A Song Across the Sea (12 page)

She steadied herself and, head held high, accompanied him through the laundry and back into the street.

•  •  •

She’d a pang of anxiety, wondering what kind of restaurant he might take her to. Surely a wealthy American like himself would be accustomed only to the finest dining establishments, like the one she’d glimpsed on the Titanic. In her current state, Tara would feel thoroughly embarrassed in such a place, although she wouldn’t let him know it.

Thus she was relieved when the restaurant he guided her to proved to be of the earthy clamorous type, densely jammed with mismatched tables and smelling of succulent food. Paralyzed by the range of choices on the hand-lettered menu in front of her, Tara let Reece Waldron order for her.

Aware that he was watching her every move intently, Tara tried to mind her manners, but the tantalizing aroma of her soup prompted her to slurp spoonfuls of it down as greedily as her horse gobbled hay at his trough. It was unfamiliar, but delicious. The bowl was half-empty before she paused long enough to ask him about it.

“What kind is it?”

“Matzo ball soup. Do you like it?” His own soup was disappearing at a more leisurely rate.

“I do. I’ve never had anything like it.”

She tried not to gawk at him, but inquisitiveness got the best of her. How exciting this New York was! What a wild gathering place for all different sorts of people! It was difficult to believe that she, Tara, a simple girl from a small farm in Ireland, was out and about in a grand city like this.

“I make it a point to seek out good food and pleasant company wherever I go. For instance, have you ever tried roasted peas or grape leaves? Or French croissants?”

“Tried them? I’ve never even heard of them.”

“Chinese food?”

She shook her head. “And where would I be after findin’ Chinese food in Ireland? On the farm it was potatoes in the mornin,’ potatoes at noon and potatoes at night. Turnips, too. It wasn’t much in the way of variety, but it was fillin’ enough.” She averted her gaze suddenly, her cheeks flooding red. “You must think me an ignorant girl.”

“I think you’re lovely.”

The unabashed compliment took her by surprise. Tara was painfully aware of her rumpled skirt and blouse, of how her recent brush with starvation must make her cheeks look sunken and her skin sallow. She wasn’t conscious of how her long limbs made her seem as lithe and graceful as a young gazelle, of how arresting were her sapphire eyes, as deep blue as the sea, or how exquisitely symmetrical the lines and curves of her face.

Reece was the first to break the awkward silence.

“An interesting thing about Chinese food,” he said. “Americans first discovered a liking for it during the Gold Rush out west, in ‘49.”

She was relieved that he’d changed the subject, and pretended to listen while voraciously eating the corned beef on pumpernickel sandwich that had been placed in front of her. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but a glow of pleasure unrelated to the food distracted her. He’d said she was lovely! The force of the attraction she’d been trying to deny ever since she first opened her eyes and saw him swelled in her breast and threatened to engulf her. Lovely. It was a lovely word, she reflected. Between bites she snuck glances at him. His forearms, visible below his rolled-up sleeves, were solid and muscular, ending at large, well-shaped hands that looked as if they could caress or strike out with equal ease. He was considerably taller than she was, but well-proportioned in a sinewy, supple way. Just for a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of remembering what it had felt like to lean against him.

But it was his eyes that drew her to him most. The filaments of gold and green swirling in their depths reminded her of swimming underwater, when sunlight penetrated the surface and illuminated the murky depths below.

“…so the Chinese who’d gone out there with the rest of the gold-diggers ended up selling food to the prospectors instead.”

She wanted to keep him talking, to make this meal last forever.

“How did you meet Mr. Lee?”

“I met him when I was barnstorming out west.”

She was puzzled by the word. “Barnstorming?”

“Flying airplanes. Doing stunts.”

“So you really do fly airplanes and race cars.”

“Anything to do with engines. Anyway, Mr. Lee said as how he wanted to move to New York City, to join his relatives and open a laundry. So I lent him the money for it.”

“Quite the philanthropist, aren’t you?” Oh, why did she have to sound so sharp-tongued? It wasn’t the impression she wanted to convey at all. Why did this man make her so nervous? It was aggravating, the effect he had on her.

