A Flickering Light (33 page)

Spring arrived in Winona with pussy willows soft and furry blooming along the river’s slough. Lilac perfume filled the air, making Jessie’s spirits rise. Not that she’d been discouraged, really. Jessie and her sisters rotated their exercises with Roy when he came home from school, and it did seem to Jessie that he slowly improved. Her father hoped to purchase a banjo for Roy’s seventh birthday in the fall, and the trips to Rochester were now scheduled for four times a year. Miss Jones provided them with written instructions to follow when they worked with Roy at home. Jessie found satisfaction in the tasks.

In her spare moments, Jessie daydreamed of that studio of her own, but Mr. Bauer was always in it. She dreamed of having a family one day, of tending children of her own. But Mr. Bauer appeared in that daydream too, and the very idea of it made her face grow warm. If her parents knew, if Lilly knew what she thought of, how she went over the moments they’d shared, they’d be worried for her soul. She was worried about it herself, and yet she couldn’t seem to help it. She had created a world that wasn’t real; she knew that. And yet when she was in it, she felt loved and complete and forgiven in some strange way. Here she was, eighteen years old, and as Lilly said, she kept herself closed off from young men her age who could disappoint because they were real and not a romantic fantasy.

The salary envelopes arrived on schedule without comment or notation. She and Voe handled sittings. They even photographed a wedding party at the couple’s home some miles outside of Winona, following the marriage. She’d borrowed her family’s buggy and horse, and with Voe to help her (Daniel was off on a train crew, working), Jessie had used the Graflex to shoot them all standing in front of a mostly log home. The photograph had turned out well, she thought. She’d posed the wedding party and a few guests on the porch, looking casual, the parents on either side of the bride and groom. She found a place for the dog, the children, the aunts and uncles, and a dozen friends. In the future she intended to take the photographs before the revelers found the punch, for some had trouble standing still for the exposure. But she found she liked joking and laughing with people she didn’t know who couldn’t look too deep inside her. She was in charge, but at the same time, they treated her as though she was a part of the gathering, offering food and drinks to both her and Voe. The girls declined the latter, of course, but it was pleasant to think she had their attention, at least for the moments of the posing and exposure of the plates.

Jessie even handled a difficult guest. She’d gone around the house toward the barn and found there what she thought would make a lovely shot of puppies puddled on top of one another and curled up as though they were nearly one. She hadn’t brought her tripod so held the camera steady, looking down into the lens.

She felt a heavy arm on her shoulder, accompanied by a strong whiskey smell.

“Are you takin’ pitchers?” the man said. Jessie recognized the voice as one of the groom’s attendants. Maybe a cousin.

Jessie laughed. “No, I’m washing dishes.” She ducked her head under his arm and started back toward the house. A pickup band played now, and the laughter seemed to get louder.

“Aw, don’t be shy,” he said, stumbling along behind her. “You can wash my dishes anytime.”

“All that would get me would be chapped hands.”

“I could smooth those palms,” he drawled, stepping in front of her, grabbing for her fingers. She gripped the Graflex in the other hand.

“Mr. McKay, you’ve had far too many spirits to ask to hold my hand. I only allow that in a man who has finished his day’s work, rubbed the calluses to cream smoothness, and then, only then, might I allow him to be so familiar.”

He let go and looked at the calluses on his hands. “And what if I should touch your hand anyway? What’s a little thing like you to do about it?” He grabbed again.

“Why, push your head into the wash water,” she said. “What else could I do?” She pushed his thumb as far as she could toward his wrist as she spoke. It was a trick Lilly had told her worked. He let out a short howl as she turned sideways and fast-walked to where the group stood gathered, pushing her hair behind her ears where it had loosened in the effort. She vowed to be more careful in the future about going off alone.

“Where’ve you been, McKay?” one of the guests shouted, so Jessie knew he was behind her. “You didn’t try to take on the professional lady, now did you? She’s pretty tough to be doing what she does, carrying that pho-to-graphic thing around. She’ll clean your clock for certain.”

