She longed for her camera though. She felt like a rib had been cut from her side, leaving her lopsided. She needed it to keep her balance, something she hadn’t been aware of until the gift of the camera had graced her days. She made a few sketches of interesting objects but didn’t have the same satisfaction as when she took a photograph and then later, upon printing, got to see the image as though for the first time. She wouldn’t actually take pictures, even if she had the camera, since she’d made the promise, but she could practice framing images. She used her hands to make a circle to isolate the image in her mind.
It had become an annoyance and a wasteful requirement that she leave the camera with Mr. Bauer, who had even put it away somewhere so she wouldn’t be tempted to use it. At least he’d given her the torn sleeves before he hid it. She hadn’t even been able to finish the roll on the Kodak and send it back, not that she had the money to get the film developed anyway, at least not right now. Her uncle August had paid for the previous rolls. Once she had money, the Eastman Company would send the camera and new film to her so she could take another hundred prints. But Mr. Bauer had been specific, and his instructions were otherwise easy to understand. It was only another month before she’d have the camera back.
The stillness of Mr. Steffes’s shop captured her too. Dust mites would shiver through arcs of light shining in from the small but clean windows. Once Mr. Steffes left for the day, she had the place to herself, and she found she liked to work in silence, just the brush of her broom against the floor or the rumble of a passing dray penetrating the walls of the shop. The streetcar didn’t come this far, and with the shops closed, there was little reason for a horse to clop-clop its way along the street, but sometimes there were late deliveries. A rodent might poke its head from its hole and make a scraping sound or two, but Jessie had managed to silence those noises after a time by putting wire mesh over the holes and suggesting to Mr. Steffes that he place poison in dishes to kill the rats.
She’d become accustomed to the smells too: from grease and old stained rags, the brush of dirt that she swept out the door each day, especially after a downpour, when mud clung to the rubber tires of bicycles loaned and returned. She usually opened the two small windows while she worked, to air the place out, and she did that now. The sultry August evening air dampened her cheeks, but she was more interested in the way the wood weathered on the windowsill, creating streaks of paint and texture that would make an interesting design photographed and developed from a dry glass plate.
“Why is it,” she asked herself out loud, “that when I’m not supposed to take a photograph, I find them everywhere?” She hummed as she worked, grateful that no one looked over her shoulder, that daydreaming wouldn’t cause anyone trouble. Here was a place to let her mind rest from all the details of the studio, of trying to please Mr. Bauer, of worries about Roy and her father’s health. Somehow this physical effort served as a good complement to the work of her mind.
Jessie made sure the doors were locked after Mr. Steffes left. She didn’t want to invite trouble. First, though, she had wrestled with two bicycles leaned up against the front of the shop and brought them in through the narrow door. Mr. Steffes hadn’t asked her to do anything other than clean, but she had suggested he find a better way to account for his bicycles, as he was prone to leave them outdoors and check them in the next day. That didn’t make good business sense to Jessie, so she rolled the cycles in and lined them up in the iron stalls she’d gotten him to forge. At the very least she thought he ought to build some racks for the outside where the bicycles could be chained and locked so people would have to come in before using them. Jessie suspected that any number of bicycles found their way into the hands of men who used them, returned them, and never did pay despite the name on the shop as a livery.
“Oh, it all works out,” Mr. Steffes told her. “If a man has need of wheels but lacks the funds to pay, he will in time. Besides, eventually they purchase and I’ll have their business making repairs. They tell others who rent, then buy, and so it goes, one day to the next.”
It seemed a precarious way to run a business, but then she was just a girl and didn’t understand commerce—despite heeding Mr. Bauer or watching her father or listening to her grandparents or even quizzing her uncle August about this and that. Still, if people had a reason to come inside, they might consider purchasing a bicycle and not just renting.
