A Flickering Light

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “We have seen this before,” Miss Jones said. “It may be the rhythm that helps him sing those words, though your voice is lovely”—she looked at her notes—“Selma, is it? Yes, well, it may just be the circumstances today.”

  “The complication of the day,” Jessie said. Her mother looked quizzically at her.

  “A banjo was what assisted one young girl,” Miss Jones reported. “She learned to play it, and it helped her speech immensely.”

  “They cost a lot,” Selma said.

  “We can save up for it,” Jessie said. Here was something she could do to partially redeem what she hadn’t done. “That’s what we can all do. Save up our pennies.”

  “I’m not saying it would work in this instance,” Miss Jones said. “Why don’t you wait to see what the doctors advise before you invest in something like that? But it is a possible next step.”

  Jessie looked longingly at the carpetbag that held her shattered camera. It would be a long time before she had another, a long time before she would be on her own, but the delay, the disappointment, was what she should expect. Roy looked over at her and grinned wide, his unwarranted absolution a trigger for her grief.

  She would never tell them. She could never find the courage to say that on that day she had seen Roy awake and begin to wander. A thought had crossed her mind of how she ought to protect him, go get him while everyone else clustered at her grandparents’ buggy and the steps to the basement beckoned a curious child. But it was only a fleeting thought. She told herself he’d waddle toward the family, or someone else would notice he’d awakened. Instead, she followed a butterfly more beautiful than any she’d ever seen. She hoped to capture it and show it to her relatives before they left. The fluttering wings took her moment by moment away from what might have changed everything for Roy, took her deeper into the peonies and roses and her own garden of regret.

  FJ found his strength returning. He looked in the mirror. The dark circles beneath his eyes had faded. Some of the spots had become lighter. He’d taken to walking around the block despite the cold weather. He wasn’t shoveling snow. Russell, the dear boy, had taken care of that. He straightened himself to parade position. He’d put some flesh back on. Selma, their hired girl, cooked well, and her presence had lessened some of Mrs. Bauer’s volatility, or so he’d thought. All in all, he was feeling better. He might even be able to go into the studio in a month or so. Not full-time, but perhaps to assume a few photo sittings.

  He needed to speak with Miss Gaebele anyway about the increased tariffs being charged to ship printed postcards back into the United States. He wondered if he should contract with Kroeger’s Printers in Winona or V. O. Hamman in Minneapolis. He’d like her opinion, though the Germans truly did have the very finest printing equipment in the world. His postcards always returned with the photographs he’d taken looking precise and with the colors he’d ordered tinted to perfection. If the tariffs continued to rise, he’d have to find some other means of producing the cards. Or just let that part of the business go. But it was booming. Everyone seemed to love postcards since the postal service had authorized the divided card. A few words, the address, and the stamp on one side, a piece of art on the other. People liked having cards of themselves, but more and more, there was interest in, well, hometowns, buildings, tramplike street scenes.

  Miss Gaebele would remind him of that. Miss Gaebele had recommended the parade when President Taft came through town. Though FJ was grateful he’d captured a good likeness of the man, unposed scenes bothered him. There was enough unpredictability in his life without adding street scenes. One couldn’t afford to waste the paper, what with increased costs of the emulsions. There was always risk in business, yet one had to keep branching out, trying new things. Balance was what it took to be successful.

  Miss Gaebele once said that a studio either had to be the best at one thing, such as serving their customers, or do the most or be the biggest at something. Anything less would be futile. How she had become so wise at such a young age amazed him. His portraits were the best of any in Winona. Miss Gaebele seemed to think that taking unposed shots, at weddings and such, could be the studio’s mark. That was before she ran the studio on a winter’s day. She might think differently now, working inside in the warmth instead of racing a windstorm for a scenic shot.

  She was someone with whom he could really discuss these business things. He didn’t want to alarm Mrs. Bauer with talk of tariffs or trends. And for months he hadn’t been able to visit his lodge or the YMCA, nor attend chamber of commerce meetings, where he could have conferred with others. If any other photographers were present, though, he didn’t want to have them think he wasn’t on top of things or that his studio was in any way in trouble. Neither did he wish them to think him arrogant, as though he knew too much and didn’t need their advice. Balance, always balance.

