“Did you know that, Tom?” Mr. Grey asked.
Mr. Littmann shrugged. “A myth. I can’t imagine it’s reliable.”
“My father was seldom wrong,” Liddie said.
Mr. Littmann gave her a sharp look, and she flushed. She hadn’t spoken to contradict him, though apparently he’d taken it as such.
“I’ve heard the sailors watch the color of the sun,” Mr. Grey said. “Now that I know farmers do, too, I’ll pay closer attention.”
Mr. Littmann relaxed. “Didn’t I tell you, Liddie? A Renaissance man. Finding interest in the least of things.” He brushed dust off his trousers as he stood. “Now, if we’re ready to get back to town—what’s for tomorrow? Something at the opera house?”
October 29, 1915
Dear Joe,
I enjoyed hearing about the harvest in your last letter. In many ways, it sounds similar to when the thrashing crews move through here. Though yours seems to be on a much grander scale. I’m curious how you handle feeding all these men?
I don’t like to think that you could already be deep in snow by the time you get my letter. I hope you have enough blankets.
The past days have had their ups and downs. Jonathan Grey, a friend of Mr. Littmann’s, stopped on his way to California. He’d never been to Iowa, and he found everything so interesting. We went to the caves, took a rowboat on the river, toured the limestone kilns. The weather was perfect. It made me proud to show him things the likes of which he’d never seen, even in Europe. I had not realized Mr. Littmann had never seen any of it, either. I think if Mr. Grey had not been here, he would not have gone. Mr. Littmann is a curious man—so open in some ways and so closed in others.
It was a pleasure for me to talk with Mr. Grey. He spoke with me as though my opinions mattered. It reminded me of talking with Papa or you.
Those pleasant days put some distance on a horrible mistake I made. While I was ironing, I scorched the hem of an expensive dress. To my everlasting embarrassment, I didn’t own up to it. Of course Mrs. Tinker noticed. I paid to remake the dress, but it is worse that I disappointed her. I thought not to tell you but knew I’d feel better if I did. I hope you do not think ill of me.
What do you hear about the war? More and more we hear of American men going to fight with their relatives. One of the Kaufmann boys wants to fight for the kaiser. Harley Ellers is going for England. I was taken aback. Is not America their home? Mr. Littmann shocked me when he said he would go as a photojournalist. Your parents came from Germany. Do you ever think of joining the fighting? When I thought of you or Vern going to war, I broke out in a sweat. I was so afraid for you. And you haven’t even gone. Promise me you won’t!
Thinking of you often.
Liddie
PS: I have almost finished Minnie’s wedding dress. She is letting me take photos of their reception. I am as excited about that as making the dress. Then Christmas will be here.
Chapter 25
After Mr. Grey left for San Francisco, Mr. Littmann grew quiet. Once, Liddie walked past the room where they did sittings and saw him standing rock still in front of the camera. When she passed again ten minutes later, he hadn’t moved. He printed the wrong images from marked proofs. He was short-tempered and snapped at a deliveryman for no reason. During a session with a fidgety little boy, instead of charming the child as she’d seen him do countless times, he was rough and brought the boy to tears.
She expected his bad humor to pass, but after two weeks with no improvement, she followed him into the studio one day.
“Mr. Littmann?”
“What?”
“I don’t mean to pry, but I wondered if you aren’t feeling well. You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“Oh? And what self would that be?”
The sarcasm in his voice pushed her back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .” She turned to leave.
He groaned. “No. Come back. It isn’t your fault.” He sank into the ornate high-backed chair they used for portraits and rubbed his face and eyes with the heels of his hands. “It’s mine. Seeing Jon. Hearing about the museums, the artists, the discussions. It reminded me of how much I’m missing.”
She lowered herself onto a padded footstool. “I thought you were happy with your work here.”
“I suppose the work’s fine. But it’s not the same as being in New York or Paris. Maquoketa isn’t the center of anything.”
Liddie had never felt embarrassed about where she lived, but when he said it in such a disdainful way, she felt foolish. She’d been so excited to get to Maquoketa, to experience life off the farm. Only a year ago, Maquoketa had been a big city to her.
“The worst was that he saw the Cassatt similarity in the photo.”
“I thought that would please you.”
He shook his head. “It showed me how far out of the artistic loop I am. Even if my effort wasn’t intentional, I should have recognized what I had done.”
“Then why do you stay here?”
“Why, indeed? I’ve been asking myself that since he left.” He propped his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together.
“And why did you come to Iowa? I’ve never known.”
“To find my style. Make my own way.” He frowned. “It’s not worth revisiting the details.”
“You have done all that, haven’t you? The studio is busy. Mr. Grey liked your work.”
Mr. Littmann stood abruptly. “Leave me be,” he said, and turned his back to her.
Nonplussed, Liddie left, her cheeks burning, embarrassed to be dismissed so abruptly. She was halfway down the hall before indignation replaced the embarrassment. She whirled on her heel and went back.
