The Woman in the Photo (22 page)

“It's clear, sir, where your son gets his graciousness. Your entire family has made us feel utterly comfortable.”

Silently, I congratulate
myself
for the maturity of my remark. It's exactly what Mother would say whether she believed it to be true or not.

Oscar Eggar smiles and glances beyond me to Nettie and Floyd, still perched on the settee. Goodness, am I to formally introduce my maid and driver? I turn to see that I was correct in my assumption about Floyd's diet. He now swallows the final bite of his second biscuit.

Nettie, sweet Nettie, comes to my aid as she has so many times before. Standing, she inspires Floyd to rise to his feet as well. I note the bobbing of his Adam's apple as the chewed dough makes its way down his throat. Both step toward Mr. Eggar with hands outstretched. Nettie bows slightly as she says, “I believe you already know Mr. Capelli. Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Nettie MacAuley.”

“Hello, Floyd,” Mr. Eggar says. “It's a pleasure, Miss MacAuley.”

“Oscar,” Floyd says, looking as though he'd like to leave.

Eugene steps forward to shake Nettie's hand. Like his father, he addresses Floyd by his first name. “How are you this fine afternoon, Floyd?”

Obviously, there is something amiss between the two men, but I have no idea what it is. Saving us all from discomfort, Mrs. Eggar flutters in with another tray bearing an opened tin of corned beef. I feel both honored and embarrassed that she
has served such a delicacy. Surely they were saving the corned beef for a special occasion.

“You two wash up,” she says to her husband and son. “Miss Haberlin, please sit and let me pour you a cup of tea.”

Without further fuss, the men disappear and I return to the chair next to the fireplace. But not before I reach up and remove my blue, blue, blue hat.

O
NCE WE SETTLE
in, tea at the Eggar home could not be more enjoyable. After the initial disturbance of my unannounced arrival dissipates, the most amiable conversation I've had all summer effervesces like bubbles of champagne.

“The sight of two women bobbing along in the skiff was quite hilarious,” Eugene Eggar says, beaming. “Mady and I watched them attempt to come ashore with great amusement.”

“And yet you remained in your hiding place,” I parry back.

“What else could I do? You had to get close enough for me to help you. It would have done you no good to see me and be too fearful to row onward.”

“True enough. I would have paddled right back into the center of the lake!” My cheeks are aflush with laughter. I imagine they are the shade of a Persian rose. A fact that pleases me, since my skin can appear so pale.

“Another biscuit, Floyd?” Mrs. Eggar asks.

Brazenly, Eugene quips, “That would make it half a dozen.”

Everyone laughs heartily. Even Floyd.
Especially
Floyd. Whatever had been awry between the club's stable boy and the Eggar family is now buried beneath an avalanche of good cheer.

“Your son told me that you work in the mill, Mr. Eggar.” I turn my attention to the patriarch of the family. He has been sitting quietly—though attentively—in the club chair in the far corner of the room.
His
chair, quite obviously, with his slippers stashed beneath.

“Worked. I was a puddler.”

“The
best
puddler at Cambria Iron,” Eugene adds with obvious pride.

“Please forgive my ignorance, sir. Does a puddler make train rails?”

A brief shadow veils Mr. Eggar's eyes. “We were once the backbone of the mill.” He uses his hand to reposition his left leg. “A puddler works—
worked
—the furnace. We heated the pig iron to molten metal, stirring it over and over in the fire until the carbon burned off. Only the most experienced puddlers could make steel. If you didn't get it just right, the steel was no good. It went brittle.”

He falls silent. Outside, metal wheels of a wagon are audible as they roll over cobblestone. I also hear horses chuffing and children squealing as they trundle hoops in the street. Elsie Eggar sees me notice her longing glance toward the window and smiles shyly.

“I was replaced by a machine,” Mr. Eggar says, quietly, “but not before—”

He stops. He runs his left hand over his thigh.

