With pencil in hand, Jessie worked on the closed eyelids, creating life where there was only death. She forgot her annoyance with FJ as she worked and instead held the task as sacred. For this family, her efforts would bring the child to them as a lively, warm, and loving being and perhaps erase some of the sadness of their loss. Her art was healing, unlike what FJ had once said.
They didn’t need to retouch the child’s smile, as it was one of serenity and peace.
“Thin the eyelid,” he directed. “An infant doesn’t have much skin there.” As they progressed in this fragile work, he became more clipped and short in his instructions despite his soft voice. Jessie wondered if he thought of his deceased son. Maybe he was grateful he’d taken photographs of Donald while the boy lived.
Jessie did as she was told, her head bent. She occasionally reached up to tuck a loose strand back into her hair roll, wishing she’d used a different comb to keep her hair in place. She pushed at her glasses.
“Make the iris smaller, I should think,” he said. “You don’t want it to look like the child is a stone gargoyle. Less iris will be better.”
Jessie added more white around the iris but then, without really any reasoning to support her choice, she took away a tiny bit of blackness from the side of the iris, leaving it almost white.
He exhaled.
“So it will look like a reflection,” she defended. “Which a real eye does in a photograph.”
He leaned in but still didn’t speak, and so she turned to see if he objected. Their faces were nearly as close together as paper to glass plate. Tobacco scent lingered on his breath. He no longer looked at the negative but instead stared at her.
She could see the light reflected in his eyes, just a tiny candlelight of white. It was as though he stared into her soul, and she remembered what Lilly had said about the photograph being taken by a special kind of eye.
She moved back slightly, her heart beating in a wild way she didn’t understand.
He straightened too. “Such a little thing,” he said. He reached out as though to touch her but then turned and picked up the negative, the edges of the glass held tight against the palms of his hands. He coughed, turned away from her. “The eyes make the child alive. In this one small moment of time, his parents will have him back almost as if the photograph had been taken while he lived.” He put the picture back down. She thought his hands shook a little. He pressed his fingers to her shoulder. They felt warm and brought a fluttering as though a hummingbird had settled in her chest.
“I’ve done all right then?”
He patted her shoulder then the way a man does his dog and stepped back. “You’ll do just fine without me, Miss Gaebele,” he said. “Just fine.”
FJ held the newspaper but didn’t read it. Instead he considered what had occurred—innocently enough, but it had happened nonetheless. He needed to limit the time he might have alone with Jessie. Miss Gaebele. Or he’d have to let her go. He’d come to this conclusion on the way home and affirmed it while pretending to read his evening paper. His children talked in muffled tones to their mother in the kitchen as he only partially digested news of the election and Taft’s chances. The girl had done nothing to encourage him, but there was about her a kind of vibrancy that flowed from her, whether she was teasing with Voe about their weekend activities or chattering with his children. She carried a light that drew him to her, a fire that could burn. He could imagine her at the Minnesota State Fair, where her uncle apparently reined supreme with her, taking her to carnivals and whatnot. The girls spoke with vigor about the hayrides following their Youth Alliance gatherings at the church Jessie attended. He wasn’t sure why, but his eye seemed to catch her name in the Republican-Herald column listing those participating in such events. Jessie and her sisters would be there along with Voe and several young men. Well, that was as it should be.
Why he bothered to read such drivel was beyond him, though occasionally efforts of his wife’s Ladies Aid activities would be listed there as well. He made it a point to mention this to his wife, to salute her worthy work.
Mrs. Bauer appeared to enjoy the adulation of her successes. She’d been much more predictable of late, more open to his affection. Not adoring enough for his kisses by any means, certainly not passionate, but not resistive of his touching her shoulder or giving her a peck on the cheek. Perhaps success at that level had given her confidence, and he was grateful.
So why had he felt whatever it was he had felt with Miss Gaebele? Perhaps it was just a simple longing to have his efforts appreciated. Miss Gaebele did that, made him feel as though his work had merit.
It might be better if he let both girls go. Salve sales had not picked up, and while they’d surely retouch more prints with Miss Gaebele’s quick study, and he wasn’t having to pay her for instruction time, expenses continued to rise. Keeping up with the technology of his profession was expensive. He needed the girls’ help but not at the expense of his own, well, desires.
Desires. That was much too intense a word to use for that momentary emotion he’d felt in the retouching room. Jessie was a lovely young girl who had done something quite remarkable in the retouching of that baby’s photograph. He’d been thinking of Donald, feeling terribly guilty all over again, and aching for the family who had lovingly dressed the baby in his christening gown, embroidered and tatted to perfection. The oldest son—there looked to be ten or more children at the house when he arrived to photograph the infant—had taken the baby from his mother’s arms and asked where FJ wanted to pose the boy for the photograph. FJ had picked up a velveteen pillow and then motioned toward a table near the window. The child looked as though he were sleeping. FJ had swallowed back tears.
