Billie thought back to her last day at school. Frankie had just left the infirmary. He was as thin as a skeleton, and his skin was almost transparent. Yet, his eyes were bright, and his cough had improved. He was sitting in a large folding chair outside. Billie talked with him for only a moment. She couldn’t remember what they said.
“You’ll have to go in my place, Billie,” Rose said. “Your father can’t go, and your grandmother is too feeble. You must go immediately.”
Billie nodded.
Rose looked at the clock. “The evening bus is due in a half hour.” Opening a flour bin, she plunged her arm deep inside and pulled out a roll of dollar bills covered in flour. After dusting off the money, she counted out the fare and handed it to Billie. “Now go pack your things and hurry.”
Moments later, Billie was running down the dirt road, carpetbag in one hand and money in the other. She dashed through town to the gas station on the highway. The men sitting by the building stared at her. Just as they were about to question her, the bus pulled up, and she climbed on board.
She never had a chance to say goodbye to her family that hot afternoon in August, and it was the last time she saw them.
Chapter 4
When Billie arrived back at school that hot summer evening in August, Frankie was perspiring heavily and very weak.
“Frankie?” she murmured, touching his arm. He didn’t open his eyes. “I just came from home. Mama loves you. We all love you.”
There was no response.
“Please get better,” she said as tears ran down her cheeks.
He did not move. He had a rattle in his chest.
Drying her eyes on her sleeve, Billie looked around the infirmary. There were twenty beds filled with sick students. Many of them were coughing; all of them were feverish. Enamelware bowls rested on wire racks for sputum and vomit. Two nuns glided noiselessly around the darkened room, looking like specters tending to the children. After an hour, they insisted Billie go to bed. She went reluctantly. Her sleep was fitful.
In the morning, the sister told her that Frankie coughed up a great deal of blood and died shortly after midnight. It was tuberculosis. Shortly after Frankie died, Billie received word her mother had given birth to a little boy. Try as she might, she could feel no joy.
The disease spread throughout St. Matthew’s Indian School that year with a vengeance. The infirmary became so overcrowded that, eventually, children were sent to Ah-Gwa-Ching Sanatorium in Walker. Each day in morning Mass, they prayed for the eternal salvation of those who had died and for the swift recovery of those who had been stricken with the disease.
The morning bell rang, bringing Billie back to the present. She had dreamt about home all night. She threw back the covers. Her first class was English, and she was happy to get her mind on other things. As usual, Sister Agnes allowed her to read the newspaper for the first ten minutes, and when class was over, Billie asked if she might interview the photographer coming that day to take the all-school picture.
“This is a fine idea, Billie. I’ll make the arrangements but let me look at you.” She took Billie’s chin and looked closely at her face. “Are you ill, child? There are dark rings under your eyes.”
“No, Sister.”
“Are you getting enough rest?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Very well,” she replied reluctantly.
Just after lunch, the student body was instructed to assemble outside in front of the academy. Billie’s class with Mr. Withers had been canceled, and she felt the anxiety drain from her body. For one more day, she was safe.
Sister Agnes was waiting outside. She told Billie the photographer would gladly grant her an interview after the school photographs were complete. Stuffing her pencil and notepad in her pocket, Billie joined the other students on the front step of the school.
“Quiet please, children,” Mother Superior said, raising her arms. “This is Mr. Johannsen. He is here today to take the all-school photograph. Be silent and cooperate with him.”
Billie watched the tiny man with pale skin and curly brown hair dart around the students, taking their arms and pulling them here and there, arranging them just so for the photograph.
Billie was fascinated. The longer she watched Mr. Johannsen, the more engrossed she became. He arranged everyone just like an artist would arrange fruit on a table for a painting.
She thought back to the few tintypes she had seen. The people were always posed in a certain way: some sitting, some standing, and someone was always holding a Bible. She realized now those arrangements were made by the photographer to improve the picture.
