“I’m a photographer,” Jessie told him, “and stronger than I look. I have my own income too. I assure you that I can afford to buy it.” This wasn’t quite the truth, but close. She planned to pay small portions each month. She’d read that some businesses did that now, calling it credit, from a Latin word meaning “to believe.” The proprietor had to believe she would make the payment.
“Take a closer look then, Fräulein,” the man told her, moving aside so she could step closer.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
She was here in this motorcycle shop because she’d seen the Milwaukee Journal photographer, Robert Taylor, making good use of such transportation. Unlike the Winona newspaper, the Journal printed photographs not just of disasters like the fire at the flour mill but of everyday things: people picnicking, ships easing along the Milwaukee River, the country’s first kindergarten class. Studio shots they weren’t. Nor were they tramp photographs, as Fred referred to photographs taken outside of the staged, controlled setting of a proper studio. To Jessie, spontaneous photographs of everyday life demonstrated the vibrancy of a people and a place. It was the kind of photography Jessie preferred, a view of the world through a commonplace lens, reminding her that ordinary ways were worthy of remembering.
As a photographer, one needed to be distinctive, and that certainly made Robert Taylor so: his motorcycle, and the blue and white polka-dot cravat he always wore. A photograph of him had brought her to this place. Art did move people, Jessie thought wryly.
This purchase would allow her to get out into the countryside, where the fields and trees and streams of this southern Wisconsin landscape would fill the void she’d brought with her. Would Fred approve? She shook her head. Forgetting Fred was another reason she’d come to Milwaukee.
Fred. She would not give up control of her feelings to imagine a life that could never be. She’d buy this motorcycle and create new memories.
Don’t do it!
“It’s a good price, Fräulein. And I’d wager there’s a young man who would be more than willing to train a student such as you how to use it.” He grinned. “I’m assuming here that you don’t know how to ride one.”
“You’ve assumed correctly,” Jessie told him. She moved the camera case to her other hand as she ran her gloved hand across the Emblem’s shiny surface. “But that’s a temporary state.”
Two hundred dollars was a lot of money, and she’d committed herself to saving all she could so she could one day purchase her own studio instead of always working for someone else. Still, with a motorcycle she could leave the city on weekends, get away from the often overbearing kindnesses of her boarding family, the Harmses.
The proprietor cleared his throat in what sounded like impatience.
If she spent money on a motorcycle, she’d have to settle any guilty feelings over not sending more home to her family and accept that a little joy in her life didn’t mean she was being lax. The machine would be an investment; that’s how she’d think of it. It would make her focus on her work with greater effort. Wasn’t that the truth?
“I’ve heard of females riding bicycles. Seen a few around the city too. But a woman on a motorcycle? That would be a first in my experience. And I’m a man of experience, if you know what I mean.” He winked.
Jessie didn’t, but being the first female to ride a motorcycle around Milwaukee did not appeal; an innovative way to make money did. Yes, the motorcycle would allow her that. The newspaper would buy her prints. She didn’t know for certain that was the case, and she was trying to be honest with herself these days. At times that balance between what was and what could be felt precarious indeed. That, too, was part of her reason for being in Milwaukee, to practice being forthright. The newspaper might only want Robert Taylor’s work. But there were dozens of other newspapers from outlying towns she could approach.
Don’t do it!
If she could sell her prints, she could contribute to the Harms household, if they’d accept her money.
“You’re thinking the price isn’t fair, Fräulein? I can tell you that even Schwinn’s motorcycle is that price, and it isn’t half as sturdy as the Emblem. Or are you just using that pretty head of yours to calculate?” He grinned, then added, “Maybe you like my company on this Saturday afternoon.”
“I’m sure it’s a fair price.” Jessie stroked the blue gas tank on the side with the Emblem label painted in black. Her fingers lingered over the smooth leather of the seat. She set the bag holding the 3A Graflex on the box above the front fender to see if the rectangular camera bag fit in front of the handlebars. It did.
Her eyes stopped at the chains and tires. She’d worked for a bicycle shop owner in Winona, cleaning and sorting bicycle parts, so she knew there’d be more than just the cost of the machine to worry about. There’d be expense to keeping it up too. Was her talent enough to pay for all this?
But, oh, how she’d love the independence! It would help fill up the hours of doubt that marked her arrival in Milwaukee. Who was Jessie Gaebele if she wasn’t Lilly and Selma and Roy’s sister, her parents’ child, the apple of her grandparents’ and uncle’s eyes? Who was she if she wasn’t Fred’s…what? Student? Employee? Past paramour?
Paramour. She’d read a story employing that word in Woman’s Home Companion. She and Fred hadn’t been lovers, but she had been the “other woman,” a weight as heavy as her camera case. Who was Jessie Gaebele when she was separated from those who had defined her? Her mouth felt dry.
“Wind rushes across your face and you feel like you’re flying on one of these babies, if you know what I mean,” the proprietor said. “You will feel as though you are in love.”
“Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it enkindles the great.” A French writer had written that. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
“Ah, love,” he said and eased closer to her, and as he did, he shifted the wad of tobacco that pouched out his lower lip. He turned his head, and Jessie decided he’d moved to reach the spittoon sitting on a nearby bench. She wrinkled her nose, turned back to the Emblem.
