Unmentionables

by Laurie Loewenstein

  Hurrying past the entryway to Clay’s second-floor studio, she imagined him upstairs, pacing nervously, jabbing at the coal in the stove with a poker. The trolley lumbered past with only a few riders. What with the war and the snow, Emporia was almost deserted. She turned down Main, past Deuce’s old office. How many years had she gazed up as she passed, mooning like a schoolgirl? That was over. The day Marian left, she’d watched Deuce staring down the street long after the Packard had passed from view. And when he finally turned back to his own house, she’d caught a glimpse of his haggard face and understood how things were.

  When she crossed Main and turned onto Court, the wind let up. The walk in front of Watts’s studio was cleared and sprinkled with a carpet of ash. Displayed behind the plate glass was a single photograph of the youngest Walters child, squatting on chubby legs, its arm thrown around the neck of the family’s spaniel, both positioned in front of Mrs. Walters’s prized peony bush. It was a lovely image, so much more vivid with its open-air setting than the canvas backdrops Clay used. Mr. Watts clearly knew his business. Would he want to buy a bunch of secondhand equipment that probably wasn’t of very good quality to begin with? Holding her breath, Tula entered the shop, setting a brass bell jingling overhead. Inside, two other portraits were displayed on easels. One was of the Reverend Sieve bent over a baptismal font, the round head of a placid infant cradled in his age-swollen fingers, the other of Floyd Van Meter shoveling corn into a burlap sack. Tula was examining these when a voice behind her said, “Can I help you?”

  An adolescent girl, wearing a rubber apron, emerged from the back room.

  Flustered, Tula said, “Oh, it’s nothing. I wanted to speak with Mr. Watts but he’s not here and that’s all right. I’ll come back—”

  “He’s here,” the girl interrupted and called over her shoulder, “Daddy!”

  Tula continued backing toward the door. “You needn’t bother him if he’s in the middle of something. As I said, I would be—”

  “It’s no problem, ma’am. We were just mixing chemicals.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  A man stepped through the doorway as the girl darted past him. “Dorrie, would you slow down!” He shook his head, rolling his eyes at Tula in false exasperation.

  Jasper Watts, his bald head surrounded by a fringe of fading brown hair stippled with gray, appeared almost too old to have a daughter of Dorrie’s age. But there was something youthful about the amused expression beneath the animated brows. His high collar and cuffs were brilliantly white, creating a dapper impression despite the rubber apron.

  “I expect these children will put me in an early grave some day. How can I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m Tula Lake—”

  “Oh, the photographer’s sister?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you. Maybe this isn’t a good time?”

  “This is a fine time. Why don’t we sit down over here?” He gestured to the small seating area and hung his apron on a nail by the counter. “Let me take your coat.”

  Tula gratefully shrugged off her wraps, as another flush of heat was building up. She settled at the edge of one of the armchairs.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  Now that she was here, Tula didn’t know how to begin. She surveyed the studio with a birdlike tilt of her head until her eyes lit on a large photo. “That’s a remarkable likeness of Floyd.”

  Jasper twisted to face the mounted portrait behind him. “I took that last November. You like it?”

  “It’s almost more a painting than a photo. He agreed to pose in the feed store?”

  “Oh, that isn’t a commission. I just happened to be there one day and noticed how the chaff floated out as he filled a sack. I asked if he’d mind if I ran and got my camera. I wanted to try to capture the husks suspended in the light. Fool around a bit. You like it?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes! And is the one in your front window an experiment too?”

  Jasper laughed. He leaned back, crossing his legs. “That was a little bit of both. Mrs. Walters came in wanting a portrait of . . . Jimmy?” He snapped his fingers, gazing at the ceiling. “No, Timmy. It was Timmy. So, anyway, she had in mind the usual child on a hobbyhorse or holding a ball. I’m sure your brother has done hundreds of those. They’re a photographer’s bread-and-butter.”

  Tula, who didn’t think Clay had done hundreds of any pose, smiled tensely.

