Band of Sisters (56 page)

“Shut up, Emma! You don’t know her as I do.” She turned to Maureen. “All my life you’ve taken whatever you wanted, whatever
I
wanted. I thought in America things would be different. But you can’t change—you won’t change! I never want to see you again! Never!”

“But we’re sisters,” Maureen pleaded.

“I have no sister!” Katie Rose turned on her heel and fled toward the factory. Her friends ducked their heads and followed, but the one called Emma stole a last pitying glance.

Olivia finished reading the account of the trial and the judge’s sentencing to the silent Ladies’ Circle gathered in the dining room at Morningside. She folded the newspaper and closed it away in the sideboard drawer. A minute passed.

“A slap on the wrist, and that barely,” Hope fumed.

“At least they’ve closed Darcy’s,” Carolynn said, “and that brothel down on Orchard Street.”

“Darcy’s was nothing but a front,” Julia retorted. “They’ll open another before the week’s out. It’s all big money—enough to hire dishonest lawyers and pay for bribed and false testimony. They must be brought down.” She thumped her cup into its saucer.

“And they will be—another day,” Isabella said. “But this is a start.”

“It doesn’t matter what they say,” Agnes insisted quietly. “We know the truth. We all know the truth.”

“Maureen’s taken it very hard.” Olivia searched their faces.

“Did you tell her we recognized some of those policemen—the same liars who abused our picket lines for the shirtwaist factories last year? Tammany Hall’s payroll—that’s what they are!” Julia’s voice rose.

“Her heart’s broken.” Olivia glanced round the room. “But it’s only partly the trial and its outcome—the deeper cut is Katie Rose.”

Agnes shook her finger. “That girl needs a good—”

“That won’t help,” Mrs. Melkford intervened, “or I’d have done it.”

“Maureen will be down in a moment.” Olivia counseled, “Please, everyone, please make this all we can for her. It’s the one thing we can do.”

Maureen had not wanted to join the circle meeting that afternoon. She’d appreciated the plethora of kind and supportive notes and letters from the women, each expressing sympathy over the harsh words and undermining she’d received on the witness stand and in the papers, assuring her of their love and faith in her, even admiration and thanksgiving for all she’d been brave enough to do.

But they were not Katie Rose, and no matter how much they seemed to want to embrace her, it grated her heart anew that these women would take her in, make her their sister, when her own sister would not.

When Olivia had told her Carolynn’s idea for the memorial service, however, she could not refuse. This was something Maureen wanted to do, something she could do that no one could take away or diminish; it was not for her, not of her.

When she walked into the dining room, a collective cheer rose from the women, a standing ovation. Maureen’s heart quickened, surprised by how glad she was to see them and how genuinely glad they seemed to be to see her.

“This way.” Olivia escorted her to the center of the table.

Maureen gasped. Every leaf had been laid to extend the table the length of the room. A pale damask cloth had been spread, and a line of marble plaques with brass plates had been set, engraved with the numbers from the cages. Into each plaque was chiseled a rose—a delicate, thornless sketch of beauty.

“These will go in an open pavilion, a memorial in the church cemetery. Reverend Peterson has arranged everything,” Carolynn whispered. “There will be a pillared flame, kept burning, in their midst.”

“We thought it best to include every number because we don’t know which belonged to those who escaped,” Isabella interjected, “and which to those who didn’t. We couldn’t omit one—not one.”

“Nor could I.” Maureen could not say more but embraced each precious woman by turn.

They prayed for those who’d been saved and for the memory of those who were lost. They read the names of the certain dead aloud, names Curtis had gleaned from the ledgers and confirmed with women who lived. For all the rest they spoke aloud the numbers that had been torn from empty cages, for someone, surely on Belgadt’s payroll, had stolen the bodies before the police had searched the cavern after the storm—a cruelty Maureen found hard to let go.

As they were about to light the first candle and set stones of remembrance, Dorothy entered through the hallway, worn looking and flushed.

“I’m sorry to be late—so sorry to interrupt, but I had to come. I couldn’t miss this. I just couldn’t . . . get myself ready in time.”

Olivia wrapped an arm around her frail sister and escorted her into the room. “You came. That’s all that matters.”

But Dorothy pulled herself from her sister’s arms and walked to Maureen. “I’m so sorry I ever doubted you. I’m so sorry I for one moment did not make you welcome in my home. Forgive me, please.”

Maureen reached out, and Dorothy clung to her. Still, Maureen had to ask, for she had so hoped her own sister would have come. “Katie Rose?”

“She’s working today, and Joshua’s meeting her—something about a surprise.” Dorothy glanced round the room. “I’d hoped they might be coming here.”

“Joshua?” Maureen could not imagine.

“She’s not with me.” Joshua stood suddenly in the doorway, a bouquet in hand. He walked to Maureen, handing her the flowers. “My plans are to honor my fiancée and help carry these plaques and stones to the cemetery. Curtis will be here to help any minute.”

“There must be some mistake, then,” Olivia said.

“No,” Dorothy insisted. “Katie Rose was nearly beside herself with anticipation—she even bought a new hat and waist.” She concentrated on Joshua. “She said she’d received a note—from you—saying you couldn’t wait to meet her by the Garibaldi statue in Washington Square. The note said that she should give notice at the Triangle—that you had plans for a wonderful life together.” She looked confusedly to Maureen, then back to Joshua. “I thought it strange and forward because I thought the two of you . . . I mean, I thought . . . I was surprised, but Katie Rose said it meant that at last you must have realized who loves you best. I tried to slow her down, but you know Katie Rose.” Dorothy paled further, held her hands out to Maureen. “I knew you all trusted Joshua, so I . . .” She couldn’t finish.

