The Woman in the Photo (23 page)

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

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

May 31, 1889

11:58
A.M.

D
ear me. The rain has resumed. Again, it pelts our lake. Why is God testing us? Dressed for the day, I descend the cottage stairs for breakfast. My spirit feels weighted. Though it is barely noon, Maggie, the undercook, has lit all the lamps. Such darkness in daytime only magnifies my foreboding.

“‘They came to the castle of a giant who had three heads,'” Mother reads to Henry in a whispery voice. “‘He trembled so that his heads began to knock one another very hard.'”

“‘Three heads, but no brains!'”
Jack the Giant Killer
is Henry's favorite book. Though he knows all the words by heart, he never tires of it.

“That's right, my darling,” Mother coos. In her murmur of love, I hear a sliver of apprehension. As I pass by, she looks up at me with anxiety creases in her forehead. I smile to soothe them, and my own.

“‘He mostly stood—I know you'll laugh—about as high as a giraffe.'” Henry eggs his mother on. In spite of our disquiet, Mother and I both laugh. Oh, to be six years old and free of worry!

Nettie and Mother's maid, Ella, are in the cottage basement moving everything of value off the floor. Mother fears the lake may rise to the height of our foundation.

“Best to be safe instead of sorry,” she told them.

Maggie has baked breakfast rolls. The kitchen aroma is enticing, but I can only eat one or two bites. My stomach is a mass of knots. With a cup of hot tea, I climb the stairs to my room. Again, I stand before the window and gaze out at the rain. The sky is as gray as steel. What I wouldn't give to see the color blue. Rain tap-dances upon the cottage roof. Thunder
rumbles in the distance and lightning cuts jagged scars in the overcast sky.

I do note, with a slight surge of hope, that the rainfall doesn't feel as violent as it did the night before. In spite of the addition of thunder. To be honest, I cannot tell if I was overly wrought last night or am
under
estimating the danger now. When I look out at our vast lake, I am reminded how many times we have endured rainfall during our summer stays. The dam has always held. Certainly Colonel Unger would fetch us immediately if it were about to burst. How many times have the men of the club debated the safety of the dam only to resolve to leave it as it is? It was absurd to think they would arrive at such a decision lightly.

I'm being silly. More than that, if I'm harshly truthful with myself, I must admit that I'm leaning upon my fretfulness to postpone a dreaded task.

A letter.

One that I must compose to perfection. Today. Now. Whether it is tempestuous outside or not. Though I'd very much like to, I can no longer delay it. I must write the man who has promised to escort me to the cotillion. The escort who will be the envy of every debutante at the ball.

James Tottinger.

The very thought of his name makes me uneasy.

Since Mr. Tottinger so suddenly left the club with his family last summer, he has written to me often. And I to him. Though not as often. As Mother expertly instructed me, men prefer a
chase
.

“Like hounds after a fox?” I asked, haughtily.

“Precisely.”

Initially, I asked our postal carrier for discretion when he delivered the mail to our home in Upper St. Clair. After my parents so unfairly made me leave the club last summer, I was not inclined to tell Mother about the note James slipped into my hand before he left.

I must see you again.

Plus, I didn't feel like telling Mother about the many letters James had written to me since. At first, I thought them too vain to take seriously.

“Have you thought about me at all, Miss Haberlin? When you stroll the thoroughfares of Pittsburgh, do you imagine doing so on my arm?”

Then Mr. Tottinger's letters became increasingly ardent. In his last communication with me, he wrote, “I awoke to a cloudy London sky this morning and realized that the sun will not come out for me again until I have the pleasure of gazing into your fiery brown eyes.”

Admittedly, I was impressed that he accurately noted the color of my eyes. Previously, I would have thought he looked into them merely to catch his own reflection. More letters arrived with flattering prose.

“Miss Haberlin, you are as unique as a winter rose.” Splendid.

