We Five (22 page)

Nonsense! Nonsense!

And yet.

To Tom Katz, the agency account manager responsible for Pemberton, Day & Co.'s summer advertising campaign, fell the enjoyable task of deciding which of the most picturesque spots in Golden Gate Park would make the best backdrops for the full-page advertisement he wished to present in the guise of a photographic essay: “Tramping in Taffeta; Aestivating in Lace.” More to the point, it fell to Mr. Katz, assisted by his agency colleague Will Holborne, the delectable duty of deciding where the five young women who had won the modeling lottery might best show off Pemberton's summer lines while showing
themselves
off to the five young men whose responsibility it was to shepherd and/or superintend them.

To that end, both men, equipped with “slide in ‘n' shoot” Hawkeye cameras, had visited the park a few days before. They had selected three sites for the all-day Friday photography session: the Dutch windmill, Sweeney Observatory at the top of Strawberry Hill, and the Japanese Tea Garden, with permission granted by the Stow Lake boathouse proprietor for use of one of its rooms for costume changing.

The day of the “shoot” having now arrived, a casual bonhomie quickly developed between We Five and the ad-men, who either furtively or manifestly could not take their eyes off them. Miss Colthurst was pleased to see the day proceeding so smoothly and everyone getting along so well. Miss Dowell had remarked that the models had been chosen wisely. The manager of the Ladies' Departments had agreed with her assistant, whom she had brought along with her to the photography session, and dismissed the murmuring plaints of the five rejected finalists back at the store that “something didn't smell right.” (Although there was, to be sure,
some
truth behind this suspicion, since Miss Colthurst had made it clear to Katz whom
her
particular preferences had been, “for whatever my suggestions are worth.” A great deal, as it turned out.) During those periods in which Katz and Holborne went about setting stops and focal lengths, posing their subjects this way and that, and waiting for those moments that offered the most aesthetically illuminative marriages of sun and cloud, Molly found herself in comfortable colloquy with the youngest Katz agency ad-man, Pat Harrison. It was Harrison's job to escort the models to and from the boathouse—but only after Miss Dowell, as dresser, gave each of We Five a last-minute prink and primp and “spin-around-once-more-for-me-dearie-thankyoueversomuch.”

As for Carrie, she had spent a good part of the morning avoiding the interested gaze of Mr. Holborne, who, as often as not, was framing her most particularly in his photographic sights. He knew what she was doing and she knew what
he
was doing, and it became an amusing little game of wordless cat-and-mouse until Katz, taking notice, ordered his photographer to “knock it off.”

Maggie, in the meantime, while changing from a blue and white shirtwaist and golf skirt into a pink, lace-sleeved tea gown, made a confession to her friend Jane, who was changing from striped shirtwaist and cloth skirt into a lavender silk house dress. She admitted that she very much liked the look of the one named Castle, whose job it was to keep onlookers out of camera range, which he did with such commanding and nearly martial authority that Maggie was given to tingle, admiringly, in his presence. “You may have your Mr. Castle,” confided Jane. “I'm far more interested in Mr. Katz, and
have
been since we first met last week. He's quite the gentle general. Did you notice how deftly he arranged each of us upon the bridge above the waterfall—adjusting our arms and heads this way and that with such tender attentiveness?”

“All
I
noticed,” returned Maggie with a sly smirk, “was a modern-day Pygmalion falling in love with his statue. But as for the rest of us, we were merely items of still life to be shifted and shoved about, with little show of respect at all.”

“You're being quite ridiculous, Mag. Although I'll admit that Katz does seem just a little more interested in me than he is the rest of you.” Jane leaned in, addressing Maggie through the sheer fabric of her chemise, which she was in the process of lowering over her head and shoulders. “In fact, only moments ago he asked me to have dinner with him next week.”

“And what did you say? Will you go?”

