Go Away Home

by Carol Bodensteiner

  Liddie moved the soupspoon a fraction of an inch left and then back to the right. “She agreed it was a benefit to be able to show my work.”

  “You sound ambivalent.”

  “It wasn’t quite what I expected.”

  “But what did she think of the photos?”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “We didn’t talk about photography specifically.”

  “You didn’t tell her about your work with me?”

  “Why, no. Did you expect me to?”

  “There will be other times.” Littmann lifted his wineglass, drank the remainder, and reached for the bottle. “For you?”

  “I have enough. Thank you.” She gestured to her still-full glass.

  He poured another glass for himself and swallowed half of it at once.

  The waiter came with their soup, providing a welcome interruption to the conversation and to Littmann’s drinking. When Littmann turned the conversation to photography, she didn’t mind. She felt she would really rather not try to explain feelings to him that she didn’t understand herself.

  Ever since she left Mrs. Langston, she’d tried to make sense of the woman’s reaction to her portfolio. Mrs. Langston had been complimentary enough, but Liddie came away feeling less than positive.

  When she boldly asked how someone like herself could become a designer, Mrs. Langston had snorted. “The real designers are in Paris. Or New York,” she said. “Even here in Chicago, we follow their lead. Besides, most women don’t want innovation in their clothing. Your work is appropriate, as I don’t imagine the women in a town like Maquoketa are looking for too much. A difference in fabric or color. Something so the wearer feels special without standing out too much. Just as you’ve done.” She concluded, “It’s good.”

  Liddie didn’t know how to respond to that assessment of her work. When the woman was suddenly called away, Liddie wasn’t disappointed their time was cut short.

  She went on to purchase the things on Mrs. Tinker’s list. Her confidence shaken, she stood in front of the walls lined with bolts of fabric, intimidated by the reality of shopping on her own. She spent considerable time comparing bolts before finally selecting fabrics she hoped would satisfy Mrs. Tinker.

  Throughout the afternoon, Mrs. Langston’s comments returned to her mind. The dresses she designed were appropriate, not too much. There was no way Liddie could see those words in a positive light. An experience she’d been sure would be a highlight had only cast a pall on the day.

  Littmann interrupted her thoughts. “You’ve gone away, Liddie.”

  “I’m sorry. It was a full day.” She forced a smile. “This is the first time I’ve had a moment to think.” She didn’t want to admit to Littmann how disappointed she’d been. Instead, she asked, “How was your day?”

  “I spoke with my photographer friend. He worked in New York before coming here. I’m certain now that my character photographs would be even more sought after in Paris.”

  “Do you really think that is something you’d want to do? With the war on?”

  “The front is far from Paris. There’d be no danger there. I’m done talking, Liddie. It’s time for action. That’s why this trip with you is such perfect timing.”

  “It is?”

  “Ever since this morning, I’ve been thinking about how I rely on you. I need you with me, Liddie.”

  “That is nice of you to say,” she said.

  “It’s the truth. We make a good team.”

  He’d said they were a good team before, but the comments were typically spontaneous, based on some project completed in the darkroom. He’d never been quite so purposeful as this. She smiled and said nothing, aware that he did not expect her to speak.

  “I’m sorry your conversation with Mrs. Langston wasn’t what you wanted, but it’s for the best.”

  “Why would you say that?” She frowned. “You know how much this meant to me.”

  “Sewing is fine, Liddie, but it’s what every woman does. It sounds as though you saw that today. Photography is special. You have a talent I can help you develop. You can do so much more. We can do so much more.”

  His compliment about her ability with a camera almost made her overlook the slight to her sewing. Almost. She’d nearly gotten used to the backhanded comments he so often made. Nearly. Coming on top of Mrs. Langston’s lukewarm praise, his words were a wasp sting. She bit the inside of her cheek hard.

  Oblivious to her reaction, he continued. “I’d be lost if you weren’t working by my side.”

