On the first Sunday after she arrived, Fiona went to Mass at the parish church to try to atone for what she’d done. Before partaking of the sacrament, she confessed her sin of helping her father steal clothing from the staterooms. She wept as she did her penance. Afterward Fiona felt so clean and light she could have floated up to the ceiling along with the incense and candle smoke. Her sins had been washed away, she was forgiven, loved.
But at what price? The parish church had a crucifix hanging above the altar like the one in St. Brigid’s back home, and as Fiona listened to the story of Christ’s passion—how He’d been scourged, mocked, beaten, crucified— the price of her forgiveness seemed much too high. Still, the priest had assured her that God had forgiven her sins. He had given her a brandnew start in life, and she was grateful.
Then Rory needed her help again.
“America is colder than I bargained for,” he told her after a long day of walking the streets, searching for work. “We’ll be needing warmer coats.”
She knew right away what he had in mind—they certainly had no money to buy coats.
“No, Dad. I don’t want to steal anymore. If we get caught here in America, they’ll send us to jail or deport us or—”
“Hush, Fiona. I’ll hear no more of it. Come with me.”
He led her to a street lined with shops, and as they strolled down the sidewalk, peering into the storefront windows, Rory acted as if he was the richest man in the world with money to spare. It was after dark, and the shops were all closed for the night, but the streets were still surprisingly busy. Fiona watched her father carefully, wondering what he was up to, and saw him eyeing the constable who was patrolling his beat farther down the block. As soon as the patrolman’s back was turned, Rory pulled Fiona into a dark, narrow alley between buildings.
Cold, slushy snow soaked Fiona’s shoes as she sloshed through the unseen puddles. She heard rats squealing in the shadows. A moment later they emerged near the rear entrance to a tailor shop. She was surprised at how quickly and easily her father jimmied open the door. He went straight to a rack of men’s suits as if he had picked one out ahead of time, tossed the hanger aside, then balled the suit up and stuffed it beneath the front of his knitted vest. Next he chose a fancy wool velour coat with a shawl collar for Fiona.
“Put it on!” he ordered. “Over top of your other wrap.”
Fiona obeyed, barely able to see what she was doing in the dark, certain that the policeman would burst through the door any moment. Her father grabbed a tweed overcoat for himself, buttoning it over his jacket and his protruding sweater, then snatched a felt cloche off one of the mannequins and tossed it to Fiona.
“Here’s your new hat. Put it on.” Barely a minute after breaking in, Rory pulled the door shut behind them again and headed back down the alley. “Take my arm,” he ordered when they reached the street. “Walk slowly, look in the windows. We have all the time in the world.”
Fiona tried to convince herself that she wasn’t a thief—her Dad was. But she knew she didn’t dare attend Mass, especially in her new coat and hat, unless she confessed. What if she got the same young priest she’d confessed to the last time? He had told her to go and sin no more.
On Sunday Fiona waited in an empty pew with her head bowed, watching the confessionals until she saw an older priest enter the booth. She quickly rose and stood in his line, rehearsing what she would say.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began. “I-I’m sometimes reluctant to obey my father. This week I… I argued with him when he gave me an order.”
“You must always obey your father,” the priest said with a sigh. He sounded bored. Fiona wondered if he perked up whenever someone confessed a more interesting sin. “The Lord commands us to honor our father and mother that our days may be long on this earth,” the priest told her.
“Yes, Father. I-I will obey him from now on.”
Fiona did her penance, but this time she didn’t feel quite as clean as the last time she’d confessed. Nor did she float on air with the incense. The coat she was wearing seemed to weigh her down.
One month after she arrived, Fiona finally got a job working for a milliner. She had worn her new coat, and she knew by the way the manager, Mrs. Gurche, sized her up from head to toe that her pretty face and nicer-than-average clothing had won her the job.
