The Dressmaker (39 page)

She shook her head.

“Then what’s the problem?”

It was too easy, that was the problem. She pulled him closer, unable to say the words.

“I have to think about it,” she whispered.

P
inky squinted through a soup of fog and rain as she waited outside the imposing offices of Dunhill, Brougham and Picksley on Fifty-seventh Street. Stakeouts were the most boring part of her job, but this one shouldn’t last much longer.

The massive front door of the establishment suddenly swung open. Out stepped three men.

I knew it, Pinky thought triumphantly.

Sir Cosmo was dressed, as usual, in an impeccably perfect suit, his mustache as manicured as ever. He was speaking hurriedly to the pair—one wearing the same horn-rimmed glasses she remembered from the courtroom. They shook hands as she watched, and Cosmo walked away.

Pinky approached the two men. The one in the glasses stiffened as he saw her.

“Hello there,” she said cheerfully. “I know about your plan, fellas. I guess the only thing I don’t know yet is how much the Duff Gordons are paying you.”

Tess heard the rain drumming on her bedroom window and buried her head back under the covers, wishing for sleep without the
wild pitch of dreams that had consumed her all night. No use. She sat up in bed, thankful now for being given a day off. She needed it. But Jack’s voice, his persuasiveness, remained in her head as she finally rose and put the kettle on to boil. She could hear shouting from the next apartment, a man and a woman fighting. Last night, when she crept into her own bed past midnight, she had heard their bedsprings squeaking urgently through the wall. She might as well have been back home. She didn’t want to live a life like that, all anger in the day and sex in the dark, and many babies and no money.

What if there was plenty of money? What was wrong with marriage then?

She poured her tea and sat down to sip the fragrant brew. Jack could teach her about this new country, navigate her through the trials ahead; he would be there to protect her and make good things happen. He lived on top of his world, not fighting for a place within it. She could relax for the first time in her life. And if it had all happened in too breathtakingly short a time, that couldn’t be helped. Don’t think of Jim. Simplify. He was right; in a way, they were alike—poised on the brink of new things, thirsty and ready. But neither was each other’s navigator. And wasn’t that what she wanted now?

Slowly, she dressed. She would take a walk uptown, maybe to Central Park. Anything, somewhere to be around people; such a dreary day. She wished she would hear from her mother, but nothing yet. It did bring home the realization that in this vast new country, there was no one in whom she could confide.

Tess pulled on her gloves and took her umbrella and set out, slamming the door loudly, which silenced her quarreling neighbors. She shivered in her thin coat and pulled it closer as she stopped at the grocery for the newspaper. She couldn’t break her habit now of scanning the stories, bracing for the sight of Lady Duff Gordon’s name in some newly shocking context.

Her eye stopped and fixed on a small two-paragraph story. There was a memorial service today for Isidor Straus—the co-owner of that amazing store in Herald Square—at Carnegie Hall. A special farewell
for a man of distinction, the paper said, whose wife chose to stay on the ship with him, rather than leave him to die alone.

She closed the paper. That’s where she would go today. She would pay homage to someone she didn’t know, whose fate had been tied to her own. He and she existed in a common fraternity now, dead or alive, one none of the people on the
Titanic
would choose, but there it was. It made—what an odd, bleak thought—for a sense of belonging to something.

It was a long walk, but it soothed her spirit. By the time she reached Forty-second Street, the rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through. A garden of red-and-white striped umbrellas suddenly came into view. Women in spring hats and men in Sunday suits were clustered around flower stands and vendors selling sausage and peppers, while groups of children sat on the street, watching a puppet show. Of course, it was a street festival, complete with a band, the violinist wearing a red cap with a drooping tassel that bounced against his cheek as he played. A woman in a yellow apron was spooning out an ice-cold confection in different flavors and colors. Curious, Tess came closer.

“Gelati,” the woman said, smiling, seeing her interest. “Better than ice cream.”

Tess smiled back and opened her purse. She took a bite from the small cup the woman handed her; the smooth, light chocolate was delicious. So she would pretend she was Italian for a little while, shedding all thoughts of deadlines and doubt and hurt.

At Carnegie Hall, the crowds clustered on the sidewalk turned quiet and somber. She joined them, asking a man, “When do we go in?”

“Do you have an invitation?” he said.

“No, I didn’t know I needed one.”

“Heavens, madame, everyone knew that.” But he said it kindly. “Never mind; here comes the mayor.”

A large black carriage drawn by horses was pulling up to the curb, and two policemen began pushing the crowd back. Tess watched as a portly man dressed all in black stepped down from the carriage, then
turned and helped a middle-aged woman descend. She took his arm, and the two of them walked past the crowd and into the hall. More carriages and automobiles were pulling up, all in a long, black line. The crowd was silent, except for the sound of a woman crying.

After the last guest entered the hall, a guard left the outer doors wide open, a kindness, people whispered, to allow them to hear the prayers and eulogies. No one tried to enter.

A soft chanting came from the hall. “They’re reciting Kaddish,” the man next to her said, obviously assuming that she wouldn’t be familiar with the Jewish prayers.

But she was. A memory of what she had heard out on the sea in that flimsy lifeboat was spilling forth. Someone, in another boat, had been reciting this mournful prayer, his voice caught and held in the still, freezing air. She lowered her head, surprised at the solace it gave her now.

“Tess?”

