An Absence So Great: A Novel (Portraits of the Heart)

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  She’d asked and been forgiven for those misdeeds, but she resisted finding solace in the pardon. While Virginia met with Fred, Jessie stayed behind, uncertain of her strength to take the right next path. She’d been absent from her own truths, and that’s what kept her separated from her soul. Unless she saw self-pity and envy and despair as acts of willfulness, she’d always feel set apart, never have the Guide she sought to direct her between needed acts of grace.

  Separation didn’t always tear a heart; sometimes the division made love larger, brighter, more colorful. Her brother’s stammering might be with him always, but he’d found joy in music. A marriage had fractured, but she hoped the couple had found a way to serve their children. Fred’s child, Donald, was gone forever, yet his family believed one day they’d meet again. Those were tragic trials. But from them maybe Roy and Fred and Mrs. Bauer could find ways to stitch new fabrics from their threads of separation; maybe even Jessie could.

  Without knowing why or how, her spirit filled up that day as hawks soared below her and she watched the steamboat on the river. The future, though uncertain, didn’t have to weigh her down; it offered possibilities, like the clouds over the flax fields promising a glorious picture if she took the time to notice.

  Jessie sauntered back down the bluff, pondering the words “prone to wander… prone to leave the God I love,” not as a pronouncement of her guilt, but of the hopefulness that she had found a way to wander back.

  On Friday morning, Jessie photographed the Adams family, scheduled clients. They were a Negro family who attended the Baptist church in town. Pleasant people. She’d gone to their home, posed them outside, sitting in rocking chairs behind a bench, with the men standing. They wanted a casual look, though the men wore suits and vests and the grandmother a fine hat.

  Later, Jessie took her rugs out and beat at them, hoping the exercise would help push thoughts of Fred from her mind. She considered walking to the bluffs again, but her legs ached from the walk to the Adamses’ home, and her stomach hurt. She felt tired and cranky. In the mirror she noticed her face had a blemish. She’d get alum from Virginia’s kitchen cabinet and put a paste of it on her chin. Selma often fretted when she had a blemish before she’d be seeing Art.

  At least I don’t have to worry about a beau seeing me like this. It was what she was thinking, standing in the kitchen, when she heard the bell ring in the reception room and heard Virginia calling out, “Hello. I’m back.”

  “You’re early,” Jessie said as she stepped into the reception room, tapping the alum paste to her chin. Then she stared into the startled face of Fred.

  Canoeists on Lake Winona

  Spring 1913

  Hope

  I took this photograph in the spring of 1913, when I was the proprietor of the Polonia. By accident, I brought it with me to North Dakota. Before I left Winona in my hurry, I’d slipped it inside my Bible, and it remained there, tucked in the back, letting itself be found one afternoon when I sat on the hills above the Missouri. My discovery was perfectly timed, really, for it happened on a day when I’d admitted my self-pity and despair and for the first time began to taste the fruits of truthful confession.

  This photograph represents joy for me. First, it captures the essence of Winona, with Sugar Loaf in the distance, and Bluffside Park. Second, it brings back pleasant memories, for on the morning when I first met Fred, I’d hoped to photograph fires licking up the sides of those bluffs, flames to be put out by snow aspart of a spring ritual. Burning the old to make room for the new. One needs those actions in order for joy to rise to the surface. The grasses at the lake’s edge attract the trumpeter swans in the autumn, and in spring, summer, and fall, the canoeists slip their crafts into the waters, guided by slender oars.

  I don’t know who the people in the photograph are. It never mattered. I imagined for a time that one day I’d be in a canoe with someone I cared deeply for, my parasol shading my face from the hot sun, a young man with his straw boater ready to row me out into the middle, where we’d share secrets without fear of being overheard.

  The photograph also symbolizes my wish to make images of people in unposed shots in nature. I want to capture moments in time when subjects aren’t always aware that they’re being photographed, when one has to adapt for clouds that filter sun or cause unwelcome shadows. But that’s what life is like, I’ve found. It isn’t the perfect pose that matters at all, but rather how one adapts to the setting and circumstances over which one has no control. It will be a lesson I’ll need to keep relearning, for what do we control? Our attitudes, and the choices we make.

