WHEN KATIE, AS ALWAYS, had sung her heart out, belting out “Oh, You Beautiful Doll” just the way she’d heard it sung on John Donnelly’s phonograph, she was again quickly ushered to the door, this time by Pauly Chambers, a thin, balding agent in his sixties. He was kind enough about it, saying she had “a good set of pipes” and promising to give her a call. Nevertheless, the door was opened and Katie found herself on the other side of it as it swung shut.
But this time, before she had a chance to fight back tears of disappointment, she was stopped in her tracks by a loud voice bellowing, “Don’t you be going nowheres, Missy! Stand right there where you are, just like that, while I take a good look at you.”
The woman with the loud voice was overweight, her ample proportions stuffed into a shiny satin dress that made her look like an oversized orange. Her very curly hair was a brilliant shade of blond, and her long, pointed fingernails bore slashes of vivid scarlet that clashed violently with the dress. Lottie was staring openly and disapprovingly at the woman’s makeup, and even Katie had to admit that while rouge and lip paint could often enhance features, on this woman they only exaggerated the wrinkles and puffiness of age.
But her eyes were a clear, bright blue, and she was smiling a warm, friendly smile at Katie. She had beautiful, white, even teeth. “Heard you belting out a tune in there for Pauly,” she said. She shook her head. The curls bounced. “Pauly’s right. You got a great set of pipes. But that song’s all wrong for you.”
Katie bristled. “ ’Tis a good song,” she cried. “Everyone likes it. I like it!”
“Did I say it was a bad song? I said it was all wrong for you.”
Lottie spoke up. “And who might you be? I thought the man inside was the theatrical agent.”
A plump hand waved in dismissal. “He is. I’m Flo Chambers, the wife. I sit out here in the office and answer phones and write letters and handle hysterical clients. But take my word for it, I know as much about show business as he does. I used to be a performer, years ago. Did okay, too. And I’m telling you, this girl is going about things all wrong.” She tapped an index finger against her teeth. “Where in heaven’s name did you get that dress? You look like a wedding cake. It don’t suit you at all. A plainer frock would be much better. And that hair!” She lifted a pudgy, jeweled finger. “You hiding something in there?” Laughing at her own wit, she ordered, “Take them pins out. Give ’em to me. Let that gorgeous red hair fall naturally, the way it was meant to. And then I want to hear you sing a few of them songs you sang back in the home country.” She glanced down at a slip of paper on the desk behind her. “Hanrahan. Sing me an Irish tune, then.” It sounded like a command, not a request.
“What’s wrong with my dress?” Katie was close to tears. How could the woman be so cruel? “My aunt worked on it for weeks, gettin’ it just right.”
“Just right for a cheesy theater downtown,” the woman said flatly. “That where you want to be, in some cheesy theater with men catcallin’ at you? It’s not where you belong, I can tell you that right off.”
Katie stood up very straight, her head high. “I think where I belong should be up to me, don’t you?”
Flo turned around and walked back to stand behind her desk. “Had a lot of calls, have you, then? People lining up around your place to pay you to sing for them?”
Cheeks very red, Katie stammered, “Well, no, but …”
“But nothin’. Like I said, you’re taking the wrong approach. Kathleen, that your name?”
Katie nodded.
“Well, Kathleen, sing me a song you know as well as your own name.”
Giving in, Katie did as she’d been told. She sang, “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” in the same, sweet, true manner she had always sung it. And, as always, tears were shining in her eyes by the time she came to the end of the song. Though she loved it, it made her sad. Even more so now, because she knew exactly how that woman pining for her beloved Ireland felt.
When the last note ended, Katie failed to notice that the inner office door had swung open just a crack. What she did notice was the woman clapping her hands together in delight and saying, “There, that’s it! Without that awful dress, with your hair down around your shoulders, and you singing that kind of song, I can keep you mighty busy. I can get you work all over the city, and that’s a promise. Flo Chambers don’t make promises she can’t keep. I won’t make you rich and I won’t make you famous. You’re not the type to be a headliner. But good, honest work, usin’ the voice you was born with, that’s nothin’ to be stickin’ your nose up at. I can book you in church halls and at picnics and private parties held by honest folk who won’t be catcallin’ at you, disrespectin’ you. Might could even get you some stage work, though it won’t be vaudeville. Vaudeville’s not for you, dearie.” She fixed her bright blue eyes on Katie. “So? Whadya say? You want the work or not?”
