The Woman in the Photo

by Mary Hogan

  I erupt in giggles. “Church? Hardly. We are on a much more Christian mission. I intend to find the man who very possibly saved two lives.”

  CHAPTER 33

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

  JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

  Summer 1888

  The carriage ride across the dam is as thrilling—and terrifying—as ever. I don’t dare look down into the abyss. But once we are on the other side, I settle in for a lovely ride. The mountain road that winds downhill into the Johnstown valley is shaded by the overhang of trees bursting in green. An aroma of mud and horse fills me with a sensation of wildness.

  Seven, eight, nine. As is my inclination, I count each tree trunk as we clip-clop past it. Ten, eleven, twelve.

  Once we are out of sight of all club members, Nettie tucks her chin and bashfully asks me, “Might I ride up front with the driver?” She is no longer cross with me. As good fortune would have it, her beau, Floyd, was on duty at the stable. He leaped at the chance to escort us into town.

  “Of course,” I say, feeling very mature and magnanimous. Perhaps it’s actually true: I have entered womanhood. Today, out on my own, I feel extremely grown-up.

  “This outing is as much for you as me,” I say, graciously. “Enjoy your time together.”

  Floyd pulls the carriage over to the side of the road and Nettie scrambles up to his perch. I note the subtle way she nestles herself next to him and wonder if their relationship is more advanced than I thought.

  In his midtwenties, as is Nettie, Floyd has the roughhewn handsomeness of a workingman who’s spent his youth outdoors. A thatch of hay-colored hair prongs out from his worn wool cap; his tanned hands are tipped with ridged fingernails. The cuticles are thick and craggy yellow. Squat and sturdy, Floyd appears as though his meals are built around biscuits. Breakfast begins with biscuits and gravy, lunch is a hardy supply of biscuits with slabs of ham, supper is stew with halved biscuits lining the bottom of the bowl. Perhaps this is how he met Nettie. Ida’s buttery sour-milk biscuits are legendary around Upper St. Clair. When Father doesn’t devour them—a rarity—I’ve seen her offer day-old batches to needy families sent to Father for charity medical treatment. It is certainly possible she gave Nettie some old biscuits to distribute to workers at the club during summer.

  Does Floyd think Nettie can cook like Ida? Dear me.

  Such are my mindless musings on this most pleasant summer Sunday.

  On the way down the hill, with the carriage gently rocking me side to side, I am surprised to see several plumes of white smoke spiraling into the sky. “The mills are active on Sunday?” I ask Floyd.

  “Yes, miss,” he says over his shoulder. “They run twenty-fours hours a day, seven days a week.”

  “But what about rest? Family time? Worship?”

  “Most millworkers pull a six-day week, ten to twelve hours a day, unless it’s a long turn.”

  “Long turn?”

  “Full Sunday into Monday shift.”

  “Goodness,” I say. “I had no idea.”

  “The blast furnaces are too hot to shut down and reheat. So the bosses run them nonstop. Besides, the whole country needs the rails and barbed wire we make. They buy ’em as fast as we can make ’em.”

  It doesn’t escape my notice that Floyd uses the pronoun “we” even though he works all summer in the club’s stable, not at Cambria Iron or the Gautier mill in Woodvale. I also hear satisfaction in his voice in spite of a millworker’s grueling hours. Apparently, in the Johnstown valley, everyone feels proudly connected to the mills.

  All of a sudden the smell of raw meat left too long outside the icebox rises into my nose. I try not to look obvious as I cover the bottom half of my face with my gloved hand.

  “Burning sulfur and oil,” Floyd states, without even looking at me. “Oil is used to grease the machinery and the rails.”

  “Ah,” I say. Nettie turns and offers a clean handkerchief from her pocket. It’s extremely kind of her, yet I refuse it. I have my own fresh square of embroidered cotton in my purse, but I won’t use that either. As soon as we enter Johnstown it will be clear enough by my silk dress that I am an outsider. I won’t offend these hardworking people with a rude announcement of my delicate sense of smell. Besides, as we near the outskirts of town, the smell oddly grows both more intense and more bearable. Soon enough, I can’t smell it at all, though the air is as dense as fog.

