His opened writing book was on the table. He saw her walk over to it. She'd see the story with Eldrida as the heroine and know in an instant he had written about her. Or maybe she'd read about her mother on her way to a patient, her blue bag over her shoulder, or the scent of dried herbs hanging in bunches from their kitchen ceiling.
He never thought about the picture of Lillie until he was coming into the room with a cup of tea in each hand. There was a story under that, a mother reading poetry first to him and then to an audience.
He took a step closer to Bird and saw the picture, the newspaper clipping. Lillie with pearls the size of marbles looped around her neck. The hat with the feather dipping over her forehead. Beautiful Lillie.
Bird looked a little guilty that he'd seen her peering at the book.
And he felt a sudden flash of something; he didn't even know what it was. He knew the Mallons felt sorry for him, and maybe that was even why Bird was here now. Before he could stop himself he was saying, “She's in London, acting,” he said. “Someday soon she'll come back.”
He didn't say she was his mother, but he knew that was what Bird thought. He let her think it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
{BIRD}
It was late fall, most of the leaves gone from the trees. And it was almost dinnertime. From the bedroom window, the houses across the yards were beginning to blur into the sky. It wasn't all dark, though. Squares of light flickered from some of the apartments.
Mrs. Daley had forgotten to pull in her wash and the wind had picked up. On the line, her shirtwaist sleeves were puffed out as if her arms were still in them, and her long underwear kicked at the shadows.
As Bird watched the light fade outside, she thought about that eighth-grade essay, even though it wasn't due until the end of the year. How could she know what she wanted to do with her life? All these years she'd thought she'd be a healer like Mama, and now she knew it was never going to happen. She brushed thoughts of the milkman's boy away and thought about the essay.
Writing wasn't easy for her. It wasn't like arithmetic, not like a column of numbers to be added or subtracted from the top of the blackboard to the bottom, neat and organized; or science, figuring out the why of things.
Her mind jumped to another problem. Sister Raymond, her eyes large under those straight dark brows, had said today, turning to look at the class, the crisp white bands under her veil crackling with starch, “Wouldn't it be wonderful,” she had said, “if any of us who had a book at home would bring it in to share?”
Ellen Burke immediately said her father had books. Ellen Burke, who had shamed Bird with that talk of candy and marrying Thomas Neary. Bird shuddered, thinking about it.
In the classroom, there had been a chorus of yeses about bringing books. All except for Thomas, who was half out of his seat, looking out the window.
Bird had stared up at the painting of the Alps that hung over the blackboard. She thought of her apartment, filled with Hughie's cot, the table, the stove, the ice box, Mama's dried plants hanging in wispy bunches from the ceiling, and the painted cabinet with the glass doors.
In her mind she had gone through the curtains that led to Mama and Da's bedroom, to the teeny one she shared with Annie. Among all those beds and covers and skirts and coats, the washstand with a sliver of soap and bits of towels draped over the edges, not a book was tucked in anywhere.
Now Mama called from the kitchen. “Bird?”
She stacked her papers, glad not to have to think about the essay, and listened to Mama's footsteps going from the stove to the ice box. She went down the hall.
“Soup with a bone,” Mama said. “Only two shreds of meat on it, but a bone is a bone.” She held up five fingers, and nodded for Bird to put the bowls on the table.
Five of them tonight. They could fit at the table. Da had started work early.
Bird gave Mama the best bowl, with the roses in the bottom. Hughie got the plain one because he wouldn't care. Bird wanted the one with the pink flowers on the rim, but she knew it would be nice to give it to Annie, so she took a plain one like Hughie's, and the last one, the one with two chips, was for Thomas.
Mama reached for the bubbling pot on the stove, her hands covered with old rags. “Call up to Thomas,” she said. “Call softly.”
Bird nodded, but she could make as much noise as she wanted; no one was there but Thomas. If only his mother would come home. He'd be upstairs at his own table instead of waiting for her to call him down.
It was terrible that Thomas's father was over at some pub, sitting on a high-backed stool in front of the dusty window, or stumbling along in the street.
Following in back of Thomas on the way home from school, she had seen Mr. Neary raise his mug to Thomas, pushing open the door with one foot and tossing out a coin, a nickel. At first, she'd thought Thomas wasn't going to reach for it, but he had picked it up and tossed it in the air before he dropped it into his pocket.
“Thomas has a nickel,” she said.
“A nickel,” Mama repeated. “In Ballilee that would have bought enough greens for a pot of soup I could stand in up to my neck.”