  He reached for her hand and cradled it between his palms. The action was so astonishingly intimate that Liddie glanced at nearby tables to see if anyone was watching them. Her mouth was as dry as cotton when she forced her eyes back to his.

  “I love you, Liddie. And I believe you love me.”

  She blinked rapidly. Had he actually said he loved her? Her heart raced.

  “That’s why I’m asking you. Will you marry me?”

  Liddie’s eyes widened. She’d imagined that when a man proposed to her, she would be thrilled by love, swept away by emotion. Like in a fairy tale. Now that the moment had arrived, she felt only shock.

  “Oh, Mr. Littmann.”

  “I know this seems sudden. But it’s the right thing to do. When I think of Europe, I see you there, too. Liddie, I want you as my wife.”

  Whenever he had talked about Europe—the art museums, the legendary cities, the grand balls—she had yearned—ached, actually—to see those sights herself. She had never imagined it would happen. Now she realized it really could. She could continue with photography . . . she could see the world . . . and she would be married.

  He’d said he loved her. Should she say “I love you” in return? Liddie looked at her hand, held tightly between Littmann’s long, slender fingers, as he continued to speak.

  “As husband and wife, we can travel freely. Nothing else needs to change.”

  With effort she raised her eyes. “I am so . . . so . . . surprised.” It was the only word that formed in her mind. She pulled her hand out of his. “Could we leave?”

  “Our meal . . .” He gestured to the half-eaten steaks.

  “I need some air.” She stood, unable to get away fast enough. As she made her way out of the dining room, she heard him call the waiter. Out on Monroe Street, she stopped, lifted her face, and breathed in evening air heavy with the smells of horses, automobiles, and too many people.

  Within moments he appeared beside her and took her arm. “Was my proposal so appalling?” he asked.

  The injured look on his face touched her, and her thoughts turned to him for the first time. “Not appalling. I simply never imagined.” She shrugged off his hand and started to walk. “Well, truthfully, I did imagine. Early on. But you never seemed . . .” Her words trailed off.

  “This will work out, Liddie,” he said, falling in beside her. He steered her toward the lake as he laid out his plan. “We’ll have greater opportunities than we ever imagined.” He was acting as though she’d already agreed to his proposal. “We’ll find an apartment in Paris, set up a studio and a darkroom, and be back in business in no time.”

  Not once in the weeks he’d been talking about Europe had he even hinted that he considered her part of his future. Her thoughts in turmoil, she barely registered his voice as they crossed streets and railroad tracks. When the sidewalk ended, she took his arm to negotiate the rough ground. Finally, they stood at the water’s edge where the air smelled moderately cleaner. Lake Michigan loomed ahead, dark and impenetrable, a vast emptiness lit by the last vestiges of the sunset and a halo of lights from the city. She shivered in the heat of the summer night. Littmann stood beside her, silent for the first time. Apparently, it was now her turn to speak.

  “Going to Europe with you would be a dream come true. It’s just . . . I hadn’t even thought . . .” Was s
he a fool to hesitate? Marriage, travel, adventure. Why would an Iowa farm girl say no when handed everything she’d ever dreamed of?

  “Tell me you will, Liddie.”

  He was waiting. She had to say something.

  She turned to face him. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  She felt as though she’d stepped off solid ground and into quicksand as he pulled her toward him and kissed her.

  That night, she lay in bed staring into the darkness, unable to sleep. Littmann had asked and she’d said yes. She’d always thought love and marriage went hand in hand. As she thought about the couples closest to her, it troubled her to realize that not only could she not define love, she couldn’t see if or how love and marriage actually came together. With each thought, she flipped from side to side until the sheets were as tangled as her mind.

  Her parents’ relationship had always been reserved. She did not recall seeing them touch except when Papa held Mama’s arm as she climbed into the buggy. Nor had they expressed affection for each other, at least not in public. Her mother wanted her to make a good match. Did a good match mean love? Or was it all about money, property, a man with a well-paying job?