Almost without my noticing, I began to feel a . . . a . . .
stirring
. Now, after reading several clandestine letters, I confess Mr. James Tottinger has captured my fancy. And when he offered to cross the Atlantic Ocean to escort me to the debutante ball, well, I confess I felt the slightest bit
superior
. Entering the cotil
lion hall on the arm of dashing James Tottinger from Great Britain, a relative of Countess Augusta Reuss of Ebersdorf, grandmother of Queen Victoria herself (so they say), was every girl's dream. We would make the most fetching couple, if I may be so bold. It was in that mood that I accepted. Only then did I share the letters with Mother.

“My darling girl!” she exclaimed. “How coy you have been!”

“Before this moment, I wasn't sure I liked him.”

“Not sure? Dearest, he's related to a
countess
.”

From that hour until the present one, Mother has suffocated me with reminders about etiquette, dress, posture, manners. As if I'd been born in a brothel. Did she not trust that I was properly raised?

And when I quietly suggested needing a new gown, saying, sheepishly, “Nettie accidentally left my Charles Worth at the musty old
cottage,
” Mother didn't hesitate.

“Of course you'll need the very latest,” she said. “A trumpet skirt, I should think. We'll take a trip to New York.”

Mother was alive with purpose. A successful union with the Tottinger family would elevate my family's place in society and secure our future. Which is why I've been dreading telling her the truth. I haven't heard from Mr. Tottinger in weeks. My last
two
letters have gone unanswered. At first, of course, I blamed the post. Perhaps his letter is floating in the Atlantic? But the silence following my second letter to him is more ominous. I feel it in my marrow. Something is amiss. He had plenty of time to write me before I left for the cottage. And the cotillion fast approaches. Our shopping trip to New York is scheduled for mid-June. I've begun to regret letting it slip to Francine Larkin
that Mr. Tottinger was to be my escort at the ball. Most certainly she has told everyone by now. If Mr. Tottinger changes his mind, Francine will delight in inflaming my humiliation. I'll be lucky to be escorted by a stable hand.

And so, today, in the gray light of a storm that matches my own agitation, I must compose the most clement letter of my life. Its tone must reflect breezy independence, a flutter of desire and a gentle—but unmistakable—resolve to uncover what is afoot. Is something bothering him? Is he to rescind his offer to escort me to the ball?

Am I to be disgraced?

Sitting at my desk, I hold my fountain pen above a clean sheet of paper. Then I wait for inspiration to strike like a thunderclap over the lake.

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

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

May 31, 1889

1:46
P.M
.

M
y tea has grown cold. As, it feels, has my blood. I rise from the spill of light on my desk and leave my unfinished letter to make my way down the dark cottage stairs. It's barely
afternoon, yet it seems like coming night. The air has an odd
yellow
tint. It's as thick as pie dough. My heart falls to my feet. The storm has swelled and is quickly swallowing us up. In a matter of seconds, all signs of daylight vanish into the gloom.

The moment my shoe hits the bottom step of the cottage stairs, a thunderclap shakes the walls. It's the sound of shattering glass. My hands fly up to my ears. Raindrops pummel the cottage roof like falling pinecones.

“Mommy!” Henry leaps into Mother's arms. His moon face is shadowed in fear.

“There, there,” she says, her lips white. “It's only a storm.” With Henry clinging to her skirt, Mother takes him upstairs as Nettie emerges from the kitchen, gripping her apron with both fists.

“We're gathering candles,” she says, on her way to the cottage basement. “Just in case.”

I nod. Then I race to the front window. The sky is the color of charcoal. All light is lost. Though I cannot clearly see the surface of the lake, I
hear
it. Raindrops smack the water. Another thunder roll passes through my chest like an angry phantom. Outside, it looks like midnight. And the rain—the vengeful rain—is clearly just getting started.

As it did the night before, a shiver envelops me. One that I cannot deny. Without hesitation, I know what I must do. Ignoring Colonel Unger's advice, I will
not
stay put.

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

SOUTH FORK DAM

May 31, 1889

2:12
P.M.

