by Joanne Dahme
I nodded politely, acknowledging the mayor’s praise, patronizing as it may be. “Of course it’s not an inconvenience. It’s a beautiful day to appreciate the reservoirs and the view.”
I led the way up the narrow stairs, as the men fell in single file behind me. I reminded them to watch their steps as they passed the turbines and gears and then climbed to the outer deck. Before proceeding to the hill’s footpath, I stopped to allow two young mothers with strollers, coming from the South Garden, to pass. There were a number of other women in large hats in the South Garden, walking the paths, or sitting on benches alongside the fountains. They were obviously taking advantage of the beautiful day.
For a moment, I felt an irrational sense of panic. Last week, I had met Mrs. Dugan in this garden, quite by chance. She was a member of one of Mrs. Warwick’s committees, the one dedicated to preserving the various Fairmount Park gardens. I liked Mrs. Dugan. My memory of last week was still vivid. She had been wearing a practical walking suit, her navy skirt pulled back by some complicated hooking system that I didn’t quite understand. Her face was radiant, glowing against the whiteness of her starched blouse. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a bun, although a few wayward strands had worked their way free. Her eyes were the forest color of the spruce trees that grew along the side of the reservoir hill. I remembered being struck by the idea that nature positively adored this woman—the autumn air lending a crispness to her natural beauty.
It had been two years since I had really noticed a woman. At first, I was struck dumb. Not a word could find a way to my mouth. I was still embarrassed by the thought of that moment. She had laughed. “Excuse me, Mr. Parker. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She had quickly explained what she was doing, as if this had been the reason for my surprise at her appearance. “Mrs. Murphy and I were working on the sketches of the rock wall of the Peace Fountain, when a sudden gust of wind carried off some of our papers, nearly depositing them in the river.” She paused to catch her breath. “We were running all over the garden to catch them. I haven’t had such fun in a long time.” She suddenly stopped, caught off guard by this admission. It was then that I replied, “The South Garden is good to you.”
I didn’t know where that had come from, and was immediately appalled. But Mrs. Dugan was delighted, bestowing on me a grateful smile before she turned back to join Mrs. Murphy.
How did such a sincere and gentle woman live with this man? Through her work on the Women’s Committee, I had gotten to know her, and soon began to look forward to her visits to the Water Works. But I did not see her today among the throng. I suddenly sensed that Dugan was staring at me, reading my mind.
The women with the strollers paused for a moment, excited and surprised by the presence of the mayor. The mayor, seeing an adoring audience, immediately made his way to the baby carriages and made the appropriate fuss. After a few minutes, he tipped his hat to both ladies. “Gentlemen, are you ready to climb the path?”
I continued to lead the trio as they crossed the grassy area, which skirted the end of the forebay. I cast a sideways glance at the statue of Diana at the foot of the path, suddenly feeling like the hunted myself, and then we began to hike up the serpentine path to the reservoir. The grade of the path was somewhat steep, with many natural landings to allow a visitor to catch one’s breath. A sheltering gazebo waited on the uppermost landing. I silently thanked my men, for the path was well tended—the shrubbery cut back so that visitors could walk without obstruction, and the ornamental black iron railings had recently been painted. On their climb, the mayor continued to make pleasant remarks about the beauty of the gardens and the charm of the sculptured statues. “This pathway makes me feel like I am in an exotic location with heavenly touches of civilization—a modern day Garden of Eden,” the mayor said pleasantly. I appreciated his effort for such small talk and reassurances, hoping some part of his remarks were sincere.
When we reached the top of the path, we had a good view of the reservoirs, which were separated from the walking path by a dirt embankment and black iron fence. Five reservoirs, divided by earthen dikes, spread out before us, encompassing a total of six acres. We watched seagulls swoop above the water for a moment and heard their plaintive cries. I wondered if they sensed an impending loss like I did.