  “So I said yes, I could do that. But I had this idea of trying something outside. I’d seen a painting somewhere of a little boy in a rose garden. It took some convincing—including an offer to do the standard setup if this didn’t work out—but I eventually talked Mrs. Walters into it.”

  “It’s remarkable.”

  “And it has led to more commissions. Some customers are coming in and asking for a portrait at their place of work. You know, I tried to talk to your brother about this when I bumped into him at a meeting of the Commerce Club awhile back, but he didn’t seem to want anything to do with me. I hope he doesn’t feel I’ve taken away any of his business. With a county this size, there’s plenty of work for two photographers.”

  Tula bit her lower lip. “As a matter of fact, the studio hasn’t panned out as Clay thought it would . . .”

  “I’m so sorry. I hope that was none of my doing! I would feel just terrible if—”

  “No, no.” Tula shook her head. “It was a struggle long before you came to town. I just don’t think Clay’s cut out for business. So,” she inhaled deeply, “so I’m here, in fact, to see if you might want to buy any of his equipment. He might be closing the studio if things don’t . . .” She dribbled off miserably.

  “Closing!” Jasper’s brows pulled together in concern. “Does he have other plans?”

  “No. Yes. We’ll work it out.” She paused, then continued in a strained voice, “So, do you think there might be something . . . anything . . . you’d like to buy from his studio?”

  From the rear room came Dorrie’s announcement that she’d mixed all the chemicals and could she develop a print herself? Jasper excused himself and stood.

  “Her late mother would say I indulge the children too much, but I’ll be right back.” He walked behind the counter. The smell of developing solution was strong. Jasper poked his head through the doorway. “Do you have the trays set up as I showed you?”

  “Yes.” Dorrie’s tone was exasperated.

  “And the timer is set?”

  “Yes!”

  “All right, then.”

  Tula gazed out the front windows. It was snowing again, and the reflected light illuminated her eyes and brow. When she heard him reenter the room, she started to turn.

  “No, don’t. Stay as you are,” he said. “I think this would make a lovely photograph. Do you mind?”

  A deep flush bloomed across her neck and cheeks. “You’re joking!”

  “Not at all.” His voice was warm.

  “But I’m not dressed for . . .” She began tugging at her shirtwaist, patting her hair.

  “You were just admiring my other photographs. Trust me.”

  She shook her head. “I’m really not the sort of person for something like this.”

  “Oh, but I think you are. Why don’t you arrange your hair as you’d like? Dorrie has combs and a mirror back there. While I’m setting up we can talk about that equipment. I’m sure there would be one or two things I could buy.”

  * * *

  An hour later, from up in his studio, Clay observed Tula’s winter hat traveling down the street toward their house. Something about that hat, which was a dated beaver affair and balding along the folds, further enraged him. As if it were the hat’s fault, as if it were Tula’s fault that he was in this mess. He’d spent the entire afternoon in this same spot; fuming at Deuce’s ultimatum—a slap in the face, that’s really what it was. Since the beginning of the new year, he’d been contemplating approaching Deuce, suggesting they let bygones be bygones and try to negotiate something since he still di
dn’t have the money. But now that was out of the question.

  He read the letter one more time, goading himself into righteous indignation. Against all my desires—what a pretentious load of hogwash. He snatched up his coat and headed out.

  As Clay approached the Garland Weekly office, Deuce’s bundled figure was stepping out into the street behind that goddamn mutt he took everywhere.

  Anger boiled up in Clay’s gut. “What the hell is this?” he shouted, shaking his fist, which held the crumpled letter.

  Startled, Deuce turned.

  “Is it a threat? Because if it is, you’re fooling with the wrong man.” Puffs of cold air trailed each word.

  Deuce felt a dark flush rise into his face, but his voice was cool. “This is no place to talk. Let’s go inside.”

  Clay nodded curtly. Deuce was unlocking the door when Jupiter pushed his snout into his palm, demanding attention.