But she didn’t like those photographs. People looked so stiff and crabby. And the backgrounds were so artificial.
Why don’t they photograph someone doing something interesting and with a real background? And how nice it would be if they smiled.
“Please, step back here,” Mr. Johannsen said, waking Billie from her reverie. He moved her to the back of the group with the boys because she was tall. Ordinarily, this would have mortified Billie but not today. She had other things to think about.
She looked at Sister Agnes and Mother Margaret. They were standing under a shade tree talking. What if someone photographed them without their knowledge? Would that be wrong? Billie’s mind started racing with hundreds of questions and possibilities.
“Now stay very still, children, and look this way,” Mr. Johannsen said.
Billie turned her attention to the camera. It was a black box with stiff accordion pleats and a round lens on the end. It rested on a tripod.
Could he pick up the camera and walk around taking photographs? What did the world look like through that lens?
At last, Mr. Johannsen was finished, and everyone filed back into school. Billie took out her pencil and pad, walked up to him, and waited quietly. She watched him pack up. More than anything, she wanted to examine that camera, hold it and look through it. How wonderful it would be to take a photograph!
“Are you the girl who wants to interview me for the school newspaper?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have only five minutes,” he said, collapsing his camera and folding his tripod.
Billie asked him questions that would interest the students, and just like that, it was over. But something happened to Billie. Something profound. She felt different, changed, and very excited. It was almost as if a tiny flame started flickering inside her, and she knew, if she fueled it, it could ignite into a blaze.
* * *
The next day, Billie had her mathematics class with Mr. Withers. It was the first time since Miriam had told her about the attic room, and she had a sick feeling when she took her seat. Miriam was sitting stiffly at her desk with her eyes lowered.
The boys were loud and boisterous as usual, punching each other and laughing, until Mr. Wither’s walked into the room. Then everyone took their seats, eyes up front.
Billie looked at Mr. Withers. In the past, she had seen him as just another teacher, someone to respect and obey, but now she looked at him differently. She wanted to see what a monster looked like.
He was tall and extremely thin and had a prissy look about him. Billie guessed he was thirty years of age. He wore his thin sandy brown hair parted exactly in the middle and slicked back, revealing a forehead clustered with pimples. The boys called him “The Sugar Bowl” because his ears stuck out, and he wore round spectacles on the end of his nose.
“Open your books to page twenty-two,” he said in his nasal voice.
Billie opened her mathematics book. She must stay on task and not draw attention to herself.
Class went on as usual, but just before the dismissal bell rang, Mr. Withers said, “Before we end for the day, I would like to announce my choice for the new teaching assistant. This capable young person must be responsible, hard-working, and have excellent math skills. They will regularly tutor students and correct papers for me. Sometimes, these duties will be performe
d after school hours and on weekends.”
Billie’s heart jumped into her throat. That must be when he took girls to the attic room. It was under the pretense of correcting papers. She hadn’t realized it until now.
Suddenly, she looked at Miriam with horror. She had been Mr. Wither’s teaching assistant last year.
Billie’s mouth went dry, and she took quick, little breaths, staring down at her desk, waiting to hear her name.
Mr. Wither’s raised his chin and, with a smile, announced proudly, “I have named Ivy Brubaker as my new assistant this year.”
Billie’s jaw dropped, and she looked at Ivy. Her tiny friend with short black hair and glasses sat rigidly, hands folded in front of her.
“Class dismissed,” Withers said.
As they were leaving, Billie heard him say, “Miss Brubaker, a word please.”
* * *
Nothing was said about Mr. Withers again or his choice for a teaching assistant. Out of respect for Ivy, the girls kept quiet. There would be no gossip, no speculation, and above all no flippancy.
All through the winter, Billie watched Ivy pick up her books and go to the attic room whenever she was summoned by Withers. Over time, she began to change. She had never been a gregarious girl, but now she spoke even less and walked with her eyes down. The nuns chastised her for her failing hygiene. She neglected washing her hair, and her uniform was often dirty and smelled foul. By spring, Ivy was pale and thin to the point of emaciation. Billie was worried.
