Go Away Home

by Carol Bodensteiner

  He was silent during most of the drive, and she had no great desire to talk, either. As the fields flew by, she gripped the edge of the seat with both hands, as she did each time she rode in an auto. The speed was hard to comprehend. She felt as though her life were flying by equally as fast. She grasped the seat tighter. She didn’t feel in control of anything.

  Margretta and Minnie watched from the porch as Littmann maneuvered the vehicle to a stop near the front gate. Liddie was glad to see that while her mother had a cane, she wasn’t leaning on it hard; her gout must not have been so bad just now.

  Littmann opened Liddie’s door and took her hand. “Don’t get too far away,” he whispered.

  “They won’t bite, you know.”

  He tucked her hand in his elbow as they walked to the porch. “One can never tell,” he said.

  Once they’d climbed the steps, he released Liddie to greet her mother. “Mrs. Treadway, it’s a pleasure to see you.” Littmann bowed over Margretta’s hand.

  “Mr. Littmann,” Margretta said. “It’s been too long.”

  “Liddie has invited me; I regret it has not worked out. I’m pleased you could find room for a guest at your table this evening.”

  “We always enjoy company,” Minnie said. “Please come in.”

  Littmann sounded so polished in Maquoketa. Now his words seemed stilted, even mocking. Liddie wondered what her mother thought.

  “Something has come up,” Littmann said to Margretta as soon as they were inside. “I would like to talk with you in private, if I may?”

  A small frown crossed Margretta’s face, and she glanced at Liddie. In response, Liddie simply smiled.

  “Of course, Mr. Littmann,” Margretta said. “Will you join me in the parlor?”

  More than half an hour passed before Littmann found Liddie in the kitchen, where she and Minnie had been speculating about what was going on in the parlor. He was not smiling.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Yes.” He wiped his forehead with a pristine white handkerchief, refolded it, and returned it to his pocket.

  Liddie filled a glass and handed it to him.

  He took a big swallow. “Your mother is one straightforward lady.” He took another long drink. “She’d like to talk to you. She said she’d be in the garden.”

  Liddie raised her eyebrows. Minnie shrugged.

  “Would you like to relax on the porch, Mr. Littmann? There’s a nice breeze,” Minnie suggested. “Or Vern’s in the barn. You could join him.”

  “The porch is fine,” Littmann said. “And more water, please.” He handed the glass to Liddie before he went outside.

  Liddie poked Minnie in the arm. “Please don’t make it worse.”

  “Just having a little fun.” Minnie smiled sweetly.

  Margretta tossed a handful of lima beans into the dishpan. “You might have warned me,” she said without looking up from the row of vines.

  “Before he spoke with you?” Automatically, Liddie bent down and began to search the plants, pick chunky pods, and throw them into the pan. She was not surprised her mother was in the garden. When her mother wanted a peaceful moment, she took up her knitting. When she faced stress, Margretta headed for the rows of produce for physical labor.

  “You thought the man should take the lead,” Margretta said.

  “Yes.”

  Margretta stood. She put her hands on her waist and arched her back. “Lord knows I wish G. W. were here now. This took me by surprise.”

  Liddie straightened up. “I was surprised, too.”

  “It makes me wonder.”

  Her mother’s gaze implied that Liddie might have withheld the true nature of her relationship with Littmann. “He said he’d been thinking about it for a long time. And now that the assignments in Europe are certain, he couldn’t imagine going without me.”

  “That’s exactly what he said to me, too.” Margretta picked up the dishpan. “Let’s get out of the sun.” She stepped over the bean rows and headed to the apple tree south of the garden, where she eased herself down on the grass.

  Liddie sat, too, curled her legs up under her skirt, and waited for her mother to speak.

  “I only want the best for you, Liddie. Do you love him?”

  “I . . . do.”

  “I’d be happier if you said that with more conviction,” Margretta said dryly. “When nothing happened all these months, I figured he had his eye on someone else.” She flicked a ladybug off her apron. “I have to say, I don’t like you going off to Europe with him.”

  “It’s what I’ve always wanted, Mama. Travel. Adventure.”

  “You love the idea of travel. You’ve barely been outside Iowa. You can’t speak French. When I asked him how you’ll shop when you don’t speak the language, he seemed surprised. Like it hadn’t occurred to him how you’d manage.”

  “I figure things out. I’m good at it,” Liddie said, at the same time wondering if she could learn French before they left. Although she didn’t imagine the library had a book to teach her that.

  “He may get you set up. Though how he’ll do that when he doesn’t speak the language, either, I don’t know. But when he’s away, you’ll be on your own. How you’ll get along will be up to you.”

  “I can take care of myself. Besides, look how many Germans come here and don’t speak English. They get along. They learn.”

  “It takes them years to learn. And there’s a large number of them. They help each other. And even then, it isn’t easy. In France, you’ll be alone.”

  “It won’t be that way, Mama. Mr. Lit—he loves me.”

  “Hmm. So he says.”

  Margretta took Liddie’s hand, stroking and then patting it as she’d done when Liddie was a little girl. Her mother’s fingers were warm, gentle. She remembered her father’s calloused hands. She blinked back the blur in her eyes. She wished her father were here, too.

