Remembering the Titanic Part 2

On the way home, she decided Paddy should come to see her first public performance. Heaven knew she'd gone to enough of them snooty literary gatherings with him. His new friends weren't all that nice to her, either. They always asked her what she "did" in New York, and when she answered that she hoped to be a singer, some laughed, some turned away in dismissal, some said, "Oh, doesn't everyone these days?" At one afternoon tea, a young woman with bobbed hair the color of lemons had asked, "And are you a writer like our darling Paddy?" Katie, bored and feeling out of place had snapped, "No, but if I was, I wouldn't be wastin' my time at parties like our darlin' Paddy is doin', I'd be home doin' some writin'!"

Paddy had overheard and been insulted. They'd had a terrible argument, and hadn't made peace for a whole miserable week.

He owed her for all those long afternoons and evenings spent in the company of them bookish sn.o.bs. She read books. She loved to read. They didn't need to treat her like she was simple-minded.

If Paddy didn't come to her ice cream social, they just might have another argument.

Actually, now that she thought about it, they seemed to be fighting a lot these days. Her aunt Lottie, who, like most women, had fallen under Paddy's spell immediately and adored him, said placatingly, "You're just adjustin' to the new country, that's all, Katie. And you've both been through a tumble time. Be patient, it'll work itself out."

But patience wasn't Katie's strong suit.

She wanted Paddy to do well. To be a great writer. She knew he could tell wonderful stories. Hadn't he kept her and Brian entertained all the way from Ballyford to Cobh Harbor with his fine story-telling? But she didn't see how going to all them parties and dinners and meetings was helping him get the words written down on paper. She had asked him, not long ago, how the book about the t.i.tanic was coming along. He had fairly bitten her head off. "I can't talk about that," he had said, his voice harsh. "I need to save all my thoughts about that night for the book. Was I to keep talkin' and talkin' and talkin', like you've a mind to, there'd be nothin' left inside for puttin' down on paper."

Her feelings hurt, she had said indignantly, "I didn't ask you to talk about that night, I asked you how the book was coming. And it seems to me, if you really was puttin' words down on paper, you wouldn't be gettin' so mad when I ask you about it."

He'd been so angry, he'd stalked off. She hadn't seen him again that afternoon. Belle had had to send her home in Edmund's car. When he finally called on the telephone, Katie hadn't apologized. She had barely spoken two words to him until he said he was sorry. Which he did, though he took his own sweet time about it. And mumbled something about how "hard" writing was.

Katie had been unsympathetic. How would Paddy know writin' was hard when he wasn't doing that much of it?

Still, he was making progress in his career, and she was getting nowhere.

But that was before she met Flo.

Maybe Paddy would call on the telephone tonight. She couldn't wait to tell him about the ice cream social. He didn't call that often, though Edmund had seen to it that he had a telephone, saying he wanted to be able to get in touch with Paddy when he needed to. The only telephone Katie had access to was in the front hall of the roominghouse. She had precious little privacy when she was talking on it. But she was always so glad to hear Paddy's voice, she didn't care.

If Paddy didn't call, she might just go talk to John. He'd show some interest. He might even offer to accompany her on Sunday, to give her moral support, hear her sing, and eat ice cream all at the same time. John liked simple pleasures. It would serve Paddy right if she invited John to the social. And maybe if he knew there was another gentleman, an Irish one at that, paying some mind to Kathleen Hanrahan, he'd call her more often and come out to Brooklyn to see her more than once a week.

Or ... Katie shifted restlessly in her seat ... maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd just say, "Well fine then, Miss Kathleen Hanrahan, you just go right ahead and cozy up to your John Donnelly. I've me own friends now, and Belle Tyree is a fine-lookin' woman with a pleasin' att.i.tude and no bad temper to speak of, and that's the truth of it."

Tears sprang to Katie's eyes. If Paddy ever said that, her heart would crack right down the middle like the great ship t.i.tanic. If he ever said that, she wouldn't be so glad that she had survived the terrible disaster. Not so glad at all.