Madame Deveau’s hat shop was in one of the nicer parts of town, a few blocks from Central Park. The store occupied the first floor of the two-story brick building; the loft where the hats were made filled the second. Fiona had traipsed through dozens of factories in her search for work, most of them noisy, hot, dreary places that looked as though a single match would burn them to the ground. Madame Deveau’s workshop was pleasant in comparison, an open, airy space filled with light from windows in the front and rear.
“If you work hard and learn the business,” Mrs. Gurche assured Fiona, “you can work your way up—or I should say down—to a job as a salesgirl on the first floor.”
Fiona nodded and said, “Thank you, ma’am,” but becoming a salesgirl was never her dream. She thought of the high hopes she’d had when she’d left Ireland of living in a mansion in wealth and ease. She remembered her mother and sisters, who’d been left to fend for themselves in the smoky cottage. She fought back her tears.
“Is something wrong, Miss Quinn?”
“Not at all,” Fiona said with her prettiest smile. “I’m… I’m grateful for such an opportunity.”
They walked up the back stairs to the workshop, and Mrs. Gurche gave Fiona a leather work apron to slip over her clothes. The experienced hat makers sat at tables near the window, creating their masterpieces of high fashion. They were gifted professionals, and Fiona enjoyed watching them work, making all sorts of hats in the latest styles from Paris. Their wealthy clientele ordered berets and boaters and turbans and cloche hats—all made from silk, velvet, jacquard, and brocade and trimmed with sequins, coq feathers, ostrich plumes, pearls, and lace.
But Fiona’s work was boring and tedious, requiring little skill. Her first tasks were sewing the designer’s labels into the finished hats and “swirling” millinery ribbon with a steam iron before sewing it inside the crown as a sweatband. As time passed and she gained experience, Fiona learned how to fit the finished hats on balsa head blocks to steam out the wrinkles.
“Let it cool on the block for at least ten minutes,” Mrs. Gurche cautioned, “or the hat will lose its shape.”
Fiona became adept at using millinery needles and special thread to sew on all kinds of trimmings: bows, flowers, ostrich plumes, dyed coq feathers, pheasant tail, dyed goose and peacock feathers. She learned how to cut out patterns and how to operate a sewing machine to shirr the fabric. Fiona worked in the hat shop for ten hours a day—from six in the morning until four in the afternoon—six days a week. Some of the other girls she worked with told her where to get piecework to earn extra money sewing at night.
When Rory Quinn found a job as a dock worker loading freight, he and Fiona moved out of Cousin Darby’s apartment, renting two rooms in a noisy tenement much like their cousin’s, two blocks away. They still had no water or electricity and still used communal outhouses and water spigots. An iron stove heated the rooms and cooked their food. It wasn’t the life Fiona had imagined.
“Do you regret leaving Ireland?” she asked her father one night. They sat on either side of the stove, eating the thin stew she had cooked. It consisted mostly of potatoes, with a watery broth and a few morsels of beef from a neck bone.
“Of course not,” Rory said between bites. “Although I wish Darby had warned me before we left Ireland that every blooming pub in America has been shut down for good. A man needs a pint or two at the end of a long day’s work.”
Fiona didn’t reply. She was glad that the sale of alcoholic beverages had been prohibited all over America. They could save more money if her dad wasn’t wasting it on pints every night, and that meant they could send for Mam an
d the girls that much sooner. Fiona longed for them to come— not only because she missed her mother, but because she was growing exhausted from so much work. She had to rise early every morning to make breakfast for her and her father and pack their lunches before hurrying off to Madame Deveau’s hat shop. Then, after working a ten-hour day, she had to shop for groceries on the way home, get the fire going in their apartment, and cook supper. After washing their dishes, she would wash their clothes, hanging them on lines strung across the apartment. The constantly dripping laundry made their rooms clammy and damp. When Fiona finished the wash, she did piecework by lamplight, sewing on buttons or doing hand-stitching to earn a few extra dollars. This left little time to take care of herself, bathing and washing her hair, before falling into bed for a few hours’sleep.
