Her sister Lilly, for example. Her parents had agreed with Jessie’s decision to remain at the studio after she told them what had happened. “It’s the Christian thing to do,” her father had said.
“Jessie will be fine,” her mother had reassured Lilly over the supper table.
“It’s even worse,” Lilly complained. “Now there’ll be two girls there, alone. Any number of people can come by, and who knows what might happen. She should work for Ralph Carleton.”
Jessie bristled. “First you tell me I’m not safe with Mr. Bauer around; now you tell me I’m not safe without him.”
“Not him. But some man. Security is very important for a woman, Jessie. You’ll understand that one day; I only hope it doesn’t happen in a difficult way.”
Lilly hadn’t been concerned when Jessie worked all by herself at the cycle shop, where Selma labored alone now. She thought to say something about it but decided to let the rancor go. Uncertainty came with a working woman’s territory; she’d have to learn to handle it—and her sister’s reaction—when or if trouble came around.
Jessie hoped it wouldn’t present itself in the name of one D. Henderson.
Mr. Henderson arrived on time and turned out to be a gruff young man unhappy with everything, from the distance he’d had to walk to get to the studio to the framed photograph Mr. Bauer had taken of him some time before. When he stomped in, Jessie realized she had seen him when he’d come by the studio a few weeks earlier. But he’d insisted on speaking with Mr. Bauer and wouldn’t leave his name or tell her what he was concerned about. Even when she’d told him that Mr. Bauer wasn’t available and had offered to help him, he wouldn’t say what he needed. Jessie wondered if the postcard was a deliberate attempt to smear Mr. Bauer’s name, or perhaps he just couldn’t believe that two young women were managing a photo studio on their own. His belligerent stance made Jessie step behind the desk as she dealt with him.
There had been problems in other studios. Just this past September, someone had broken into Van Vranken’s. The thief had been arrested and sent to the reform school in Red Wing. The incident was a reminder to Jessie to keep the shop locked at night and take any cash she had immediately to the bank at the end of each day. Remembering Lilly’s concerns, Jessie changed her routine, as sometimes she had more than twenty dollars in the satchel. That would be a goodly catch for a desperate someone who might pay attention to predictability.
Jessie and Voe faced this man with blond hair and blue eyes and shoulders nearly as wide as the door. He held the framed portrait in his hand and lifted it up like a battle shield. From his accent and the addition of then at the end of some of his sentences, she knew he was Scandinavian.
“I need it changed, then. I can’t spend hard-earned money on a picture that looks more like my father than me.”
Jessie pointed out the advantages of the portrait and how well it had been rendered. The lighting and exposure were perfect. She didn’t say that the portrait actually improved upon his looks, though it did. It was a perfect likeness when he stopped his snarling and took another breath before complaining again, which stilled his face. She tried not so much arguing as being clear and firm, something she’d read was important for a professional woman. She stood as tall as her five feet two inches allowed.
But her protests agitated him further.
It was Voe who calmed him.
“It’s the proportions that aren’t right,” Voe said. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Henderson?”
“Ja,” he barked. He turned the picture around and jabbed his stubby finger at it. “Ja. That just might be what’s wrong, then.”
Jessie didn’t agree that the proportions were wrong, but it was the first time he’d agreed with anything. The tone of his voice was less outraged than when Jessie had tried to convince him that he’d gotten value for his money. She needed to accept that he didn’t like it and try to discover what might make it right for him so he wouldn’t go sending bad postcards through the mail or telling his friends to go elsewhere.
“What if we put a mat around the picture?” Jessie proposed. “It would require a larger frame that way, but it would set off your face rather nicely, don’t you think?”
“I’m not likely to pay for the larger frame,” he said.
“I think we can work that out,” Voe told him. “Can’t we, Miss Gaebele?”
“Of course, Miss Kopp.” She turned to Mr. Henderson and smiled. “We’d offer you the larger frame and mat and the labor for it at no additional charge.”
