. “Harold and I used to love to dance.”

  It was the first time Suzanne had mentioned her husband by his first name; she’d always referred to him as Mr. Johnson. “Did you?”

  “Harold was very lithe on his feet, considering he was a big man.

  Over six feet tall, he was. He’d whisk me around the dance floor, and I felt like a princess, flying.” Her eyes filled, and Jessie faltered, not knowing whether to change the subject or allow Suzanne to remember even though it brought her sadness. “Please send me your last pair of shoes, worn out with dancing, as you mentioned in your letter, so that I might have something to press against my heart,” Suzanne quoted, holding her clasped hands to her breast. “Goethe,” Suzanne told her, blushing. “The German poet. He was a favorite of Harold’s.”

  “We could do it together,” Jessie said. “We could.” She reached for Suzanne’s hand, held its coolness in hers. “Young Marie Harms says the dances are lovely.”

  “Harold told me that Socrates took up dancing in his old age, saying he’d been missing something essential, but I suspect going to one now would be too painful,” Suzanne said, pulling her hand back. She circled the ring around her finger.

  “It could be fine advertising for the studio, bring in more clients, people wanting family photographs taken, things like that. I’d need backdrops, something I could carry easily. Maybe a few props. People attending such things would be good clients for us, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, we never attended a cotillion.”

  “Come with me,” Jessie insisted. “It wouldn’t be the same as when you danced with Harold, but—”

  Suzanne stood. “No. I don’t think it’s a good plan for the Johnson Studio either,” she said. “The truth is, we have all the work we can handle, just the two of us, and I don’t want to consider adding a third person. It’s just too tiring for me to work on the accounts, retouch, get the ads out.” She rubbed at her forehead again.

  “Didn’t you ever want to be a photographer yourself?” Jessie whispered. “Doesn’t the idea of making pictures and seeing how they develop make you want to see each morning come? Wake up looking forward to what the lens will show you?”

  Suzanne stared at her. “I’ve nothing to look forward to. If you outlive your husband, if he dies on you, you’ll know what I mean. You’ll introduce yourself as a widow for the rest of your life. It’ll be the defining word for you. All your interest in cameras and lighting and such won’t carry you any further than the morning light. After that,
you’ll spend all your time in the darkest of rooms.”

  Jessie thought then about how Suzanne did always introduce herself to clients as the Widow Johnson rather than as Mrs. Johnson or the owner of the Johnson Studio. Surely it put potential suitors off.

  Jessie wasn’t sure it was good to have an absence affect your life forever and ever, the way Suzanne described it. But Fred’s absence now shaped her life. She didn’t want to think of that. Instead she wondered what her own mother would do if her father died first. How would she support her siblings still at home? She couldn’t run the drayage firm; she’d have to hire an assistant as Suzanne had. Or she’d have to sell the company and maybe move them all in with her grandparents. Women often depended on the kindness of family.

  Jessie was fortunate indeed to have a way of supporting herself… well, almost by herself.

  “What if I don’t mention the Johnson Studio? Could I still use the darkroom in the evenings? Maybe Sunday afternoons? You’d earn half the fee.”

  Suzanne looked thoughtful, but in the end she shook her head. “Maybe you can set up a darkroom at the Harmses’ home. I…I don’t want to sound ungrateful, Jessie, but it’s difficult to have someone always around. My evenings… I don’t know how to explain it.” She pressed her fingers against her temples, and Jessie thought a headache might be making its way into the conversation.

  “Are you feeling all right? You haven’t been working with the chemicals, have you?”

  “No. I’m just tired,” she said. “I hate to put water on your fire, but if you could have a darkroom where you live, it would save you traveling here. It would be much easier for you. For both of us. I really do want to have time when it’s just me here, alone.”

  That was that, then. Jessie would have to dance to another tune.

  Poetry of Feet

  IF SHE DIDN’T SEND MONEY to her family this week, well, maybe for two weeks, Jessie would have enough to buy chemicals for the developing solutions, as well as paper. At least Suzanne had said it would be acceptable for Jessie to purchase those from her. Once she was paid by the dancing clientele, Jessie’d have money to send home again. She planned to ask the Harms family to allow her to use one of the attic rooms as a darkroom. She’d have to bring the film down to the second floor to bathe it, but aside from that, it wouldn’t take much at all to make the room dark enough to work in.