Chapter 26

As before, Vittorio walked Kitty to the corner, she fearing that if her father saw them it would ignite his fiery Irish temper.

He handed her the books. “I want to ask your papa for your hand in marriage.”

“Let me prepare Papa first. I must make him see that he is wrong. No one can make me happy but you.”

He knit his brows. “Maybe he thinks my English is not so good.”

“Your English is fine.”

“Or that I can’t read.”

“Please don’t torment yourself any more. It’s easier for my father to wallow in his memories. From the time Dermot and I were young, he has ignored the fact that we hurt as much as he. He has fancied himself alone, and day by day, he is accomplishing it, making Dermot fearful and me angry, pushing us away with every self-absorbed memory.”

“I’ll go with you when you speak to him.”

“No, dear one, I will speak to him alone. No matter what he says, he cannot stop me from marrying you.” Kitty reached on tiptoe and kissed him, a promise.

Vittorio watched her walk up the steps of her tenement. She is determined, but is that enough? If he forbids our marriage, can she turn her back on her father and brother? He uttered his concern to himself. “I hope you are right. I hope and pray you are right.”

Kitty waited until a brisk Monday afternoon, when Dermot was playing catch with a neighbor and she and her father could take a leisurely walk. The bustle of the city streets might cheer him, she thought, and make him more amenable to her announcement. At worst, she reasoned, his reluctance to make a fool of himself on the street would keep him from raising his voice.

They passed newsboys on street corners, stacks of papers on upended milk cartons beside them, a rock to keep the papers from blowing away in the autumn wind. To a boy, they shouted dire headlines about the war, and Liam ventured his opinion that if the Allies did not win it quickly, the war would reach out and grab America in its bloody clutches.

“If a man is lucky enough not to be killed,” Kitty said, “war must haunt his spirit for the rest of his life.”

“Killing and maiming are part of it,” Liam said, his limp a permanent reminder of his own war against British injustice. “But if you know you’re right, it can’t kill your spirit.” He chuckled, remembering his success in outwitting the Redcoats and winning his freedom in America years ago. His unusually good humor encouraged Kitty.

“Vittorio! You want to talk about Vittorio!” The mention of his name shattered Liam’s mood. He looked nettled, as though Vittorio were an annoyance that would not go away. “We will not discuss him; I thought I made that clear.”

“You made that very clear, Papa, but you have not given me a chance to tell you how good and kind he is. I want to tell you why I love him.”

“We have been through this nonsense before. You haven’t listened to me.”

“No, you haven’t listened to me. Vittorio is a good son. He loves his mother. When he was fourteen, he told her to quit work, and he has taken care of her from then on. He will be a good husband to me.”

“You hardly know the fellow,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.

“No, I have been with him many times for walks, to his house to have dinner with his family—”

Liam interrupted with a snort. “And when…” He almost shouted, so that passersby turned to stare, and Liam was forced to lower his voice, but he spat out the words. “And when did you do such a thing—behind my back?”

“I pretended to go study because I knew you would not permit me to see him.”

“Behind my back!”

The look on her father’s face, white with fury, made Kitty’s stomach shake.

He pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. “You are never—Do you hear me?—never to see him again!”

Kitty’s jaw was set. “I can’t promise that, Papa.”

Liam stopped and faced her, his brows knit in an angry line. “Think it over carefully. If you disobey me, you will no longer be my daughter.”

Kitty drew in her breath. “Papa!” She wanted to plead with him, to shout at him, to weep for sadness and anger, but she could not. If she could hate him for making her choose, it would have made it easier, but she loved him still.

Liam turned and walked away, leaving Kitty to stare after him.

****

Ottavia had just cleared the dinner dishes from the table and was setting out the cups and saucers for Vittorio and herself when a pounding on the door made her jump.

“Sancta Maria! Who could that be?” Vittorio ran to open it.