  In fact, the studio appeared to be doing well, judging by the ledger accounts Miss Gaebele provided to Mrs. Bauer once a month. Miss Gaebele’s visit, now a few weeks past, had been pleasant. He thought he might invite her to come back and bring the books to discuss them here, with Mrs. Bauer present, of course. He sighed, sat down. Standing took its toll. No, it would be best if he waited until he was feeling better, fully up to going to the studio to assess things. No sense in alarming Mrs. Bauer with talk of rising tariffs. After all, she was getting ready for Winnie’s party now that Selma had returned from her trip to Rochester.

  “Mrs. Bauer wonders if you’d like to hold Robert for a time,” Selma said, interrupting his reverie before the mirror. He shouldn’t have left the door open, though she hadn’t entered, just stood outside holding his son.

  “I’d like that,” he said. He reached for the child, who squirmed out of Selma’s hands. He caught him just as he chose to stand beside her, wobbling, then clinging to Selma’s skirt, then holding himself upright and as stiff as a military pose. “Are you going to walk for us, Robert, before you’re even a year old?” The boy grinned, with drool hanging like a string of melted cheese from his mouth. “Well, good for you.” FJ held his arms out. “Come along.” The boy let loose of Selma, took two steps toward him. FJ bent down and reached out for him and barely caught him as he fell into FJ’s arms.

  He lifted Robert with effort, heard his heart start pounding. He turned to face the mirror with the boy. “There you are! A big boy,” he told him. FJ considered the child. He would be their last. Mrs. Bauer had made that clear. She wanted no part of FJ, not even a gentle touch after he finished reading his evening paper and passed by his wife as she stitched. She had banished him from her bedroom and said she would only enter his to clean it. But with Selma here to work now, she needn’t ever enter at all.

  Robert laughed and pointed. “Baby.” He wiggled to be let down again. FJ complied, bending down to settle the child close to Selma again. As he stood up, he felt his head go light. He was weaker than he’d thought. “Perhaps you can walk him to the nursery,” he said.

  “Oh no, Mr. Bauer. The party is about to start, and Robert will likely put his fist in the cake first thing. I think Mrs. Bauer was hoping you’d look after him, if you could.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said. He reached for the boy’s pudgy hand. “Come, Bob, we’ll sit on the floor together and I’ll show you my army buttons. Your big brother always liked to play with those.”

  “Bob. Bob,” the boy said. He swung around as his father held his hand and nearly lost his balance. FJ settled him on the carpet. He took one last look in the mirror before he sat beside his son. The face he saw now frightened him; it was an old and aging face. He couldn’t see much future there at all.

  Mrs. Bauer wanted the party to be perfect. Several other mothers were bringing their daughters to her home for the first time. She scanned the nursery. Could five little girls and their mothers be comfortable here? She should have held it somewhere else. She thought about asking her older sister, Eva, to host it, but Eva could be so…unpredictable at times. One never kn
ew what mood she’d be in, so it was better to let her be. Eva had a birthday in this same month, and Mrs. Bauer had sent her a lovely card. She’d heard nothing back. Typical. Mrs. Bauer expected a little recognition for making that effort, but it rarely happened from her sister. Sometimes she even forgot she had a sibling.

  This nursery room would be too confining. She wouldn’t be able to stand the noise.

  No. It was settled. The invitational card had been sent.

  Why had she agreed to have this party? She did things she didn’t really want to do because it seemed the right thing to do for her child, but maybe not. She found herself snapping at Winnie, poor soul. She could see the child’s lower lip tremble before Mrs. Bauer even realized she’d raised her voice. Pressure throbbed against her head. She held her palms to her temples.