  The composition turned out well. The lower right has a focal point—the canoeists—and, opposing it in the upper left, a second interest point-Sugar Loaf. The eye needs interest points to know where to focus, and a good photographer provides them. Only after the image holds the gaze for a moment or two will a viewer allow the detail to fill in the space between the picture’s interest points. The precision of the grasses, the point of the parasol, even the farm buildings against the far shore are precious details one notices with extended viewing.

  There is a flaw in the photograph. Nothing is perfect. The young man looked up at me as I was taking the shot. I regret that. I wanted him to keep looking at his lady friend. An east wind had pushed them toward the shore. You can see by the flags how the wind gusted. Up until then, the young man had been smiling and called out that they were going to beach. She might have surmised that, but with her back to their destination, he prepared her for the jolt. Her eyes focused on where they’d been.

  Shortly after I took this picture, she spoke to him and he laughed, pushed the oar into the soft sand beneath the waters, and moved them out again into the wind. She directed, but it was his effort that took them where they wished to go. She laughed out instructions, and then they were beyond my ears. But together they made the journey work. The picture always leaves me feeling hopeful, and surely that’s a part of joy.

  Worthy of the Wait

  FRED’S WORDS STUMBLED ON HIS TONGUE. “J-Jessie. Miss Gaebele.”

  “You know each other,” Mrs. Butler said as she held the long butterfly hatpin in her hand, then removed her hat. “I thought you might.”

  Jessie hadn’t said a word, just stared, those blue-gray eyes behind her spectacles as wide as robin’s eggs and looking just as fragile.

  He’d come at Mrs. Butler’s suggestion that he ought not spend the weekend alone in Hazelton. He wasn’t really alone. Herman was at the ranch and fully prepared to have him for a week or more. He had photographs to develop. But she’d encouraged his return so they could finalize how the Butler Studio would assist him in the future.

  He declined. He couldn’t really afford the additional train trip, and the roads between Hazelton and Bismarck weren’t always well maintained, so driving was a risk. In addition, he knew that Mrs. Butler was a widow; she’d told him as much. He had no intention of courting anyone, not for a very long time, and only then if he could by miracle find Jessie. Somewhere in the conversation with Mrs. Butler, though, as she chose a glass cutter she’d buy, he revealed to her that he had children but that he was divorced. She didn’t seem offended by his status or threatened by the prospect of traveling with a divorced man. He continued to resist until she spoke more specifically of her assistant, whom up until then he’d assumed to be a man.

  “A young woman, quite skilled,” Mrs. Butler said. “She used to live in Winona, in fact. You might have people you know in common. It will be a pleasant way to spend a weekend.”

  He purposely didn’t ask the young woman’s name. He wanted to imagine that he was traveling to see Jessie. An old man’s dreaming, he thought, quick to rise to steam. Any number of young women had once lived in Winona. Mrs. Butler didn’t say she’d worked in Winona as a photographer’s assistant, only that she’d once lived there.

  Jessie, so far as he knew, lived in Seattle.

  No. The assistant wouldn’t be Jessie, who was a photogra
pher, not an assistant. She would pursue the higher profession. Maybe he’d go to Seattle in the spring. Of course, Jessie might well have chosen other work, moved far away from anything they’d once shared. It had been a year. She could be married to someone else. Should be, he thought.

  But what if the Butler assistant was Jessie?

  And she doesn’t want to see me.

  She had not contacted him or come along with Mrs. Butler. What did that mean? He almost changed his mind again.

  But a weekend with Herman and his wife didn’t appeal either, so he drove Mrs. Butler back in the car Herman kept on the ranch for when Fred visited. He loaded the purchased items into the backseat, and on Friday they headed north on the hard-packed dirt road to Bismarck. He would drive the car back on Monday. Herman had a few ranch supplies he wanted picked up anyway, and they could save the shipping charges. He’d take a room while in Bismarck. Perhaps he’d drive back early.