Stunned, Katie couldn’t think. But the thought of telling Paddy that she was finally making some headway in her career was too tempting to resist. She said yes.
Only then did Pauly Chambers emerge from his office and admit grudgingly that his wife might “have something here.” He wasn’t all that happy about being upstaged, but he seemed perfectly willing to share in the commission Katie would be paying them out of her earnings. “Have her sing ‘Harrigan’ and ‘Mother Macrae,’ ” he said brusquely. “People like ’em and they’d suit this girl.” Then he retreated to his office again.
When Katie left, she was still dazed. But she was eager to call Paddy on the telephone and tell him her good news.
He wasn’t home when she called.
John Donnelly, one of her aunt’s boarders, a nice, pleasant young man from County Down, was home, however. John had a good position in a bank, making enough money to send some home to his family with enough left over to buy himself some fine clothes and a phonograph, which he generously shared with Katie. John, too, suffered from occasional bouts of homesickness, and though he wasn’t near as good-looking or as interesting as Paddy, he was much easier to talk to. He understood how lonesome Katie got for her family and for Ireland. When it became especially painful, she went down the stairs to knock on John’s door. They would talk for a while about their homeland, and then John would play for Katie the newest popular songs, so she could keep up with trends in the music business. He was very supportive of her ambition, and would have been willing to accompany her to auditions in New York had he not had a full-time job.
Paddy may not have been available, but John Donnelly was only too happy to listen to Katie’s exciting news.
The Winslows’ dining room table was perfection itself. The dinner service was white with a delicate blue fleur-de-lis pattern. The three centerpieces were lavish arrangements in shining golden urns, containing white orchids combined with deep blue flowers Elizabeth had never seen before. Probably flown in from some exotic land, she thought dryly. Betsy Winslow would never settle for flowers from the corner market. Flames from six gold candelabra, marching down the center of the mahogany table draped in pristine white linen, cast warm shadows over the scene.
As she ate, Elizabeth brooded about not being allowed to go to Max’s apartment. But she met with him and his new friends in Central Park or in small cafes in the Village any time she could get away, which wasn’t often. She loved the stimulating conversation, centering on politics, the state of the country, President Wilson, the condition of the poor in New York City, the dreadful state of the working class, including children as young as twelve who put in long hours in sweatshops. They talked about movies (which her mother still spoke of as the “cinematograph,” saying it would “never last”) and music and art. It was all interesting and stimulating and fun. Elizabeth took special pains to read The New York Times every day, so that she’d know something about what was going on in the world and wouldn’t be left out of the conversations.
Had her mother ever been privy to any of those interesting discussions, she’d have tried to keep Elizabeth from ever taking part in them again.
The opportunity to see Max and his friends was arising less frequently these days. Her mother seemed to prefer Elizabeth’s company more and more often over her own acquaintances, of whom there were many. And though there were many occasions when Elizabeth would have preferred anything to attending a function with her mother, she was reminded, always, of her promise to her father during those last, terrible moments on board the sinking ship. “Take care of your mother,” he had said.
And so Elizabeth did.
But there were limits. “Mother,” Elizabeth whispered later that evening, over the steady flow of polite dinner conversation, “how long do we have to stay? Can’t we make an early exit, just this once? I have a headache.”
That was a lie. She had no headache. But she was so bored. And she was cold. The Winslows’ dining room was enormous, the blaze in the fireplace woefully inadequate for heating such a large room. As far as Elizabeth was concerned, they might as well have been eating outside on the terrace.