  She had never seen Amelia and Fred together. Without saying much, Amelia’s letters portrayed lives lived increasingly apart. Fred provided for Amelia and the children, but it was a lonely existence and he was gone most of the time.

  She saw something different in Minnie and Vern. Taciturn Vern showed his affection more in actions than words—flowers he picked from the fencerows, a geode washed out of the creek bed—gifts of no real account, but ones that Minnie cherished. Liddie saw how Minnie’s eyes brightened, how she checked her hair and pinched color into her cheeks whenever Vern came to the house.

  Of course, all of this presumed love was something you could see. Even if she did not see outward displays of affection between her parents, she assumed they had loved each other. It might be the same with Amelia and Fred.

  Perhaps love was simply a feeling you had. If love was a “tingle,” as Minnie described it, Liddie knew the excitement she’d felt in the early days with Littmann did not hold the same enduring intensity she saw between Minnie and Vern.

  Did she love Littmann? She whispered the words in the dark. “I love you. I love you, Thomas.” It was exciting to say the words, even if they did not give rise to a specific feeling.

  He said he loved her. He was older. He must know about love since he knew so many other things. Maybe the excitement she felt was love. Or could be. Perhaps it didn’t matter if she wasn’t in love with him, anyway. Nothing else needs to change, he’d said. They’d still be working together, just like always. What if that was all he really wanted? Did it matter? Still, he had said he loved her. If she could travel the world, see more places than she’d ever dreamed of, have grand adventures, might not love come?

  Liddie looked at herself in the mirror the next morning. A woman who was soon to be married and traveling to Europe should appear . . . older . . . more sophisticated. More something. She inspected herself, peering straight into her own eyes, then peeking at herself in profile. She didn’t see anything new. Even so, remembering his words, I love you caused her heart to pound.

  She spent the morning purchasing the rest of the things on Mrs. Tinker’s list, though she was so distracted she had to go back to one store twice. Finally, she stood waiting for him on the Art Institute steps, next to the lion statue, as they’d agreed. The bronze lion, its coat colored in a green patina, its mouth open in a roar, conveyed courage, confidence, conviction. Liddie felt none of that. What would Littmann say? What would she say? How would they be different with each other now that those words had been said? Surely saying “I love you” changed everything.

  Throughout the morning, she’d run through a dozen conversations in her mind. How would they travel? When? Where? Which ship? Anxiety snaked from her stomach up through her chest as she thought about being on a ship, though the president had warned Germany against attacking civilian vessels. Before the anxiety curled around her heart, she pushed that fear aside to think of where they would live in Paris, how they would set up a studio. Getting chemicals for the darkroom had become increasingly difficult here. Would it not be more difficult, if not impossible, in Europe? What about their life together? They would live in Paris. But where? Would there be trees? Grass? Where would they buy food?

  “Liddie, my Liddie. I am the happiest man alive.” Littmann’s euphoria broke through her anxiety when he finally materialized out of the crowd and came toward her.

  So it will be like this, she thought. He would tell her again that he loved her. She smiled, timid in the presence of this handsome man who loved her and wanted to marry her.

  “My meeting with the Examiner was top of the line.”

  “The Examiner? I thought it was the Tribune.”

  “I took a chance and stopped at the Examiner, too. I got lucky. The editor I talked with said if I shipped him pictures of Paris—the people and architecture—from time to time, he’d consider them.” He grinned as he shifted his hat to a jaunty angle. “This is what we wanted, Liddie. Europe, here we come!”

  He may have wanted that. She’d never even thought of it.

  “That sounds . . . like a good idea.”

  “Let’s go in, shall we?” He tucked her hand in his elbow.

  She held back. Wasn’t he going to say again that he loved her? She wanted to hear that, needed to hear that. She wanted to talk about the two of them. She wanted to discover how they would act toward each other as a couple, now and after they married. But she didn’t know how to say that herself.

