exodus, and out onto Steuben Street, where firemen
pointed her toward the Dutch Kitchen, an all-night lunchroom that had become one of several havens for the dispossessed and the injured. She stood in the zero-degree night, searching the thousands
of faces, watching the hotel entrance for a glimpse of her family, until she could no longer bear the cold, then went to the lunchroom, which was already out of all food except bread and coffee.
Two doors away, in the sheltered doorway of the bootmaker’s shop, Jacob Taylor would soon lie in the care of his daughter and Edward.
Geraldine would not see Adelaide’s leap, or Archie’s rescue, would not see Jacob lifted into the same carriage with Adelaide and Katrina, to be taken together to the hospital. She
heard from Maginn, that vulgar reporter, that all were alive but injured, and had gone to St. Peter’s Hospital.
“And Edward is still looking for you, Mrs. Taylor, searching the crowds,” Maginn said. “They don’t know whether you’re alive or dead.”
Geraldine did not wait to be found by Edward. She walked the eleven blocks to the hospital without a coat and caught such a cold that Dr. Fitzroy thought it might turn into pneumonia; and so
kept her home in bed for a week.
Adelaide was hospitalized, and in three days, willful woman, walked out of the hospital without help. Three days after that, she developed such pain that Dr. Fitzroy readmitted her, fearing for
her life.
Katrina was a presence in the ruins, whatever the weather; two hours a day, or more, watching the work crew grow from six to sixty, coming to know the foreman, the fire chief,
the coroner, the policemen, watching ice hacked and shoveled off the debris as the January thaw arrived, hydraulic mining having failed to loosen the debris: for the stream from the hose was too
weak. Relatives of the missing sought out Katrina, confided in her; and she locked in memory the names of the fourteen: Florence Hill, housekeeper; Anna Reilly and Mary Sullivan, linen-room
workers; Ellen Kiley laundress; Thomas Cannon, sweeper; Toby Pender, elevator man; Ferdinand Buletti, cook; Nugenta Staurena, vegetable cook; Bridget Fitzsimmons, kitchen girl; Simon Myers, coffee
boy; Molly Curry, Sally Egan, and Cora and Eileen McNally, chambermaids.
Tom Maginn of The Argus , Edward’s bohemian friend, crossed the street toward Katrina. She’d met Maginn before she became involved with Edward, met him skating on the canal
when she was nineteen, a flirtatious afternoon. He was tall, had a bit of a shuffling walk, a mustache now that grew long and drooped, a strong jawline, some might say. At their first meeting he
said he knew who she was, “the yellow-haired princess of Elk Street,” and he confessed he could never court her, for he had no money, no prospect of any.
“You are the most sublime woman I’ve ever met,” he had told her, “but I’m below your class. I’m a slug in the cellar of your palace.”
She had not spoken to him again until he came to the wedding rehearsal as Edward’s best man. Edward had asked his father to be best man, but Emmett said he would not stand on any altar in
front of God with Jacob Taylor.
Now, hands in his pockets, Maginn tipped his hat, smiled.
“The city is talking about you,” he said. “My editor wants me to write about why you come to the ruins every day.”
“I want to bury the dead.”
“Which dead?”
“The McNally girls. Cora was our housemaid until her sister came from Ireland, and they got a job together.”
“You’re here because of a housemaid?”
“Cora was very special. We told each other things.”
“Did she tell you she was married?”
“Cora?”
“I talked with her husband. He was a pastry chef at the Delavan, but was let go. They married secretly a month ago to bind themselves together, no matter what happened.”
“Oh, the poor man, he must be devastated.”
“I told him I’d let him know when they find her. What about
pointed her toward the Dutch Kitchen, an all-night lunchroom that had become one of several havens for the dispossessed and the injured. She stood in the zero-degree night, searching the thousands
of faces, watching the hotel entrance for a glimpse of her family, until she could no longer bear the cold, then went to the lunchroom, which was already out of all food except bread and coffee.
Two doors away, in the sheltered doorway of the bootmaker’s shop, Jacob Taylor would soon lie in the care of his daughter and Edward.
Geraldine would not see Adelaide’s leap, or Archie’s rescue, would not see Jacob lifted into the same carriage with Adelaide and Katrina, to be taken together to the hospital. She
heard from Maginn, that vulgar reporter, that all were alive but injured, and had gone to St. Peter’s Hospital.
“And Edward is still looking for you, Mrs. Taylor, searching the crowds,” Maginn said. “They don’t know whether you’re alive or dead.”
Geraldine did not wait to be found by Edward. She walked the eleven blocks to the hospital without a coat and caught such a cold that Dr. Fitzroy thought it might turn into pneumonia; and so
kept her home in bed for a week.
Adelaide was hospitalized, and in three days, willful woman, walked out of the hospital without help. Three days after that, she developed such pain that Dr. Fitzroy readmitted her, fearing for
her life.
Katrina was a presence in the ruins, whatever the weather; two hours a day, or more, watching the work crew grow from six to sixty, coming to know the foreman, the fire chief,
the coroner, the policemen, watching ice hacked and shoveled off the debris as the January thaw arrived, hydraulic mining having failed to loosen the debris: for the stream from the hose was too
weak. Relatives of the missing sought out Katrina, confided in her; and she locked in memory the names of the fourteen: Florence Hill, housekeeper; Anna Reilly and Mary Sullivan, linen-room
workers; Ellen Kiley laundress; Thomas Cannon, sweeper; Toby Pender, elevator man; Ferdinand Buletti, cook; Nugenta Staurena, vegetable cook; Bridget Fitzsimmons, kitchen girl; Simon Myers, coffee
boy; Molly Curry, Sally Egan, and Cora and Eileen McNally, chambermaids.
Tom Maginn of The Argus , Edward’s bohemian friend, crossed the street toward Katrina. She’d met Maginn before she became involved with Edward, met him skating on the canal
when she was nineteen, a flirtatious afternoon. He was tall, had a bit of a shuffling walk, a mustache now that grew long and drooped, a strong jawline, some might say. At their first meeting he
said he knew who she was, “the yellow-haired princess of Elk Street,” and he confessed he could never court her, for he had no money, no prospect of any.
“You are the most sublime woman I’ve ever met,” he had told her, “but I’m below your class. I’m a slug in the cellar of your palace.”
She had not spoken to him again until he came to the wedding rehearsal as Edward’s best man. Edward had asked his father to be best man, but Emmett said he would not stand on any altar in
front of God with Jacob Taylor.
Now, hands in his pockets, Maginn tipped his hat, smiled.
“The city is talking about you,” he said. “My editor wants me to write about why you come to the ruins every day.”
“I want to bury the dead.”
“Which dead?”
“The McNally girls. Cora was our housemaid until her sister came from Ireland, and they got a job together.”
“You’re here because of a housemaid?”
“Cora was very special. We told each other things.”
“Did she tell you she was married?”
“Cora?”
“I talked with her husband. He was a pastry chef at the Delavan, but was let go. They married secretly a month ago to bind themselves together, no matter what happened.”
“Oh, the poor man, he must be devastated.”
“I told him I’d let him know when they find her. What about
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