A Flickering Light (18 page)

Adapting

FJ
ENJOYED THE LAUGHTER
of his daughter on her birthday. Winnie’s giggling always warmed his heart. He tried to put behind him financial concerns. They’d made it through the bank foreclosures of 1907, and fortunately the Winona Bank, where he held his accounts, remained solvent. But he’d decided to put money into stocks just before the financial panic, and those investments proved useless. He chided himself. He was forever climbing aboard wagons that raced over precipices he hadn’t seen. His forecasting might as well have been formed in a fog. Congress had appointed a committee to establish a better monetary policy, but he had little hope that anything would come of it. The illustrated ad in the paper had it right: large corporations held the hammer while consumers and small businessmen were the nails.

He’d probably have to cut expenses. He certainly didn’t want to deprive his children of anything. And Mrs. Bauer always needed more household money. He didn’t want to say no to that. It would lead to argument. No, it was better to let things at home go on and to make expense cuts at work.

He could cancel the subscription to
Camera World
, much as he liked taking it and the girls enjoyed reading it. At least Jessie did. The
World
taught him that the Lumiére brothers, French chemists, had developed a process for color photography. Maybe tinting would fade away. They already manufactured photographic materials and had invented some kind of moving-picture camera. Now color. Should he invest in that? He would have to learn of these things through the conventions if he cancelled the subscription, but even convention going must be curtailed.

The lawsuit he’d brought against the Dakota farmer who had let his stubble burn get out of hand had gone nowhere. He’d lost five thousand dollars’ worth of timber as well as the house, outbuildings, and his cattle. He was insured but not against all losses. Maybe he’d still get something out of the neighbor, but he doubted it.

He supposed he ought not to have indulged in the silver photo case for Jessie. But he’d seen it in the store, and the price had been reasonable as it was nearly four years old. It was appropriate for her, loving photography as she did. He hoped it would turn her head toward portraiture work. It concerned him that she was interested in the landscape side of photography rather than the studio side. The international argument about whether photography was art had waged for years. Large numbers of photographers considered themselves Photo-Secessionists. They saw themselves as “amateurs” who didn’t want to associate with professionally trained portrait photographers and held separate gallery exhibitions. FJ believed a professional photographer could be artistic, but he also knew that making a great photograph required technical and scientific skills. Miss Gaebele would have considered herself a Secessionist, he imagined, and that was unfortunate. She had potential, but not if she persisted in taking artful landscape shots rather than cementing her skills in the studio first. She liked the splash of a finished photograph but seemed to abhor the daily rigors necessary to build up her understanding of this art.

He tried to read the afternoon paper as he awaited the birthday cake and candles so they could sing to Winnie. He wondered if the Gaebeles sang for Jessie. A twinge of discomfort fell on him. Probably it was the cost of the gift, given their financial concerns, that took away a bit of the joy of the giving. Or maybe it was the way in which Jessie had reacted to the photograph. He wasn’t sure she liked it. The others seemed stunned by it. He thought it a fine likeness, but it hadn’t warranted near amazement. Or perhaps he’d misread their looks. That young Jerome appeared to admire the picture of Miss Gaebele. The responses of the others, including Jessie, didn’t make any sense to him.

Maybe it was just the age difference between himself and the young people. The Kopp boy didn’t look too worldly, and Jessie was a young girl and perhaps didn’t appreciate the quality of that un-posed portrait. Or that it had been taken by a true professional. Maybe he was a little annoyed that she hadn’t seen the skill in it nor her own natural beauty as a model. He sighed. He would have to let the girls go before too long unless something changed. They were hard workers, and he thoroughly enjoyed the conversations with Jessie about how she would compose a photograph or sell more postcard pictures. Commercial success was about finding new clients or cutting expenses—it was as simple as that—and Jessie was always considering new ways.

Maybe he could sell more of his salve. He hadn’t quite perfected the formula, but it was still a product worth what he charged and much less than what Watkins charged for his. That man had practically made his liniments and laxatives household necessities, just like the almanac Watkins published each year with its calendars and weather predictions and recipes and songs printed in both German and English. It was nothing more than a fat advertisement sold as a medical book. Right on the front it announced: “The J. R. Watkins Medical Company.” FJ knew about medical things, and these…concoctions weren’t medicine. But it worked for Watkins. The man was a millionaire right here in Winona, having married into that King family’s great wealth. He’d made his products a requirement for everyday life. If only photographs were. Or his salve was.

He watched his daughter and son laughing together. If he could find a way to convince people that having a photograph made was a part of a family’s need, part of their history, a way to treasure and remember, that might free up more people to spend money on his images. He was so grateful he had photographs of Donald. They kept the boy alive to him.

He’d given Winnie the little picture he’d made of her. She’d spent a minute staring and said, “Oh, Papa, I pretty,” which made his heart sing. Then she’d set it on the round end table, already forgotten, and pulled open her mother’s gift, a pair of ice skates.

