The Pink Suit: A Novel (5 page)

It was one thing to honor the Wife by copying her clothes for Maggie Quinn; it was another to meet the real deal. Kate thought of all the things that could go wrong. She could be sweaty, and that would ruin the toile. And all that smoking—Kate did not care for anyone who smoked. After fittings, the Wife's dressing room was like the inside of a gray cloud. What if the Wife cursed? That would be awful. The more Kate waited, the more she was convinced that nothing good could come of this meeting. She closed her eyes and pictured the Wife's face—that smile, the faint freckles across that nose, and the dark hair. Perfectly Irish, perfectly beautiful. Perfect—not human. And that was the way Kate preferred her.

Kate pulled the champagne bottle out of the bucket to take a good look at it. Was there a trick to opening it? She wasn't much of a drinker, but the color of champagne was an important factor in her work. When a champagne
coupe
was held, it became an accessory. The color of a gown must be chosen based on the type of champagne served. If the champagne was vintage, even if it was only aged a year or two, it would have a golden cast; Dom Pérignon was usually the color of new gold. But if it was aged more than five years, then it was the color of autumn leaves. Taittinger, which was the drink of the moment, was always “cathedral gold” because it was the color of the gold leaf in St. Patrick's.

Moët & Chandon was what the Ladies left for this particular meeting. It was what they always served. Non-vintage. Miss Nona bought by the case. When poured into crystal
coupes
it cast the world in the shade of tattered moonlight, which made everything feel both unbearably beautiful and unbearably sad. Details like that made a difference; they separated dressmakers from seamstresses.

Cut. Trim. Baste. Tuck. Pin. Trim. Stitch. That was what most people thought sewing was about, but they were wrong. It was really about perfection. Each stitch must be exactly like the one before it; each must be so small that it seems part of the fabric. A ribbon is sewn into the waist of a skirt to help keep the blouse in place. Zippers are either placed on the side, for comfort, or in the back, to emphasize the elegance of a line. Each tuck and pleat carefully disguises any flaw in the wearing or the wearer—small breasts, uneven hips, thick waists, and, of course, waning youth.

There were always so many elements involved, so many things to consider, and so many variables. From what Kate could tell, the same dress, or even a similar one, could not be worn Opening Night at the Met and also to the New York Junior League Winter Ball—the guest list was nearly identical. But a dress worn to the Kentucky Derby could be dyed another color and worn again in the same season. At the Derby, the “Horsey Set,” as Miss Sophie called them, spent so much time looking at each other's hats, they never noticed the dresses at all.

Finally, at 6:46 p.m., when there was no hope of getting Mrs. B's gown to her at a reasonable hour and there'd be all hell to pay, the phone rang. A secretary. Reschedule.

“I see.”

Kate's knees stopped shaking. That was fine. Better she didn't come.

Kate threw the toile in the trash.

I
t was nearly ten p.m. when the train pulled into Inwood. Maggie Quinn had long since cleared the supper plates and put her Little Mike to bed, so it was too late to root around in her sister's icebox. And Kate would not make the same mistake she'd made the night before. She was determined to have a proper dinner, but it was difficult to tell where to go.

The Hedgehog, the Last Stop, Erin's Isle, Chambers', McSherry's, the Lounge, Grippo's Torch Café, on 207th near Broadway—that was close—Doc Fiddler's, Cassidy's, Jimmy Ryan's, Keenan's Corner, Dolan's, the Pig 'n' Whistle, or Minogue's. Those were just some of the choices.
There's a reason why Walter Winchell calls it Ginwood,
she thought. There were seventy-three pubs in the Inwood neighborhood, and they could be divided into three categories: Greenhorns, Far Downs, and all the rest.

Greenhorns were for men from the old country. Green to America, they were not afraid to work and fiercely longed for the habit of home. Each of the pubs was connected to a particular town or county and took its name as a way of advertising—like the Lakes of Sligo, on 228th, where one could always raise a pint to the dark mist of the Northwest Coast. Their jukeboxes were filled with songs by Carmel Quinn and Dennis Day, who were always caterwauling on about Mother, Dear Mother, and Dear Mother Ireland. The songs were so maudlin that Kate hated to even walk past those pubs.

