Eastland Read online

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Ivanko!” I tried to pull away. “Really! I don’t know anything!”

  “Leave her be!” Mrs. Mulligan launched to her feet. She bounded down, around, and over her children, and swept me up in a choking embrace. “Saints be praised! You’re alive!” She shook me from side to side. “Glory be to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” When she finished thanking the heavens for my safe return, she released me. “We heard about the calamity from Mr. Drojewska. We feared for your life.”

  The local undertaker, Mr. Drojewska, had spread the news. Of course. Only a few families in this neighborhood, the Kozneckis and Drojewskas first among them, could afford telephones.

  “But here you be, hale and hearty.” At last, Mrs. Mulligan stepped aside.

  The slumped figure on the top stoop sat upright.

  “Oh, Mama!” I sprinted up the steps two at a time. “Your premonition! You were right! Can you ever forgive me?”

  Mama was reaching for me, when she went limp. Her eyes rolled back in her head. I dropped to my knees beside her and scooped her up in my arms.

  “Look, Mama! I’m here! I’m alive.” Someone handed me a bottle of smelling salts. I yanked off the stopper and waved the open bottle under her nose. Mama shook her head, and then her eyes opened. She seized my arm.

  “You disobeyed me! Paaa! I was so angry. But then we heard and I thought you were …”

  Mama paused, seemingly unable to go on.

  Unfortunately for me, our audience was more than willing to continue. They fired questions at me again.

  “Did you see my daughter?”

  “Delia, what about my father?”

  “My brothers. Were they on the boat with you?”

  I looked into all the distraught faces and knew I’d have to relive my nightmare. But how? I didn’t have the strength to go through it all again.

  “Please!” I helped Mama to her shaky feet. “Let me tend to my mother. Get her inside so she can rest.”

  “Non!” Mama shouted with alarming intensity. “I am good.” She adjusted her apron and straightened her brown skirt. “I will stay.” She touched my cheek. “My child lives. But for them?” She nodded toward our agitated neighbors. “Only God knows. You must tell them what you can.”

  I could never, would never, oppose Mama again. I gathered my scattered thoughts and began by painting a picture of the happy scene before the disaster.

  “I don’t care about any of that!” howled Mrs. Ivanko. “What about my husband?”

  “Hush now!” Mrs. Mulligan thrust up a fleshy arm. “Let Delia tell it her way.”

  I went on with my story until it took that inevitable, deadly turn. I hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “Something to drink, please.”

  “Eamon! Go!” Mrs. Mulligan cocked her thumb at her eldest son.

  Eamon disappeared through the front door. I heard him racing barefooted up the interior staircase. A moment later, he reappeared on the porch with a jelly jar.

  “Then what?” He shoved the makeshift glass at me. “What happened then? Huh? What?”

  I downed the lukewarm water in one long gulp, surprised at how thirsty and hungry I’d become. But I knew I couldn’t hold everyone off long enough to eat, so I set down the jar and braved on. By the time I got around to the doctors and their pulmotors, the smelling salts had made the rounds. Twice.

  “Should I go on?” I stared at all the beleaguered faces.

  A few nodded, but the response lacked the earlier frenzy. I explained about the aftermath, but skipped the bit about Lars and my attempted plunge into the river, and ended with the nameless family.

  “But what about my boy?” someone yelled.

  “My husband!” Mrs. Ivanko shrieked, agitated beyond reason now. She pounced on me, grabbing a fistful of my hair. “Tell me about my husband! I need to know!”

  I tried to wriggle free, but I only managed to tear my hair at the roots.

  Mrs. Mulligan jumped in between us. “Leave her be, Elena! The poor child didn’t murder your husband.”

  At that, Mrs. Ivanko deflated, collapsing into a sobbing heap on the steps.

  Mrs. Mulligan threw her arms around her. “There, there, Eleny, my love. ’Twill be aw right.”

  But I knew Mrs. Mulligan had it wrong. Nothing would ever be all right again.

  “There’s no more?” some man hollered.

  “I wish I had answers for all of you. I’m truly sorry, but I’ve told you everything I know. There’s no more.” And then I remembered.

  “Mae!”