“My husband had an accident at the mill, Miss Haberlin. A spit of fire from the open furnace ignited his trousers. Before they could extinguish it, his leg was badly burned.”

“Dear me,” I gasp, my hand to my chest.

“That
mill,
” says Mrs. Eggar, her jaw tight.

“That mill fed this family.” Mr. Eggar's tone silences his wife. “It put a roof over our heads. The mill hospital saved my life. There will be no blaming the mill. I knew the dangers of the job.”

I reach for my teacup, lift it to my lips, and take a sip. Around me, all do the same.

“It's safer now,” Eugene says, softly. “The only accidents we have in the blacksmith shop are unplanned children.”

“Eugene!”

His father and Floyd laugh. Elsie and Nettie blush. Eugene grins at me.

“Miss Haberlin is tougher than you think, Mother. How else could she row clear across a lake?”

“Indeed,” I say. Surprisingly, I am undisturbed by Eugene Eggar's indelicate remark. His comfortable home, his proud family, his sweet sister, his gracious mother all conspire to show me how sheltered I'd been. Beyond the pretense of “roughing it” in our pristine mountain retreat, free from the restraints of Pittsburgh society, apart from all that is expected and required of a girl born into the Haberlin family, I now see a glimpse of the real world.

Now that my eyes have been opened,
I say to myself on that warm summer Sunday in the cozy parlor of the Eggar family home,
they will never again be closed.

NORTH BEVERLY PARK

Present

L
ee had been downtown twice. Once at the Department of Social Services to uncover who she really was; this second time to find out what that really meant. With the late-morning sun still high in the sky, she drove west on Sunset Boulevard to the San Diego Freeway, taking in the brown scenery along the way. If it didn't rain soon, Los Angeles would turn to dust.

The low, wide white building sat squarely in a crispy yellow field. On its face was a familiar symbol: the crimson “plus sign” of the American Red Cross. As Lee pushed through the glass doors into the lobby, she felt her blood pumping throughout her body.

“Um, hi,” she said to the receptionist. Sitting at a utilitarian desk in the sun-flooded lobby, the receptionist looked up and smiled. Her expectant expression caused Lee's face to flush. Suddenly she was tongue-tied. Instead of mooning over York in
the car on the way downtown, why hadn't she figured out what she was going to say?

“I'm Lee Parker,” she spluttered. Then she swallowed and dove in. “I'm trying to identify a woman in an old photograph with Clara Barton. The photo was taken in 1889.” She cleared her throat. “The woman with Clara Barton is, um, my great-great-great-grandmother. I mean, I think so. That's what I'm trying to find out. See, I'm adopted—”

Lee stopped herself from blathering by biting the inside of her lip.

“Okay,” the receptionist said, stretching the vowel.
Okaaaaay
. “I'll show your photo to my boss.”

Something between a cough and a nervous laugh escaped Lee's throat. “Funny thing is,” she said, “I don't actually have the photo. Before I was able to take a picture of it with my phone, it was taken away.”

“Okaaaaay
.” The receptionist's brow creased in a furrow of confusion.

“Of course, I've
seen
it,” Lee added, quickly. “It
exists
. I just don't have it in my, you know, physical possession. It's up here.”

She tapped her forehead. Her face grew redder.

“Have a seat.” The girl behind the desk swept her open palm to the waiting area as if she were a model at a car show. Lee swiveled on her heels and trudged across the gleaming travertine floor, berating herself for being such a troll. Perhaps she should have come later in the day, when her brain was operating on all cylinders.

“Miss Parker?”

After a few minutes, a young woman about Lee's age ap
peared next to the armless settee where Lee sat, slumped. The girl looked like she was nice. Orange freckles, black-rimmed glasses, a tranquil smile, biggish ears. Hers was the type of open face that could comfort a person in the throes of a disaster. She wore an ironed white shirt, navy-blue pants, and a red suit-type jacket that sagged slightly in the shoulders.
Uniform?
Lee wondered. She stood up.

