Remembering the Titanic Part 7

Paddy had apologized for the kiss, convinced that Katie was Brian's love. She had convinced him otherwise, though it had taken some doing. Paddy was a heart breaker, but he did have a code of ethics. Encroaching on his brother's "territory" went against that code.

I made him see, finally, that is was him who held my heart in his hands, Katie thought bitterly, staring out the car window into the dark night, and now look what he's gone and done with it. Stomped all over it with those muddy boots of his!

Still, she couldn't blame him. Belle was pretty, and getting a college education, and her uncle was a successful publisher. Belle could be a great help to Paddy.

And anyways, 'twasn't Belle's fault Kathleen Hanrahan was a fool for a handsome Irish lad with dark, merry eyes and a smile that would melt steel. Should have steered way clear of him and wasn't that the truth? Just like the t.i.tanic should have steered around that iceberg.

Paddy and Belle. Hadn't she suspected for a while now? She'd seen so little of him lately. 'Course that was partly because she'd been so busy singing. Was that part of the problem, maybe, that she'd been doing so well, and him making no more progress on his book than a mule in mud?

But ... Katie choked back a cry ... what earthly good would a singing career be without Paddy? What good would anything be?

Katie wiped her eyes. If Patrick Kelleher was too blind to see that no one would ever love him as much as Katie Hanrahan did, if he was willing to toss that away like a sweet potato wrapper, let him! She wasn't going to run after him like those silly girls in County Cork. He could just go fly a kite in Central Park! And he could take Belle Tyree with him for all Katie cared.

"John," Katie said in a perfectly normal voice, "would you be interested in goin' with me to the movies tomorrow afternoon?"

Writing a letter to Va.s.sar College declining her admission and scholarship was one of the hardest things Elizabeth had ever done. "I regret ..." Regret seemed like too small a word for what she was feeling. The word for what she was feeling should have many letters in it, perhaps the entire alphabet. Six letters weren't nearly enough.

But when, unable to give up the last shred of hope, she had mentioned the word "nurse" to her mother, Nola had become so agitated at the thought of being cared for by a stranger, Elizabeth had been forced to hastily rea.s.sure her. "I'm here, Mother, I'm here, I'll take care of you," she had to say repeatedly, until her mother finally calmed down.

Nola came home on a bright, sunny Thursday afternoon. Elizabeth left her in Esther's capable hands just long enough to walk to the corner and post her letter. Two young women pa.s.sed her on bicycles, laughing lightheartedly. Perhaps, Elizabeth thought disconsolately as she walked slowly back to the house, they were on their way to register for college cla.s.ses, or to sign up for flying lessons, or to take part in a suffrage march beginning in Washington Square. Or perhaps they were on their way to meet two young men in the Village for coffee, where the four would engage in a lively, spirited discussion about workers' rights and unionization, about politics and socialism, about art and books, as Max and his friends did. And as her mother and friends did not.

The fall and winter seasons stretched ahead of Elizabeth like an endless cold, dark tunnel. If it weren't for Max, she would crawl into bed and stay there until next summer. Perhaps her mother would be better by next summer. Perhaps there was still hope....

I can't bear it, she thought as she re-entered the house. I shall not be able to bear it.

Two days later Nola was up and about, fully dressed, taking charge of the household just as she always had. Elizabeth allowed herself to hope again, just a little. Her mother seemed the very picture of health. Impossible to believe she was ill ... except that Elizabeth had seen her on her knees on the garden path, her face as white as the stone on which she was kneeling. And had sat beside her in the ambulance, Nola's lips bluish, her eyes closed. Had heard the doctor say, "Heart trouble..."

"Are you going to sign up for a cla.s.s or two at CCNY?" Max asked. Though he was working feverishly on his new paintings, he had taken some time off, sensing how unhappy Elizabeth must be. He had asked if she'd like to go for a drive, but she didn't want to leave the house, so they settled on a bench in the rear garden instead. "Anne's taking a couple of cla.s.ses." Max laughed. "She can never decide which courses to take, so every semester she tosses a toothpick up in the air and wherever it lands on the course calendar, that's the cla.s.s she takes."

