The Woman in the Photo by Mary Hogan Read Free Book Online

magical .”
    Mother grins and tucks the blanket even more tightly around her son’s small body. She refrains from correcting him. Why spoil his boyish dreams with the adult knowledge of his certain future? Henry Haberlin will grow into a physician like hisfather, or a banker or a lawyer. If lucky, perhaps he will one day own a railroad.
    â€œSettle in, my love,” Mother says to him.
    We ride uphill in silence, each to his or her thoughts. As we near the crest of the long, narrow incline, the South Fork dam comes into view. As always, I am struck dumb by the utter presence of it. The dam—a massive sloping wall of mud and muck that contains our beautiful lake—seems to be a living, breathing beast. Made of puddle clay, hay, gravel, manure, tree trunks, rocks—anything and everything, really—it smells of the forest floor. Today, that is, as it glistens from the spurts of rain. In the heat of midsummer, the earthen dam is alive with aromatic material that appears to be both growing and decaying before our very eyes.
    The carriage driver pulls back on the reins and slows the horses just beyond the first “No Trespassing” sign. Henry squeals, “Whoa!” The driver then makes a sharp right turn and steers us directly atop the flattened breast of the mammoth South Fork dam. Through the wheels, I feel the dam’s throbbing. Its heartbeat . As other drivers do each summer when Pittsburgh’s finest families arrive one by one for their getaway at the mountain retreat, our driver stops in the very center of the crossing to allow us a moment to enjoy the breathtaking—and hair-raising—view. To the left is a sheet of beryl blue as far as the eye can see. From this vantage point, our private lake looks almost like an ocean. To the right: a vertical drop is as deep as Pittsburgh’s courthouse tower is high. Or deeper. Far below us, I see pointed treetops and jagged rock. A curving, snaggletoothed ravine that snakes steeply downhill into darkness. Icannot stare into that black valley without a loss of equilibrium. Even now that we are not as high up as we once were. The club’s governors hired workmen from town to lower the top of the earth-packed dam a few feet so that the dirt road would be wider. Crossing the top of the dam is the only convenient way in and out of the club. Naturally, a wider road makes it easier to accommodate the passage of our carriages.
    â€œProgress.”
    It’s the word I overheard Mr. Frick use to describe widening the dam’s crossing by lowering its top. So certain is he that motorcars will soon replace horse-drawn carriages, he is pleased that the more forward-thinking members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club had the foresight to create a wide enough road to handle modern transportation.
    Not everyone agreed. More than once, men in the clubhouse parlor hotly debated the decision to lower the dam. Enveloped in cigar smoke, they tugged at the satin collars of their dinner jackets.
    â€œThe dam should be higher, ” one said.
    â€œRebuilt entirely,” added another.
    â€œWhere is the discharge pipe? When is the last time Unger cleared out the debris around the spillway?”
    â€œWe’re tempting fate.”
    The opposition was a large chorus with one refrain: “Have you any idea of the cost ?”
    A thoughtful silence most often ensued. Followed by the stroking of chin beards or the curling of wax-tipped mustaches or the flagging down of waiters for more refreshment. Ultimately, four words prevailed.
    â€œEvolve or go extinct.”
    Was that Mr. Frick’s voice I heard utter that persuasive statement? Probably. It was spoken with his usual confidence. Often I overheard those words uttered to end an argument flat. Henry Clay Frick is a man who often gets his way without tedious debate. Father once privately described him as a capitalist. He meant it not as a compliment. I have heard that Mr.