But you couldn’t save everyone, no matter where you were or how much money they did, or didn’t, have. She could have told him that, but she had to admire him for trying, anyway.
“You don’t need to feel guilty, Doc,” Vivian said quietly. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”
“Wasn’t there?” He let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so desolate. “I should have done a better job checking on her. I knew she was having trouble taking care of herself. And when I was here last week, she was so anxious, nothing she could reallyexplain, just about her mail, of all things. I’ve been worried that her memory was going, but she kept insisting she was fine, even without her husband here any longer.” He closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall again. “My fault.”
Vivian wanted to point out that it wasn’t, not by any stretch of the imagination. But she had a feeling that nothing she said would get through just at that moment. So when she noticed Florence peeking over the banister, she left him alone and went to speak to her sister.
“Is it true?” Florence whispered, coming down the stairs. Standing in Mrs. Kaminski’s doorway, she looked around, ignoring Vivian’s hissed warning about the gas. “She’s dead?”
Once Vivian had explained, Florence’s mouth thinned to a tight, sad line, and tears filled her eyes. But she nodded and pulled herself together, just as Vivian had. Whether it was poor widows or sick babies, death was too close a companion where they lived for anyone to be too surprised by its presence.
She shook her head. “Poor Mrs. Kaminski. She was clearly struggling. We should have noticed that she needed more help. For her to be pawning her things…”
“What do you mean, pawning her things?”
With the windows and door now open, light streamed into the room, and Vivian could see that the room was a jumble of odds and ends. Three brooms leaned against one wall, two of them broken; an entire shelf held chipped cups and teacups paired with saucers that didn’t match. A basket by the rocking chair was overflowing with old clothes and rags, and there were so many piles of newspapers in a corner of the kitchen that it was a wonder they hadn’t caught fire. Clearly, Mrs. Kaminski had hated to throw anything out. Vivian didn’t see how Florence could tell if something was missing.
They were interrupted by a sudden babble of voices and orders as two police officers arrived. The residents of the building, wary of the officers, didn’t protest their instructions to clear the first floor. Somewent back to their homes on the upper floors, but Florence grabbed Vivian’s hand and towed her out of the building. They weren’t the only ones to seek fresh air; the gas smell was fading, but it was still there.
Outside, the sticky humidity dampened some of the nervous energy that had filled the hall. Vivian and Florence settled onto a low ledge that ran around the building across the street, their backs pressed against the stone wall as they tried to steal some of its chill. Next door, the cobbler’s wife was pouring glasses of lemonade in exchange for gossip.
They were silent for a while, watching their neighbors, each alone with her thoughts. They could hear scattered bursts of conversation as everyone tried to remember the last time they had seen or spoken to Mrs. Kaminski. Vivian watched the open door of their building, the figures moving inside it looking sinister and secretive. She wondered how they had found Mrs. Kaminski, whether it had been a peaceful death, a night’s sleep that she just never woke up from, or something worse. In spite of the sultry heat, she shivered. She was glad she hadn’t seen the old woman’s body.
“Her family won’t be able to claim her,” Florence said quietly. “They’ll have to take her to Hart Island, eventually.”
Vivian nodded. Mr. Kaminski had died several years before, leaving his widow to putter on alone in the home they had shared for most of their lives. The only child Mrs. Kaminski had ever mentioned had moved across the country to work on the railroads some thirty years ago and never moved back. Even if someone knew how to track him down, he’d never make it back in time. Mrs. Kaminski would end up a line in a ledger and one of dozens of bodies in a single grave.
“Maybe we can get the neighbors to chip in for a real funeral,” Vivian said, the words catching in her throat. Their mother was on Hart Island, somewhere. Neither of them had ever tried to find out where.
Looking away from the door, Vivian watched a handful of children playing a game that involved hopping in and out of the street, until one of them slipped, tripping another, and the whole thing dissolvedinto a shrieking mess. Their parents, fanning themselves with hats and newspapers, didn’t bother trying to intervene, and in a moment the fight was forgotten and the kids had moved on to a new game.
“Maybe,” Florence said, though she didn’t sound hopeful.
Vivian didn’t blame her. As much as they might have wanted to help, folks around there needed to keep what cash they had.
A police hearse came puttering down the street, sliding to a stop in front of their building. It looked like one of the vehicles that Vivian had noticed outside the morgue, and sure enough, one of the men who hopped out wore a regular dark suit. The other wore a police uniform, and together they went to open the wide doors at the back of the car. The children continued their play, but the adults on the street watched as the two men unloaded a stretcher and disappeared inside the building.
“If she hadn’t pawned her candlesticks already, we could have sold those to pay for it,” Florence said as the low buzz of conversation resumed. “I don’t know if anything else of hers is valuable.”
Vivian frowned. “How do you know she’d been pawning her things?”
“Her candlesticks are gone,” Florence said sadly, kicking her heels against the stone wall. “They were always on her table. She told me once that her mother brought them from Poland. And they were so beautiful, silver filigree and decorated all over with vines and grapes and poppies.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “She wouldn’t have sold them unless she was desperate.”
Vivian felt cold all over. The door unlocked when it shouldn’t have been, a death that looked like an accident, and the old woman’s silver candlesticks missing. “When was the last time you saw her?” she asked slowly. “How did she seem to you then?”
Florence shrugged. “I don’t know. Two weeks ago, I think. Why?”
Vivian was saved having to decide how to answer as the police and the coroner reemerged, two of them carrying the stretcher with its white-shrouded burden. The neighbors had fallen silent once more, and even the children stopped their play to watch as the men carriedthe stretcher to the back of the car. The buzz of conversation didn’t resume until the hearse had departed once more.
The two remaining police officers stood in front of the building, awkwardly clearing their throats as everyone drifted closer to hear what they had to say. Vivian didn’t miss the wary look in their eyes as they eyed her neighbors, who watched them back with equal distrust.
“It is the coroner’s assessment that your neighbor met with an unfortunate end after leaving her gas on overnight with the windows closed,” one officer said, speaking quickly, as though he couldn’t wait to be gone. “Gas is dangerous if it builds up within a space. We urge all of you to double-check your own stoves each day to avoid a similar accident. If you have any other elderly neighbors, make sure they know how to work their own stoves and lights properly.”
“Is it safe to go back in?” Mrs. Gonzales called, cradling one of her twins on her hip while the other one clung to her skirt, chewing on the side of his fist and watching the officers with wide eyes.
“It is, but keep your windows open for the rest of the day.” He glanced up at the bright sky. “Not that I think anyone will want to have them closed in this weather.” Glancing around to make sure no one was going to argue or ask questions, he nodded firmly.
It didn’t take them long to depart after that, and the neighbors slowly rounded up their children and made their way back into the building. Dr. Harris had come out with the officers, and now he stood by himself, alone in the crowd of chattering and yelling residents, a cigarette dangling from his fingers while he stared moodily at the sky and fanned himself with his hat. His black bag slumped at his feet.
