Ellis Island (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

I started work at Alex’s family firm. Once I had my indepen-dence again and Sheila was on track to marry Alex, having been introduced to his parents as a respectable “working girl,” the stress of uncertainty was lifted and our friendship returned to the easy familiarity we had enjoyed as carefree, privileged schoolgirls.

Every morning we gathered ourselves together in great style, planning and picking through our outfits so that we showed ourselves off to full advantage as the elegant, modern women-about-town that we were. I had acquired quite a wardrobe of clothes from Isobel’s castoffs—including three suits, a printed day dress and the black silk kimono I had been so impressed with when I had first arrived. She had also given me a discarded vanity case, whose cream leather finish was no more than a little grubby and which, with some careful rubbing and a little baking soda, had come up as good as new. The lid opened to reveal a bevel-edged mirror under which was a warren of hidden compartments, whose lids could be opened by handles of pink ribbon just wide enough to accommodate the pinch of a lady’s thumb and forefinger. With my urgent financial commitments met, I now felt able to indulge myself, and set about filling my pretty case with all manner of cosmetics and trinkets. My first lipstick was by Max Factor in a shade of rich plum. It was such a novelty, rolling up the gold tube and pressing the perfect angular wax edge to my cupid’s bow—knowing mine was the first set of lips it had ever touched.

Sheila and I went to see
Down to the Sea in Ships
at the picture house. It was an epic drama with rousing music about the plight of the Quaker captain of a whaling ship, but we were primarily interested in the smoky, doe-eyed beauty of the hero’s daughter and granddaughter. Afterward, Sheila persuaded me to have a permanent wave like the stars and Clara Bow. Every night I wet my hair with a damp comb, then held it in place with a metal clip. In the morning my hair sat flat to my forehead in a perfect wave, where it stayed all day. One of the tailors for whom I did small alterations gave me a gift of eight yards of heavy blue linen and I made myself a dress with long sleeves and a sailor collar, using a Vogue pattern, putting the rest of it aside to make a shirt for John.

With the hair and the lipstick and the fashionable clothes, I was “all the rage,” and with the journey to work each morning I felt more and more as if I were truly a part of the growing city. I was at one with the women with waved hair in good coats, teeming down the broad streets, stopping only to release a high heel caught in a grate or to hail a taxi. Pouring down the subway steps in noisy, colorful gangs, as the subway trains stopped and started at such speed, like blood pumping through the veins of this city’s heart. New York City never stopped moving, and I was thrilled to be caught up in its beating, energetic throng.

Ward Windows’ sales offices were on 35th at Third, seven blocks south of Grand Central Station. The staff comprised five sales executives, and five women (or “girls” as they called us) who were there to serve the secretarial needs of each man. It was company policy that, with the exception of Alex, the secretaries were rotated among the executives, so that we never became “attached” to one another. On two occasions in the past five years, executives had been caught having “immoral relations” with their secretaries, and old Mrs. Ward looked very harshly on such behavior. (I assumed that, as her son, Alex was immune to her wrath.)

The building we were in was ten stories high, modest by the standards of the skyscrapers that were shooting up around us, and we were on the fifth floor. The office itself was extremely smart. Each sales executive had his own office, with all of us girls gathered on the floor outside in rows of generously proportioned desks, which contained a Remington typewriter and a large ledger in which we recorded our executive’s sales by hand.

Alex himself had a large office, but he spent most of his time visiting the various sites, the majority of which were uptown from where we were. On the floor above us was a large conference room with a mahogany table as long as the tree it came from and twenty leather-bound chairs. Every week, all of the executives would gather there along with Alex and sometimes his father—a heavyset man with a big square head and a red face, who reminded me of some of the big farmers at home, except that his suit was a better fit and his hat more smoothly felted. We secretaries took it in turn to record the minutes of the meeting, while two others were on a rotation to serve refreshments.

I loved participating in these meetings. Just listening to the executives talk about targets and projections and quotas made me feel as if I was part of a new, important world of business. The role I was playing was small, often just serving coffee and passing around doughnuts, but it was still quite apart from what I was used to. While my farming life in Ireland was a world away from the rarefied wealth of Isobel’s experience, it was still, essentially, domestic in nature. I had always been in the service of other people. As a daughter, wife, maid—even as old Professor Liptka’s secretary, I was, essentially, a servant. Here I was in the service of a new master—“business.” As part of a team that served a company, I understood that while I was pouring coffee at the weekly meetings, I was doing so not just for the executive’s personal edification, but in the broader interest of Ward Windows, which, it seemed to me, was an entirely different and somehow more important proposition.

During one of these meetings at which I was taking the minutes, the senior sales manager made a complaint to Alex. “The problem is not in the selling, Mr. Ward, construction is booming—the problem now is that the demand for our product far outweighs our ability to service the customer.”

