Loving Frank

by Nancy Horan

  She could imagine the look in his eyes as he went through Marshall Field’s, acquiring the furniture and rugs as quickly as he bought prints in Japan. Feverish with the excitement of taking possession of beautiful found objects.

  What she could not imagine was how he had paid for them.

  A light summer rain had begun to fall. She flung open the living room windows to air out the strange smells of the new furnishings. Then she went and telephoned the two churchwomen to cancel the meeting, pleading illness. It was impossible to have them to Taliesin. When she did meet with them, it would be at one of their homes. How could she have country people who lived in tiny farmhouses enter this place now?

  When a rap came on the door, it startled her.

  “Josiah!” she said when she opened it. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. It’s so good to see you. Come in.”

  The young man stepped through the foyer into the living room. “Mrs. Borthwick,” he said, nodding his head.

  “Sit down. I haven’t seen you in a long while.”

  Josiah took his hat off but declined a seat. He was quiet for a moment, looking first at the ceiling, then running his hand along the oiled oak of the living room door frame.

  She smiled. “It looks beautiful, doesn’t it? You men did a fine job.”

  “I reckon we did.” He kneaded his hat in his hands. “Is Mr. Wright around?”

  “No, he’s not. He’s in Chicago until tomorrow. What is it you need? Maybe I can help you.”

  Josiah looked away, and in that moment he spotted the new piano. He let out an admiring whistle. She noticed him sway slightly and could tell that he had been drinking.

  “He owes me money,” he said, “for the bookcases.”

  “The bookcases in my study?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But that was a year ago, Josiah.”

  “Over a year.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, I’m sure, all right. Never paid me a dime.”

  “So you’ve spoken to him about this?”

  “Three times.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Josiah snorted. “The first two times he said he just forgot to pay me. But the last time he said I should feel privileged to work for him. How did he put it?” Josiah squinted and looked across the room. “To add my creativity to Taliesin. He said that should be payment enough. And then”—he began to laugh—“he thanked me for my contribution.”

  Mamah’s stomach throbbed. “I’ll talk to him when he returns. You’ll get your money, Josiah.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  THAT NIGHT SHE WOKE in a panic. She had no idea how much or how little money they had. Frank had said their finances were in good shape since the trip to Japan. She realized now that she did not trust him.

  Months ago she’d set up an account book for him, for the Taliesin studio and the household. She had kept tabs on groceries and studio expenses. But there had been little business coming in, and then they’d gone to Japan for six months. How much had they spent in order to live in Japan, never mind the art and textiles they had bought? She hadn’t any real notion.

  Lying in bed, she tried to calculate their income and expenses, but she could think only of how much everything had cost. She knew there were loan payments to be made to Darwin Martin for Taliesin and a mortgage on the house in Oak Park; college tuition for two of his children, plus everything else that his family needed—shoes, clothes, food, school things, doctor visits. Rent for the office he had taken at Orchestra Hall. Salary for his office manager there and for Emil here, as well as the workmen at Taliesin. She thought of Billy and the others and shuddered at the prospect that there were probably times they had not been paid on time. But would they be here if they hadn’t been paid at all?

  There were also the exhibits Frank participated in, which always cost money to prepare for. That was where dollars were going now, models and drawings for a show of his work at the Art Institute. Beyond that, she suspected he gave money to his mother to live on. And he was talking about buying thirty more acres for Taliesin from Jennie and her husband. Had he done that already? She didn’t know.

  And the things he had done for her, such as pay Ralph Seymour the cost of publishing the first three translations of Ellen’s books—they’d never made money back on those. Plus, he fed her. My God, he had to feed so many people. Animals, too—horses and cows. She didn’t want to count the mouths that depended on him.

  But what was there to count of income? The Littles’ summer house. Sherman Booth’s house. There was the chance of a bank in Madison. That was all, except for the prints. Frank had received a commission from the Spauldings for his work, which he was to split with Shugio. The dollar amounts had kept changing as Frank wired back to the brothers in Boston for more money, and she assumed his commission had gone up as the Spauldings’ investment increased. What had he ended up with? She had been reluctant to ask. There were so many deals she knew nothing about. Meetings happened at his office in Chicago, contacts came and went. She had seen money go in and out of his pockets like a bank teller’s drawer, with no accounting at the end of the day. One time she’d found four-month-old checks crumpled together with dollar bills in his winter coat.

  Mamah looked at the brass alarm clock by her bed. Three o’clock. She got up, threw a shawl over her nightgown, and went to his studio. Frank used a long table with a cloth on top as a desk. Underneath it were boxes full of correspondence and a few files marked with the names of clients and other people to whom he frequently wrote. Darwin Martin had his own box. She read a number of Martin’s letters. In most of them, he was responding to Frank’s request for loans, or to buy prints, or to take prints as collateral on a loan. Mamah was struck by Martin’s capitulation time and again to Frank’s requests, but also by his condescending tone, how free he felt to dispense advice and scold Frank about his personal life.

