Pictures of the Past

by Deby Eisenberg

  “Ma’am, I am twenty-two.”

  “Oh,” and she nodded to her daughter, who was embarrassed to the point of blushing. “How wonderful, a dance partner for the duration.”

  Taylor would have been maddened by the woman’s forwardness, if she were not such an almost comical character, if the mortified Katherine had not given him such a look of desperation, saying with her eyes, Just be happy you don’t have to live with this.

  Later, as they walked together along the deck after dinner, Kamerine said, “I know how embarrassing this is and I apologize for my mother. Believe me, this is not a new situation for me. Aside from the fact that I am twenty and practically an old maid in her eyes, I have a boyfriend who she will not acknowledge, who she looks down her nose at.”

  Taylor was surprised. Katherine was not a particularly pretty girl; his first impression was that she was awkward and shy, actually a little tomboyish. She seemed extremely uncomfortable in the evening gown that he now realized was certainly of her mother’s choosing, and she was constantly rearranging her shawl to obscure that same feminine feature that her mother was thrusting at strangers.

  “Actually, I’m in love,” she continued. “And even this European trip—my God, we met two lords and a prince—is not going to make me love Edgar less.”

  “Well, little Miss Surprising Lady, we may just have a wonderful time on this sailing, as I too am in love. Only I have a major dilemma and I might benefit from some advice.”

  “That might cost you a bit,” Katherine retorted. “If we can just entertain each other and play a role like we are somewhat interested, we could both benefit.”

  “I see what you mean.” Taylor was actually quick at assessing social situations. “If I monopolize your time, your mother will leave you alone, at least for the voyage.”

  “Yes,” Katherine was nodding, “You get it. And, now don’t get more of a swelled head than you probably already possess, but you will have dozens of other mother-daughter combinations trying to grab you, if you don’t already appear taken.”

  “Katherine,” he said, nodding his head as he spoke, “I am thinking this Edgar is one lucky guy. You are quite a little character.”

  Within the first few days of the cruise, Taylor recognized that he had made a wonderful friend in Katherine. For the first time in his life, he felt he had met a different kind of soul mate, as if he had found a sibling. And for an only child, that is as precious a gift as is offered.

  And as they became further acquainted, walking the decks, participating in competitive games of shuffle-board, looking for sea animals off the side of the ship, he felt comfortable sharing his complicated story with her, seriously seeking her advice on what to do next.

  It was actually Katherine’s idea to go together to the ship’s head purser, Mr. Anthony Bailey, who they found to be an amazing confidante. He was eager to help Taylor in his attempt to secure passage on any future voyages for the family of Sarah Berger. But the well-informed purser was explaining to him the difficulties that affluent businessmen were finding in leaving Germany with their holdings and investments.

  Taylor’s situation gave Katherine a new perspective on her own romantic troubles and all of a sudden her problem seemed easy and quite solvable. She was in love with a young man, an apprentice in a bicycle shop. They had met when she brought in her bicycle, a birthday gift from her parents, for a minor repair and an adjustment to the handlebars. It seemed to her initially that he never even acknowledged her, his work cap covering his eyes. She could only focus on his greasy fingers as he adjusted the bars, while she straddled the bike as he had requested. Again, seemingly without looking at her, he suggested he accompany her on a ride to test out his work.

  After they had ridden down the block and turned by the grocery store, he raised his head up at her, moved back his cap, and smiled.

  “My name is Edgar Spinner.”

  “Oh,” was all she could answer initially. She was surprised at the familiarity of his demeanor and its accompanying smile. Then finally she thought to return, “I’m Katherine.”

  “I know. I sold the bicycle to your father. He said it was for your birthday and that is how I know we are the same age.” And then, after a brief pause, he added, “You look like your father.”

  “Yes, I am told that often—I’m never quite sure how to take that.”

  “Well,” Edgar Spinner said, hesitating, “I like your looks a lot.”

  And with that they began sharing afternoon rides and eventually sharing dreams. And many of those conversations she was now sharing with her new friend, Taylor Woodmere.

  “His name is Edgar Spinner,” Katherine offered, “and when he started to decide on a profession, he thought that he was drawn to cycling because of his name. He had a dream of opening his own store, maybe many, maybe employing Mr. Ford’s assembly line technique and building bikes. His shingle would read, ‘Spinner’s Cyclery—Our Name and Our Destiny.’”

  Taylor was impressed by the passion with which Katherine told Edgar’s story and knew that she would be a strong force behind his future success in business. And as it would turn out, in the recurring theme of life he was experiencing when meeting people, being in the right place at the right time, in the not too distant future, Spinner’s Cyclery would be the first of many businesses Taylor would invest in as a silent partner and it would do him well. And aside from his financial gain, he would count the future Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Spinner among his closest friends.

  Taylor

  New York

  August 1937

  When he finally arrived in New York, Taylor decided not to book a train to Chicago right away. He needed to unwind from the trip, needed to reflect on his situation—to devise a plan to move his life ahead in the new direction to which he had committed himself.

