Thinking of you often and wishing all of you every happiness.
Love to all, Liddie
Even with improvements in how Mr. Littmann’s office ran, she sometimes took work home to complete at night or came in on weekday evenings to complete her tasks. She did not ask to be paid for this extra time, and Mr. Littmann didn’t offer.
One afternoon in late August, Mr. Littmann announced, “This isn’t working out.”
“Pardon?” She looked up from the filing drawer.
He stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, a perturbed frown on his face. “No matter what we do, we’re behind.”
“Is it the calendar? I’ve been trying—”
“No,” he interrupted. “It’s not the calendar. It’s the amount of work. All good, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not enough with you here only on Saturdays.”
It flashed through her mind that he intended to let her go. “I’m doing the best—”
He cut her off again. “There’s too much to do. I want you here full time.”
“But I have a job,” she blurted.
“Quit.”
“I can’t. I’m working on two new dresses. And there’s a rack full of alterations. How would Mrs. Tinker manage?”
“She’d get another girl.” He grabbed a chair. When he sat down only a foot away from her, his tone was beguiling. “To me, you’re unique, Liddie. She can always find someone to run a sewing machine. I’ll never find someone who understands my work the way you do.”
She blushed. “Oh, I’m sure you could, Mr. Littmann.”
“Call me Thomas. We’re colleagues.”
Flattered as she was by the compliment, she felt a needle-like prick at how easily he dismissed her work for Mrs. Tinker.
He continued unabated. “My work has increased. You deserve some credit for that. With the systems you’ve set up, I can do more sittings, and people don’t have to wait as long for proofs and photos.” He put his hand on hers. “If you were here full time, we could do even more. And you could learn printing and retouching.”
Liddie felt as though the air were being sucked out of her lungs. “I appreciate . . . It’s just that . . . Mrs. Tinker.” Locked in the intensity of his gaze, with his hand on hers, she could not form a clear thought.
“The truth is, Liddie, I’ve enjoyed finding someone who likes photography as much as I do and who wants to learn more.” He squeezed her hand.
She found herself powerless to say anything.
He continued. “We’re in agreement, then! Tell Mrs. Tinker and let me know when you can start. The sooner the better.” He stood.
As soon as his hand left hers, she started to breathe. In agreement? Had she actually said yes? She didn’t think so.
Chapter 22
Liddie and Minnie sat side by side in the porch swing at the boardinghouse, waiting for Vern to pick them up. Not a breath of breeze stirred the humid August air as Liddie shared the conversation she’d had with Mr. Littmann, leaving out the part about him holding her hand.
“What do I do, Minnie?”
“What do you want to do?”
Liddie spread her hands. “I want to do both.”
“You’ve been doing both. Why can’t you continue?”
“It sounded as though if I can’t do the job full time, he’ll find someone who can.” She chewed at her lip. “He said Mrs. Tinker could always find someone to run a sewing machine.”
Minnie’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t understand why he’d say that about your work with Mrs. Tinker. He knows how much you like sewing. And how much Mrs. Tinker values you.”
“At first it stung, but I don’t think he meant anything by it. I think he’s so busy, and he probably didn’t think it would sound like it did.”
“Maybe.”
Liddie prodded. “Maybe what?”
“I don’t like it when someone makes himself better by running someone else down.” She touched her toe to the porch floor and gave the swing a little shove.
“I really don’t think he meant to do that,” Liddie insisted. “He says he likes having someone around who enjoys photography as much as he does. He said I’m unique.” She looked sideways at Minnie, thinking she’d laugh.
Minnie did laugh. “Of course you’re unique, you goose! Mrs. Tinker has been telling you that for months.” Then she sobered. “But what about Mrs. Tinker? Don’t you have an agreement with her?”
“My apprenticeship ended almost a year ago, so I don’t have a particular obligation. But we’re already working on holiday dresses.” Liddie wiped perspiration off the back of her neck. On days like this, she found herself missing the breeze that blew almost constantly on the farm. In town, the still air and heat were suffocating. “How could I walk away from Mrs. Tinker? She opened my eyes to opportunities in dressmaking I never even knew to dream about. In fact . . . if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Tinker, I’d never have seen the photos or met Thomas—Mr. Littmann.”
“Oh, so it’s ‘Thomas’ now?” Minnie smirked.
“He says I should call him Thomas, but that doesn’t feel right. I think he’ll always be Mr. Littmann to me.”
Minnie raised an eyebrow.
Liddie ignored her.
“What appeals to you?” Minnie asked.
“Mainly, I suppose the appeal is having a chance to work with him. He’s a walking library of art, photography, travel. I pinch myself to believe he’s willing to spend his time with me.”
“But he’s hiring you for the job, and you say the job gets boring.” Minnie pursed her lips. “Or are you taking the job to get the man?”
Liddie slapped at Minnie’s hand and laughed. Could she separate the photography from the man? She realized that she wanted them both.
“Here’s what I think,” Minnie said. “If you want to do both sewing and photography, figure out a way.”