  I streaked down the steps but stopped on the sidewalk and looked back at Mama. Her black eyes were glassy with tears, her pallid cheeks flushed with worry and grief. She needed me to stay with her, but I couldn’t.

  “I have to see Mae’s parents. She and I got separated. Karel stayed behind to find her.”

  “Must you leave so soon?”

  “I made a promise.”

  Mama sighed. “Then you must keep it. Oui. You may go.”

  9

  Mae lived only a block and a half away, yet her world had always seemed miles apart from mine. The Kozneckis were one of only a handful of Cicero families lucky enough to own their home. Like Mama and me, most people paid rent, not mortgages. After years of doling out our hard-earned money to our landlord, we would have nothing but our furniture to show for all our efforts.

  But the Koznecki family had a stately Victorian home, peacock-blue, with a full wraparound porch. As schoolgirls, Mae and I had spent many a summer night sitting on the stoop eating ice cream ’til our tummies hurt. As we grew, we would glide away rainy afternoons on the porch swing, giggling and singing and making plans for our lives.

  “When I get married,” Mae had said when we were thirteen, “you can be my maid of honor.”

  “And wear green?”

  “No, purple.”

  “But my favorite color is green.”

  She pushed her hands into her hips. “It’s my wedding.”

  “But then at my wedding you have to wear green.” I spit on my palm and held out my slimy hand to her. “Blood brother swear?”

  Mae shook her head. I glared at her.

  “Blood sister swear.” She spit into her own palm. “Good for the next fifty years.”

  Mae had sworn to be there. She had sworn!

  An unbearable sob threatened to strangle me. I nearly stumbled off the curb. I was dragging on, fighting to contain my emotions, when the blue Victorian came into view.

  Some eight or nine women stood about the porch and the steps, their husbands pacing and smoking on the sidewalk below. Mr. and Mrs. Koznecki sat on the porch swing, her head on his shoulder. Mrs. Koznecki had a card in her hand, and I knew, from my countless visits to this house, that she had to be holding a prayer card for one of her favorite saints.

  She could be praying to St. Philomena, the patron of children, or maybe in her desperation, Mrs. Koznecki was calling upon St. Jude, the patron of hopeless causes. But I imagined that today Mae’s mother was entreating the queen of all the saints, the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  I slowed as my forgotten fatigue washed over me again. What would I say to Mae’s parents? What could I say? I didn’t know anything that might bring them some relief and comfort. I was thinking about running back home, when Mr. Koznecki called out to me.

  “Delia! We’re so happy to see you! We heard you were alive!”

  Though his voice sounded strained, he still managed to look distinguished, with the ends of his handlebar moustache waxed to gentlemanly perfection.

  “Western Electric called to tell us Karel had reported in.”

  Mrs. Koznecki lifted her head and stared at me with wet, puffy eyes. She had thick, auburn hair a few shades darker than Karel’s cinnamony blond, which she maintained with weekly visits to the beauty salon. Mrs. Koznecki always looked coiffed and styled, but not today. Most likely she’d been awakened by news of the disaster and had dressed in a hurry. She had tried to pull her hair back in som
e semblance of a braid, but long, stray strands had escaped and dangled around her wan face.

  I’d never once seen her mussed or unkempt. It pained me to see her so now.

  “I thought you and Mae and Karel all went together this morning. Then you must know—” She stopped, her bottom lip quivering with the question she seemed too afraid to ask.

  “We left at different times. But we caught up with each other on the boat.” I trudged up the steps, feeling thicker and heavier than ever in my life. They slid over, and I sank onto the swing. Mrs. Koznecki clutched my hand in hers. I glanced down at her other hand.

  She held not one, but three tattered prayer cards.

  I swallowed hard. “You’ve already heard about the Eastland? How it capsized at the dock?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Koznecki. “We know all that. What about Mae? Is she alive?”

  “Why didn’t Karel leave word of Mae?” Mrs. Koznecki’s eyes were hazy and unfocused. “We left him to watch over her. What happened? Where is she?”

  As if remembering my presence, Mrs. Koznecki squeezed my hand so hard my knuckles cracked. Yet the pain didn’t bother me. On the contrary, the discomfort let me know I could still feel something in this otherwise numb body.