“I'm Hannah.” The girl extended her hand. “Please have a seat.”

Feeling a little silly, Lee shook her peer's hand. It was doubtful that Hannah was over twenty. Her knuckles were dimpled. She had clear polish and fingernails filed into perfectly rounded peaks. Like Lee's, her long hair was profuse. Only Hannah's mane was reddish brown and pulled into a tight, high pony, secured with a red rubber band. Her black leather loafers were as shiny as her glossed lips.

Lee sat. Hannah pulled up a chair next to the settee.

“I'm an intern here,” she said. “How can I help?”

Gulping a mouthful of air, Lee exhaled the whole story. “Here's the thing,” she began. In a flood of words, she spilled all. Bathed in the radiance of Hannah's warmhearted gaze, she ceased to care if she sounded dopey or inexact. Wasn't life full of muddy emotions?

“. . . so then my computer crashed . . . share a car with my mom . . .”

Out it all flowed. Something about the way Hannah perched on the edge of her chair, both hands on her lap, fingers entwined, inspired Lee to talk until she had nothing more to say.

“. . . didn't think I would find anything . . . felt so hopeless . . .”

“Ah. Ooh.” Hannah responded in all the right places.

“No way would I ever hurt my mom.” Lee heard her voice waver. “It's not her fault that I need to know where I came from.”

Hannah whispered, “My best friend is adopted. She feels the same way.”

“I thought I was okay with everything. You know, with
not
knowing. My family is my family. For better and worse. But when I saw the photograph in the adoption file—” Another deep breath. “It became so
real
. A living, breathing ancestor. An actual relative of the woman who carried me inside her for nine months. She had a life, a family. A
history
. Unlike mine that pretty much starts with me. The moment I saw the woman in that photo—my
blood
—I realized how much I'd needed to know all along. It was here—” Lee pressed the tips of her fingers onto her chest. “Buried, but always inside me.”

Hannah bobbed her head and pressed her lips together. Lee added, “I was finally able to trace the photo back to Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Around Memorial Day, 1889.”

“Oh.”

“You know about what happened there?”

“A little.”

“My God, when I think about those poor people . . .”

Nodding, Hannah sighed. They both paused to imagine the unimaginable.

“For some reason,” Lee said, “my great-great-great-
grandmother stood with Clara Barton in the aftermath of the Johnstown nightmare. A photo was taken of the two of them. Standing in rubble. I'm hoping to find it. Maybe identify the woman in it?”

“Ah.” Again, Hannah nodded. With her serene smile affixed to her face, she released an audible outbreath. Then she reached out and rested her palm on the back of Lee Parker's hand. She gave it a one-two pat. Lee crumpled. A hand pat was never a good sign. It's what veterinarians did before they told you your dog didn't make it. It's what Gil did before he ripped the future out from under his daughter's feet. Bracing herself to hear, “Gee, Miss Parker, I wish there was something I could do,” Lee let her chin dip down to her chest.

“Do you have time today?” Hannah asked.

Time?
Lee lifted her head, momentarily confused.
Today?

“Clara Barton was somewhat of a pack rat for documents and photos. There's an archive of her diary and letters in Washington, D.C. Memorabilia, too. Cool drawings and stuff. It's all in the Library of Congress. If you have time, I can do an archive search of her collection. We have access to some of the documents that the general public doesn't.”

“Wait. What? Today? Yes I have time. All day. I've been waiting eighteen years. Wow! Great! Thank you!” Lee felt like Valerie. The maven of exclamation points.

Hannah laughed and stood up. With her eyebrows arched up to her hairline, she said, conspiratorially, “Who doesn't love a good mystery?”

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

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

Memorial Day

May 30, 1889

10:43
P.M.

T
he sun set hours ago amid rain that intensified with each passing hour. When we arrived at the train station earlier, and made our way to the cottage, I noticed some bursts of sunlight through the gray clouds. I felt a flicker of hope that the heavens would tire of pelting Lake Conemaugh with its tears. No such luck.