"This is where my mother collapsed," Elizabeth said slowly. It was very hot out. Elizabeth liked the feel of the sun on her skin. Sometimes, when it was really hot, it almost seemed to reach down into her cold, bones. But never quite. "Right over there, that's where she went down. I thought she was dying." Her mother's rosebushes needed pruning again, and Elizabeth thought she saw blackspot on some of the leaves. "I must get someone to see to the roses. Mother will be upset if they're not cared for, and she shouldn't be doing it herself."

"She looks fine to me," Max said, shrugging. "It's hard to believe she has anything wrong with her."

"Well, she does" Elizabeth replied testily, moving slightly away from him. "If you'd seen her that day...."

"I know, I believe you, Elizabeth," he interrupted. "I'm just saying she looks really well. Anyway, what about CCNY?"

"I don't know yet. I'll have to think about it. It seems too soon to be leaving her alone. She just got home from the hospital, Max."

"She wouldn't be alone. She has the staff. Or you could ask one of her friends to come over and sit with her, if you think she needs that. Just while you're at cla.s.s. Did the doctor say you couldn't leave her alone?"

He hadn't. Not in so many words. But Elizabeth felt as if he had.

Talking about this with Max was a mistake. He just didn't understand. He still had two healthy, active parents, even if he seldom saw them.

But he had interrupted his painting to come and see her. On an impulse, Elizabeth jumped up and went to pick a rose for him. One of the yellow ones, by far the prettiest, though her mother's favorites were the pinks. With no pruning shears handy, she broke the stem off by hand, in the process driving a thorn into the fleshy part of her palm. When she cried out, Max was at her side instantly. "I wanted this for you," Elizabeth said, extending the rose with its broken stem. "For coming to see me. You didn't have to. I know you're busy." Tears filled her eyes, not entirely from the pain in her hand. "I wish you could take me back to the Village with you, that's what I wish."

"I wish it too, Elizabeth." He pulled a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wrapped it around the injured palm. Then he took the rose from her, supping it into a b.u.t.tonhole in his lapel. "Thank you for the rose. I'm sorry you hurt your hand. I'm sorry you hurt in other ways, too, Elizabeth. I wish I could help." He put an arm around her and she leaned into him, laying her head on his chest. She was so tired. She didn't understand that. She hadn't done anything to make herself tired. Hadn't been bicycling, hadn't joined a march through Manhattan, hadn't danced the turkey trot all night long at the Victoria. But she was very, very tired.

When Max lifted her chin and bent his own head to kiss her, even though it had been a while since they'd been alone, even though Elizabeth missed his kisses and his arms around her, even though she loved him so very much, she felt almost nothing. It was as if mailing that last letter to Va.s.sar sealing her fate and stealing her future had numbed her from head to toe. She almost wept then, with Max's lips still on hers, because she wanted so much to feel what she had always felt when he kissed her. That wonderful, warm, loving and being loved feeling that had so delighted her. When Max was kissing her, when he was holding her, she was never cold. It was the only time she was never cold.

She was cold now. In spite of the heat, in spite of Max's loving, pa.s.sionate kiss, she was freezing.

Perhaps that was why she was so numb.

"What's the matter?" he asked, lifting his head.

The very thought of attempting to answer the question exhausted Elizabeth. Everything, she would have to say, everything is the matter. But Max hadn't come to visit only to hear her complain. "Nothing," she said as brightly as she could manage, "nothing's the matter." She meant, then, to return his kiss, but Nola came out to see to her roses, and the moment pa.s.sed.

When Max left, he didn't attempt to kiss Elizabeth again. Perhaps, she thought without emotion as she stood on the front steps watching him drive away, he was afraid he'd get frostbite.

It's just as well, she told herself as she went back inside to see if Nola might like to be read to for a while from The Harvester. I can never marry Max now. He might as well find some other girl who is free to make him a good wife. I should tell him to do so. It's the fair thing. He's too nice to break it off himself, even though he might want to. It's up to me to set him free. I mustn't put it off. I should telephone him tonight. He'll argue, I know he will, but I shall be very firm. Perhaps I might even tell him I don't love him anymore, that would be the kindest thing to do. I would need to sound as if I meant it. Could I do that?

For Max's sake, perhaps she could.