He supposed he was thinking of all that when he’d stood too close to Miss Gaebele in the retouching area. The way she’d brought those eyes alive…
It wasn’t desire he was feeling. How could it be? He was a father and husband and must be, yes, twenty-six years her senior. No, it was…compassion, empathy. He simply wanted to help the girl refine her raw talent. And she had it, there was no doubt about that, even though she seemed to move it in directions he didn’t think were worthy of a great portrait photographer. But what she’d done with the eyes of that child…he shivered with the thought of it.
That’s all it was. He had recognized great talent and been moved by it. The subject had been a deceased infant, and they’d had just a brief moment of physical closeness. These things happened in such snug work space where men and women stood shoulder to shoulder, so to speak, to accomplish a thing.
It couldn’t occur again though. If it did, he’d let the girls go despite the strain it would cause him.
He coughed, a brackish bark of a cough. Not again.
Or maybe he could keep just one employee. He hated thinking of rehiring and retraining, especially when he might become ill again at any time. Besides, how would he explain their dismissal to his wife? He’d have to think this through.
Her husband had not approached her for more than a platonic touch in some time. Tonight, Mrs. Bauer found that to be a comfortable state as she prepared their evening meal. She had the kitchen window open to the twilight, a breeze fluttering the printed curtain. He never mentioned having another child, and she was grateful for that. Winnie had been already along when Donald was killed or she never would have wanted to carry a child while she grieved another. But Winnie was a dear, and Russell had certainly brought joy to her life. When she watched some of the younger mothers with their babies during the society meetings, she almost felt a longing for a baby again. But she’d be thirty-four in June and she wasn’t a strong woman, so carrying a child might be difficult.
She listened to the children behind her, looking at the latest Woman’s Home Companion. Or rather, Russell looked at it, giggling at various times. She ought to take it from him. She’d forgotten that they advertised Peetz corsets right there with drawings that looked almost lifelike. Winnie grabbed it from him and trie
d to cut a picture with the scissors she’d commandeered from Mrs. Bauer’s sewing box.
“Not the magazine, Winifred. Mama wants to read the prize-winning letter.” The Vellum Paper Company had offered a prize for the best letter written on their stationery, and the magazine had printed it. Mrs. Bauer wanted to read it to improve her own letter-writing capabilities for her society work. “Let’s put that away,” she told Winnie, though she didn’t reach for it.
“I’m cutting,” Winnie told her mother.
“It’s for Strawberry Bombs.” Russell pointed at the recipe next to the letter.
Mrs. Bauer looked where he pointed. “It will be that time of year soon,” she told him. “Why don’t you let Russell cut it, Winnie? I’ll save it, and we’ll have a bomb at the first fruits of summer, all right?”
“Not just any fruits,” Russell said. “Strawberries.”
“Where are there strawberries?” Her husband had entered the room. He smiled at the children. He always smiled at them first. Russell told them what they were up to. He had his hand on Russell’s shoulder. Her husband liked to touch. She wished she were more comfortable with that. “I’ll cut it out for you, Mrs. Bauer, if you’d like.”
She nodded and turned back to the preserved beans she’d opened. She’d be pleased when the garden began producing. They’d eaten all the canned peas and peaches. Mrs. Bauer preserved for her family and for her mother, whose hands hurt her so much. It hadn’t stopped Mrs. Otis from buying up cloth pieces, but it had kept her from making quilts with them. Her mother’s house was stacked with piles of colorful cloth, a riot of chaos that Mrs. Bauer could barely stand. Yet when her garden produced, her own kitchen looked as though vegetables and fruits had exploded, with so many stems and jars scattered about the room. There was no place even to sit at the table as she worked long into the night, unable to stop and start again in the morning. She could keep it up for days, it seemed, and then she fell exhausted into bed.
“Your name is in the paper,” her husband said. “For the money raised at your last event. I forget the name of that project.”
“The chicken potpie dinner,” she reminded him. She reached for a match to light the stove.
“So it is,” he said. “You’ve done good things for Winona, Mrs. Bauer. I’m proud to say”—he kissed her at the back of her neck—“that I know you.”
She stiffened. Yet it warmed her to think that he’d read about her and that he’d commented and given her praise. She even felt her face grow hot with the double meaning he might have intended with the biblical phrase “to know.” “I should hope you know me,” she said. She turned to him and smiled.
He looked startled, said, “There’s always room to know you better.” He had a different look in his eye now and stayed close to her, putting his arms around her waist and tugging her to him.
“Not in front of the children,” she whispered. She felt confined by his arms and backed her way out of them. He always went too far.
“I’ll take that as a direction for later activity, when the children are fast asleep?” he asked.
“You might,” she said. Why had she said that? She relaxed when he stepped back.
“I’ll await a knock on my door,” he said and smiled.
Now she knew she blushed. She wondered what she’d do.
Jessie overheard her parents, their voices rising through the floor vent into the girls’ room. She’d come up the back stairs to find a ribbon to tie her hair off her neck as they played Pom-Pom Pull Away in their backyard. Roy loved the game, which involved little more than him trying to touch the girls running past him. When they were “caught,” they’d belong to his team. Her hair had jostled loose, and she’d told them she’d be back in a minute.