Before proceeding along the path, we turned to face the river, which now lay at least sixty feet below us. No one said a word and I looked out and tried to see this view from their eyes, to imagine the meaning that such raw beauty might hold for each of them. Did they see in this scene the awe-some forces of nature harmoniously conjoined with the gutsy spirit of man? But I knew I was kidding myself. I knew they merely saw this river and its valley as commodities and resources, to be exploited and used for personal gain.
“Magnificent,” the mayor proclaimed. “Truly magnificent. It is just as I remembered. There is no better sight in all of Philadelphia.”
“I feel the same way, Mr. Mayor, as I’m sure you’ve surmised,” I answered. “I am continually amazed by the notion that the river below daily becomes the reservoir above.”
“Yes, it is an impressive sight,” Dugan allowed, moving closer to me. He stood by my side now, almost touching my elbow with his own. When I did not reply or acknowledge him, Dugan withdrew his pocket watch from his vest and glanced at it almost theatrically.
“It is getting late, Mr. Mayor. We have a meeting at one thirty.”
“Yes. Thank you for reminding me, Patrick.” The mayor turned back toward the reservoirs. “Shall we continue?”
“Of course,” I answered, glad to move away from Dugan and to get this visit over with.
“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor. I have a few more questions for Mr. Parker concerning the turbines,” Dugan said in a serious tone. “I’m sure that Chief Trout can provide you with the information you need as you tour the reservoirs.”
The chief looked surprised for a moment and then threw a suspicious glance at the mayor and Dugan.
“I’d be happy to escort you, sir,” the chief said almost sourly.
“Good, let’s get going,” the mayor replied with gusto. Turning to Dugan and me, he added, “And please don’t feel you need to wait for me here.We’ll meet you gentleman on the deck below.”
I didn’t like this turn of events, but what could I say. I certainly didn’t want to give Dugan any information that he could misconstrue or misuse. Of course, I would have to answer any of Dugan’s questions honestly.
“Well, Mr. Dugan,” I asked, looking down at the Water Works as I leaned on the rail of the fence. “What more do you want to know about the turbines?”
Dugan barked out a laugh, sidling even closer to me. I got the distinctly odd feeling that Dugan wished to suggest that he could easily push me from this height if the idea possessed him.
“I don’t care a fig about those turbines of yours,” Dugan said coldly. “They’ll be gone in a few years, and this entire site will be nothing but a ruin—a hole in the ground.”
I turned quickly to face Dugan, as I struggled to control a hatred that filled my chest. “What do you mean, Mr. Dugan? Are you threatening me?”
“Come on, Parker.” Dugan feigned surprise. “Even you must realize that filtration is not a question, but a promise. Please don’t tell me that you honestly believe that you can rely on the goodness of your fellow man to protect the river.”
I looked at Dugan as my hands gripped the railing. Dugan’s expression belied any false bravado. He was self-assured and confident as always. He knew that the mayor and the City Councils could be persuaded to see things his way. I felt a wave of despair as I recognized the truth in Dugan’s words. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“Perhaps if I can change the minds of men like you, Dugan, there may be a chance to choose the right solution,” I replied evenly.
Dugan smiled. “I want those contracts for the filtration plants. And I mean to have them, at any cost.” He tapped the sharp tip of his walking sti
ck against a flat rock embedded in the path, to emphasize his declaration with the insistent, staccato sounds.
“I’m sure you do, Mr. Dugan.” I brushed against him as he returned to the path. Dugan was still smiling, enjoying this scene. I paused and then turned before I proceeded down the path to the deck, to look into Dugan’s hard, dark eyes. “I trust you can find your way to the bottom, as you seem to be familiar with the depths of places, versus the heights.”
ROSE
Our carriage followed the gravel path on the north side of the reservoir hill and rounded the curve. I caught my breath, as I was always awed by the stone arch, which flung itself from the top of the mount to slam into the park below. It appeared immovable, immense, as mysterious to me as the pyramids of Egypt. It dared me to approach its sacred gardens.
Once beneath it, Julius led the horses to the cindered lot by the forebay bridge. I was excited to be meeting Nellie in the South Garden, as Nellie was completing some sketches of the Water Works statuary for our report.