If Da had been home, he would have said, I never saw a pot that size, Nory. And the two of them would have laughed.
Bird went into the hall. “Thomas,” she yelled. “That's softly?” Annie said to Mama.
Thomas clattered down the stairs carrying a tiny pot of chives. He knew the best way to please Mama.
They sat at the table. Hughie came in at the last minute. He looked at the chives, nodding, and they said grace. “Come, our Lord, and be our guest….”
Bird said a quick amen; then Hugh grabbed one heel of the bread. She took the other, hot to the touch.
“No fair,” Annie told both of them. “I was the one who made that bread.”
“True for you,” Bird said. She tore off a chunk and put it on Annie's plate.
Bird sat there chewing. All of them were there together. How terrible that Mr. Neary spent his time sipping at his pint instead of making his own bread and soup for Thomas, and Mrs. Neary was so far away on a stage somewhere in England.
A beauty called Lillie.
She slid another chunk of the crusty heel onto Thomas's plate. He gave her a quick nod, spread enough lard over the bread to fill a bucket, and wolfed it down as if he hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast. Maybe he hadn't.
Hughie wolfed down his bread too, making loud noises over his soup. Bird knew he was in a hurry to go down to the cellar, where he said he could breathe. He had a punching bag there, and he spent hours pummeling it until his knuckles were red and bruised.
She'd never go down to that freezing cold and dark place by herself. Mrs. Daley had told her a horrible story about it just the other day.
“Hughie,” Bird told him, “watch out in the cellar. Make sure you leave the wedge in the door so it stays open.”
He wiped his mouth. “Afraid I'll get locked in?”
“What are you talking about, child?” Mama asked, her hand on Bird's arm. “There's no lock on the door.”
“Mrs. Daley said—” Bird began.
Mama and Annie shook their heads at each other.
Bird leaned forward. “A woman went down there—”
Hughie polished the bottom of his bowl with his bread. “Go on,” he said. “I may be so afraid I won't be able to go past the coal bin anymore, Birdie. You'll have to go for me.”
She tried to smile. She was too old to believe Mrs. Daley, but still the rest of the story came out in a fast breath. “The woman was never found. Only her shoes. She had melted clear away like ice on a summer day.”
“Ghosts,” Annie said.
“That's what Mrs. Daley said. Ghosts of the people who used to live here.”
“If I were a ghost,” Hughie said, and Bird heard the bitterness in his voice, “would I stay here?” He pushed back his chair.
She raised her voice. “Mrs. Daley said her shoe buckle was so cold it steamed the wa
y your breath does in the dead of winter.” But she was talking to Hughie's back as he went out the door.
Bird lifted the spoon for the last sip of soup, and Annie took herself over to sit on Hughie's cot. She picked up her knitting: black wool socks for Da. And soon Thomas went back to his apartment upstairs, saying, “Thanks, Mrs. Mallon,” over his shoulder.
“Thank you, too, Thomas, for the chives.” Mama pulled herself away from the table. At the counter she poured soup into Da's jar and cut two thick slices of bread. “Why don't you and Thomas go together when you bring Da's dinner down to him?”
“Can't I be alone with Da for two minutes?” Bird said. “Does Thomas always have to—” She broke off.
Mama was looking up at the ceiling as if she could see Thomas going up the stairs through the cracks in the plaster. “He has nothing to do all by himself in that apartment; he'll be happy to go with you.”
Bird never had one moment of peace. “He has homework, you know. It wouldn't hurt him to work on his essay.” But even as she said it, she knew it wouldn't do any good. And Thomas had probably worked on his writing all afternoon.
And that reminded her. “Why don't we have any books in this house?”
“Books?” Mama said. “Where would we get the money for books? We need money for food, and clothing, and to buy plants for cures.” She took a breath. “Most of all we need money to save.”
For a farm in New Jersey near my brother Patch. That's what she'd say next.
Bird cut her off. “Books are just as important as food.”
Annie began to laugh, rattling her needles. “I'd like to see you go without food for a day, Miss Crow, and then say that.”
“Sister Raymond wants us to bring a book to school,” Bird said slowly, wondering why she felt like crying.
Mama shut the lid of Pa's dinner pail, then shifted things around in the ice box to make room for the leftover soup. She turned and put her arms around Bird. “You're a good girl, Bird, and you're right, a book is a wonderful thing to have.” She smiled. “You might ask Da about it when you go over there.”
Bird hugged her, then picked up Pa's dinner pail and went into the hall and down the stairs.
