A Flickering Light, Page 4

  She supposed those were important questions, but wasn’t it more critical to know how much photographic experience they might have, whether they knew when something was supposed to be upside down and when it wasn’t?

  They answered, told him they were fifteen and sixteen years old, had good references, and Jessie had graduated from the eighth grade from Madison School on Sanborn. Voe did not finish school but had gone to work early, she said, cooking and cleaning for others. He even asked what hours they’d be available. Jessie thought that a silly question. Their parents would fill their hours if they didn’t have employment, so any hours working at the studio would be better than scrubbing floors and rubbing knuckles raw on washboards.

  But then it got interesting.

  “Do you understand that I’ll pay you five dollars a week?”

  “Those are fine wages,” Jessie said. “Thank you.” She sat back, her feet barely reaching the carpeted floor. Five dollars was better than she’d hoped for.

  He held up a finger. “But only after you’ve attended classes with me for six months.”

  “You won’t pay us while we’re working?” Voe asked.

  “It’s fortunate that I’m not asking you to pay me,” he said, “for the experience and expertise you’ll be receiving. There are new laws afoot that will require certification in order to become a photographer. One will have to demonstrate that one can handle the chemicals and the flash-light work. None of this amateur risk of explosions, people burning their eyebrows off, and such.”

  Voe giggled.

  He frowned, then continued. “Such episodes have led to fires in studios, so it is not a laughing matter.”

  Voe lowered her eyes.

  “Though I use the flash less than most photographers in the city. If all works out well, you’ll have a good wage. More than double your book bindery.” He turned to Jessie now. “If what you told me was truthful.”

  “Of course it was truthful,” she defended. She wasn’t sure she wanted to work for this man, who suggested that amateurs were dangerous or that he couldn’t trust what they said. Still, this job would get her closer to her dream than she’d ever been before. She’d have to take photographs now. It would be part of her…profession. She’d be able to devote the time to it, and neither Lilly nor her mother would be able to complain that she daydreamed or wasted her days.

  “I wonder,” he said, “about your camera experience.” He nodded toward Jessie’s leather bag sitting like a patient dog at her feet.

  “Jessie has lots,” Voe said. “You’ll have to teach me harder, I guess. Maybe I’ll have to stay after school. I’m used to that.” Voe had long eyelashes, and she fluttered them at Mr. Bauer. She fanned her face with her long fingers, her white cuticles flashing like snowflakes against the dark drape pulled back to allow the sun through the tall window. Why, Voe’s being flirtatious, Jessie thought.

  Mr. Bauer scowled when he turned to Jessie. “Are you one of those camera girls producing social booklets?”

  He spoke with a challenge, reminding her of Papa when she disobeyed. “No. I mean, yes, I have a camera so I guess I’m a camera girl, but no, I haven’t ever tried to make a book of photographs. Except in the bindery,” she added. “Where I was required to.”

  “So what do you do with that camera? What is it?”

  “I just take…pictures. Of the park or the lake or snow melting. This morning I’d hoped to get a picture just at dawn of the burn racing up the bluff. I’ve been watching at night from my window, and I love the flicker of lights. They dance as the flame weaves back and forth, and then there’s this explosion at the top, where fire hits snow and poof, the fire is out. I wanted to capture that, just when the light was perfect. But I was interrupted.” She sighed, then brightened. “It’s a Kodak,” she said. “Would you like to see it? It’s the preloaded one, from 1888. It takes a hundred round photographs, two inches in diameter. I have to send the entire camera back for developing, and I have to save my money for that.”

  Mr. Bauer grunted, but he didn’t shift his eyes to look at the ceiling the way some did when she enthused about her camera.

  She knew she ought to stop talking, but she wanted him to know how much she loved photography. “I saw Jessie Tarbox Beals at the St. Louis World’s Fair, the Lewis and Clark Exposition that President Roosevelt dedicated,” she babbled, “in 1904.”

  “I know when it was,” he said.