  Then he walked through the door, carrying the enlarger, puffing a bit. He set it down and turned toward the sound of someone entering the room. He was lucky he didn’t drop it on his foot.

  There she stood. His hope, warm flesh before him. He gasped out her name.

  “Yes, we do. Know each other,” Jessie said. “I… used to work for Mr. Bauer.”

  She looked beautiful, fuller faced perhaps. North Dakota agreed with her. Why wasn’t she in Seattle? Thank goodness she wasn’t in Seattle! He felt an ache in his chest.

  “You never said you worked in Winona, Jessie, only that you lived there for a time.”

  “No… I…” She lowered her eyes, looked at her hands as she clasped and unclasped them in front of her. “Mr. Bauer was my first instructor. Before I went to Milwaukee and Eau Claire.”

  Like afternoon clouds that pass before the sun, he watched awareness cross Mrs. Butler’s face. “Ah… Well… I see.”

  She knows. Will she ask me to leave?

  “This is a small world,” Mrs. Butler continued. “Very small. Yet gracious too.” She motioned for Fred to sit, but he stood, his feet like stone. “I’ll fix us some lemonade,” she said and turned to leave.

  “No, wait,” Fred said.

  He didn’t want to be alone with this answered dream, for fear it might disappear.

  Jessie breathed as hard as when she climbed the bluffs, but in this small studio she lacked the fullness when she arrived on top and could simply stand and swirl. Her mind swirled now. What could this happenstance mean? She had imagined that their paths might cross again one day, had prepared for meeting him on the street, being surprised. She’d looked forward to Virginia’s telling of her trip, to hearing her description of the man who came to sell the Bauer Studio, what she thought of him and if by description she’d know that it was Fred. But she hadn’t prepared to see Fred Bauer standing in front of her now.

  “Yes, please wait, Virginia. I’ll get the tea. Lemonade. Coffee,” Jessie said.

  Virginia smiled at her and patted her shoulder as she walked by. “Why don’t you see if you can get Mr. Bauer to sit,” she told her. “And do so yourself. You both look like you’ve seen ghosts.”

  Fred waited until Jessie sank onto the settee, then joined her on a wingback chair across from her. The two sat in silence until Fred cleared his throat and said, “I’m surprised to see you here.” She laughed. “That’s an understatement,” he said. His face burned red. “I meant, I thought you were in Seattle. That’s what Lilly said.”

  “You talked with Lilly?”

  “She’s had words with me,” he said. “Deserved words. But apparently I’m safe enough to look after Neggie.”

  “You have Neggie?”

  “Your Polonia cat,” Fred said, “takes care of me.”

  “So you’re running my studio. The studio. I didn’t see anything in the paper that—”

  “I am so sorry, Jessie. For everything,” he said then, confusing her. He leaned forward, grabbed her hands.

  “Please, don’t,” she said, the shock of his touch just as it had always been, fierce with piercing ache. “I left you holding the loan,” she said. “That was wrong, but I was so furious with you… men.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” Fred said. “I should have known how you’d see my efforts to support you, and—”

  “I should have told you what I intended to do, not just let the bank call you in and tell you. But I just couldn’t—”

  “Talk about it. I know. That was my fault. It’s all been my fault. Everything.”

  Virginia entered with a tray, and Fred sat back as though stung.

  “Mr. Bauer has decided not to close his studio after all,” Virginia said, setting the tray on the side table. “Did he tell you that?”

  Jessie looked at her, but Fred spoke.

  “Yes. I’ve decided to hire the fine services of the Butler Studio to develop my Hazelton work. That way I won’t get letters as I did from one client, who told me she hoped I could get her the prints before Christmas this year.” He smiled at that. “I do have a problem meeting some commitments,” he said. “She has a home in Hazelton and wanted photographs of her parlor, living room, kitchen, and the like to send to people in Vermont. I failed to meet her deadline.”