M
y coat and bonnet are instantly soaked. I grabbed them off the front rack as I scurried out the cottage door. No one saw me leave. As necessity requires. Mother will dissolve in
panic when she notices I'm gone. Yet, God help me, I must do what I must do. Some duties are larger than a responsibility to family.

Lake water sloshes up through the slats of the boardwalk. The smooth soles of my leather shoes slip on the slick surface as I run toward the clubhouse. Never before have I seen the lake so far ashore. Last summer, we sunned ourselves on a patch of
beach
here. Ivy Tottinger and I played croquet here. Now our playground is underwater; our placid lake is a churning tempest. As I race past dark and deserted cottages, I hear shutters banging and piers groaning on their pilings.
Thank heavens the skiffs are stowed in the boathouse,
I think. In this swirling wind, they would be smashed to splinters.

Onward I run. If not for the weight of water, my skirt would blow over my petticoat. As it is, the wind presses me sideways. It takes enormous effort to retain my footing. My heart pounds so ferociously I fear it will burst through my chest. Ahead, I can barely make out the club's stable through the silver sheet of rain. The smell of soggy hay and manure is carried on the spitting wind. When I reach the stable, my body sags. The stall doors are open and flapping, the horses gone. The trap carriage sits abandoned and dripping. Where is Georgie? The muscular Percheron? The sturdy Murgese?

“Help!” I yell into the roar of rain even as I see the futility of it. “Colonel Unger!” My voice barely carries beyond my mouth.

Suddenly a jagged line of lightning illuminates the sky. Before its thunder rumbles, I notice movement in the distance, beyond the clubhouse, atop the dam. Horses and men. Propelled by
hope and fear, I run toward them. I must see for myself if the dam will hold. I must
convince
myself that it will. My soaked and muddy skirt tugs me to the ground. My stockings are wet through; my shoes sodden. Still, I do not stop. I cannot stop.

Beyond the clubhouse, the path to the dam is the consistency of custard. My shoes make sucking sounds with each step. My lungs burn. Still, I slog forward. Sludge covers my ankles.

“Ach!”

Without warning, I am down. Slipped and fallen into the muck. A rock digs painfully into my thigh. Both hands are black with mud. Tears rise into my eyes, but I bite my lip to contain them. What good would it do? Sobbing into rain will only make me wetter.

“Strength, Elizabeth.”

Surprisingly, the sound of my quivering voice is a comfort. Amid the crush of rain, it's an echo of humanity.

“Get up.”

I get up. My arms ache with the effort of pulling myself out of the mud. I wipe my hands on my skirt and rub my painful upper leg. In a surge of emotion, I yank at the ribbon on my bonnet. My hat is now so heavy it pains my neck. What possessed me to wear a sunbonnet in this downpour? With a frilly row of silk red asters, no less? I am ridiculous. Tossing my ruined bonnet into the underbrush, I continue on. In spite of my exhaustion and discomfort, I force my legs forward. Around a curve in the path, up a slight incline. Beyond the sparse maple grove where we lazily sway in hammocks each summer. To the dam. The scene of our crime.

“Over here. Quickly!”

I hear him before I see him. Colonel Unger is shouting.

“Another breach! Quickly, men!”

Even as both legs scream for rest, I rush ahead. Waterlogged pine branches droop low in my way. Hurriedly, I sweep them aside with my bare hands. My skin will be scratched and bloodied, but what do I care?

“Hurry, men!”

In the next clearing, I see him. On horseback, Colonel Unger gallops back and forth along the breast of the dam, frantically shouting orders down into the murk. Drenched workmen—Hunkies from town?—scramble along the front face of the earthen beast with shovels, pickaxes, their bare hands. Desperately, they attempt to shore up the bloated, muddy monster by shoving rock, shale, hay—
anything
—into the rivulets that appear like tears in a crowd of mourners. Once one leak is plugged, another springs forth. Fissures open everywhere in dripping clefts.