  For the next three hours, she waded through the boxes, trying to make sense of the contents. For a man who worshipped order, Frank’s papers were in chaos, much like his pants pockets. In one box, wedged between files, were IOUs with dates from five years back, canceled checks, letters from his children and clients, and official-looking loan documents. And bills, bills, bills. Another box contained mostly lumberyard and building supply bills. She divided these into two piles—those paid in full and those partially paid or unpaid. She shivered as she dealt out the bills, watching the unpaid stack grow. Some of them went back to the summer they’d broken ground for Taliesin. Many of them bore handwritten notes begging for payment.

  The angriest letters were posted from towns nearby. They were the oldest bills. Spring Green, Richland Center. There appeared to be a pattern. The more recent bills came from Mineral Point, from Madison. She suspected he was sending his men farther and farther out to buy lumber because he hadn’t paid his suppliers in nearby towns.

  The scale of his debt took her breath away. The thought that she was as culpable as he—occupying this extraordinary house, traveling abroad, living a privileged life while their creditors were stuck holding the bag—made her want to hide in one moment and smash something in the next.

  Frank was excavating a hole they’d never climb out of. What seemed worst of all to her was the fact that so many of the betrayed lenders were his friends. In a file marked SHUGIO, she found a recent letter from the Japanese guide asking for more money, saying, in the kindest terms, that he’d been shortchanged.

  If Frank were in this room, she thought, I would strangle him with my own hands.

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, when Billy showed up, she went out into the driveway.

  “There’s something weighing on me I must talk to you about, Billy.”

  The carpenter, usually unflappable, looked taken aback.

  “You buy supplies all the time for Frank, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I found some bills last night, a lot of them, for lumber and supplies. They appear to be
unpaid. I need you to tell me the truth. Is Frank not paying his bills?”

  He tilted his head to the side, massaged the tough cords that ran up the front of his neck like ropes. “He always pays me on time.”

  “I know you know, Billy. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but it’s too late for that. Just say yes or no. When you go back to buy more, will they give you credit?”

  “I can’t…” He looked up at her. “It’s not my place.”

  That evening she waited. When Frank traveled to Chicago, he left his car at the train station in Spring Green. It would be around seven by the time he drove back to Taliesin from the station. Most Fridays she had dinner in the oven. In winter they sat in their chairs in front of the fireplace and talked about their time apart, what had happened, before they sat down to eat. In summer she had begun to wait out in the tea circle for him to come home. But tonight she would remain inside. She sat on the window seat in the living room and smoked one cigarette after another.

  When Frank walked through the door, he grasped the situation in a glance.

  “I wanted to be here when it arrived,” he said, “but they flatly refused to give me an exact delivery day.” He set down his briefcase and began pacing around, looking at the rolled-up carpets and the piano. He stopped moving and stared at her. He was not accustomed to seeing her smoke. When he approached her to kiss the top of her head, as he always did when he returned, her hand flew up to block him.

  He drew back. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s paid for. All of it.” His face was furrowed. “We’ve been here two years now. Don’t you think it’s time for some rugs?”

  “And a grand piano?”

  “I need a good piano. It helps me work.” Frank looked bewildered. He pointed to the Chinese rug. “I thought you would love it.”

  Mamah got up and went to his studio, returning with a fistful of unpaid bills. She threw them on the floor, then bent down and picked one up. “Why don’t we invite Mr. Howard Fuller in for a party? Let’s ask him if he finds the rug beautiful. After all, you owe him two hundred dollars. I’d say he’s an investor in it.”

  “Mamah—”

  “How could you squander what little goodwill we have among these people? Are you incapable of shame?”

  He turned away. “I’ll talk to you when you’re ready to discuss this calmly.”

  Mamah grabbed his shoulder and swung him around with a force that stunned both of them. “You will talk to me now.” Her voice came through clenched teeth. “You will fix this. Fix this!” She swept her arm around the room. “You will return all this, and you will pay the people you owe money to. And you will ask their forgiveness for your arrogance in not doing it sooner. Starting with Josiah. Do you understand me?”

  He stared at her, his face pinched in disbelief.

  “Do you?” she shouted.

  Frank let out a sigh and put up both palms. “Fine.”

  “Catherine knew what I didn’t know. That you don’t pay people. That’s why she won’t divorce you, isn’t it? She’s afraid, isn’t she, that once you’re free, she won’t get a red cent out of you?”

  His silence made her angrier.

  “How dare you talk about ‘democratic architecture.’ You hypocrite! You have nothing but contempt for the little man and you cheat him whenever you get a chance. I cannot imagine how you could cheat Josiah after all he’s done for us.” She swiped at tears running down her face. “But then I suppose I can. You are a man of such refined sensibilities. You must have your beautiful things.”

  Mamah turned and walked back to the bedroom. She lay down and flung an arm over her face. Sobs welled up in great waves.

  After a while he was standing at the door. “Mame,” he pleaded.

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she cried. “I left my children for a liar.”

  “I don’t know why—”

  “Get out. Go sleep at Jennie’s. I’ll be gone tomorrow morning.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.” She covered her face with her arm again.