  “You took photographs of a parlor?” Jessie asked.

  “A man needs to branch out.” Deep brown eyes stared into hers.

  “Jessie will do a fine job developing prints,” Virginia said. “I find her to be one of the best assistants anyone could have. Her retouching is excellent. But I suppose you already know that.”

  Jessie wished she could make sense of the chaos flooding her. She wished she could go to her cabin and be alone. She wished she and Fred could continue the conversation and at the same time feared where it might lead. She listened for the words of caution, didn’t hear them.

  “I wonder if you’d care to take a walk with me, Mr. Bauer,” Jessie said, standing. “I’d love to show you around Bismarck.”

  Jessie always felt better when she was moving, even if she wasn’t sure what she was moving toward.

  They didn’t talk. Fred allowed her to set the pace both for strolling and for speech. He remembered she liked to walk things out so saw this as a good sign that she had invited him with her while she sorted. He wouldn’t rush this gift. Once out of the business district, she pointed out birds, commented on the raptors swooping in and lifting snakes in their talons. They approached the train depot, and that apparently inspired her to tell him that she’d decided to get off there because of the clouds. “They were magnificent, and I had to take a photograph.” He grinned and squeezed her arm, slipped through his elbow. Just touching her hand felt like golden apples in a silver bowl. “I discovered the bluffs long after, because it didn’t seem to me there were any in this flat land. Then I happened upon them as I headed for the river.”

  “It is possible to stumble onto good things through no effort of our own. Like my finding you here.”

  She didn’t comment.

  He was being too direct. But he didn’t know how much time he had before she bolted or told him to leave, never to see her again.

  “I didn’t realize Hazelton was so near Bismarck,” she said. “Had I known I wouldn’t have stopped here. Or stayed.”

  He swallowed his distress. “I’m glad you didn’t know then.

  Would you like to sit?” They stood in front of the depot, where white benches blistered in the hot sun by day. But now the building with its Spanish facade shaded them. He felt suddenly weak.

  “If we can keep walking, I’ll do better,” Jessie said. “It clears my mind.” But then she looked at him. “Of course. You must be tired after your long drive and all.”

  Why did he have to have a bad heart? What right did he have to pursue this woman twenty-six years his junior? That question should have been asked and answered when his heart condition and he were young. He stopped himself. This encounter was a gift, and he’d cling to it for however long he was allowed.

 
Like two old friends, they gazed out at the grasses. He couldn’t stop himself from hoping, from wishing that despite their ages, despite what had gone on between them, they could build a bridge over the bad times and begin anew. He tapped his cane and sighed. “Jessie, Jessie,” he said. “I cannot reject this gift I’ve received, so I’ll have to take a risk. Mrs. Bauer says I’m known to take such risks with my investments, which don’t always pan out well, but I can’t afford not to take this one.”

  Did she wince at the sound of Mrs. Bauer’s name?

  “I did not expect to find you here, nor did I ever imagine you’d be willing to sit with me if I did. But here we are. I don’t know if you know, but Mrs. Bauer and I have—”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “—divorced.” He turned to face her. “Lilly told you?”

  “No. The paper.”

  Their words crowded each other, but he knew: she had known of the divorce and had not contacted him. She had allowed the separation.

  He was doomed.

  The space between them on the bench comforted. It was a good border, Jessie thought. When he had lifted her gloved hand and pulled it through his elbow, she’d felt the same agonizing ache that had doomed her years before, made her head crazy and her thoughts selfish with desire.

  “Did you know that many people come to North Dakota for a divorce?” Jessie asked. Fred shook his head. “Apparently one doesn’t have to live here very long before approaching a judge. Thirty days. And then soon after, people can marry. Not like in most states, where you have to wait at least a year.”

  “Waiting can be a good thing,” Fred said. “If one uses the time wisely. Our circumstances will not be final until June of next year. Until then, Mrs. Bauer can…change her mind.”