The Far Downs were for the Irish Americans, the children of the Greenhorns. Elvis was on their jukeboxes—“All Shook Up” and “Fever.” Kate thought the man sounded like he was suffering from malaria.

At the Far Downs, no one cared whether you were from Cork or Dublin. The only thing that mattered was that you were a good Democrat and that, like all good Democrats, if you were called to the war you'd go gladly to protect your new homeland and make Ireland proud.

The other pubs were just that—other. Nobody cared about them.

Maeve always said that you could judge a place by what kind of beer they sold. Her father had owned a pub in Dublin, and she was always going on about Miller High Life. If an American bar served High Life, they probably served food, and good food, too. It was the champagne of bottled beers—Kate saw that in magazines—but it seemed to be the kind of thing sold on Park Avenue. Inwood was not a champagne kind of place.

Rheingold Girls? Schaefer beer? Knickerbocker or Piels? The signs were everywhere. And, of course, the ever-present “Ice Cold Beer.” Kate wondered what her father would think about all these beers. Back home, beer was served cool, not cold—and never to women alone. If a pub did serve ladies, they'd have a snug, a separate room, for the women to drink in with their girls. Respectable men and women never drank together in public.

Cobh was such an entirely different place from Inwood. On the Great Island, pubs were at the center of daily life. In Newtown, on Cobh, Kate's family lived in the seventh of twenty cottages that were built around Fogarty's Pub. They were lined up in two rows, one on either side of the pub, on the top of the hill overlooking the endless sea. You'd get the news at Fogarty's, and anything that came by post. You'd take a phone call there or send a telegram. And there was drink—they stilled their own whiskey—and music. There was also a lovely snug for the Ladies so they could sip a halfie in relative peace.

Cobh was an old-fashioned place—solemn and silent, too. In Kate's New York neighborhood, it was always loud. There were sirens. And shouting. And praying. But it was the music that wore on Kate. Not just the screeching of jukeboxes, but all the rest of it. Most apartments had stoops. Most people in Inwood were homesick—music was to be expected. It could be very lovely, especially when accompanied by button accordion, harp, pennywhistle, or drum. And you could often hear bagpipes; there were several piper bands in Inwood.

It was the opera that she hated. Nearly any hour of day or night, you 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.

“You 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.

“Cake's all gone,” he said.

Peg's cake. Kate had nearly forgotten. “Was it good?”

“Solid 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.”

“And the crumb?”

“Wasn't Mam's. Wasn't bad. But not our Peg's.”

Yellow butter cake with raspberry jam was a Peg classic. “I'm sure it was lovely.”

“Dry. Father John slathered it with his own jam from the cupboard. Then he ate it with his hands as if it were a scone.”

Kate laughed at the thought of it. “It may have been a bit on the dry side, then. Have you had supper yet? I'm famished and could use some company, if you've a mind.”

“Excellent.” Patrick put an arm around her shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “We'll go together. I'm finished here.”

A group of young girls whom Kate knew from the Good Shepherd passed by the open door. They'd obviously been bowling. They swung their bags as they walked along. They reeked of beer and fried food, which made Kate's stomach growl again. When they saw Kate, one of them giggled. The other three laughed out loud. They passed by quickly but kept turning around to look back, laughing. Kate's ears went hot.

“What are they on about?”

“Nothing.”

“You're not a very good liar.”

“We'll talk about it over dinner.”

“Lovely. You'll have a halfie and discuss my personal failings.”

“We can start with mine first, if it makes you feel any better.”

“What will we save for dessert?”

“There's always football. Our blessed Father John has written the Gaelic Athletic Association, telling all about the wonders Mike Meehan has been doing for our parish club.”

“Would they care?”

“Of course not, but it fills Father John with glee to tell them.”