  Just before the final bend in the road into town, I brace myself for what I am about to see: coal-stained immigrant faces, tattered clothes, filthy bare feet, urchin children running as wild as mongrels in the streets. Of course, Mr. Eggar was clean and well nourished when I first met him in the woods, but he is surely an anomaly. Though I have never actually set foot in Johnstown—only seen it smoking in the distance from the South Fork train station—my long-held vision is akin to an anteroom in the underworld. Dark, ominous, packed with foul-smelling wretches. Silently, I applaud my bravery and charity for even attempting to plumb such depths.

  “Oh.”

  Immediately I am startled by the number of church steeples. I count six as we cross over the Stonycreek River that flows through downtown. Beautiful limestone churches are under the Gothic steeples, with pointed arches and leaded windows. Dare I say it, they are houses of worship befitting the best of families.

  In town, the streets are paved in cobblestone. Goodness, there are pedestrian sidewalks. I had expected hard-packed dirt. I am stunned to see respectable two-story homes lining the wide thoroughfares. Gable pediments adorn the windows like perfectly arched brows. We pass a school—a real school, not a ramshackle schoolhouse—a hardware store, a grocer with his wares so abundant they spill out on display racks on the sidewalk. There is even an imposing library made of brick. I am speechless.

  “Our biggest meeting hall is down there,” Floyd says, pointing. “And our dry-goods store, plus a tavern with billiards and music.”

  Floyd clearly has no desire to drop me off anywhere. Instead, he steers the carriage around the vibrant downtown to show me—and Nettie—the distinctions of his home city. At ground level in the valley, the gray air is above us. While I cannot claim that Johnstown is anywhere near as lovely as Upper St. Clair—I do spot plain company homes in the distance near the mill’s riverbank—it’s nothing like I imagined. Mature elm trees line the side streets. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . . too many to properly count. A railroad track runs along one of the two rivers that encircle this compact enclave tucked into the bottom of the Allegheny Valley. The mountains on every side of us are as imposing as they are lush with summer vegetation. In their shadow, one can’t help but feel small. When I look back toward the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, I now see what Mr. Eggar was referencing when he said he saw our sailboats crisscross among the clouds. Our magnificent lake is practically overhead. What curious geography. A lake in the sky.

  Strolling women are dressed almost as well as I am. They hold the hands of their little girls in blouse dresses and bonnets, their boys in Sunday knickerbocker suits. True, many of the pedestrians resemble Nettie with their aprons over their plain black skirts, or men with worsted vests over rolled shirtsleeves, but no one is gaunt and stained by sulfer residue. On Main Street, I see an opera house! I am dumbfounded. Johnstown is a real town that functions as such. What made me think everyone worked in the mill? There is so much more here. I see a clothing store that sells everything from boots to hats. And, softly, at first, I hear—

  “Is that a . . . drum?” I ask Floyd.

  He grins. “Probably the Hunkie marching band practicing for the Independence Day parade down Main Street.”

  “Hunkie?” I have overheard men at the club use the term before, but don’t know what it means.

  “Hungarians. Johnstown is filled with working people from all over. Hunkies, Germans, Irish, Welsh. And they all have their own bands and their own social clubs. Just like yours, miss.”

&nb
sp; My cheeks redden. How arrogant of us at South Fork to assume that we are the only sophisticates in the area.

  “Over there is the police department,” Floyd continues, “behind there is the town jail. The Quicksteps play baseball on the field yonder.”

  “Johnstown has its own baseball team?” Again, I am astonished to the point of staring, agog.

  “We may be from everywhere, miss, but we are as American as steel. Our team lost to McKeesport—a heartbreak, to be sure—but we trounced Altoona. What a game that was. Rumor has it our pitcher is headed to the majors. His knuckleball rivals Toad Ramsey’s, and his speed is—”

  Nettie touches Floyd’s thigh in the same wifely way I’ve seen Mother tap Father’s knee when a third glass of amber liquid fills him with bluster. I feel a surge of heartbreak. Am I to lose my maid to love? Joy for her; sadness for me. Breaking in someone new is always so tedious.

  “Over there is our new train station. And way down by the river, near the mill, is the company hospital.” Floyd continues his tour. “Most of the newer houses have indoor plumbing.”

