by J. L. Jarvis
“I think I can hear the dust falling—individually. Dust!”
Energized by her sudden inspiration, Maggie arose to dust books, more for her need than for theirs. She brushed the feather duster along the shelf, stopping occasionally to reflect on a book as though recalling an old friend, and an enemy or two, from long ago. Maggie had many friends here. When both parents died, she couldn't attend college. But she continued to read. By the time she was eighteen, she had read every work of fiction in the library. No one was surprised when she was offered the position of librarian—no one, that is, except Maggie. It appeared that the pieces of her life were falling together in a neatly ordered pattern, one not of her own design.
Her gaze fell to a book whose spine looked frayed and limp. As she slid the fragile book from its shelf to examine it for damage, the heavy doors of the library swung open and closed with a resounding echo.
She lifted her head toward the vexatious noise and looked through a gap in the stacks to see who was responsible. Her posture straightened. She moved her eyes closer until she had practically shelved her face with the books. There, standing at the entrance, was a man. A young one. And handsome and as tall as most men around here—but leaner, and elegant. There were no bulky broad shoulders to pucker the seams—not on this man—for he was a fine gentleman. He must be a visitor from the South Fork Dam, she decided. Otherwise, why would someone so, well, rich come to Johnstown, let alone her library? She admired him, from his bronze hair to his fine leather Oxfords, as he strode across the room. He looked so aristocratic, standing there at the desk, so tall, so—
The desk. He’s standing at the desk. My desk? Maggie MacLaren, nineteen is far too old to behave like this! She chastised herself under her breath as she smoothed her hair and started to walk back to her desk. She took two steps and stopped short. Spinning around, she gaped at her hands. One hand held the tattered duster and the other held the worn book. There she stood staring, unable to think what to do with such objects. She stuffed the rag and the book into an empty spot on a shelf, took a deep breath and continued on her way, smoothing her skirt and feigning nonchalance.
By the time she reached the desk, she had regained her composure and was indeed quite proud of herself for having done so. Then he pivoted toward her and smiled. In that instant her senses quickened while her brain went numb. Words echoed through her ears to her mind, scrambled and unintelligible. She tried to focus through the shimmering brilliance of his eyes, but her thoughts raced on without her. “Blue…Sapphire blue…Deep blue…Deep watery blue. What a marvel…novel…”
“…Novels?”
He had spoken. He was waiting.
“Pardon me?” asked Maggie.
“Novels? Thomas Hardy novels. Where can I find them?”
The gentleman was asking her, Maggie MacLaren, a question.
He frowned. “I beg your pardon. You are the librarian, aren’t you?”
She forced a charming smile with panicky eyes, while she desperately tried to maintain her tenuous hold on any vestige of poise. She could tell it was her turn to speak by the way he was looking, well, staring at her. And waiting.
“Yes, I am.” She praised herself for having replied—and in a complete sentence. Someday she would look back on this—and still not laugh.
The gentleman was smiling at her. His eyes sparkled like evanescent bubbles of champagne, which only proved his sophistication, since the men of Johnstown typically sparkled like bubbles of beer, or rather froth—and that most often from the mouth.
“Thomas Hardy? Do you have any of his novels?” He was awfully patient, but he was beginning to look concerned.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I had something on my mind,” she said. You, she thought. “They’re right over here.” She was beginning to make sense. She hoped. She led him to the fiction section. “Here they are.”
“I don’t suppose you have The Woodlanders,” he said.
“No.” She had let him down. “I’m afraid not.”
He looked over the available books with a hint of a frown, and eventually chose A Laodicean. “I suppose this will do,” he said with a perfunctory manner which Maggie found enchanting.
“Now that is a devout Hardy fan,” she thought, as her eyes settled upon his shaved cheekbone and angular jaw.
With an extended arm, Andrew Adair signaled for her to proceed back to the desk.
“Do you have a library card?” she asked, knowing full well he did not. She helped him fill out the form, then issued a card and stamped his book.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Adair,” she said as she finished.
“Good afternoon, Miss—”
Maggie eyes rounded and softened.
“Miss—?”
“Oh!” Maggie smiled but not on the inside. “MacLaren.”
“Miss MacLaren.”
She watched his full lips caress her name. He made it sound mellifluous. On sweet echoes it wafted through her ear and her mind and on out the other ear. Her name on his lips; his lips on her—
“And if one were to call you by your Christian name, Miss MacLaren, what would that be?”
She was so charmed by his attention it barely seemed presumptuous of him to have asked. A blush burned her cheeks. He waited.
“Miss MacLaren?”
“Uh—it’s Maggie MacLaren. Well, MacLaren’s my surname.” She laughed helplessly. “Of course, I’m not Maggie MacLaren MacLaren.” She laughed and sighed. “Just Maggie MacLaren.” Maggie’s voice trailed off in the direction of her inner self-loathing.
“Well then, goodbye, Miss Maggie MacLaren.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Andrew. Adair. Mr. Adair.”
Mercifully, he turned and left. Maggie watched him and whispered, “Goodbye.”