  Jessie nodded, enthusiasm wrapped in memory propelling her forward. “I saw her standing on a twenty-foot ladder to shoot. I’d never seen a woman doing that before. My uncle August was with me, and we watched what she took and how she moved around the crowd, and she seemed to be everywhere. I heard she took a picture of Mr. Roosevelt and his son. My uncle took me up on Mr. Ferris’s observation wheel. I wished I had the camera to take a picture from that height! We saw the Gerhard sisters’ exhibit on Olive Street too. They took portraits from the Pike and anthropology exhibits and used natural light. The people, those from the Philippines and other exotic places, looked so…friendly,” Jessie continued. “They could have been a person living next door who dressed differently, that was all. It was wonderful, and I’d give anything if I’d had pictures of what I saw there. To hang on to.”

  “You’re quite the reporter yourself,” he said, and this time she heard laughter in his tone. She felt her face grow hot. “Mrs. Beals is quite well known for her newsworthy photographs, as are the Gerhard sisters. Do you anticipate taking pictures of fires and dray accidents too, as Mrs. Beals has?”

  “No. I only meant to tell you—”

  “Of your experience. Very good.” He looked annoyed again. “And what would you hope to do once you’ve had my training? Leave me to run your own studio, if not to take photos of accidents and such?”

  “I could,” she said, “but that wouldn’t be my plan. I want to stay near my family. I’d like to see if I have the eye to capture beauty in landscapes or people. It’s a way of…expression,” Jessie added. She looked down. The room felt hot. She couldn’t explain how she felt, not really. She was saying too much. “Besides, the last time I looked, Winona had seven photography studios in addition to this one. I doubt it could handle yet another. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Especially one owned by a woman,” Voe added.

  “I might like to travel,” Jessie said, brightening. “To faraway places. Taking pictures of the people and the rivers and lakes and maybe even mountains—that’s what I want to do. For the memory of them, though. Not to compete in business.”

  Mr. Bauer appeared to study his notes. Jessie wanted to jump into the silence but knew that quiet was a gift that ought to be respected. She gazed around the reception room, noticed books as well as photographs. She imagined herself greeting people, then watching this man work and learning from him. She’d always been a good student if the teaching wasn’t all from books.

  “Miss Gaebele—is my pronunciation correct?”

  “It’s pronounced Gay-bell. With emphasis on the front.”

  “Miss Gaebele, then.” He continued on with her nod. “And Miss…pronounced cup, I presume? Yes. Well then, you girls understand that there are hazards to this profession not found in any other, beyond the flash-light issues. Those you can learn to avoid with discipline and routine. But there’s the sickness, the jaundice, mercury poisoning. I have already had it. In 1901. It took me six months to recover. The second time, in 1904, I entrusted this studio to Mr. Risser and hoped to heal at my farm in North Dakota. But I needed to return.” He pulled at his mustache, ran his hands through his black-as-ink hair. He didn’t elaborate. “It’s said that each time the sickness comes, the recovery takes longer. I’ve been exposed my whole life, though. You ought not to dwell on the possibility of your becoming ill. If we rotate the chemical work, none of us will. But others might worry for you. So I wanted you to be aware.”

  “What’s it like?” Voe asked. “The sickness.”

  “The skin beco
mes spotted, and the stomach wants to divorce the body,” he said. “One’s mind is good though forgetful, but the body weakens.”

  “I wouldn’t like that,” Voe said. She shivered.

  Jessie turned to Voe. “He’s only had the sickness twice, and he’s been a photographer for…” She looked up at him.

  “Since 1894. Twice, in my forty years of living.”

  “That’s twice in thirteen years of being a photographer. I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about, Voe.”

  Voe shrugged.

  Jessie calculated further. Mr. Bauer was just two years younger than her father. Working for the photographer could be like working for Papa, who’d be a kind employer.

  Mr. Bauer stood then, erect as a military man, dapper with his starched collar and cuffs. His thick mustache covered his upper lip. His nose was narrow and appeared to have never been broken. She might call him handsome in a prim sort of way. But she thought she saw sadness in this man’s brown eyes too.

