Chapter 24
Mr. Littmann strode into the studio, tossed his hat at the peg near the door, and perched on the edge of Liddie’s desk.
“Take a look at this!” He thrust a telegram in front of Liddie but did not leave it long enough for her to read it.
“Good news, I gather?” She settled back in her chair and waited. Mr. Littmann reveled in stringing out news a bit at a time.
“It most certainly is. Jon’s coming.” He studied the telegram as though trying to glean more from the few words it contained.
“Jon?”
“Jonathan Grey. Artist. World traveler. A Renaissance man.” He smiled. “Jon’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”
That was a revelation. Liddie wasn’t aware he had any friends. Mr. Littmann didn’t talk about anything that had happened or anyone that he knew before he came to Maquoketa. When she asked about family, he was vague. If he went to see the cousins near Andrew, he never spoke of it.
“You’ll like Jon. He’s always involved in interesting things with fascinating people. Until recently, he was in Europe. He’ll be able to tell us what’s really going on with the war.” Mr. Littmann began to pace.
“When will he arrive?”
“Next Thursday.” He stopped midstep. “Not even a week! So much to do before then. Who do we have on the schedule?”
Mr. Littmann came to Liddie’s side as she opened the calendar. Together they sorted through the appointments they could reschedule and those they could not, how much time he’d need in the darkroom, what he needed Liddie to complete.
As Mr. Littmann talked, Liddie sensed a thread of insecurity in his desire to show his widely traveled friend that he’d built a thriving photography business. She found insecurity in such an accomplished man charming.
Mr. Littmann worked into the night printing pictures that Liddie then framed to display in the studio window. At his direction, she removed most of the family portraits and replaced them with his experimental pictures, including the ones of everyday life that had first attracted her to his window. She also included a few character portraits Littmann had taken of local businessmen. Playing off the popularity of the portraits of women in their best dresses, he’d begun photographing businessmen, incorporating props such as canes, books, hats, overcoats—signature pieces that marked the man as someone of prestige, authority. Ben Caither was the first; other businessmen followed.
“Come with me to meet Jon,” Mr. Littmann said after they’d rearranged the photos for the third time.
“Come with you?”
“Yes. I know you’ll like him.”
“Won’t I be in the way? The two of you will want to catch up. Besides, I work at Mrs. Tinker’s that day.”
“This is important, Liddie.” He moved one of the photos an inch to the left.
Liddie was torn. She didn’t want to disappoint him, but her obligations to Mrs. Tinker were equally important, especially since the debacle with Mrs. Driver’s dress—a defeat she’d never shared with Mr. Littmann.
“I’d like you with me, Liddie. Shall I make the request formal?” He drew himself upright, brought his heels together with a click, took her hand, and bowed. “Will you do me the honor?”
She had settled comfortably into her role at the studio. With this invitation, was he expecting her to step beyond her traditional role? She must have been silent for some time because he spoke again.
“If you don’t wish to go . . .”
“No. I do. Wish to go. I’ll talk to Mrs. Tinker.”
As they waited at the depot, Liddie considered how lucky she was that Mrs. Tinker was flexible. Granted, July was not the busiest time of the year for the sewing business, but had she asked for time off from the studio, she doubted Mr. Littmann would have agreed so readily. Liddie had promised to complete the highest priority tasks on Sunday, not because Mrs. Tinker asked, but because she felt obligated.
The closer the train’s arrival time drew, the more she noticed Mr. Littmann fidget. He straightened his tie, brushed at an imagined spot on his suit, ran his hand along his chin. Liddie was relieved for him when the train finally rolled into the station. As passengers stepped down onto the platform, she guessed immediately which one was Mr. Littmann’s friend.
Jonathan Grey was a man you noticed. Even though he’d been traveling, he looked as refreshed as if he’d awakened in his own bed that morning. A dark felt fedora set at a jaunty angle partially hid wide-set eyes. His suit appeared to Liddie to be tailor-made, probably in Europe. She hadn’t seen anything of that cut in any magazine. At the sight of Mr. Littmann, his eyes lit up.