Mr. Steffes never took out an ad in the Republican-Herald or the Winona Independent, the latter being a morning paper that might serve his clients well. Well, she was pleased it was part of her job at the Bauer Studio to find out what she could about managing a business, the way people paid, how they got postcards printed, what the costs of ads were, how money came and went. That reminded her of another question she wanted to ask Mr. Bauer.
“Don’t you ever stop working?” Voe shouted at the locked door. “You’re in there, aren’t you, Jessie?”
Jessie wiped the tools Mr. Steffes had used during the day, then lined them up on the wooden bench. She unlocked the door. Voe appeared as she often did, as a star just showing up in the night. “I’m just keeping my agreements. Don’t you think this would make an interesting photograph?” Jessie asked. “See how the size diminishes with each pair of pliers? I could fan them out and—”
“You do see things in the strangest ways,” Voe said. She tucked a strand of her blond hair back into the circle of braids at her ears. She wore a straw hat with a flat top and looked ready for fun, her double chin jiggling as she laughed and suggesting she was heavier than she really was. “I stopped by to see if you’d come to the beach with us.”
“Who’s ‘us’ and for what?” Jessie asked. She picked up the broom and began to sweep as Voe chattered.
“Just a few of us chums. We’re going to the lake and putting canoes in.”
Jessie did like the water.
“I’d have to go home and talk to my parents first. They always like to know where I am.”
“Don’t they let you do anything without asking? Some girls our age are already married.”
“Not in my family,” Jessie said. “No dancing, no drinking, no smoking, no card playing, no—”
“But there’s no rule against canoeing, is there? Or sitting at the beach and watching the rest of us?”
“I imagine they’d let me do that,” Jessie said. “But I really don’t know if I want to.”
Jessie’s parents would likely let her go with her chums. But today, digging a bit in the garden or reading to Roy seemed preferable to the chatterings that would happen at the lake.
“My brother’s going to be there,” Voe said in a singsong voice. “He’s kind of sweet on you, you know. He asked me specific if you’d come.”
“I get pretty tired by the time I’m through here,” Jessie said.
“How long will your parents make you do this? Seems a tough punishment just because you left the house early one morning, especially when you got the job at Mr. Bauer’s and everything.”
“It’s because we’re not getting paid,” Jessie said. “I need to help at home. Just like you do.”
“Not this time. My ma liked your argument that it was a free education, and she said if I could get myself a trade, it would be worth having me studying and not tiring myself with extra work for six months.”
“I don’t really mind the work. I get to see lots of picture possibilities,” she said.
“In bicycle wheels and tools?” Voe laughed as she said it, careful not to allow her light summer dress to flounce toward the dirty wheels. “You’re odd, Jessie.” It was, though, one of the things Jessie liked about her friend. She saw the world straight on, while Jessie could supply the slants.
“I’m an odd duck who makes a noisy quack,” Jessie said. “So why would your brother care whether I joined you or not?”
“He likes a challenge. He’s going to own his own farm one day, you’ll see. Come along. I’ll go back and tell your ma that you’d like to
join us.”
“No!” Jessie was certain her mother wouldn’t appreciate Voe’s speaking for her. “I’ll finish up here and then come down to the beach if I can, but only for a little while.”
Voe shrugged and headed off.
Jessie locked the door behind her, then worked a little longer, cleaning up the cast-iron sink Mr. Steffes neglected. Now she really did need a bath! She closed up and fast-walked toward home. Selma said she walked like a shore bird, taking quick-quick steps. But Selma had long legs, and Jessie had to take three to her one to keep up, even though Selma was four years younger.
On the way home she decided that she wouldn’t ask to go to the lake at all. Jerome Kopp wasn’t someone whose interests she wanted to encourage. He’d once noted that her name had different meanings and told her that jessy meant to give someone the “worst licking of their life.” “Give them jessy!” he’d shouted when two boys at school were fighting. She was aghast that her name could be used like that!