Ivy did not remain at the school over the summer months. The nuns put her in the “outing” program where students worked on farms. They thought fresh air and sunshine would help so, like Billie, she would be a hired girl somewhere until school resumed in the fall.
Mr. Withers would name a new teaching assistant at that time, and the grueling ordeal for Ivy would be over. But who would be next? Billie refused to think about it. She instead turned her attention to her own summer. She would be returning to the Hofmann farm for a third year, a place where she always felt safe and loved.
* * *
Billie stepped off the wagon and took a deep breath of fresh, country air. It was good to be here again. “Happy to be back?” Mr. Hofmann asked in German as he climbed down from the driver’s seat.
“Ja, bin ich,” Billie replied.
In spite of being in Minnesota for forty years, Oscar and Lena Hofmann still spoke German. After two summers with the couple, Billie became fluent in the language.
“The Missus is inside waiting for you,” the stout, bald farmer said, picking up her bag.
As she followed him, Billie realized she had grown taller than Mr. Hofmann.
She ran her eyes over the bucolic landscape. The Hofmann farm overlooked Whitetail Creek, a lazy, meandering waterway that traveled through Morrison County. The white wood frame farmhouse was neat and trim with a front porch on one side and a bay window on the other. The yard was filled with oaks, maples, and birch trees right down to the creek. In the back of the house was a barn, two silos, and a pen, as well as acres of corn, alfalfa, and oats.
The couple employed several boys to help milk, tend the livestock, and work the fields. Billie helped Mrs. Hofmann with household duties.
“My sweetheart!” Mrs. Hofmann exclaimed, stepping out onto the porch and grabbing her.
Billie felt as if she was being hugged by a big, warm pillow.
“We missed our girl,” the woman said, squeezing her.
Lena Hofmann was a tall, raw-boned woman, who towered over her husband. She was always in a voluminous housedress, wearing a clean apron, and her white hair was always tied in a bun. “So glad you are back. Now, let me look at you.” She turned Billie around. “Oh, you get lovelier every year.”
Billie felt herself blush.
“Now go upstairs and wash. When you return, we’ll have strawberry pie and coffee.”
Billie climbed the tiny staircase off the kitchen up to the hired girl’s room. It was a small, cozy chamber with faded floral wallpaper, a white chenille bedspread, and eyelet window curtains. A vase of yellow daisies was on the dresser next to a brass alarm clock. Billie smiled. Nothing had changed.
She put her clothes away, washed up in the basin by the bed, combed her hair, and returned downstairs.
“Now tell us about school,” Mrs. Hofmann said, sliding pieces of pie onto plates.
Ordinarily quiet and reserved, Billie had no problem opening up with the Hofmanns. She babbled about the school year, her friends, and her favorite classes.
They, in turn, told her about the three new calves and that they had hired a new boy for the summer. “We just can’t do it like we used to,” Mr. Hofmann said.
“That’s why you have me,” Billie said proudly, and she stood up, cleared the dishes, and began pumping water into the sink. It all came back to her─ where the dishes were kept, how things should be arranged in the icebox, and the workings of the old stove.
“How are your parents?” Mrs. Hofmann asked, brushing crumbs into her hand.
The smile faded from Billie’s face. “I don’t know. They used to have neighbors write letters, but this year, there is nothing. The school won’t let me go home, so I don’t know how they are. At least the nuns let me come here.”
“You still want to be a newspaper reporter, little one?” Mr. Hofmann asked, sipping his coffee.
“Not anymore. Now, I want to be a photographer. I interviewed one at school last fall, and I have been reading about it ever since.”
“You don’t want a husband and babies?”
“Maybe someday,” Billie replied.
“Children are the best thing in the world,” Mrs. Hofmann said, looking at her husband. Their son had died in a farming accident, and their daughter had married and moved to South Dakota.