Kitty stood in the doorway, looking small and pale. It was a school night, and she pressed her books to her chest. Her chin jutted in defiance, but he could see a tearstain that she had not wiped from her face.

“Cara Katerina,” he said. “My dear Kitty.” He opened his arms to her, and she fell into them, weeping. All her resolve, the brave front she had put on for days, dissolved in his arms. She tried to speak, each word isolated by a sob.

“It’s all right. Don’t try to speak. It’s all right,” he repeated, holding her until her tears subsided.

Ottavia stood in the background, her heart breaking. What is love when lovers are apart? she wondered. A shadowy figure in the heart, there to torment, only to slide into the darkness when you reach out to hold it. It was too late for her, but she did not want to see the same fate destroy her son.

Ottavia pulled out a chair for Kitty. “Sit here, cara filia, and tell us what is wrong.”

“It’ s my papa,” she said. “He is set against our marriage. He won’t listen to anything I say.”

“Such a foolish man to try to interfere with your happiness,” Ottavia said.

Kitty sat there, shaking her head, but offered nothing more.

Vittorio, who was holding her hand, felt it tremble.

“He said…he said that if I marry you, I am no longer his daughter.”

“No! He does not know what he says!” Ottavia cried.

Vittorio’s face turned ashen. Her father had forced her to choose between love and family. They needed her, he knew…almost as much as he did.

“No matter what my father says or does, I want to marry you.”

He held his breath. “You want to marry me, but what?”

“Nothing more,” Kitty said, looking into his eyes, and gaining strength from being here with him. “I want to marry you.”

As he hugged her to him, she said, “I just don’t know how.”

Vittorio looked crestfallen, and Ottavia could bear it no more. “You will elope! Vittorio will come and get you.” Her mind raced, thinking of a plan. “You will stay here overnight with me. I will arrange it with Father Copo at Sancta Maria della Croce. He is a friend; he will understand. The next day you will go to him and be married.” Ottavia smiled triumphantly.

The lovers looked at each other for approval. Vittorio was happy with it, but he knew it was ultimately up to Kitty. She had to speak first.

“You can come for me at school.”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“I can leave a note on my pillow for my father.”

“A good idea.”

“And one for Dermot,” she said softly. As her eyes filled, Vittorio’s heart sank.

She wiped her eyes with her hand and took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said, smiling.

Vittorio kissed her, and Ottavia, unable to contain the happiness she felt, hugged them both at once, laughing and crying.

The day of their elopement dawned gray and rainy. Kitty rose and prepared breakfast for her father and brother. She put extra cinnamon in the hot oatmeal, something Dermot particularly liked, and made sure his cocoa and her father’s tea were good and hot. She jumped up to retrieve Dermot’s napkin when it dropped to the floor, and she couldn’t resist kissing the top of his head as she stood over him.

“Is your tea hot enough, Papa?” she asked.

He gave her a rare smile. “The way I like it.”

She looked over at Dermot.

“Good oatmeal.” He blew a kiss in her direction.

Are any choices ever all good or all bad? she wondered. Choices were figures in a mist, changing from moment to moment.

Her father drew her from her thoughts. “I’ll be quitting early tonight,” he said. “I’ve decided my bartender can handle the evening. It’s been a long time since we’ve done anything together, and I thought we’d go to the play at the Erin Theater.”

Dermot clapped. “That’s fun, Papa.” He turned to Kitty for affirmation. She was stricken. Her father’s surprise gesture cut her like a knife. Ignoring them as long as he did, why did he pick tonight to act like a father? She was angry that, out of the blue, he offered to take them out, but overriding her anger, growing like a weed that choked everything else, was guilt. She would betray them.

“You’re quiet, Kitty. What do you say?”

“I have class tonight, Papa; you know that.”

“You can’t miss one night?”

“Please,” Dermot begged.

“All right.” She lowered her eyes, and did not look up until her father had left for work. Choices, she thought with a heavy heart. Terrible, implacable choices.