Patrick Harris still lived in the large apartment above the butcher shop that he'd shared with his parents ever since they came to Inwood. Kate hadn't been up there since his mother had died. Sometimes, after church, they would walk back together, and Mrs. Harris would invite her up for Sunday tea. After tea and Peg's exquisite cake, Patrick would pull out his guitar and Peg would bring out her button accordion. They'd all sing together. Kate, too. With their eyes closed in reverie, their voices twining like ivy, they would sing until Peg would start crying. No matter how hard Peg tried, the music of home always overwhelmed her.

“You're a good girl to stay,” Patrick would say to Kate when he walked her home. “Most girls don't have the time for the old ways.” But Kate loved to sing, and she most certainly loved the cake. And it was always nice to hear Patrick's lovely voice. Now, with Peg gone, those Sundays were just a memory.

“I'll be ready in a minute,” Patrick said.

“No hurry,” Kate said, but the smell of bleach was overpowering. She began to cough and couldn't seem to stop. Patrick ran back to the stainless sink and poured Kate a glass of tap water. He watched her closely, like a mother hen. She drank it all, quickly. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was.

“You've had nothing today, have you?”

“Tea. Cream. Two sugars. It was Barry's. I found it in a tourist shop in the city. Gold Blend. Wasn't the same, though.”

“Never is, is it?”

“Never. Tasted stale.”

Kate leaned against the white tile wall as Patrick Harris took off his stained apron and butcher's coat. He had on the same shirt he'd worn that morning. It was a very nice shirt—department-store brand, but it had a fine fit for being mass produced and was properly tapered at the waist.

Patrick took Kate by the hand. It was nice when they walked like that. Hand in hand, like children. The pub wasn't far. There was no sign outside, which made it look more like a private social club than a common pub. Kate had never really noticed it before. There was no reason to. Back home, the pub was the link to the world outside the Island. In America, it was the link to the ruination of your liver.

Patrick opened the pub door for Kate, but she hesitated.

“It's a respectable place. The Browns were good friends with our dear Peg. They're looking out for me now.”

The room was dark, long, and narrow. Men were playing darts in the corner. It didn't seem like a very friendly place, but Kate had no choice. She was hungry. She felt dizzy. Patrick helped her with her coat, quite the gentleman, and then hung it on the rack by the door for her. Kate pulled off her gloves; they had indeed shrunk a bit from the rain that morning. She took off her hat. Patrick led them to a booth near the wood-burning fireplace. The scent of wood smoke was comforting. Kate closed her eyes for a moment, and it felt like Fogarty's Pub back home, and that was lovely.

“We'll get you some good grub,” he said. “Mrs. Brown feeds me as an act of mercy, which I pay for with steaks, chops, and the occasional chicken.”

“That's lovely.”

“I must be the only butcher in town who doesn't cook.”

Patrick had gotten quite thin since his mother's death.

The bartender brought Patrick a pint and Kate a half. “Much obliged, Mr. Brown,” Patrick said.

The slight, wrinkled man seemed irritated by the sight of Kate. “You're lucky,” he said to her. “Mrs. Brown says there's just enough fish for the both of you. Ten minutes.” Then he left.

“He's really quite kind,” Patrick said.

Kate didn't know the Browns. They were Sundays Only churchgoers. She didn't know what to make of the husband. She pushed the beer away. “He's very presumptuous. Maybe I don't drink. Maybe I don't eat fish.”

She noticed a sign over the bar—
NO LADIES ALLOWED
—that could certainly account for Mr. Brown's lack of enthusiasm, and the lack of a proper snug. But the sign seemed silly. On any given Sunday, rows of baby carriages were lined up outside the pubs on Dyckman Street. Inside, couples dressed more finely than they were at church sat huddled together with children in their laps, out for a nip and a little gossip.

A sign is just a sheet of paper, after all,
Kate thought. Still, it was uncomfortable.

“Maybe I should leave,” she said.

Patrick caught her by the arm. “Sit down. Think about it. Bright red hair. Pixie of a girl. Big gold cross. You are clearly an Inwood girl bearing the sorrows of your people's history. Of course you eat fish, especially on Friday. And of course you're going to want a halfie to wash it down. It's Inwood.”