Too Old for Christmas

by Zina Abbott

  Sean slowly moved to the open doorway and, bracing his hands against the door jamb, he watched Ona run down the hill towards her home, clutching her shawl around her. The wind whipping into the doorway caused him to shiver. He knew she must be cold with only the shawl over her wool dress to protect her against the elements. But, none of it was as cold as the chill he felt surrounding his heart and squeezing the life out of his soul.

  The boys came out of the barn and curiously watched their mother run for home. Jesse broke away from this brother and ran up towards Sean.

  “Why’s Ma going back home? Did you already show her what you wanted to show her?”

  “Aye.” Sean forced his attention back to the boy. With a sorrow spreading like a consuming darkness through him, he realized Ona rejecting him meant he would also lose the boys. “’Tis been a long day for your ma. She be needing to rest. We’ll be seeing to the mules now.”

  With an arm around Jesse’s shoulder, Sean walked with him to join Benjy who still looked back and forth between Sean and his mother. The three walked towards the barn, but there was no joy in Sean’s heart as he worked with the boys to care for the mules. The one thing he wanted for Christmas was this family—these boys to be his to care for and help raise, and their mother to be his wife and beloved companion for the rest of his life.

  And it was looking like Sean would not get what he wanted for Christmas this year.

  Aye, boyo, mayhap ‘tis you who be too old for Christmas.

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  Chapter 8

  ~o0o~

  A

  fter a sleepless night, Sean finally climbed out of bed—not the one he had bought for him and Ona, but his pallet he threw down on the floor—and, out of habit, began his day. He felt incapable of shaking the feeling of moving in a thick, dark fog. It sapped the warmth from his body, the clarity from his mind and the hope from his heart. On the one chair he had purchased, thinking Ona would bring her table and chairs plus the stools to the house, he sat next to the stove he had filled with enough wood to cook his breakfast mush. His mind rejected the warmth. He still felt enveloped in the chill of Ona’s rejection.

  What puzzled him was she never said she didn’t love him or didn’t want him. She said it wouldn’t be fair to him and he deserved better than her. He could not for the life of him understand what prompted such feelings in her. What caused her to say those words to him? It was him who was not good enough for her.

  By the time Sean finished caring for the mules, he determined he needed to talk to Ona again. He needed answers. Even if he had to force the issue and she ended up hating him for it, he had to know the details of why she rejected him—why she felt the way she said she did.

  There was also the other matter niggling at his curiosity. He wanted answers.

  ~o0o~

  It had taken some doing, but Sean finally convinced Ona to walk with him. He extracted a promise from Jesse and Benjy they would give him and their mother privacy, but at the same time stay close to home—either his place or theirs—in case he was able to follow through on his plans with the priest.

  Now, staring at Ona’s profile, and noting she appeared to have not slept any better than he had, Sean finally worked up the courage to ask her the question niggling at the back of his mind since he first spoke with her at the mercantile the day his tooth was pulled.

  “I be wondering, Ona, where be you from? ’Tis back east you been claiming. Being in the Army, and meeting all manner of people from all over this land, ‘tis many ways of speaking English I’ve heard. Mostly you be speaking like a school-taught lady. But now and again I be hearing a voice of a different place, a lilt speaking more of the Gaelic than of the English.”

  Sean watched as Ona inhaled and stiffened. She dropped her gaze to her hands now clasped tightly in front of her, her lips almost disappearing into her mouth. “Why do you ask, Sean?”

  “’Twill not be holding your history against you, being a son of Eire myself. Ona be a lovely name, but be it the one given you when you be baptized?”

  Ona could barely force out the whisper. “What makes you think I was baptized?”

  “’Tis what I be asking. If you were to marry me, what be the name you’d be telling the priest to write on the marriage register?”

  Ona’s lips quivered. “You still want to marry me? Even after I warned you it wouldn’t be fair to you?”

