Remembering the Titanic (6 page)

Max leaned against the car, his arms folded over his chest. He was no longer smiling. “The dressmaker? You’d rather be stuck with pins than go for a ride in my new car?”

“No, of course I wouldn’t.” Elizabeth looked longingly at the car. “But we have this appointment, and Madame Claude-Pierre is not someone you break appointments with. She’s French, you know. Not exactly the soul of patience.”

“Why can’t your mother go alone?” He didn’t add, “For a change,” but Elizabeth heard it in his voice.

“They’re my clothes, too, Max. It’s spring. I can’t wear my winter clothes in the springtime.” This struck Elizabeth as very ironic, because she would have preferred to continue wearing the warmer winter clothes. But if she admitted that to Max, he’d tell her again that she should see a doctor about her constant chill, as he had at Christmas. “And my mother would be very upset if I said I wasn’t going. You know how she gets.”

He shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to take a ride in my new car, I guess I’ll go home and paint.”

“I’m sorry, Max.” She was
very
sorry. But her mother’s reaction if Elizabeth said she wasn’t going to the dressmaking appointment would be much worse than Max’s reaction. Max never overreacted the way Nola did. Or maybe he was just becoming accustomed to her choosing her mother over him. He did
not
look happy, though. “You could come back later,” she suggested. “We should be home by three. Or we could go tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s half the afternoon gone, three o’clock,” Max said, his voice cool. “And I think it’s going to rain tomorrow.” He shrugged again. “Your mother probably has something planned, anyway.” Without a good-bye kiss, he moved away from Elizabeth, around the front of the car to climb into the driver’s seat. When he was behind the wheel, he added, “I hope you’ve noticed that I’m not arguing about this. But it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I know it would be a waste of time. But you know what, Elizabeth? I don’t for a minute believe your father meant you should give up your whole life. I don’t think he’d want you to do that.”

“Max …” Elizabeth was close to tears. It was a wonderful car, and the thought of spending the whole, sunny afternoon riding around in it at Max’s side was exactly what she wanted to do. It would make her feel happy again, and young and carefree, things she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Not since … no, she wasn’t going to think about that. Anger was a much safer emotion, so she let it flare up. “You should have telephoned first!” she called heatedly as he pulled away slowly. “That’s the proper thing to do.”

But the sound of the car’s engine drowned out her words.

And then Max was pulling away, chugging off down the street without her.

Elizabeth whirled and ran inside, tears of frustration stinging her eyes.

T
O
K
ATIE’S BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT,
Paddy failed to make it to the ice cream social on Long Island. He had promised to be there. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said when she finally reached him on the telephone on Thursday afternoon.

But he did miss it.

And although he telephoned her later to apologize, sounding genuinely regretful and using the excuse that Edmund had called him Sunday afternoon to say there was a new agent he wanted Paddy to meet with that evening, Katie refused to forgive him. “If you’d really wanted to be there to hear me sing,” she told him scornfully, “you’da been there. That’s all I know.” And she’d hung up, slamming the receiver into its wall hook with so much force she nearly broke the cord.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t enjoyed the social. But it would have been much better if Paddy had been sitting at one of the large, white, round tables arranged on the lush green lawns, listening attentively as she sang.

Long Island was so much prettier than Brooklyn, shaded by huge old trees and carpeted in velvety green grass. Even the spring air seemed fresher, and though the drive was tiring, it was exciting to be in a nice, big car with the breeze blowing around them. Flo seemed a good driver, as if she’d been doing it all her life instead of only a year or two, as she admitted to Katie. The social was held at a fine estate in a place called Garden City, where every home seemed to be grander than the next. The grounds were near as big as all of Ballyford, with plenty of room for over a hundred tables with matching white chairs. To Katie’s amazement, the hostess had hired an orchestra to accompany her, and to play for the guests when Katie wasn’t singing.

At home, an ice cream social was held most often at the church, to raise money. Everyone in town came, bought ice cream, ate it, did some socializing, maybe some singing, then went home. So Katie had expected people to be coming and going all evening, which she knew she would find unsettling. It would be hard to concentrate on the words of the new songs with people jumping up and skedaddling every few minutes.

