Maybe he shouldn’t interfere. Well, he wasn’t. He was simply being helpful. He’d be grateful if someone did the same for one of his children.
He could tell Selma about it and let her convey the message. But that was cowardly, using another child that way. No, he’d be a man about it. He’d be one colleague letting another know of an opportunity. That’s all it was. He was certain.
He needed a break himself. He’d make a run to visit his sister Luise and her husband, Augie Staak, and his niece and nephew, near Cochrane, Wisconsin. It had been a while since he’d driven to their farm. She’d been the only one of his sisters to follow him to America and remain; another had come, married, and returned to Germany. He felt a special affinity for Luise. Like him, she’d endured great tragedy, when her first husband and two sons died of typhoid. Her oldest son had been the same age as Donald when he’d died, but her youngest, just a baby. And a husband. She’d come from Buffalo, New York, to visit him shortly after their deaths, and she’d met August Staak. She returned a year later to marry the farmer in 1900. They lived only fifteen or so miles away across the Mississippi.
He got out his map, unfolded it onto his desk. Voe came by. “Taking a trip, Mr. B.?” she asked as she leaned over his shoulder.
“No. Yes. To visit my sister,” he said. “Taking Russell.”
His eye fell on Eau Claire. It wasn’t that far from Cochrane. Maybe what, fifty miles? Just a good day’s jaunt. They could spend the night if things got late. Russell liked photography, and he could bring the camera along. Yes, that’s what he’d do. Then he’d find the Everson Studio and let Jessie know in person about the job opening. It was the least he could do. He refolded the map perfectly, the creases lining up as they were meant to.
Jessie decided that missteps were fodder for better decisions. The one successful thing she’d done since returning to Eau Claire was to order the Republican-Herald. She read it diligently whenever it arrived.
She’d been remiss in not knowing more about the economics of a community. Since her failed visits with the bankers, she’d read with interest about the nature of work and banks and financial affairs. She rehearsed all the things she might have told the bankers to assuage their worries. If only she could have used their terms as well.
“The city has done well to overcome the closing of the lumber mills,” Jessie should have said. She might have flattered and cajoled: “The Business Men’s Association can take credit for their far-reaching thinking in preparing for their demise and working toward new industry in the region.”
But she hadn’t, because she didn’t know about it, didn’t know what to say when bank president Charles Horton asked her what assessment of the current business climate in Winona would warrant her belief that she could open and operate a successful studio. She supposed she should feel gratified that she’d finagled an appointment with the president and not just the chief cashier, but it did her little good. She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t prepared for the consequences of getting to meet that president, who knew nothing of her or her family and who was accustomed to loaning to his friends and acquaintances. Well, why not? Everyone wants to do business with those they trust. She had to find a way to become more than just another woman; rather, a woman with a good business sense, with whom a banker had knowledge.
It was just like the sporting dance escapade; she hadn’t thought things through.
Sometimes she wondered if people ever learned from their mistakes. Maybe every trail wove through ravines and blackberry bushes, leaving a traveler torn and tired before arriving at the end. She was naive in thinking that if she just learned from her mistakes, she’d never be poked by brambles again.
Since returning to Eau Claire, she’d educated herself, insisting she have a few hours off on Saturday afternoons to go to the library. And she’d worked hard, printing and tinting photographs to place in her portfolio, convinced that she could manage a studio alone.
Mrs. Everson was not much involved in the business, so when Mr. Everson was improved, it was he who asked Jessie to consider staying on. She thanked him for his confidence but said she had other plans. She wasn’t going to ask Mr. Everson for a recommendation either, fearing that once again a man’s point of view might well be a mark against her rather than one in her favor.
At least she trusted that Fred had given George Haas a genuine “glowing recommendation,” as he’d said. They’d so easily started talking about photography as they drove to Polonia that day. But it still annoyed her how the men had carried on in her presence. And then Fred had written to her apologizing. She didn’t want to write back. Or rather, she did want to, but she didn’t trust herself with the task. She’d begun to wonder about his having been at the station just when the train came in. Was that a coincidence, a divine gift to see if she could handle temptation? Or might he have waited there every day since he’d written the first time? Goodness, she hoped not. The man had a life to live that must not include her. Still, warmth filled her to think that he might have been waiting, that she’d been on his mind now and then all that time.
An ad in the paper told her of a retouching position at Polonia, and by post, Mr. Haas had agreed to interview her. Her library and newspaper research prepared her for it. When she returned to Winona for the interview, she’d also have time to tell Roy of the advantages of the stammer school. He didn’t seem as excited about the possibility as she thought he would be—or should be—and that surprised her. She hoped to convince her parents of the merit of his going there, if Roy showed some enthusiasm.
She sorted through her clothing, deciding what she truly needed with her this trip. She planned to take the train from Eau Claire to Minneapolis, then transfer to Winona. She would stay a day or two at the most and then return…unless Mr. Haas offered her the job. Then she’d come back, give her notice, pack up her things, and start working on those bankers all over again. This time, she would be prepared.
“That’s just fine,” Mrs. Bauer told Fred. “It will be a nice outing for you and Russell.”
