The Woman in the Photo (5 page)

Crazy.

After her shift ended, Lee sat in her sauna of a car and prayed that it would start. She once read that it takes half a teaspoon of gas to ignite an engine and that's about all she had in the tank.

“C'mon, baby,” she whispered, feeling the floral stink of work bake onto her skin. “Just get me to the gas station across the street.”

The key clicked to the right. The car started. Lee crumpled in relief. Pressing her foot to the gas pedal as lightly as possible, she backed out of the parking space and drove to the exit in the middle of the shopping center. Luck was with her. The lights were green. She crossed Ventura Boulevard without idling and pulled straight up to the pump. With her last twenty—payday was next week—Lee bought as much gas as she could. Enough, she hoped, to fuel her journey downtown the following day.

After eighteen years of questions, she was about to get some answers. Nothing was going to stop her now. She would
walk
if she had to.

Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

THE SOUTH FORK DAM

Memorial Day

May 30, 1889

C
olonel Unger thoughtfully sent his man from the lake to pick us up at the station. Unfortunately, the large trap carriage is open to the elements in spite of its attached roof. The rain is soft, but steady.

“Here, miss.”

Nettie hands me one of the cashmere lap robes Colonel Unger has stored in the back of the carriage. Mother has already wrapped Henry in his like a chrysalis. I shiver slightly. Outside, it
is
unseasonably cool.

My maid climbs to the open perch beside the driver—not her beau, Floyd, I notice—and eases in with Mother's maid, Ella. Maggie, the undercook, sits next to me. We will have to make do with a skeleton staff. The clubhouse dining room will be closed and Father flatly refused to part with the family's butler and primary cook. “Two weeks without Ida's Nesselrode pie?” he said. “Unthinkable!”

“Did you see me up there, Mama? Did you?” Henry is still excited. Sensing his elation, the horses gnaw on their snaffles.

“Settle in, darling.”

“But did you
see
me?”

“I saw you.” At last, Mother smiles. Her fright at Henry's folly dissolves into the sodden air. Turning to me, she asks the question I have been expecting. “How is it you know a town boy?”

I long to inform Mother that I have a full and intricate life beyond her reach, but of course, it isn't true. I reply, “He was helpful last summer with Ivy Tottinger.”

Mother's brows press together in a dubious expression. To quiet her doubts, I add a small untruth.

“He works in the boathouse at the club.”

Just then, the carriage lurches forward and Henry claps his hands. He clucks his tongue the way he's heard carriage drivers do. The horses' ears flicker. Nettie and Ella look back at us and
smile from beneath their umbrella. Little Henry's exuberance is infectious. My leaden mood has disappeared. Perhaps a few days of solitude will soften the tautness I've noticed around my mouth. With so much to plan and think about in Pittsburgh, the tension of my debut has begun to announce itself in my complexion.

Suddenly a strand of sunlight peers through the wet leaves. The rain lightens to a drizzle as the ominous gray clouds float toward the valley. As we ascend the winding mountain road, the carriage gently sways side to side. The rhythmic clip-clopping of the horses' hooves makes me sleepy. I snuggle beneath the lap robe and settle in for the ride.

Pinnate leaves of the ash trees hang over the road like a dancer's graceful hands. Distant hills are a dusky purple hue. Pops of yellow daffodils delight my eyes. These mountains are magnificent—once one rises above the sooty valley. Even though the air is soggy, it's impossible not to feel stirrings of joy at the promise of warmth. Last winter was abominable. And the Alleghenies cling to winter longer than Upper St. Clair does. Father said they were completely blanketed in deep snow. This season, Colonel Unger may be able to forgo restocking the lake. Fresh bass from the mountain streams are always better tasting than the imported variety from less pristine waters.

“When I'm grown-up, I'm going to drive a train,” says Henry, dreamily. “Trains are . . . are
magical
.”

Mother grins and tucks the blanket even more tightly around her son's small body. She refrains from correcting him. Why spoil his boyish dreams with the adult knowledge of his certain future? Henry Haberlin will grow into a physician like his
father, or a banker or a lawyer. If lucky, perhaps he will one day
own
a railroad.

“Settle in, my love,” Mother says to him.

We ride uphill in silence, each to his or her thoughts. As we near the crest of the long, narrow incline, the South Fork dam comes into view. As always, I am struck dumb by the utter
presence
of it. The dam—a massive sloping wall of mud and muck that contains our beautiful lake—seems to be a living, breathing beast. Made of puddle clay, hay, gravel, manure, tree trunks, rocks—anything and everything, really—it smells of the forest floor. Today, that is, as it glistens from the spurts of rain. In the heat of midsummer, the earthen dam is alive with aromatic material that appears to be both growing and decaying before our very eyes.