"Why, Katie-girl," her aunt Lottie said, leaning forward to touch Katie's arms, "you've tears in your eyes. Are you not happy about singin' in public, then?"

" *Course I am. I'm just ... a bit nervy, that's all. Stage fright, like Flo said. It'll pa.s.s. I've sung in public before, Aunt Lottie, back home." Where everyone knew me, and everyone was kind, Katie thought but didn't say. "I'll be right as rain by Sunday, that's certain."

But in her heart, Katie knew she would only be right as rain if Paddy was there to cheer her on.

Elizabeth didn't see Max for a few days. When he telephoned, he said he was busy painting. But Sat.u.r.day afternoon, shortly after lunch, he rang the doorbell at the mansion on Murray Hill. When Elizabeth, still in tennis whites from a match with her mother on their backyard court, answered the doorbell instead of Esther, the housemaid, Max's eyebrows went up. "Don't tell me, let me guess. You've let all the servants go. From now on, you and your mother are going to do the housekeeping."

Elizabeth laughed. "Can you see my mother wielding a dusting cloth?"

"No more than I can see you buying lettuce at a produce stand."

Elizabeth bristled, but she let him in. "I know how to buy lettuce. You ... you thump it to make sure it's fresh."

It was Max's turn to laugh. "That's melon, Elizabeth, not lettuce."

With a careless shrug, Elizabeth led him into the sun room and flung herself down on a white wicker settee plump with green flowered cushions. April sunshine spilled in through the window and across the gleaming hardwood floor, warming her. This was her favorite room, because it was seldom as cold as the larger rooms. And because her father's desk was still in here, just as he'd left it. She felt closer to him in this room.

She smiled at Max. "If you think I'm so spoiled and stupid, what are you doing here?"

He sat down beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I do not think you're stupid. Far from it. And I'm here because I think," he said calmly, "that you're bright and clever and interesting, and you have a warm heart. I like a warm heart. Especially when that warm heart likes me back." Smiling, he peered into her face with eyes so deep a blue they reminded Elizabeth of the ocean. That unsettled her, and she pulled away. She didn't want to be reminded of the ocean.

But Max persisted. "You do still like me back, don't you, Elizabeth? Say it! Or I'll go back home and paint all day instead of beating you at tennis."

She aimed a questioning glance at his gray slacks and blue sweater. "You can't play tennis in those clothes."

"I brought whites. They're in my car."

His car? Elizabeth squealed and bolted upright. "Tour car? You bought a car? Oh, Max, what fun! Let me see it!" She jumped up and ran to the door, yanking it open. Without waiting to see if he was behind her, she ran down the steps. The car was parked at the curb. It was quite new, its paint shiny black, its upholstery white. There was a small gla.s.s vase attached near the window, and Max had already filled it with a single pink rose.

Clapping her hands in delight, Elizabeth cried, "And it's all yours?" She whirled to throw her arms around his neck, without a thought for disapproving pa.s.sersby. "I thought you said no one needed a car in the city."

"Changed my mind. If I ever decide to do landscapes again, I'll need a car to go exploring the countryside. And," he said, grinning, "this'll make it easier to see you, too. It's a Kettering. No cranking. Don't have to worry about fracturing my painting arm. Want to go for a spin?"

"You bet! Wait'll I run in and tell Moth -" Elizabeth stopped speaking abruptly, and frowned. "Oh, no. I just remembered. We're to meet with the dressmaker in forty-five minutes. Mother's bathing, and I'm supposed to be doing the same." Disappointment clouded her face.

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.

Chapter 5.

TO KATIE'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 gra.s.s. 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 t.i.tanic, where she'd been confined to third cla.s.s. There'd been that one morning, though, when she and a friend had been permitted to attend a church service in the first-cla.s.s 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 t.i.tanic 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 pa.s.sing 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 p.r.o.ne 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.