The Pink Suit: A Novel by Nicole Kelby Page B

could hear one aria or another. So many singers from the Met lived in the neighborhood, and they kept such odd hours, that there always seemed to be opera in the alleyways. Even at that moment, on a Friday night, Kate could hear the howling heart of opera, with all that wailing about love lost and found. She’d been in love before with a couple of boys back home, but it was not like that. Opera made love seem histrionic and best avoided at all costs.
    â€œYou people need to calm down. All of you,” she said to no one in particular. New York would be a wonderful place if only it could keep quiet, just for a moment. No wonder we drink so much, Kate thought.
    The rain had stopped hours ago. Kate stood outside the train station. She didn’t like to walk aimlessly, especially at night. Through the park? Or up Step Street? Kate wasn’t sure which way to go. The steps were quicker, closer, but went nearly straight up. There were 120 steps, and her shins were aching. She’d delivered Mrs. B’s gown herself—the Ladies hated to pay for night deliveries. Kate thought about the Capitol Restaurant, just across the street; the Greeks were good about keeping open all night, and they had a respectable fish dinner with two veg and rolls and butter, but it seemed like too much food. Still, she walked across and looked inside the window. She could see there was no room at the counter or at the small booths, either. Everybody in Inwood was hungry. Even at that hour.
    Bickford’s, maybe. That was close, too. You could get a simple scrambled egg with an English muffin and real strawberry jam. It was not as good as Peg Harris’s jam, but it was passable. They served breakfast all night long, and so until the pubs closed, it was a decent place. After closing time, the hooligan crowd took over.
    Kate walked past the Good Shepherd and blessed herself—a quick sign of the cross—and then stood on the steps and looked up and down Broadway. Dyckman Street, this side of Broadway, seemed to be the answer. There were plenty of choices there, although Kate knew that F. W. Woolworth’s and the soda shop next to the Dyckman Theater would be closed. Nash’s Hungarian Pastries, the German pork store, and even the broasted chickens that spun on the rotisserie at the delicatessen were probably gone for the night, too.
    Still, Dyckman it was. Kate wanted to walk a bit to shake off the day. A few blocks more one way or another wouldn’t make that much difference on a cool autumn night. But a few blocks later, and a few blocks more, she knew that Dyckman was as bad as Broadway at that hour. The only things open seemed to be the pubs, and none she knew of served food.
    Kate noticed that there was still a light on at Patrick Harris’s shop. She crossed the street and knocked at the door. His butcher shop was next to the Knights of Columbus supply store and across the street from the telephone company, a good location. He stayed open late, usually until nine p.m., so the telephone operators could pick up a fresh chop or two, then hop the train home. Through the large front window, Kate could see that Patrick was cleaning up. He was so focused that he didn’t hear her. She knocked again. He looked up, surprised. Patrick was still in his whites, stained from a day of good sales. His white wool fedora was tilted at a rakish angle. He wiped his hands on a clean towel and opened the door.
    â€œCake’s all gone,” he said.
    Peg’s cake. Kate had nearly forgotten. “Was it good?”
    â€œSolid effort. I used the last of Peg’s raspberry jam in the center, which was brilliant, but the buttercream melted. I suspect the problem was the butter. I really like butter, but you can’t use extra butter, can you? Then I put in too much milk because I put in too much butter. Father John didn’t mind, though. Man will eat anything.”
    â€œAnd the crumb?”
    â€œWasn’t