“Men who ride these are in love with their machines,” he said. He scratched at his arms, large, with muscles thick and twisted like old lilac trunks. “I can tell now that you’ve a good head on your shoulders… seeing as how you’re taking such time to weigh the merits of this machine and know it’ll take you to exceptional places.” He moved closer to Jessie. “Maybe a pretty young thing like you just needs extra reassurance about such a big purchase.”
“I know I wish to buy it, but I need to discuss whether you would allow me to purchase it on… credit. I’d give you a portion of the price now and then a sum each week.”
“You want me to trust you? I’d need a substantial deposit for that.”
He was beside her now, ignorant of the proper space between a gentleman and a lady. She could smell the day’s sweat on his striped shirt, and she stepped sideways, putting distance between them but still steadying her camera perched on the machine.
“I’d have to be certain of your good intentions.” His voice sounded lower now, his gaze moving like a slow flame up from her size three shoes to the glasses on her face. He stared into her eyes. She felt her face grow hot. “You give me something and I’ll give you something, if you know what I mean.” He nodded toward a door near the back. “Let’s take this negotiation into my office.”
Don’t do it!
Jessie’s hands felt damp inside her gloves, and she was alerted for the first time to the danger she was in.
“Come along, Fräulein,” he said. He lifted her chin with his oil-stained fingers. “It’s perfectly safe. You need a man of my experience is all, precious little thing like you, to teach you about business ways. Credit indeed.” He grinned.
She stumbled back from him, one hand still clinging awkwardly to her camera. There was no one else in the shop; it was situated in a district with other industries frequented by men but few women. It was late
on a Saturday afternoon. No one would hear her cry of distress even if she shouted. Her heart pounded. She never should have come in here, a woman alone.
“I’ll give you a special deal on the machine, if you know what I mean,” he persisted.
You know what he means.
She finally heard the words inside her head, the ones meant to keep her safe. “I’ve made up my mind,” Jessie said, hoping she wouldn’t give him reason to persist so she could make as dignified an escape as her leaden feet would allow.
But he reached for her then, squeezed his wide paws at her cheeks. He lowered his face toward hers. Dark tobacco juice glistened in the corner of his mouth. He pushed her against the Emblem.
Get out! Get out!
How could she be so foolish! Jessie hefted the only weapon she had and struck him with her camera case, the force of it twisting her and the case to the ground. Only then did she consider what she’d destroyed and just how long it would take to earn her way back home.
Out of the Shadows
JESSIE HEARD THE PROPRIETOR’S GROAN. She hoped it was more from surprise than pain as he staggered back and she scrambled to stand, her hand slippery on the leather handle.
“Little I may be, but I’m not defenseless,” Jessie told him, her breath coming fast and deep. “And I’ll not be needing credit, if you know what I mean.” She held the bag in front of her and pushed her way past him. “You, you…you’re no gentleman,” she finished, looking back at him. “You should be ashamed.”
“I should have my head examined,” he whined. He rubbed his shoulder with one greasy hand. “You’ve wounded me.” He was just like the bullies who troubled her younger brother on the playground.
“It’s the state of my camera I’m worried about. You’re lucky I don’t call the police.”
She fast-walked out the door, turning back only once to see if he followed. He didn’t. She rushed a good three blocks before she lowered herself onto a wooden bench, where she sat, shaking. A few maple trees dropped leaves as red as dried blood as she collected herself. “You’re all right,” she said out loud. “You’re all right. No damage.” No smudges on her gloves or her yellow suit jacket or skirt, but she still felt dirty. She brushed at the linen. What had she been thinking, going in there by herself? She shook her head, reached for the case and carefully shook it. Nothing rattled. She opened the suitcaselike bag holding her camera.
The lens was intact. No tears to the bellows when she opened it. Nothing on the casing appeared cracked. She pointed the camera at a building across the street, clicked the shutter. It sounded all right, but she’d have to develop the film to be certain there wasn’t any hidden damage. Her hands shook as she put the camera away, words of gratitude whispered.
In all her eighteen years, nothing like this had ever happened to her. Oh, there’d been that time at the wedding she’d photographed, but she was only out of sight of the revelers for a moment, and the young man who approached her there came with the influence of rye on his breath and proved easy to manage. But what had happened now was nearly an assault. It was an assault. She shouldn’t minimize it.
Maybe she should call the police and report the proprietor. What would she say? She started to shake again. Would they think she attracted such behavior? She hadn’t batted her eyes or dipped her feathered hat in a coquettish fashion, had she? She tried to think. No, she hadn’t. She’d been businesslike. She did not flirt. It wasn’t like her. Her older sister had warned her about being out in the world and to be careful of simple acts that could flummox a man. Jessie thought she had been careful, though who would believe a woman’s word spoken against a man’s, and in a motorcycle shop? The mere fact that she had entered it, a young woman alone, suggested something to him she’d never meant. Was this what a woman’s independence was all about, having to defend against intentions others imagined?