  “Miss Gaebele, you will need to pay attention,” he said, “if you’re to acquire the necessary skills to pass the certification test.”

  Jessie lowered her eyes. It wasn’t polite to stare and worse not to know what your employer might have just said.

  “I don’t plan to take a test,” Voe said. “I did enough of that in school. Can I still be in your employ?”

  “You have to listen and learn. It’s not required that you take the exam, but I’ll want a certified person to run the studio should I become ill again, and if Miss Gaebele doesn’t take the test or pass it, then I’ll be looking for new employees. And you, Miss Gaebele? Are you one to avoid an examination?”

  “Oh, never. How else could I discover what I didn’t think I could do?”

  He appeared to like her answer, for she thought she saw light come into his eyes behind his lenses, tiny as a pinprick. He adjusted his dark tie.

  “Very well, then. One last thing. While you are in training, I do not want you to photograph on your own. I will ask that you leave your Kodak behind when you come here. In fact, I suggest that you leave it here in this studio until I feel you have acquired the necessary discipline. You’ve likely learned bad habits that I’ll need to change if you’re to be a useful assistant. I’ll decide the subjects and the settings of photographs that I might allow you to take. At first, you will not be photographing at all. You’ll be learning how to schedule appointments, develop and make prints. If you’re very good, very observant, perhaps you could be taught retouching. If you wish to work a little extra. It could earn you more money, though much of that work my wife, Mrs. Bauer, does. As she has time. Are these conditions acceptable?”

  “I’ll need to ask my ma if I can work for six months without pay,” Voe said. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  Jessie had heard what he said about not taking photographs, but she couldn’t believe it. What a waste not to allow them to do the very thing he was hiring them to do! “What a waste of…pluck!” Jessie blurted.

  “You’ll have to unlearn bad habits.” He looked at Jessie. “And, Miss Kopp, you’ll likely have some habits in need of work as well.”

  Did she want to give up what she loved doing for even a short time in order to achieve what she wished for? Maybe she should just walk out the door now. But she didn’t.

  “Tell her it’s like…going to the Winona Normal School,” Jessie advised. She spoke firmly, belying the pounding of her own heart. No photographs for six months? It would be like giving up food. But then maybe such a sacrifice was what she deserved. She’d had it too easy. Now things were about to change.

  “Very good,” FJ said. He pointed his pencil at Jessie. “Because it is. And I’m not charging you any tuition the way Winona Normal would. You’ll come out with skills that might lead you to a profession nearly as valued as teaching. At least you could assist your families until you marry.”

  Voe giggled again. “Jessie’s married to that camera.”

  “Looks like she’ll be getting a divorce then,” Mr. Bauer said. “If she’s in my employ.”

  “I’ll tell my ma,” Voe said. “But I bet she’ll be just as miffed as Jessie’s ma when she sees her bloody blouse sleeves shortened as they are.” She pointed to Jessie’s bare arms.

  “Are you injured?” Mr. Bauer said, confused.

  “Nonsense,” Jessie said.

  But he stepped toward her as though to lift her arm to examine it, then stopped.

  “It’s… camera related,” Jessie told him. “A gamble of the profession, one might say. But nothing to worry over. Thank you for your interest though. That’s very kind.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Bauer said. “You’re willing to accept my terms?” He stepped back, became professional again.

  She’d only had the camera a year, but it had become as much a part of her as her corset. She’d gotten by without it this morning; she supposed she could get by without the camera too, but it wouldn’t be as easy. It would be like gazing into a window, wishing for a fancy dress hanging there right in front of her, but unreachable.

  She’d have to keep her word once she gave it. It wouldn’t be forever. She’d learn new skills, prove herself to Mr. Bauer, and before he ever imagined, she’d be back taking photographs. That would be her goal.

  “Agreed,” she said. She picked up the camera case as though it were a precious child and handed it over to him. He nodded, then set it beside his chair. Jessie stared at it. Had she made a terrible mistake?

  “You begin on Monday at eight in the morning. We’ll start with a tour of the facility. Today, you may leave by the front door, but in the future, please use the back entrance. That’s where employees enter.”