“Mr. Littmann,” she said. “I realize I don’t know everything about photography, but I’m learning as fast as I can. And I don’t think I deserve your rudeness. I was only trying to help.”
She did not wait for him to respond. She went to the desk, picked up her handbag, and left. She didn’t care that it wasn’t closing time.
That night, she lay awake for a long time, thinking. She loved photography with a passion. Working with and learning from Mr. Littmann had been her gateway to a new world. But he was a puzzle she could not decipher. And frankly, she was tired of him making her feel inadequate.
Mr. Littmann was waiting for her when she arrived at the studio the next morning. “I want to apologize, Liddie.” He spoke before she reached her desk. “I was boorish yesterday.”
Liddie felt her mouth drop open. A slight breeze might have blown her over. Until now, he had never acknowledged a shortcoming in himself.
He exhaled deeply. “I snapped at you, and that was uncalled-for. You welcomed Jon as though he were your friend, and I never thanked you for that.”
Still miffed, she went to her desk, put her handbag away, and took out the cashbook to begin work. “Anyone would have done the same,” she said.
“May I take you to dinner to make up for my poor behavior?”
“It’s not necessary.”
“I want to. I don’t know anyone else who would have been so kind.”
This was the first personal kindness unrelated to photography that he’d offered her, and that was, she supposed, worth something. She accepted.
December 15, 1915
Merry Christmas, Joe!
I hope you open my package right away. I made flannel shirts for you and Vern, and you should have it to wear as long as possible. See if you can find my secret message.
Thank you for worrying about me, but you needn’t. Mrs. Tinker has forgiven me for my ironing fiasco. Mr. Littmann has recovered from his funk. In fact, since I blew up at him, he has actually been nicer.
We will celebrate the holiday on the farm as always. How different it will be with Minnie as the new Mrs. Treadway!
Will we see you in the new
year?
With much affection.
Liddie
Chapter 26
“Oh, Liddie.” Minnie’s eyes lingered over each of the pictures spread on the dining room table. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Tears welled in Minnie’s eyes.
Liddie was aghast. “You don’t like them?”
“Like them? I love them!” Minnie launched herself at Liddie and enveloped her in a crushing hug. No one has pictures like this of her wedding day. It’s like living the day all over again.”
“Oof!” Liddie gasped. She hadn’t realized she’d practically held her breath from the moment she walked into the house where she grew up—the house that was Minnie’s home now—until this moment.
Mr. Littmann had taken the formal wedding photographs at the studio. Vern wore his black suit for the first time since their father died. Minnie was radiant in the dress Liddie designed, an ivory silk with tiny pleats across the bodice and satin-covered buttons at each wrist and down the back.
In spite of Mr. Littmann’s considerable talent, Liddie thought the studio photos stiff. The subjects were not the vibrant people she knew. She would not boast, but the couple she knew and loved showed themselves in the pictures she’d taken after the wedding.
The early-winter wedding day had been unusually mild, a boon for Liddie’s efforts. For some photos, Liddie posed them against a tree trunk or on the porch. Other photos caught the couple unaware.
Liddie liked one in particular. She’d captured Vern gazing up at Minnie, who was standing two steps above him on the porch, with a look that was pure love. Vern was usually so contained, Liddie doubted he realized he’d let his guard down. It was, she thought, the most handsome her brother had ever appeared.
Over the past few months, she had realized that constructing photos was like designing a dress, but with a major difference. With dresses, she could work and rework tangible fabrics and colors. Meanwhile, photography was filled with variables out of her control—light, weather, people. Some of the pictures were taken without even a few moments of preparation. She finally, truly understood Mr. Littmann’s point about film being cheap.
She had poured her heart into the wedding photos—her first big opportunity—and it meant everything to her to have Minnie happy with the results.
When Mr. Littmann offered to let her put her photographs in the studio window soon, she knew her work was good.
“Vern! Come look at what Liddie did.” Minnie ran to take Vern’s hand when he came in.
“Aw, Minnie. I’m all dirty.”
Liddie ducked her head to contain a laugh. She did not remember her brother ever being concerned about bringing dirt into the house before.
“It’s all right.” Minnie tugged him toward the table. “Come see!”
Minnie snuggled up to Vern’s side as she pointed from picture to picture. “Remember this one? Oh, and look at this one. I know what I was thinking when she took this.”
When they came to the image of Vern looking up at Minnie, she rose up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
Vern cleared his throat. “These turned out real good, Liddie.”
“Why, thank you, Vern. Mr. Littmann will let me put some of them in his studio window. If you agree.”
Vern looked puzzled. “Pictures of us?”
“Yes. Not all of them, of course, but one or two. This one of you and Minnie on the steps is perfect. And this one by the tree.”
“Oh, Vern. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Minnie clapped her hands lightly.
“No.” Vern’s answer was clipped, his tone hard.
“Vern, why not? They’re good pictures,” Liddie said. “You said they were.”
“I said no.” His jaw clenched.
“It would mean a lot to me.”
“I got work to do.” He turned abruptly and banged out the door.