  “Mae stayed below deck, dancing. I went above and found Karel on the topmost deck. We escaped by climbing over the railing onto the hull. Your son saved my life. You should have seen him. So brave, so quick-thinking.” So handsome.

  “But what about Mae?” Mr. Koznecki persisted.

  “I don’t know what happened to Mae.”

  Mrs. Koznecki shrieked and then swooned back. The prayer cards slipped through her fingers, hitting the wooden boards with a soft whoosh.

  “My pet, my dearest!” Mr. Koznecki cradled his wife in his arms. “She’ll be fine. Our Mae’s a scrapper.”

  “If anyone could survive,” I said. “It’s Mae. Please don’t worry. Karel will find her. He promised he wouldn’t come home without her.”

  But no words could console Mrs. Koznecki. She wept uncontrollably now, having cracked under the strain of not knowing.

  The women who had been waiting about the porch rushed to her side, offering support and smelling salts and tears of their own. Mr. Koznecki got up, motioning for me to follow him around the side of the wraparound porch.

  “You can tell me the truth, Delia.” He’d waited until we were out of earshot of his wife. “Mae is dead. I know it. I feel it in my soul.” He pounded his chest with such force I feared he might crack a rib.

  “Please, no! I’ve told you the real story. I don’t know what happened to Mae. God knows, I wish I did.” I burst into tears, choking out my words. “Hundreds. Upon hundreds. Survived. I couldn’t check … them all. We can’t lose … hope.”

  “Then why isn’t she here? You made it home some time ago. If Mae survived, then why hasn’t someone telephoned with news? Why hasn’t Karel called?”

  I had posed those same questions to myself all day. Where was Mae? If she were alive, then why hadn’t she been shoved into a passing car? Or taken a streetcar home?

  Mr. Koznecki was right. Mae should have been here by now.

  I wiped the streaks of tears from my face and tried to look optimistic.

  “I’m sure Mae’s fine. She probably stayed to search for us like Karel remained to look for her.”

  Mr. Koznecki rolled one end of his handlebar moustache between his fingers as he thought.

  “That could explain their tardiness.”

  “Right! And let’s say they found each other by now, but the lines for the telephones were too long. They were, you know. Blocks long. Karel and Mae knew they could get home before they got a turn to call. Or Mae could have been hurt.”

  Mr. Koznecki gasped.

  “Sorry, sir! I only meant that many passengers were pulled from the river unconscious. But some were revived,” I added quickly, “and taken to local hospitals.”

  “Yes, yes. Mae could be laid up right now.”

  “Any minute, a nurse or Mae herself will get a message to us.”

  “Yes, any minute now.” Mr. Koznecki rolled the end of his moustache and drifted back around to the front of the house.

  I paced along the far side of the porch, turning over all the hopeful possibilities in my mind until weariness overtook me. I sank to the boards and leaned back against the house, pressing my hand to the watch that rested over my heart. Mae held a piece of that heart, now and always. I closed my eyes, needing to rest for a moment.

  “Delia.” The voice was hesitant and soft.

  “Huh? What?” My eyes popped open. I wiped spittle from the corner of my mouth and looked up.

  Mae’s twelve-year-old cousin, Gracie, came around the corner, carrying a tray. She was petite for her age. She looked more like nine or ten than twelve, and because of her size, Mae had always babied her. But Gracie was not one to be coddled. She seemed sensible and mature. I’d always liked her for that.

  “Some supper?” Gracie held out the tray to me.

  I glanced toward the street. The rain had worsened. The sky had turned a furious shade of black. I checked my watch. It was four o’clock.

  I staggered to my feet. “What about Mae? Any news?”

  Gracie shook her head, her waist-length ringlets swaying and bouncing.

  “Have they heard from Karel?”

  “Not yet.” Gracie waved the tray under my nose. “Stew and biscuits?”

  “No thanks. I’m really not—” My stomach interrupted with a rumble.

  “Sounds like you’re hungry to me.” Gracie had just handed me the tray, when someone let out a frightful squeal. “Oh, no! Another one!” She ran to the railing. I scampered after her.

  Officer Kennelly, one of our local beat cops, approached the house two doors east. A woman stood on the porch of that house, shaking her head and wailing.

  “No! No! Not my Joey!”