“Sure, and I’ve had my share of cleaning already,” he said, rubbing his thumb. General laughter followed. He didn’t bother her after that, and when they left, he came to offer his hand to help her step up into the buggy. “It ain’t got smooth calluses,” he told her, “but they’re clean.” He grinned and stepped back, sweeping his hand low as though bowing.

The incident had strengthened Jessie’s resolve that she could do more of these events, perhaps on her own. She’d make a few adjustments. She might be competing with the Bauer Studio, but on the other hand, Mr. Bauer didn’t like to take such appointments. She could. And if she did well enough, she might get referrals. Certainly handling unruly guests without significant embarrassment to the bride made her a valuable asset at any wedding party.

She had sent a thank-you card to the Bauers, saying she appreciated their generosity, and she had sent a second letter—so that personal etiquette was not confused with business—in which she proposed the purchase of plates and paper and how she might pay for them with a reduction in her salary. No one responded for a long time. Then she received a note from Mr. Bauer in his quite strong and sweeping penmanship. Jessie had stared at the address on the outside for some time, running her fingers over her name, written by his very hand.

She sighed, read on. He suggested that she keep a record of expenses for chemicals, paper, and the like, and when he returned to the studio, they would settle up. He added that he was certain to return by early summer. Nothing more. A perfectly businesslike correspondence.

Except that he signed it,
Affectionately, F. J. Bauer
.

Affectionately
. Jessie didn’t show Voe or anyone. She certainly couldn’t talk to her parents, and Voe, well, Voe would dismiss her and tell her she needed to get out and meet men her own age before she found herself a spinster dreaming of what could never be. Voe could say those things because she and Daniel had become engaged.

Lilly would say the same thing, and Selma was too young to understand and spent too much time now with the Bauers. Jessie didn’t want any information about her life being dropped like candle wax on the Bauers’ table. No, there was no one, not really. She had spoken her prayers, but she was pretty certain that requests to sort out the confusing feelings she had for another woman’s husband would go unanswered. The best place she had to express her feelings was through photographs. But even then her thoughts came back to Mr. Bauer.

At the library, she looked up the word
affection
. “A feeling of fondness for another.” A different definition was “the act of influencing, affecting, or acting upon.” Then she found
affectionate
. “Having or showing fond feelings or affection; loving; tender.”

Loving. Tender
.

F. J. Bauer wasn’t trying to
influence
or
act upon
her at all. Her nonsense thinking was doing that to herself. He didn’t even know what he was saying.

She had to change the way she thought and felt. It had to be possible to do that. Mr. Bauer expected to return in this summer of 1910. She’d get no closer to her own studio if she couldn’t put aside additional funds somehow. Even before he returned, she would find a job that paid more and take it as soon as he was back, or she would secure a second one so she had less time to daydream. She’d wasted too much time imagining what could never be. She’d follow her mother’s suggestion and contact the evangelist Ralph Carleton. Maybe working for him part-time to begin with might set her mind on holy things instead of on her speculations about words like
affectionate, tender
, and
loving
. Yes, those were words better left to family, brothers and sisters, and affectionate older uncles.

Playing Fields of Degradation

T
HOSE YEARS WHEN
FJ
SPENT
weeks in the military hospital had at least prepared him for what it took to recover. As he had done then, he did now, trying not to excite himself. He drank tea, lots of tea. He cut back on chewing his cigars. He spent time on the back porch taking in deep breaths, which often got him stepping down into the garden, where he could pull a few weeds, trim the roses until he tired. Sometimes he took the car out for a spin. That’s what they called it, “taking a spin,” though he wasn’t sure why. He’d heard that the manufacturer wouldn’t be offering white tires in the future. The same company that made Winnie’s Crayolas had been asked to provide a black pigment to paint a few tires, and they’d discovered it made the rubber stronger. He liked stronger tires, but he preferred the white color. It provided greater contrast against the jet black of the car, something the eye admired.