  “Liddie, there are many reasons to get married. You’ve had your heart set on getting off the farm and having some adventure. Whatever that means. But you need to be sure about the man you’re hitching your wagon to. Do you care about the same things?”

  Liddie would not admit the only topics she and Littmann ever discussed related to photography. Instead, she looked at her mother. “But you said yes?”

  Margretta sighed. “I said yes.”

  Now that her dreams were in her grasp, Liddie was dismayed to feel confusion and uncertainty rather than the joy she’d expected.

  “When I mentioned Paris, I didn’t think you would go now. And I assumed it would be for clothing design. This! Well!” Liddie’s normally unflappable employer threw up her hands. “I could use some tea.” Mrs. Tinker gestured to her wrapped ankle, and Liddie headed for the kitchen.

  “You cannot go to France without introductions,” she said as Liddie poured tea for them both. When Liddie sat on the settee where clients usually relaxed, Mrs. Tinker continued. “Janette may have some connections. I’ll contact her. Of course, that is the clothing business, but anyone is better than no one.”

  Again, Liddie found herself fighting conflicting emotions.

  “Are those tears?” Mrs. Tinker asked.

  Liddie searched for the hankie she kept tucked in her skirt pocket as she willed herself not to cry. “I’m . . . just . . . fine.” She choked on a sob as the tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Mrs. Tinker leaned forward and gently squeezed Liddie’s forearm. “Take a breath and another sip of tea.” When Liddie was breathing evenly, Mrs. Tinker repeated, “Tell me. Why the tears?”

  Liddie hiccuped. “I just thought I would be happy.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I feel foolish.” Liddie blotted at the tears. “What girl wouldn’t be happy to marry a man like Mr. Littmann and t
ravel to Europe? It’s everything, isn’t it?”

  “Have you talked to him about your concerns?”

  “Until now, there was nothing to talk about. He’s wanted to do more with his photography. Lately, he’s talked about Europe. I never saw myself as part of it. It was only last week”—she hadn’t told Mrs. Tinker that Littmann came to Chicago—“that he asked me.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Tinker tapped the rim of her teacup with her index finger. “I thought you had simply decided to keep your relationship with him private. Not so?”

  Liddie shook her head.

  “So when he asked you to marry him, it was a complete surprise?”

  Liddie nodded.

  “Yet you said yes.” Mrs. Tinker was quiet for several moments. When she spoke, her face was as serious as Liddie had ever seen it. “Liddie, a surprise might look like what we thought we wanted. And so we jump on the wagon. Afterward, we wonder how we got there. We might stay there because we think we can make it right. We might stay there because we’re afraid of what others will say if we change our mind. Afraid to stand up and say what we want to. Afraid to go back on something we’ve committed to. Lots of reasons.

  “Now, I can’t tell you what to do. You have to decide for yourself. But just because you’ve gotten on a wagon doesn’t mean you can’t get off. Don’t forget that.”

  Liddie knew every word Mrs. Tinker spoke could apply to her. She just wasn’t certain which ones actually did. Peering into her half-empty teacup, she could almost see the bottom of the cup. But not quite. She felt as though trying to make sense of her life right now was like trying to see through the tea. She rubbed the back of her hand against her cheek, shook her head to clear it, and forced a smile.

  “Better now?” Mrs. Tinker asked.

  Liddie nodded.

  “Well then,” Mrs. Tinker said in a way that put a period on the conversation. “You may simply have normal bride jitters. August, you say? That’s not much time.” She smiled. “What say we get busy on your dress?”

  “You’re so good to me,” Liddie said.

  “We all want you to be happy, dear.”

  “Me too,” Liddie said under her breath. “Me too.”

  Chapter 30

  As days passed, the awkwardness Liddie felt around Littmann subsided. In the studio, most of the time, the days passed as though the proposal had never happened. She did the work she’d always done. They interacted in front of customers as they always had. In all that, she was comfortable, confident. Then he’d catch her eye and smile. She would blush and drop her eyes. And the awkwardness would return.

  Where only a week ago she’d worked side by side with him in the darkroom without a second thought, now the fantasies of her first weeks returned. Every chance brush of their hands meant something. Or she thought it did.

  Liddie searched out the few books about Paris the library had; one included a map with street names she could not imagine how to pronounce. Another book included plates of the most famous works of art in the Louvre Museum. She imagined standing in front of the Venus de Milo. Uncomfortable at even the idea of looking at a naked woman, she closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

  Liddie grew bolder in conversations with Littmann. “What will we do for furniture? Will we take the darkroom equipment with us?” She opened the library book with the map of Paris. “Where will we live?”

  “I haven’t had time to think about that yet,” he responded. “Now stop worrying, will you? It’ll be fine.”

  A knot formed in her stomach as she came to suspect that he had no more knowledge of the city than she. All the thinking he’d been doing so far apparently concerned his photo assignments. And the more she reflected on his words regarding those assignments, the less certain she was that they were substantial, either.

  The next day, she tried again. “Perhaps you could contact Jon Grey? Or maybe your photographer friend has recommendations for where we might live?”