  For this brief period of time he stayed at the beautiful and posh Waldorf=Astoria Hotel, on Park Avenue. Despite having been christened in 1931 during the height of the ongoing Great Depression, it presented itself as the largest and tallest hotel in the world and it actually filled an entire city block. This Art Deco structure was the vision of two cousins, William Waldorf Astor and John Jacob Astor, who previously each owned hotels adjacent to one another, with none other than the Empire State Building constructed on their combined lots. Almost immediately, the new hotel became the favored destination of the rich and famous.

  Perusing the hotel lobby and corridors as he entered, Taylor saw an impressive display of pictures documenting the history of the hotel, including a photo of former president Herbert Hoover delivering a radio address at the opening—an optimistic high point of that new decade.

  After registering, Taylor continued his tour. Walking toward the Park Avenue foyer, his eyes were immediately drawn upward toward the top of the dozen or so imposing columns, where six clusters of enormous and multicolored balloons were decorating the ceiling. He overheard a bellman explaining to another visitor that the decorations were remaining from a children’s charity ball held the night before in the adjacent ballroom. Still, his innate sense of style, which was yet one more impressive inheritance from both of his parents’ lineage and had been enhanced by his new European exposure to art, immediately found these an offensive addition to the exquisite hotel décor. He knew that perhaps if he had been an attendee at the event, which undoubtedly sported complementary centerpieces, chairs decked with ribbons and bows, and a fanciful backdrop behind the orchestra stage, that he might have appreciated the context of the floating helium balls. But now he found them only frivolous objects. Was this to be his fate, he wondered, to find fault in everything, to walk into the largest and most beautiful hotel in the world and find only details to criticize? Had he gained sensitivity only to lose sensibility? And as if to prove to himself that he was able to remain sane, he focused now on the intricate pebbled tile work—the Art Deco lines, the gold leaf on the ceiling, the silver leaf images of plants and animals…

  The following day he had full audi
ence to the preparations for an elite society wedding and he soaked in every detail like the most appreciative guest. In fact, he was so endearing to the wedding party as they gathered early in the lobby to take their photographs, so helpful to the elderly grandparents, and a spirited playmate occupying the time of the energetic mix of junior bridesmaids, groomsmen, the ring bearer, and flower girl—that more than once someone asked to which side of the wedding couple he was connected. When it was understood that he was merely a guest at the hotel, he was not shooed away as any ordinary interloper would be, but he was invited to attend the celebration after the dinner, with more than one of the bridesmaids offering him a position on her figurative dance card.

  Before he left the group, they let him take an early glimpse into the ballroom set up for the ceremony. At the end of the long aisle, where in a church would be an altar or at least a podium, stood an ornately decorated canopy. From a distance, it seemed to be a broadly arched wooden structure of branches and leaves and garlands of flowers. The grandfather, peering in the room alongside Taylor and hearing him remark on its beauty, told him, “It is a chuppah, a beautiful part of our Jewish tradition. And for your interest, young man,’ he continued, “I will tell you the most wonderful part of our Jewish ceremony. At the end, after the couple is pronounced man and wife, a glass wrapped in a napkin will be placed beneath the groom’s foot and when he stomps down and breaks it, the guests will shout ‘Mazel Tov,’ which means congratulations and good luck.”

  Taylor was thinking now of the property at his Kenilworth home, how the backyard was landscaped in a park-like setting overlooking Lake Michigan, how his father had constructed the most intricately arched gazebo, a wooden latticework edifice, and he could picture Sarah’s eyes light up when he showed it to her. Perhaps he could walk away now from this crowd of celebrants and try to sustain positive thoughts for his own future.

  And then he saw her. She was seated halfway across the extensive lobby, and although most of her back was to him, when she turned her head slightly, a glimpse of her distinctive profile and her shock of blond hair made his heart race. How could this be that she actually made it to America before him? Had she returned on the speedier Normandie? He supposed that it was possible, that her father may have come to his senses more quickly than even Taylor had anticipated. And although it would be a coincidence that she would be here at the Waldorf=Astoria, since he had not formulated and certainly had not articulated any such plans, this would be the natural choice for a family such as the Bergers when traveling to New York. All of these thoughts delayed him half a minute in approaching her, and just as she was within his reach, one or two more seconds and his arm would have circled her waist, she rose and approached another man almost in a run. And now that man was experiencing the bliss of her embrace, his ecstatic face in Taylor’s full view, his hands resting on that very portion of the small of her back that he had been targeting. He was confused. Who was this—a relative she had never mentioned—another family friend or business associate? But it could not be either, holding her like that, kissing her with his same passion and then twirling her. Twirling her. Thank God, twirling her. For then he saw she was not Sarah at all. She was yet another blond young woman, not even really as soft and pretty as his girl.