No, this wasn’t the life Fiona had dreamed of. She worked harder in America than she ever had at Wickham Hall—and ate considerably less. She cried herself to sleep nearly every night, homesick for Ireland. She missed Kevin. Her father had made a terrible mistake.
“When do you think we’ll be sending for Mam and the girls?” she asked as she spooned the last of the stew into her father’s bowl.
“Not until we can afford a bigger place to live.”
“But this isn’t any smaller than our cottage back home. Sheila could get a job, too, and help—”
“We’re better off on our own. Besides, I can’t afford passage for your mam and sisters, yet. I’ll hear no more about it.”
Fiona stood, too frustrated to continue this conversation, and went to fetch water to rinse their dishes. Sure, her father was better off—he didn’t have to do all of the household chores after working all day. As Fiona waited in line in the chilly spring air for her turn at the spigot, she made up her mind to find a way out of this neighborhood, this life—with or without her father.
She began to study the wealthy ladies who patronized the hat shop: how they dressed, how they walked and talked and wore their hair. Compared to them, Fiona looked like a frumpy immigrant. If she ever wanted to rise out of the slum, she would have to do more than wear stolen clothes; she would have to look and act like an American.
Fiona learned from the girls at work that the most beautiful and glamorous women in America were the film stars from Hollywood. She began saving a few cents from her pay every week so she could go to the movie matinees on Sunday afternoon. She studied everything the gorgeous starlets did: how they wore their hair and did their makeup, how they walked and dressed. Her favorites were Greta Garbo, Mary Pickford, and Gloria Swanson. She dreamed of marrying a man as handsome and dashing as Rudolph Valentino or Douglas Fairbanks.
Spring turned to summer, bringing warmer weather and longer days at last. Encouraged by the girls at work, Fiona went toWoolworth’s one payday after work and splurged on makeup. Then she went to a beauty shop and had her long hair bobbed in the latest style.
“Oh, you look just like Greta Garbo!” the ladies in the salon insisted. Fiona smiled at her reflection in the mirror, pleased with the modern American girl she had become. She passed a department store on the way home, and when she saw the latest dress styles from Paris in the window, she went inside and spent $11.95 for a new dress made of silk georgette crepe and Spanish lace.
“I’d like to wear it home,” she told the salesgirl. Her father couldn’t make her return it if it was already worn. Even so, she worried about what he would say—especially when he learned that she’d spent most of her pay.
“What did you do?” he shouted as soon as he saw her. He appraised her from head to toe, scowling fiercely. Fiona forced herself to sound bold and carefree.
“I got my hair bobbed. Long hair is so old-fashioned.”
“Your face looks different, too.”
“I bought some makeup. All the fashionable women wear lipstick and rouge. And this dress is the latest style from Paris. Do you like it?”
“That’s not a dress! It’s indecent! It looks like you’re wearing your blooming nightclothes! I can see your ankles!”
“It’s the style, Dad. You told me to dress like a rich woman—well, this is the way they dress. Besides, I have very nice ankles.”
“Well, I’ll not have you spending all your money to look like a tart. Take everything back!”
Fiona felt her temper flare. “How am I supposed to meet any rich American men if I look like a dowdy, old-fashioned immigrant? I thought that’s why we came to America—so I could marry a rich husband and live in a mansion. Instead, all I do is work and sleep and work some more. I’m sick of it! It’s high time we got out of this horrible tenement.”
She had never defied her father before, and the confrontation left her shaken. But much to her surprise, Rory backed down. “Well, you’d better change out of that dress before you fix dinner,” he growled. “You don’t want to ruin it.” He said no more about her new look. Nor did he complain about all the money she’d spent.
He began buying the newspaper every day and spent a great deal of time reading it, tearing out certain articles, circling others in pencil. Fiona looked through his collection and saw that he was saving articles about all sorts of social events: ribbon-cuttings, gallery openings, charity events, and receptions.
