Post 41: Mama Says "I Do."

Coffee refreshed, Mama continued.

“A woman came into the studio in the beginning of my second year at Gamble and asked to sit for her portrait. I remember she didn’t have much of a ‘look’ of her own, and she asked if I could help her with her hair and makeup. Anyway, she returned a week later for the finished print and was very pleased. She asked if I could package her photo for travel, and as I was finishing, she asked if I ever worked in front of the camera. Of course, I said no. Her expression turned businesslike, and she said I had the look that fashion photographers in New York were looking for and explained that her father worked in the fashion industry there. She asked my age, I told her I was seventeen, and she gave me her card and told me to call her when I turned eighteen. Her name was Susan Freeman. We became good friends over the next few years.

“As she was leaving, Susan asked, ‘In the meantime, take a few headshots of yourself and send them to me. I’d like to show them to my father.’ I told your aunt Cam about it, and she pestered me for six months to take the photos. Finally, to get Cam off my back, I asked Mr. Gamble to take a few shots, and they turned out well. I sent them, as asked, to Susan in New York. The designers and photographers liked them and I ended up getting a few modeling jobs. And that was that.” Mama seemed to be tiring of her own story, not really enjoying the spotlight I had shined on this part of her life.

Kit sat in quiet amazement. “Just like that?”

Mama smiled. “There was more to it, but basically, yes. It was a lucky break. A very lucky break.”

“Aunt Cam said you made a lot of money.” I was curious.

“You know your aunt Cam likes a good story.” Mama went on to separate fact from Aunt Cam’s version, which turned out to be pretty much true. Mama did make large sums for that time. She was asked to come to New York full-time, but declined because she was getting serious with my father. And yes, GranMag didn’t speak to Mama for almost a year.

“So, your modeling work stopped, but not completely,” said Kit, gesturing to the copy of Bride next to her dessert plate.

“Not completely. There was a several-year break, and then I did a few jobs right before Pearl Harbor. Then there was another break until the end of the war. My last job, before this,” she said, now looking at page 103 for the first time in decades, “was in 1948. You’ve got to remember, I was over thirty by then. It’s a young woman’s job with a narrow window of work.”

“So, if GranMag hated modeling so much, why did you do it?” I had waited patiently and wanted to know.

“Honestly? It was mostly the money. I saved most of it. We bought our first new car with it. Later, it was the majority of the down payment for this house.” Mom stirred her coffee and turned quiet again.

“Sure, it was tremendously flattering, with the photos and the clothes. You really felt beautiful in them. But, to appease your grandmother, I never showed my modeling work to anyone but your father and Aunt Cam. “

“You’re kidding. How did you keep it a secret? Weren’t you dying to tell your friends?” Kit said.

“When I started, modeling was suspect. Good girls weren’t models and, despite the fact that I did the work, I wasn’t entirely resolved about the stigma. And most of my friends worked very hard for very little. I couldn’t rub my windfall in their faces. It just didn’t seem—I don’t know—fair.”

Daddy poured more coffee. We were all quiet for a minute, serving cream and stirring sugar.

Mama continued, “And this,” holding up her bridal spread “is the only photo I saved. It’s been buried upstairs for over fifteen years.” Mama eyed her image more closely. “I actually looked pretty good here.” Daddy smiled and took her hand.

Kit was doing the math. “So, if this photo shoot was in 1959, then you were--”

“Forty-four. I was forty-four and got the call, after eleven years away from the camera, to be in Bride magazine.” Mama reached for her glasses and took a good look at the photo spread; it seemed she was gathering her memories into sharper focus.

Still studying the magazine, she continued. “Mannie, the booking agent who had recommended me for several jobs in the late 1940s had also recommended me for this shoot. I turned him down. Twice. I explained how flattered I was to be asked, but said no. The third time Mannie called, I laughed, and explained that I’d had two children since my last shoot. He asked me matter-of-factly how much I weighed. I told him 102 pounds, which was what I’ve always weighed.

“Mannie was persistent. I think he sensed my crumbling resolve when he hauled out the big guns: the fee was twelve-hundred dollars for the day. I think I literally gasped. I immediately thought, college fund. Mannie could tell I was weakening and added that the designer and the photographer had seen my headshots and wanted me for the job.”

“Scaasi and Scavullo. It’s impressive,” said Kit, eyeing the spread credits. She wasn’t exactly a fashion junkie, but she knew names and labels and the celebrity players in the industry.