It meant a cost to the studio, but it would save the loss of the total fee and give them a happy customer if he accepted the solution.
Voe took the man to the area where the frames were stored while Jessie considered possible mat colors that might complement the photograph. Voe spent quite a long time showing him frames with gold trim and others with smooth wood. He’ll probably pick the most expensive one, Jessie thought, but it would still be better than losing the sale. Jessie heard laughter from him while she worked on the invoices for the week until finally they settled on the frame he wanted. Most of the cabinet portraits didn’t have mats around them, so what Jessie had proposed was inventive.
But it was Voe who had named the man’s discomfort, Voe who had listened to the words behind his concerns. He didn’t want to look bad; he didn’t want to pay for something that he thought did; he wanted a way to accept the portrait while being able to say to anyone who might question the “proportion” that he’d made a fine bargain by receiving such a handsome frame and matting with it as well.
With the chosen frame, Jessie shared her choices of matting, and Mr. Henderson was mollified. Voe had charmed him. She could learn from her friend. Voe’s curling-ironed hair bore a wave up over her forehead, and she had high color on her cheeks when she brought Mr. Henderson back to the front. He said he’d return the following week to pick up his newly matted and framed portrait.
“We’ll have it ready,” Jessie said. “Just come by on Friday. You needn’t send a postcard. We’ll be expecting you.”
Voe gave Jessie a frown, and Mr. Henderson dropped his eyes. “Ja, I was very upset. I should have just called, to say I was coming.”
Jessie could have bitten her tongue for having brought up the postcard. He’d been ready to leave a happy customer, and now she’d mentioned something that might remind him of his earlier grievance. She sought a way to put him back on top.
“Was it having to talk to a…woman?” Jessie asked. “I can see where that might have been troubling.”
“Ja.” He had a sheepish grin. “A man doesn’t like to show his bad side to a woman.”
“But you don’t have a bad side,” Voe corrected. “It was just the proportion, remember?”
“A man’s bad side of being taken advantage of, then,” he said. “I didn’t want that to be seen that way by anyone, but especially a woman.”
“You’re very helpful,” Jessie told him. “Thank you. We’ll attend better to others who might have concerns—not that we have many. Most really are pleased with our work.”
“Next time maybe I’ll have Miss Kopp take my picture,” he said.
Voe smiled. “I don’t do the portraits. I just help Mr. Bauer and now Miss Gaebele, so you’d have to sit for her. But I’d help choose the setting and the props and pose you,” she said.
Jessie hoped he wouldn’t decide that he wanted a totally new portrait now. They’d worked out a solution. She’d recovered from her own stumble, and she hoped to move him out the door.
“I’m pleased we found an agreeable solution for this portrait,” Jessie said.
“Ja. Agreeable,” Mr. Henderson said.
“So we’ll see you next week,” Jessie said and opened the door.
“You’ll see me at five o’clock,” he told her. Jessie started to protest. There was no way they could prepare the portrait by then, but he continued, “I’ll be escorting Miss Kopp home, if she allows it.”
“Then or anytime,?
?? Voe told him. She curtsied and dropped her eyes. He tipped his cap to her and left.
Voe had already turned eighteen and was considered a legal woman by Minnesota law. She could do what she wanted without asking her mother’s approval and without tongues wagging if she was to be seen alone with a beau. Even Jessie could see the spark between them.
“That was fast,” Jessie said.
“We did get it worked out in record time, didn’t we?”
“That wasn’t the fast I was speaking of.”
“The walk home? That’ll be right smart,” she said. “Maybe on the weekend we’ll hike up Bluffside Park’s new trail. I hear the views are worthy of a picture.”
“Won’t your other beaus be jealous?”
“Oh, Jessie, you’re the only girl I know who doesn’t have at least one beau. Having a dozen keeps a girl in motion. It’s better than your long walks for exercising.”
Jessie laughed.
“Truly. You have to be out there swimming or all the fish will pass you right by.”