Lakeside, the water level is so high it laps onto the top of the dam—the only road leading to our club—the road that was lowered to make room for our carriages. Using my arms and legs like a crab, I clamber onto a rocky ledge opposite the spillway. As always, the runoff exit is clogged by lake debris. How could we have been so arrogant? We allowed the club's managers to install wire mesh over the mouths of the runoff pipes to prevent fish from swimming downstream into town? For the sake of a few lost fish, we let a
spillway
clog? As I stand in sight of it, shuddering in the cold, I am shamed to my core. How many times have my friends and I picnicked up here only to remark, “There are so many logs clogging the spillway you can walk
on water.” We
laughed
about it. Dear God, had we no sense? No regard for those who might be harmed by our carelessness?

Darkness seeps into my soul. Amid the blinding rain, I nonetheless see the futility of the men's frenzied efforts. One workman falls to his knees, exhausted, on top of the dam. He clasps his palms together and shouts, “God, save us all.” Rain washes the dirt off his upturned face. Only then do I recognize Floyd, the stable hand who was Nettie's beau last summer. Does she still see him? Is she still in love? My eyelids press shut. I am ashamed to not know the answer.

“Floyd!” I call to him. The wet wind that carried his voice to me now blows my voice
behind
me. I barely hear my own plea. Still, I try again. Does he know that Nettie is here, at the cottage?

“Floyd!”

Scrambling to his feet, Floyd never looks my way. Instead, he rejoins the other workers on the face of the dam, hurriedly patching holes in silence, their heads bowed. Their bravery breaks my heart.

Beneath the soles of my shoes, I feel a juddering. I have felt it before on this very spot. We all have. The
heaving
of our deadly dam. Only now it seems to grit its teeth and groan. It swells and contracts with growing intensity. Against one side—pushing, pushing, pushing—is our massive lake. Its immense weight fills me with terror. I am unable to move even as I shake from head to toe. Our shimmering blue plaything is now a swollen black brute straining at its confinement. A beast in captivity, raging to bust free and devour its captors. As if it had secretly despised us all along. We privileged club members with our silly parasols
and canoes. As if it had only been biding its time, waiting for the perfect moment of revenge.

Unable to control my tears any more than I can harness the rain, I feel sobs rise up from my chest and join the water sheeting down my face. Fear renders me immobile. I am a weeping, trembling statue, able only to tilt my head to the wrathful heavens and surrender.

“Forgive our sins, O Lord.”

In reply, the sky again ignites in a jagged line. Thunder rumbles through my body. Somehow it revives me. From nowhere, a surge of energy shoots through my veins. Like a blessed ray of sunlight, I feel a rush of purpose. A resolve within me is lit. My sobbing stops. Ignoring the pain in my leg, I leap off the ledge and race to the familiar chestnut shape I see tied to the trunk of a dripping maple. The Haflinger. The workhorse I've ridden so many summers at the club. She glistens in the punishing rain like freshly made caramel.

“Georgie,” I coo. Though the rain is deafening, and my heart is pounding, I attempt a soothing tone. Her dark eyes are white-rimmed in fear. She rears her head, tugging at the leather reins that secure her to the tree. “You remember me, don't you, Georgie? I'm Elizabeth. We've strolled around this very lake together. Last summer. Remember?”

Her terrified stare never once leaves my face. I circle around to her flared nostrils and gently reach one wet hand up to stroke the tuft of wet blond hair between her eyes. Gathering all the calm I can muster, I press my forehead to her snout and rhythmically breathe. “We are both cold and soaked to the skin,” I say, softly. “Shall we get out of here?”

As I continuously stroke her nose, her forehead, her mane, I breathe in and out. Shallowly, at first, for it's all my hammering heart will allow. But soon Georgie's breathing and my own are synchronized
In, out. In, out
. I blow warm air into her nostrils. Together, we relax each other. I feel her soften beneath my touch. The burning in my chest eases.

“That's my girl,” I whisper, my nose still resting on her muzzle. “We will take care of each other.”