“Yes. Yes, it will. We haven’t done much together, have we, son?”
Russell nodded assent. At thirteen, the boy stood tall and lanky, easily edging out his father’s five feet eight inches. Russell leaned forward as he stood, as though uncertain of his height for one so young. He had the kindest eyes, Fred thought. From the Otis side, warm, but brown instead of his mother’s deep lake blue.
“Winnie and I and Robert will enjoy ourselves here at home. Tell Luise and the children that we’d love to have them visit here. Oh, you don’t think they’ll be offended if we don’t all come?” his wife said. She tugged her apron strings. Then she sighed. “I guess we could all go. It’s not that far.”
“Now, no sense pushing yourself just to see my sister’s family. She’ll understand. They’re busy with planting anyway since the fields are dry enough to be in them. We won’t visit long. Might head on up north a bit. That would be all right, wouldn’t it, Russ? Bring our cameras. We’ll be camera boys.”
“Swell, Dad,” he said. “Me and my pals were going to shoot rabbits up toward cemetery road on Saturday. Maybe we could come back in time for that?”
Swell. The words kids use these days. “I thought we might leave early Friday after school, come home late Saturday night.”
The boy didn’t look too enthused, but then, did thirteen-year-olds ever act like they cared to join their fathers for the day? Fred apprenticed to a carpenter when he was thirteen and rarely saw his father after that. He wasn’t exactly sure what a father did with a boy on his way to becoming a man.
“I guess,” Russell said. He pulled at the striped socks beneath his knickers.
“That’s settled, then. We’ll go off to Cochrane after school and on to wherever after that. Maybe you could pack a supper… Jessie?”
he said. “That way we won’t lose any time. I might even let you drive, Russell. Would you like that?”
Now the boy’s eyes lit up. He stood
straight.
“Out on those country roads, that’s the best place to learn.”
“Or maybe in Aunt Luise’s pasture,” Russell said. “We could spend the whole day doing that.”
Fred nodded and became aware of the stone in his stomach. He thought of how little he wanted to spend the day driving in a pasture.
Fred and Russell arrived in Cochrane too late for pasture driving but with plenty of time for Luise and her family to gather them in like long-lost chicks. “Ah, Fritz,” Luis said, kissing him on both cheeks and teasing Russell about how tall he’d gotten. She wondered aloud if they’d had enough to eat and pulled out apple pie as she talked. Whipping cream came next while Augie spoke of crop prices and their children, Violet and Freddie, his namesake, chattered on the porch. Luise made sandwiches, poured milk, and withdrew pickled watermelon rinds from the cabinet in between stories. Fred had missed this exuberance in a household. Russell seemed to like the attention, as the oldest of the three children present.
Fred slept well and ate an early breakfast fit for an army. The Staaks then headed out to the fields with their team of horses. His sister’s family had been up for hours already. Freddie was only eleven, but he helped milk cows, and Vi and her mother slopped the pigs and gathered eggs, then headed to the large garden. All would be occupied throughout the day.
Russell and Fred drove to the pasture for Russell’s “adventure” and circled around for what seemed to Fred like hours. The sun rose high in the sky. It was time to move on.
“You’ve had plenty of driving, Russell. You really can’t go spinning around in the cow pasture turning up cow pies all day! We’ll have to wash the car as it is before we can go further.”
“You said we could drive all day.” He slammed the door after he threw himself out of the car.
“No, you said you could; I didn’t agree.”
“You never do,” Russell mumbled.
“What? What did you say?”
“I said you never do agree with me. Or with Mama or anyone else. It’s always your way. You act like the only toy in the toy box.” The boy clung to his elbows over his chest, holding himself inside.
“Watch your tongue, young man,” Fred said. “Get in the car. We’ll stop at the pump and wash off some of this mess, then head north.”
“I’ll walk,” Russell said, and he stomped toward the pasture gate.
Fred drove slowly across the gopher mounds and through cow pies, glad that the bull was in a different pasture altogether. Russell opened the gate but kept walking. Swell, Fred thought as he drove through and got out to close the gate himself. At the pump, Fred lifted the handle up and down, filling the bucket. Russell sloshed the water against the car and tires, brushing at them with his hand. Fred thought to correct him. There was a much more systematic way to wash down the car—he’d brought rags—but he kept his tongue as he rubbed the vehicle, then rinsed his arms and shoes at the pump, serenaded by robins and a light breeze and the cooling shade of maples.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Fred said.
“Why do we have to go north?” Russell asked when they finished. “Couldn’t we just go back home and take pictures along the way back?”
“No. We’re going north.”
“Why?”
It was a father’s prerogative to not give reasons or explanations.
Truth Telling
THEY DROVE IN SILENCE, Russell hunched up against the door frame, his lanky legs like big knuckles finding their way inside a too small fist. Fred stopped once or twice, and they both got out to make a photograph of a well-laid-out hay field or to take closeups of the blooms on a chokecherry tree. Fred smiled to find himself making “tramp photographs,” something he’d railed against when Jessie suggested that such shots could be as artistic as studio portraits. His son mellowed as they exchanged ideas about scenes and camera angles, whether there was sufficient light to capture the butterfly on the sumac branch, or if the finch would sit long enough for them to get the camera set the way they wished. It was all in all a good morning as they drove through farming towns like Mondovi before crossing the Chippewa River into Eau Claire proper, four hours from the farm. He knew the address of the Everson Studio because of its listing in his photographic association book and easily found the bustling street of Barstow.