  He looked back at her, puzzled that she hadn’t moved. “Shall we go?”

  She swallowed hard to force a lump of disappointment down her throat. “Yes. Let’s go in.”

  Seeing the artwork was not as interesting as she thought it would be, not with the imminent trip to Europe on her mind. As they stood in a gallery of Dutch masters, in front of a portrait of a young girl who appeared as uncertain as she herself felt, Liddie screwed up her courage. “Mr.—Thomas?”

  “Yes?”

  Her palms were damp and she wound her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. “When would we leave?”

  Littmann steered her to another painting before answering. “Before the winter weather sets in. I figure we’ll be on a ship by early September.”

  Early September! Not even two months. What about a wedding? What about her mother and Minnie and Mrs. Tinker?

  “When would we leave Iowa?”

  “Probably mid-August. No need to worry. You can check into the train schedules. Find something that gives us good connections.” He scanned the gallery. “I think we’ve seen everything here. Let’s move on.”

  As they walked through yet another gallery with more paintings she couldn’t find the energy to be interested in, she fixed her face in an expression of neutral contemplation to cover her dismay. Maybe this was the way it was supposed to be. Maybe she expected too much.

  Chapter 29

  “He what?” Minnie took Liddie by the shoulders and asked again, adding a decibel to each word. “He what?”

  “Shush.” Liddie looked around. Out on the porch of the boardinghouse, they risked a neighbor overhearing. She kept her own voice low. “You heard me.” It had been nearly a week since Littmann had proposed, and she had told no one. “I’m happy you came to town today. I was sure to burst if I couldn’t tell you.”

  “I can’t believe it. Were you surprised? What am I saying? Of course you were surprised. You said he’d never said anything about marriage before. Were you telling me the truth?” She looked at Liddie for a full second before concluding, “Of course you were. You must be in shock. I’m in shock. Tell me.”

  “We aren’t telling anyone else until he talks to Mama. But I had to tell someone.”

  Minnie sho
ok her head. “I never thought.”

  “Neither did I.” Liddie told her how Littmann had surprised her by showing up on the train and then proposing over dinner at the Palmer House.

  “It’s so out of the blue,” Minnie said. “What did you say?”

  “I was so surprised. He said he’d been thinking about it for a long time, but now that he’s going to Europe, he couldn’t imagine being there without me.”

  “Hold on.” Minnie gripped Liddie’s wrist. “What do you mean, Europe?”

  “He says it’s time for him to do something big with his photography, and that we’ll set up a studio in Paris. Minnie, all those places I’ve wanted to see, I’ll be doing it!”

  “You will, won’t you? You’ll be working as a team, like always.” Minnie’s expression sobered. “Do you love him?”

  Liddie looked away. “He said he loves me. And I . . . I love so many things about him.”

  “Admiring him as a photographer is one thing. Throwing your lot in with him for the rest of your life . . .”

  “He’s successful. He’s handsome. He can take me everyplace I’ve ever wanted to go. We’ll be happy. I know we will.” She pushed aside the feeling that she was trying to convince herself and changed the subject. “Now you have news, too. What is it?”

  Minnie’s cheeks colored. “I don’t want you to leave. When you’re married, I want you here, where we can raise our children together.”

  Liddie broke into a grin. “Really?”

  “Really. The doctor said a miscarriage isn’t all that uncommon, and that we should try again. So we did. And . . .” She spread her hands and laughed.

  “Oh, Minnie!” Liddie hugged her. “I’m so happy for you. And Vern. And Mama. And me. I’m going to be an aunt.”

  “And I’m happy for you, too,” Minnie said. “Truly, I am.”

  “I’ll be glad to get this over with.” Littmann was grim as he helped Liddie into his motorcar.

  He was so easy in the company of women that Liddie hadn’t thought he might dread talking with her mother. Only one other time—when Mr. Grey visited—had she seen him so unsettled.