The girls sat in silence, alternately touching a toe to the porch to keep the swing moving. After a few minutes, Minnie looked at Liddie, a smile spreading across her face.
“Besides,” she said, “you can’t quit sewing. Who will make my wedding dress?”
“Your wedding dress?” Liddie shrieked as she clasped her friend’s hands. “Minnie, did he ask you?”
“Not yet, but I think he will. Soon.” Minnie’s eyes sparkled.
“My brother and my best friend—married.” Liddie beamed with happiness.
“So will you make my dress?”
“Of course. We’ll have such fun planning it.”
“We have to wait a little bit. Mustn’t count my chickens before they hatch.” Just then, they saw Vern turn the buggy onto Maddison Street. Minnie gripped Liddie’s hand. “Now don’t say anything. Promise?”
“I promise.”
Liddie talked to her mother about Mr. Littmann’s offer. She talked to Mrs. Tinker. After several nights spent lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, she came to this: if Mr. Littmann and Mrs. Tinker both agreed, in September she would begin to work three days a week at the photography studio and three days with Mrs. Tinker.
Both agreed.
Chapter 23
Liddie felt goose bumps rise on her arms as she followed Mr. Littmann into the small, windowless darkroom. With her mother’s warnings echoing in her ears, she felt breathless being in such close proximity to a man—in the dark.
Mr. Littmann set to pulling out trays and bottles while her eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by a lamp cloaked in red film.
“Doesn’t it have to be dark?” she asked.
He laughed. “Did you really think I work all those hours in complete darkness?”
She had thought exactly that. Her skin prickled in embarrassment at her own naïveté. She was grateful the light was so dim.
“Undeveloped film does have to be handled in total
darkness.” He showed her a black bag that was almost as big as a tent. “This bag is lightproof. I load unexposed film into the plates, and after I expose the film, I reload it for the developing tank. It is critical no light touches the film until it’s developed or the image will fog. Even with this bag, I take the added precaution to only handle film in this windowless room. I put a blanket across the door to ensure no light leaks in.”
“But how do you do all that if it’s completely dark?” Liddie asked.
“It takes practice, but you learn to do it all by touch. Once the film is in this lightproof developing tank, we can turn on the light and finish the processing.” He gestured to the light as he continued. “But a red lamp like this is safe for the photo paper, and once the image is fixed, we can have a regular light.”
“Fixed?” Liddie was overwhelmed. She felt as though the photographer were speaking Greek.
“I’ll show you.”
The darkroom was large enough for one person to move efficiently between the chemical trays. With two people, it was impossible not to touch from time to time. Liddie hoped—perhaps even expected—that he would try to steal a kiss. But Mr. Littmann was all business as he guided her step by step through the printing process, explaining which chemicals did what, how to mix them, how to expose the paper.
“Now watch this.” He slid the exposed paper into the tray of developer. Standing at his elbow, Liddie was certain he’d hear her heart thumping.
Then, as the image rose up through the chemicals—a pale shadow growing more distinct by the second, revealing the faces of a man, a woman, and a child—Liddie lost all thought of the man beside her. “It’s magic!” she exclaimed.
“That’s how I feel.”
He thrust tongs into her hand and hovered his hand above hers as he showed her how to swirl the chemicals and move the wet paper with its newly created picture from tray to tray. Liddie’s anxiety evaporated, replaced by a fascination with making pictures.
When he clipped the last photo to a wire to dry, Liddie was surprised two hours had passed.
“That was incredible,” she said. “I can’t wait to do it again.”
Over the next weeks, Mr. Littmann taught Liddie in meticulous detail how to mix the chemicals. Then he taught her printing techniques like dodging and burning. At first, she practiced printing from his negatives. As she shot more of her own film, she developed and printed her own pictures, relishing each moment of discovery and excitement.
September 21, 1915
Dear Joe,
You must think me a poor pen pal. I hardly have time to write since I’m working six days.
I use half my spare time to work on Minnie’s wedding dress. Half my spare time I spend in the darkroom making pictures. Half my spare time I save for writing letters. Since Amelia made sure I know my fractions, I’m aware this doesn’t add up. Unfortunately, my letter writing suffers.
By the time you receive this, the threshers may have come through. I hope your wheat yielded as well as you expected. How will you spend the winter? Will you take up running a dray again?
I wanted you to have these pictures. The one of Minnie and Vern I took and printed myself! Don’t you think she looks quite jaunty waving from the buggy? And doesn’t Vern look proud? The other you may not want to keep. It’s only me. Mr. Littmann took it on my camera, and I printed it.
I wish you could be here for the wedding. Minnie is eager to meet you, and the rest of us would be so happy to see you. If you’re not doing the dray, could you take the time? At least think about coming back. I miss you!
With affection, Liddie
“Is Maggie Driver’s dress ready to pick up?” Mrs. Tinker asked after she checked the mail and scanned the job tickets from the last two days.
While Mrs. Tinker had been out of town visiting relatives, Liddie had been responsible for day-to-day client requests as well as for finishing the dress Mrs. Driver planned to wear at her daughter’s wedding.