“What are we doing here?” Russell asked, pulling up out of a nap. “Are we taking city photographs?”
“I have a friend here I want to tell about a position in Winona.”
“You couldn’t send him a letter?” Russell said. “Wouldn’t that be more… efficient?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, young man. I wasn’t sure when her work here was finished. And since we were going this way—”
“Her?” Russell asked. He raised an eyebrow just the way his mother did when she questioned his explanations for spending time at his lodge.
“Yes, her. Jessie Gaebele. You remember Miss Gaebele, don’t you?” Russell frowned. “She worked for us, when Robert was a baby.”
“No, that was Selma, her younger sister. Miss Gaebele worked for the studio when I was ill. She ran it with Mrs. Henderson for a time.” Russell said, “We oughta get home.”
“Let’s see if she’s even here,” Fred said, stepping out. “I’ll wait,” Russell said. “I hate listening to old people talk.”
“Watch that tongue, young man,” Fred said, leaning back in across the seat. He wasn’t certain if it was the tone of Russell’s words or his reference to age that annoyed him. “Why? Will you hit me?”
Blood rushed to Fred’s face as he clenched his fists. He had slapped the boy once or twice. But it was rare, much rarer than his tongue-lashing, and he’d felt great guilt for having done both, vowed never to do it again. He took a deep breath. “You won’t rile me today, Russell. We’ve had a nice outing. You took fine pictures, and you got to drive.”
“Now you get what you want, I guess,” Russell said. “To see your friend.”
“You have a visitor,” Hilda Everson told Jessie as she knocked on Jessie’s bedroom door.
“I do?” Jessie tried to think of the people she’d met when she attended the youth group that one time. None of them would visit.
Maybe it was one of the patrons, the woman who sat for her sample.
“Is it Patricia Benson?”
“A gentleman. Mr. Everson might know him, but I don’t.” Jessie stepped out of her room and pulled the door shut behind her, then walked the narrow hallway, following Hilda’s wide swaying hips.
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw Fred silhouetted by the reception room’s back light. She knew him instantly: the cane, hatless. He smoothed his thinning hair back with his hand. “Miss Gaebele,” he said, stepping forward, nodding his head toward her. “I’m so pleased to find you home and not off on a busy outing with your friends.”
“Please, sit,” she said and motioned toward a chair. Hilda Everson did as well, situating herself across from Fred. “Would you care for tea? This is Fred Bauer,” she told Hilda. “I used to work for him at the Bauer Studio in Winona.”
Hilda’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s good,” she said. “So you know of him.”
“Yes. We’re colleagues. About that tea. I’ll go—”
“No, you sit. I get tea. I’m sorry Mr. Everson isn’t here. He would like to talk to a fellow photographer. He gets to do that so rarely.”
I’m a fellow photographer, Jessie thought but did not say. “What brings you—”
“I hope you don’t mind… Russell and I were out for a drive and—”
“Russell’s with you?” She stood and looked out the window. “Well, have him come inside.”
“You might get him to. I couldn’t. Jessie, I don’t have much time. It’s a four-hour drive minimum back home. But I wanted you to know that George Haas is advertising for a retoucher. I thought if you applied he’d likely hire you, and maybe you could convince him of your abilities and he’d reconsider selling the
studio to you.”
“I’m going to ask Russell to come in,” she said. “It’s silly for him to sit out there by himself.” She stepped outside, aware that Fred had risen too, but he remained as she skipped down the steps to Russell.
The boy, slouched in the front seat, looked nearly asleep as she approached. “Russell?” She touched his shoulder lightly. “Do you remember me? I’m Jessie Gaebele.” He startled and sat up, pulled his cap straight on his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. But we’re having iced tea and cookies. Would you be interested?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “I mean, no ma’am, I don’t remember you, but the cookies sound swell.”
“Come along then. Goodness, you’ve grown so much! I remember the day you came to tell us that your father was ill, when we sat on the back porch of the studio, Mrs. Henderson and I, and you’d made your way all by yourself from home. Do you remember that? You were almost as tall as me then, but now you’ve shot right past me.”
“Taller than my dad,” he said. “And most of my chums at school.”
“I hope you’re playing basketball. I see that the banks in Winona are sponsoring teams now, helping out with equipment.”
“Yes ma’am, they are.”
She led him into the reception room as Hilda Everson entered with tall glasses and a plate of cookies. “I get more for such a big one as you,” she told Russell, and she scurried out.
“She’ll bring you pie,” Jessie said. “I’ve had all I can do not to end up as big as a cow with Hilda’s cooking.”
The boy sat down, and Fred sat back too, and then the room stilled with only the sounds of Russell’s chewing cookies. “So did you tell her what you wanted to, Dad?” Russell asked at last.
An Absence So Great: A Novel (Portraits of the Heart) Page 18