  Both girls offered him gloved hands, then left. Jessie considered what she’d just agreed to. Lilly would say it was one of the requirements of employment, and small sacrifice at that. Selma would tell her she’d just given up a piece of her heart. Neither sister would be totally correct. Jessie was in the middle: a small sacrifice did not quite describe the act. And while she hadn’t given up a piece of her heart, she’d surely made it hesitate by leaving her camera behind.

  Expectations

  MRS. BAUER—IT WAS HOW SHE thought of herself—drifted through the house, feeling wispy and unfinished, dragging her palm across newly dusted tabletops, lifting the fern fronds to tease her fingertips. Winnie napped and Mrs. Bauer had tasks to do, as any mother did. It was time to reorganize the closets. It was a task she felt she must accomplish at least monthly. But a great emptiness veiled her today, a fog she couldn’t brush away. She had no energy, not even to argue with Mr. Bauer about weaning Winnie, a subject he’d inappropriately brought up some weeks before. Any residue of strength she might have had he’d robbed from her this morning by his intrusion. It was no concern of his, or ought not to be, this detail of child rearing. Weaning was within the purview of women, of mothers and grandmothers, not husbands and fathers. He still had so much to learn.

  When her father had brought Mr. Bauer home following one of his photographic meetings, Jessie Otis, then a mere sixteen-year-old girl, had found him dashing and charming. He could make her laugh. He had a sweet smile and eyes as calm as Lake Winona on a still summer day. She could sink into those eyes. He was “going places” her father had told her. He had “property,” small cottages in Winona and a photographic studio in St. Charles a few miles away. He was a quick study, her father said, would learn photography in a snap.

  They married on February 17, 1891, just a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday, and before long he bought out Grover Studio in Winona along with its enormous set of glass plate negatives, which her father said would make Mr. Bauer good money, all those pictures of landscapes that people wanted. Mr. Bauer had turned a good number of them into postcards once the postal service permitted both the address and a message to be written on the same side, leaving the opposite side for photographs. Some people still sent leather postcards, but Mr. Bauer was sure that would s
top soon enough, though sometimes his “vision of the future” didn’t ring true. He said it was the timing of things that allowed an idea to become a practice one could pursue toward perfection. But sometimes timing took away a vision too. Donald had been taken from her by an inexplicable moment of tragically bad timing. She pressed her hand to her heart. Donald’s memories wore heavily.

  Like a tablecloth unfurled, she lowered herself onto the divan with its claw feet and oak arms she could grip, her linen skirt settling over her knees. She liked the cool of the wood. It gave her strength, which she desperately needed to accomplish her tasks. But today the carved wood offered her no force. She aimlessly turned pages of a book, not remembering anything she’d read. She was vaguely conscious of birds outside the window chattering. Or was it neighborhood boys playing? Russell had come home from school, donned his playing knickers, and headed out the back door, barely stopping to give her a peck on her cool cheek. That was just as well. She didn’t like displays of affection, even from an eight-year-old.

  Paper cut her finger and she stood, sucking on it, aware of the salty taste. At least she could notice it. She sighed and went to the cupboard where her husband kept his salve. His mixture did actually soothe. It was too bad that J. R. Watkins sold a product much like it. Watkins’s business had taken off when he moved it to Winona in 1885. Once, in a flash of argument, her husband had hinted that Watkins and he worked on a salve formula together, but Mrs. Bauer really doubted that. She wasn’t sure why. Her husband was a truthful man. As far as she knew. Still, they remained acquainted with the Watkins family, her husband having taken the great man’s photograph, which the company placed on a postcard and used for promotion. The Bauers didn’t exactly socialize with them, nor with the lumber people like the Lairds and Nortons. They weren’t in that class. But they’d attended the funeral of Mary Ellen, JR’s wife, when she passed in April 1904. It was the same year as Donald’s accident. She gasped a stuttered breath. She hated it when everything she thought of in a day seemed to come back to sweet Donald and the great emptiness of his death.