“Jon! How are you?” Mr. Littmann shook his friend’s hand.
“Never better, Tom.” Mr. Grey grinned as he held Mr. Littmann at arm’s length. “Seeing you makes the day a success!” He turned to Liddie. “And this lovely lady. You had not told me about a friend.”
“Jonathan Grey, I am pleased to introduce Miss Liddie Treadway.” He cupped a hand under Liddie’s elbow, drawing her closer. “Miss Treadway is my assistant in the studio. You may want to be on your best behavior. I am letting her have the final say on you.”
“Mr. Grey.” Liddie smiled, relaxing at her introduction as Mr. Littmann’s assistant. “It is a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine.” He took her hand and kissed it as he bowed. “Please call me Jon.”
Liddie had never, ever had a man kiss her hand. She was enchanted.
“I’ve never had such a lovely chaperone, Tom,” he said. “Well done.”
Mr. Littmann nodded. “Shall we get your luggage?”
After Mr. Grey retrieved his bag, they headed for the Decker House. From the moment they sat in the lobby, the two men fell into a conversational rhythm, finishing each other’s sentences and making vague references to past events the other remembered exactly; it reminded Liddie of the way she used to talk with Amelia. Watching the two men banter, she could not imagine why Mr. Littmann had been so anxious.
Mr. Littmann peppered Mr. Grey with questions about his travels. Liddie had imagined she might learn more about her employer from this conversation, but each time Mr. Grey asked about life in Iowa, Mr. Littmann deflected the inquiry with a question of his own.
At first, Liddie was comfortable sitting on the edge of the conversation. She had traveled so little, seen so little, done so little. Better to say nothing. But the longer she sat in silence, the more she wondered why Mr. Littmann had insisted she come along.
“In spite of the war, Montmartre teems with creativity,” Mr. Grey said. “Charles took me to meet several of his friends—painters, musicians, actors. When you get to Paris, you must go there. Best to wait until after the war is over, though. Nasty business, that.”
“Charles?” Mr. Littmann leaned in, arching an eyebrow.
“Charles Vildrac. A poet. Fascinating fellow. You’d find him”—Mr. Grey hesitated—“likeable, Tom.” He sat back, hands clasped, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “One night he asked me, ‘Would you perceive that you are very happy if you had been happy longer than an hour?’”
Mr. Littmann considered the question. “What a thought.”
Mr. Grey nodded. “Whatever he says sounds like poetry.”
“It sounds sad!” Liddie interjected.
Mr. Grey turned to her with an amused smile. “I wasn’t sure you could speak.”
“There did not seem to be a particular need,” Liddie responded archly.
“Touché.” He saluted her. “Quiet but spunky. I can see why you like her,” he said to Mr. Littmann. He shifted his attention back to Liddie. “So you think the idea is sad?”
“Why, yes. Can we not expect real happiness for longer than an hour? I certainly hope to look at my life and see I’ve had more than that.”
“Charles’s words made me consider what constitutes happiness. How ma
ny ever really experience it?”
“I imagine you must experience a great deal of happiness,” Liddie said. “Traveling, meeting such interesting people. It sounds exciting to me.”
“Exciting, no doubt. Happy? I venture they’re not the same. Charles had a huge painting hanging in his apartment, all done with small dots of paint. Our conversation reminds me of it. Georges Seurat painted it—a crowd of people at a park. You’d think they were happy, but were they?” Mr. Grey rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a sketch. “This is a poor representation of that magnificent painting. Look at it and tell me what you see.”
Liddie searched the scene. A man reclined on the grass. A couple held a monkey on a leash. Ladies, men, children. Sitting, standing, prim, stiff. No one was looking at or talking to anyone else.
“So many people,” Liddie said at last. “Yet each looks alone.”
“Exactly so. Does happiness depend on whom you’re with?”
“What you’re doing? Where you are?” Liddie continued the thought. She found herself enjoying the conversation. It reminded her of the relaxed way she could talk with Joe.
