Ellis Island 1 – Kate Kerrigan (1)

As she picked up a large, black telephone receiver, he leaned down to me and said, “Let me talk on your behalf, Ellie. These matters of money can be very complicated.” Presently a small, thin man of indiscriminate age came over to us and greeted the doorman, shaking his hand and grabbing his arm with a hearty warmth that seemed at odds with his sharp, poky appearance and his almost funereal, formal black suit.

He took us over to a leather-topped desk, moving my chair back for me to sit down as if I were a real lady, before taking his place opposite us. “Mr. Flannery,” he said, “is one of our very best customers.” Mr. Flannery was bristling with delight at his warm welcome.

He was barely able to contain a smile, and put the tips of his fingers just under the starched collar, stretching it out as if allowing room for his head to grow. “Well, we are very fortunate, Ellie, because Mr. Kaplan is one of the very best bankers in all of New York.” Mr. Kaplan’s fingers scrabbled across the blotter with the thrill of the compliment. “Now, what can I do for you today, Mr. Flannery? Another new account?” “Yes,” he said, without even looking at me.

“Ellie needs to open an ordinary checking account.” “And will you be paying the money into the account yourself each month, as with all the others?” “Yes, that’s right.” “Excellent. Well, if we can just have a few details. What is the young lady’s name?” He tapped his finger, impatient for a quick answer, anxious to get his hands on my check.

It was as if I wasn’t there. I was furious. This was the whole reason I was in America. Money. I had earned my paycheck that month.

It was snowing on the Jersey Shore. My mistress had wrapped herself in fur. A gray mink coat trailed behind her on the ground like a wedding train, her snug cloche hat forcing her glossy bobbed hair into neat curls under her cheekbones. Standing in the grand entrance of her country home, Isobel Adams snapped open her purse and quickly applied a slice of scarlet lipstick, puckering her perfect lips together a few times to secure the stain.

“How do I look, Ellie?” She seemed nervous. “Very well, Ma’am.” Isobel was beautiful, like a photograph. She shrugged with delight, plunged her hands into a mink muff and called, “Wish me luck . . .” as she ran out the door. Alone in the house, I walked up the grand sweeping staircase that divided and curved out on either side toward the bedrooms.

Bedrooms that would soon be filled with strangers with whom I would be obliged to share the intimacy of my servitude as I prepared hot bed-jars, emptied chamber pots, washed out socks and undergarments. Chores that had once been acts of love for my husband had become a job for which I was being paid. Once, picking up some socialite guest’s clothes from the floor, I had noticed a lost button, and a hemline torn by a sharp heel—snagged while dancing the Charleston, no doubt. When I pointed out the flaw to the lady and offered to repair it, she said, “You’re a darling!”

and gave me a dollar tip just for offering, and another dollar later when the job was done. I was delighted, but then that night as I slid the bills into an envelope to send home to John, I felt cheapened. I was being paid to perform these small acts of domestic love for strangers while my husband set his own fires and cooked his own dinners. John needed the dollars, but he needed me home more. I lit a fire in the mistress’s bedroom and picked out an outfit for her to change into when she came back from her walk.

A black satin robe embroidered with brightly colored peonies, a red silk nightdress, fresh stockings and her favorite pointed slippers, which earlier I had packed in tissue paper. I laid them across the bed, wiping a layer of dust from the black lacquered bed-end with the hem of my apron, then went to the window and stood for a moment to look at the day.

The crisp, sunny morning had turned gray and watery. Snow fell in heavy, sloppy clumps from the trees. The white blanket that had descended in the night and made the world glistening and magical was slowly disintegrating. There was a car outside, crystals of snow still sitting on its roof. There was no driver, but as I looked farther down the empty street, I saw my mistress walking with a man.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: cfee33cdaf046c0c
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 1,296,578 bytes (1.237 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 301
• Language: English (en)

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• Estimated Reading Time: 525.74 minutes
• Total Words: 105,147
• Total Characters: 561,424
• Average Words per Page: 349.33
• Average Characters per Page: 1865.2

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