She didn’t notice the skinny young man across the street. He wore a tweed cap pulled down, half concealing his face. In a doorway out of the rain, he observed the bank patrons coming and going. He raised his eyebrows when he spotted Kitty, young and slight. She had no idea he marked her as good prey. He settled back to wait.
Kitty loved the bank’s quiet grandeur, the marble and brass, the deft way the tellers snapped each bill as they counted them for the customers. She closed out the account and counted her money—twenty-nine dollars. She folded the bills twice so they would fit into her change purse. She snapped her handbag shut and hurried out into the rain.
Head down, she stepped off the curb, oblivious to the four strong Morgan horses pulling the large wagon now at the corner. The familiar sound melted into the traffic noises. She ignored it, entangled with thoughts of the life she was leaving. The horses were used to traffic, but none liked a storm.
The thin young thug watched the scene from the doorway. He was about to make his move when, above the din of traffic, he heard a furious clatter. Through the darkness and pelting rain, four horses lumbered forward, a thundering mass of muscle and sinew, barely under the driver’s control.
Then it happened. A bolt of lightning and a roll of thunder. The Morgans reared up, and too late, Kitty stared in shock into the wild eyes and flaring nostrils of a terrorized stallion.
She lost consciousness before she hit the ground, the impact made worse as the horses raced over her legs and down the street.
In the initial moment of shock, the young thug sprinted across the street, snatched her bag, and disappeared behind the curtain of rain.
A crowd quickly assembled, women gasping at the sight of the young girl covered in blood and men swallowing hard, trying not to turn away.
“Is there a doctor?” someone shouted. “We need a doctor!”
A young man, his black medical bag in hand, pushed his way through the crowd as people moved back to give him room. He knelt on the wet pavement and listened to her heart, then he lifted her hand in his and placed his fingers over her wrist. He looked up and shook his head. “No pulse.”
Chapter 27
The rain had let up by evening, and Vittorio, a single rose in his hand, arrived early in front of the school. He tried to stay calm, but every time he reached into his pocket and felt the little box containing her wedding ring, his heart drummed in double time. He strained his eyes in the direction from which Kitty would come. The street was dark, and except for two men strolling along, it was empty. Of all evenings for her to be late, he thought, shaking his head. He concentrated on tomorrow, on the arrangements he and his mother had made. She would sleep in his room tonight and he on the sofa in the parlor. Then tomorrow, they would see Father Copo. With Paolo and Antonia as witnesses, they would be married. Married! Marrying Kitty was something he had thought about for a long time. Now it was almost here.
He had just finished a job and could take a week off. He would surprise her with a trip to the country. They would walk along wooded paths by day, sit by a crackling fireplace in the evening, and spend the night wrapped in each other’s arms, not sleeping until dawn.
He awoke from his reverie and searched the street. Perhaps, he thought, I have gotten it confused and she is in class right now. That must be it. With that thought, he settled down to wait some more.
Peering into the entrance of the school, he was relieved to finally see the students walking down the hall, hurrying down the steps and into the night. He watched as everyone passed him. Singly or in pairs, they were oblivious to the pain on his face as he watched the class disperse, leaving only a student or two to trickle out. He loped into the building, the halls echoing his solitary footsteps, looking until he found Jane Cass. She looked up from stuffing papers into her briefcase.
“Miss Cass, I’m Vittorio Rossi. Has Kitty been to class this evening?”
“Why, no. Is something wrong?”
“I was supposed to meet her here. We were going to elope.” He had not planned to reveal it, but he was suddenly like an onlooker watching an event he had no control of, and he needed to share the pain.
“Vittorio, I know she loves you. I’m sure it’s just a mix-up; you’ll see.”
“Her father has forbidden us to marry. She could have changed her mind.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation. I’ll walk out with you.”
She waited with him a while but eventually had to go home, leaving him in front of the school, where he waited half the night, his mind racing from one fear to another. What if she is sick, or had an accident? I believe she loves me, but what of her father and Dermot? She could have stayed with them; he had given her that choice. Whatever the reason, the reality overwhelmed him. Kitty had not come. He had to see her.