****

Dermot spent the morning outdoors, and Kitty wandered around the house, trying to pack a few belongings. She opened a drawer and stood immobilized, then shut it again. Finally she forced herself to pack her clothes—underwear, a few ribbons for her hair, and her best dress, a pale blue with tiny sprigs of pink flowers and a wide lace collar. It would serve as her wedding dress. The last piece she placed in the case was a brooch that her mother had given her. It was an opal surrounded by delicate gold filigree and had been in her family for generations, the only good piece of jewelry Maeve had owned. She fingered it, admiring the faint veins of pastel in the white stone.

“Am I doing the right thing, Mama?” she asked aloud. She studied the brooch at length, tracing its contours with her finger, as if to find in it an answer to her question, but it was smooth, cool, and silent. Kitty sighed, placed it in her bag, rolling it in her underwear to keep it safe, and snapped her bag closed.

The act had a decisiveness about it, and in a strange way it helped her. She went to the kitchen and reached for the flour. She decided to make an apple pie for Dermot and her father. She hoped they would see in her gesture a farewell act of love.

Dermot came in while she was slicing apples. He prattled on about his walk and the neighbors he’d met, every so often reaching into the bowl to snatch a slice of apple. Kitty pretended not to notice until he had taken each slice, and he laughed at his success in fooling her.

“Put lots of cinnamon,” he directed, and she rolled a few more slices in sugar and cinnamon and handed them to him.

“You make the best pie,” he said. Impetuously, she wiped her hands on her apron and hugged him. “You are so dear,” she whispered.

She rolled the crust and placed it over the apples, and then, with his thumb, Dermot painstakingly pressed the edge to flute it, concentrating on the task until it was done. He smiled while Kitty praised his work lavishly. What a shame, she thought, that there is no work for him somewhere. He takes such pride in doing the smallest task well.

Dermot puttered around the house while the pie was baking, and Kitty lingered over setting the table. Finally, she sat down with pen and ink.

Dear Papa and Dermot,

Writing this letter is the hardest thing I have ever done. I want you to know that I love you both very much. I also want you to know how much I love Vittorio. As you already know, Papa, he has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted.

She bit the end of the pen, looking for the courage to continue.

When you get this letter, I will have left with him and we will be married. Please don’t try to stop us, for I have made up my mind. As difficult as this is for me, I know he is the man who will make me happy, the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.

Papa, I do not mean to cross you, but you leave me no choice. I hope you will understand and forgive me. Dermot, be good for Papa. I will miss you both very much. I look forward to coming home to visit you both.

I love you. Kitty.

Kitty could not bear to read over the letter. As she slipped it into an envelope and wrote her father’s name across it, tears blurred her vision. She wiped them away. It was done.

Kitty left the warm pie on top of the stove and grabbed her bag and her books. She had to go to the bank to withdraw what little money she had in her savings account, and then she would meet Vittorio in front of school.

She took Dermot to a neighbor’s house. The woman had no children and looked upon him almost as a child of her own. She was attentive to his talk and loving to him, and the visits, a change in his simple life, were something he looked forward to.

As she left her brother off, he impulsively hugged her.

“Goodbye, Dermot,” Kitty whispered. She hurried into the street, needing all her resolve to leave him.

Although it was mid-afternoon, heavy clouds made it dark as evening. Thunder rolled in the distance. Traffic clogged the streets, and people rushed to their destinations before being soaked by a deluge.

Kitty hurried several blocks to the business section, her mind preoccupied with her decision. With a twinge, she wondered what Dermot was doing right now. Her mind swung back to Vittorio, and her heart raced when she realized that by tomorrow at this time she would be his wife.

As she was just a block away from the Irish Emigrant Savings Bank, it began to pour. She lowered her head as the rain pelted her face. She ran into the bank, eager to withdraw what little money she had and walk to school to meet Vittorio.

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.”