Ellis Island (21 page)
Authors: Kate Kerrigan
“Well, gentlemen, what do you think of my new girl?” Charles said.
He had obviously spotted me before he sat down and it had not knocked a feather off him. I was dumbfounded. I had not seen or heard anything from him since Isobel’s ridiculous attempt at matchmaking. In all honesty, I had not thought about or considered Charles at all, but now that he was sitting here in front of me, I was speechless.
“Well, she’s a cracker, Charlie—although I like this one too.” His handsome, dark-haired friend nudged Emilie, who exploded in giggling delight. “How’s your spaghetti, Charlie?”
“I’ve lost my appetite sitting next to this beautiful young lady. Anyway, Fat Pat has eaten everything,” said Charles, pointing his chin at the large man sitting on the outside corner of the banquette, his mouth full of spaghetti and bread.
“How come you guys always get the girls? And me, Fat Pat, always gets left out in the cold?”
“We’ll ask the ladies, shall we?”
I didn’t like the way they were carrying on, teasing us, and the rude way they had sat down, making us part of their game. Also, I was angry that Charles had not bothered to acknowledge me properly—he was so caught up in his male bravado and seemed neither surprised nor especially pleased to see me. I felt like asking him what he was doing there, except that it was obvious—he’d been drinking, illegally, with his docker friends, playing at being “one of the boys.” I wondered if they knew he was the boss’s son. “So, Mr.
Irvington
,” I said, “what brings a wealthy man like you into such humble company?”
Emilie’s ears pricked up. Charles laughed heartily.
“Yeah, when you gonna fix our pay raise, Charlie?” Fat Pat mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
“He’s useless,” the dark-haired, handsome one told me. “Won’t even pay his way in the barroom.”
“Nothing humble about these guys, I’m afraid,” said Charles. “And you never struck me as especially humble, either. If you don’t mind me saying so, Ellie, humility never was your strong point.”
I did mind him saying so, and told him as much, but not with too much conviction because he was right, and also because I was excited by the assumed intimacy that fizzed through our bantering.
“Do you know each other?” Emilie asked.
“Everyone knows Mr. Charles Irvington. One of the most renowned men-about-town in all of New York City—isn’t that right, Pat?” I smiled at the fat one.
“Indubitably,” he struggled to say, accidentally spraying a mouthful of bread onto the table. Everyone started laughing, and I pretended to be horrified at this uncouth display, forcing Pat into a blushing, apologetic wreck and making them all laugh even harder. I felt a pang of clever pride at my ability to amuse Charles, but when he turned to say something to me, his hilarity seemed to dissipate and his face melted into a soft warmth.
We stayed there into the early hours of the next morning. The police wouldn’t come back to the same place twice in the same night—they were run off their feet checking every kitchen in the neighborhood. So Mama and Antonio pulled down the blinds, turned off the electric lights, hung a
Closed
sign at the door, and we stayed there in the restaurant until the early hours of the next morning. We drank syrupy amber wine by the light of candles stuck into wine bottles and the more we drank, the more we laughed. Emilie sang a Polish folk song, her small voice straining toward the high notes and her slanted eyes screwed shut as she got lost in the spirit of a country she had never visited, but loved as she loved her parents. I sang “Boulavogue,” and Fat Pat joined in. After that everyone got quite drunk and, although I was scarcely aware of it, Charles brought Emilie and me home in a hire car.
The following morning I woke with a sore head. I had never drunk like that before. My mouth felt dry, there was a pounding behind my eyes, but worse still was that I could hardly remember going to bed, and I feared that I might have said or done something regrettable.
As we were getting ready for work, Emilie asked me how I knew Charles Irvington. I felt embarrassed and answered evasively, saying I knew him through my old job. She didn’t push for any more information. People made friends and then moved on all the time in New York. Sheila had been a part of my life and now she wasn’t. I would, despite the closeness she perceived between us, probably never see Isobel again. Girls at work lost old beaux and met new ones in a matter of months; became best friends with you, then got married and moved to the suburbs and lost touch completely. You could scarcely keep up with all the comings and goings of the people around you and, even as I was replying to her, I could already see that Emilie had no real interest in my business. I got a sudden revelation that my life was my own entirely. I could do exactly as I pleased and, in all likelihood, nobody would care less or be any the wiser.
