by Diane Hoh
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.
Chapter 6
THE BROOKLYN 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.”
Not that she’d had much luck “settling” Paddy down lately.
As always when she saw him, her breath caught in her throat. Even when, as now, she was furious with him, her first instinct whenever he appeared was to rush to him and throw herself into his arms. Thank the stars she’d been raised not to behave so unladylike, or it would be a fool she’d be making of herself, right there in the streets of Brooklyn.
He saw her sitting on Mary’s steps and loped across the street in that lazy, arrogant way he had.
He didn’t come to my social, Katie reminded herself firmly, refusing to stand up and greet him. He had more important things to do.
But half an hour later, wearing a fresh white middy and firmly holding Bridget’s hand, Katie was climbing into another cab and heading for Manhattan with Paddy. “I’m takin’ the afternoon off from writin’,” he’d said excitedly, “and you’re comin’ with me into the city. The wee one can come along, if you’ve a mind to bring her. She should see the big city, anyways.”
When Katie asked what they would be doing when they got to the city, Paddy shook his handsome head. “ ’Tis a surprise.”
Paddy hadn’t said a word about her ice cream social. He hadn’t apologized for not showing up, and he hadn’t even asked her how it had been. It was as if it hadn’t happened. And Katie was too stubborn to bring it up herself. Anyways, that would just start an argument, and she didn’t want to ruin the day for Bridget, who was staring out the taxicab window with huge brown eyes. Her parents had not yet taken her to the city, and she was trying to take in everything at once. She was impressed by the Brooklyn Bridge, which Katie thought ugly but preferred to the riverboats, feeling the way she did about boats now. Paddy pointed out the top of the Woolworth Building, the tallest in the world.
“How do people get to the top of it?” Bridget, nearly hanging out the taxicab’s window, asked breathlessly.
“The tallest buildings have elevators,” Katie answered, her heart pounding at the thought of the dreaded iron cages. “And all of them have stairs, just like you do at your house.”
Though Katie disliked the hustle and bustle of New York City, Bridget seemed to love it. “So many people,” she declared, “and so many cars and big buildings. How come the ground don’t cave in?”
Katie’s worry exactly.
Paddy directed the driver to their final destination. When it pulled up in front of Grand Central Station and stopped, Katie was delighted. Grand Central was a fair interesting place. Twice on a Saturday afternoon, she and Paddy had whiled away several happy hours doing nothing more than sitting on benches watching people hurry by. Paddy called it “gatherin’ writin’ material.” Imagining what kind of lives different people led, where they lived, what their occupation might be, where they were going to or coming from, was, he said, “food for writin’.”
Katie just thought it great fun.
“Oh, you’re goin’ to like this,” she told Bridget as they climbed from the cab and the driver sped away. “You’ll see more people inside here than you’ll see in a month of Sundays in Brooklyn, ’Tis a great place to see how New Yorkers dress and hear how they talk as they hurry past.”
But when they were inside, instead of leading them to a centrally located bench where they’d be sure to have a good view of passersby hurrying to and from the trains, Paddy kept walking.
“Where are you goin’?” Katie asked, her eyes on a particularly well-situated bench. If they didn’t position themselves on it quickly, someone else might take it.
He turned to face her. “I’ve a surprise for you. We’re goin’ to take a train ride. You haven’t yet, and today seemed like a good day. Bridget will love it.” Paddy took the little girl’s hand in his. “So will you, Katie. It’ll be an adventure.” Smiling, he looked deep into her eyes. “We haven’t been seein’ enough of each other, didn’t you say so yourself? A nice, quiet train ride is just the ticket.” He laughed. “Ticket? Maybe I’m gettin’ better at playin’ around with words.”
Katie frowned, uncomprehending.
“You need a ticket to get on the train,” Paddy explained. “Come on now, we’re wastin’ time.”
But when Paddy had purchased three tickets to a destination he refused to reveal, he motioned Katie toward a set of wide steps leading downward.