“I’m not interested in fishing,” Jessie said.
“Me neither. It’s the catching I like.”
“Beaus interfere with my path.”
“You want to know what I think?” Voe said.
Jessie pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Not really.”
“I’ll tell you anyway.” She followed Jessie, who carried the frame into the back room. “You think getting Mr. B. to pay attention to you is enough. He’ll help you with your career, teach you what he knows, keep you employed all right, but he’ll keep you from finding the right man.”
Jessie scoffed. “I’m not looking for a right man. I just want to learn more about photography, and this is a great chance for any girl interested in how a photograph comes together to form beauty.”
“He might just keep you from learning more about photography too,” Voe said.
Jessie turned to face her. “I don’t see how.”
Voe sighed. “What will you do when he returns? I bet you’ll stay working for him for the rest of your life, claiming you’re learning, but really you’re playing it safe. You’ll be independent and lonely, all because you wouldn’t find a real beau. Small, bird-boned girls like you are always treated sweet as ice cream. You’re used to pampering, Jessie. Your uncle August and even Mr. B. have kept you from—”
“I just like being in control,” Jessie said.
“You like standing back, looking through a lens. You stay out of the picture that way.”
“So you say,” Jessie said and turned away.
She wasn’t sure if she was more annoyed by the closeness of Voe’s predictions to Lilly’s or the possibility that they could both be right.
FJ watched the spots on the back of his hands. They didn’t waver. Same size. Same dark pink color, darker than the scars on his arms where he’d been burned in the prairie fire the year that Donald died. Eventually those scars on his forearms had faded, though they still reminded him of ridges, like the barbed wires that surrounded the ranch. But the backs of his hands and blotches over his chest and on his feet were bright as the Christmas berries he’d watched Russell and Winnie string around the tree.
He wanted to call the studio, just to see how things were going there, but he knew if he did, and if he sensed turmoil or problems, he’d want to pay a visit, help settle things, and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
He had other worries. He’d gotten a letter from his North Dakota partner, Herman Reinke, who said he planned to invest in some Canadian land. Everyone wanted to expand, but his partner’s suggestion that they join a group of other businessmen to purchase more cropland disturbed him. They could manage what they had, or rather Herman could, with FJ’s help. Herman was a day-to-day detail partner; FJ understood the bigger picture. The market for wheat was good now, but with the expansion of the Homestead Act, more and more people would be putting land into production across the plains, and there could well be a market glut if people weren’t careful. He had planted flax too. Maybe he should have insisted on more flax, but Herman was closer to the soil and FJ held back his concern.
FJ intended to write to Herman about his objections, but he had no energy. It was the worst part about this illness, having to lie for hours doing nothing because he didn’t have the strength to even sit up in bed and read. Not that he could read. The disease affected his eyes as well, and he’d been told to protect them. What good was a photographer, named a diplomat in the National Photographic Association, who couldn’t use his eyes?
He couldn’t ask Mrs. Bauer to transcribe a letter he might dictate. She could barely sustain caring for the baby. Some days Robert seemed to cry a very long time before Mrs. Bauer went to the child and picked him up. Or maybe he was colicky and nothing seemed to comfort. Sometimes she brought the boy in and laid him next to FJ, saying, “I just need a moment alone.”
He nodded. She didn’t have to scream. He welcomed the infant even if he cried. He would caress the boy’s head, feel the velvet of his tiny ears, let the boy’s fingers wrap around his own. Robert sat up by himself now, and FJ had to be careful that the boy didn’t roll or crawl too close to the side of the narrow bed and fall off. When Russell came home from school, FJ would have him line up pillows around the side to keep Robert from crawling too far out of range. Winnie sometimes joined them too. She looked at books, rolled balls to the boy, and then when Robert tired, Winnie seemed to as well, and they would lie haphazard on the blankets beside him and sleep.