“That’s a surprise,” he said. Mrs. Bauer was always so nervous about the children getting hurt, and she didn’t skate. Neither did he. She hadn’t discussed it with him. She must have paid for them from the household accounts. He’d have to speak with her about that. But on the other hand, he too had spent funds without consultation, though not on the gloves they’d given both the shop girls at Christmas. Those gifts he and Mrs. Bauer had agreed on.

“Russell thought it would be fun for the two of them,” Mrs. Bauer said of the skates. “He can take her sometimes when I have my headaches and just need quiet. You’re not always here to help.”

FJ took the words like stones and put them in the bag labeled
Disappointing Husband and Poor Father
. The bag never filled, just became heavier and heavier.

“That’s good of you to offer, Russell. Perhaps we can take the streetcar to the lake this weekend. Would you like that?”

“Then we can all go,” Russell said. “Can’t we, Mama?”

“If I’m feeling up to it,” Mrs. Bauer said. “I have so many headaches in this cold, cold weather. I understand why some people make their way to Tampa. It’s too bad we can’t.”
Another stone
. “It might benefit your own health, Mr. Bauer.”

“It might,” he said. “So would going to North Dakota. The air there is as pure as a saint’s tears.”

“It’s also colder than the ice house in winter and wouldn’t do a thing for my headaches.” She massaged her temples.

“You’re right, as always,” he said.

“I did see an advertisement in the
Watkins Almanac
for their Vegetable Anodyne Liniment,” Mrs. Bauer continued. “It’s meant for back pain but it might be of use on my neck and reduce my headaches. I wonder if you might pick some up for me, Mr. Bauer?”

“Anything that might help, dear,” he said. He straightened the paper but couldn’t concentrate on what he was reading. Something about child labor laws. It was important, he knew. He folded the paper. She never wanted to try
his
ointment. Many of those who used it deemed it worthy, but Mrs. Bauer wasn’t one of them. She knew he didn’t wish to further Watkins’s successes.

Maybe he could bring in more income by asking Jessie to put her innovative mind into salve promotion. The idea lightened his mood. He would make cuts in expenditures—perhaps go without his cigars or maybe the German edition paper. He could always read it at the German library. If he could increase sales of either the photographic work or the salve, he could keep the girls on. At least one. The girls needed money too. It was an act of charity to make sure they continued to have employment. Look at those poor children in the article, working at nine years of age in the coal mines or the garment districts of New York. Yes, he was doing his part to assist with child labor, offering a safe place to work and fair wages. A man had to do what he could, and FJ would.

It was spring when the Kodak photographs were finally developed with the help of Voe’s gift and some of Jessie’s savings. It felt like Christmas all over again, opening up the envelope to see each round print and being reminded of the day she’d taken that shot. She was especially proud of the photograph of the oak trees made while lying on the ground and looking up through the leaves. She’d forgotten she even took it.

“Why t-t-trees?” Roy asked. They sat in the living room where the gaslights flooded the small table. A cream crocheted doily acted as matting for each of the small photographs.

“I don’t know. I guess because they’re so sturdy and strong and beautiful. I like the way the branches are etched against the sky. See how perfect the leaves look? You can’t see their flaws, the little worm holes in the leaf, or how the edges curl up sometimes. Even with this little camera you can capture the perfection of a natural thing like a tree. Now if I had a big camera, with dry plates, one where I could develop the prints myself, then I could take really beautiful pictures.”

“Th-these are b-b-beautiful,” Roy said.

“I’m glad you like them. I bet the trees are different in every country, aren’t they, Roy?” She knew he loved to read the traveling books she brought him from the library. He nodded. “Someday we’ll travel to other places and see those trees. Does that sound like fun?”

“Don’t build his hopes up,” her mother said. She sat crocheting.

“I—I—I f-f-fixed this f-f-for you.” Roy handed Jessie the photographic case. Sometime during the past few months of opening and closing it, Jessie had lost the little screw that worked the hinge. She’d later found it stuck between the floorboards of her bedroom but couldn’t put it back in. Roy had asked to borrow the case that morning “to h-h-hold it.”

“How did you do that?” Jessie asked him.

“W-w-with your h-h-hatpin,” he said, beaming.

“I never thought of that. Of course, I couldn’t have seen it anyway, not even with these eyeglasses, because it’s so tiny. I’m glad you could. That took lots of patience too, didn’t it, Mama?”

Her mother didn’t look up. “I suppose.”

Jessie felt it her duty to get her mother to notice Roy’s strengths and not just the things he had difficulty doing. “I’ll put one of these photos in the case,” she told Roy. “You choose.”

“I l-l-like th-that one.” He pointed to the one FJ had taken. Her mother raised an eyebrow.

“Choose another one,” Jessie said.

“T-t-take one of m-m-me,” Roy said.

“You mustn’t be self-interested,” their mother cautioned. “It’s bad enough that Jessie is so captivated by her own image. I don’t mind the tree photos, but the one of you, well, that concerns me.”

“It’s nothing, Mama,” Jessie said. “It was a practice shot, taken at the spur of the moment, and he would otherwise have thrown it away.” Her mother’s lips pursed. Jessie snapped the photo case shut. “We’ll take one of you reading your book,” Jessie told Roy. But her mother’s words had poked her present joy.