Remembering the Titanic by Diane Hoh

pretty shoes dyed to match their dresses. She tried to imitate their posture and movements when she relaxed between songs, leaving the round white stage that had been constructed in the middle of the lawn to take a seat at one of the tables with Flo.
    “You’re doin’ super, honey,” Flo said, patting Katie’s hand. “They’re crazy about you. Didn’t I tell you? And there are some big shots here, too, who might be throwing parties or dances, might be asking you to sing at some of them. I bet they’d be willing to pay a pretty penny, too, although,” she said, lowering her voice, “sometimes it’s the richest ones that’s the tightest with their dough, know what I mean?”
    Katie didn’t. A waiter in a white jacket brought her, unbidden, a white china dish heaped high with creamy white ice cream. She started to thank him, but Flo’s warning glance stopped her. He’s just doing his job, her blue eyes signaled, no need to thank him.
    The ice cream was vanilla, Katie’s favorite.” I guess,” she said slowly as she ate, “you’d have to be very rich to live out here, wouldn’t you?” She was thinking, if Paddy ever wrote his book about the Titanic and it sold a lot of copies and made lots of money, maybe….
    “You bet.” Flo, her bulk encased in a bright yellow gown, glanced around at the other tables. “Some here might be bankers. But mostly, I think they’re just folks who’ve always had money. Never even did anything to earn it, I’d guess. Just got it from the day they was born, because their folks had it. The cream of New York, that’s who you’re singing for tonight, Katie.”
    “Might there be any writers living on Long Island, do you think?”
    Flo laughed. “Writers? Not likely. Have to sell one heck of a lot of books to buy a house out here. I told you, Katie, these people don’t work . They don’t have to.”
    Disappointed, Katie sat lost in thought until time for her next song. Garden City was closer to how she had imagined America. No one had told her that Brooklyn would have so little green to it, so few trees, so many buildings so close together, so many people living in those buildings.
    When Katie sang, “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” at the end of the evening, the tears in her eyes were very real. And although many eyes in the crowd listening to her were wet as well, those tears came from sentiment, not yearning, as hers did.
    She was about to leave when a distinguished-looking gentleman in a tuxedo came up to her to shake her hand, compliment her on her voice, and ask if she would be available to sing at his wife’s birthday party in Manhattan, two weeks hence on Saturday night. The address he gave was Riverside Drive, which meant nothing to Katie. She referred him to Flo, standing nearby, and the arrangements were made.
    They were barely settled in the car when Flo chuckled to herself and announced, “I told him your fee was a hundred dollars!”
    Katie gasped. “You didn’t!”
    “I sure did. He never blinked an eye. Just nodded as if he was saying, Of course it is, and said we should be there by eight that Saturday night. Riverside Drive, a fine neighborhood. You’re doing all right for yourself, Kathleen, my girl. Didn’t I say so?” As she drove away from the estate, Flo confided, “With his type, you’ve gotta jack up the price a little, make them think they’re getting more. They’re used to walking into Tiffany’s and laying down a couple thousand every month or so, you know? They like spending money. Makes them feel powerful, I’d guess.”
    Katie couldn’t imagine spending “a couple thousand” dollars even once a year, let alone once a month. Not likely that she’d ever have that kind of money. And if she did, she wouldn’t spend it at Tiffany’s. She’d save it until she had enough to buy a house on Long Island, not even such a big, fancy one like the one tonight. Maybe there were smaller, plainer houses out there somewhere.
    Flo