chuckled again. “Well, kiddo, looks to me like you’re on your way. Maybe we ought to spring for another frock. Can’t keep wearing that same one if you’re going to be as busy as I think you are. And with a hundred-dollar fee, I guess we can come up with a bit of a wardrobe for you. Nothing fancy, though,” she warned before Katie could say anything. “Remember, you’re a simple Irish girl. That’s what they’re buying, so that’s what we’re selling. No ruffles or geegaws, just plain frocks, that’s the ticket.”
Katie still hadn’t responded.
Flo glanced over at her. “You okay? I’d think you’d be floating six feet off the ground, the way those people carried on over you. How come you’ve gone all quiet on me? You just weary?”
Katie was grateful for the ready excuse Flo had given her. She nodded. “Seems like. I was too nervy to sleep much last night.” Anything was better than telling Flo how sad she was that she would never live on beautiful Long Island, and how disappointed she was that Paddy hadn’t come to share in her triumph. Flo would think the first thought was crazy because only rich people lived on Long Island. She would think the second thought was stupid because she didn’t hold with ladies letting men sour their lives. “Pauly never gets in my way,” she had told Katie on the drive out. “I do as I please. If he doesn’t like it, he can go fly a kite in Central Park.”
Laying her head back on the seat, Katie closed her eyes, thinking, I should have invited John to come along tonight. Why didn’t I, then? I meant to.
Because, she answered herself silently, it wasn’t John I wanted there. It was Paddy.
Chapter 6
T HE B ROOKLYN NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE Katie’s aunt and uncle lived was not a wealthy one. It was very different from the pictures of America she’d seen in books. The tall, narrow, frame buildings, many of them roominghouses, seemed worn and tired to her, as if they were too tired to stand up straight. Postage-stamp backyards were nearly taken up completely by wet garments flapping like flags on clotheslines strung between two metal poles. The children played, for the most part, in the street. Their voices rang out throughout the hot, sticky summer days, then slacked off when school began in the fall. On summer evenings, with windows open to let in whatever scant breeze might be about, adult voices raised in harsh argument often drowned out the sounds of children playing stickball or hide-and-go-seek or kick-the-can. The smells of laundry soap and cooking hung heavy in the air, sometimes giving Katie a headache. Heavy feet hammered up and down wooden staircases, the iceman’s shrill, demanding voice rang out, bells on wagons passing in the street below echoed throughout the day. Brooklyn, New York, America, was not a quiet, restful place. Not to Katie. And there was no cooling breeze from nearby trees, because there were virtually no trees on their avenue, nor was there a clear, sparkling stream in which to go wading.
To ease her homesickness, Katie made friends in the neighborhood. One of her favorites was Mary Donohue, only three years older than Katie and fresh from Ireland with her young husband Tom and their four-year-old daughter, Bridget. They lived in Agnes Murphy’s roominghouse, across the street. Mary was prone to spells of depression, during which she would lie on the davenport in the tiny, darkened living room, a wet cloth on her forehead, leaving Bridget’s care to neighbors. But when she wasn’t in the throes of melancholia, she was great fun, full of life and laughter, and teasing Katie about Paddy. “Aye, a handsome lad he is,” she exclaimed when she first saw him, “but are you sure he’s not goin’ to break your heart, then?”
Since that was the one thing Katie was not sure of, she snapped, “Sure and a fellow can only break your heart if you let him, which I ain’t about to do!”
Mary just laughed.
Katie and Bridget were
Katie still hadn’t responded.
Flo glanced over at her. “You okay? I’d think you’d be floating six feet off the ground, the way those people carried on over you. How come you’ve gone all quiet on me? You just weary?”
Katie was grateful for the ready excuse Flo had given her. She nodded. “Seems like. I was too nervy to sleep much last night.” Anything was better than telling Flo how sad she was that she would never live on beautiful Long Island, and how disappointed she was that Paddy hadn’t come to share in her triumph. Flo would think the first thought was crazy because only rich people lived on Long Island. She would think the second thought was stupid because she didn’t hold with ladies letting men sour their lives. “Pauly never gets in my way,” she had told Katie on the drive out. “I do as I please. If he doesn’t like it, he can go fly a kite in Central Park.”
Laying her head back on the seat, Katie closed her eyes, thinking, I should have invited John to come along tonight. Why didn’t I, then? I meant to.
Because, she answered herself silently, it wasn’t John I wanted there. It was Paddy.
Chapter 6
T HE B ROOKLYN NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE Katie’s aunt and uncle lived was not a wealthy one. It was very different from the pictures of America she’d seen in books. The tall, narrow, frame buildings, many of them roominghouses, seemed worn and tired to her, as if they were too tired to stand up straight. Postage-stamp backyards were nearly taken up completely by wet garments flapping like flags on clotheslines strung between two metal poles. The children played, for the most part, in the street. Their voices rang out throughout the hot, sticky summer days, then slacked off when school began in the fall. On summer evenings, with windows open to let in whatever scant breeze might be about, adult voices raised in harsh argument often drowned out the sounds of children playing stickball or hide-and-go-seek or kick-the-can. The smells of laundry soap and cooking hung heavy in the air, sometimes giving Katie a headache. Heavy feet hammered up and down wooden staircases, the iceman’s shrill, demanding voice rang out, bells on wagons passing in the street below echoed throughout the day. Brooklyn, New York, America, was not a quiet, restful place. Not to Katie. And there was no cooling breeze from nearby trees, because there were virtually no trees on their avenue, nor was there a clear, sparkling stream in which to go wading.
To ease her homesickness, Katie made friends in the neighborhood. One of her favorites was Mary Donohue, only three years older than Katie and fresh from Ireland with her young husband Tom and their four-year-old daughter, Bridget. They lived in Agnes Murphy’s roominghouse, across the street. Mary was prone to spells of depression, during which she would lie on the davenport in the tiny, darkened living room, a wet cloth on her forehead, leaving Bridget’s care to neighbors. But when she wasn’t in the throes of melancholia, she was great fun, full of life and laughter, and teasing Katie about Paddy. “Aye, a handsome lad he is,” she exclaimed when she first saw him, “but are you sure he’s not goin’ to break your heart, then?”
Since that was the one thing Katie was not sure of, she snapped, “Sure and a fellow can only break your heart if you let him, which I ain’t about to do!”
Mary just laughed.
Katie and Bridget were
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