  Kennelly climbed the steps, put his arm around the woman, and escorted her into the house.

  “Been going on like that all day,” Gracie said. “You should eat.” She motioned toward the tray I’d forgotten was in my hands.

  I managed a few bites of stew and half of one biscuit. The food seemed to revive my ebbing spirits and with them, my hopes. I finished the other half biscuit. I was sopping up the last of the stew with my second biscuit, when I heard a strange plinking sound. I set my tray aside and rushed back to the railing in time to see one of the Drojewska boys—the undertaker’s youngest—roaring down the street on his bicycle.

  “Mrs. Mankowiecz! Mrs. Mankowiecz!” The Drojewska boy rang his bell. Plink-plink!

  Across the street, a heavy-set woman wrapped in a woolen shawl crept to the edge of her porch

  “Oh, no, no, no!” She swayed from side to side as though she might wither at any moment.

  “Both your girls are alive!” the Drojewska boy shouted. “Western Electric called. They’re on their way home right now!”

  Mrs. Mankowiecz shrieked in relief. The neighborhood burst into joyful whoops.

  “If those girls survived …” I smiled at Gracie. “Then Mae could still be alive.”

  She grabbed my hands and whirled me around as another commotion started up.

  “Someone’s coming!” Gracie dropped my hands and stared out at the street.

  “Let it be Mae. It has to be Mae.” I bit my lip watching, waiting, willing.

  The people on the sidewalk murmured and then shrank back. Karel appeared, his crisp, white shirt stained a greasy gray. One leg of his trousers had been ripped off at the knee, his stocking garter exposed. He was without his striped blazer, straw boater, and tie.

  And, without Mae.

  10

  I didn’t remember how I’d gotten back home from the Kozneckis’ or exactly what I’d told Mama when I’d arrived. I had a foggy recollection of finding my bedroom and pulling off my rainwet clothes. But now I was shivering myself out of my stupor. I needed to get warm. I changed into f
resh undergarments, grabbed the first dress I found in my closet, and slipped it on. I blew on my trembling hands to warm them and then kicked off my snakeskin shoes.

  I was tying my black, ankle-high boots, when I remembered my new watch, still pinned to my wet dress. I raced back to the drippy pile of clothes on the floor, removed the watch, and repinned it on my clean, dry dress. Right there and then, I made a pledge.

  I would never go another day without my cherished watch pinned near my heart.

  Somewhat revived in both body and spirit, I scooped up my everyday purse and hurried down the hall. The beaded bag I’d left behind this morning was now on the golden oak sideboard in the dining room. I transferred my comb, latchkey, and pocketbook from that bag into my everyday, scooped up the umbrella I should have had with me all along, and headed outside to wait once again for Karel. But this time we weren’t going on any picnic.

  Tonight, we would search for Mae.

  When he’d returned home without her, everyone, including Karel, had feared the worst. He told us he’d rescued two teenage boys from drowning and then despite exhaustion, had jumped back into the Chicago River to try and save a mother and baby. The mother had perished, but Karel had brought the baby to safety. He’d spent the entire day on or near the Eastland but had never found Mae.

  Or her body.

  Mae was still out there somewhere, and I was determined to find her. I would not shed one more tear until I had verifiable, undeniable proof.

  From where I stood on my porch, I could hear the doleful keening of my grief-stricken neighborhood. In homes up and down the street, families mourned for their missing or wounded sons, daughters, parents, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins. The loss of life on this block alone was unimaginable.

  Barely six-thirty on a midsummer’s eve, yet oil lamps flickered through every parlor window. There should have been hours of sunlight left to the day, but this heartless rain had brought on an early darkness. I needed to talk to Mama again before Karel arrived, so I popped open my umbrella and walked three doors down to the VandeKipps’, where Mama was keeping vigil in front of their darkened house.

  Mr. and Mrs. VandeKipp and their four children were missing. As of this hour, none had returned and no one had word of them, either. Worried neighbor ladies had urged Father Raczynski from St. Mary’s of Czestochowa to come and lead them in prayer. With their strands of Rosary beads in hand, the women recited the familiar prayers in perfect unity. Well, almost perfect. Mama’s childhood catechism was so entrenched, she would only say the Rosary in French.