Yet she was suddenly aware that Mr. Littmann had remained silent throughout this exchange, staring out the window.
Mr. Grey tapped him on the sleeve. “What do you say, Tom? How do you define happiness?”
Drawn back into the conversation, Mr. Littmann bathed them in a smile. “Happiness? Happiness is being with the two of you! My oldest friend who knows me better than anyone and . . .” He laughed. “My newest friend, who may never want to know all that you do, Jon.”
Liddie and Mr. Grey laughed, too, though she thought Mr. Littmann’s laugh sounded forced.
“Now, Jon.” Mr. Littmann abruptly switched the topic. “What do you hear of the war? We’ve seen some effect here. Chemicals for the darkroom aren’t readily available anymore, and the cost of what we can get has gone sky-high. The paper here does a weekly column about the war, although I expect the coverage is woefully inadequate compared to what one would read in larger cities.”
“They’re using poison gas—both sides—no one is safe. Injuries and deaths number in the tens of thousands.” Mr. Grey’s voice deepened as he spoke, carrying the weight of the carnage he had seen firsthand. “It’s a bad business. So many are disfigured. It’s brutal.”
“They say it’ll be over soon,” Liddie said.
“We can only hope. I thought to go to England after leaving France, but when Wilson declared the United States will remain neutral, it seemed that America was the better choice.”
“It is sad,” Liddie murmured. “We are right to stay out of it.”
“You think we’re ‘out of it’?” Mr. Littmann scoffed. “Hardly. In a war, there’s money to be made. My guess is there are plenty here with their hands in the pot. Why else have our chemical prices gone up?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.
“Have any of the men here—Germans, Italians, Brits—gone over?” Mr. Grey asked.
“Mrs. Tinker says there’s talk,” Liddie said, remembering that Mrs. Ellers had said Harley might go. Though she knew he was at college, she looked around when she thought of him, half expecting to see him at the desk pretending to check someone into the hotel while he spied on her. “Have you heard of anyone?” she asked Mr. Littmann.
“I’ve thought of it myself,” he responded.
“Going to fight?” Liddie recoiled in shock.
“To be a war photographer.”
“Did you not hear me?” Mr. Grey asked. “It’s not safe. For anyone.”
“Think of it, Jon. Being in the thick of it all. Shooting images that make a difference. Not one more farmer and his brood.”
Mr. Grey looked at Liddie with alarm. “How long has he had this idea?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“That’s a relief. We will change his mind.” Mr. Grey laid a hand on Mr. Littmann’s arm. “Look here, man. I came here to have fun, not dwell on the unpleasant. I’m eager to see your studio.”
“Reminiscent of Mary Cassatt’s paintings of mothers and babies,” Mr. Grey mused as he stood on the sidewalk looking at one of the photos in the studio window. His arms were folded; one hand cupped his chin. “Don’t you think so?”
Mr. Littmann cocked his head as though seeing the print for the first time. “Now that you mention it, there is a similarity. I guess there’s nothing new under the sun.”
“Mary Cassatt?” Liddie asked.
“An American painter in the impressionist style. Quite famous,” Mr. Littmann explained. “Even in Iowa.”
Liddie winced. Would she ever just know these things? Would she ever not feel . . . inferior? Mentally, Liddie added “Cassatt” to the list she kept in the studio desk drawer, a list she started because Mr. Littmann continually brought up people she’d never heard of. The library might have something on the painter.
“Not to worry, friend.” Mr. Grey slapped Mr. Littmann on the shoulder. “The arrangements have your special touch. I can see women along Chicago’s Gold Coast lining up to have you make photos like this of them and their young.”
Mr. Littmann shrugged. “It’s been a harder sell here. Though Liddie convinced some of her customers to give it a go.”
“Customers?”
Liddie waited for Mr. Littmann to respond. When he said nothing, she explained her work with Mrs. Tinker.
“I am trying to rescue her from having her back and eyes ruined by sewing,” Mr. Littmann joked. “Turn her talent in a better direction.”