  “Aye, if you be allowing it. ‘Tis what I be longing for this Christmas, joining with you and your boys to be a family. But, you be holding something back. I be wanting no secrets nor regrets twixt us later. There be times your speech be betraying what you be trying to hide.”

  Ona closed her eyes and sighed. “My name on the baptismal register is Fiona Mary O’Rourke. I’m as Irish as you are, Sean Flood.”

  “’Tis as I guessed. ‘Tis a lovely Irish name. Why do you be hiding it?”

  Ona choked on her words “Because I’m a coward. Because I don’t want my sons to suffer the prejudice of being Irish. That’s why I have been living a lie. They’re McNairs. And I’ve been hiding behind the McNair name, just as I hid behind the name Reed my father chose for the family when we came from Ireland.” Ona looked over at Sean, tears brimming in her eyes. “My family came before the blight struck Ireland. We weren’t rich or titled, although my mother’s family claims descent from some of the Norman lords. We were not wealthy, but we did better than most. There was trouble for our family in Ireland…I think with the law…and my father sold our farm to come here.”

  “Then it was well-off in Ireland your family was if your da owned a farm to sell. In Ireland, ‘tis the English who own the land and the Irish who work themselves to death farming it.”

  “I…I don’t know.” Ona wrinkled her brow in confusion. “I was so young and my parents refused to talk about it. All I know is, when we came here, my father left everything to do with Ireland behind, including our name. My mother preferred bread, saying potatoes were peasant and pig food. They sent me to a seminary for girls where I learned to speak the way I do. Up until the day he died, my father insisted I talk properly and not fall into the Irish brogue.” Ona turned her dark-rimmed blue eyes on Sean. “He always said we don’t look Irish. Most of our family had dark hair and eyes. We looked more English—more Norman—than we looked Irish. Only I ended up with blue eyes.”

  “Nay, you look Irish to me. My brother and sister both have the black hair and blue eyes. ‘Tis only me looking like the Irish your da be speaking of. And ‘tis the Irish who be growing wheat to sell to the English for bread whilst they eat potatoes and be praying their cow be not dying soon.”

  “Perhaps.” Ona turned away. “I tried to not think about it. I did what my family expected of me.”

  “So ‘tis ashamed you be of being Irish, then.” Sean said it as a statement, not a question.

  “No.” Ona’s answer was hesitant. “Not ashamed. Afraid. As I grew up I didn’t understand why my family chose to suppress our Irishness. But, then, when the lower-class Irish trying to escape the starvation and death in Ireland began to flood into America…” Ona hesitated and glanced at Sean, worried he might take personally her use of “flood” to describe the immigration of the Irish people.

  She’ll not be having you, boyo. You be one of the poor, raucous Irish come because of the potato blight.

  “All I know is, it soon became very unpopular, even dangerous, to be Irish. My parents died, and my brother became the head of the family. He had gone to military school and was already a lieutenant stationed at Fort Kearney. He brought me there. Like my father, he forbade me to reveal our Irish origins for fear it would hamper his career. Over time, I developed a fear of what hateful men might do to me if they discovered I’m really Irish. And now I fear for my sons. They are half Irish.”

  He had to know for sure. He had to hear it from her. “And Ft. Kearney, ‘tis there you met Mr. McNair?”

  “Yes. If my b
rother had still been alive, he never would have allowed me to marry Mr. McNair. But my brother died in a freak accident while out on patrol.” Ona stopped and stared ahead, caught in the painful memories of the past. “At the fort, they don’t have housing for dependents of deceased officers. We had been lucky we had a room in the barracks and didn’t live in a tent. Another wife of an officer took pity on me after he died and let me stay with them and help with their children until it became apparent her husband developed an…shall we say, inappropriate interest in me. Then the sutler said I could work for him. He also had unsavory ideas of how I could pay for my room. Fortunately, the position of laundress I had applied for came through. The shack to which I was assigned proved to be a miserable hovel, and the work was hard. But, I could bar the door against the men who hoped I was one of those laundresses who entertained soldiers at night. I made good money as a laundress, more than some of the enlisted men.”

