not marrying him.
She told her mother’s servants to monitor Geraldine, make her breakfast, keep her in bed through the morning. Then she dressed, ate freshly baked bread with butter and coffee, and walked
down Elk Street, past the city high school, and down Columbia Street to the Kenmore Hotel, where she bought an Argus at the hotel’s cigar stand. The paper reported there would be a
Catholic mass for the dead at St. Mary’s Catholic church. Eleven of the dead were Catholic, three Protestant. Protestant ministers and mourners would be welcomed. When all bodies were
presumed recovered they would be buried in a mass grave at St. Agnes Catholic Cemetery unless relatives claimed the remains. But who could say whose remains were whose?
Toby Pender might have been buried in an unmarked grave had not Edward bought not only a grave but a sculpted sword-bearing granite angel to mark the resting place of the fire’s principal
hero, the man who saved Geraldine, among many, and who deserved more than anonymity in death. When he first discovered the smoke, Toby rode his cab to every floor to alert all in earshot, picked up
passengers, returned for stragglers, returned again, and yet again on a fourth trip, and was rescuing a lone woman guest when the blast of fire incinerated them both. Toby’s and the
woman’s presences were verified four weeks later, in the final stages of the dig, days after the mass burial, when the woman’s melted diamond ring and Toby’s tiny crooked spine
were found at the bottom of the shaft, along with fleshless, disheveled bones that crumbled at the touch.
Katrina left the Kenmore and walked down to Broadway and stood at her post by the ruins. She was there ten minutes before the digging resumed at eight o’clock. By ten-thirty parts of eight
bodies had been resurrected: part of a thighbone and a pelvic bone, both looking like coal; a wristbone with crisp flesh; the cloth of two dresses, one brown, one black with a weave of dark blue on
the skirt’s hem, both fragments of cloth found adhering to the same flesh.
“It looks to us that these two died in each other’s arms,” said the coroner to a group of reporters, Maginn among them. “We guess they were under the bed, and fell
through to the kitchen, where the fire was hottest. The kitchen and bakeshop were both full of grease and just fed the fire.”
“Those dresses may have belonged to the McNally sisters,” Maginn said to the coroner. “Her husband here recognizes the design in the black one.”
Katrina approached Maginn and Cora’s husband. She stared at the husband, who was holding the piece of dress and weeping. She touched the man’s arm.
“I knew Cora very well,” she said. “Please let me help you bury her and her sister.”
The husband looked at this stranger, then at Maginn.
“This is Mrs. Daugherty,” Maginn told him.
“We can’t help whom it is we love,” Katrina said to the man. “We must learn to avoid love. Love is a mask of death, you know.”
“What’s that?” asked the husband.
“Death is venerable. You can always count on death.” Katrina began to weep, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, saw Edward pushing through the crowd toward her.
“Forgive me,” she said to Cora’s husband. “I weep all the time lately. I weep for everybody. It’s a pity what people come to be.”
“What’s going on?” Edward asked.
“I think you should take her home,” Maginn said.
“Yes,” said Katrina. “There’s other death at home, isn’t there, Edward?”
“Yes, there is, my dear,” Edward said. “I know how you love death, how you need it,” and Katrina smiled at him and wept anew. Maginn and Cora’s husband could only
stare at the two of them.
In a subsequent diary entry Katrina fixed on the fire as the point of transformation of Edward’s and her lives into a unity that transcended marriage, love, and a son:
We were united through the fire in freakish fusion, like Siamese
She told her mother’s servants to monitor Geraldine, make her breakfast, keep her in bed through the morning. Then she dressed, ate freshly baked bread with butter and coffee, and walked
down Elk Street, past the city high school, and down Columbia Street to the Kenmore Hotel, where she bought an Argus at the hotel’s cigar stand. The paper reported there would be a
Catholic mass for the dead at St. Mary’s Catholic church. Eleven of the dead were Catholic, three Protestant. Protestant ministers and mourners would be welcomed. When all bodies were
presumed recovered they would be buried in a mass grave at St. Agnes Catholic Cemetery unless relatives claimed the remains. But who could say whose remains were whose?
Toby Pender might have been buried in an unmarked grave had not Edward bought not only a grave but a sculpted sword-bearing granite angel to mark the resting place of the fire’s principal
hero, the man who saved Geraldine, among many, and who deserved more than anonymity in death. When he first discovered the smoke, Toby rode his cab to every floor to alert all in earshot, picked up
passengers, returned for stragglers, returned again, and yet again on a fourth trip, and was rescuing a lone woman guest when the blast of fire incinerated them both. Toby’s and the
woman’s presences were verified four weeks later, in the final stages of the dig, days after the mass burial, when the woman’s melted diamond ring and Toby’s tiny crooked spine
were found at the bottom of the shaft, along with fleshless, disheveled bones that crumbled at the touch.
Katrina left the Kenmore and walked down to Broadway and stood at her post by the ruins. She was there ten minutes before the digging resumed at eight o’clock. By ten-thirty parts of eight
bodies had been resurrected: part of a thighbone and a pelvic bone, both looking like coal; a wristbone with crisp flesh; the cloth of two dresses, one brown, one black with a weave of dark blue on
the skirt’s hem, both fragments of cloth found adhering to the same flesh.
“It looks to us that these two died in each other’s arms,” said the coroner to a group of reporters, Maginn among them. “We guess they were under the bed, and fell
through to the kitchen, where the fire was hottest. The kitchen and bakeshop were both full of grease and just fed the fire.”
“Those dresses may have belonged to the McNally sisters,” Maginn said to the coroner. “Her husband here recognizes the design in the black one.”
Katrina approached Maginn and Cora’s husband. She stared at the husband, who was holding the piece of dress and weeping. She touched the man’s arm.
“I knew Cora very well,” she said. “Please let me help you bury her and her sister.”
The husband looked at this stranger, then at Maginn.
“This is Mrs. Daugherty,” Maginn told him.
“We can’t help whom it is we love,” Katrina said to the man. “We must learn to avoid love. Love is a mask of death, you know.”
“What’s that?” asked the husband.
“Death is venerable. You can always count on death.” Katrina began to weep, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, saw Edward pushing through the crowd toward her.
“Forgive me,” she said to Cora’s husband. “I weep all the time lately. I weep for everybody. It’s a pity what people come to be.”
“What’s going on?” Edward asked.
“I think you should take her home,” Maginn said.
“Yes,” said Katrina. “There’s other death at home, isn’t there, Edward?”
“Yes, there is, my dear,” Edward said. “I know how you love death, how you need it,” and Katrina smiled at him and wept anew. Maginn and Cora’s husband could only
stare at the two of them.
In a subsequent diary entry Katrina fixed on the fire as the point of transformation of Edward’s and her lives into a unity that transcended marriage, love, and a son:
We were united through the fire in freakish fusion, like Siamese
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