Tears filled her eyes after the anger passed. She blinked. Jessie sat up straight, wiped her cheeks with her gloves. It would be nice to talk this over with someone. Fred. He’d brush away the tears and speak endearments about how she’d handled herself well, maybe give her words of advice about money, machines, and men. But Fred was no longer in her life, could not, would not be. That had been her choice.
She stood, placed the camera back in the case, and closed the latch. She adjusted her hat and leaned out from the walk to see if a streetcar approached or if the proprietor followed. Neither. At least she hadn’t made him so angry that he pursued her.
Jessie always felt better moving, so she began to walk, nodding at shopkeepers locking up their stores, careful not to keep her eyes on theirs too long. More people strolled now in the afternoon, stepping over leaves that skittered across the boardwalk. What was she to think of this episode? Marie Harms, the boarding family’s daughter, was younger and wasn’t a woman of the world. Confiding in her would only alarm the girl, maybe make her less trusting of people. Telling Mrs. Harms about it would certainly make the Harms family question her thinking. How could she afford to buy a motorcycle but not pay room and board to them? Though they’d insisted that boarding her at no cost was their pleasure, people could be funny about costly gifts if they disapproved of the recipient’s other expenditures. Jessie wouldn’t want to tell her employer, Suzanne Johnson, either. She too might question Jessie’s judgment in going to that motorcycle shop in the first place, and that question might affect her perception of Jessie’s work. Jessie hoped to do well running the studio for the young widow. If she sustained their clientele and Suzanne liked her work, Jessie could save up money for her own studio. Best to keep personal errors and episodes to herself.
She was alone in this, something else to remember about the freedom of living in a new place, separated from family and friends. One day, perhaps, she’d share the stories, recall memories when she wrote to her family. But such events needed time to give up all their insights. She thought of Fred again. She missed him.
She didn’t like memories that forced her to deal with them daily.
The sidewalks in this section of the city weren’t swept clean, and tiny pebbles pressed into the thin soles of her shoes. She looked again for the streetcar. Maybe she’d write to Voe, her companion at the Bauer Studio before Voe had married and Jessie had been exiled to Milwaukee. Voe would probably make light of the episode and remind Jessie that she could be “thick” in the ways of men. And she didn’t want Voe to write back and raise unwanted memories.
Jessie recalled the progression of her episode, examined clues to what she’d overlooked in the sequence. She’d ignored the signs, even the small voice inside telling her not to enter that shop. She’d been thinking of how she could make money, negotiate business, fill in the gap of her loneliness. How odd that she could notice the fine details in a photograph, yet when her own safety was at stake, she dismissed the particulars that informed.
She wouldn’t go home to Winona until she met three self-imposed conditions: save enough money to buy her own studio, prove to herself that she could make wiser decisions, and tell herself the truth about her feelings for Fred. Her appearance in that motorcycle shop didn’t bode well for meeting any of those criteria.
At least this time her not being truthful hadn’t hurt anyone but herself. That was progress. In the future, she’d pay more attention to what was happening around her and not settle on a single explanation for the small things that inner voice told her about. That’s what an independent woman did in order to survive: she learned from her mistakes.
The clank of the streetcar rolling along the tracks announced its arrival. Jessie hurried to the stop, then stepped on board and took a seat, placing her camera case beside her. She gazed out the open window, letting the breeze cool her face. Before long they’d replace the open cars with closed ones and people would bundle up for winter, shutting out the cold winds off Lake Michigan while closing in the coughs and smells of winter.
Bits of paper on the floor ruffled in the breeze. The brim of Jessie’s hat brush
ed against the window frame as she turned to look at the lake. Small boats shimmered and skimmed across the glassy surface, their sails unfurled. She loved the water and missed settling into a canoe for a glide across Lake Winona. She’d missed this year’s canoe races, leaving for Milwaukee when she did. That couldn’t be helped.
Today, Lake Michigan acted more like an ocean, Jessie imagined, though she’d never seen one. She couldn’t see across this lake, had to imagine what waited on the other side. Government Pier, with its concrete walk, came into view. She liked to walk this pier that took her out into the water, where she could stand with the lake on three sides of her. It was almost as though she floated. Jessie adjusted her glasses. She watched a sail dip toward the waves and right itself. The sailboats were probably owned by the presidents of Briggs & Stratton, the Milwaukee engine manufacturer, or maybe Harley-Davidson’s chairman. Harley-Davidson manufactured motorcycles in Milwaukee at a price much too high for Jessie to consider. Not that she would now.
Would there ever be a time when she didn’t think about money: how to earn it, how to increase it, how and where to spend it? Her parents worked hard. Each of their daughters had held jobs from the time she was thirteen and finished the eighth grade and thereafter contributed to the family expenses. Her youngest sibling, Roy, had special needs that required extra. They weren’t rich like the Harms family or the sailboat owners, but they’d been happy. Their small Winona garden included not just needed vegetables but lovely asters and zinnias, lilies and lavender, with only the last doubling as practical and fragrant. Family had given them richness—that and their faith. Jessie’s disgrace had marred both. But they hadn’t exiled her to Milwaukee; Jessie had done that to herself.