She tried. That same night, she telephoned him from the drawing room after Nola had gone to bed, afraid that if she waited, she'd lose her nerve. She thought she did quite a convincing job of it, saying she was going to be much too busy to see him for a while, that she did think she might take some cla.s.ses at the city college, and what with that and taking care of Nola, the smartest thing would be for him to find someone else to keep him company. She would, she said firmly, certainly understand. It just made sense, she said without a quaver in her voice.

But she did not, could not, go so far as to say she no longer loved him.

Then Max's voice, the voice that warmed her to her core, said, sounding amused, "You're not very good at this, you know. You should be grateful you're not yearning for an acting career. No one would ever hire you because you're a terrible actress, and you'd starve." Then his voice deepened further. "Listen to me, Elizabeth. I love you. You love me. I can be patient. I know I'm not always, but for you, for us, I can be. It'll work out somehow. We'll make it work out. We've been through worse than this, remember?"

She remembered.

"So forget about palming me off on some other poor, unsuspecting girl. It's you or no one. Do you understand that?"

"But..."

"Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Max."

"I love you, you love me. Cozy, vine-covered cottage, someday living happily ever after, right?"

"Yes, Max."

"Good night, Elizabeth."

"Good night, Max."

She wasn't nearly as cold when she went to bed that night as she had been during the hottest part of the afternoon.

But that night there was the dream. Of ice. Of cold water, of screams.

Chapter 14.

KATIE GAVE HER AUNT Lottie strict orders: If Paddy Kelleher was to telephone and ask for her, she wasn't at home. No ifs, ands, or buts.

"Lyin's a sin," Lottie protested. "What'll I be tellin' Father Doyle in confession on Satiddy?"

"Tell him I made you do it. He knows me. He'll believe you."

It was a knife in Katie's heart, not seeing Paddy, not talking to him, thinking of him with Belle. But she wasn't about to swallow her pride. Mary said, "Why don't you telephone him and ask him to explain it all, then? You're hangin' him without givin' him a trial. That ain't fair."

"It wasn't fair, him takin' Belle to our special place."

On Sunday, she deeply regretted her invitation to John to go to the movies. But he was so excited about it, she would have felt lower than the bottom porch step, backing out. And if she left the house, Lottie wouldn't be lyin' when she told Paddy, if he called, that Katie wasn't home. 'Twould be the truth. No sin there.

The movie, with the strange t.i.tle of Quo Vadis seemed long to Katie, although she did enjoy the exciting chariot race. John seemed to like the film. After the movie, they bought ice cream and ate it during the walk home, which Katie enjoyed more than the movie because they talked only of Ireland.

"I'll take you there, Katie, if you want," John offered when they reached the steps of their roominghouse. "I know how you feel about getting on board a ship. But maybe it would be easier if someone was with you."

It was so sweet of him. He really was kind and thoughtful. In some ways, he reminded her of Brian. Not near as good-looking, but easy to be with. And he'd be faithful as the day was long, too, Katie was certain of that.

"We'll see," was all she would say.

Paddy called, and Lottie said, "It ain't right, tellin' him fibs. Why can't you just talk to him?"

Katie couldn't.

And then he stopped calling.

She cried herself to sleep more nights than she could count. Just as many times, she went to the telephone in the hall and picked up the receiver. But her pride, still intact, took the phone away from her and put it back before she could make the call. When she wasn't with Bridget or talking with John, Flo kept her so busy she had little time to think about her broken heart. And it was broken, just as she had always known it would be if Paddy left her.

But her pride was intact.

Over the next few months, it became easier and easier to sit with John on a Sunday afternoon, talking, or walk with him to a movie or lend him a book from the library that she'd read and liked. When the weather turned cold and winter arrived in Brooklyn, they sat inside, in the front parlor. They talked of things other than Ireland... music, books, movies. Eventually, they went nearly every Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and when it got too cold for ice cream, they stopped at a nearby delicatessen for coffee and blintzes.

By Thanksgiving, which Katie had spent the year before in Edmund Tyree's luxurious Fifth Avenue home with the Tyrees and Paddy, everyone in her Brooklyn neighborhood believed that she and John Donnelly were courting. Katie herself thought of John only as a very good friend who shared her desire to return to Ireland.