Not indeed that I had been planning to do anything in particular—but nonetheless, I realized how much I had been enjoying the anonymity that New York afforded me. While I had been living my life free from the microscopic study of curious neighbors since I left Ireland, I only become aware of my freedom in that moment.
Emilie and I started to hang around with Charles and his friends and we became something of a gang. Emilie began dating all and yet none of the men, seemingly undecided about who she liked best—even though I suspected they were all goodhumoredly more amused by than attracted to her. On our nights out, she moved between each of them with a skilled, almost choreographed flirtatiousness—pouting and throwing suggestive sideways glances at each of them in turn, lifting her chin with peals of pretty laughter at their utterances, stroking their hands, coquettishly resting her head on their shoulders in the booths of restaurants, and sitting on their knees in the seat-starved, smoke-filled speakeasies where we went to drink and dance off our dinners. She became more a romantic mascot to the group than a girlfriend to any individual—and served more as a visual deterrent to keep other girls from joining our circle.
I spent those evenings largely in the company of Charles. We watched the others flirt and banter with Emilie, as if they did so for our entertainment. We were apart from them in our closeness. We seemed to have an understanding of each other that ran beyond the short time we had known each other. We found the same things amusing, and while I admired his easy charm, the down-to-earth way he neither denied nor flaunted his great wealth and privilege, I was never in awe of him. Perhaps this was because I felt that his admiration of me was in equal mea-sure. I cannot pretend that I did not notice or fail to be pleased by the fact that Charles considered me beautiful, and that, if the circumstances were different, he might have fallen in love with me. However, I never allowed myself to believe that passion played a part with Charles and me, choosing instead to define our relationship within the boundaries of intellect, humor and understanding. It seemed to me a solid, mutual friendship that I was confident did not interfere with my being married.
Three months after our friendship had been renewed, Charles invited me to a weekend house party in Westchester.
“It’ll be a ‘hoot’—as we toffs like to say.”
“I don’t know,” I said, remembering how awkward I had felt about the last “weekend” house party that Isobel had set up, where there had just been the two of us.
“Oh, come on, Ellie—I’ve stayed with this crowd before, and they usually put on a pretty good show. It’ll be great—get out of the city for the weekend. Live a little!”
Clearly there were a few of us going, so I agreed.
He told me to bring an overnight bag and to dress “smartly.” I reproached him heartily: “Have you ever seen me any other way?” then briefly remembered that he had, and remembered too how my life had progressed in just three years from ser-vant to typist. From scruffy, penniless emigrant to elegant, independent woman-about-town.
I decided to wear my green day suit for the journey, with a silk blouse in a shade of mustard yellow and a large paste cameo at my throat. A few days before we were due to go, I saw a pair of gloves and a clutch purse that were the exact match of the blouse in a leather shop near the office. While I was purchasing them, a travel trunk caught my eye. “Secondhand—make me an offer,” the sign resting on it said. It was a good-quality piece and I was always attracted to a bargain. I went over and studied it, setting my face to vague curiosity—giving nothing away. In dark green leatherette with shiny brass buckles, it was obviously quite old, but of sound quality. A small gash in its side revealed an open wound of red wood. It was almost certainly too big to use for my weekend away, but it might be useful in the apartment for storing clothes . . .
“Are you interested in the trunk?” the shopkeeper asked. He had a foreign accent: European—Hungarian, perhaps? Polish? A tall, haughty-looking man, his angular face seemed designed to intimidate.
“There’s a nasty tear on the side of it,” I said, straightaway.
“If you are traveling, we have a very wide selection of beautifully crafted suitcases.”
The suitcases were indeed beautiful and made of crocodile skin. But even the smallest was a full two months’ wages—an indulgence I could not afford. “I’m not traveling,” I said. “I merely want this thing for storage. I’ll give you five dollars.”
He smiled at my pitiful offer. I felt he was trying to shame me into upping it, so I stood my ground stubbornly and held his eyes until they narrowed. He glanced down at the counter, where lay the purse and gloves I had not yet paid for. Maybe he was wondering: would he lose this other sale, if he refused my offer? The shop was cramped and the trunk looked old and awkward and out of place. It was taking up valuable presentation space and this was his opportunity to get rid of it.
“I can have it collected from you by the end of the day,” I said brusquely. “It makes no odds to me whether you wish to sell it or not.”
