real story. I don’t know what
happened to Mae. God knows, I wish I did.” I burst into tears,
choking out my words. “Hundreds. Upon hundreds. Survived. I
couldn’t check … them all. We can’t lose … hope.”
“Then why isn’t she here? You made it home some time ago.
If Mae survived, then why hasn’t someone telephoned with
news? Why hasn’t Karel called?”
I had posed those same questions to myself all day. Where was Mae? If she were alive, then why hadn’t she been shoved
into a passing car? Or taken a streetcar home?
Mr. Koznecki was right. Mae should have been here by now.
I wiped the streaks of tears from my face and tried to look
optimistic.
“I’m sure Mae’s fine. She probably stayed to search for us like
Karel remained to look for her.”
Mr. Koznecki rolled one end of his handlebar moustache
between his fingers as he thought.
“That could explain their tardiness.”
“Right! And let’s say they found each other by now, but the
lines for the telephones were too long. They were, you know.
Blocks long. Karel and Mae knew they could get home before
they got a turn to call. Or Mae could have been hurt.”
Mr. Koznecki gasped.
“Sorry, sir! I only meant that many passengers were pulled
from the river unconscious. But some were revived,” I added
quickly, “and taken to local hospitals.”
“Yes, yes. Mae could be laid up right now.”
“Any minute, a nurse or Mae herself will get a message to
us.”
“Yes, any minute now.” Mr. Koznecki rolled the end of his
moustache and drifted back around to the front of the house.
I paced along the far side of the porch, turning over all the
hopeful possibilities in my mind until weariness overtook me. I
sank to the boards and leaned back against the house, pressing
my hand to the watch that rested over my heart. Mae held a
piece of that heart, now and always. I closed my eyes, needing to
rest for a moment.
“Delia.” The voice was hesitant and soft.
“Huh? What?” My eyes popped open. I wiped spittle from
the corner of my mouth and looked up.
Mae’s twelve-year-old cousin, Gracie, came around the corner, carrying a tray. She was petite for her age. She looked more
like nine or ten than twelve, and because of her size, Mae had
always babied her. But Gracie was not one to be coddled. She
seemed sensible and mature. I’d always liked her for that.
“Some supper?” Gracie held out the tray to me.
I glanced toward the street. The rain had worsened. The sky
had turned a furious shade of black. I checked my watch. It was
four o’clock.
I staggered to my feet. “What about Mae? Any news?”
Gracie shook her head, her waist-length ringlets swaying and
bouncing.
“Have they heard from Karel?”
“Not yet.” Gracie waved the tray under my nose. “Stew and
biscuits?”
“No thanks. I’m really not—” My stomach interrupted with
a rumble.
“Sounds like you’re hungry to me.” Gracie had just handed
me the tray, when someone let out a frightful squeal. “Oh, no!
Another one!” She ran to the railing. I scampered after her.
Officer Kennelly, one of our local beat cops, approached
the house two doors east. A woman stood on the porch of that
house, shaking her head and wailing.
“No! No! Not my Joey!”
Kennelly climbed the steps, put his arm around the woman,
and escorted her into the house.
“Been going on like that all day,” Gracie said. “You should eat.”
She motioned toward the tray I’d forgotten was in my hands.
I managed a few bites of stew and half of one biscuit. The
food seemed to revive my ebbing spirits and with them, my
hopes. I finished the other half biscuit. I was sopping up the
last of the stew with my second biscuit, when I heard a strange
plinking sound. I set my tray aside and rushed back to the railing in time to see one of the Drojewska boys—the undertaker’s
youngest—roaring down the street on his bicycle.
“Mrs. Mankowiecz! Mrs. Mankowiecz!” The Drojewska boy
rang his
happened to Mae. God knows, I wish I did.” I burst into tears,
choking out my words. “Hundreds. Upon hundreds. Survived. I
couldn’t check … them all. We can’t lose … hope.”
“Then why isn’t she here? You made it home some time ago.
If Mae survived, then why hasn’t someone telephoned with
news? Why hasn’t Karel called?”
I had posed those same questions to myself all day. Where was Mae? If she were alive, then why hadn’t she been shoved
into a passing car? Or taken a streetcar home?
Mr. Koznecki was right. Mae should have been here by now.
I wiped the streaks of tears from my face and tried to look
optimistic.
“I’m sure Mae’s fine. She probably stayed to search for us like
Karel remained to look for her.”
Mr. Koznecki rolled one end of his handlebar moustache
between his fingers as he thought.
“That could explain their tardiness.”
“Right! And let’s say they found each other by now, but the
lines for the telephones were too long. They were, you know.
Blocks long. Karel and Mae knew they could get home before
they got a turn to call. Or Mae could have been hurt.”
Mr. Koznecki gasped.
“Sorry, sir! I only meant that many passengers were pulled
from the river unconscious. But some were revived,” I added
quickly, “and taken to local hospitals.”
“Yes, yes. Mae could be laid up right now.”
“Any minute, a nurse or Mae herself will get a message to
us.”
“Yes, any minute now.” Mr. Koznecki rolled the end of his
moustache and drifted back around to the front of the house.
I paced along the far side of the porch, turning over all the
hopeful possibilities in my mind until weariness overtook me. I
sank to the boards and leaned back against the house, pressing
my hand to the watch that rested over my heart. Mae held a
piece of that heart, now and always. I closed my eyes, needing to
rest for a moment.
“Delia.” The voice was hesitant and soft.
“Huh? What?” My eyes popped open. I wiped spittle from
the corner of my mouth and looked up.
Mae’s twelve-year-old cousin, Gracie, came around the corner, carrying a tray. She was petite for her age. She looked more
like nine or ten than twelve, and because of her size, Mae had
always babied her. But Gracie was not one to be coddled. She
seemed sensible and mature. I’d always liked her for that.
“Some supper?” Gracie held out the tray to me.
I glanced toward the street. The rain had worsened. The sky
had turned a furious shade of black. I checked my watch. It was
four o’clock.
I staggered to my feet. “What about Mae? Any news?”
Gracie shook her head, her waist-length ringlets swaying and
bouncing.
“Have they heard from Karel?”
“Not yet.” Gracie waved the tray under my nose. “Stew and
biscuits?”
“No thanks. I’m really not—” My stomach interrupted with
a rumble.
“Sounds like you’re hungry to me.” Gracie had just handed
me the tray, when someone let out a frightful squeal. “Oh, no!
Another one!” She ran to the railing. I scampered after her.
Officer Kennelly, one of our local beat cops, approached
the house two doors east. A woman stood on the porch of that
house, shaking her head and wailing.
“No! No! Not my Joey!”
Kennelly climbed the steps, put his arm around the woman,
and escorted her into the house.
“Been going on like that all day,” Gracie said. “You should eat.”
She motioned toward the tray I’d forgotten was in my hands.
I managed a few bites of stew and half of one biscuit. The
food seemed to revive my ebbing spirits and with them, my
hopes. I finished the other half biscuit. I was sopping up the
last of the stew with my second biscuit, when I heard a strange
plinking sound. I set my tray aside and rushed back to the railing in time to see one of the Drojewska boys—the undertaker’s
youngest—roaring down the street on his bicycle.
“Mrs. Mankowiecz! Mrs. Mankowiecz!” The Drojewska boy
rang his
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