But it wasn’t like that. To her surprise, all of the guests had been invited, as if it were a party. They arrived on time and stayed all evening, sitting quietly in their seats, ice cream dishes in front of them and perhaps a coffee cup or two, while Katie sang. Flo explained that these were all wealthy people who had already donated generously to the Women’s Club.

They were just as generous with their applause.

Once Katie got over her disappointment about Paddy not showing up, she spent the rest of the evening between songs studying the dress and manners of the ladies. Such finery! She’d never seen anything like the sheer, pastel-colored dresses, the jewelry, the shoes. Not even on the
Titanic
, where she’d been confined to third class. There’d been that one morning, though, when she and a friend had been permitted to attend a church service in the first-class dining room. But that had been a solemn occasion, not festive like this event, and she had noticed only that the pretty girl was there, wearing a fine woolen navy blue suit.

Here on Long Island, she liked the way the women sat at their tables, with their hands folded in their laps, or perhaps a hand under the chin to show attentiveness, their legs daintily crossed at the ankle, showing the pretty shoes dyed to match their dresses. She tried to imitate their posture and movements when she relaxed between songs, leaving the round white stage that had been constructed in the middle of the lawn to take a seat at one of the tables with Flo.

“You’re doin’ super, honey,” Flo said, patting Katie’s hand. “They’re crazy about you. Didn’t I tell you? And there are some big shots here, too, who might be throwing parties or dances, might be asking you to sing at some of them. I bet they’d be willing to pay a pretty penny, too, although,” she said, lowering her voice, “sometimes it’s the richest ones that’s the tightest with their dough, know what I mean?”

Katie didn’t. A waiter in a white jacket brought her, unbidden, a white china dish heaped high with creamy white ice cream. She started to thank him, but Flo’s warning glance stopped her. He’s just doing his job, her blue eyes signaled, no need to thank him.

The ice cream was vanilla, Katie’s favorite.” I guess,” she said slowly as she ate, “you’d have to be very rich to live out here, wouldn’t you?” She was thinking, if Paddy ever wrote his book about the
Titanic
and it sold a lot of copies and made lots of money, maybe….

“You bet.” Flo, her bulk encased in a bright yellow gown, glanced around at the other tables. “Some here might be bankers. But mostly, I think they’re just folks who’ve always had money. Never even did anything to earn it, I’d guess. Just got it from the day they was born, because their folks had it. The cream of New York, that’s who you’re singing for tonight, Katie.”

“Might there be any writers living on Long Island, do you think?”

Flo laughed. “Writers? Not likely. Have to sell one heck of a lot of books to buy a house out here. I told you, Katie, these people don’t
work
. They don’t have to.”

Disappointed, Katie sat lost in thought until time for her next song. Garden City was closer to how she had imagined America. No one had told her that Brooklyn would have so little green to it, so few trees, so many buildings so close together, so many people living in those buildings.

When Katie sang, “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” at the end of the evening, the tears in her eyes were very real. And although many eyes in the crowd listening to her were wet as well, those tears came from sentiment, not yearning, as hers did.

She was about to leave when a distinguished-looking gentleman in a tuxedo came up to her to shake her hand, compliment her on her voice, and ask if she would be available to sing at his wife’s birthday party in Manhattan, two weeks hence on Saturday night. The address he gave was Riverside Drive, which meant nothing to Katie. She referred him to Flo, standing nearby, and the arrangements were made.

They were barely settled in the car when Flo chuckled to herself and announced, “I told him your fee was a hundred dollars!”

Katie gasped. “You didn’t!”

“I sure did. He never blinked an eye. Just nodded as if he was saying, Of course it is, and said we should be there by eight that Saturday night. Riverside Drive, a fine neighborhood. You’re doing all right for yourself, Kathleen, my girl. Didn’t I say so?” As she drove away from the estate, Flo confided, “With his type, you’ve gotta jack up the price a little, make them think they’re getting more. They’re used to walking into Tiffany’s and laying down a couple thousand every month or so, you know? They
like
spending money. Makes them feel powerful, I’d guess.”

Katie couldn’t imagine spending “a couple thousand” dollars even once a year, let alone once a month. Not likely that she’d ever have that kind of money. And if she did, she wouldn’t spend it at Tiffany’s. She’d save it until she had enough to buy a house on Long Island, not even such a big, fancy one like the one tonight. Maybe there were smaller, plainer houses out there somewhere.