“Hardly. I made money off the deal. It’s an investment. I could tell Mr. Lee was a good risk. A hard worker.”

“You were so sure as all that?”

His mouth straightened into a thin, serious line, the eyes flashing amber as he looked at her.

“I’m never wrong about people.”

•  •  •

Reece took her to a boarding house he knew of and introduced her to the owners, Hap and Delores Walker. Hap appeared to be in his early fifties and Delores a year or two younger. They’d an air of contentment about them, Tara thought, that bespoke years of loving companionship together. Delores was a pleasingly stout woman with a generous face and a curly mop of auburn hair. Hap, she guessed, must have been a hefty, vigorous man in his youth. Now, his body was strangely broken and disfigured, the flesh wasted away from what once must have been a powerful frame. When he led them into his and Delores’ small apartment on the ground floor, Tara tried not to stare at his leaden, twisting walk.

“It’s about time you showed your face around here, Reece!” In contrast to his body, Hap’s voice boomed with vitality. “And who’s this young lady?”

“A newcomer to our shores, in need of a place to stay. She was a passenger on the Titanic, so she’s temporarily without funds. I assured her you’d allow her credit.”

“I have a job,” Tara put in.

“The Titanic!” Delores led her to a comfortable chair, clucking sympathetically. “Oh you poor dear. It must have been horrible. I’ll get you some tea.”

Without waiting for a response, she vanished from the room. Tara squirmed under Hap’s unconcealed scrutiny.

“Picking up stray cats again, Reece?” he bellowed.

Stray cats! What did he mean by that? Should she be offended? Was it some sort of a joke? Tara decided to hold her tongue until she was sure of his meaning. These Americans were so confusing, so casual in manner. And their speech! It seemed little more than a bewildering collection of colorful slang expressions. It was not going to be easy learning their ways.

“At least you found a beauty this time, although she looks much too classy for a guy like you.”

That sounded better. Tara relaxed and sipped the tea Delores brought her.

The arrangements for her lodging were concluded by Reece and Hap as if she wasn’t even in the room, but she didn’t mind. It had been a long day. With her hunger finally sated, she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a bed somewhere—one with a lumpy mattress would do—and surrender to sleep. While she listened to the men she felt a drowsy numbness creep over her.

Reece got to his feet and was moving toward the door before she even knew it.

“Wait!” She followed him out the door. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” he said. “You’ll be comfortable here. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean. You can pay your rent when you receive your wages at the factory. Oh, and here—” He pressed something into her hand. “You’ll need some clothes before then, I imagine.”

She saw that she was holding several bills. “It’s very kind of you, but I’m not in the habit of acceptin’ charity.”

“It’s not charity. You can pay me back, next time I come around.”

“And when might that be?” Did he guess at the deep interest behind her question?

He shrugged, waved and was off. She stood on the wooden-planked front porch and watched him recede into the night, her heart sinking a little with each step.

Delores, standing beside her, followed Tara’s gaze and smiled affectionately. “He’s something special, isn’t he?”

When Tara didn’t answer, Delores said; “My dear, don’t get…too attached…to Reece. He’s engaged to be married. Didn’t he mention that?”

“It must have slipped his mind.” But what right did she have, truly, to know anything about him? He’d shown her the same kindness he’d show a stray cat off the streets, nothing more. The fledgling romantic delusions had been hers and hers alone. The room Delores took her to was tiny but, as Reece had promised, clean, and furnished with a narrow bed and a small chest of drawers upon which sat a pitcher and wash basin. Tara was thankful that she’d ended up here. It was immeasurably better than the squalid tenement boarding houses she’d seen earlier. The mattress on the bed was thin but not lumpy and the lavatory was actually inside the building, down the hall, instead of outside as she’d expected. What a luxury!

She undressed and eased herself under a blanket whose color had faded to an indeterminate gray. The previous night, spent shivering under a wagon, seemed like an absurd dream. This little room wasn’t so bad. She could brighten it a little, decorate the walls with pictures cut from magazines…

Sleep’s oblivion reached for her but she resisted it, so that she could think for a little while longer about Reece Waldron.