“I agree,” another butted in. “We’re selling the windows, but there aren’t enough men to fit them . . .”

Then all five men started bulleting in their complaints. “There’s a bottleneck of panes at the warehouse and not enough men making the frames.” “The builders are complaining about our designs, they say they take too long to fit.” “The bottom line is they don’t have enough men on-site, and some of them are using unskilled carpenters to handle our windows.” “Then they fit them wrong and then we have to remake them.”

Alex pressed the tips of his fingers together into a triangle and pouted in concentration as they talked. I thought how he looked like the Mother Superior when she was listening to a pupil recitation. When they were done he said, “Looks like we need more skilled labor at the construction end. But if the builders can’t find it, darned if I know the answer. In the meantime, men, you’ll just have to struggle on smiling at the customers and convincing them we can-do, until—well—we can ‘can-do!’”

They all laughed and Alex smiled at them as if there wasn’t a problem at all. He had confidence in other people and in himself, and I could see that made him a good leader. Watching him round up the meeting, patting the other men on the back while shaking their hands as if they were the greatest fellows in the world, I had a sudden flash of recognition. John had that ability to make himself loved by other men—in his IRA days, laughing and drinking through the night with his battalion, building them up for the next day. As with Alex, there was never dissent or disagreement when John was around. They were men whom other men trusted. They had authority.

I waited until all the men were gone, then caught Alex as he was on his way out the door. “Ellie,” he said, “what is it?” and he instinctively checked his tie as if I were about to warn him of some untidiness or stain.

“I have an idea,” I said, “for the business.”

Alex raised his eyebrows in amused surprise. I knew it wasn’t my place, but I did not care. There was too much at stake. I started to speak before he had the chance to make a joke of me.

“It seems to me that what you need is carpenters.”

“Go on,” he said.

“If Ward Windows had their own men going out on-site and fitting the windows, you could be sure that the job was being done quickly and efficiently, and . . .” I was making it up as I went along, but it sounded good, “. . . and as the only windows company providing this service, you’d be able to charge a premium that would certainly cover your costs, and possibly even increase profits.”

“Interesting.” I could tell that he was more taken aback by the forcefulness of my presentation than with the idea itself, but—remembering that Alex was not just my boss, but the beau of my oldest friend—I continued, “My husband John is an excellent carpenter and a man of great authority. We are currently looking at opportunities for him in America and he would certainly be able to—”

“Ellie,” Alex interrupted me, putting his hand gently on my arm, “I would be happy to offer John a position in the company, in whatever capacity we can agree upon when he gets here.”

My pride objected to the fact that, despite my good idea and my elevated position as a typist, John’s fate and mine were still at the mercy of another man’s charity. At the same time I felt regret for not having thought to ask for Alex’s help before now. But as this small storm of conflicting emotion flurried inside my chest, it was almost immediately flooded out by an enormous wave of relief.

Now John had to come to America, as soon as he was well. Even for his principles, he could not turn down such an opportunity. At last, we were going to be together again.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Everything had fallen into place.

Alex had called me into his office, to hand me a second-class ticket for three weeks’ time and a month’s money for John in advance. He would organize all of the paperwork, and John would pay him back his fare over his first six months on the job at a dollar a month. I did not quite know how to say “thank you,” and it came out with a confident firmness that suggested this was no more than we deserved. Which, of course, it wasn’t.

The same day, Sheila had told me that she and Alex were moving to Boston, where his father wished him to set up another office. The move would also mark the beginning of their formal engagement. The rent was paid to the end of the following month, and the apartment could be kept on by me and John. I had written to John immediately, enclosing the ticket and telling him the exciting news.

John had not written to me himself since his operation. Maidy had let me know how it went:

I was put out that he had not taken the trouble to write himself when he came home from hospital. Even before the operation, his letters had become shorter and less frequent. In truth, I was relieved that he had stopped his lengthy descriptions of life at home, and shortened his pleas for me to return. I knew that John was awkward on the subject of my sending money home and, indeed, about the fact of my being in America at all. These being the presiding facts of our lives, it was small wonder that communication had become stunted between us. I had grown tired, too, of detailing the small adventures I had so delighted in describing when I first arrived, and had got into the habit instead of enclosing short, cheerful notes with my dollars. I wasn’t worried. John being the great love of my life, I felt we could easily afford times of silence. I imagined how overjoyed he would be to learn that we could soon be together again—and in a place where we would be free of all the problems that had plagued us in Ireland. “We will have money to spare,” I wrote as a footnote to my letter, “and will be able to send enough home to keep Maidy and Paud in perpetual comfort. Unless, indeed, they wish to come and join us here!”