“A good eye can focus in many directions.” Mr. Grey observed, returning none of his friend’s humor. “Tell me about your work as a seamstress, Liddie.”
“I photograph the dresses she designs,” Mr. Littmann interjected. “I have copies in the file. Let’s go inside. I’ll give you a tour of the studio and find those pictures.” He unlocked the door and led them in.
“Mrs. Tinker suggested we create a portfolio of my designs,” Liddie added, feeling the familiar thrill the word engendered.
“Building a portfolio, eh? Well done,” Mr. Grey said.
“Those photographs have led to a few sittings.” Mr. Littmann opened a file and spread out the half-dozen photos. “You know women—whatever one has, another wants,” he quipped.
“Lucky for you, I’d say,” Mr. Grey said. “Lovely dresses, Miss Treadway.” He picked up a photo of an older woman in a black velvet and satin dress. “I daresay I haven’t seen anything more stylish in Paris.”
Liddie blushed.
“It was the devil to photograph. Black on black. Good lord!”
“You were up to the task.” Mr. Grey set the photo back on the desk. “I’d have expected nothing less.”
“Put those away, Liddie, while I show Jonathan the rest of the studio. Then we’ll have dinner.”
While Mr. Littmann showed off his studio, Liddie lingered over the photos that made up her portfolio. It pleased her that Mr. Grey had taken the time to compliment both the dresses and her aspirations as a seamstress. She supposed it was natural that Mr. Littmann cared only for the photographs themselves, though it did rankle that he couldn’t share the limelight—ever.
When they returned, Mr. Grey offered Liddie his arm. “I’ve never been to Iowa. Tell me what there is to see here.”
“There are some caves north of town,” she suggested.
“There are?” Mr. Littmann asked.
“Quite a warren.”
“Sounds like fun,” Mr. Grey said. “Would you be our guide?”
She looked to Mr. Littmann. “If you like, I could make a picnic?”
“Excellent,” Mr. Littmann agreed. “Explore the wilds of Iowa. We’ll take cameras. Make it a photo excursion. Perhaps we’ll see Indians.”
“Might we really?” Mr
. Grey was enthusiastic.
“I was joking,” Mr. Littmann said dryly.
“It’s not likely, but it isn’t impossible, either,” Liddie said. “From time to time, small bands of Indians pass by our farm. You needn’t worry. They’re friendly,” she teased. “Most of the time.”
Mr. Grey laughed. Mr. Littmann didn’t.
Mr. Grey seemed to enjoy the caves thoroughly. He carried a lantern and led the way as they squeezed through narrow passages, ducking fearlessly through archways where they all had to bend low to pass. They marveled at the stalactites dripping from the ceilings.
Liddie lagged behind from time to time, giving the men a chance to talk as she experimented with her camera. When she spotted Mr. Littmann with his arm resting on Mr. Grey’s shoulder as the two men were silhouetted against the light of a cave entrance, she captured the scene.
“I took the perfect picture of the two of you,” Liddie said as she joined them.
“What picture?” Mr. Littmann asked, his tone sharp.
“Just now. You with your arm on Mr. Grey’s shoulder. You were in profile against the light.”
He frowned. “You should have asked.”
Bewildered by his sudden turn of mood, Liddie fumbled to explain. “It’s creative. I thought you’d like a picture. You and Mr. Grey.”
“I hope you’ll make a print for me,” Mr. Grey said. “I’d enjoy a remembrance of my time in Iowa.”
His relaxed tone seemed to mollify Mr. Littmann. “Very well,” he said. “Do you suppose you can find our way out of here, Jon?”
Mr. Littmann was silent through the rest of the trek, and he emerged from the last underground passage with undeniable relief at their return to the late-afternoon light.
They spread a blanket on a hillside to watch the sunset. As a brilliant red sun streaked the sky with pewter, pink, and charcoal, Liddie commented, “We’ll be having good weather.”
“How do you know?” Mr. Grey asked.
“The red sun signals good weather. It’s a sign that farmers know,” Liddie explained.
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