Then, quite suddenly, the sour shopkeeper spread his palms and smiled broadly, his austere appearance instantly transformed into that of an affable old foreign man. “It was my trunk,” he said. “The trunk with which I traveled here from Hungary. I made a pact with my wife that once that trunk was sold, we would never go back.” His eyes misted over, but, while I felt sorry for him, I was late back to the office and did not have time to listen to an old man’s anecdotes.
“Well, in that case, Sir, I am happy to leave it be.”
“No, no,” he said. “You misunderstand. Eva and I have been here for twenty years, we are never going back. She has never wanted . . . We have children here, you understand . . . It’s the foolishness of an old man. I am a foolish old man, you see.”
I tapped the counter impatiently. Was he going to sell me the trunk or not? “I have the money here with me now.”
“If you can collect it today, young lady, you can have the trunk for nothing.”
I was taken aback. “No, I—”
“Yes, yes, I insist!” He was smiling brightly as if a great weight had been lifted from him. “It is old and worth nothing and I wish to be rid of it.”
“Well, thank you,” I said. I paid for my purse and gloves and left, neither pleased nor displeased with my additional purchase—unsure about whether I had just been gifted an heirloom or been burdened with a worthless piece of junk.
Charles collected me from the apartment in a silver Rolls-Royce. I did not ask whether it was bought or borrowed for the weekend. Charles’s great wealth did not affect my friendship with him, and I observed that in all his friendships. Although I was aware of it, of course, Charles Irvington was a charming and affable man and money was neither a reason to like him or a particular bonus to knowing him. He was good-humored about us sometimes teasing him about being “the big shot” among us, because he was just one of us. Charles never flaunted his wealth in either the way he dressed or the way he behaved—so I was surprised by the showy car. And doubly surprised when he asked, “What do you think of the Rolls-Royce?” as I climbed in.
“How do you mean?” I replied, pretending not to notice that my neighbors were rushing to their windows to see me driving off in this magnificent silver vehicle. Children had already gathered to touch its glossy skin and make faces in its fat wing mirrors.
“It’s English,” he said. “The most expensive car on the market.”
“In case you didn’t know,” I said haughtily, “English savages brought my country to its knees.”
“Oh dear,” he said laughing. “Will I get a different one?”
“Just drive,” I said, “before you make a show of me in front of the entire neighborhood.”
Although I was bound to pretend otherwise, I was secretly thrilled. Charles drove in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, his blazer slung casually on the backseat, his elbow resting on the open window. “You look nice,” he said after a while. “Very smart.”
“Why, thank you,” I replied. “Who are we collecting first?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well—who else is coming?”
“Nobody else,” he said breezily. “Just you and me.”
For a moment, I felt panicked.
“Is that a problem?” he asked lightly, as if he couldn’t see why it should be.
“No—no problem.” I was calming down again.
“Good.” And he smiled with a flash of his white teeth.
We sat in silence as Charles drove us through the city, carelessly humming some ragtime tune. I did feel somewhat tricked. Would I have agreed to drive with him if I had known it was just the two of us? The answer was probably not. Yet there was no romantic intent on his part, I told myself, and certainly none on mine. Charles knew I was a married woman, and we were just friends. The awkwardness between us gradually dissipated as we drove on. I decided that now that I was here, I was glad to be going on this adventure.
We swept past the apartment block on Fifth Avenue where I had arrived on my first day as a penniless emigrant; the Plaza Hotel where I had enjoyed my first taste of luxury; the typing school where I had trained; and the university where I had worked to earn the money for John’s operation. As we passed each landmark, I remembered how far I had come. How much I had done and seen since I arrived here. In three years, it seemed a lifetime had passed.
As I looked out of the window I caught the white-eyed stares of black-skinned men sitting on the stoops of their redbrick tenements, the screams of children dancing in the rain of fire-hydrant fountains, the angry wave of a grocer as he chased some petty criminal out of his shop. New York City was in perpetual motion, a series of our small human happenings spilling into each other, rolling together until we had all become part of the city’s rabble. Our lives were lived to its frenetic beat, both causing the tune and ruled by it—we belonged to the city, and it belonged to us. Living there was an adventure in constant change; each building strove to be taller than the next; each jazz song faster than the last; each new dance more exotic and suggestive. Not a day had gone by since my arrival here when I had not, at some point, felt the adventure of New York rip through me—in the shove of a stranger on the subway, the sight of a woman behind the wheel of a car—and awaken me with its thrilling slap. Just bearing witness to the city’s lively throng made me feel alive, and driving through it with Charles, I felt more a part of it than I ever had before.