Most of all, he kept his thoughts to positive ones. Last February, when Winnie had turned five and he’d looked at himself as an old man in the mirror, had been a low point for him. Since then he’d made himself seek the brighter things in his life: his children, good help, a profession that suited him. He had the side businesses of the rental cottages and the salves. While neither brought in much cash, he did find the salve helped heal his own family of scratches and scrapes, so it was worth something for all the time he’d put into it. One day it might just take off, and he’d give old Watkins a run.

The sweet note from Miss Gaebele thanking them for the camera had warmed his heart. It had been an extravagant gift, he knew that. But she had worked for him for nearly three years and only taken off the days she’d gone with her brother to Rochester. She was as faithful as his windup clock, ticking away. But every clock needed a rewinding to keep going. The new camera was just that. Her natural bent for photography kept her going more than his instruction did. Miss Kopp was a good worker too, but he knew by the salary envelopes that she had taken any number of days away, leaving Jessie—Miss Gaebele—alone at the studio. He didn’t like that and had written to Miss Kopp of his concerns, noting with some satisfaction that she’d had perfect attendance the month after his mention.

He had intercepted Miss Gaebele’s note to the family, however. He didn’t want Mrs. Bauer to see it. He hadn’t wanted to upset her with his purchase. She would have questioned him, and while he felt he had a defensible response, it could also lead to one of their rows. He didn’t want that, not in front of the children, not in front of Selma.

Why should he worry that Selma witness marital discord? Was he concerned that Jessie would think poorly of him if her sister shared such goings-on? Why should he care what the girl thought? No, he just didn’t want to stain the child’s view of marriage. He supposed the Gaebeles rarely argued. They seemed such a gregarious family whenever he’d seen them all together. William Gaebele probably never lost his temper the way FJ sometimes did.

He walked out onto the porch, took the steps down to the garden, and bent to pull a few weeds. He knelt. That would be more comfortable. He thought he should go get his gloves, but he didn’t plan to stay long and he liked the feel of the warm earth on his hands, the grit of the dirt. Garden planting time. He’d have to talk with Selma about that. It was funny how he had no difficulty calling Selma by her given name but made a point of not calling Jessie by hers except in private. And then she’d said she wanted to be known as Miss Gaebele anyway. He supposed it set a distance for her, kept the boundaries of work and privacy clear, ones that ought not be leapt over.
Miss Gaebele. That’s how I must think of her
.

He looked at his hands. Most of the spots had disappeared, and he opened his shirt to the May breeze. He hadn’t worn a collar for months now. He found himself getting excited about wearing that collar again, every day, donning his tie, vest, and suit and heading back to the studio. He had ordered in some new equipment, and it ought to have arrived by now. A more modern camera, some different papers that were said to take less time to expose. He remembered his trials with the Karsak and Solio “printing-out paper” and how they’d promised exposure using artificial light, such as an electric bulb, for only a few seconds. The paper hadn’t worked out well. Sunlight was more reliable for printing. Something as natural as sunlight outperformed all the technological advances. There really was, as the verse in Ecclesiastes said, nothing new under the sun.

He stood, finished his breathing exercises, and went inside. FJ made his way to the nursery, where Selma, Robert, and Winnie sat at the corner table. Selma held Robert on her lap, and he scribbled with a bright yellow Crayola held with a death grip in his right hand.

“Oh, Mr. Bauer, I wasn’t meaning to sit down on my job.” Selma rushed to stand up, her apron catching on the table edge, Robert pulled from his design.

“You’re fine, Selma. Just fine. Please, sit.” She did. The boy resumed as though nothing had happened. “I thought I’d check on you before I tried to take a walk.”

“Mrs. Bauer is here,” Selma assured him. “We’ll be fine. She’s just resting.”

“As she almost always is,” he said, then hated himself for it. What kind of man complained to his children and their nursery attendant? A restless man, he decided. If he felt invigorated by the walk today, he would plan to return to work next week. He’d been separated from what he loved too long.

“Don’t forget your cane, Papa. You walk lots better with your extra leg.”

“I do, Winnie,” he said. “Thank you for the reminder.”