The carriage driver pulls back on the reins and slows the horses just beyond the first “No Trespassing” sign. Henry squeals, “Whoa!” The driver then makes a sharp right turn and steers us directly atop the flattened breast of the mammoth South Fork dam. Through the wheels, I feel the dam's throbbing. Its
heartbeat
. As other drivers do each summer when Pittsburgh's finest families arrive one by one for their getaway at the mountain retreat, our driver stops in the very center of the crossing to allow us a moment to enjoy the breathtaking—and hair-raising—view. To the left is a sheet of beryl blue as far as the eye can see. From this vantage point, our private lake looks almost like an ocean. To the right: a vertical drop is as deep as Pittsburgh's courthouse tower is high. Or deeper. Far below us, I see pointed treetops and jagged rock. A curving, snaggletoothed ravine that snakes steeply downhill into darkness. I
cannot stare into that black valley without a loss of equilibrium. Even now that we are not as high up as we once were. The club's governors hired workmen from town to lower the top of the earth-packed dam a few feet so that the dirt road would be wider. Crossing the top of the dam is the only convenient way in and out of the club. Naturally, a wider road makes it easier to accommodate the passage of our carriages.

“Progress.”

It's the word I overheard Mr. Frick use to describe widening the dam's crossing by lowering its top. So certain is he that motorcars will soon replace horse-drawn carriages, he is pleased that the more forward-thinking members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club had the foresight to create a wide enough road to handle modern transportation.

Not everyone agreed. More than once, men in the clubhouse parlor hotly debated the decision to lower the dam. Enveloped in cigar smoke, they tugged at the satin collars of their dinner jackets.

“The dam should be
higher,
” one said.

“Rebuilt entirely,” added another.

“Where is the discharge pipe? When is the last time Unger cleared out the debris around the spillway?”

“We're tempting fate.”

The opposition was a large chorus with one refrain: “Have you any idea of the
cost
?”

A thoughtful silence most often ensued. Followed by the stroking of chin beards or the curling of wax-tipped mustaches or the flagging down of waiters for more refreshment. Ultimately, four words prevailed.

“Evolve or go extinct.”

Was that Mr. Frick's voice I heard utter that persuasive statement? Probably. It was spoken with his usual confidence. Often I overheard those words uttered to end an argument flat. Henry Clay Frick is a man who often gets his way without tedious debate. Father once privately described him as a
capitalist.
He meant it not as a compliment. I have heard that Mr. Frick's steelworkers at the Homestead mill despise him. His reputation is one of a cruel boss who values profit over humanity. A robber baron. When workers in the Johnstown Valley bitterly dubbed our mountain retreat the “Bosses' Club,” Mr. Frick laughed and bellowed, “Damn right we're the bosses.”

Why shouldn't he feel proud of his accomplishments?
I thought when I first heard tell of it. Ungrateful workers were forever grumbling about one thing or another. As if they expected the men of the Bosses' Club to give them every dime from their pockets. Cruel? Ridiculous. Whenever the impeccably dressed Mr. Frick saw me, he self-assuredly took my hand and lifted it to his lips in the most graceful manner. “The lovely Miss Haberlin,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “How well you look.”

What do people expect? A man who is in charge of other men must at times be ruthless. As Mother has taught me, a leopard that is born a leopard and raised a leopard will never be a house cat.

One thing is for certain: with the lake lapping up to the dam's top on the left side, and the vast drop into the valley on the right, it's both a thrilling and terrifying sight. Even Henry is silenced by awe.

On that soft, damp dirt road across the dam top, I listen
to the muted roll of the carriage wheels as we get under way. Contentedly, I sigh as my mind drifts back to that same crossing last summer when my heart was thrumming in anticipation of seeing my friends and winning the summer's competitions.

The biggest competition, of course, was for James Tottinger.

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

Day after Memorial Day

Present

A
ll those women do is
not
eat!”

Valerie shook her fists inside the car. She was frazzled. They were late. Mrs. Adell's luncheon had gone overtime. At the wheel, Lee sat as upright as the obelisk in Griffiths Park, hoping a still posture would calm her. Today was the day. Would they be too late? Would she have to take another afternoon off work?

“For an
hour,
I watched them move food around their plates like they were playing checkers.”