Jake O’Neill walked in, with his blue jeans and brogans and homespun shirt, and he saw Maggie’s face—with its glazed expression. He craned his neck to take a more critical look at the young man who was leaving. After a passing glance at the well-tailored clothing, he continued toward Maggie with a self-assured gait.
“I have to stop home before work and I thought we could walk together,” he was saying.
Maggie’s lashes dropped to the desk where her thoughts seemed to hover.
“As I was saying,” Jake continued, “Maggie?”
He watched her and waited. His eyes lit with mischief. “You dropped something.”
“Oh?” Maggie glanced halfway toward him.
“Down there,” he said with a nod.
She glanced about dreamily.
“Right there.”
She looked down.
“You’ve nearly got it.”
“Got what?” She leaned lower. “What did I drop?”
“Your jaw,” said Jake.
She rose with eyes glaring, face flushed.
“Jake.”
“Maggie? Did you hear anything I said when I got here?”
“Of course I did.”
“What?”
“You said you’re going to work.”
He paused for a moment to study Maggie’s face. “Yes…but I have to go home first—Maggie, who was that man?”
“A new library patron.”
“What were you talking about?”
“Talking about?” She and Jake had always talked about everything. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Books.”
“Oh.” Jake nodded.
Maggie looked at his neck, too thick for his collar, and saw a workingman’s brawn. She didn't notice him tensing his jaw and broad shoulders.
“Why don’t you lock up and I’ll walk you home.”
Maggie sailed through the stacks, shelving a handful of books and checking to make sure no one remained in the building.
From behind brooding eyes, Jake watched her round a corner, and then glanced toward the library card application that lay on the desk. He scrutinized the handwriting on the card, and then tossed it back down. He knew Maggie too well. He coul
dn't compete, nor could Maggie prevail, against the lure of wealth. While Jake believed Maggie was above being impressed by money alone, he knew its accompanying education and sophistication would overwhelm her and overshadow him. He looked up and watched Maggie hurrying to complete her mundane tasks with balletic grace. Maggie wouldn't see the remote longing that lay concealed beneath the surface of Jake’s brow, for he wouldn't destroy their friendship by revealing such feelings. This was, perhaps, how they had remained so close over the years.
There was a time when Jake had wanted nothing to do with Maggie MacLaren. He was seven. When Beth went to work as a domestic, both mothers agreed that Jake and his brother would see little Maggie to and from school. At first, the six-year-old trailed behind Jake and Will, not quite managing to keep up with their deliberately speedy pace. Yet she never complained or asked them to slow down. She trailed along as fast as she could, with her lunch pail rattling to the rhythm of her rapid steps. She scampered along in silence until her foot caught on an exposed tree root and she tripped forward and onto her face. Eight-year-old Will looked back long enough to make sure she was alive, then walked on. But Jake stopped. Maggie might have been an annoying little kid, but he couldn't leave her this way. He went back and helped her to her feet. She swiped the dust from her face and swallowed the blood from her lip. Then, without waiting for Jake, she marched on ahead until she reached the school.
By the time Maggie no longer needed to be walked to school, she and Jake were best friends, fighting one another but defending against others who dared do likewise. Jake revealed to Maggie a serious side that no one else knew, and Maggie trusted Jake enough to share her dreams.
The day after Jake turned fourteen, he walked out of the school building, past Maggie and around the corner, where he waited in the alley between the General Store and the Bootery. Maggie rounded the same corner and hesitated in front of the alley long enough for Jake to emerge and take her books from her. This way they could walk home together without the tiresome school yard teasing. They reached Maggie’s house first and stopped at the front walk, as they always did. Maggie turned to walk away, as she always did. This time, however, Jake reached out and grasped her arm.
“Maggie.” Jake stood his ground. Maggie stopped. He said nothing for a moment. His eyes were fixed. His brow was creased. He struggled so but seemed unable to speak.
“Just say it. You’re scaring me.” Maggie had never seen Jake behave like this.
After a moment, he looked her in the eye and blurted it out. “I won’t be walking you home from school anymore.”
“Oh.” She tried to hide her dismay with annoyance. “Well it’s not as if I need walking h—”
“I’m quitting school. I’m going to work.”
Now Maggie was angry. “No.”
“I have to. My family needs the money. It’s my turn to go to work.”
“But you can’t!”
“I’m fourteen.”
“But what about our plans? We were going to go to college together, and—”
“Wake up, Maggie! This isn’t one of your library novels. Open your eyes. This is what life is! This is who I am! Damn it all, who do you think you are?” As soon as he heard his own angry words, he regretted their harshness.
She turned away and said nothing.
Jake reached out to put a hand on Maggie’s shoulder but thought better of it. He lowered his hand.
“They were just dreams.” He couldn’t let her see tears cloud his eyes, so he turned from her and walked away.
She listened to his retreating footsteps.
“But they were our dreams,” she whispered to herself. She looked back over her shoulder and watched Jake walk away.