  Scrapes of Winnie’s chalk grated on her nerves as the child created pictures on her slate. Mr. Bauer just had to buy the dustless chalk introduced at the world’s fair exposition in St. Louis. It was the newest rage. It was nice to have no dust in the nursery, yes, but the noise…she preferred the quiet Binney and Smith product, Crayola crayons, they called them. But their bright yellows, black, and reds filled a page that couldn’t be reused the way the chalkboard could. Paper was expensive, Mr. Bauer told her. Of course, whatever he needed for his studio proved no obstacle. He could get paper shipped in for that at a much greater expense than Winnie’s picture paper. Why, he’d even said he allowed Miss Gaebele to print photos of her liking. She hoped the girl would pay for that. It was only right.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Bauer? I could get you some tea.”

  “What?” Selma. The girl was so soft and secretive. “No. I’m fine. What time did they say they would come?”

  “We told them three o’clock,” Selma said. “From three to five.”

  Two hours! What would she do with them for two hours? “Do we have enough sandwiches made up? I wouldn’t want to run out. Maybe I should fix more.”

  “No. That is, I think the two platters are enough,” Selma said.

  “You never know. You never know.” She clasped her hands, looked at them. They were so red! Was she getting the same sickness her husband had? She caught her image in the mirror as she rushed toward the kitchen. Her face blotched as red as her tongue and felt bumpy as well. She needed to keep busy, that was all, not think of things. Avoid mirrors. She’d be fine.

  “Yes, I’ll fix more sandwiches. Is the knife sharp? I don’t want to pressure the bread.”

  It was a family gathering and nothing more for Jessie’s birthday. No Jerome this time, thank goodness. Uncle August couldn’t make it in either; the roads from Cream were drifted shut. Darkness arrived before people even left their workplaces, so her other grandparents would remain home as well. Jessie would see them Sunday.

  Jessie didn’t expect any presents. They’d all been saving for Roy’s needs. The doctor had told them about a book written by a Dr. Samuel Potter and that Roy likely would be found to have a condition called dyslalia. “It will mean hours each day of retraining Roy,” one of the Mayo brothers had told them.

  When Jessie asked, the Mayo brothers said the banjo was a fine idea, but they warned against anyone who might suggest using “mechanical contrivances and tyrannical practices prescribed by fools.” Jessie fully intended to get Dr. Potter’s book from the library and read more so she could work with Roy.

  Lilly gave Jessie a stitched shirtwaist with a separate ruffle that hung over the bodice. She’d tatted the edges so it looked almost like eyelet, something expensive that the Gaebeles couldn’t afford.

  “It’s beautiful, Lilly. Thank you.”

  “I just appreciate you going with me on the city sleigh ride.”

  “It was fine,” Jessie said.

  “So you’ll do it again?”

  “I might.” She held the blouse up to her bodice, then showed it to her mother, commenting on the tiny stitches. The sleigh ride hadn’t been as much fun as Lilly seemed to think it was. The cold air numbed her mouth and made it hard to talk to people. If she pulled her wool muffler up over her mouth and nose, just under her eyes, the moisture fogged her glasses and made her mouth all wet, so when she lowered the muffler to speak, her lips froze instantly. Jessie was a good sport about it and didn’t complain, not even when the boys got to throwing handfuls of hay at one another over the heads of the girls. Just like boys.

  “I wanted you to see that you can enjoy yourself with young men your own age,” Lilly said.

  “You worry over much, sister,” Jessie said. “I get along fine with young men. Really, I do. I like them in a group like that.”

  “That’s how I like them best too,” Lilly admitted.

  “Open my gift.” Selma handed her a paper envelope that she’d decorated with pictures of birds and lilacs. “To remind you of spring,” she said. “I know you like flowers and everything.”

  “M-m-me t-t-too,” Roy said.

  “You sure do take good care of Mama’s herbs and my lily of the valley,” Jessie told him.

  “No, he means he helped make the envelope, decorating on it when I brought it home.”

  “Thank you. You too, Selma,” Jessie said. She brushed Roy’s hair from his eyes.

  “He needs a haircut, I know,” her mother said. Jessie started to say that she hadn’t meant any fault but realized her mother often chose offense where none was intended.