Blowing a clump of bangs out of her eyes, Valerie grunted with exasperation. No one could sour her naturally sweet disposition as readily as Esther Adell and her ridiculous “yellow jackets”—the name Valerie gave to Mrs. Adell's luncheon friends. Wearing belted silk dresses or nubby tweed suits in
pale lemon—Chanel, Dior, YSL—they crammed their bony old-lady feet into low-heeled pumps with brass piping on the toe. What did they know of genuine need? Fear so insistent it felt like a chronic migraine.

“One yellow jacket had the gall to pat my hand,” Valerie railed. “Pat. My. Hand. Like I was the family dog.”

Still dressed in her uniform, minus the lacy white cap, Valerie appeared as though she was on her way to a costume party. A lady's maid from
Downton Abbey
. Mrs. Adell insisted Valerie call her “ma'am” and her husband, “sir” and back out of rooms with her head down.

Steadily inhaling and exhaling to quiet her thrumming heart, Lee held her head up. Although she was certain they were doomed, her mother was (of course) unwilling to give up. The barest glimmer of hope was all she needed to fuel her desire to outwit L.A. traffic and make it downtown before the state office closed.

“We'll take the canyon,” she said, as if no other driver ever had the very same notion.

They took the canyon. Lee counted mailboxes. She ignored the sound of blood pulsing in her ears. The curves of Beverly Glen were clogged with cars, but moving. Droopy eucalyptus branches shaded empty driveways, their leaves crispy from the drought. From somewhere, a dog yapped.
Small and white,
thought Lee.
With one of those pink rhinestone collars.
All four windows were rolled down. Her armpits were damp. Again, the air conditioner was off to save gas. Twenty dollars had barely moved the gauge. Valerie was broke, too.

“If you ask me,” Valerie said, “a little fat looks
good
on an old woman. Who wants to hug a brittle bag of bones?”

Lee glanced at her mother and they both erupted in laughter. Esther Adell was the personification of a brittle bag of bones.

“Not many brake lights on Sunset,” Valerie chirped in the blistering car as the canyon drive spilled onto the main artery to the freeway. “Things are looking up!”

Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

The previous summer

1888

M
other dislikes summer as much as I adore it. The heat seeps through my skin and warms my bones. When I tilt my head back and let the sun bathe my face, all the cares in the world melt away. It's as deliciously forbidden as an extra slice of Battenberg cake.

On this particular day, Lake Conemaugh twinkles in the
late-morning sunlight. There isn't a cloud in the Tiffany-blue sky. At this elevation, high above the grit of Johnstown, the ordinary world and its troubles feel blessedly far away. My friends, Julia and Addie, join me on the clubhouse veranda, pretending to inhale nature.

“Shall we go for a sail?” Addie asks me.

I laugh. We all do. Addie wears her best sporting dress—a burgundy pleated frock of silk and cotton. Despite the warmth of the day, she has buttoned the matching jacket to her neck and placed a satin-edged hat over her painstakingly frazzled fringe. Julia's corseted shirtwaist and ankle skirt are more appropriate for the casual atmosphere of the club, but they are clearly her finest activity clothes. I, too, am wearing my best and newest. The lavender cotton of my underskirt is patterned in paisley swirls; the swag is striped in glorious cobalt. Earlier, I had Nettie take extra care to secure my hair with the amethyst-tipped clips I bought on my last trip to New York. None of us would even consider the risk of soiling today's clothes by venturing onto the lake in a wobbly sailboat. Or worse, a canoe. Last summer, with Julian at oars, the canoe capsized us into the water. Thank heavens we were mere feet from the dock.

“They should arrive any moment,” Julia says, excitedly. “I hear their family's bloodline can be traced back to a relative of Countess Augusta Reuss of Ebersdorf, grandmother of Queen Victoria herself.”

“I hear their London home has
two
grand staircases in the entry hall, curving upward to the central master suite,” Addie says, adding, “
Three
water closets. With a built-in bath. One on the second floor.”

My heart is pounding, though I adopt an air of indifference. We have all heard so much about the fetching Mr. James Tottinger from Great Britain. But, fawning over a man is unbecoming. I am nearly a woman. It's time to act like one.

Still.

Before any of us arrived at South Fork for the summer, the whole of Pittsburgh society was abuzz with anticipation at the arrival of our British visitors. The elder Mr. Tottinger had sent Mr. Carnegie a telegram seeking advice on expanding his textile empire to the United States. True to form, Mr. Carnegie invited the entire Tottinger family to Lake Conemaugh. A generous offer, to say the least. But one that anyone who knew Andrew Carnegie would expect. He was renowned as an altruistic man who went out of his way to be helpful. Why, he postponed his own wedding to please his mother! Mr. Carnegie never forgot his modest roots in Scotland, unlike Mr. Vanderhoff, whose bluster was as loud as the machinery at Cambria Iron.

