shared a bedroom for over a year, yet she won’t hear a word about divorce.”
“It’s all so sad.”
Frank was silent. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with despair. “Henry Ford was at the studio this week. Monday.” He stared out the side window. “It was a disaster.”
“Why? What happened?”
“He set up a meeting about a country house. When he showed up, I simply…I couldn’t gin up an ounce of enthusiasm.”
She watched the outline of his face.
“It’s not the only commission I’ve lost lately. I’ve hit some kind of wall. I just can’t live this life anymore. There’s this awful doom I feel, that I’ll have to spend the rest of my days spitting out houses in Oak Park until I fall over at the table.” He emitted a grim sigh, tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Strange, isn’t it, that I have a man of Henry Ford’s stature show up at my studio—that some recognition finally comes after all these years—and it means almost nothing.”
“I understand.”
“You know what’ll be built in this field someday? Little boxes iced with stucco that some horse’s ass will call ‘prairie houses.’ Complete with ‘Frank Lloyd Wright windows’ bought for nothing from some cheap glass company in Chicago. Do you see the irony of it?” When he looked at her, she saw something new, a wounded outrage. “I’ve been a pariah in this town since I moved here, and now I’ve got imitators! They think it’s just a matter of stripping the frills off, like the dress reformers. The sons of bitches don’t have the intelligence to steal the right ideas.”
“Clients who understand will pay for the real thing, Frank.”
“You know what’s wrong?” He moved his fingers through her hair. “I want you, Mame. Next to me. I want to go out into the world and look at things with clear eyes, the way I did when I was twenty. I feel as if I’ve hardly
lived.
I need time away from here—a spiritual adventure—” He was quiet, as if calculating something. “Kuno Francke isn’t the only German who’s after me. There’s a printer in Berlin named Ernst Wasmuth. He does high-quality art books, and he’s convinced we could make good money by publishing a monograph of my work. It would be a statement of what I’ve done. Hopefully it will generate commissions. I don’t know. But I’ve talked to him about going over to Germany in August.”
“Nobody is doing the work you do, Frank. A monograph is your ticket to an international reputation,” she said. “You have to go. It’s the next step for you.”
“You don’t understand. It will be enormous work getting the renderings ready. I could be gone a year.”
Inside her, sorrow was rising like a wave. She crossed her arms, pressed her fingernails into her flesh.
“Come with me, Mamah. You love Berlin—you’ve told me so. Take a holiday—women take tours all the time. Call it what you want. Just stay a couple of months so we can be together. We could give it a try and see if it works.”
“If only it were that simple.” She shook her head. “In a way, it’s easier for you that Catherine knows. I nearly told Edwin, but when you didn’t contact me, I backed away from it.” Mamah felt hot salty tears seep down her cheeks and into her mouth. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”
“Mamah…” Frank said. He pulled her toward him.
“There are two of us in this,” she said. “Can’t you see how impossible it all is? I can’t pick up where we left off, sneaking around again. It wears too hard on me.” She shifted uneasily on the leather of the seat. “I’m going away for a while to Colorado to stay with some friends, Mattie and Alden Brown. Mattie is due in September, and she needs company. I’m going out there with the children as soon as John finishes school.”
Frank looked at her, stunned. “You’re not.”
“I am.”
“Jesus.” He sighed. “Look, I’ll wait until September if I know that—”
Mamah shook her
“It’s all so sad.”
Frank was silent. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with despair. “Henry Ford was at the studio this week. Monday.” He stared out the side window. “It was a disaster.”
“Why? What happened?”
“He set up a meeting about a country house. When he showed up, I simply…I couldn’t gin up an ounce of enthusiasm.”
She watched the outline of his face.
“It’s not the only commission I’ve lost lately. I’ve hit some kind of wall. I just can’t live this life anymore. There’s this awful doom I feel, that I’ll have to spend the rest of my days spitting out houses in Oak Park until I fall over at the table.” He emitted a grim sigh, tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Strange, isn’t it, that I have a man of Henry Ford’s stature show up at my studio—that some recognition finally comes after all these years—and it means almost nothing.”
“I understand.”
“You know what’ll be built in this field someday? Little boxes iced with stucco that some horse’s ass will call ‘prairie houses.’ Complete with ‘Frank Lloyd Wright windows’ bought for nothing from some cheap glass company in Chicago. Do you see the irony of it?” When he looked at her, she saw something new, a wounded outrage. “I’ve been a pariah in this town since I moved here, and now I’ve got imitators! They think it’s just a matter of stripping the frills off, like the dress reformers. The sons of bitches don’t have the intelligence to steal the right ideas.”
“Clients who understand will pay for the real thing, Frank.”
“You know what’s wrong?” He moved his fingers through her hair. “I want you, Mame. Next to me. I want to go out into the world and look at things with clear eyes, the way I did when I was twenty. I feel as if I’ve hardly
lived.
I need time away from here—a spiritual adventure—” He was quiet, as if calculating something. “Kuno Francke isn’t the only German who’s after me. There’s a printer in Berlin named Ernst Wasmuth. He does high-quality art books, and he’s convinced we could make good money by publishing a monograph of my work. It would be a statement of what I’ve done. Hopefully it will generate commissions. I don’t know. But I’ve talked to him about going over to Germany in August.”
“Nobody is doing the work you do, Frank. A monograph is your ticket to an international reputation,” she said. “You have to go. It’s the next step for you.”
“You don’t understand. It will be enormous work getting the renderings ready. I could be gone a year.”
Inside her, sorrow was rising like a wave. She crossed her arms, pressed her fingernails into her flesh.
“Come with me, Mamah. You love Berlin—you’ve told me so. Take a holiday—women take tours all the time. Call it what you want. Just stay a couple of months so we can be together. We could give it a try and see if it works.”
“If only it were that simple.” She shook her head. “In a way, it’s easier for you that Catherine knows. I nearly told Edwin, but when you didn’t contact me, I backed away from it.” Mamah felt hot salty tears seep down her cheeks and into her mouth. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”
“Mamah…” Frank said. He pulled her toward him.
“There are two of us in this,” she said. “Can’t you see how impossible it all is? I can’t pick up where we left off, sneaking around again. It wears too hard on me.” She shifted uneasily on the leather of the seat. “I’m going away for a while to Colorado to stay with some friends, Mattie and Alden Brown. Mattie is due in September, and she needs company. I’m going out there with the children as soon as John finishes school.”
Frank looked at her, stunned. “You’re not.”
“I am.”
“Jesus.” He sighed. “Look, I’ll wait until September if I know that—”
Mamah shook her
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