There were many carriages parked in the circle, and the park was alive with a swirl of visitors gliding back and forth to the pleasure boat wharf. I smiled at the young boys in flannel middy shirts.Their sailor caps lent a premature pensiveness to their otherwise cherubic faces. Girls in reefer coats and tams were their nautical partners in this adventure on the high Schuylkill. I had never seen the grounds appear as festive as when I watched the women in their practical skirts and boaters claim young hands to keep the children from tumbling into the forebay waters.
Julius opened the carriage door for me. “Let me walk you to the garden,” he offered.
“No thank you, Julius. I’ll be fine. Why don’t you take your lunch by the fountain? Who knows how many warm October days are left us?” I asked. I was anxious to find Nellie.
Julius shook his head and smiled and made a show of planting his feet firmly on the ground. “I’ll wait right here for you—while eating my lunch. Did you say it was in the basket?”
Thank goodness for Julius, I thought as I crossed the forebay bridge. Of course he had heard about the letter. Martha had overhead our conversation from the kitchen. Keeping a tidbit of information like that to herself would cause Martha to erupt. Patrick had actually told Martha while she was serving our dinner not to let the letter frighten her or her staff. Frighten Martha? I had wanted to cry out. Could anything really frighten Martha?
I walked across the tile deck to the gazebo, which was at the tip of the mound dam. A gold eagle, its wings poised for flight, perched from the pinnacle of the gazebo roof. I was always mesmerized by the Schuylkill, in awe of the power of its current that snared tree branches and other debris while refusing to let go, until its keepsakes were tumbled over the churning falls. Its present color, though, almost dark as coal, gnawed at me.
Although it certainly didn’t look clean, it also didn’t look capable of producing the horror of typhoid. But that is what the report, and numerous city officials, claimed, as did Patrick. Could something so magnificent really be so deadly?
It wasn’t meant to be, and that was the reason that Nellie and I had joined the Women’s Park Beautification Committee. We both cherished the parkland that buffered the river, as we almost instinctively recognized its value as a repose from the dirty airs of the city. The committee was founded by the mayor’s wife, who had admitted to us that she had partly formed it because she felt it important to have a level of public visibility. We didn’t mind that, as long as the committee truly set out to do what it promoted. Even Patrick had been supportive of my participation, although the bond of a shared passion with him was somewhat dampened, as I knew he was more interested in the political reward of my dedication to Mrs. Warwick.
I turned away from the river and began walking alongside the forebay. I nodded to a young woman pushing a pram. The woman was dressed in a fashionable hat and an obviously new cape. She looked like she could afford a nurse, but I understood how a young mother would still be enamored over her new baby, reluctant to let her child out of her sight. The pair caused me to smile wistfully. Perhaps it was time that Patrick and I talked about a baby.
As I approached the Pavilion, I glanced at three men in overalls who were sitting on the ground, their backs leaning against the balustrade, grease-stained bags on their laps.They tipped their heads politely as I offered them a smile. Patrick often chided me for this. I loved him, but I couldn’t abide his strict interpretation of social class. Our own families had been penniless I liked to remind him—potato farmers from the Isle. He told me that I wasn’t supposed to smile at members of a social class below me. I thought this ridiculous. I would smile at anyone I pleased.
Nellie usually set up her easel by the balustrade along the Pavilion, or behind the Engine House, as she thought it gave her the best view of the hillside and the gardens. I didn’t see her in either place and decided to walk in the direction of the South Garden, on the other side of the Engine House. As I approached the forebay, I nearly bumped into Sean Parker and let out a little cry.
“Mrs. Dugan. Please excuse me!” Mr. Parker touched his bowler in greeting. “I wasn’t paying attention—looking to rouse my men back to work.” He pointed toward the men who tipped their hats to me. I caught the mischievous gleam in his eyes as he watched his men stand abruptly and brush off the seats of their pants. I also noticed his face redden slightly as he directed his gaze toward me again.