Inside the cottage, Nettie and Ella lit every fireplace to dry the dampness and warm the chill. Maggie prepared a pot of Purée Mongole with the turnips, leeks, and peas she brought with her on the train. While we ate supper, no one spoke as we all listened to the rain hammer the cottage roof.

Suddenly there was a knock on the cottage door. Nettie hurried from the kitchen to answer it. “Excuse the interruption,” we heard from the front entryway. Mother and I both left the table to see who would call on such a stormy night. Colonel Unger, the club's caretaker, stood dripping on our Oriental rug.

“Goodness, Colonel,” said Mother, “you're soaked to the bone.” Water streamed off his black rain slicker in rivulets.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Haberlin.”

“Nettie,” Mother said, “please help Mr. Unger with his coat.”

As my maid stepped forward, Colonel Unger raised his hand. “I can't stay. I've come by only to make sure your family is okay.”

“Why, yes. Fine, fine,” Mother trilled, smiling falsely as if to convince herself. “Warm and dry.”

“Good.” He turned to leave, then paused. “If anything should happen—”

“Like what?” I asked. Mother glared at me for my want of manners. Yet I didn't back down. I remembered Eugene Eggar's words the day we first met in the woods: “Your lake will one day be a murderer.”

Colonel Unger's gaze, I noted, darted about the room. Everywhere but into my eyes or Mother's. Henry suddenly appeared from around the balustrade. “It's raining cats and dogs!”

“That it is, son.”

“What might happen, sir?” I took a decisive step toward him.

“A roof leak, high water, thunder strike,
anything.
” He turned and reached for the doorknob, his head down. “Please stay put. I am aware that you are here alone. Don't worry. You are safe. I'll come for you as soon as I can if anything—Just a precaution, Miss Haberlin. I'm sure you'll be fine. We all will.”

With that, he pulled open the cottage door and the whooshing sound of rain filled our ears. Mother, Henry, Nettie, and I watched him disappear into the silvery darkness.

After I retired to my bedroom for the night, I couldn't sleep. Now my clock says a quarter to eleven. It's no use lying in bed listening to my heart thump as loudly as the rain on the roof. Peeling back my quilt, I get up and make my way to the window in the eerie darkness. The downpour is still so loud I hear it in my chest. When I slide the curtain aside, I see needles of rain angrily pelting our lake. The water roils and spits in the violet moonlight.

Fear swallows me up. In the corner, the clock tick-tocks. My being grows cold. “Is tonight the night?” I whisper in horror.
Will the monstrous beast that contains our lake open its mouth and release its fury onto the heads of the sleeping citizens of Johnstown? If so, what can I possibly do?

Standing at my window, staring at our churning sea of a lake, I do the only thing I am able to do: I lower my head and pray.

“Dear God, please save us all.”

D
AWN CREEPS INTO
my bedroom as silently as a jewel thief. Perhaps I
had
slept an hour or two, for I awake beneath the covers of my bed and don't remember how I got there. It's as silent as a graveyard. In the timid light of earliest morning, the stillness makes my heart thud. Is the lake . . . our beautiful plaything . . .
gone
? Has it slipped away in the night?

A lack of breath burns my chest. With dread overtaking me, I roll back the covers and tiptoe to the window terrified of what I might see. What I might
not
see. Utter quiet engulfs the cottage. My eyelids press shut before the curtains. I force air in and out of my lungs. Inhaling to fortify myself, I reach out a hand. I grip the curtain panel. Ever so slowly, I peel it back. Then I lean forward and look. And I see it. Our lake! A flat sheet of tin glistens in the faint light. It's the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. We are saved! My breath returns. We have made it. The dam held. Johnstown, and the club, are intact.

Relief exits my chest in a giddy whistle. Mr. Ruff was right: Johnstown was in no danger from our enterprise. The worst is over. We are safe. Weak with happiness, I skip back to my bed and sleep until a deafening clap of thunder wakes me just before noon.