“Of course I'll go. A girl's got to eat, doesn't she? And I can't think of any finer company—I mean, of course, company of a different gender.” Having answered Maggie's question frankly, Jane turned to Miss Dowell, who was serving as human clotheshorse, Jane's silk dress draped at the ready over her arm. “Miss Dowell, these clothes reek of benzine!”

“It cannot be helped, Miss Higgins. The agency wanted them crisp and clean for the photography session. But I sympathize fully, my dear. I am nearly to the point of asphyxiation myself.”

The tall, spectacled member of the Katz contingent wandered through the morning accoutered with pencil and pad, taking notes from which he would draw inspiration for the advertising copy that would accompany the photographs. Ruth followed him about at what she thought was a safe and respectful distance until that point at which he finally decided to engage her, and in doing so discovered she too was a writer (of sorts—hence her fascination with his peripatetic scribbling) and took the opportunity to solicit her opinion as to what in the world could be said about five young women standing before a very Low Country–looking windmill, themselves looking not very Low Country at all in their tasteful drawing-room lounging garments—looking, in point of fact, like the very young women they could not help being: five modern female residents of the very modern American city of San Francisco.

“It's certainly a conundrum,” admitted Ruth. “I thought the same thing while Mr. Katz was posing me—that a bucolic windmill was an incongruous thing to place within a city park. To my knowledge, Central Park in New York hasn't a single one.”

Cain Pardlow nodded. “If Katz had been smart, he would have jettisoned the windmill and jettisoned Strawberry Hill—everyone's so tired of pictures from that blasted hill—as if San Francisco hasn't got hills and lovely scenic views in dozens of other places—and limited our pictorial presentation to the Japanese garden alone.”

Ruth smiled. “But wouldn't we have found ourselves in a similar fix? I mean similar to our situation with the windmill. My fellow models and I don't look very Dutch, but then again, we don't look all that Oriental either.”

“True,” said Cain. “But Miss Colthurst has an idea which Katz also subscribes to, of putting the five of you—at least for one of the photographs—into summer kimonos. She says that Mr. Pemberton really wants to push the store's new line of silk kimono-style wrappers, and the setting is perfect for that purpose.”

“Yes, that may very well work, so long as we don't look as if we just tumbled out of bed. I've never seen a woman in a kimono who didn't appear a little, well,
frowzy
.”

Cain smiled. He pulled his watch from his fob pocket. “It's almost time for lunch,” he said, closing the watch with one hand while patting his stomach with the other. “And the agency has quite outdone itself in the way of provisioning our palates.”

“I thought the
store
was footing the bill for our lunch.”

“Of course it is. But Mr. Pemberton won't know until he gets our invoice of expenses how very well we ate on this day.” Cain winked as Ruth laughed. “There's a nice picnic area over by the children's quarters. What would you say to the two of us having lunch together—that is, if you don't have other plans?”

“I haven't any other plans,” said Ruth. “And I'd like to hear if there are other things you enjoy writing besides advertising copy.”

“Only if you tell me what kind of writing interests
you.
”

“Yes, of course,” said Ruth shyly.

The photography at the windmill now having been completed, Holborne was in the process of gathering up his equipment and returning it to one of the two rented carriages that transported the dozen from one end of the long park to the other and everywhere in between. It was up to Harrison, as chief wrangler, to round up all the other members of the photography party, but first someone had to round up Mr. Harrison, who could not at that moment be located.

“What do you mean you don't know where he is?” sputtered Katz to Castle.

Castle responded with equal irritation: “Just what I said.”

“Check the beach. You'll probably find him splashing around like a two-year-old. Then remind me why my father hasn't fired him yet.”

“Because he's your cousin,” shouted Castle over his shoulder as he loped off.

Castle didn't find Harrison on the beach. But, playing a hunch, he walked the four blocks up the Great Highway which overlooked the ocean, and confirmed his suspicion that his agency colleague had ambled up to the Sutro Baths.

And quickly learned that Harrison hadn't ambled up there alone.