  “Please don’t…”

  She would not speak anymore. He could stand there all night, but she would not open her mouth. Finally she heard him shuffle down the hall and go out the door.

  IN THE MORNING, Mamah packed a bag. She would get the key from him for the coach house in Chicago where he slept when he was working there. It struck her that she had nowhere else to go. She hadn’t a single close friend left to whom she could turn.

  When she walked out into the living room, he was standing there, freshly shaved.

  “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “In the car. You can take me to the train.”

  “Are you going into Chicago?”

  “Yes. I need the key to your place.”

  Frank drove toward Spring Green slowly. “If I have not been good at managing money,” he said, “if I have left some fellow holding the bag, it was not out of malice.”

  “Why do you go out and buy things you can’t afford? Because it makes you feel bigger?”

  He shook his head sadly. “For a sense of completeness.”

  “For God’s sake, Frank.”

  “When I find beautiful things, it feels as if they are necessary tools for my life. I can’t bear to have old junk around, disturbing the peace. Better a space be empty. But we have been here two years, and when I saw the chairs and rugs, I had to buy them—for my sanity, Mamah. Can you possibly understand that? It’s part of finishing a piece of art.”

  She stared out the window. “Where did the money come from?”

  Frank exhaled heavily.

  “The truth or nothing.”

  “I owed back rent at Orchestra Hall.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen hundred. They’d been after me, and then, about ten days ago, the sheriff came around and was threatening to…” Frank ran his hand over his mouth. “Well, what do you know, William Spaulding came through the front door of the office at that moment. So John—my son was there—he kept the sheriff busy while I sold William a set of woodblock prints.”

  “How much did he give you for the prints?”

  Frank paused and cleared his throat.

  “You have one chance to tell me the story, Frank, and if you don’t give the whole of it, it’s over with.”

  “Ten thousand. He gave me ten thousand dollars for the prints. They were rare ones.”

  “And then?”

  “I gave the manager at Orchestra Hall fifteen hundred dollars and settled the debt.” Frank paused and adjusted the side mirror. “Then John and I went out. I wanted to pay off some other bills. We poked around Lyon and Healy, just looking. And before I knew it, I had bought the pianos.”

  “There was more than one piano?”

  His voice cracked. “I bought three. Two had to be ordered.”

  “Three grand pianos.” She felt a chilling urge to laugh. “Did you spend the rest of the money at Marshall Field’s?”

  “Yes.” He was quiet for a while. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you. There’s going to be big money coming in soon. I’m going to be doing a huge hurry-up job in Chicago. It’s an enormous concert garden, like the beer gardens we saw in Berlin. But much bigger. Midway Gardens. I’ve started on it already.”

  “Have you been paid for it?”

  “No, not yet.”

  Mamah stared out the car window.

  “I know,” he said, “it’s madness.” He shook his head. “You can’t imagine. I hold off, and then this pent-up desire to buy things comes on. I don’t expect you to understand it, but it all springs from the same place—the good and the bad. This impulse to arrange things in space, to make harmony out of the right objects in relation to each other. What can I say? It’s an insatiable—”

  “Affliction,” she said. “It’s a sickness, Frank. You cannot use your gifts to justify cheating other people. There’s no harmony to be had when you cheat the lumberman so that you can
have a grand piano. Do you think genius somehow trumps responsibility? You’re not helpless in this.”

  They didn’t speak for the remainder of the drive. When she opened the car door at the station, he grasped her hand. “Nothing like this will ever happen again.”

  She climbed out of the car. “It’s more than the spending. It’s so many things in you. And I don’t know if they’re things you can change.” She closed the door and turned away.

  “Mamah,” he called after her, but she walked into the station house entrance and couldn’t hear him anymore.

  CHAPTER 45

  When Mamah arrived in Chicago, she bought two boxes of candy in the train station, took a taxi to the Cedar Street pied-à-terre, where she left her bag, then returned to the waiting taxi. “Wabash and Washington, please,” she said.

  She climbed up to the El platform and rode the train out to Oak Park, watching as the west side of Chicago sped by. There were so many changes since she’d last taken the train. New apartment buildings. Gorgeous gardens around Garfield Park Conservatory. As the train entered the suburb of Oak Park, she could see that it had changed, too. The elms and oaks lining the streets were as lovely as she remembered them, but everywhere, new houses had sprouted up between the old ones. She looked toward the north prairie where she had taken John every June to pick strawberries, where she had lain once under the moon with Frank. It was dotted now with new roofs.

  Mamah walked briskly toward East Avenue, glancing furtively at the people who passed. For four years she’d feared this moment, but she saw not one familiar face. In the past she couldn’t walk down the street without being hailed by someone.

  Lizzie was on summer vacation from school and might not be home. Mamah stood in front of the house. Everything was just as she had left it, even the gardens. She glanced up at the window where the Belknap girls had stood, probably watching her and Frank as they’d made love. She shuddered. It was still boarded up. The carpenter had done a fair job, but there was no disguising it. She looked down quickly, fearful that Lulu Belknap might be staring at her right now.