She couldn’t stand the Winslows. Mrs. Winslow loved to brag that she possessed twenty-two place settings of the blue and white china, purchased on a recent trip to Italy. Elizabeth wondered if that meant Betsy Winslow and her husband were compelled to always invite twenty people to the frequent dinners they held in their Fifth Avenue mansion. She bit back a smile. If Mrs. Winslow occasionally invited only ten guests, perhaps she gave each of them two dinner plates, just to impress upon them that she owned twenty-two place settings.
Nola Farr shook her head in response to Elizabeth’s request. “Don’t be silly, dear. We’re only on the second course. Dinner will last at least another hour and a half. Then we girls will go into the drawing room, the men into the library for brandy and cigars. We’ll go home at ten-thirty, as always. Dessert is chocolate mousse, your favorite. And you know Betsy’s cook is the best in the city.”
When Elizabeth didn’t answer, Nola continued, “You don’t have plans to see Max tonight, do you, Elizabeth? Is that why you’re so anxious to leave? It will be much too late when we get home. You have seen so little of him lately, I was wondering if that romance might not be dying.” She sounded hopeful.
Well, there it is, Elizabeth told herself wearily. I’m not in the least surprised. I knew she was only pretending to accept Max. She hated the idea of the two of us together while we were on board the Titanic. Dead set against it. It wasn’t until we got back here that she seemed to be all right with it. But she was simply lost in grief over Father and had no thought for anything else. Didn’t I always suspect that she still disapproved?
Elizabeth thought in dismay, That’s why she keeps me so busy, accompanying her everywhere, dragging me all over the city … to keep me away from Max. She’s hoping I’ll find someone more suitable, someone who isn’t a struggling artist like Max. Someone boring, like Alan Reed. The only reason her mother never threw a fit over the broken engagement was, again, her grief.
Elizabeth was stricken by a horrible thought. Her mother wasn’t hoping she would go back to Alan, was she? That would never happen. She had never loved Alan, never wanted the engagement. She wasn’t even sure how it had happened. It had been her parents’ idea. The three of them had battled about it all the way across the Atlantic. Until the ship hit the iceberg ….
Elizabeth had wished a thousand times since then that the crossing had been different for all of them. Wished that she could go back and make it different, with not one bitter word exchanged between herself and her father. If she had known those were going to be their last words ….
But she hadn’t known. How could she? No one had. The Titanic had been thought unsinkable.
Those who thought it had been wrong.
Elizabeth seldom argued with her mother now, no matter how angry and frustrated she felt. Max thought she’d changed since the tragedy, lost her backbone. “Of course I’ve changed!” she had shouted at him tearfully, furious that he was criticizing her when what she really needed was understanding and kindness. “Who on board that ship hasn’t changed since that night? Except you, of course,” she had added harshly. “You go on with your life as if the Titanic never existed. But it did, Max! It did!”
They’d made up later, as they always had after an argument. Elizabeth had forgiven him by telling herself the difference between them was, Max hadn’t lost someone dear to him when that ship went down. It was she who knew how quickly someone you loved could be taken away from you forever. She knew, now, that you needed to be careful, always, what you said to people you loved. You had to be careful how you treated them. It was true, her mother drove her insane, planning her social schedule right down to the very last minute, picking out her clothes, wanting Elizabeth always at her side. There were countless moments when she wanted to scream, “Leave me alone! Everything we do is so excruciatingly tiresome, I can’t stand it! The parties, the dinners, the concerts, the dances, boring, boring, boring! Why can’t you go places, do things, with your friends and let me live my own life?”
But she never said those things. She couldn’t. Because perhaps then her mother would ask Joseph, their chauffeur, to drive her somewhere, and they might have an accident and her mother might be killed. Then those horrid words would be the last that Elizabeth and her mother ever exchanged.
She could not bear that thought.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said quietly, “of course we’ll stay for dessert. Chocolate mousse is my favorite. And the Winslows’ cook is the best in the city.”
She was completely unaware that her tone of voice was mechanical, totally devoid of any emotion. Or that she was parroting almost verbatim her mother’s earlier words.
She was, however, aware that she was still very, very cold.