Hughie was still there, just opening the door to the basement. She took a step forward. “Wait,” she said. “We never get to walk together. We never even get to talk anymore.”
“Ah, Birdie. Didn't you just tell me a wonderful story?”
“I don't mean that.”
He waited, his hand on the knob. She saw he knew what she was talking about, that he was quieter every day, and how angry he was just underneath his few words. She had a quick memory of him sitting at the table, head back, laughing. How long ago that was.
“Be the way you used to be,” she said. “Walk with me to bring Da his dinner.”
She saw him hesitate, and then he shook his head. “Not tonight, Bird.”
Annie called down from the stairs, “Did you ask Thomas, Bird?”
Hughie ran his hand over the top of her head and went down into the cellar.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
{THOMAS}
Thomas wandered through the dark apartment, went from the lighthouse bedroom through Pop's room, and then into the living room to look out the window. Pop wouldn't be coming, though, not for hours.
Thomas went back into the bedroom and sat on the bed, listening to the sounds coming from the register, pretending he was still there having dinner, listening to them talk.
He heard Bird calling. “Want to go down to the bridge with me?”
He grabbed his jacket, flew out the door, and took the steps two at a time. Outside it had begun to rain, a fine mist of a rain: fall leaves were plastered to the walkway, and puddles filled with bits of hay and coal lay in the street. A nice bit to remember for the writing. Water Street! He loved to look at it.
He nodded at Sullivan the baker, who was turning the key in the lock, and Willie, the assistant, who bent his floury head into his collar for warmth.
He could see that Bird didn't want to talk. She was humming under her breath, hardly paying attention to him.
He heard the clop of hooves in the street behind them and turned to watch the driver snap his whip and shout at the horses. He took a step toward them, thinking about running along in back of the wagon, reaching out to hang on, his feet flying as the horses raced along.
Bird was paying more attention than he'd realized. “Don't you dare hitch, Thomas. I'll tell Mama and she'll never let you come with me again.” She looked fierce enough to be a bare-knuckle fighter.
Instead he climbed on one of the iron fences in front of the houses, balancing himself, arms out. He dashed along, grinning back at her.
“You're going to fall off,” she yelled, “impale yourself on one of the spikes, and I'll have to roll your bloody body all the way home.”
He raised one shoulder. “Would you care?”
“No.”
He was laughing again. What was it about Bird that made him do that?
He stood on one foot, just to see what she'd say, but she marched ahead of him, her hair bouncing, her back straight as an arrow.
The tower was up ahead, at the end of the street, fog swirling over the top. He jumped off the fence as she rattled the gate to get her father's attention.
The rain was drenching now. Bird was shivering, her shawl soaked through. He reached out to take Mr. Mallon's dinner pail from her and was surprised that she didn't pull away.
Mr. Mallon was inside his small shelter, and in front of him was a fire in an ash can. He threw another slab of wood into the can and came toward them, his hair gray under his blue cap. He unlocked the gate and the three of them hurried to the shelter. It was nothing more than a roof and three walls knocked together, but still it was out of the rain, and the fire in front of them made it almost warm.
They sat on the ground, and Mr. Mallon opened the jar of soup, the heat of it steaming into the air, and took a gulp.
Thomas's mouth watered. Even after he had eaten all that bread and soup at the Mallons' table, he was still hungry. He was always hungry.
Strange, there were times he had gone a day without food, and once even two days when Pop was off somewhere and there was nothing in the house. But now that he was eating downstairs some of the time, it seemed he couldn't get enough.
He picked up a piece of granite that lay in front of them; there was a smooth feel to the face of it, the edges jagged on the sides.
“Ah, there's a story to that one,” Mr. Mallon said. “It's from a huge block that was being hoisted up toward the tower as they were finishing the top.”
Thomas held the jagged stone to his face, turning it one way and then another.
“The block was so heavy the ropes began to vibrate, and suddenly it broke loose.” Mr. Mallon was silent for a moment. “A miracle that no one was underneath. The block buried itself halfway into the ground.”
Thomas tilted his head, trying to think how to put that into a story.
“All that stone came from twenty different quarries.” Mr. Mallon squinted up. “Hundreds of shiploads of them.”
“Can I have it, Mr. Mallon? A souvenir?”
“Why not?” He held out the jar. “Want a sip of the soup?” he asked. “Or some of the bread?”
Thomas hesitated, and Bird slit her eyes at him, so he shook his head, but Mr. Mallon tore off a chunk of bread and handed it to him. