Post 40: About That Photo

The following summer, I was packing for my first year at the University of Virginia. Mama had laid out shirts, ties, pants, my blazer, my good suit, toiletries, shoes, and linens. Mae had pressed the shirts and pants and folded them in a way that discouraged wrinkles from setting in. Mama sent me to the upstairs cedar chest to get some sheets that were serviceable but not irreplaceable, like the Egyptian cotton ones I had tie-dyed at summer camp several years before.

            I dug around in the chest unsuccessfully and was about call down to Mama when I came across an old copy of Bride magazine dated October, 1959. It was stored between two sheets of tissue paper and looked barely read. I thumbed through the glossy pages and got lost in the photos of another era: a preponderance of ivory and white, lace and satin, bobbed and colored hair, and cocktail-length bridesmaid dresses with cinched waists and petticoats. The brides were presented wearing similarly constructed couture in thoughtful, serene poses, seemingly reflecting on a future of wedded bliss. It was a Kodachrome time capsule.

            I continued to flip casually through articles and photo spreads, and would have missed it except for an almost imperceptible bookmark at the top of the page. There, on page 103, in a bridal gown by an up-and-comer named Arnold Scaasi, and photography by Francesco Scavullo, was my mother.

            My hazy night with Aunt Cam over a year earlier came back into sharp focus. Aunt Cam had said Mama’s modeling days stopped in the 1930s. Of course, it’s possible Aunt Cam didn’t know everything, a disappointing prospect on many levels.

            Bounding down the stairs and waving the magazine, I called for Mama, and she replied with “Which sheets did you get? Nothing linen, remember?” But before I could provide an answer about the sheets or a question about an October 1959 Bride, she saw the magazine and preempted me.

“Where did you get that?”

            “It was in the cedar chest in some tissue paper.”

            “Well, put it back where you found it. I’ve got some sheets in the linen closet that will do.”

            “Is it you?” I folded back page 103 and held it up.

            “We’ll talk about it another time.” With that, and Mama’s laser-like look that said, I mean it, our conversation was instantly over. My curiosity blunted, I skulked back upstairs, wrapped the magazine in its original packing, and placed it carefully back into the bowels of the cedar chest. The next day I left for school.

Two Novembers later, Kit and I were both home from university for possibly the last Thanksgiving with just our parents and the two of us. Kit had recently become engaged, and we were poised to welcome Kurt, her fiancée, as a regular addition to family dinners at any time. Since GranMag’s death, the cousins and aunts and uncles had ceased gathering at holidays, so our Thanksgiving dinners had become, more often than not, gatherings of four.

That Thanksgiving we enjoyed cocktails, turkey, stuffing, gravy, potatoes, green beans, yams, pickled beets, and homemade pumpkin pie. Afterwards, Daddy disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of 120-year-old port, a gift from a supplier with whom Daddy’s company spent a considerable amount on steel.

Well into my second glass, caught in the crosstalk between Kit and Mama about bridal gowns and veils, I flashed on the issue of Bride magazine and my unfinished conversation with Mama that had ended before it really began. I excused myself and stole upstairs.

Half afraid that Mama had removed, or worse destroyed, the magazine, I carefully rummaged into the depths of the cedar chest. I was relieved to find it, still wrapped in its protective paper. Fueled by just enough pre-dinner drinks, dinner wine, and port, I quietly returned to the table and asked Mama, with genuine respect but probably more stored-up curiosity, “Could you tell us about this now?”

I was relieved when Mama smiled. It seemed that she knew this moment would be coming. “So, you want to know about the photo?”

“And Aunt Cam said you’d modeled before this, before you and Daddy were married.”

“Oh, she did?” Mama chuckled. It seemed she was ready to let us in on a before-children moment. “Well, now you know that your cousin Myrteen Jean was right.” Smiling, she added, “But first, I’ll bring in the coffee.”

“I’ll get it,” said Daddy.

Kit held the magazine in disbelief. “You were so pretty. I mean, you’re still beautiful now.”

Mama smiled. “I know what you mean.”

Kit was perplexed. “How did I not know about this?” And to me, “And why didn’t you tell me?”

I realized, in that moment, that I might be more like my father than I’d realized. This was exactly the sort of matter that he would hold private. True, I hadn’t told Kit. In fact, I hadn’t told anyone. Stirring cream into my coffee, I was curious about my own discretion, despite the fact that I’d confronted my mother just minutes before.

Rather than take our questions, inquisition-style, Mama offered up an amazing narrative. Sensing something important, we topped off our coffee, settled into our Windsor-back dining room chairs, and Mama began.

  “You remember that I skipped two grades, so I graduated high school when I was barely sixteen. The summer after graduation, I started working at Gamble Photo Studios. I started at the sales counter, and later helped develop prints and set up the portrait studio. Mr. Gamble was kind and patient and a good teacher. I had an eye for portrait work, and he encouraged me. Before long, Mr. Gamble expanded the business and I started taking portraits. Our customers were the few wealthy families left in the area, but mostly they were corporate executives who needed photos for company publications.”

Kit interrupted. “But this is you, right?” gesturing toward the magazine.

Mama smiled. “I’m getting to that. Have some more coffee.”