He raced through the streets until he reached her tenement. It was two o’clock in the morning. He searched for some pebbles and, one by one, launched them at her window. The pebble arced its way through the night, then made a perfect clink as it rapped the glass. After each one, he waited. No answer.
He had exhausted his options. Too despondent to go home, he sat on her front steps, heedless of the hour and the chill, and tried to figure out what to do next, but his mind refused to work.
“Vittorio, what happened? Where’s Kitty?” Ottavia had paced the floor, a prayer at her lips for fear that something had gone wrong.
“Kitty didn’t come. I waited and waited.” He sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands.
“My dear, I know she loves you. Is she at home?”
“I went to her house and threw pebbles at her window. She didn’t answer. I don’t know if she couldn’t leave her family or if she’s somewhere else, hurt and not able to come.”
“Don’t torture yourself, my dear. Get some rest. There’s nothing more you can do tonight. Tomorrow go and speak to her or her father.”
Vittorio spoke the thought she was afraid to voice. “If she isn’t home, I’ll check the hospitals. I’ll find her.”
“I’m sure you will. It will be straightened out.” Ottavia hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. She knew in her heart that Kitty loved her son; a woman can see those things. What had happened to Kitty that prevented her from following her heart? Ottavia could not bring herself to think the worst.
In the few hours before dawn, Vittorio tossed in his bed. Up early, he went directly to the Dwyers’ home. The sound of his knocking echoed eerily in his head. He peered in through the windows to find everything in order but no one home. His next step was the hospitals and—he shuddered at the thought—the morgue.
He made the morgue his first stop. Images of Kitty lying still and white haunted his thoughts as he walked the cold streets. How could the world, so beautiful yesterday, shrivel in on itself, cold and unwelcoming, today?
The morgue chilled him with its grayness, official notices thumbtacked across gray walls, and seated behind a battered desk, a colorless man with thick glasses, reading. The man looked up.
“My fiancée is missing. I’ve come to see if… Was a young woman admitted yesterday or today?”
He took a ring of keys from a drawer. “Come with me.” He unlocked the door behind him, and Vittorio followed him down a narrow hall. Unlocking a second door, the man said, “Just one came in last night. Found her in the street. No identification.”
Vittorio felt his throat constrict. He looked around for something to lean on as the man wheeled over the cloth-covered corpse. There was nothing to give him physical support as he prepared to look into the face of death and say, “I knew and loved that face in life.”
He clenched his hands as the man drew away the cloth from her face. He drew it back slowly. Light hair, curls matted. Oh, God, could it be? Staring green eyes, a full coarse face.
“No.” He smiled weakly. “Not her.”
He rushed out. Leaning against the building, he gulped in the crisp, cold air.
Chapter 28
A canopy stretched overhead, and as Kitty walked, she looked up. It seemed to be woven of fine lace, yet she could not see through it. She studied it for a moment but did not stop walking. Her destination lay at the end of the lacy tunnel, and she should not linger. A feeling just shy of contentment tinged with expectation urged her on.
A figure appeared at the end of the tunnel, a woman, dressed in a beautiful rose-colored gown, her golden brown hair in curls around her face. As she got close, the woman extended her hands. Kitty squinted to better see the woman’s features, and joy flooded over her. The figure was her mother, looking younger and more beautiful than she remembered. Kitty wanted to hurry to her, but she seemed unable to walk any faster. Behind her mother she could see snatches of grass and bright blue sky. Birdsong, the sweetest she had ever heard, delighted her ears. She was close now, and her mother leaned forward to embrace her, the birdsong deliriously lovely.