She stopped walking. Down? He was taking them down? Belowground? Her stomach twisted, and her palms grew clammy. No … no … she couldn’t!
Realizing she wasn’t following, Paddy stopped and turned around, as did Bridget. “Come on, then, our train leaves in six minutes.”
Katie didn’t move. “We have to go down?”
He frowned. “The trains are down there. They come in through tunnels forty feet underground. Amazin’, ain’t it? Come on, then.”
Katie gasped. Forty feet underground? Tunnels? She broke out in a cold sweat. She took a step backward, nearly bumping into a couple hurrying toward the stairs. “You didn’t say it was underground.”
Paddy sighed impatiently. “It ain’t underground the whole way. Not like the subway. I know you’d hate that. The trains only come in and out underground, that’s all. Just a few minutes, and then you’re up top, honest.”
Katie tried. Paddy had taken this time for her, and she wanted to have a good time. And Bridget seemed excited about the prospect of a train ride.
So she went down one step … two … three … people hurried past her, far more anxious than she to descend … four … now the darkness below was visible, staring up at her as if to say, Go ahead, then, come on down so I can swallow you up. Hurry, so I can close in on you like the walls of a coffin.
Katie stopped on the fifth step down. Her legs felt like jelly, and her hands were shaking. “I’m not going down there, Paddy. I can’t.” What was the matter with him? Had he forgotten the torturous time she’d spent in the subterranean passageways of Titanic, trying to find a way up top? He knew all about it. Wasn’t he the one, then, who had found her? He’d seen the state she was in. He knew better than anyone how impossible it was for her to be closed in now. And since he wasn’t an ignorant lout, he had to know how much worse it would be for her to be enclosed in something that was belowground. The thought of a tunnel, dark and narrow, made her physically ill. “I can’t go down there. Take me home, Paddy. Take Bridget and me home.”
He was at her side then, looking genuinely puzzled. “Katie, it’s just a train ride. People take them all the time.” He waved his hands to encompass the stream of would-be passengers hurrying past them on the stairs. “The trains are perfectly safe.”
She backed up another step. She was trembling. “No, they’re not. That’s not true. I’m reading in the Herald almost every day about train accidents.” That was true enough. “And people say they’re bumpy and noisy and…” But none of that had anything to do with it. If the train hadn’t been underground, if it hadn’t entered through a tunnel, she would have tried it, just for the adventure of it. She hated being afraid of things, and never had been before. Never. But she wasn’t going down into that black
tunnel. Not now. Not ever.
“We’re not going to have an accident.” Paddy’s tone was patient enough, but he was tapping the three tickets against one hand impatiently. “Do you think I’d be takin’ you and little Bridget here on a train if I wasn’t thinkin’ it was safe, then? Wouldn’t that make me some kind of callous brute? I was just thinkin’, this is the best way for you to get over your fear of bein’ belowground. Can’t be like that forever, you know.”
So he hadn’t forgotten her terror. Somehow that made it worse. Why should Paddy Kelleher be deciding how she was supposed to get over something? What did he know about such things?
He softened his voice in that way he had when he wanted something and he thought the other person was being unreasonable in not granting it. “Katie-girl, we’re in the big city now. This ain’t Ballyford, where the only way to get around is by jaunting cart or lorry. Isn’t it grand, then, that they got trains right here in the city?”
Katie lost her temper. “ ’Tis cruel of you to be remindin’ me this ain’t Ballyford, when you know full well that’s where I’d rather be! And I’m not goin’ down into any black underground tunnel, Patrick Kelleher. You take us home right now, or I’ll get us there meself!” Though she had no idea how. She’d brought no money with her. Hadn’t thought she’d need any, since Edmund always saw to it that Paddy had plenty in his pockets. If she had to, she’d find a telephone somewheres and call Flo. Flo would get her and Bridget home, even if she had to drive them there herself.
Paddy knew Katie well enough to sense when it would be easier to move the Brooklyn Bridge than to change her mind. He gave up, and they turned and went back up the steps and outside.
No one suggested that they sit on a bench and people watch.