“She does seem less dreamy eyed,” her mother said, and Jessie assumed she spoke of Selma as she pawed through the hanky drawer for the ribbon. “I was worried if she left Steffes’s job she’d lose heart.” Yes, they must be talking about Selma, but what would she lose heart about, and was Selma thinking of quitting? She hadn’t said anything to Jessie. She kept listening, wondering if they’d talk more about Roy’s trip.
“August’s camera really brought her through,” her father said. “I wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive herself before that.”
“It’s never easy, such a thing,” her mother agreed. “I’ll be forever grateful to him, finding the perfect diversion. I didn’t want to lose both of them.”
“August was the messenger of our prayers,” her father said.
“Well, it’s nice to see her blooming.”
Jessie sat down on the bed, shaking. She was who she’d always been, and they didn’t know it. She didn’t deserve their prayers.
Jessie handed Mr. B. the mail, putting the brochure on top. “This looks like fun,” she told him. It was August, and Mr. B. made known his plan to attend the National Photographic Association’s congress in St. Paul scheduled for the following month. The brochure listed expected exhibits, classes, and potential contacts. “I’ll bet there are all kinds of interesting classes to take there.”
“One of the necessities of owning a professional studio is attending these events,” he told her. “Tramps don’t need to worry as much about the demands of their clients, who expect impromptu sittings to have their flaws.” He read the material, turned it over in his hand. Jessie went about her work but turned when he said, “You’re too young and inexperienced to gain any benefits.”
The words hit her like a snowball to her heart. She hadn’t been contriving to go. She was an employee, nothing more. She knew that. But he’d responded to her as though she was indirectly asking for something, trying to wrangle him to spend money to send her. Or worse, to take her along with him. Her mother wouldn’t approve of either.
“I…1 know that, Mr. Bauer. I just meant it must be fun to do in addition to—”
“The only playing I allow myself is taking time on my way home to visit my younger sister, Luise, in Wisconsin.”
She’d done something to upset him, but she didn’t know what. Ever since their encounter in the retouching area, he’d been distant with her, had returned to calling her Miss Gaebele. She’d only wanted him to enjoy the congress, but he behaved as though she were a manipulating child.
FJ stared at the flier for the congress. It was best that he crush any of Miss Gaebele’s inappropriate expectations before they took bloom. He was a married man with a family. What had happened in that instant in the retouching room a few months back had occurred without guile of any sort on either part. But young girls had a tendency to fantasize. He’d left a farmer’s employ before joining the army because the man’s daughter had misunderstood his kindness. Women were drawn to those novels that suggested love was the divine ideal and could be found despite the realities of life. He was a faithful husband, and he loved his wife. He did. Jessie, Miss Gaebele, was young and naive. She was quite beguiling with those eyes that seemed to change color from brown to gray as she told of some spirited story. Young. That’s what she was. He was the adult who needed to set the borders, and that he would do.
The Fruit of the River
DREAMS OF PALE SKIN and flowers bursting like fireworks filled Jessie’s nights that fall. She often awoke hot, her heart pounding. She’d sink back into her pillows in the predawn darkness and listen to the branches scraping the window or stare at the pressed-tin ceiling, waiting for her heart to slow. The dreams carried longing stitched into a backing of guilt. Yet she’d done nothing wrong. She had let her emotions reach out but had not let them grasp anything firmer than sand.
The night before, she and Lilly lay awake for a time after Selma’s soft breaths began to soothe the night. “You’re so fortunate, Jessie,” Lilly told her in one of her rare reflective moods. “You’re doing what you want and moving toward something good in your life. Why would you risk it all for… a fantasy?”
“I’ve got my slippers on the floor,” she defended. “An instructor who feels at ease w
ith his students teaches better, that’s all.”
Lilly rolled over and put her palm across Jessie’s hands, which were folded on her stomach as she stared at the ceiling, and gripped her fingers tight. “Jessie,” she whispered. “You’re telling yourself stories that only you can believe. If you mess up this chance to have a real life, you’ll disappoint us all.”
Again.
“Uncle August gave you that camera. You’re so lucky!”
Yet she daydreamed when she ought not to. Maybe she couldn’t accept that she was as special as Uncle August claimed. Maybe she felt guilty being treated differently. “Maybe I don’t deserve a joyful life,” Jessie said. “You remember what happened. Maybe none of us does.”
“That’s not so, Jess. ‘Desire realized is sweet to the soul,’ that’s what the proverb says. Didn’t you memorize that one? Having a desire is a good thing. We shouldn’t counter that just because we have regrets. We’re not supposed to stay locked in fear that we’ll mess up again.”
“We always mess up,” Jessie said.
“Not if our hopes come from the right place and not from our own, well, lusts.”
Jessie felt her face grow hot. “I’m not lusting.” She picked up her sister’s hand and removed it from her. “Go to sleep.”
Even while she protested to Lilly, Jessie wondered if she was lying to herself about the lust. Not about her not deserving joy though. Joy, she knew, was nothing she should claim. She had caused harm those years ago, irrevocable harm, because she’d been tending to her own wishes. To cope, she’d escaped into a photographic garden she shouldn’t have entered. Now she faced the possibility that this good place might become something she could never let go of. Her mouth felt dry as summer sand. She needed a drink of water.
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