“Nothing fancy,” Mr. Carnegie surely said of the clubhouse rooms in our rustic retreat. “Though you'll have all you need.”

As soon as word got out that the Tottinger family—the elder Mr. Tottinger and his wife; James, their son; and Ivy, their teenage daughter—accepted Mr. Carnegie's invitation, club members scrambled to reschedule their allotted vacation times to coincide with those two weeks. Particularly families with marriageable daughters. The clubhouse was filled to capacity.

Rising up three stories like a gray whale in the green woods, the clubhouse of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club
is the size of a fifty-room hotel. Behind its clapboard façade, the dining room is large enough to seat one hundred and fifty. The bedrooms are spare: slender bed, washbasin, bureau. The more prominent members of the club are assigned front rooms with lake views, of course.

Mornings in the dining room are when and where the club members meet to plan the events of the day. Sailing, canoeing, horseback riding, dressing up and posing for tableaux vivants. Evenings are for entertainments. Some of our own invention; others hired from down the hill. Piano recitals, theatricals, dance practice. Every night it's something new and cheerful. I can only imagine the excited whisperings down the narrow clubhouse halls at bedtime, the boasts, the dares.

Most members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club wouldn't dream of owning a cottage like ours—one of only sixteen. They want a carefree rest in the country. “Roughing it” in the woodsy clubhouse with their peers, leaving their personal servants back home in Pittsburgh. As I would prefer, too. But Father built our cottage—with its medical office—when the club first opened.

“My patients expect instant access to me wherever they are,” he said.

I would have thought Father overly solicitous had I not seen it for myself the summer before.

It was the middle of the night. There was pounding on the cottage door. “Mind the children,” Father called to Mother as he ran down the stairs.

Mother, of course, ran to Little Henry's room first. I dashed to the stair railing. “His pain started about midnight,” I over
heard a man's baritone tell Father. Then I heard a groan, and my friend Edmond's distressed voice.

“It's my stomach. Muscle cramps.”

Panic rose into my chest. Cholera hadn't made its way to our retreat in South Fork, but we all feared it would. Everyone knew the symptoms: diarrhea, vomiting, dehydration, muscle cramps. Anyone rushing to the outhouse was suspect. I nearly crumbled to the floor. Edmond was my age. Would I lose my friend? Were we
all
in danger? Father quickly led Edmond and his father to the back parlor and shut them in his office.

That night, I barely slept. The next morning, I tiptoed downstairs filled with dread. I expected to see pots of water boiling on the cookstove and Edmond's parents weeping in our parlor. Instead, I smelled bacon.

“Is Edmond going to be okay?” My breath was shallow, my lips dry.

“He's fine.” Father sat at the head of the dining room table. He reached for a piece of toast.

“Is it—?” I stopped, as if merely mentioning the dreaded disease would bring it into the house.

“An overzealous badminton game is all,” Father said.

“What?”

“Pulled muscles in the abdomen.”

When I laughed, Father firmly admonished me. “My patients are not to be ridiculed, Elizabeth.”

“Yes, Father, but—”

“Never discuss this case, or any other, with your friends. Do you understand me?”

I nodded.

“Say it out loud.”

“I understand.”

“As far as you are concerned, Edmond and his father were never here. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Father. I hear you.”

“The privacy of my patients is what puts food on our table.”

I understood. There were rules. We all had to abide by them.

Edmond never mentioned that night, and neither did I. Ever.

“Goodness, when will they get here?” On the clubhouse porch, Addie has begun to perspire. She sips iced tea to cool herself.

“Here,” I say, “let me take your jacket.”

Addie looks at me, and I look at her. We both burst out laughing. Only
after
being introduced to James Tottinger would we dare change our outfits.

The loud nicker of a horse causes us to turn our heads toward the entrance road from the dam. But it is a false alarm, only the arrival of Mr. Vanderhoff and his family. Roderick and Albert Vanderhoff hop out of the carriage and head straight for the clubhouse. Oddly, Lily Vanderhoff sits on the open seat like a sack of flour. She stares straight ahead without seeming to see her husband or children at all. She very nearly crumbles to the ground when Mr. Vanderhoff encircles her waist to assist her.

“Oh my.” Next to me, Addie notices it, too.

We both register the impatient embarrassment on Mr. Vanderhoff's face and overhear him mumble something about motion sickness. Quite curious since I have traveled in carriages with his wife before and endured only her nonstop chatter.