But she made no effort to explain that to anyone.

Not even John.

Her heart slowly began to heal, though it still ached. And her pride was doing quite nicely, what with Flo keeping her booked solid through the upcoming holidays. It made her feel good, all the praise she was getting, and it was comforting to know she hadn't been fooling herself when she'd set out to have a singing career.

On bad days, when she couldn't get Paddy out of her mind, she told herself that if he'd really loved her, he'd have jumped into a taxi-cab and come to see her in Brooklyn. He knew where she lived. He knew how to get there from Manhattan. If he'd cared that she wouldn't talk to him on the telephone, he'd have done something about it. And he hadn't. So how much could he have cared?

Such thinking usually worked, and Katie went on about her business until the next bad day when she had to go through the same thought process again.

Eventually, the bad days came less often. Soon they would disappear entirely. Until then, all she had to do was keep herself busy with Bridget and John and her singing. Easy as pie.

But she couldn't help wondering if Paddy was making any progress with his book.

He wasn't.

Paddy believed that he knew why Katie wouldn't take his telephone calls, why she didn't want to see him. It was, he was certain, because he'd not been attentive lately. Even when he was with her, which wasn't often, he was fidgety and out of sorts. And that was because he was getting nowhere with his book. Had barely started it, in fact. Anyways, Katie was doing so well on her own, what did she need with him? Bri would have finished the book by now and been the toast of New York. Maybe that was what Katie was thinking, that Bri would have done better in America than his younger brother. Maybe she didn't want to talk to him on the telephone because she feared she would say that aloud. She wasn't mean-spirited enough to want to do that, but it might slip out.

Still, every day he had to fight the urge to hail a taxicab and travel to Brooklyn to face her. He could talk her into coming back to him. He knew that much. He'd promise to finish the book, even ask her to help him, as she had in the past. She'd seemed to like doing that. He could get her back, was he to try.

But he couldn't do it. He wasn't what she needed. She needed someone steadier, more reliable, someone with a promising future. She had thought he had a promising future, after the magazine article sold. He'd thought so, too. Now they both knew better. Edmund was still holding out hope, still encouraging, as was Belle. But they'd give up, too, soon enough, just as Katie had.

He'd never told her how desperate he was, how impossible it had become to write so much as one sentence about that last night on the t.i.tanic. He couldn't let himself relive it. Near frantic, he had gone to Belle instead, explained how he wasn't having any luck writing the book. "If you'll take me to Coney Island tonight," she'd said, "I'll help you with the book all day tomorrow. I love it there, and I hardly ever get to go. I'll bring David, the young man I've been seeing Telephone Katie, see if she'll come with us." He'd explained that Katie had a singing engagement that night, and when Belle asked why he wasn't going, he'd said, "She don't need me there." He didn't tell her he'd made up a fict.i.tious meeting to avoid watching Katie being fawned over by so many people. Belle wouldn't approve. She didn't hold with lying.

They had gone to Coney Island, which Paddy fretted about some, knowing it was Katie's favorite place. She'd be wounded if she knew he'd gone with Belle. Or mad. But he needed Belle's help. They'd sat on a bench while he explained how the words just wouldn't come. Belle's beau, David, had gone off to get them something to eat and drink and also, Paddy thought, to give them privacy.

It was a waste of time, though. Belle was too excited to be at the park to concentrate on Paddy's problems. But she had kept her promise about Sunday. That, too, was a waste of time. She had tried her best to help him make a good start on the book. Nothing she said did any good. When she'd gone, and he sat at the wooden table beside the window in his small apartment, pencil in hand, the hand refused to move, the head refused to think, the words refused to come.

It was hopeless.

That evening, when he telephoned the house in Brooklyn, Lottie said, "Katie ain't here. She had some fancy shindig to go to." He'd phoned every night that week. The message was always the same. But he knew Katie didn't have singing engagements every night of the week. And the last time he'd called, he distinctly heard Katie's voice in the background, talking to someone. Most likely that boarder, John, the bank clerk. A fine, sensible lad.

Paddy knew then that Katie wasn't wanting to talk to him.