Kitty reached to touch her mother’s fingertips. She was so close, an inch more would do it, but she could go no closer. An unseen force pulled her back. Her mother seemed unable to step into the tunnel, and she was unable to step beyond the canopy. The tunnel dimmed. Her mother receded into the grayness. The grayness darkened until she stood in thick, swirling blackness. The birdsong faded, and in the darkness, Kitty heard voices, concerned voices, close to her. Someone was cradling her in his arms; he held his fingers to her wrist.
“I have a pulse. By God, I have one!”
“Thanks be to God! She’s too young to die,” a woman said. There were relieved murmurs from the crowd. Someone offered a carriage to take her to the hospital. The doctor who attended her showed two men how to lift her, and he climbed into the carriage beside her.
“Does she have a purse?” a woman called out, but a quick search of the area revealed none.
“If you find one, we’ll be at City Hospital,” the doctor said, and motioned for the driver to get going. The doctor sat in the back, cradling her head in his arms, and prayed.
“Lord, I believe you put me here at this time to help this woman. I will try my best but, Lord, I’ll need your help. Please, do your work through my hands. Amen.”
The appearance of Dr. Charles Lawrence in the emergency room caught the attention of two nurses. “Have the orderlies here with a stretcher at once.” The nurses scurried off. In the hospital he was able to give her a thorough examination. The fall from her collision with the lead horse had caused a severe blow to her head. Luckily, the frightened horses had veered; they had run over her legs and broken them but avoided crushing her organs. He would need to operate on her legs and her head, and he made arrangements to do it immediately.
Dr. Lawrence, waiting in the operating room as they wheeled her in, looked down at her. Her fair skin was chalky white. She had not regained consciousness since the accident hours ago. Immobile, she looked like one of the porcelain dolls his young cousins played with. Her features were fine, even in this deathlike mask. With color and animation in her features, she would be beautiful, he thought. As he scrubbed, he thought, “Please God, she’s too young to die.”
Except for the young woman with Dr. Lawrence, it was a quiet afternoon, before the department store fire, and the two nurses sat chatting as they filled out an admittance form for the young woman.
“Name. You’d think that would be the easiest part to fill in, but Dr. Lawrence said he doesn’t know who she is.”
“She didn’t have a bit of identification, not even a change purse on her.”
“We can put down Jane Doe,” the first nurse said.
“That doesn’t seem right,” said her friend, a dreamy sort who, if it weren’t for her parents’ objections, would have been an actress. “She’s too pretty for a plain name like that, with her creamy skin and curly hair. She mustn’t even be twenty. Let’s give her a pretty name.”
“She looks Irish. What about Deirdre?”
“Deirdre. I like it. Deirdre O’Shaughnessy.” She carefully wrote the name on the admission form.
Chapter 29
The day after he performed the surgery, Dr. Charles Lawrence visited his patient. He had set her broken bones and relieved the blood clot that had gone to her brain, causing her heart to stop beating for a few seconds as she lay in the street.
“She has not regained consciousness, Doctor,” the nurse told him.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “It will be a long road to recovery…if she makes it. This young woman has come back from the dead.”
He sat down next to the patient and took her pulse. It was slow, as if straining to respond to the ordeal she had been through. Her hand was cool, though she was wrapped in blankets. So fragile, he thought. Her features so delicate, her frame small, yet she had not died when, according to all logic, she should have. Perhaps she possessed a strength of will that had nothing to do with age or size. He fervently hoped so. He wanted her to live.
****
Vittorio rushed to the corner to buy a paper. He froze at the headline, “Fire in Downtown Department Store Leaves Scores Injured.” He scanned the report until he found a list of victims. No name remotely resembled “Catherine Dwyer.” He read on. “Two unidentified victims were taken to City Hospital and are in guarded condition.”
Vittorio raced to catch the trolley as it rounded the corner. As he rode, he stared out the window, oblivious to the chatter of the passengers. He didn’t hear the woman near him point out to her companion the corner where a young woman was run over by a team of runaway horses just yesterday. “A pretty young thing she was. I saw her myself,” said the woman. “She was near dead, right on the curb there.” The trolley passed by the Irish Emigrant Industrial Savings Bank, bathed in the morning sun, with not a hint of the fierce storm or the terrible accident that had occurred the day before.