A flush of anger shot through Liddie’s temples as the slam of the door echoed in the silent dining room. “He can never support me in anything,” she fumed. “It would break his back to do something for me.” She gripped the chair in front of her, knowing even as she said it that she was being unfair.
“Oh, sweetie. That’s not true. He liked the pictures, I know he did.”
“Then why won’t he let me show them?”
“You asked him out of the blue. And these pictures are so personal. He might have been embarrassed to think anyone else would see them.”
“But other people will see them,” Liddie said.
“I know they will. I’ll show them to anyone who walks through the door. But that’s not the same as strangers walking down Main Street. Let me talk to him. I’m sure he’ll agree.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do. Now let’s have something to eat. I baked a cake this morning.”
Liddie allowed herself to be coaxed into a chair while Minnie brought out cake and coffee.
“How are things in town?” Minnie asked as she set thick slices of chocolate-iced chocolate cake on the table.
“All is well. Mrs. Tinker is planning for us to go to Chicago this summer. And Mr. Littmann is letting me do more work in the darkroom, and even make some of the final prints.”
“Ooh. In the darkroom.” Minnie raised an eyebrow.
Liddie dismissed the implication with a laugh. “I’m working. I don’t know how many ways to say it. I work there.”
“But he does take you places.”
“Yes, he accompanies me on occasion.” Liddie slipped a forkful of the rich, moist cake into her mouth. “This cake is wonderful. Vern must think he died and went to heaven.”
“He hasn’t complained,” Minnie said. “Now quit dodging the point. You know what I mean.”
“There is nothing going on between him and me. He gets invited to an event and asks me along. I ask him when I’m invited. It’s convenient.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Liddie knew she’d grown accustomed to a relationship most women, Minnie included, would at least find odd, if not completely unacceptable. “I think Mr. Littmann is an extraordinary man. What he knows about photography and art, everything he’s teaching me. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“So there could be something?”
“No.” Liddie shook her head and took another bite of cake. As she chewed, she saw Minnie’s skepticism and knew she would persist until Liddie answered directly.
“Really, Minnie. No. It’s funny. At one point, I was ready to quit working for him, then he asked me out to dinner. If people didn’t keep asking me what’s going on or insinuating that something should be going on, it would never cross my mind. I like it this way.”
Though he’d repeatedly asked her to call him Thomas, that level of familiarity never set comfortably in her mind. The furthest she’d gone was thinking of him as “Littmann.” She still referred to him as “Mr. Littmann” in the studio and when they were together in public.
“Well, I’m not disappointed,” Minnie said. “But are you really okay with it?”
“Yes, I am.” She pushed a lone chocolate crumb around with a tine of her fork. “I don’t like to admit it, but sometimes, I feel like I’m not good enough for him. No matter how much I try, he invariably brings up something I don’t know, something he acts like I should have known all along.” She glanced up from her plate but immediately returned her gaze to the cake crumb. “Sometimes, I feel so dumb. As an employee, I accept that. Otherwise?” She shrugged.
“Liddie. You’re the smartest woman I know. There is no reason for you to feel dumb about anything.”
Liddie smiled. “You always make me feel better.”
“All right, then. It’s odd, that’s for sure, but to tell the truth, I’m glad there isn’t anything between you.”
“You are? W
hy?”
“I wish for you a man who makes you feel the way Vern makes me feel.”
“And how is that?”
Moments passed before Minnie spoke. “I don’t know if I can describe it. I just know that when he’s not here, I wish he were. I know he’d do anything to make me happy.” She studied a small mole on her left wrist, then whispered, “When he comes into the room, I tingle.”
“You tingle?”
Minnie’s face colored the brightest pink. She waved her napkin in front of her face. “Enough of that. Whew!”
Liddie finally captured the cake crumb and licked it off her fork. “Why did you say you weren’t disappointed?”
“I did?” Minnie fanned her face again.
“You did. When I said Littmann is my boss and I am glad to be making pictures.”
“Oh, I probably shouldn’t say anything.”
“You started, so keep going.”
Minnie’s face could not hide her conflicting thoughts. “I said I’d do anything for Vern and he’d do anything for me.”
Liddie nodded.
“I think you’d do anything for Mr. Littmann—because you admire him and want to please him. I wonder if he’d do anything for you?”
“Go on.”
“When he came for the barn dance, well, he didn’t even try.” Liddie had come to think of the barn dance as a fluke not worth dwelling on. When Minnie had told her about the Agners’ barn dance, Liddie was excited at the prospect of seeing her old neighbors. Attending with an escort like Littmann was hard to resist.
The barn dance was everything she remembered and less. The problem was that she saw it simultaneously through the lens of her own memory and through Littmann’s eyes.
Where she saw a buffet table laden with her favorite foods from her childhood, he saw boards and sawhorses holding mismatched dishes tended by women with chapped hands. Where she saw friendly people who’d do anything for a neighbor, he saw rough country folks who knew nothing about the finer things of life.
When they finished a rousing square dance, she was breathless from laughing. He muttered, “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to learn that in New York.” She swallowed her laughter.
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