“I think I was oblivious at that point, and they were just coming into their own at the time. Anyway, warming to the idea, I admitted to Mannie that I’d always wanted to play mother of the bride. Mannie paused. Scaasi wanted me to wear one of his bridal gowns. Now, I was afraid I’d end up looking foolish playing a bride at forty-four and told him so. Mannie said they had no idea how old I was, and he had no intention of telling them. Then he played his trump card: ‘If you don’t like the final pictures, we won’t use them and we’ll pay you a kill fee of nine-hundred dollars for your trouble.’ As you can see, it proved too tempting.”

“Wow. You were a power player.” Kit was impressed. So was I. Daddy looked proud. Mama blushed.

“When I got there and tried on the dress, it fit beautifully, but it was sleeveless. Fortunately, the designer, with some coaxing, agreed to add these beautiful ivy lace three-quarter sleeves, and it worked.”

I sat there taking in Mama’s story. I felt like I’d been ushered into an inner circle of sorts. As much surprise as I felt, I also felt humbled. I was more than a little bit relieved that Mama seemed ok letting us in. Hesitant to ask but still curious about one last detail, I turned to Mama with a final question.

“I have a vague memory of you being gone and GranMag keeping us for a weekend, before I was even in school. I assume Daddy would have been working, maybe even traveling for work. Anyway, I remember bits and pieces. GranMag made popcorn for us and burned the bottom of your Revere Ware pot. I remember the smoke and the smell.”

“GranMag stayed here in the house with you and Kit that weekend in 1959. Your father and I had a dilemma: he had to be in Cleveland the week of my shoot and we had no one to keep you. To our great relief, GranMag said yes.”

“But,” said Kit, “I thought she disapproved, you know, of modeling.”

“She mellowed a lot over the years. And when she saw how much it meant to me, she stepped up. I think she warmed to the idea of a woman having—I don’t know—a measure of power, or a say in her compensation.”

“Maybe she wanted you to have something that could never have been possible for her,” I said.

“Maybe, Drew. Maybe. I’d really like to think so. At any rate, I was really grateful. As a thank-you for her help, I brought her back a small ruby brooch from Van Cleef and Arpels. It was expensive and she was overwhelmed, but accepted it.”

“She wore that brooch a lot. I thought GranDaddy gave that to her.” I had held that assumption for years.

            Mama shook her head. “I went out on final limb with this shoot, risking embarrassment, maybe even humiliation. But since it paid off, I wanted to share the reward.” Mama paused and looked down at her napkin and continued quietly. “As a final bonus, it turned out that they used this image in their advertising materials, and later, as part of their graphics for their Fashion Week display. My fees, in the end, more than quadrupled.” Mama fiddled with her napkin, folding it in thirds. She was unused to the attention and even more uncomfortable talking about money.

            Kit and I sat, stunned. I could see Kit doing the math. Kit, who lacked any of Mama’s reserve about money blurted out, “That’s six-thousand dollars. For two days’ work.”

            Smiling, Mama added, “We invested that money, and it grew. And that money sent you to your first two years at Yale, and you, Drew, to the university.” At her own mention of colleges, Mama grew quiet again. “We are so glad you could go. It’s something that your Daddy and I couldn’t do. There just wasn’t the money.”

            I felt my eyes burning and was touched at the realization that Mama gave us the one thing that had been so elusive in her life, and at the same time, so important. Aunt Cam had often said what a shame it was that Mama, being the class valedictorian, couldn’t go to college. “Oh, your mama took a few courses at Harpers College after you were born. One of her papers on Faulkner was even published.”

            The thought of her article was on my tongue, but some wiser part of me intercepted it on the way out of my mouth. We had unearthed enough bittersweet family history for one evening.

            Apparently, Mama was having similar thoughts. She rose, started to clear, and then paused. “Can we consider this subject closed, please? You’ve heard it all. No more mystery.” Kit and I nodded.

Daddy took her plate from her and sat it down. He looked at Mama who was dabbing her eyes, and then back to Kit and me. “We accept your lovely offer to clear and clean up. Elizabeth, it’s still light out. Get your coat.”

Kit and I cleared and washed dishes in silence. We were drying the good crystal when Kit spoke. “It’s getting dark. Where do you suppose they went?”

“Probably down to the creek. You know that’s where they met, right?”           

“No. Jesus, have I completely missed out on our entire family history?”

I laughed as I glanced out the kitchen window. There, in the dusk, walking across the pony field, were Mama and Daddy, talking quietly, holding hands and heading back toward their children, their home, and the days ahead.