  My cheeks again flush. Though our cottage has indoor plumbing, the clubhouse does not. How many times have I heard Mr. Unger boast about the innovation of the club’s two-story outhouse? As if the club had, quite literally, the height in modern privies. Only recently was the clubhouse itself wired for electricity. The main carriageways of Johnstown, I see, are dotted with streetlamps as large as those in Pittsburgh. I am humbled to view myself through the lens of reality instead of the blurred vision of privilege.

  Floyd steers our carriage past the lovely Lutheran church where, he tells us, the Harmonie Singing Society meets, past beautiful Turner Hall, where the Germania Quartette sharpens their choral arrangements. In the very center of town, we pass a park with a starfish-shaped pathway in the grass. All points lead to the central fountain with its gurgling water tumbling over a watchful sentry of swans. It’s the ideal place to wile away an afternoon, as many residents now do.

  “I had no idea there was such a thriving town here,” I say, almost to myself.

  Perhaps impertinently, Floyd replies, “South Fork Club members live in their own world.”

  I can’t fault him for such a statement because it’s absolutely true. By design, our club is a refuge from the cares and woes of modern life. I have heard it often: on the shores of Lake Conemaugh, one feels alone in the splendor of nature. With society, of course.

  Thank goodness I have ventured out on my own. Beyond the shelter of my upbringing. It’s so very educational.

  “Excuse me, Floyd, do you know how I might find a specific person who lives in Johnstown?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life. I know almost everyone. Do you have a name?”

  “Yes. Eggar. Mr. Eugene Eggar.”

  He pulls back on the reins to stop the horse. Twisting around to face me, he says, “I know the family well. They live on Washington Street.”

  “Splendid. Will you be so kind as to take me there?”

  Hesitation briefly darkens Floyd’s face like the first thunderclap in an oncoming storm. I meet his gaze with calm—and silent—reserve. I owe him no explanation. Nor am I inclined to offer one. Again Nettie rests the palm of her hand on his leg like a fallen feather. Floyd darts a glance her way, she nods almost unperceptively, and away we go.

  CHAPTER 34

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

  JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

  Summer 1888

  The Eggar home is one in a tidy line of well-kept clapboard colonials. Two stories high, its façade is similar to that of its neighbors. The exterior is painted the palest of yellow. Three multipaned windows sit in a row on the second floor; two windows and a door define the simple ground-floor design. Each window is shuttered in glossy black. It is a perfectly serviceable, perfectly lovely home. On my request, Floyd and Nettie wait in the carriage while I approach the front door and knock.

  “Yes?” A woman of Mother’s age opens the door and dries her hands on her apron. She is plain of face, though not at all unpleasantly. Her cheeks are plump and bronzed by the sun. The slight downturn to her narrow lips is balanced by the bounce of dark curls pinned atop her head. It is clear she is Eugene Eggar’s mother; they have the same midnight hazel eyes.

  As it’s my first time visiting on my own, I am careful to maintain the maturity of my mother. She would never forgive me if I sullied the Haberlin name with the frivolity of youth.

  “Please forgive my intrusion,” I begin, swallowing my nervousness. “I’m looking for Mr. Eugene Eggar. Might he reside here?”

  She cocks her head and looks puzzled. I quickly add, “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Elizabeth Haberlin of Pittsburgh. My family summers at the South Fork Club. I’ve come to thank Mr. Egga—”

  “Miss Haberlin! Yes. My son told me about you.”

  Admittedly, I am flattered, though I try to contain my smile.

  “What a delightful surprise. Please come in. Eugene is at the stable. I’ll send my husband for him.”

  “I couldn’t possibly interrupt your family’s Sunda—”

  “Interrupt? Nonsense. We would be honored to have you and your companions join us for lunch.”

  She steps back to usher me inside.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Eggar—you are Mr. Eggar’s mother, is that so?”

  “I am.”

  “Your offer of lunch is terribly kind, but I must get back up the mountain soon. My own mother is waiting for me.”

  At the mention of another mother, she nods knowingly. “Certainly you’ll have time for tea?”

  To refuse would be rude, indeed. And I think, Tea downtown? What an adventure. I want to leap through the door. But I contain myself. “That would be lovely,” I say with impeccable propriety. “If it’s no . . . imposition.”