  “Good thinking,” he said. “I’ll send wires.”

  At his response, the knot in her stomach untangled a bit. “In the meantime, I’ll make a list of the questions we need answered,” she said. “We’ll follow up the wire with a letter.”

  “Excellent. You’re so good at this, Liddie.”

  She took out a notepad. In seconds, the list included apartment, groceries, transportation. Studio. Chemicals. Equipment. Clients. Crates. And prints for the Examiner. How in the world did one ship photographs from Europe to the United States?

  At one point, she wondered if he had proposed to her only because he needed her to organize his life. Yet he’d said he loved her. Surely he did. She needed to believe he loved her, even if she wasn’t sure she loved him.

  “Has there been a response to your wires?” Liddie asked at the end of the week.

  Littmann looked puzzled. “What wires?”

  “To Jon. And your friend. About where we might live.”

  “I didn’t send them. You were making a list of questions. No sense asking until we know what we need to know.” He headed for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “But . . .”

  The door closed behind him. Her questions filled two pages. Each time Littmann walked away, Liddie felt more helpless. More overwhelmed. More alone. He did not seem to notice.

  Twice during that week, she sat down in the evening intending to write to Joe. Her hand hovered over the paper, but the words to tell him she was getting married did not come. She also thought about writing Amelia, but the notion of telling her sister that she was moving thousands of miles away, virtually assuring they would not see each other for years, maybe ever again, felt like a millstone on her chest.

  Both times, she put her writing box back in the drawer.

  Chapter 31

  “Where to first?” Liddie asked Littmann and Vern, who were finishing off the last remnants of the picnic lunch she and Minnie had packed for their day at the fair.

  “A nap?” Vern offered.

  “No, sir, mister.” Minnie laughed, nudging him with her toe. “You can sleep when we get home.”

  “What do you think . . . Thomas?” Liddie asked. She still felt odd using his given name. “What do you want to see?”

  “I don’t want to tip my hand by telling you what I have my eye on,” Littmann said. He handed her one of the two Brownie cameras he’d bought just for that day. “We’ll see who takes the best photo, and neither of us will have an advantage.”

  She thought the cameras an extravagance, but they put him in a positive mood. Besides, she was eager to accept the photo challenge.

  A month had passed since Littmann had asked her to marry him. Within two weeks of telling Mrs. Tinker, Liddie saw another girl sitting at the workstation she had come to think of as her own. Truthfully, Liddie was dismayed at how easily she had been replaced. She was even more dismayed when Littmann so quickly pointed out, “I told you so.” Instead of working on client projects, she spent afternoons at Mrs. Tinker’s house working on her own wedding dress.

  She slowly grew more comfortable with the idea of marriage. It was not that she resolved the question of whether or not she loved Littmann. But she convinced herself that the opportunity to see the world was a sufficient trade-off for that ill-defined and elusive idea of love.

  Upon waking the morning of the fair, she vowed that for one full day, even though the wedding was only three weeks away, she was not going to think about love or the mechanics of living in Paris.

  Now, as Liddie helped Minnie pack up the picnic things, she resolved again to forget about the future.

  “Thomas is in a good mood,” Minnie whispered. “We weren’t sure what to expect, the fair being farm business and all.”

  “Please.” Liddie rolled her eyes. He really did have good qualities, and it annoyed her to have to constantly defend him. “I wish you sa
w in him all that I do.”

  Minnie shrugged. “Look at that.” She pointed at Vern, who had stretched out on the blanket and was breathing heavily, his hat over his eyes. “Fifteen minutes of nap. Then we go.” She claimed a corner of the blanket and sat, one hand resting on Vern’s shoulder.

  Liddie joined Littmann in loading the cameras with film. As soon as he had suggested the photo expedition, she began to think of possible images. The Wild West show later that afternoon held promise. Buffalo Bill’s troupe performed all over the United States. Even in Europe. And now, right here in Maquoketa. Somehow that struck her as perfectly ironic. Before she could go to the world, the world had come to her.

  Holding the camera steady, she looked through the viewfinder. She saw picnickers, horses and buggies, children playing. She turned the camera toward Minnie and Vern. Without hesitation, she pressed the lever and took her first frame: Minnie gazing down at her sleeping husband.

  Throughout the afternoon, the four wandered through the livestock barns, looking at the blue ribbon–winning cows, horses, and pigs. They stopped at a booth decorated with red, white, and blue bunting and manned by the Council of National Defense. “Show your patriotism,” urged a man who pinned buttons decorated with the American flag to their shoulders. He handed Liddie a flyer, which she put in her handbag and promptly forgot about.

  Later, they took shelter from the sun in the tent where judges tasted, compared, and awarded ribbons to the best pies, pickles, and cookies.

  “Minnie, you should enter your cake next year,” Liddie suggested.

  “It’s not that good,” Minnie said.

  “It is,” Liddie insisted. “You could call it your ‘died and gone to heaven’ cake.”

  “That’s the truth.” Vern nodded, and Liddie smiled at him.

  “You could enter a loaf of your bread,” Minnie said. “If you were going to be here.”

  “I haven’t made bread in so long.”