Pat and Molly—Molly still dressed in her stylish mustard-colored lawn dress from the windmill session—were standing on the Sutro Heights promenade watching an ambulance pull up in front of the street entrance to the baths. From the knot of onlookers also milling about, they learned the reason for the ambulance's sudden appearance: one of the tobogganing bathers inside hadn't cleared away quickly enough from the spot where the chute deposited its wet merrymakers into the pool, and he was knocked in the head beneath the surface of the water. The woman next to Molly, cloaked in a dripping wrapper which covered her bathing costume, surmised that the young man was probably dead. Her male companion disagreed. He argued that the poor bather had more than likely merely been struck unconscious, and once all the water was pumped from his lungs he “would be back to his old self in no time.”

Castle, who had sidled up next to his fugitive ad-man and the fashion model with whom he was playing hooky, said, by way of announcing his presence, “No time to find out how this little drama turns out, children. Your carriage awaits.”

Maggie sat in one of the two horse-drawn carriages, wondering when Jeremy Castle would return. In the other carriage, Jane conferred with Miss Colthurst and Miss Dowell over how the remainder of the day would proceed.

Carrie climbed in next to Maggie. “Do you see that woman over there on the bridge?”

“No,” replied Maggie. “All I see is those buffalo.”

Carrie turned Maggie's head with a light application of palm to chin. “Over
there
. See her now?”

Maggie nodded. “What about her?”

“She was watching our photography session. We started talking to one another. She thinks she knows you.”

Maggie squinted in the bright sunshine. “The woman's too far away for me to know whether I know
her
or not. Why doesn't she just come over here?”

Carrie shook her head. “She isn't dressed very well. I think she's in service. You know that maids can be timid.”

“Are you suggesting I walk over to the bridge and talk to
her
?”

“Only if you're interested. There's certainly time for you to at least say hello.”

Maggie sighed. “Of course, now you
have
piqued my curiosity.”

Maggie drew herself up and out of her cushioned seat, steadying herself with a hand upon the side of the open-topped landau, which generally took visitors through the park on day excursions but was now being put to a different form of commercial use. The woman, seeing that Maggie was now traversing the open field which separated the windmill from one of the little ponds where the park's anachronistic buffalo herd came to drink, cut the distance short by meeting her halfway.

Even before the two came together, Maggie could see that the woman was someone she indeed
did
know. It was Mary Grace, the live-in housemaid who had worked for the Bartons when Maggie was a girl and then had to be let go when Mr. Barton could no longer afford her.

The two embraced like old friends. “I
thought
that was you!” exclaimed Mary Grace, holding Maggie apart from her with straight arms so as to get a better look at her. “Come up in the world, have you—posing all pretty and proper for that man's camera.”

Maggie smiled warmly. “I work for Pemberton, Day. They're putting advertisements in all the papers to promote the new summer fashions.”

“You always was a beautiful little girl, and now I see that you've blossomed into a fine and lovely young lady.” Mary Grace reached out and gingerly touched Maggie's cheek. “And hardly any trace of the pox at all.”

“Oh, the magic of modern cosmetics! Although it helps that the pock marks don't go
too
deep.”

“I thought we was going to lose you too, just like your sister Octavia. And after your poor sister Eleanor died of consumption. Some families get all the hard luck, it seems.”

“The deaths of two of their three daughters wasn't something my father and mother bore very easily,” Maggie said with a sad nod of concurrence. “I know that it contributed to my father's downward slide into dissolution, and turned my mother into such a terrible hypochondriac. I wish there were somewhere we could sit.” Maggie looked around for a convenient bench, but the only one she could spot was presently occupied by two young women sitting back to back like bookends while having their double-caricature sketched by one of the park's roving lightning artists. “I'd so love to catch up with you. Mama's getting remarried. Can you believe it? To a dentist. I'm not very fond of him but my opinion doesn't seem to count for much. I know, I know! Come sit with me in the carriage. I'll introduce you to my friend Carrie. She and her mother have a maid who reminds me a little of you—but only a little. She's colored.”