The next morning, Billie started her domestic duties once more. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was ironing, Wednesday through Friday cleaning and baking, Saturday shopping with evening baths, and church on Sunday.
She loved working alongside Mrs. Hofmann. She was never cross or demanding, but Billie noticed every summer, Mrs. Hofmann did a little less. Her rheumatism was growing worse.
“I’ll collect the eggs today,” Billie announced one morning. She wanted the fresh air.
“Gut,” Mrs. Hofmann said, looking out the kitchen window. “Mr. Peterson is coming now with ice.”
Billie took a basket and started across the yard toward the coops. Already, the sun was starting to bake the earth. She walked along humming a tune, and when she went around the corner, she saw the three hired boys repairing a shed. They were in overalls and wearing sweat-stained flat caps.
“Well, if it isn’t Wilhelmina Bassett!” one of them exclaimed.
Billie was stunned. It was Johnnie Kelly, the boy from school all the girls adored. He was fourteen, had broad shoulders, short dark hair, and a white smile that he flashed at her.
She tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“Cat got your tongue?” he teased.
“Look at that mouth hanging open,” one of the other boys added. “A cat could get her tongue.” It was Alvin Blackfoot, a short, stocky hand with a pug nose and curly hair. He had been coming to the Hofmann farm every summer for years.
Billie found her voice. “How about you shut your own mouth, Alvin.”
The boys laughed, and Billie smiled. “You work here now?” she asked Johnnie.
“I do, and I like it.”
“Hello, Buzz,” she said to the third boy.
Buzz Turpin was a quiet boy with a slight build and blind in one eye. He had spent three summers working at the farm, just like Billie. All of them were students from St. Matthew’s. “Hi, Billie,” he mumbled.
“You’ve been here a week,” Alvin stated, “and this the first we’ve seen of ya. Whatcha been doin’?”
Billie shrugged. “Nothing,” she replied, struggling to think of something to say. “Working, I guess.”
They gawked at her.
“Well, I have to get those eggs now. See ya,” she said.
“See ya.”
As she walked away, she heard Johnnie say, “Billie Bassett sure has grown up this past year.”
* * *
Two Saturdays a month, the Hofmanns went to Little Falls for supplies. Billie always rode along to help Lena with shopping. The town was the community hub and always busy. Many residents had motorcars, but the older farmers still came in wagons. Oscar, Lena, and Billie came in a wagon.
It was not a large town, three blocks in all, consisting of a mercantile, a bank, feed store, creamery, grocery, and of course, a brand new movie theater. Billie liked walking and looking in the store windows in the cool shade of the awnings that lined the street.
After the shopping was complete, Mrs. Hofmann always had a cup of coffee at the hotel café with her friend, Alma Torgersen. During that hour, Billie would go to the library. The library was the only brick building in all of Little Falls. It was an exquisite Carnegie structure with tall windows, rich wood trim, and highly polished hardwood floors. But Billie didn’t notice. She only had eyes for the books.
She would take down large, beautiful volumes on photography and sit at a long, wooden table, turning the pages as if they were sacred texts. And then when the hour was up, she would put the books back carefully and return to the hotel café.
“Here,” Mrs. Hofmann said one Saturday afternoon, opening her purse. She was about to go into the café to meet Alma. She handed Billie a card. “Tell Edith Washington that you have my permission to use this.”
Billie’s heart jumped. It was a library card. “Thank you,” she said, taking it with reverence, and she raced down the street.
At the library, she carefully went through the card catalog and chose her books. One was on the photography of Mathew Brady, another was about the life of Alfred Stieglitz, and the last was an instructional manual on how to use cameras.
She waited at the check-out desk a long time as the librarian helped everyone else first. When the other patrons were gone, she pulled Billie’s books over with a raised eyebrow.
Billie handed her the library card.
The Image Seeker Page 3
