The Woman in the Photo (15 page)

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

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

Summer 1888

I
t is nearly noon by the time we are dressed and coiffed and prancing to the end of our dock where Father has tethered the family's skiff. Off-season, he stores it in the boathouse with the others. But now it's bobbing gently on the surface of our stunning lake. The clear blue water is rippled with fish swimming below its surface. More than enough for the clubhouse men
and
the dining room chefs to catch and fry.

Feeling mature with her perfectly frazzled bangs and stylish French twist, Ivy has immaturely refused to cover Nettie's handiwork with a sunbonnet. In spite of my best efforts to warn her against the dangers of direct sunlight, she has refused to cover up. What can I do? In our few hours together, I have noticed that Ivy Tottinger has a fully formed will of her own. Perhaps it's a family trait? One born of too much privilege?

Gathering my skirt with one hand and gripping the dock with the other, I lower myself into the small boat first, admittedly not my most graceful effort. In an alarming fashion, the skiff rocks frighteningly from side to side, nearly spilling me into the drink. But I sit in the center of the plank seat and quickly regain my equilibrium and a modicum of dignity.

“Hand me the picnic basket, will you?” I say to Ivy, smoothing my hair. Nettie hastily packed food for our journey. In the cottage, when she placed the basket in my hands, she whispered, “Shall I fetch one of the boys at the clubhouse to accompany you?”

“Whatever for?” I'd asked, indignant. I'd watched Father and several male club friends propel me around the lake many times. How hard could it be to row a boat?

“The basket, Ivy. Please.”

Suddenly fearful, Ivy Tottinger stands on the dock like a pine tree. In spite of her grown-up hairstyle, she is every bit a child. Stubbornly, she refuses to move. It's as if she just now realizes that boating requires being on unstable
water
. Lake Conemaugh is quite deep, indeed. I'm sure my clumsy entrance into the skiff did nothing to inspire her confidence. Still, I'm not about to clamber out now that I've regained my bearing. I look up at the girl. Having once been the same willful adolescent who now stands like a post on the pier, I know it's best to say nothing and wait her out. Affixing a pleasant smile on my face, I do just that. I wait. Thank goodness it doesn't take Ivy long to realize I'm not getting out. She must get in.

Gingerly bending over the edge of the dock, Ivy hands me the picnic basket. After setting it on the floor of the skiff, I plow onward. “Good,” I state. “Now untie the mooring line and toss it to me.” My voice mimics an authority I don't remotely feel. Again, Ivy imitates a tree.

“That rope
there,
Ivy. See it? Looped over the piling. Could you please untie it and hand it to me?”

With the utter incompetence of a pampered girl who has never even laced a boot—not that I have properly, of course, though I'm quite sure I could—she creeps over to the piling and fumbles with the line.

“Loosen the knot. Yes. A bit
looser
. Good. Now pull the free end out through the knot. Yes, that's the free end. Good girl.”

My fingertips are white with the effort of steadying the swaying skiff against the weathered wood of our pier. The lake looked so still before I got in the boat! Why does the gentlest lap of water cause such undulation? It's nearly impossible to neatly
coil the freed line at the bottom of the boat with one hand. Yet I do. Rapidly losing my patience, I say, “Now step in and sit.”

Only then do I realize I should have untied the
boat
side of the line and tossed the rope within reach on the pier. Oh, dear. How will we secure ourselves upon our return?

I decide to worry about that later. At the moment, Ivy's timid side has resurfaced and she shrinks into her fussy dress. I feel heat rise to my cheeks. Was it not Ivy herself who suggested our outing? With a deep inhalation, I calm myself.

“I'll hold the boat steady while you step in.” I enunciate the last two words distinctly.
Step. In.

At last, clutching the piling with her right hand, Ivy gingerly sets her left foot on the plank seat in the boat and, stunningly, leaves her other foot on our dock. Instantly, the skiff darts away. I feel the rough decking pop from my grip. Panic flares on Ivy's face as her legs float apart. It's only by divine miracle that I'm able to grab her forearm and snatch her into the boat before she tumbles into the water.

“Did I need to instruct you to step
both
feet in?” In the heat of the moment, impatience flares.

“I . . . I . . .” Tears begin to rise up.

“No matter. We are under way now.” Inhaling deeply again, I gather my wits enough to reassure her. “Off we go,” I say cheerfully. In wobbly style, we set off. As I have seen Father—and other men—do, I clutch the grip end of the oars and dip both paddles into the lake. Then I pull them through the water. “Nothing to it,” I say, wincing slightly.

While it's true I underestimated the difficulty of rowing the
vast girth of the lake, we soon settle into a gentle rhythm. The steady glide of the skiff soothes us both. From the clubhouse in the distance, faint sounds of music float on the air. Colonel Unger hired a band to entertain our overseas guests. Their horns send low notes on the breeze. The only other sound is the lapping of my oars as they loop in a lazy circle. From this vantage point—water level—Lake Conemaugh feels even larger. The trees on the far shore are tiny peaks on the horizon. We are but a speck in this vast tableau of nature.

“I knew it would be lovely,” Ivy says, her previous fear vanished into the sunlight. She tilts her face up to the cloudless sky. “There is nothing like this in gray and rainy London.”

Already, I note the pinkness of her nose. Freckles pop up before my eyes. I also feel an ache in my upper arms and shoulders. Our dock is a distant sliver of cedar behind us. In my head I hear Mother's reprimand: “You took a
child
out in a
boat
without a
hat
?” Suddenly our trip across the lake feels impossibly foolhardy. My stomach is making all sorts of unhappy noises. My normal lunchtime passed while we were fussing with the line. In an attempt to change course, I lift one oar out of the water and row with the other as I have seen father do.