I liked his tanned face, I realized with a start. It was like Patrick’s, the face of a man who thrives in the outdoors. But the rest of his features were antithetical. Mr. Parker’s face was strong yet pliable. His blue eyes were warm and reflected the world eagerly. His reddish brown hair curled slightly where it touched his ears and collar. He was almost boyish when he was at ease, a man without airs.
Working with him on these grounds, I had noticed that he was quick to smile, yet just as quick to furrow his brow with concern. I had seen him act sternly, when a hardness, like a shield, would fall across his features. His emotions, like the water he pumped, did not easily filter.
What must it be like to love a man that was committed to an ideal? I wondered. Not for the success or power of it, but for the goodness of the cause. I immediately felt guilty.
“Mr. Parker.” I was suddenly embarrassed, as if my thoughts could be read plainly on my face. “I am sorry for nearly running you over. I was so intent on finding Mrs. Murphy that I wasn’t paying attention to anything else,” I explained in a rush of words.
We stood beneath the Pavilion alone, as the workmen who had been idling there had drifted back to their jobs. I suddenly felt awkward. Under the circumstances, I expected him to return to whatever task he had at hand. But he stood his ground and smiled shyly, genuinely pleased to see me.
“Mrs. Murphy was here earlier doing some sketches, but she left to get some refreshment. She asked me to tell you that she’d be back shortly, in case she missed you.”
“Oh. She did? I guess I am running a bit late. I get so distracted by the beauty of this spot,” I stammered.Why was I suddenly so nervous? Then I noticed his smile broaden. “I’ll wait for her then,” I added and paused to allow Mr. Parker an opportunity to excuse himself, although he didn’t make the throat clearing noises that men often use to initiate a good-bye. I wondered if I should pardon myself first then and wait for Nellie in the garden. I was about to say something, when he interjected.
“Your husband visited here yesterday, Mrs. Dugan.” He paused for the briefest moment. “He doesn’t share your passion for preservation.” He looked almost apologetic.
“Oh, I am sorry about that,” I replied, and then, realizing how my response may sound, added, “I mean that I’m sorry about his attitude toward the park—toward the Water Works. I hope that he came by to make amends for his behavior at the filtering committee meeting last week. Sometimes he is so single-minded that he forgets his manners.” I blushed. I shouldn’t be saying these things about Patrick. I felt a wave of shame.
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“Please, you don’t need to make excuses for your husband,” he answered quietly. “Your husband and I simply don’t share the same vision for Philadelphia. And more importantly,” he added with sincere emphasis, “he is a part of the city’s political establishment and I am not. That in itself places us at odds.”
I was surprised by his magnanimity. I searched his face for a rigidity that might suggest something else, but his blue eyes were clear, his face unguarded. Nothing ill-meaning appeared to be harbored there. I smiled. I was at a loss for some soothing words. I knew he was right. Perhaps he would not mind if I asked the questions that were troubling me since last week’s hearing.
“Mr. Parker, I don’t mean to keep you, but when I arrived here, I couldn’t help but think about the report from New York. Did it not say that only filtering the river would make it truly safe to drink?” I knew his response would be an honest one, untainted by his personal feelings. The Water Works may be his world, but I sensed that he cared for the citizens who drank this water even more. He was staring at the river as I asked the question.
His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. A weariness touched his features, but he smiled grateful for the question.
“The report is a good one, Mrs. Dugan. But it is one that assumes that we cannot change our ways. Let me show you.” He strode to the edge of the lawn of the South Garden and was suddenly crouching in the dirt, holding a stick in his hand. I hurried to his side and was tempted to crouch beside him. But I remained standing. My skirt and blouse, however practical, were not designed for crouching.
“You see,” he said, drawing a row of squares. “Filtration requires a succession of beds made up of sand and gravel.” He pointed to the squares. “It is true that the material will remove particles, but can filtration remove everything? I think not. We know that bacteria are invisible to the eye, so how do we ensure that these invisible particles don’t get into the water supply?” He stood up, tossing the stick aside. He brushed his hands together.