“What is all this? What are you up to now, Dad?” she asked as she peered over his shoulder one night.
“I have a plan to get us out of this place.” He looked up at her and smiled—the first smile she’d seen on his face in a long time. “Here, I want you to sit down and read today’s news, Fiona. Find out what’s going on in the world so you can discuss things intelligently, understand?”
“Discuss… with whom?”
He ignored her question. “For instance, did you know that they’re going to be electing a new president this fall? Everyone who is a United States citizen gets to vote for the man they want—either Warren Harding or James Cox. And women can vote, too, for the first time. Can you imagine such a thing?”
“What about the Catholics? Do they get to vote?”
“Aye. Religion doesn’t matter over here. No one cares which church you go to in America. Read this,” he insisted, thumping the newspaper with his hand. “It tells about the most famous thoroughbred in America, Man O’War. And you need to know about the new League of Nations. Rich men talk about these things, and you need to know, too, so you can converse with them.”
“What if they ask questions about me? What should I say?”
“Anything but the truth, that’s for certain.”
The thought of committing yet another sin made Fiona afraid. “I’m not a very good liar, Dad. The nuns said that the devil is the father of lies, and—”
“Enough about the nuns. That’s superstitious nonsense. If someone asks questions about you, tell them you’re visiting from Ireland—that much is true. Tell them your father has business here—they don’t need to know what that business is. And don’t forget to look at their left hand for a wedding ring. Most married men in America wear them.”
Several evenings a week and on Sunday afternoons, Fiona and her father dressed in their best clothes and rode the subway to the nicer sections of New York where all the fancy social gatherings took place. She was very nervous at first as she watched Rory bluff his way into various events. But once inside, Fiona gradually gained confidence. No one questioned their presence or asked to see their invitation.
She studied the upper-class women as she strolled around art galleries or nibbled canape s at receptions and quickly learned to imitate their manners and bright laughter. But it was the men who fascinated her the most. They seemed so handsome compared to the working men on the Lower East Side, so elegant and well-mannered. She loved the way they treated women with kindness and attentiveness.
“You must put on some weight, Dad,” she told him as they rode the subway home one evening, the car lurching from side to side as it sped down the darkened tunnel. “All the rich men are plump—and their skin isn’t brown and leathery from the sun.” br />
“Nothing I can do about that, lass. I work outside in all sorts of weather.”
“And your shoes are a disgrace. I’m surprised no one noticed them and tossed you out in the street.” She hated telling him that, knowing how he would go about getting a new pair, but she needed better shoes, as well. Two nights later they broke into a shoe repair shop, and each took a pair of shoes.
Besides bluffing their way into receptions and social events, Fiona and her father started lounging around the lobbies of fancy hotels. Businessmen who belonged to the Rotary Club or Kiwanis often gathered there to attend meetings, and occasionally one of them would smile at Fiona or tip his hat to her. On Sunday afternoons, she and her father strolled around Central Park or along Fifth Avenue. They looked in the windows of expensive stores and spent some of their precious money sipping tea in the fine coffee shops where the upper classes went. One Friday evening, as they passed an overcrowded coffee shop, Rory spotted a gentleman seated all alone reading a newspaper.
“Quick, Fiona. Go inside and ask if you could join him,” he urged.
“Won’t he think I’m brash?”
“Tell him you’ve been shopping all day, you’re tired, there aren’t any empty tables. Go on, girl. This is your golden opportunity.” He practically shoved her through the door. Fiona went forward on shaking knees.
“Excuse me, would you mind if I sat here?” she asked the man. He lowered his newspaper and looked up at her in surprise. “There don’t seem to be any empty tables,” she explained, gesturing to the crowded shop. She flashed him her prettiest smile.
“Not at all.” He scrambled to his feet and helped Fiona with her chair. “I’m nearly finished, in fact.”
“Oh, please don’t hurry on my account. I wouldn’t mind some company. I would have waited for a free table, but I’m dying for a cup of tea.”