  “I got the paper from Mrs. Bauer.”

  Jessie felt a little freezing with the mention of Mrs. Bauer.

  “I wrote it myself,” Selma said.

  You are more to me than sister,

  Taking pictures that you love;

  Yet I know no other word to use

  Than Sister, whom I love.

  “It’s really nice, Selma. It really is. I feel the same about you too. And Lilly. And…well, not you, Roy. You’re a boy. But I love you just the same!”

  Roy laughed.

  “I can sing the words,” Selma said. “I thought of music for them.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Jessie told her. She wasn’t anxious to hear about “the pictures you love,” as she wouldn’t be able to take any for some time to come. The ones she’d taken on the train, the Gypsy grandma and baby, the other outdoor pictures of snow—those were all gone too.

  But Selma began, and after the first words they all tried not to look at Roy, who opened his mouth. They hoped he’d sing, smooth as an ice skater on a newly brushed pond. But he didn’t.

  The doctors had told them that no surgery would help Roy speak more smoothly, but they had good news too. With a special kind of person who taught speech, someone Roy would have to visit in Rochester once a month, and with hard practice at home, he might be able to speak on his own with less hesitation. They would take turns working with Roy every day, and Jessie wondered as she watched him dig into her cake if he would tire of the activity or see it as valued attention. She could do it while she remained at home, which would be for quite a while now.

  If he had a banjo to go with the exercises, it might lighten the drudge. Sears, Roebuck and Company catalog listed the Imperial Banjo at twenty-five dollars, but they could buy a cheaper model for seven. Both amounts stretched the family budget. The special language person was the higher priority, but even that expense would have to wait until spring. Jessie hoped the book would give them additional suggestions.

  Her mother brought out her present then. It was a quilt, one she’d been working on for months, maybe even years. “I gave your sister Lilly a quilt on her eighteenth birthday, for her trousseau if she ever uses it, and this is yours. I hope you like it, Jessie.”

  The quilt was pieced with squares of material made up of an anchor print against an indigo blue. The alternating blocks were prints of horse heads on a lighter sky blue. Jessie wasn’t familiar with the quilt pattern.

  “What’s the pattern called, Mama?”

  “Contrary Wife,” her father said. But he had a grin on his face
.

  “It is not,” her mother corrected. “It’s Road to California. I know you like to travel, and these pieces of shirtings were what I had available.”

  Jessie had seen the prints before, worn by Roy and her father. “They do have a transportation theme,” Jessie said. “By land or by sea. All we need is a bicycle or a train.” Jessie laughed as she said it, but her mother’s eyes showed disappointment.

  “I should have thought of that,” her mother said.

  “No, no, it’s wonderful. I love it.” Jessie stood up and hugged her mother with the quilt pressed between them. “It took hours and hours, and the stitching is beautiful. I’m so pleased. I’m just not good with a needle and thread myself.”

  “See to it that you don’t just put it in your trunk and keep it there forever,” her mother said, mollified. “Your sister’s quilt will be gaining moth holes if she doesn’t find herself a beau soon.”

  “Perhaps we’ll always be shop girls,” Jessie teased. “With our mama looking after us.”

  “Hush now,” Jessie’s mother said, but she smiled.

  “I nearly forgot,” her father said then, standing and stepping out onto the porch. He returned with a large box. “Voe brought this by. Or rather Daniel Henderson did. That pair might need one of your wedding quilts before long, Mother,” he added.

  “Daniel does seem sweet on her,” Jessie said.

  “Does he have a brother?” Selma asked.

  Jessie stared at the box. She knew this had to be the surprise that Mr. Bauer had asked Voe and Daniel to pack up. Maybe it was the framed double-exposure portrait. Had it been removed from the window? It had caused such a row with her parents. Why would he do that? Well, he didn’t know. She’d never told him. Her heart started to pound. Her parents would not like a gift coming from Mr. Bauer. It was one thing to drop by on his way home, as he had two years before, but to make a concerted effort to give a gift… She could only hope that he’d put no card inside.