North of the city, the countryside, fresh air and simple green fields at first reminded me of where I had come from, and I felt the tug of home. But the landscape gradually changed. Along the wide roads were enormous trees, with trunks as wide as houses and thick branches spread out on either side of them like the arms of a shrugging God. All had leaves the color of fire, red and gold, nodding their huge, multicolored heads at us as we drove past. The trees parted at intervals, and beyond them appeared scenery on a grander scale than anything I had ever seen. I had never wondered what lay beyond the glamour and the bustle of the city, but now it seemed that America was unveiling herself to me—lying naked in all her glory before me. The countryside here was not like Ireland, with its small soggy fields bordered with tumbling shallow stone walls. The fields here were sweeping, rich with high golden crops and regal forests that ran on as far as the eye could see. It was as if God had designed America to His grand scale. The trees appeared taller, the mountains higher, the hills more sweeping, the landscape more spectacular than anywhere else could possibly be. The whole experience appeared unreal—as if we were traveling through a beautiful painting.
“Where are we going?” I finally asked.
“Do you care?” he said, laughing. We had already been driving for almost an hour.
“Of course I care,” I insisted, although he was right—I did not. The sun was shining, I was away from work and the city, a happy-go-lucky friend at my side, and we were going to spend the evening with other friends, listening to jazz, drinking and dancing and having fun. I did not have a care in the world.
In that moment I felt nothing more than the warm, delicious wind whip through my hair and the speed of the car moving me toward my next adventure, and I felt free.
We turned off the main road and up a long drive lined with elegant silver birch until we came to a mansion so white and so large, it shimmered against the sky as if it formed part of it.
Four or five other cars were unloading in front of the house, and an assortment of wealthy, well-dressed people were variously greeting one another and wandering up the marble steps. I caught my breath and nervously stroked the breast of my tweed jacket as the car slowed down, crunching against the gravel.
Charles had not warned me how grand this place was, and I had stupidly not thought to ask. My day suit was utterly unsuitable—all the women I had seen were wearing shift dresses. The navy evening gown in my bag was almost certainly not elegant enough and all of my jewelery was paste. If I had been forewarned that Charles was breaking with habit and taking me somewhere so grand, I might have—what? Hired a dress for the occasion? Not bothered coming? Almost certainly the latter.
“Relax,” Charles said, “you’re not staying in the house. I’ve arranged for one of the cottages on the grounds.” He drove round the side of the house and parked the Rolls-Royce on a courtyard of spotlessly clean cobbles.
As soon as the car stopped, two uniformed boys came rushing over to us.
“The lady is in the Laburnum cottage, Freddie,” Charles said, winking at the first one. “We’ll walk down.”
“Will I bring both bags, Sir?” the other asked, as he opened the car door for me.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charles, laughing. “Better ask the lady!”
Although I hoped he was only joking around, I felt cheapened. Charles was on his own turf here, so at home with all this money and his fancy Rolls-Royce. He was bantering with these stupid, sniggering boys at my expense, playing with me, disrespecting me. I was here at his invitation, but also at his mercy. It had been a mistake to come here alone with him. Obviously I was sending out the wrong message. I said quietly, “I want to go home, Charles.”
“Ellie, don’t be silly.” He raised his eyebrows at the two boys, disparagingly, as if I were some nagging, foolish woman.
His expression made me so mad that I got out of the car, slammed the door, then leaned into the backseat and lifted my bag out with such a swing that I nearly took the nose off the poor lad who was waiting on me. “If you won’t drive me home, then I’ll find somebody else to do it!” I started walking toward the front of the house.
Charles ran after me. “Give me the bag, Ellie—come on, don’t be silly. I’m sorry—it’s just us boys talking, you know?”
“No, Charles, I don’t know. This was a mistake. Really, I want to go home.”
He grabbed me by the elbow. “Stay, Ellie—don’t run away just yet. Just wait until I tell you something important.” I stared at him and his blond hair glowed in the hot sunlight, giving him something like an angel’s halo. His eyes were squinting against the sun and I couldn’t read them.