The truth was, none of the boys at school nor the brothers of the girls she’d worked with at Kroeger’s had interested her in the least. They acted silly in the presence of girls, pushing one another and bragging. Lilly’s beaus were gentlemen, but Lilly kept finding things wrong with each suitor who came her way. “I have high standards,” Lilly told her mother when her mother suggested that some young man’s interest ought to be encouraged instead of pushed away.
“Such high standards might keep you under our roof for longer than you’d like,” her mother had told her. Lilly didn’t let such words distress her, not even when they came from her mother, though Jessie thought she’d made those comments after a boy of particular interest stopped calling. Lilly seemed sad after that, and then she’d gotten, well, irritable, a state she was constantly in, it seemed to Jessie.
Jessie took a petal from Lilly’s vibrant flower. She had high standards too, and Jerome Kopp didn’t match them, not that she’d speak such truth to his sister. Instead, she’d go home, rinse her hair with henna to bring out the shine, and take a sponge bath. The air was so humid. Then she’d read to Roy or, better, let him take his time to say whatever he wanted without anyone else’s interrupting.
A low roll of thunder caused her to look up. Swirling dark globs of cloud promised a downpour. At least it might cut the sticky heat. She turned the corner where she could see her home and nearly groaned when the porch came into view. There stood Voe and Jerome, along with several others of the “collection,” as her father referred to Jessie’s chums. They sat on the porch steps while Lilly and Selma rocked on the swing. Her parents leaned at the porch balustrades. Roy sat off to the side.
She sighed.
“There she is!” Voe said. “Hurry up now. Your ma says you can come with us. We’re going to play Old Mother Wobble Gobble, so bring lots of hair ribbons and handkerchiefs.”
“Not too many,” Jerome said. “I’m going to give you jess—” He stopped himself. “I mean I’m hoping to get me a cherry in that game.”
Clara, one of the girls in the crowd, laughed. “There’ll be no kissing, Mrs. Gaebele. Jerome’s just a big tease.” Ma had frowned with Jerome’s boast, and Jessie didn’t think Clara’s words had reassured her. Good, maybe they’d forbid her to go. But they said nothing.
“It’ll take me a while to get ready,” Jessie stalled. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I’d hate to hold you up.”
“We don’t mind,” Voe said. “Do we, Jerome?”
Jerome was as husky as her little brother was thin. But he was a muscled husky, formed from farm work. A big, blond German boy. “I don’t mind waiting, Jess. I enjoy talking to Mr. Gaebele here about dairying and such. I don’t hardly ever get to see you at church, you’re out of there so fast.”
At the mention of church, Jessie’s mother’s shoulders relaxed. Jessie thought him wise; he knew how to butter up her father and her mother all in one breath. “You attend the Youth Alliance?” Mrs. Gaebele asked.
“Sometimes. Lots of us do,” he said.
Jessie just wanted to be left alone. She sent her father a pleading look. But tonight he was blind.
“Run along now, Jessie,” her father told her. “You’ve worked hard enough for one day.”
“I’ll help you heat the bath water,” Selma told her. Jessie blushed. Lilly just shook her head. Jessie wasn’t going to get her way tonight; even she could see that.
One of the nice things about a Minnesota summer afternoon, FJ thought as he walked home, was that it lasted so long. Mosquitoes came out, yes, and one had to keep the children from being bitten, but it was possible to work a little late, stop at the lodge, and still be home in time to toss a ball to Russell. The boy was tall and slender with soulful eyes like his mother. He was a fine lad to spend time with.
Thunder turned FJ’s eyes skyward. Dark clouds clustered like grapes to the south. A downpour might wash out his hopes to toss that ball with Russell, but they could use the rain.
