by Mary Hogan
“Such a lovely room.” I attempt to ease the tension that has suddenly descended like a coating of coal ash. Then I scan my brain. What else would Mother say?
“Yes, miss,” Nettie replies. Her hand reaches up again to tidy her hair. My satin gloves are rolled into a robin’s-egg-blue coil in her lap. Overhead, we hear the thunk, thunk of heavy boots. Then the swishing of a petticoat down the stairs.
My brain is suddenly a jumble of fluff. Until this very moment I hadn’t realized how utterly full of poppycock it is. Cotillion gowns and satin shoes. Did I ever talk to Nettie about her life, apart from mine? Does she dream of living in a home such as this?
“Have you a residence nearby?” I ask Floyd, with a slight stammer.
His eyes briefly cast downward before he replies, “My family lives on Franklin Street. Close to downtown.”
“How very convenient.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Do you travel to Pittsburgh much?”
“No, miss.”
“I suppose you have all that you need right here.”
He nods. Now I feel panic rising. So chatty in the carriage, Floyd is now nearly mute. Nettie looks ready to leap for the door. Silence passes like the tick-tock of a clock.
“I imagine you secure employment in Johnstown during the club’s off-season?” I prod, nervously.
“Yes, miss. I work at the mill.”
“Dear me, I hope you don’t work the long turn.”
He smiles. Relief floods my being. Floyd says, “Sometimes I do, miss. Sometimes I do.”
We have, at last, connected. My confidence is buoyed.
Suddenly a girl about Ivy Tottinger’s age appears in the parlor holding a tray with teacups and saucers on it. She has Mrs. Eggar’s tight curls and her fullness of cheek. With great concentration, she lowers the tray onto a small round table to the side of the settee. The porcelain teacups clatter with the vibration of her nerves.
“Goodness,” I say, “you must be Mr. Eggar’s sister. I see the resemblance in your face.”
“I am, miss,” she says, blushing to near purple.
“Please forgive my ghastly manners at showing up unannounced. I hadn’t intended to cause such a stir.”
The girl stands with the look of a possum upon her face. Her hands grip one another at the front of her blue striped skirt. My area of expertise, I say brightly, “What a fetching frock. Blue is my favorite color. Yours, too?”
Before she can answer, her mother bustles in with a plate piled high with Ida’s biscuits—I count nearly a dozen—our homemade jam, a butter bell, and a pot of tea covered in a hand-knit cozy. Its top is a round bauble of red yarn.
“The water was already hot,” she says. “As luck would have it.”
“Lovely,” I reply. Floyd eyes the biscuits lustily as I say, “Is there anything Nettie can do to help you?”
As if awakened from a hypnotist’s trance, Nettie’s head pops up. “Certainly!” She jumps to her feet.
“Sit. Sit. You are all our guests.”
At Mrs. Eggar’s urging, Nettie lowers herself to the settee and reaches a hand up to tame her hair. Mrs. Eggar says, “Elsie, you come with me.”
“Elsie,” I say, “it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
In all the commotion, we were never properly introduced. No one seems to notice as Elsie curtsies clumsily and scuttles out of the parlor in her mother’s wake. Never before have I been so keenly aware how handy it is to have help. The teacups sit unfilled. Are we to reach over and grab a biscuit ourselves? With our bare hands? Floyd does exactly that.
“Mmmm,” he moans, nearly devouring half a biscuit in one bite. Nettie glances at me with a stricken expression.
“Biscuit?” I say to her, sweeping my open hand in the air as if to free all permission.
She asks, “Might I prepare one for you, Miss Elizabeth?”
Before I can reply in the negative, the front door opens and a billow of warm air wafts into the parlor. All heads turn to see Mr. Eugene Eggar walk into the room ahead of his father. Momentarily, I am struck dumb. Perhaps it’s due to the low ceiling, but the younger Mr. Eggar appears considerably larger than I remember. His shirt is unbuttoned to the chest and his vest is unsecured entirely. Both show evidence of perspiration and the fine, damp dirt of a stable floor. Obviously, he’d been hard at work. The horsey aroma that precedes him is not at all unpleasant. I feel heat rise to my cheeks.
“Miss Haberlin?” He pulls his cap off, as does his father behind him. “Are you all right?”
The elder Mr. Eggar—his former handsomeness camouflaged beneath deep crevices in both cheeks—appears to have a problem with his leg. Even standing still, he leans noticeably to the left.
“Splendid.” My voice is an unnaturally high octave. I swallow and take a controlling breath to regain my composure. “Forgive this imposition, Mr. Eggar, but the other day you disappeared before I could properly thank you. My family is returning to Pittsburgh tomorrow, so I wanted to tell you how very much I appreciated your help at the lake.”
As I speak I feel the weight of my ridiculous hat. Silk African violets? With fluted viridian leaves? What had possessed me? And why hadn’t I removed it instantly when it became clear that no one else wore a hat? Even Nettie left her bonnet in the carriage.
“Quite unnecessary,” Mr. Eggar says. “But a pleasant surprise for all of us. You’ve met Mother and Elsie?”
“Yes. They have been lovely.”
“This is my father, Oscar.”
I stand as Oscar Eggar proudly limps toward me. Extending my hand, I feel the calluses in his grip as he shakes it with suitable firmness and tempo. This is not a man unfamiliar with the ways of proper society. He says, “Welcome to my home.” His green eyes reflect kindness and knowing. Instantly, I feel his confidence. He wears it as easily as one might swing a cape over one’s shoulders on a chilly night.
“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.
ONCE 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 sk
iff 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.
CHAPTER 35
NORTH BEVERLY PARK
Present
Lee 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 appeared 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 kno
wing. 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?