  “Okay, old fella.” Deuce bent to stroke the dark head, thumbing the two tawny spots above the dog’s eyes, the way Jupiter liked it. “Go on inside. Jupiter’s due his dinner. It’ll just take a minute for me to run across to the stables. Eli fixed up an empty stall for him. My landlord won’t let me keep him upstairs.”

  Clay entered without comment. Deuce hurried the old dog across the street and into the dark warmth of the barn. Eli had already left for the day. A half dozen or so horses dozed in their stalls. Deuce pulled out a pack of beef trimmings from Meyers’s Meats and dumped it in Jupiter’s dish. He usually waited for the dog to eat and get settled in a mound of clean straw and covered with an old blanket, but he didn’t want Clay snooping around unattended. He patted Jupiter’s head and walked out.

  Clay was pacing the floorboards in an agitated fashion. The minute Deuce walked in the door, he took up his diatribe. “I thought we had a gentleman’s agreement on this. God knows, I’ve been trying to raise the money. I’ve told you that in good faith, but apparently a man’s word means nothing to you.”

  “Now, Clay—”

  “It’s tough times out there, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Of course I’ve noticed. Have you taken a look around here?”

  Clay plowed on without pause as Deuce dropped wearily into his chair. “No, I don’t think you have. In wartime, no one wants to spend the extra money on a photograph. That’s a luxury! Sitters are few and far between. And that new studio? Do you think that’s helping my business? Did you know Mr. Watts has a photo of your good friend Floyd set up in his front room? There’s nothing loyal about that. I’ll tell you another thing. This Watts—that’s not his real name. According to some of the fellows at the Elks, it’s Jacob Wasser—German background. No doubt about it. The same tribe we’re fighting over in France is taking the business out from under my nose over here.”

  Deuce, who had been sitting back and letting Clay’s vitriol wash over him, bolted upright. “Now wait a minute! Half the people in this county have German blood.”

  Clay snorted. “Watts, Wasser, whatever his name is, is a Hun. Once a Hun, always a Hun.”

  Gall washed into Deuce’s mouth. “Get out of here. This conversation is finished.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “I’m sticking by that deadline for the money.”

  Clay, purple with rage, started to answer, but Deuce was already on his feet, yanking the door open, his features frozen. The photographer snatched up his hat and stomped out, his wild eyes glazed.

  After slamming the door behind him, Clay turned blindly to the left, wading through the pile of snow clogging the curb and stomping down the street. His fury burned strong as he tramped Emporia’s streets, muttering to himself all the while. At last he calmed down enough to make what he considered a rational plan. He’d get the last train to Chicago that night, without a word of explanation or farewell to anyone, Tula included. They’d wake up and he’d be gone and good riddance to the whole stinking town. There was plenty of work in the city not only for all those niggers streaming up from the South but for upstanding white men like himself. But before he left town, he’d take care of Deuce. He’d take care of him, all right.

  On the way home to pack, he stopped at Meyers’s Meats for half a pound of stew meat and at the feed store for a box of rat poison.

  * * *

  Before Deuce opened the office each morning, it was his habit to go directly over to the stables, feed Jupiter, and then escort the old dog across the street to the snug spot beneath his desk.

  This morning, he waved at Eli, who was sipping his first cup of coffee, and headed down the aisle between the stalls. He first saw Jupiter’s back paws, crooked at odd angles. Then the tongue stretching from between gummy lips, the eyes rolled backward. The old dog had vomited up his last meal. Deuce dropped to his knees, crying out, “No! Oh no!” over and over as tears ran down his face. Eli rushed over. When he took in the scene he folded his hands in silence, out of respect for the sorrow of any man who has lost a dog.

  Deuce stroked Jupiter’s knobby brows, the tawny punctuation marks above the glazed eyes. He had no doubt what had happened and who had done it. He bundled the dog’s body in the blanket and carried it across the street. The apartment was silent. Deuce unwrapped the blanket and washed the vomit from Jupiter’s chest, brushed his fur. He stroked the still head. From the linen cupboard, Deuce withdrew a clean sheet, gently swaddled the dog, and laid him out on the open porch at the back of the apartment. That evening he’d ask the Mummerts if he could bury Jupiter in the backyard where he’d played as a puppy.