In the days that I spent turning the flat—now empty of Sheila—into our marital home, I composed yet another letter to John. I had found myself seeing things about New York that my husband would love at every turn. Hot dog and pretzel vendors on the street, the Italian coffee shop, picture houses, Central Park Zoo—now that he was coming, it was safe to write to him about these things again, and in detailing them I realized that I had not exactly grown tired of telling John about life in New York, but had in fact become increasingly sad at not being able to share the city with him in person.

I indulged myself by buying several decorative things for the house. Although Sheila had left me a great deal of her household things (including the glass cat of which she had been so determinedly fond), I wanted to make the place my own. I bought a lace tablecloth from a Polish woman who was selling them on the street near my office. I went to Macy’s and bought linen napkins, which I embroidered myself with small shamrocks, and a tray cloth to match. I purchased new bed linens too, and washed them out several times so that they were worn and soft and ready for the first night we would share a bed in almost two years, and a new nightdress for that same occasion. Even though I already had a perfectly good nightgown, this was in a softer, more delicate cotton with a delectable lace trim that I felt convinced would excite him—not indeed that John needed such enticements, but I enjoyed the idea of pleasing him.

I cleaned and polished and dusted every corner of the apartment. I knew that John would not even notice, but the pleasure was in the doing of it, for him. I repainted the chairs in the kitchen with pale blue gloss, and I even bought a “toaster”—an electric machine for toasting sliced bread. It was a whimsical expense, but—oh my!—what an impressive gadget and, for some reason, it fed my domestic dream of him. I could see John, sitting on the sky-blue chair, a napkin tucked into his crisp white shirt, with a runny egg and a plate of toasted bread in front of him, breakfasting before work. That was the beginning of my American dream. Beyond breakfast together, there was a life of affluence and all of the promises that America held—but those dreams could be kept for when he got here.

The Manhattan ferry was quiet on the way out to Ellis Island. It was a crisp day, fresh, like autumn back home. I wore my moss-green tweed suit. John loved that shade on me. He said it made my skin paler and my hair darker. I touched my hair and wondered for a moment what he would make of my bob. I remembered the last time I had done this journey, and I thought how different it would be for John. To have someone he loved welcome him at the port, to be taken back to a home he could call his own and a well-paid, respectable job all set up for him. After what he had been through—what we had both been through since we were apart—it was no more than we both deserved. In a matter of hours we would be together again. I could barely contain my excitement and as we drew nearer the island, I could feel my toes wriggling inside my boots and it was all I could do to stop myself from throwing myself overboard and swimming the rest of the way. I must have been smiling because a young man who had been standing nearby came and stood next to me, as if I had been smiling at him. I should have put him off, but it made me smile even more. He was only a young man, not much more than twenty.

“You gonna meet somebody? A sister?” he said.

“Husband.” I couldn’t help grinning at him.

“One lucky guy,” he said, crestfallen. His New York drawl was tainted with an Irish accent I vaguely recognized, and I asked him where he was from.

“Longford,” he said. “Ballinalee.”

I nodded and he said eagerly, “You know it?”

“No,” I replied, and I was sorry then that I didn’t know it, because he looked crestfallen again. He had an expressive, rubbery kind of face that made me feel like laughing—especially when he looked sad. I asked him all about himself to pass the time and distract me from my rising emotions. Desmond was eighteen and had been in New York for five years with his uncle and older brother. They had tried to get him into school, but he had insisted on earning his way and worked alongside the big men on the buildings from the age of fourteen. In the time they had been in New York the brothers had sent home for two of their sisters, and all five of them lived together in the one apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. He was going to pick the third, and last, sister up now.

“She was ten when I left. She’ll be fifteen—a woman now—we’ve got her work cleaning up in Murphy’s restaurant. The other two girls are there already, but they’ve both been promoted to the kitchen.” There was a pause, then he said, “They’re hard workers, my sisters.”

As he said it, his eyes briefly lost their humor and I remembered the privilege of my education and how, despite it, I had still ended up in service.
A hard worker.
It was such a loaded compliment to pay a young woman. A homage to hardship. “People only love you for your work,” Mrs. Flannery was forever saying, and I had found it to be true. Even my best friend Sheila loved me especially for what I did for her. John was the only person who loved me besides what I could do for him. John hated to see me working. In the days before his injury, he would chide me gently for fussing around the house and often took over my chores, insisting that I sit and read. While we were children he had done all of the work while I did nothing, only amused him—and that was the way he liked it. When he lost the use of his legs he could barely cope with watching me work as he lay helpless. He hated that I had come to America to work.

“Only Mammy and Daddy now,” Desmond said, “but they’ll hardly come. They say they will, but sure, we’ll send them back enough to manage, and why would they move now? They’re happy where they are.”