It was the kind of thing he wished his wife would take note of. But she didn’t notice much these days. He wondered if she ever would again, or if she ever really had. Though she was years younger than he was, there were days when she seemed more the age of the mother he’d left behind in Germany than the wife who once shared his bed. He guessed that was fitting for an old man. She had been listless, never even cleaned the closets anymore, it seemed.

Robert wiggled off Selma’s lap and waddled to him. “Daddy. Write. Now,” he said. He shoved the crayon toward FJ.

“You’ve made a pun,” FJ told him, swooping the boy up into his arms. “Right. Now.”

That’s what he needed to pay attention to, what was right now before him. “Let’s all go for a walk, maybe a little run, and have a fine time doing it.”

He hoped he was still young enough for that.

When Jessie saw him, it was as though nothing had changed, despite her efforts to make sense of the confusion and put her daydreams away. He looked almost dapper. His mustache was trimmed to a fine ledge above his upper lip, and his skin looked, well, healthy. A little pink, but that was likely from being outside in the late spring air.

“You’re looking good, Mr. B.,” Voe said. “Doesn’t he, then?” She elbowed Jessie. The two stood shoulder to shoulder at the front door as he came up the steps.

“Yes. He looks very healthy. Welcome back, Mr. Bauer. I hope we’ve done well by you.”

He stared into Jessie’s eyes, and she had that old feeling of having her heart leave her body and soar around as though it needed to see the world first before settling back into the dreariness of simply beating. Neither of them spoke.

“Mr. Bauer?” Voe asked. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, what? Oh, yes.” He dropped his eyes, turned to Voe, cleared his throat. “Best I take a stroll around the studio, see if things are up to snuff.” He smiled at her, then back at Jessie, and she heard her heart beat so loud she was sure that he could hear it too. She sucked in her breath, and it caught in her throat. She coughed.

“Should I get you some water?” Voe asked. Jessie shook her head. “You both looked sort of flushed,” Voe said. “Coming down with ague?”

“Nonsense,” Jessie said. “I’ll just, in the kitchen, I’ll…I’ll make some coffee for us while you give him the tour.” Her hands shook as she touched the back of her hair. She walked past him to the kitchen as though she were alone in the room, simply primping her hair.

She felt ill. Maybe Voe was right and she was coming down with a summer cold. But no. Jessie knew what this was. Her body knew what this was, and it was dangerous, like a moth to light.

She collected herself by the time the two of them entered the kitchen, and she heard him say, “Yes, yes, everything is quite fine. I’m impressed and grateful to you both.” He took Voe’s hand in his and patted it. “You did well.” He dropped her hand and went to Jessie and reached for hers as well. “You exceeded my expectations, Miss Gaebele. You both have the gratitude of the entire Bauer family.” Those were the words he spoke, but his eyes said something more.

Jessie pulled her hands out from his and fluttered around to pour their coffees. “I’m not supposed to have coffee,” he said. “Just teas. But this is a special occasion, my coming back.”

“Now we can take real vacations,” Voe said. “Because there’ll always be two of us here.”

“That’s right. You haven’t had much time away, have you, Jessie? You’ve certainly deserved it. Perhaps you should take this next week. Voe and I can manage.”

“Miss Gaebele,” Jessie corrected. It was all she could think to say to the conflict in her heart.

In her dreams that night, strong hands held Jessie back from a ledge, the hands of a faceless being. She awoke to an ache of longing for what could never be. She vowed she’d take the week off and talk with that evangelist. She was sure he’d filled the position that had opened last year, but he might have another. Taking it would be the safest thing she could do.

Ralph Carleton, Winona’s own evangelist, said he’d heard of Jessie’s fine ledger-keeping skills from her mother and understood she’d also managed to run a photo studio on more than one occasion all by herself. If she accepted this job, Ralph Carleton assured her, her life would be markedly improved.

Yes
, Jessie thought to herself. No more having fuel for her daydreams, no more waiting for Mr. Bauer’s step to come in through the door and pretending it could be more than it was: the tired steps of a married man tending to the needs of his family. No more imagining that the two of them were working for similar goals when they worked side by side to pose a portrait.