“Here we go, Georgie.” After the Vanderhoffs' luggage is unloaded, the driver clucks his tongue at the club's chestnut Haflinger, a faithful workhorse I have ridden many summers. Though broad in the back, she is nonetheless nimble. And quite beautiful. Named after the fair-haired actress Georgiana Drew—married to handsome stage star Maurice Barrymore—Georgie's mane is long and light. She's always been my favorite horse at the club. “Back down the hill, girl,” the driver says. Off they trot. And our anticipation resumes.

Though I wish it were not so, James Tottinger's reputation has occupied my mind for weeks. It is rumored that he once kept company with the stunning Elizabeth Wharton Drexel, daughter of banker Joseph Drexel, of the New York Drexels. Back in London, Mr. Tottinger supposedly had his knickerbockers tailored to flatter the musculature of his legs. They say the very sight of him on horseback has inspired such intense gasps that proper ladies forget to resume their breathing and faint dead away.

The Tottingers of Great Britain are probably as close as any of us will come to meeting royalty. With the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie, perhaps. Our American prince of steel and his bride.

Quite honestly, however, the more I hear of Mr. Tottinger, the more he sounds insubstantial. What woman could be interested in a man who thought more of himself than her? Personally, I am most intrigued by a fact I recently learned about him: he was born in the same year as my favorite poet, Rudyard Kipling. Eighteen sixty-five. Add the numbers together—one, eight, six, and five—and you get twenty. The age I plan to be
when I marry. Ever since I was a girl, the deeper meaning of numbers has fascinated me.

“Hello, dearests.”

Behind me, flitting out from the open clubhouse doors, I hear the avian voice of Francine Larkin. Without turning around, I picture her fluttery entrance. Doubtful such a hummingbird of a woman could summon the lung capacity to yelp for assistance if she fell overboard during a regatta. It was a wonder she could even stand on those miniature feet. She was always lamenting the impossibility of finding button boots so petite.

“Have you tried a shoemaker for
juveniles
?” I once asked when I could no longer stand it.

“No sign of the royals yet?” Francine chirps.

“They're not royals.” I glance only briefly behind me, wishing Francine Larkin would flap her winglike arms and fly back indoors. “Not genuine royals, anyway.” She's dressed in silly pink. Taffeta, of course, from head to toe. Her hair is so blond it belongs on a child. Or a Haflinger horse.

On the wide waterside porch running the length of the clubhouse, my friends and I gaze at the stunning mountain scenery encircling our sparkling lake. This is the most idyllic spot in all of Pennsylvania. With the gently undulating water stretching to the emerald horizon on the far shore, it's easy to imagine we are the only souls on earth. Our very own Garden of Eden. In the afternoon sunlight, the diamonds in my bracelet reflect the twinkle of the lake. Long ago, Mother insisted that I remove my bracelet for day wear. But, just as long ago, I refused. No matter what I am wearing, I never take this bracelet off. It was a gift from my late grandmother.

“Did you hear?” Francine says. Her voice is like a tic in my ear.

Always one for gossip, Addie wheels around. “Hear what?”

“Father took tea with Mr. Carnegie in the city last week and they spoke of the Tottingers.”

“That's news?” Admittedly, my tone is as sharp as a shard of broken china. Like nearly everyone at the club, I've known Francine Larkin all my life. From the start, I've found her as shallow as the stream at Graesers Run. My hope at the moment is that she will drop her “news” like a sparrow drops a worm and flit back inside before the Tottingers arrive.

Instead, tiptoeing up to the porch railing, Francine rests her diminutive hand on the balustrade and turns, forcing us all to face her. “Well,” she begins, obviously settling in to entrap us for a lengthy period. “Father told me that Mr. Carnegie told the elder Mr. Tottinger that summer weeks at the lake were intended for pleasure and sport. However, since they'd come so far to discuss business, he proposed that the men enjoy
weekends
only at the lake, returning to Pittsburgh on the Monday-morning train.”

“So?” I say.

“So—” Her gaze meets mine with brows peaked, a sliver of superiority on her lips. “Supposedly, the elder Mr. Tottinger summoned his son into the grand parlor of their home in London. His son being the eminently eligible gentleman, James Tottinger, a relative of Countess Augusta Reus—”

“We know who he is, Francine.” Even mild-tempered Julia found Francine irksome at times.

“Yes. Of course. Back to my
news
.” She darts a glance at me. “The elder Mr. Tottinger told his son that he—James—
would
not
be returning to Pittsburgh on the Monday-morning train with the other men. He was to remain here for the full two weeks. Which, I heard, distressed him greatly. According to Father, James Tottinger said, ‘Stay in the woods with a bunch of women and children?' Then he asked his father if he'd gone mad.”