Vittorio jumped off the trolley before it came to a stop and ran to City Hospital, where he was greeted by an older man who had just come on duty after a day off.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I am looking for a young woman. She may have been in the fire yesterday. I read that two unidentified people were taken here.”
“Well, I’ll just look up the record.” The old man shuffled to a drawer at the end of the counter and rummaged through a sheaf of papers.
“Please, find yesterday’s record. We were to be married today.” Vittorio could barely contain his agitation.
“Oh, sorry, young fellow. I know it has to be here somewhere.” He reached into a shelf beneath the counter. “Here all the time!” He put on his glasses. “What did you say her name is?”
“Dwyer. Catherine Dwyer.”
The man read down the list. “No Catherine Dwyer here.”
“Anything on the unidentified people?”
“Two names. One is Annabel Pearce.”
“And the other?”
“Sorry. Horace Benson.”
“Oh, my God.” Vittorio buried his face in his hands.
“Wait. Someone else was admitted yesterday.”
“Yes?” He leaned forward, sweating as the worker shuffled through papers.
The man shook his head. “Her name’s Deirdre O’Shaughnessy.”
Vittorio read over the list three times, but there was no Catherine Dwyer. He left the hospital, immersed in his thoughts. Deirdre O’Shaughnessy. Ironic, he thought, that the name of a perfect stranger kept repeating in his head. “Deirdre O’Shaughnessy. Why?” he asked himself aloud. “Why couldn’t you have been Kitty Dwyer?”
Pushing on as though possessed, he walked to her house, but again no one was home. He waited outside the bar until closing time, when Liam and Dermot left together.
Dermot was the first to see him. “Vittorio,” he called, smiling.
At the sound of the hated name, Liam threw him a blistering glance and stepped up his pace.
“Mr. Dwyer.” Vittorio extended his hand, but Liam ignored it. “Please, sir, I’d like to talk.”
“What’s there to talk about?�
��
“Kitty, sir.”
“She’s made her decision. There’s nothing more to say.”
Taken aback, Vittorio stopped dead. The decision he had feared most came crowding in on him. She had decided. It hit him as powerfully as a punch.
He turned and walked away, not hearing Dermot’s goodbye, consumed by the ache in his chest.
Ottavia was waiting at the window and ran to open the door when she saw him come along. “Vittorio!” She gasped at the sight of his grief-stricken face. Fearing that Kitty had died, she could not bring herself to ask, except with her eyes.
“Now I know, Mama,” he said. “She has decided to stay with them.”
“No! Did you see her?”
“I saw her father. He told me she had made her decision, that there was nothing more to talk about.”
“Come, sit down,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
He slumped into a chair. “There is nothing more to tell. I looked in every hospital today, even the morgue. I finally talked to her father when he left his bar. She has made up her mind, and that’s it.”
“I cannot believe that. I saw the look in her eyes. She loves you.”
“Maybe, but not enough to turn her back on her family.”
Ottavia was about to protest, but she could see that her son was spent. She urged him to go to bed. She heard him pace about his bedroom for most of the night. Near dawn, she tiptoed past his room and heard his regular breathing as he slept. Only then could she close her eyes as well.
News of the department store fire dominated the newspapers’ front pages. Only the Irish newspaper carried a small item buried near the back:
“An unidentified woman, possibly of Irish descent, was hit by a team of runaway horses in front of the Irish Emigrant Industrial Savings Bank in downtown Manhattan. She was taken to City Hospital, where she remains in a coma.”
****
“Dr. Lawrence, can you come here?” the nurse called. “The patient is awake.”
The doctor hurried in. The patient blinked her eyes, unused to the light. What beautiful blue eyes, he thought. She was having difficulty focusing, and her brain was undoubtedly stretching, getting back in working order. Without thinking, he took her hand and waited.
Choices of the Heart Page 18