I handed him my bag, and he passed it on to Freddie. Then he walked me across the springy, perfect lawn until we reached the guest cottage. It was single-story white house, complete with porch and a swing. Cream and yellow roses grew up around the door from two varnished clay pots. A beautiful laburnum tree swept lazily back and forth in the slight breeze, its yellow petals scattering flirtatiously at our feet.
Inside, the cottage was as beautiful as it was outside. There was a small sofa, and on the polished table next to it was a crystal bowl of the fragrant yellow and cream roses, plumper and more luscious even than the ones outside. The floor was simple wood, laid with rugs. Through the doors off the living room, I could see a small kitchen, a bathroom and two bedrooms. One of the beds was covered with a white linen bedspread embroidered in white silk—the design no more than a glimmering suggestion.
“It’s the best guest cottage on the estate,” Charles said. He had been following my eyes, watching me look around.
“How do you know?” I asked. Then, unable to resist the temptation, I added, “Have you taken a different girl to every cottage? The owners must be
very
good friends of yours.”
“Actually, it’s my brother’s estate and I normally stay in the house. Alone.” Before I could recover from the surprise, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and blurted out, “I love you, Ellie. I want to make you my wife.” After a long silence, he opened his eyes with a hopeful smile. “Well, Ellie? What do you say?”
I thought he should have been able to tell from my face how shocked I was—and not one bit thrilled. I found my voice. It was shaking. “I’m already married, Charles.”
He became even more eager. “We can get round that, Ellie—we can arrange an annulment. It’s been done before. Even if we can’t, my brother Edwin has promised us a home in this cottage. Married or unmarried, we can hide away here—Ellie, I love you, you know I do . . . And I’m sure, if you will only look into your heart, you will find that you feel the same way about me . . .”
“No, I love John!” I felt suddenly quite sick at the part I had played in this. I had made my husband disappear—otherwise why would Charles think it was acceptable for him to declare his love for me in this way?
“I would go to the ends of the Earth for you, damn it, Ellie—and you never even mention that wretched man’s name—”
“His name is John! He’s my husband and I love him!”
“Well, he obviously doesn’t feel the same way about you. He has never come for you.”
I could not answer him, out of pure despair.
Charles walked out, leaving the door open. I didn’t follow him because I had nothing to say. So I stood, listening to the heaving of my heart in my chest—holding myself back from tears. I didn’t want to waste any more time crying for John. Did I really love him still? I had not seen him for three years, not written to him for at least six months. Was I just defending my love for him out of misplaced loyalty? Or defending myself against my own fecklessness in allowing Charles to fall in love with me when I was already married? Perhaps Charles was right and I was simply afraid to admit my true feelings for him.
I should enjoy living in a place like this with John, I thought. Standing in a cottage on a warm day with the sun glimmering on an embroidered bedspread, thinking about our future. Living our life surrounded by manicured lawns and elegant flower arrangements and all the comforts of an easy life. I had offered it to him, and he had opted instead for the mud and the drudgery of Ireland. Even as I put these thoughts together, I was still watching Charles walk away across the lawn, square and solid in his beige trousers and white shirt—he had the spirit of a gentleman, but he walked like a navvy. As he reached the back of the house a couple appeared, arm in arm. When they saw Charles, they separated and rushed toward him. The man—his brother?—grabbed his hand and pulled him into a half hug and the woman embraced him fully, holding his face and smothering it in matronly kisses as if he were a child—how everyone adored him.
I spent the rest of the day alone. I could not leave without Charles to drive me. And after a while I found that, in any case, I did not want to leave. The cottage proved the perfect distraction from my problems. Every inch of that little house was a joy, from the scalloped edges of the cotton kerchiefs that lined the kitchen shelves, to the polished silverware and pretty painted china plates. I walked around opening drawers and cupboards, marveling and reveling in turn at every mannered detail.
There was a bowl of fruit on the table and, next to it, a single china plate with a folded napkin and knife and a glass bowl of water sprinkled with fresh rose petals. There was an electric ice-box in the larder stocked with delicious food, cured meats and cheeses. There was a phonogram and a collection of records. In the bathroom, I found a small, antique cabinet stocked with soaps still wrapped in waxy paper and sealed with the stamp of their French perfumery. As the afternoon wore on, I made myself tea in a china pot and ate a dozen butter biscuits, which were as thin as paper. This was the life I wanted: one of simple beauty. Nothing too fancy or ornate, but surrounded by pretty, delicate things. With or without the company or the help of Charles or John, this was the life I needed to create for myself.
