his shoulder. Mrs. Koznecki had a card in her hand, and I knew,
from my countless visits to this house, that she had to be holding
a prayer card for one of her favorite saints.
She could be praying to St. Philomena, the patron of children, or maybe in her desperation, Mrs. Koznecki was calling
upon St. Jude, the patron of hopeless causes. But I imagined
that today Mae’s mother was entreating the queen of all the
saints, the Blessed Virgin Mary.
I slowed as my forgotten fatigue washed over me again. What
would I say to Mae’s parents? What could I say? I didn’t know
anything that might bring them some relief and comfort. I was
thinking about running back home, when Mr. Koznecki called
out to me.
“Delia! We’re so happy to see you! We heard you were alive!”
Though his voice sounded strained, he still managed to look
distinguished, with the ends of his handlebar moustache waxed
to gentlemanly perfection.
“Western Electric called to tell us Karel had reported in.”
Mrs. Koznecki lifted her head and stared at me with wet,
puffy eyes. She had thick, auburn hair a few shades darker than
Karel’s cinnamony blond, which she maintained with weekly
visits to the beauty salon. Mrs. Koznecki always looked coiffed
and styled, but not today. Most likely she’d been awakened by
news of the disaster and had dressed in a hurry. She had tried to
pull her hair back in some semblance of a braid, but long, stray
strands had escaped and dangled around her wan face.
I’d never once seen her mussed or unkempt. It pained me to
see her so now.
“I thought you and Mae and Karel all went together this
morning. Then you must know—” She stopped, her bottom lip
quivering with the question she seemed too afraid to ask.
“We left at different times. But we caught up with each other
on the boat.” I trudged up the steps, feeling thicker and heavier
than ever in my life. They slid over, and I sank onto the swing.
Mrs. Koznecki clutched my hand in hers. I glanced down at her
other hand.
She held not one, but three tattered prayer cards.
I swallowed hard. “You’ve already heard about the Eastland ?
How it capsized at the dock?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Koznecki. “We know all that. What about
Mae? Is she alive?”
“Why didn’t Karel leave word of Mae?” Mrs. Koznecki’s eyes
were hazy and unfocused. “We left him to watch over her. What
happened? Where is she?”
As if remembering my presence, Mrs. Koznecki squeezed my
hand so hard my knuckles cracked. Yet the pain didn’t bother
me. On the contrary, the discomfort let me know I could still feel
something in this otherwise numb body.
“Mae stayed below deck, dancing. I went above and found
Karel on the topmost deck. We escaped by climbing over the
railing onto the hull. Your son saved my life. You should have
seen him. So brave, so quick-thinking.” So handsome .
“But what about Mae?” Mr. Koznecki persisted.
“I don’t know what happened to Mae.”
Mrs. Koznecki shrieked and then swooned back. The prayer
cards slipped through her fingers, hitting the wooden boards
with a soft whoosh.
“My pet, my dearest!” Mr. Koznecki cradled his wife in his
arms. “She’ll be fine. Our Mae’s a scrapper.”
“If anyone could survive,” I said. “It’s Mae. Please don’t
worry. Karel will find her. He promised he wouldn’t come home
without her.”
But no words could console Mrs. Koznecki. She wept uncontrollably now, having cracked under the strain of not knowing.
The women who had been waiting about the porch rushed
to her side, offering support and smelling salts and tears of
their own. Mr. Koznecki got up, motioning for me to follow him
around the side of the wraparound porch.
“You can tell me the truth, Delia.” He’d waited until we were
out of earshot of his wife. “Mae is dead. I know it. I feel it in my
soul.” He pounded his chest with such force I feared he might
crack a rib.
“Please, no! I’ve told you the
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