She looked up. Pinky stood there holding her canvas bag close to her chest, wearing a limp hat that still dripped with drops of rain.

“You’re covering this?” Tess said. Her voice might sound cold, but she couldn’t help it. Pinky always came with noise and tension, and right now she was thrusting herself into Tess’s one calm moment in many days.

“Not on assignment. I just thought I’d come by. I knew him.”

Tess felt a twinge of shame. “I feel a little like I know him, too,” she said.

They stood together silently, listening to the rhythm of the Hebrew prayers. When the service ended, the mayor and other dignitaries climbed back into their automobiles and carriages and drove away.

Pinky broke the silence. “So you have to boil silkworms to make silk?” she said off-handedly.

“What?” Tess said, startled.

“You know. Silk. I’m reading up on design and stuff. Got Van Anda to assign me to Lady Duff’s big fashion show. That’s tough on the silkworms, don’t you think?”

“I suppose we could cut everything out of linen and wool,” Tess
said with a smile, reaching for her handkerchief. “But think of all those shorn, shivering sheep. Give me that hat of yours—I’m going to try and blot up the water.”

“Do I look too sad?” Pinky said, handing it over. “I have to say, you do.”

Tess stopped walking, concentrating on her blotting task before she answered. “I am a bit,” she said before handing back the hat.

“Because of what you told Jim. Yesterday.”

“Do you always know what’s happening?” Tess said with a flash of irritated surprise.

“No, not everything. Who’s the other man? And I’m not going to apologize for being intrusive—I’m just asking, and you don’t have to answer.”

“No, I don’t. And I won’t. Sorry, Pinky.”

Pinky shrugged. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “How is it going at Lady Duff’s studio?”

“Are you asking me is Lucile all distraught and frantic about having to testify in two days?”

“I’d be surprised if she were. I figure she’s looking forward to putting on a grand performance. New York is happily waiting.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“How about how things are for you, or am I just digging for gossip?”

Tess smiled, relenting. “She’s letting me design a dress, and if it’s good enough she’ll put it in her show. It’s done, except for a tuck in the sleeves. I’ll show it to Lucile tomorrow, and truly, I’m proud of it. I think she will like it.” Much more than that, she
prayed
that Lucile would like it.

“Silk?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad—I wanted to write about cruelty to silkworms.”

They both laughed, and continued walking, but Tess found herself slipping back into a melancholy mood. She was about to make some excuse so that she could break away and be alone again when Pinky spoke.

“My father isn’t doing too well. The woman who takes care of him during the day said he’s too cranky for her; I’m crossing my fingers she won’t quit.”

“I’m sorry, I hope not.” It was easy to forget that Pinky’s brash spirit hid real troubles.

“I figured I would pick up some tomatoes for him at the street market after old Mr. Straus’s memorial.” Pinky took off her hat, changed her mind, and crammed it on her head again. “Thanks for getting some of the water out of this thing.”

“If it starts raining again, I have an umbrella.” The words were out so quickly, she couldn’t pull them back. Now Pinky would expect her to keep walking.

“That’s good, thanks.” And then, as if she had just thought of it: “Why don’t you come home with me? I’ll make us some lunch. You might like meeting my father; he’s basically a good person, just thinks that the whole world should revolve around him. But then that’s the way it always was, I guess. I’ve got cheese and salami, fresh.”

So Pinky wanted to talk. What was there to say? She wanted to talk, too.

The stairwell smelled faintly of urine, and Tess tried to hold her breath as long as she could as they climbed up to the fourth floor.

“We take turns scrubbing the floors, my neighbors and me. Usually it smells fine, but I’m the one who didn’t do it yesterday. Sorry about today.”

“I’ve smelled worse,” Tess said lightly. And she had. She just didn’t like to admit it.

Prescott Wade was propped up on several pillows, staring out the window with an open book in his lap, when they entered his bedroom. He was a smaller figure than Tess had envisioned, more frail. But his thin, bony fingers grasped her hand firmly when Pinky introduced them.

“Pinky talks about you,” he said. “You’re the girl working for the big designer, right? Only in America, that kind of thing?”

“I’m trying.” She liked his brusqueness.

“Good, don’t settle. Sarah here, she’s a good reporter. But she wants to be Nellie Bly.” His eyes traveled toward Pinky. “She can’t do it with me around. I guess I clipped her wings.” His eyes closed and he turned his head to the wall.

Pinky gave his shoulder a swift pat and beckoned Tess to follow her out of the bedroom. She began hacking into a head of lettuce, frowning slightly. “He’s not himself, but then he never is anymore.”

“Do you think of yourself as Nellie Bly?”

Pinky paused, her knife hovering above the vanquished lettuce. “I would like to travel around the world the way she did. Meeting people, riding camels, shooting rapids—” Her eyes turned dreamy. “I could do it, and I could do it with just clean underwear, same as she did. No luggage.”

“Why?”

“Why did you want to come to America? Because I want to have adventures and see the world, that’s why. But, to tell you the truth, I’d settle for more money.”

“Can you get that?” Tess asked curiously. In her experience, it simply didn’t happen.

“Women don’t get raises at newspapers. Just lots of praise, if you’re lucky, but no money. Here, slice the bread.” She shoved a loaf of bread and a butcher knife toward Tess.

“What’s wrong with your father?” Somehow, as she sliced bread and Pinky made the salad, the question didn’t seem intrusive.