If he felt up to it, he and his oldest son would talk about the boy’s day. He even thought of asking Russell to write the letter to Reinke for him, but he could not. Somehow he had to protect his children from the worries of adults, at least for a time. Russell had already assumed more responsibility than FJ wanted for a ten-year-old, and both of his older children were having to deal with sickly and often irritable parents.
Parents. Yes. They were both ill. He didn’t know what to make of Mrs. Bauer’s present lack of personal care. Her hair looked as ratted as a hawk’s nest, and she’d worn the same apron for several days now, stained with the meals she and Russell prepared. FJ couldn’t understand what was happening. He’d been ill before, but she’d managed that. Maybe with three children it was just too much. Had she ever really recovered from the birth of Robert? She’d lost weight, as expected, but now that he thought of it, she looked thinner than she’d ever been, her arms like chicken legs. Her eyes sometimes looked out at him with a vacant raccoon gaze.
If he had the energy, he would call the doctor for her.
It would be something he should do to border and protect. He could still do that much. He made his way to the phone.
What had she forgotten? Something… To take the diapers from the pail where they soaked in bleach. She’d put Robert’s Ruben shirts in there too, hadn’t she? The strings that tied at the front were easier to manage than buttoned shirts. He was probably outgrowing them, but she couldn’t do anything about that. She couldn’t even order clothing from the catalog, and she certainly couldn’t sew things. Her hands didn’t want to move the way they were supposed to. Maybe she’d become afflicted by Mr. Bauer’s disease. Or maybe during those years of holding the brushes of ink in her mouth while she retouched, she’d taken on some sort of chemical illness too. She looked at her hands. No blotches. What had she done with her ring? She’d taken it off when she brushed her teeth this morning. Had she brushed her teeth?
Mrs. Bauer’s thoughts raced like rats around a basement post. In the water closet, she looked at the Rubifoam bottle. The cap was off. She must have brushed her teeth, but her tongue felt thick as woolen socks on a hot summer day, and her teeth—she ran her tongue around them—were coated with sawdust. She knew it couldn’t be sawdust, but it felt grainy like that. She saw her wedding ring lying on the stand beside the sink. She shook her head. She was so forgetful. She hoped she hadn’t forgotten to feed Robert. She no longer nursed him; she’d become so thin. But she had f
ixed his cereal this morning, hadn’t she?
“Mrs. Bauer.” It was her husband calling her yet again to bring him something, do something, fix something. She wasn’t capable. On the day they met, she’d told him that she wasn’t a strong woman. She’d never lied to him about it. But now he made demands she couldn’t possibly meet. Thank goodness for Russell. Thank goodness for Donald.
No, there was no more Donald. He’d died on that terrible ranch that her husband refused to sell. How could he return there each year? How could he go back to the place where he’d failed their son, failed him as sure as if the child had been forgotten? At least his illness prevented that betrayal.
What had she forgotten?
The baby. She had to get the baby from her husband. He was crying, a strange sort of wail that sounded like a shrill bell almost. No, that was the bell she’d given to her husband to ring if he needed her. Was that what she’d forgotten? The sound of the bell? If only she could get a good night’s sleep. That would help. Otherwise she was simply no good, had nothing to offer, nothing to give. It would be better if she just sank into the ground. But she’d probably forget that’s what she intended and make extra work for someone finding her frozen in place.
Jessie’s eye caught the barren branches of the elm as she turned the corner near the Bauer home. Snow formed drifts at the stone walls and hedges that lined the street. She and Mrs. Bauer had worked out an arrangement for the girls to receive their checks: Jessie would send a kind of invoice noting the girls’ hours for pay. Mrs. Bauer would sign the checks kept at their home and send them back. It had worked for several months, but it was now almost the tenth of January 1910, and they had yet to receive their pay.
“I could go over there,” Voe told her. “Or I’ll have Daniel do it.” She and Mr. Henderson were on a first-name basis now. “Daniel would like to help. What’s the good of having a beau if he can’t protect a girl in distress?” Voe said.