  My brain searches for words Mother might use.

  “No imposition at all. Do come in. And invite your companions inside as well.”

  I turn to see Nettie and Floyd staring expectantly. “Mrs. Eggar has kindly invited us for tea,” I call out. “Nettie, will you please bring my box?”

  She clambers down from the perch. Floyd searches for a post upon which to secure the horse and carriage. I don’t wait for them. Instead, I follow Eugene Eggar’s mother into his family’s home.

  The parlor to the right of the front entrance is clean, but simply furnished. A settee in front of the window is large enough for two. Its faded herringbone upholstery is a testament to frequent use. Two matching chairs sit on either side of the fireplace. A club chair of worn green velvet sits opposite. On its seat is the indentation of the previous user. A pale red Oriental rug covers the wide-plank wood floor. It, too, shows signs of wear. No doubt a result of tending the fire during Pennsylvania’s snowy winters and frequently dusting the family photographs that decorate the mantel.

  Mrs. Eggar dashes into the parlor ahead of me to scoop up the pages of a newspaper that have fallen to the floor in tented triangles. Her ruddy cheeks show no embarrassment—nor should they, since I breached etiquette by brazenly knocking on her door—but the exasperation of living with messy men. An annoyance of which I’m familiar. How many times have I heard Mother exclaim, “Must you leave a trail of clutter everywhere you go, Stafford? Don’t the maids have enough to do?”

  Clearly, the Eggars’ parlor is a functional hub of family life. A pair of men’s slippers sits at the foot of the club chair. Two crusts of bread and a sprinkle of crumbs are forgotten on a small plate beside it. A tiny pool of milk coffee stains the interior of a teacup. As she scurries past them, Mrs. Eggar slides the slippers beneath the chair with her feet and gathers the dirty dishes. She wears a working dress: black, cotton, basic. Her curly hair, I note, was hastily pinned up herself that morning. In the bright sunlight that illuminates the Eggars’ frayed parlor, I feel foolish in my blue frippery. What possessed me to wear robin’s-egg-blue satin gloves? Without fan
fare, I yank them off my hands.

  “Please. Sit.” Holding a jumble of newspaper pages in the crook of one elbow, and the used dishes in her hands, Mrs. Eggar tilts her head as if to invite me to select any seat. I turn to find Nettie in the doorway. She holds a ribbon-tied box I have brought from our cottage.

  “My family’s cook makes the most scrumptious biscuits.” I take the box from my maid and give her my gloves. “Made fresh this morning.”

  Thank goodness I remembered to circle back and sneak through the back door of our kitchen to ask Ida for her extra biscuits. Otherwise, I would have arrived empty-handed. If Mother ever caught wind of that, she would never forgive such an etiquette blunder.

  I want to present the box to Eugene’s mother, but she hasn’t a free hand. Plus, she seems flustered, as if unsure what my gift might require of her. I hastily add, “We are unexpectedly returning to Pittsburgh on the early train tomorrow. Ida will be pleased to know that her biscuits are being enjoyed.”

  Deliberately, I refuse to meet Floyd’s gaze in case he has the ill manners to protest, “What about me?”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Haberlin,” says Mrs. Eggar, readjusting the bits and pieces in her grip to take the box. “I’ll set them out for tea.”

  “I’ve included a jar of jam made from the blackberries in our garden back in Upper St. Clair. It’s in the box.”

  “Oh,” she says, “how lovely.”

  A moment of awkwardness follows in which I remember my own manners. With a rapturous smile, I march into the parlor. “Your home is as warm and inviting as an afternoon at the lake!”

  Mrs. Eggar curves her lips up. My maid and driver examine their feet. I select the chair by the fireplace to avoid any discomfort over who might settle in next to me on the settee. Nettie and Floyd follow.

  We sit.

  I must confess: it did not occur to me until this very minute that my endeavor to thank Mr. Eggar might be a source of anxiety. While his mother scrambles into the kitchen, then upstairs to rouse her husband (“Hurry, Oscar! They are waiting!”), I notice a faint look of panic on Nettie’s face. Her back is unnaturally rigid and she keeps fussing with her hair. Floyd, next to her on the settee, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He holds his cap in his hands and twists it as if wringing water.