He swung his walking stick, a habit he’d acquired when he first suffered from pneumonia while with the Seventh Cavalry, Troop G. They’d been sent to the frontier, and the regiment was known for having replaced Custer. Later he was stationed at Fort Keogh in Montana. He had frequent bouts of fever there, and his bones ached terribly when riding, so by the time his unit arrived in Fort Meade, South Dakota, he was worn down and ill and had to spend eight weeks in the hospital. Pneumonia and then rheumatic fever, they called it. He called it deathly ill. He used a cane as he recovered, and the walking stick had become a part of his uniform, replacing the sword that now hung in the library at home. At his commander’s recommendation, he left the infantry and joined the hospital corps at Fort Riley, Kansas. He had the pleasure of exercising Custer’s old horse, which had been brought to Fort Riley to live out his old age. But once again the illness struck. This time they sent him to Fort Snelling outside Minneapolis, for the climate. He improved there, taking part in various company expeditions as part of the hospital corps. FJ participated in “police actions” rather than heavy fighting, which suited him fine. He had no taste for killing. The last Indian action he’d seen was against the Milaca Indians in Minnesota.
He shook his head of the memory. The campaign had required the hospital corps to follow, and what he witnessed there left such a sour taste in his mouth that he left the army soon after. Had he stayed but one year more he could have been commissioned as a physician.
Mrs. Bauer sometimes reminded him of that decision as being a poor one, that he could be a doctor now instead of a photographer. But she hadn’t been there. She didn’t know.
His cane clicked against the stones, and he became aware of the sudden quiet. No bird sounds, no rustle of leaves. His skin prickled. He felt the wind change suddenly, coming not out of the southwest but from the north, and yet the trees blew as though the southwest wind still pushed them, swirling the branches like eggs whipped in a bowl. Birds flitted away in large flocks, silent, which seemed odd. So odd, FJ looked up again.
Black and greenish clouds hung terribly low from the sky. He must have been daydreaming, because he hadn’t realized that the temperature had dropped. He felt a chill in the air and rain started falling, the wind pelting the drops against his face and clothes. He was several blocks from home on South Baker Street. It would be best to turn back to the studio and wait until the storm passed, so he lifted his cane and headed back toward Johnson Street as the wind pulled at his hat. He slammed his hand onto his head, holding the bowler in place. Wind filled up his coat sleeves like balloons. Tree branches broke and twisted as they fell to the ground. He felt off center and looked down to see the sidewalk lift slightly. Roots belonging to trees several yards away cracked the surface at his feet like ice breaking on a spring lake. Like a long breath, the trees lifted up, held, then exhaled back into their roots. He nearly stumbled on an uneven surface. Lightning flashed. He caught himself, jumped away from the breakage, and watched a tree fall in slow motion toward a house. He gasped. More lig
htning, heightened wind, and then before him he saw a gaggle of young people.
They swung baskets and twirled around, laughing and letting the wind push them about. They don’t realize the severity of the storm! FJ recognized his employees. Yes, Miss Kopp’s height made her stand out, and Miss Gaebele’s small form appeared locked between her friends. He heard shouts as the rain began to pelt them. Dust and dirt like tiny pinpricks bit his face, and he could see them rub at their eyes and turn their backs to brace against the fury. Miss Gaebele stumbled and fell. It took all his own strength to not be bowled over.
Now leaves and sticks and broken branches swirled like a circling horse, and wonder of wonders, he actually had to lean into the wind just to stay upright. With his cane he motioned to the group to turn back and shouted, “To my studio!” He pulled his hat down over his ears and held his coat tight around him, pushing his way toward them, motioning with his cane.
“Take cover! My studio!” Old maple seeds winged their way up from the street and swung at their cheeks. Miss Gaebele was so small she could easily be lifted by the force of this wind. “You know the way, Miss Kopp!”
“It’s on Fifth and Johnson,” she shouted to the others and turned them all like a herd of frightened calves.
They started to run then. The boys with them raced after Miss Kopp, charging toward the studio, leaving Miss Gaebele and another young woman exposed to the elements, barely able to stand. Hanging his cane over his arm, FJ reached them and took each girl by the elbow, and together they pushed up the street against the wind, leaves and dirt a nightmare around them. A terrible cracking sound forced the woman to hold her ears, and as one, they stopped and turned to see a giant oak pulled from its roots crash across the street where they’d just met up.