“Who would do such a thing?” Olivia stammered.

Maureen felt the color drain from her face. “Jaime Flynn. He boasted once that he could take Katie Rose anytime he wanted. It’s the sort of thing he might do—in retaliation.”

“Thank the Lord he’s in prison!” Miranda said.

“He’s not. He was released yesterday with a paltry fine and a slap on the wrist,” Joshua countered.

Maureen reached for his arm.

But Joshua dropped the flowers to the table and charged out the door, yelling behind him, “Get Curtis! Meet me in Washington Square!”

“Grayson!” Olivia called. “Have the car brought round! Dorothy—telephone Curtis; tell him to meet us in the square!”

But Maureen could not wait. She grabbed her coat and took off after Joshua on foot. In no time Olivia matched her pace. The two women raced through Gramercy Park toward Fifth Avenue until Ralph appeared behind them, laboring on the automobile horn. They picked up Joshua, already five blocks ahead. In minutes they reached East Ninth, only to find their way slowed to a crawl by abandoned horses and carriages, poorly parked automobiles, and pedestrians clogging the streets, all pointing and swarming toward Washington Square.

Joshua stepped from the car; Maureen and Olivia crowded behind. Sirens, shrill whistle blasts, and a relentless clanging of bells could be heard in the distance over the mayhem.

Joshua pulled a boy of ten or eleven aside from the surging tide. “What is it?”

“The Triangle—she’s burning!” The boy jerked away, rushing ahead.

Maureen’s heart plummeted to her feet. She pushed past Joshua and joined the throng, running, weaving her way toward her sister’s place of employment.
Please, God! Not Katie Rose! Not Katie Rose!

But Joshua grabbed her hand, pulling her from the crowd, and led her through the back alley of Washington Mews, across University Place to Greene Street, skirting Washington Square.

They’d nearly reached the Asch Building, could see the plume of smoke billowing above the roof, when another horse-drawn fire wagon, this one from the Lower East Side, broke through the crowd. As it clattered to a stop, its firemen hit the ground, connecting hoses and raising ladders. But the ladders, fully extended to the sixth floor, couldn’t reach the enflamed windows.

Maureen tucked herself behind Joshua, who shouldered his way through the crowd, pushing toward the burning building. Just as they hoped to break through the lines, they were stopped short by a row of policemen who, with clubs drawn, pushed back the frantic masses. Joshua pulled her round the block until they crowded with onlookers diagonal from the burning building.

“They’re jumping—get back. Get back!” the policeman before them yelled.

Maureen screamed for her sister and screamed again. But her cries were nothing in the wails and keening of the watchers. Flames licked the spring air, dancing through open windows of the top three floors, eight, nine, and ten stories high. Women shrouded in smoke appeared on the roof, too near the edge, where flames torched the edges of cornices.

From the corner of her eye Maureen saw a dark bundle plummet, as if fabric had been thrown from a window. It hit the ground with an unnatural thud. She couldn’t make out what it was, but Joshua pulled her head to his shoulder. Maureen jerked away.

And then they came. Girls, women, even a boy stepped through windows draped in smoke, backlit by flames. One by one, feet gripping the ledge, they stepped gingerly along the narrow precipice.

Firemen spread their nets below. A girl jumped, and they tipped her out. She took a few steps and collapsed. Two jumped together, breaking the net—as though it were paper being ripped.

No matter that the nets could not—did not—hold, they stepped into the air, dropping to the ground, one by one or two by two, arms linked, hands clasped. One young woman stretched her hands toward the early spring air, another toward heaven as if relinquishing her spirit.

The crowd surged forward again, screaming, “Don’t jump! Don’t jump! Wait!”

But the Triangle Waist Factory workers jumped anyway, some crashing through the sidewalk skylight to the basement below, their clothes and hair in flames. Some stepped into the windows, prepared to jump, then changed their minds, stepped back, and surrendered to the inferno.

A young man, a perfect gentleman, helped young women through the window and into space as if handing them into a carriage. Last came the woman he loved, or so Maureen believed, for they embraced and kissed before he let her fall. And then he joined her.

The last girl Maureen watched did not fall far—grabbed as she was by a steel hook protruding from the sixth floor, caught by the fabric of her dress, hanging like a rag doll in midair.

If only she can wait until the ladders reach her! They can reach that high!

But in moments her dress burned, and the weight of her body propelled her to the stone walk below.

The fire was fierce, and the firemen fierce and brave. It was over in minutes. But for Maureen it was an eternity; she could not move.

Joshua gently shook her, pinched her arm. “Take hold. We don’t know anythin’ yet.”

But she couldn’t speak.

An hour passed. The police wouldn’t let them near enough to view the bodies, to identify loved ones, but Maureen knew in her soul that Katie Rose was not among the corpses lining the street, that she couldn’t be.

Darkness crept in. A gentle breeze drove the worst of the smoke away. Makeshift lights rigged inside the building burned unnaturally bright and eerie through empty windows where the fire had been contained, exposing their caverns. Firefighters rigged block-and-tackle sets outside the building.

“They’ll be lowering the corpses soon,” an onlooker said.

Joshua pulled Maureen through the crowd. She followed, stumbling, tripping on the walk, on her own feet. He slowed, wrapped his arm around her, and helped her cross the street into the faintly lit square.