Thank You, Theodora

Prologue

P R O L O G U E

    Tom Fitzgerald lay snuggled up on his parent’s sagging bed, curled into a ball under a worn blue blanket, asleep. Edna McDough, his elderly neighbor, sat in the kitchen/sitting room on a hard wooden chair, knitting pair of red and blue socks. She glanced at her wristwatch, then at the low sun in the afternoon sky. She nodded in satisfaction, knowing that Tom’s parents would be home soon from the factory. Her knitting needles flew, clicking against one another in a rhythmic pattern.

     Tom slept soundly, though he shivered slightly under his thin blanket. Though March was drawing to a close, the New York air was still chilly, even indoors. In fact, Mrs. McDough was knitting socks for him at that moment, as his own parents could barely afford to put food on the table, let alone clothe their only child warmly. Just as she finished the first sock and started on the toe of the second, she heard a loud siren in the distance. More soon joined it. Mrs. McDough folded her knitting into her mauve calico bag, and then hurried to check on Tom, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake him. He was snoring quietly, but only his chest moved as he breathed. Mrs. McDough arranged the threadbare blanket more comfortably around him, then walked into the other room and resumed her knitting. Gradually, the sirens became louder and Mrs. McDough glanced outside again, wondering where Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald were. She saw thick black smoke blocking a fraction of the sunny sky, unfurling into a cloudy gray haze hanging over the surrounding rooftops. The smoke came from the direction of Tom’s parents’ work, fourteen blocks from where she stood. She felt her heart leap into her stomach and she knew that it must be the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory that was burning, for no other factories were on that street.

    She ran into the bedroom and shook Tom awake. He let her button his coat and slide on his hat and mittens and tie his scarf before speaking. “Mrs. McDough, what’re you doing?” He asked in a small voice that was laced with concern. “There was a tiny fire at your mum and da’s work, dearie. We’re getting’ them,” she replied. Tom nodded. “Is they hurted?” His eyes filled with tears at the thought. “I dunno. Let’s hope not,” was her answer. Tom was quiet. There was a bad feeling in his stomach, and when he glimpsed the smoke over the skyline as Mrs. McDough pulled him from the apartment, he knew.

    He knew they were gone.