“Precisely. I’m going to go back to my original intention of helping to reunite families. I’ve decided to place an advertisement in the Irish newspapers, and see if that brings any customers. If not, then I’ll start thinking about a change of profession.”
Sid jumped up at the sound of the morning post landing on our doormat. She came back with a big smile on her face. “Look at this. Postcard from Ryan.”
This was, of course, our friend, the delightful, flamboyant, annoying Irish playwright, Ryan O’Hare.
“Where is he?” Gus leaped up, peering over Sid’s shoulder to see the postcard. “The postmark is Pittsburgh.”
“That’s what he says. Listen. ‘Greetings from the land of smoke and fume. We open in Pittsburgh tonight, although what these Vulcans will think of a wickedly urbane satire, I shudder to think. After Cleveland I have come to realize that I was right. Civilization does cease outside of New York. The air here is quite unbreathable. My coughing at night rivals that of La Dame aux Camelias, indeed I may well return consumptive . . . Yours in great suffering and tribulation, Ryan O’Hare, playwright extraordinaire.’ ”
Sid and Gus looked at each other and laughed. “Typical Ryan. Everything has to be dramatic,” Gus said. “Now he’s dying of consumption.”
“Of course I do feel for him,” Sid said. “It was most unfortunate that President McKinley died just before his play was due to open. It wasn’t his fault that the theaters were all closed for a month of national mourning. So it makes sense to take the play on the road before tackling New York, even if that road includes Pittsburgh.”
“Let’s hope he returns to triumph at Daly’s Theater, just like he planned,” Gus said. “Is there a tad more coffee in that pot do you think, dearest?”
I listened to them chatting merrily but my thoughts had moved elsewhere. Something about Ryan’s postcard had left me feeling uneasy. We had, of course, been together when the president was shot. That would leave anyone feeling uneasy, but it was over now. The poor president was dead and buried and life had gone back to normal again. Then I realized what it was—Ryan’s mention of consumption. My nagging conscience came back to me. Poor Kathleen O’Connor was dying of consumption, back home in Ireland while I had been neglecting her children more than I should. I resolved to pay them a visit this very morning. If their conditions were not satisfactory, then I’d do something about it, however much I hated to leave this wonderful life of bohemian ease.
I got to my feet. “I should go out,” I said.
They were instantly at my side, the postcard from Ryan forgotten. “You’ll do no such thing,” Gus said. She could be quite forceful in spite of her delicate appearance. “You’ve just spent a night in damp clothing in jail. You need a good long rest.”
I tried to protest, but Sid took my arm. “No arguing. Now up you go and we’ll wake you for lunch.”
I thought it best not to protest further. I went up the two flights to my room, opened the windows, and lay down on the bed. Delightful autumn sunshine streamed in through my window, along with the chirping of busy sparrows in the bushes outside. I could have been miles from the city. How could I possibly give this up? I tried to sleep but my mind was coiled tighter than a watch spring. In the end I gave up, put on my business suit—since my dark skirt was still sodden around the hem—then crept down the stairs like a naughty child. Out of Patchin Place, diagonally across Washington Square until I met the Bowery. Then I headed south to the Lower East Side where Seamus and his family were now again living.
I stopped at a butcher to buy a chicken, and at the greengrocer to buy grapes, remembering how Seamus had enjoyed them before. Then I added two lollipops from a street stall. If you’re wondering where the money came from, seeing that I wasn’t making any yet, I was paying myself a modest salary from the money Paddy had left in the business—or more accurately, the money I had found hidden in the bottom of a filing cabinet drawer. I had not been na?ve enough to hand it over to the police but had opened a bank account with it until a next of kin claimed it. So far no next of kin had come forward.