  Deuce wandered into the kitchenette, opened a few cupboards, then walked out, not yet ready to face a day in the office. In the bedroom he razored the dust off the old tortoise-shell box, his canoptic jar of fraternal pins. When he shook it, it emitted a mournful, tinny sound. These bits of gilt and colored glass that had meant so much to him were now drained of meaning. He considered tossing them into the trash but instead shoved the box into the bottom drawer of his dresser, next to a pair of trousers that needed mending and a couple of old suspenders whose elastic was shot.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE DILL PICKLE

  As I write this, the girls are gathered around the fireplace at the far end of the mess hall. Nezzie is regaling them with a smutty story about a muscular youth modeling as an Indian for a female sketching class. Soon, I imagine, the loincloth will drop. You would instantly take to Nezzie. She is only a bit older than you with the quick mind, sharp tongue, and the bobbed hair of the modern woman.

  As I stepped from the barracks early this morning, a fox darted out from some bushes and dashed past me. I was stunned by his beauty. For some reason, I have not been able to sleep as I used to. Me, who once bragged she could fall asleep on a pile of tent poles!

  AS MUCH AS HELEN HATED the dense wool coat of her conductor’s uniform in the warm days of early September, now, on this sub-zero February morning, she was grateful for every ounce of cloth in its unflattering flared skirt. She thanked the Lord for the military collar, snug under her chin. The wind gusting down Flint Street was fierce and damp with snow.

  She hurried into a side door at the car barn, taking her place at the back of the cashier’s line, just making the 3:45 a.m. punch time. A janitor was methodically sliding open the barn’s massive doors, beyond which dozens of street cars waited in rows. In the rafters above, roosting pigeons beat their thick wings. One of the men farther up was cursing. Spotting her, he abruptly clamped his mouth shut with a resentful glare.

  Helen marched in place to ward off the bitter cold. Every bit of her was chilled to the bone except her hands, which were snug in red wool mittens. They had been tucked in the parcel Deuce had sent for her twentieth birthday, along with a dictionary, a packet of hankies, and a box of chocolates. The mittens released a faint scent of cedar as she pressed them against her cheeks. She shut her eyes, imagining for a moment that she was back home.

  Directly in front of her was a flabby fellow with a roll of fat showing beneath the back of his visored cap.
A stale, unwashed smell seeped from his coat.

  He turned, a smirk creasing his face. “What happened to the fancy footwork? Lost some of your starch?”

  Ignoring him, she stared straight ahead. It had been a mistake, those first few months on the job, dancing in place as the line inched toward the cashier’s window. That energy had drained away sometime during the winter. At first she’d been so happy to be in Chicago, to have her own room, and to have a job. A man’s job. She’d just let loose a couple of times.

  A bit of light eked through the sooty skylights. Same sky every morning. As the fat man shuffled forward she matched his step. Her neck spasmed. She ignored it. If she paid no attention, it might go away. Then straight pins began prickling her gut. She squeezed her eyes shut. As the line drew closer to the cashier’s window, the constrictions grew more urgent. Calm down. Then it was her turn at the grille. The cashier, a ruddy-faced fellow who smelled of whiskey, asked for her badge number and with a pencil made a tick on a register secured to a clipboard. Then he shoved a loaded change carrier toward her. She picked it up and began strapping it to her belt but stopped. The nickel-plated coin barrels seemed lighter, didn’t they? She hesitated.

  Behind her someone grumbled, “Move along.” The toe of a boot bumped sharply against her heel. She shook the carrier that should be full to the top with coins. It rattled. The cashier had shorted her again. Should she demand that he count out the coins? The line of men behind her would explode with curses. That’s what happened last time. Helen felt certain that the cashier didn’t pull this stunt on the men. Maybe on the two other female conductors working out of this barn, but they were on the other shift and she never got a chance to ask them.