  “And Mr. McNair?”

  “He was one of the men who contracted with me to do his laundry.” Ona shook her head. “I was a fool. I should have stuck with my plan to save my money until I had enough to travel back east and find a new position. Even if I had been forced to go into service as a cook, it would have been better than having hot water and lye eat away my skin everyday while fending off the ribald remarks of the soldiers. Instead, Mr. McNair began to court me. He was very polite and complementary—at first. I was still young and impressionable, enough to be so foolish as to fall in love with him. It was only after it was too late I realized I was the object of a wager.”

  “And you be not knowing it?”

  “No.” Ona shook her head. “When he married me, my husband won a considerable sum off those in on the bet. Being married to me got him out of the barracks and in my shack on soap suds row. It provided him with income beyond his private’s pay. I soon learned he never loved me. It was only a matter of months before he became violent with me. He was furious when he found out I was Irish. He saw to it I paid for him being ‘tricked’ into marrying one of the ‘Irish vermin.’”

  Tears formed once more as Ona lifted her trembling fingers to her left cheek. She turned to face Sean. “Because of a mouth disease I had before I met him, I already had weak gums. It didn’t take much for him to knock out several teeth. Soon others loosened and came out. I was once considered beautiful. No longer.” Tears escaped eyes now shut tight. “I’m only an almost toothless old hag now.”

  “Nay, teeth or not, you still be a beautiful woman, Ona McNair.”

  Ona shook her head in denial. “You think I don’t hear what people say behind my back, Sean? No matter where we lived, my husband made enemies. Many who knew him think I deserve what I got for being foolish enough to marry him. My good looks and the money I made as a laundress are gone, and my education has proven of little value to me. How the proud are fallen, aren’t they, Sean? I have been afraid to add to it by saying or doing anything to betray my Irish origins.”

  “Nay, you be not proud. ‘Tis you and your boys you be looking out for, now haven’t you? You be far above me in station. We all be making mistakes in life, but you be doing well by your sons with the lot you’ve been handed.”

  “No, I’m not too far above you, Sean Flood. I have sunk almost as low as I can go without resorting to dishonorable work to support what is left of my family. The hate against the Irish isn’t as bad here as it is back east, but there is still the undercurrent. I already struggle with the debt to clear left for me by my husband. I felt like I could not face having people know I’m Irish added to it.”

  “Then you’d not be willing to tie yourself to an Irishman, Fiona Mary O’Rourke McNair? ‘Tis the reason you told me no?”

  Ona closed her eyes. “I have been miserable ever since I refused you yesterday, Sean Flood. I knew only after it was too late, having you would be worth whatever I had to endure by admitting what I really am. I’d marry an Irishman as long as he is you.”

  Hope surged inside Sean. “’Tis not too late. Then you be willing to marry me, Ona?”

  “Sean, are you willing to marry a woman who has been a coward and who lied about who she really is? A woman who hides what she is to spare her sons being thought of as Irish? Who still must work to pay off her first husband’s debts?”

  “Aye, Fiona, my love. If you be willing to marry this Irishman, I be happy to have you as you be. We’ll work through the rest.”

  “Sean Flood, if you truly mean it, I’ll allow it.”

  Sean leapt to his feet, thrusting his arms in the air with a whoop of joy. He grabbed Ona to him, lifting her feet off the ground and twirling her around while pressing an enthusiastic kiss on her lips. “Tis a happy man you be making me, Fiona Mary O’Rourke McNair. Gather up Jesse and Benjy and it be off to the priest we go. I be marrying you today, my love, before you be changing your mind.”

  “Put me down, Sean,” Ona laughed. “We don’t need to get married right now. I’ll not being changing my mind.”

  “Nay, today. ‘Tis Christmas and ‘tis you I love. I be not be living another day without you.” Sean gently set Ona back on her feet and stepped back without releasing her hands. “’Tis true, Ona. I do love you dearly. ‘Twill complete my joy if the day comes you can love me as much as I be loving you.”