I looked up and saw the big ship in the bay and the ferries floating away from it like leaves on a breeze, each of them loaded with immigrants: each immigrant full of hope for the future, each one carrying promises to honor their past. I had created my new life, and now my past was going to become my present again.

As our ferry pulled into Ellis Island, my heart swelled with the succulent certainty that, now that my husband was joining me here, I could finally call this vibrant, glamorous, exciting, daunting, liberating place, which I had landed in two years ago, my home.

The terminal was busy, but not as crowded as the last time I had been here. People were milling about and, as I arrived, I noticed that Desmond was tagging along at my side. I realized, with some amusement, that the boy had not taken a fancy to me after all, but just wanted the kind company of an older woman. Like the mother he had left behind at thirteen perhaps, or the security of an older sister. If he had an uncle and five siblings living and working with him all the time, there was a fine chance he was not used to his own company.

I vaguely recognized the area I was in as the arrivals hall, and headed toward the bottom of the stairs that I must have come down myself—although they looked different from this angle.

“Will we go up above and look?” he said.

“At what?” I had a moment of anxiety at the idea that this boy might still be hanging around when John emerged from the registry room and would detract from our joyous reunion.

“There’s a balcony upstairs—you can see them in the registry room before they are let through to where we can meet them. Follow me.” Desmond led me up two flights of stairs and in through a door to a narrow balcony looking down on the registry room. I remembered the balcony now, remembered seeing one or two people looking down on me when I was a part of that heaving crowd the day I arrived. The registry room below our feet was only starting to fill up. It seemed almost empty from where we were, but as I searched for John I realized the room was so big there were more people than I’d thought, and they were arriving up the stairs all the time. Four or five times my heart was in my mouth as I thought I recognized his build and shape in a man. Every time it wasn’t him, I felt my heart buckle briefly with the idea that I might have forgotten what John looked like. Or might he have changed to me beyond recognition—lost his hair, gained weight? I saw a man with a walking stick being led off by a couple of officials and felt panic until he looked up and I saw in his drunken, angry face that he wasn’t my husband. That I had suspected it might be sickened me further. Frustration and anticipation built in me to such an extent that I wished I had stayed at the bottom of the stairs, where I could get a closer look as he came through from the registry and be absolutely certain. Yet I was in such a hurry to get my first sight of him that I stayed on the balcony. I walked round and round and strained my eyes to check the face of every man as he took up his seat for registration, watching each as he walked through the place of entry and down the final steps. I felt confident at least that I had not missed him going through.

The noise in the room was building, as the long benches running the length of it filled up. I heard Desmond cry out, “Noreen! Noreen!
Noreen Hegarty!
” A young girl stood up in the middle of the room below. “Noreen—up here, Noreen—
look up!
”
She almost fell over with the strain of searching for him in the sky, and when she found Desmond, she called up to him, her arms outstretched, her face dazzled with happiness and relief. The woman sitting next to her made her sit down again, but she continued to turn her head toward us and point. Desmond ran up to me and said, quite unnecessarily, “That’s my sister—Noreen.” Then, “Any sign of your husband?” He was shuffling, unsure about whether to go down and wait at the bottom of the stairs or continue to stay where he was. He was in a hesitant, awkward place, where he could not greet his sister properly and yet had half greeted her already.

“You should go down,” I said. “She could get called through any second, and you should be at the bottom of the stairs to greet her.”

He seemed grateful to have somebody tell him what to do and put his hand to mine to shake it. “Good luck,” he said.

I squeezed his hand and said, “Look after your sister.”

“I will.”

But my eyes were scanning the crowd beneath us before we had finished saying good-bye.

For a while there was still a steady stream of people filing into the benches, through the mesh gates and down the stairs. As people spotted their loved ones below, the balcony emptied. I told myself not to worry. John would be last off the boat. Let everybody else go before him. That was the way John was. Or perhaps his legs were not fully mended and he was slow to walk. I hurried to the far end of the balcony so that I could see the area where they did the medical exams just before people entered the Great Hall, but the area was now clear of passengers and one or two officials were walking away—their work done. Panic propelled me to run round and round the balcony, frantically checking each face below again—although I knew he wasn’t there. I rushed downstairs into the arrivals area and grabbed a man in a uniform and asked him, urgently, if everybody from Queenstown was off. He said the ship had been emptied an hour ago. I ran back upstairs. John had to be down there somewhere. Leaning over the balcony, I called out his name. The two dozen or so people left to be processed looked up at me. I ran back down to the arrivals hall and waited at the bottom of the stairs until every last person was out—then I stood and looked at the closed doors, willing them to open and for my John to come through.