'Twas a cruel way to end things between them. So sudden like that, with no explaining. That wasn't like the old Katie at all. But he couldn't speak for the new, successful Kathleen Hanrahan. Still, hadn't he done the same thing himself, more than once, back in County Cork? Ended a flirtation without saying why or good-bye? And not felt a shred of remorse over some girl's broken heart?

She didn't want to talk to him. That much was clear as the water in the Shannon. And though it made him feel like he was falling into a deep, black hole darker than the subway tunnels, he knew he was going to let it lie. He wasn't going to go out to Brooklyn and persuade her to change her mind. He didn't have anything to offer her, and that was the truth.

He didn't telephone the house in Brooklyn again.

As autumn arrived, cooling off the days and nights, Elizabeth began to dread the oncoming winter. So cold...

Nola didn't seem to mind. The change of season always appealed to her as it provided an excuse for more shopping. Her stamina amazed Elizabeth as they joined the other ladies moving from store to store, their chauffeurs waiting at the curb to receive the packages and store them in the car. Later, they went for tea at Sherry's, where Elizabeth sat silently, sipping hot chocolate while the women discussed the newest fabrics, the silver fox stole Betsy Winslow had ordered, the holiday parties taking shape. Occasionally someone Elizabeth's age, a friend from school, came in to say h.e.l.lo. But with one or two exceptions, they were all engaged and talked of nothing but their upcoming weddings in June. Elizabeth felt totally removed from them and though she listened politely, she was actually thinking of Max.

She thought about Max often. It was the only thing that kept her going. Throughout the autumn months and into early winter he telephoned every night, and once a week Elizabeth left Nola in Esther's capable hands and went to a movie or a play or concert with Max. Nola disapproved, but she said nothing. "I think she knows," Elizabeth told Max as they walked along Madison Avenue holding hands one evening in early December, "that if it weren't for you, I'd jump out of the attic window. She knows how much I hate this life and how desperately I want to leave. Seeing you helps and she knows that. She's not stupid."

"She seems so healthy," Max commented. "I know it makes you mad when I say this, but I really think you should get a second opinion, Elizabeth. Perhaps Dr. Cooper was wrong. Doctors do make mistakes. They're not infallible."

"I did suggest that. A month or so ago. She's determined to have a holiday party. I said it would be too much for her, and she argued that she was feeling fine. So I said, maybe she didn't have anything wrong with her heart after all and why didn't we consult another cardiologist. Well, you'd have thought I'd suggested skinny-dipping in the Hudson. She threw such a fit! Defending Dr. Cooper, accusing me of accusing him of lying, and on and on. Esther came rushing in with smelling salts, worried that Mother was going to have another attack. It was awful. I doubt that I'll be bringing it up again in the near future."

Max had no response to that. They had reached the front steps of Elizabeth's house. "Listen," he said, putting his hands on her arms as she turned to tell him good night, "I'm having a party, too. I think I'll be ready for the unveiling of my new work soon, and I thought I'd make a celebration of it. The night before Christmas Eve. I'm inviting everyone who's been nagging me about showing my work. Say you'll come. I suppose you'll have to fib to your mother about where you're going. Maybe she'll be invited out that evening by friends."

"The night before Christmas Eve? Oh, Max, you didn't pick that night! Nola's not going to be out that evening. She's going to be right here. So am I. That's the night of her party. She's already sent out the invitations. Can't you have it some other night?"

Max drew away from her, just a bit. "I'm going to have to scramble as it is to finish by then. Can't do it any sooner. In fact, I probably won't be seeing you until then, because it's going to take every spare moment."

Elizabeth was disappointed, but she knew that as the holidays grew closer, the shopping trips as well as the evening engagements would increase. Getting out of the house to spend time with Max would become impossible.

"Your mother doesn't need you at her party, does she? She's got Esther, and the staff. This might be good, Elizabeth, now that I think about it. The house will be so full of people, she won't even notice that you're gone."

Elizabeth mulled that over. Maybe he was right. She would help Nola prepare for the party, right up until the last minute, then she'd slip out as soon as the festivities were well under way. With the house full of people, Nola wouldn't miss a daughter, would she? As long as that daughter returned before the guests left.