Chapter 4
The minister wore his Sunday smile as he stood outside the door of the First Presbyterian Church and shook hands with the small congregation filing out into the sunlight to disperse for the afternoon. For a fleeting moment his rhythm was broken when Maggie brushed by with a smile and a hasty “Good morning,” and hurried down the steps and across the lawn. The Reverend quickly returned to the shaking of hands, but the deacon’s wives swarmed together to watch as Maggie tugged at her skirt to reveal an immodest split down the middle, designed so for horseback and bicycle riding. This prompted a series of low vocalizations and raising and lowering eyebrows and lids designed not to conceal the object of their concern but to mask its intent. Thus engrossed, they watched Maggie straddle her bike and ride off in the direction of the South Fork Dam as the breeze liberated long brown locks that fluttered behind in her wake.
She peddled uphill for as long as she could, then dismounted and pushed her bike along until she came within sight of the lake. It had not always been there. The lake formed when a dam was built some thirty-six years earlier. The reservoir was intended to provide water for the canal running from Johnstown to Pittsburgh. It was rendered obsolete when, not six months later, the Pennsylvania Railroad completed a run from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh and effectively ended the need for a canal. Within three years, the Pennsylvania Railroad had bought the canal system for its right of way. The South Fork Dam was included in the purchase, but since the railroad had no use for it, the dam and its lake lay neglected for the next twenty years.
The spring of 1862 brought a heavy rain, which prompted people to speculate about what would happen should the dam ever break. Break it did, but the lake was only half full and the valves had been opened to release excess pressure. As a result, very little damage occurred. From then on, the level of concern over the South Fork dam was negligible.
In 1879, the property was quietly purchased by a group of Pittsburgh’s wealthiest, who developed the area into the exclusive South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. By then the dam was badly in need of repair, prompting the new owners to employ some creative engineering tactics. Rather than replace the damaged and missing drainage pipes, they hired local workers to remove the remaining pipes and plug up the gaps with all manner of materials, including rocks, mud, and sticks.
The new owners stocked the reservoir with bass to guarantee good fishing. Then, fearing their fish would escape through the spillway, they installed a screen. This kept them from losing fish, but the screen collected debris and clogged the spillway, thus keeping excess water from escaping as well. To make it easier to gain access to the club, the level of the dam was raised enough to lay down a 930-foot long road to cross it. This also raised the level of the lake as several mountain streams fed into the reservoir and filled it up beautifully. It was dubbed Lake Conemaugh.
By the time the club opened in 1879, its founder, Benjamin Ruff, had added to the membership such powerful individuals as Andrew Carnegie, Henry Clay Frick, and Andrew Mellon. There were sixty-one members in all that opening season, drawn together by at least one common interest: their wealth.
For the people in Johnstown below, any threat posed by the dam was remote. No one worried much about it, except when heavy rains came in spring. Some would speculate that this might be the year the dam would break but almost always in jest. There were intermittent scares over the years, but nothing ever came of it. People came to accept the dam and the money its new residents brought into the community.
A bursting dam was the last thing on Maggie’s mind as she got off her bike and imagined with each step what it would be like to see Andrew Adair once more. He belonged to a world beyond mills and mining and soot-stained muslin curtains. His world was rich with sailing and silk and sophistication, all of which were beyond her grasp.
Maggie climbed to a perch on a low outstretched limb of an oak tree and looked out over the shimmering metal gray water to the cottages on the opposite shore. A solitary rowboat glided across the still water, propelled by the strong and steady strokes of an oarsman.
The casual observer could see the effect which, when properly performed, appeared effortless. Stroke upon stroke, the rower pulled harder, the boat moved faster, amassing momentum. Mass times speed; it was simple and
fluid and arrestingly beautiful.
Under closer scrutiny, however, one might notice the rower’s strokes, the muscles contracting and releasing in a steadily beating pattern fraught with effort born of determination. Only with deliberate exertion could mass and speed thus combine to fight against nature’s stillness. It wasn't easy for the rower, but he moved forward in an inert world, and thus obtained satisfaction through exhaustion.
Maggie saw only grace and ease. She wondered at the lives of such people, freed by wealth from all the worries and cares that so afflicted the valley folks. She couldn't see the young woman seated on the porch, looking out over the lake and into the mountains beyond.
Allison Kimball’s thoughts were far away, in a place where despair was giving way to new hope, a place long ago abandoned yet inexplicably preserved. Turning from her fearful and fragile nature, she was choosing once more to give her heart to a man. And so she sat on the porch facing the lake and lifted her pen to write.
My D,
I will not accept your apology, for you have done nothing wrong. Last night, when you touched my hand you touched my heart. I thought it had died. But I think, now, it was waiting for you. Since that moment—that touch—I’ve abandoned all rules of propriety. I will say what I feel. It’s hope—hope for that in which I had not believed, and yet longed for. We know each other too well to hide. Have I misunderstood? Tell me now, for my heart is in peril. And if I have not, then what are we to do?
A
Allison arose and looked out at the lake once more, this time with a sense of expectancy she had all but forgotten. She watched the rowboat near the shore, while the sun tucked itself behind a hovering cloud to cast a cool calm over the valley. The boat rubbed gently against the weathered dock.
Maggie descended from her perch and indulged in one last look at the glassy lake before she mounted her bicycle and coasted back down to the valley.