T
he turbulence of the past few weeks made the monotony into which Tara’s days now settled tolerable, even welcome.

After breakfasting on strong American coffee and toast at the boarding house—sometimes with a fried egg and a strip of bacon on the side—Tara was better able to cope with her long hours at the factory. With the money Reece had loaned her she purchased an inexpensive skirt and two new blouses, a nightgown, a pair of stockings and a camisole to wear under the blouses. The new clothing she alternated with the old, doing her washing in her room and hanging the wet garments near the window to dry. She intended to pay him back as soon as possible.

The work at the dress factory was not strenuous, only mind-bendingly routine. The repetition of it threatened to drive her mad. Over and over again she guided fabric through her sewing machine, working the treadle with her foot and watching the needle bob up and down to form stitches. She often looked around at the other women toiling at sewing machines in the cavernous second story of the factory and wondered how they coped. Did they simply detach their minds and let their hands and feet make the automatic motions necessary to their jobs? The Polish woman who worked at the machine next to hers hummed incessantly. It annoyed Tara at first, until she learned to ignore it, with a grudging admiration for the hummer. The woman had discovered her own secret way to alleviate the boredom.

Maybe it was easier to endure drudgery like this if you had hungry children waiting at home. If only Padraig had lived! These long hours in the factory would wing by for her, knowing, as she would, that her wages would feed him, buy him a new shirt or a pull of toffee or a book to read. He’d provide an anchor for her life—a cheerful face to greet her at the end of each day.

But Paddy was gone. Why was his death even worse to her than those of her parents? She mourned her mother and father, but with a peaceful acceptance. With Paddy, though, the wound never seemed to heal. It festered with guilt. She’d give the world to go back and change her decision to come to America.

“You dumb Polack!” Mr. Van Zandt, on one of his sneak patrols, had heard the woman next to Tara humming. “Shut yer yap! We don’t need that noise around here.”

The woman cringed as if expecting a blow. Tara’s few attempts to speak to her had failed, so she knew her neighbor didn’t comprehend the English that was being stridently shouted at her. The other workers hunched over their machines and pretended not to listen.

Van Zandt leaned his greasy face close to the Polish woman’s, gratified to see her quaking with fright. “Whatsa matter, dummy? Dontcha understand English? I said, ‘CUT OUT THE STUPID HUMMING!”

“She’s not a dummy. And you’d be doin’ yourself a favor to have a little more patience when speakin’ to her. She’s a grand worker, she is.” Tara could scarcely believe it was her own voice she heard, speakin’ up to Van Zandt that way. She’d be let go faster than she could sneeze, sure enough.

Van Zandt was incredulous.

“If you want to keep yer own job, miss, you’ll keep yer nose out of this.”

“And how can I, with yourself bellowin’ loud as a bull right next to me?” She’d certainly gone too far this time. She might as well go a little farther. “Sure and the poor woman’s just hummin’ a little to make the work lighter. There’s no crime in that.”

He ripped a handkerchief from his back pocket in a rage and made a great show of wiping his face with it while continuing to glare at her.

“Get yer things and get outta here. You’re through.”

Tara heaved a sigh and stood up. She turned as if to leave then changed her mind. She walked up to him and stood as close as she dared, reeling from the pungent odors emanating from his sweat stained shirt, and looked down at him from her superior height. Suspicious, he took an uneasy step backward.

“You’ll not fire me,” she said calmly.

“Oh no?”

“No. I’m a grand worker, too. You know the truth of what I’m sayin’. The boys cuttin’ the fabric can hardly keep up with me. You’re much too clever a man to discharge a worker who can turn out dresses as fast as I can.”

Heads turned their way. Sewing machines came to a stop as their operators paused to listen to Tara.

“You’re just a wee bit out of sorts today, is all.” She pinned him firmly in place with her unblinking gaze. “A man in charge of a factory like this—a man with such enormous responsibilities—is smart enough to know that his people work harder when they respect him.” She sat back down at her sewing machine and said, with finality, “I’ll go back to me work now and there’ll be no more said about it.”

He didn’t move or speak.