A Flickering Light by Jane Kirkpatrick

could after Donald’s death. Again, people intruding upon the intimacies of a marriage, making such suggestions. People had no idea of the strain.
    Well, perhaps they did. At least the relatives knew she’d gone home to live with her mother when her father died in 1895 and stayed longer than was socially acceptable. She hadn’t cared. Her mother needed looking after, or at least she told herself that. Her sister and her brother, Orrin, were of no help even though they lived in the same town. Or had Orrin moved on by then? She couldn’t remember. She came back to Winona but returned to her mother’s again in the fall of 1900. Mr. Bauer had begged her to come back, to bring Russell, just a baby then. He’d been talking about investing in cropland in North Dakota, and she had put her foot down. As if such an investment made sense. They’d argued; she took Russell and went home to her mother’s.
    But Mr. Bauer charmed her with his easy, persistent smile. He told her of the government’s plan to permit homestead claims to be proved up. He’d get a partner, someone to stay there to do the work. They’d share the crop profits. And he could even set up a photographic studio in nearby Hazelton, make it seasonal so it would pay. And then she could travel, take her mother and Russell and visit relatives wherever they’d like. There’d be resources. Resources . He spoke about money as though it was something to be consumed rather than saved for times of trial. She’d had plenty of trials.
    She’d listened and returned to him. Nine months later, Donald was born, in late 1901. Dear, dear Donald with his light hair and sweet smile. She sighed. The paper-cut pain was almost desirable, distracting her thoughts of Donald. She pressed her finger, forcing blood she let drip over the dry sink. She watched it drop by drop, then decided to ease her discomfort with the salve, wrap the small throb in her handkerchief. Later she’d have to put extra bluing in the water to remove the stain. Scrub it hard.
    Mrs. Bauer drifted back into the parlor and picked up the picture her husband had taken of the three of them, her and Russell and Donald. She evaluated herself. It wasn’t one of her best photographs. She looked harsh, half her face in shadow. She’d retouched it, hoping to bring out the natural fullness and a small lift to her single-strand lips, barely wider than a yarn thread. She’d held the brush in her mouth to keep it moist while she perused the detail on the plate. Russell stood behind her, his hand gently on her neck, so protective. Only Donald smiled, and now he was gone. She ran her fingers across the cool glass that covered Donald’s face.
    She heard the door slam. Russell shouted, “Did you see me, Mother? I hit the ball further than anyone.”
    “Farther than,” she corrected.
    “They said I was too young to play with them, but I hit the ball fur…farther than even I thought I could.”
    “That’s good. You ought to stay in now, wash up for supper. Your father will be home soon.” She looked at the kitchen clock, annoyance spearing her lethargy. He should already be here. He’d probably stopped off at one of his lodges. No telling when he’d be home now.
    She thought she saw a flash of anger cross Russell’s eyes. Mrs. Bauer shared his sentiments, though for very different reasons. She simply could not count on her husband to be home at any given time. It was a small thing to expect, and yet he wouldn’t comply. “We’ll eat without him,” she said. “Wash up.” She grabbed at the cupboard door, jerked plates out, slammed them on the table.
    Feeling angry was better than feeling nothing.

    Chaos greeted Jessie once she reached Broadway Street and home. Her stomach growled to be fed, but her mother had other plans.
    “I’ve had your father looking all over town. You had an interview this morning,” her mother said. “You left the house in the dead of night. Roy told us, though it took him a