  Immediately he searched for the picture. Although he knew he had been keeping it close on his person, he was flustered and couldn’t locate the right pocket—outside jacket, right and then left, pants empty except for change, but then, of course, closest to his heart in his inside jacket pocket—the photograph with her at the Paris Exposition. He was glad he had insisted that they take advantage of one of the most popular kiosks at the fair, even though it meant waiting in a fairly long line. When it was finally their turn, the photographer had put them in their proper places at a predetermined distance from the camera and from each other, and then went about fidgeting with the mechanics of the process. They stood in a stilted pose as the assistant adjusted the height of the white bulb on its metal stand and then stepped down from his ladder and arranged Taylor’s position so that his hat was hanging down from his left fingertips. The photographer, still unsatisfied with the artistry of the shot, placed a flower in Sarah’s right hand for symmetry. And now Taylor remembered the moment it was shot, when he looked at her instead of the camera. Despite the impropriety of the bold move to be recorded, he reached out quickly and connected their free hands. He could swear there was a shot of electricity in her touch, and he refused to be sensible and attribute it to the dryness in the air.

  Over the years it would be the music of the era that would reignite his feelings of emptiness and longing for Sarah. As it was, foreign songs did not have any consistent play on American airways; that would have been unbearable. Of course, they never shared a song, had “our song.” It was just the collective music of the times that would catch his ear and then his heart. So he created memories from these first days back in America, with the first songs he heard. And the most powerful one was from a new musical that had just become popular, The Lullaby of Broadway. As he rested and contemplated his future, it reverberated through every corridor, echoed as he passed any dance lounge of the Waldorf=Astoria Hotel.

  Taylor

  Chicago

  August 1937

  Finally, his sojourn to and from Europe had gone full circle. The trip that would define his entire being for the rest of his life had come to an end. When the train made its final approach into Union Station in Chicago and Taylor exited down the metal steps of the Pullman car following the porter with his luggage, he took only a cursory glance to see if Emily was there and was neither surprised nor disappointed that she was not.

  But then, just down the concrete walkway, skirting people and steel beams, struggling to catch his attention with extended waves of his arms, was a very welcome and familiar face. It was Gregory, his closest contemporary among the house staff, who greeted him warmly, with more of a hug then a handshake.

  “Sir, it’s good to have you back. I will be happy to update you on anything at home. You look well, but…”

  They were walking at a lively pace, with Gregory now leading the porter toward the automobile, though continuing the conversation as he glanced back over his shoulder.

  “But,” Gregory continued, “I want to say…distracted…I know, of course, you are looking for Miss Emily. So I regret to be the one to tell you some disappointing news. You see, she was called back to Newport earlier in the week. She was beside herself to have to go home just days before you were finally returning.”

  “Really, Gregory? Is everything OK?”

  “Mr. Taylor, I believe that her father suffered a serious injury.”

  “Oh, my God. And Emily can be so fragile with bad news—How did she take it?”

  “I confess that much of what I know about her father’s condition I overheard. But I was called upon to help her pack up her things and escort her to the train.”

  “That must have been a big job,” he said wryly.

  “Again, I must confess that there were three of us packing.” He looked at Taylor with a sideways smirk and they both burst out laughing.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Taylor. It is not my business to judge.”

  “It’s OK, Gregory. I obviously know exactly what you must have gone through. I’m not sorry I missed it— although I should have been there for her.”

  “Well, your mother and father did their best to comfort her before she left—but she does have a way.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?

  “It seems like a freak combination of illness and accident. It appears Mr. Kendall was sailing—they say he might have blacked out from exposure or had a heart attack. He let go of some lines, the boom whipped around and knocked him before one of his sons could react. When he was brought ashore, he was unconscious. I’m not sure if he is still hospitalized or convalescing at home.”

  “My God, that does sound serious,” Taylor responded. “I’m glad she went i
mmediately and didn’t wait for my return.” Taylor felt guilty thinking that the timing of this event had worked well for him. He would have an opportunity now to gain perspective on all that he had experienced in Europe. He would have additional time to decide how to proceed with plans that he had been formulating on the voyage home.

  Emily Kendall

  Newport

  August 1937

  The most striking feature of Emily Kendall, the reason why people were drawn to her for immediate second glances, was the contrast of her whitish skin against her thick, dark auburn hair. Her features were perfect and petite, the small nose—the almond-shaped eyes with dark brown pupils and lids domed with high-arched dark brows. Though her perfectly manicured hands were thin and almost child-sized, her frame was slim, but not short. Simply, she looked like a porcelain doll come to life. And it should have been no surprise that her spoiled and entitled manner was a result, undoubtedly, of a mother who had enjoyed dressing that doll from birth through adolescence in the most stylish and expensive garments—accessorizing with little mink muffs and pearls from the time she was a toddler. Trips to New York throughout her childhood included overnights at the Plaza Hotel and a suite filled with clothes from Saks Fifth Avenue. Following an afternoon of shopping, sometimes the five- or seven-year-old Emily would fall asleep on the big tufted chairs of the exquisite Palm Court Restaurant, in the midst of drinking a root beer float, her black patent leather shoes dangling off her feet, as her mother sat with friends and sipped tea.

  As a young adult, Emily held herself in a straight, regal manner, and when she waved to friends across the campus lawn, she used just the slight twist of the wrist motion that royalty employed on long parade routes. She was one of those beautiful young women that seemed snobbish and unapproachable, and yet made you wonder if she was actually teeming with the same insecurities and angst as any girl her age.