“You're not turning back, are you?” Ivy looks cross.

“Certainly not,” I reply. “I'm heading for a cove so we can have our lunch.” My sensible maid had known how long a short outing could take.

“A picnic in the woods!” Ivy again claps her hands like a child on Christmas morning. “How divine.” Reaching her pale dimpled hands to the back of her head, she pats the French
twist to make sure that it is still secure. A sinking feeling descends upon me as I realize this is probably the first time this girl's virginal neck has seen sunlight.

Enduring my sore limbs, I row straight for the first shady cove.

It's rare for me—or anyone—to be on the other side of the lake. Wisely, the builders of our mountain retreat kept us all together. After crossing the dam, there are but a few cottages before the clubhouse. Then the rest are within walking distance beyond it. Our cottage, though last in the line, is still close enough to the clubhouse to take our meals there if we so desire. As far as I know, the only person to live on the north side of the dam is the club's caretaker, Colonel Unger. I suppose he wants to be far enough away from his employer to feel autonomy, yet near enough to maintain the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club both off and on season.

Come to think of it, whenever Father or Julian or Roderick took me out in the skiff, they were rowing us to the clubhouse—absolutely in the opposite direction. This side of the lake feels wild, untamed. Fallen branches and hollowed tree trunks litter the shoreline. Why, it's almost as thick as the lake debris that gathers around the spillway by the dam. Our little boat bumps and scrapes into all manner of nature's shedding as I try to maneuver our way to the darkened shore. It's difficult to see exactly where the water ends and the land begins. Only when the skiff hits sand do I realize we're onshore.

“There,” I say, as if I meant to come aground. “Now, let me stand up fir—” Before I can finish my sentence, Ivy is on her
feet and the boat is again wobbling horribly beneath us. The very action of her standing has pushed us out into the water.

“Dear me.” Stupidly, I rise to steady the lurching back and forth. At that same moment, Ivy sits down hard and destabilizes us further. Once the boat starts rocking, it's impossible to stop it. The more I try to balance us, the more violently we roll from side to side.

“Elizabeth!” In her panic, Ivy rises again. She screeches and grabs my arm. The jolt of it tips us even more. Left, right, left, right. The two of us stand, clutching each other, as the boat threatens to capsize. My knees have turned to flummery. Water sloshes in; the skiff floats farther out. It's inevitable—we are going to tip over into the lake.

“Hold on to me,” I shout into the whites of Ivy's terrified eyes. At that instant, the rocking stops short. Incredibly, the boat seems to be on land again. I'm so stunned I don't feel the tight grip on my upper arm.

Then I do.

“Unhand me, sir.”

Startled, I glare up at a man—a town boy—balanced on a large fallen log that is jutting into the lake. His left arm is looped across an overhanging branch; his right hand grips me tightly. We three are a chain, with me in the center. Ivy clutches my left arm as tightly as he clutches my right. “This is private property,” I state haughtily, my cheeks aflame.

About my age—perhaps slightly older—the town boy wears dungarees, a broadcloth vest, and beige cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled past his veined forearms. A wool cap sits atop his
charcoal curls. He stands so sturdily he seems almost a tree trunk himself. Were I not able to locate his station in life by his clothes, the cracked and callused skin on his strong hands would tell me he is a workingman. Probably one of the millworkers from Johnstown.

The boy laughs. “You want me to let you go?”

“This instant.”

He lets go. Ivy screams as the boat once again rocks violently and my arms flail like a broken windmill. Just as we are about to tip into the lake, the town boy grabs my upper arm again. This time, he takes charge.

“First, still yourselves.” He speaks with quiet command. “You must regain
your
equilibrium so the boat will regain hers.”

I note that he uses the feminine pronoun to label the boat.
Is he mocking me?
I wonder.
The boat is as unbalanced as these silly women
?

“Good,” he continues. “Now lock arms with each other so closely as to be one person.”

Shakily, Ivy slides over to my side and clutches me for dear life.

“Good. When I count to three, I shall pull you onto this log.”

“But—”

“One, two—”

Before the third number, we are yanked onto the fallen log with him. Close enough to smell the pleasantly horsey aroma in his clothes.

“Three,” he says, grinning. Then he expertly guides us off the log and onto the dry shore. Overcome with gratitude, Ivy gushes, “Thank you, sir. I'm ever so grateful. I can't swim.”

My eyes flash with annoyance as I smooth the front of my skirt. She thought not to mention that morsel before we went out on a
lake
?

“Yes, thank you, Mister—”

“Eugene Eggar.” Mr. Eggar lifts his cap and bows his head in my direction.

“Please don't let us keep you any longer from your journey through our property.”

Boldly, Mr. Eggar smiles as he says, “As luck would have it, I worked the dawn shift this morning and have the whole afternoon off to fish.” I note his surprisingly even teeth and the cleanliness of his skin. Not as grubby as one might expect from a workingman.

“Fish?”

“The wiggling flashes of silver beneath the surface of the lake.”

Ivy giggles. I ignore her to inform Mr. Eggar, “Those flashes of silver belong to the club. The
private
club.”

“Ah yes,” he says, still relaxed and confident, without the slightest hint of deference. “The Bosses' Club. Down in the valley we often look up to see your white sailboats crisscrossing the sky.”

“How divine!”

Silently, I resolve to remove the word “divine” from my vocabulary. Especially when uttered in an English accent, it sounds so abominably big-headed. Ivy skips about the shoreline kicking leaves and twigs to the side, making room for our picnic. I stand on the sand with Mr. Eggar and subtly rub my aching arms. Obviously enjoying himself, Mr. Eggar
says, “Do not trees in a forest and fish in a lake belong to God alone?”