  A smile slowly blossomed on Ona’s face as she stepped closer to Sean. She wrapped her arms around his neck, molding her body to his as she tilted her head on her slender neck and offered him a sweet kiss. He immediately responded. They broke apart only when they heard Benjy off in the distance calling for them, but Ona’s eyes never left his face as she quietly said, “Sean Flood, I never would have allowed you to kiss me the first time if I didn’t love you.”

  -o0o-

  Sean proudly led the three members of the McNair family that would soon be his family down the hill into town. Since Sean had assured the good priest his betrothed was a good Irish woman and there was no need to be concerned about her converting first, Fr. Aleric had enthusiastically assured Sean he would be happy to perform the ceremony immediately after the Christmas mass. He made it clear he expected the little family to attend what would be for them the wedding mass. Not sure what to expect of the boys who had never attended a Catholic service, Sean had spent much of the morning coaching them.

  Jesse and Benjy were not impressed with the prospect of attending a Catholic mass. They were more concerned about the change in the family status.

  “Does this mean we’re Catholic now, Mr. Flood?”

  “Nay, Jesse. Your ma and I may be taking you to mass on special occasions, but ‘twill be up to you boys which church you be joining when you become men.”

  “Where we going to sleep, Mr. Flood?” Benjy wanted to know. “Are we staying at our house or moving into your wagon in the barn?”

  “Nay, boy, you be living in my cabin. A snug loft up in the rafters just right for two little boys I built, now didn’t I?”

  Jesse wrinkled his forehead while he spent long moments of silence working through his concern. He finally asked, “Ma is calling you Sean now, but says we can’t because we still have to show grown-ups respect. Will we still call you Mr. Flood after you marry our ma?”

  “Nay, Jesse. ‘Tis your stepfather I’ll be.”

  “Are we supposed to call you Pa? We already have a pa. Or, we used to.”

  “Nay, Mr. McNair be your pa. ‘Tis your Irish da I’ll be, if you be liking the idea.”

  Benjy’s eyes grew round. “Da? What is a da?”

  Jesse spoke with authority. “It’s the Irish word for pa.”

  Sean glanced over to Ona to gauge her reaction. To his relief, an approving smile graced her face.

  “I like that.” Jesse nodded his approval. He turned to his brother and nudged him. “Did you hear, Benjy? First we have to sit quietly for a long, long time while the priest says a lot of boring words in some foreign language. But after Ma marries Mr. Flood, we can call him Da.”

  “I know, I know. I sure
hope the priest don’t take too long. I’m already hungry for dinner.”

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  Columbia, California – November, 1855

  Epilogue

  ~o0o~

  S

  ean worried his swollen gum with his tongue as he carefully guided the mules over the creek, relieved to see his home before him. Thanks to the all too familiar pain in his mouth, he had been in no mood to haggle with the cantankerous buyer of the bricks he had hauled up from Shaw’s Flat. His Irish temper had gotten the better of him. That unpleasant encounter was now behind him, but he dreaded what still lay before him.

  ‘Twill be another visit to Doc Massey for you, boyo.

  Thanks to Sean following the lead of those in Columbia who had decided it was better to mitigate the fire risk by building with brick, his and Ona’s home had developed into a patchwork affair. He had constructed the new living area and bedroom for him and Ona out of brick while, for the time being, the original log cabin remained the kitchen area with the boys’ sleeping in loft above. Sean felt grateful for the additional privacy of the bedroom, especially for Ona now as her time grew near.

  Hattie and Boomtown picked up their pace as soon as their feet cleared the rocky stream. They also knew they were close to home. Having already had their fill of water at the one of the canals running through town, they knew the barn meant feed and a good rubdown after their harnesses were removed.

  “Da! Da! Come quick!”

  Sean looked up to see his two boys running towards him. They may still have the McNair surname, but in his mind they were his now they and Ona were his family. He pulled the resisting mules to a stop long enough for Jesse and Benjy to climb up on the wagon with him.