“I finished it this morning.” Liddie’s body felt as though it were filled with lead as she went to the rack and took down a dress of pale-blue watered silk with satin insets and crystal beading.
The dress had turned out beautifully. With one small exception. An exception so small Liddie hoped Mrs. Tinker would not notice. After all, this very small problem was in the back and on the hem.
After she had sewn the last seam and clipped loose threads, she’d set up the ironing board in the kitchen within easy reach of the irons heating on the stove. With any fabric, but particularly silk, Liddie tested the iron on a remnant. She also used a press cloth so the iron never touched the fabric. Then, ever so gently, she smoothed out wrinkles with an iron that was warm, not hot.
Though ironing wasn’t her favorite thing to do, she enjoyed performing the task that day. For the first time in weeks, she was standing still, quietly doing one thing rather than rushing to complete a dozen different sewing tasks and an equal number of jobs at the photo studio.
As she finished ironing the front of the dress, she heard a knock at the door. She set the iron back on the stove and went to greet a customer. A short while later, back at the ironing board, she shifted the dress to iron the back left panel of the skirt and spread the press cloth over the silk. As soon as she placed the iron on the cloth, the smell of scorched material hit her nose, and Liddie jerked the iron away.
“Oh no.” She sucked in her breath. A dark brown triangle marked the press cloth. She put the iron back on the stove, away from the heat, and peeled the press cloth off the silk.
“Oh no.” She breathed again. The press cloth had protected the silk from burning, but the heat had drawn up the delicate threads in a crinkled triangle of little waves. She ran her fingers lightly over the silk, horrified to feel the ridges.
She sat down hard in a chair by the kitchen table.
For the rest of that afternoon, she tried everything she knew to smooth out the silk. But no matter what she tried, the arrow-like shape of the iron on the hem pointed accusingly at her. She felt nauseous.
Numb, she sat at her worktable trying to decide what to do. The mantel clock chimed six. She had to get to the studio. She’d promised to retouch a set of photos that night, and she needed to do it while the daylight was still good. She took the dress off the form and hung it on the rack, vainly hoping that the scorched fabric would relax in the night or look better in the morning.
Liddie had not been able to sleep that night for worrying. In the morning, she looked at the back of the dress again. The spot was definitely still visible, but she almost convinced herself it wasn’t so awfully bad. She returned the dress to the rack, all the while trying to quell the anxiety ramming through her heart.
Now, as she positioned the dress on the form for Mrs. Tinker to review, her heart was in her mouth.
Mrs. Tinker surveyed the dress with her practiced eye. “It is beautiful, Liddie. Silk can be difficult, but you did a wonderful job. Maggie will be so pleased.”
She walked around the dress, adjusting the shoulders, tracing a finger along the line of the waist. She stepped back, taking in the entire garment.
“Hmm. What is this?” She bent over and brushed her hand against the hem. She frowned, brushed at the spot again, and then knelt, picking up the edge of the dress. She looked up. “What is this, Liddie?”
Liddie sank into her chair. “I was ironing it. Mrs. Belham came in with some things. I left the iron on the stove, and when I came back, the iron was too hot. I ruined the press cloth, too. I’m so sorry. Do you think she’ll notice?”
“Notice? Notice!” Mrs. Tinker was incredulous. “Of course she’ll notice. She’s paying a pretty penny for this dress. Even if she doesn’t”—Mrs. Tinker riveted Liddie with a withering gaze—“I will know. You will know. You cannot honestly think we would let a damaged dress go out of this house.”
“I’m s
orry.” Liddie cringed. Mrs. Tinker handled every challenge with equanimity, but this time she was truly angry.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Liddie didn’t respond.
“Oh, Liddie.” Mrs. Tinker shook her head.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Liddie repeated. “Is there anything I can do?”
“This is serious business, Liddie. You are responsible for this dress.” She stepped back from the dress, her eyes on the hem, her hands clenched on her hips.
“I can remake the panel. We have enough fabric.”
“I planned to make another dress with the rest of the bolt.” Mrs. Tinker’s shoulders rose and fell as she absorbed the loss. She looked squarely at Liddie. “I can’t believe you’d even think about selling an inferior dress.” She breathed heavily. “You disappoint me.”
Liddie blinked rapidly. She’d let Mrs. Tinker down. She’d let herself down. She knew her cheeks were red, but she would not let herself cry. “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Tinker. I want to make it right. How can I do it?”
Mrs. Tinker averted her eyes as she thought, rubbing the back of her neck, tapping an impatient toe. When she spoke again, she’d regained her composure. “What I will do is tell her we need another day because I’ve been out of town. What you will do is fix this dress if it takes all night.”
“I’ll pay for it,” said Liddie. She’d intended to use the money in her bank account to buy her own photo paper. Paying for the bolt of silk would require even more than she had saved. “I’ll pay for it,” she repeated.
“I think that is appropriate.”
Liddie worked all that night to replace the damaged panel and ready the dress for Mrs. Driver the next morning. In the intervening hours, she had plenty of time to think about how—or whether—she could manage both of the jobs she enjoyed so much.
Go Away Home Page 14