In, out. In, out.

Slowly, I reach my free hand around Georgie's chest to the tree trunk. The leather knot that is securing her to the tree is tight and wet. My fingers fumble to loosen it. As I feel tension again rise in my chest, I tamp it down with monotone reassurances into this animal's erect ears.

“We're going to be fine. A nice canter down the mountain is just what the doctor ordered.”

The moment the horse is untied, she lurches forward, then rears back onto her haunches. Gripping the reins, I know I must move quickly and decisively.

“Hang on, girl.” I speak as much to myself as to her.

In a motion made possible only by the force of determination, my foot is in the stirrup and I am upon her, astride in the man's saddle. I have never ridden in such an immodest manner, yet it feels absolutely right for this purpose. Still spooked, Georgie crouches on her back legs, then takes off like a shot from a pistol.

We are in flight. Back toward the stable. The wrong way.

I panic.

Ignoring my training, I lean over Georgie's neck and hang
on. My left hand seizes the leather straps as my right grabs the pommel on the saddle. In my too-tight hold on the reins, Georgie stiffens her neck. She pulls her head forward as I yank it back. In our tug-of-war, she wins easily. I had intended to race down the mountain road in front of the dam. But Georgie has other ideas. Apparently, she is madly galloping
home,
to the club's stable. I can do nothing but hold on. My mind races.

All of a sudden I remember:
There is a back way down the mountain
. Mr. Eggar said as much. Beyond the stable. Farther than our cottage. On the other side of the lake.

If only I can control this runaway steed.

Summoning all my strength, I attempt the most difficult task of all. I try to relax myself. I inhale wet air into my lungs and blow it out through my lips. I lower my hunched shoulders. This much I know for sure: Georgie will never feel secure with a frightened rider atop her. Already we only narrowly missed several jutting branches. The rain has not let up. To my utter dismay, it appears to be falling
harder,
straight down in stinging nettles from heaven. Daylight still eludes us even as the hour is barely past two thirty. Ahead, through the gray sheet of rain, I see the clearing behind the clubhouse. Georgie gallops blindly for it, as terrorized horses do.

I am nearly prone on her back, my thighs screaming with the effort of not getting thrown. Still, I know what I must do. Harnessing my own fear, I force myself to sit upright, below her withers. I burrow into the saddle, pressing my backside down. I push both stirrups toward the sodden earth. And I
loosen
the reins.

Georgie's ears perk up.

“There you go, girl.” I deliberately modulate my voice to mask my fright. Doubtful she can hear me in the storm, but it's clear that she
feels
my shift from terror to command. Beneath the saddle, I sense the slight slackening of her massive shoulder muscles. The thunderous pounding of her hooves quiets somewhat. Though every muscle in my body screams to return to the fetal position—curled over the saddle, clutching Georgie's strong neck—I resist. I sit as tall as a blue-ribbon rider. “That's my girl,” I murmur. “Slow it down.”

My heart pounds so hard it hurts.

As we pass the clubhouse and near the darkened stable, Georgie's frenetic gallop slows. Steamy exhalations shoot from both her nostrils. White foam bubbles up from the gullet of the saddle. I see my opportunity. Feigning the air of mastery I felt last summer on horseback, I align my head with Georgie's upright ears and tighten the slack in the reins.

“I know you want to go home,” I say, calmly exerting the force of my will. “And you shall. But first—”

As Georgie veers left to the stable, I pull the reins to the right. I press my left thigh into her flank. Her ears fly backward. She flicks her long mane. I hold firm. “You were in charge before,” I say. “My turn now.”

Determinedly in control, I use my waning strength to hold the reins taut. My arms tremble, but I do not let up. Georgie presses me, and I press her back. I feel her resistance, yet I overpower it with my resolve. In a war of wills, I shall win. I
must
win. With a kick of my heels, I quicken her slowed pace. Again, she rears her head. She gnaws at her bit. I hold firm. Past the stable. Beyond her earthy scents of home.