Flo chuckled again. “Well, kiddo, looks to me like you’re on your way. Maybe we ought to spring for another frock. Can’t keep wearing that same one if you’re going to be as busy as I think you are. And with a hundred-dollar fee, I guess we can come up with a bit of a wardrobe for you. Nothing fancy, though,” she warned before Katie could say anything. “Remember, you’re a simple Irish girl. That’s what they’re buying, so that’s what we’re selling. No ruffles or geegaws, just plain frocks, that’s the ticket.”

Katie still hadn’t responded.

Flo glanced over at her. “You okay? I’d think you’d be floating six feet off the ground, the way those people carried on over you. How come you’ve gone all quiet on me? You just weary?”

Katie was grateful for the ready excuse Flo had given her. She nodded. “Seems like. I was too nervy to sleep much last night.” Anything was better than telling Flo how sad she was that she would never live on beautiful Long Island, and how disappointed she was that Paddy hadn’t come to share in her triumph. Flo would think the first thought was crazy because only rich people lived on Long Island. She would think the second thought was stupid because she didn’t hold with ladies letting men sour their lives. “Pauly never gets in
my
way,” she had told Katie on the drive out. “I do as I please. If he doesn’t like it, he can go fly a kite in Central Park.”

Laying her head back on the seat, Katie closed her eyes, thinking, I should have invited John to come along tonight. Why didn’t I, then? I meant to.

Because, she answered herself silently, it wasn’t John I wanted there. It was Paddy.

T
HE
B
ROOKLYN NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE
Katie’s aunt and uncle lived was not a wealthy one. It was very different from the pictures of America she’d seen in books. The tall, narrow, frame buildings, many of them roominghouses, seemed worn and tired to her, as if they were too tired to stand up straight. Postage-stamp backyards were nearly taken up completely by wet garments flapping like flags on clotheslines strung between two metal poles. The children played, for the most part, in the street. Their voices rang out throughout the hot, sticky summer days, then slacked off when school began in the fall. On summer evenings, with windows open to let in whatever scant breeze might be about, adult voices raised in harsh argument often drowned out the sounds of children playing stickball or hide-and-go-seek or kick-the-can. The smells of laundry soap and cooking hung heavy in the air, sometimes giving Katie a headache. Heavy feet hammered up and down wooden staircases, the iceman’s shrill, demanding voice rang out, bells on wagons passing in the street below echoed throughout the day. Brooklyn, New York, America, was not a quiet, restful place. Not to Katie. And there was no cooling breeze from nearby trees, because there were virtually
no
trees on their avenue, nor was there a clear, sparkling stream in which to go wading.

To ease her homesickness, Katie made friends in the neighborhood. One of her favorites was Mary Donohue, only three years older than Katie and fresh from Ireland with her young husband Tom and their four-year-old daughter, Bridget. They lived in Agnes Murphy’s roominghouse, across the street. Mary was prone to spells of depression, during which she would lie on the davenport in the tiny, darkened living room, a wet cloth on her forehead, leaving Bridget’s care to neighbors. But when she wasn’t in the throes of melancholia, she was great fun, full of life and laughter, and teasing Katie about Paddy. “Aye, a handsome lad he is,” she exclaimed when she first saw him, “but are you sure he’s not goin’ to break your heart, then?”

Since that was the one thing Katie was
not
sure of, she snapped, “Sure and a fellow can only break your heart if you let him, which I ain’t about to do!”

Mary just laughed.

Katie and Bridget were sitting on Mary’s front porch on the Wednesday after the ice cream social, Katie brushing Bridget’s hair while Mary slept inside on the davenport, when a taxicab pulled up in front of her aunt’s house and Paddy unfolded himself from the back seat. Katie knew it was him even before he got out. No one in the neighborhood could afford taxi-cabs, but Paddy often arrived in one. Just as often, Edmund sent him to Brooklyn in a chauffeur-driven car. “You’re the only one who can settle him down,” the publisher had told Katie at a recent party, “so whatever it takes to get him out there to see you, that’s what I’ll do.”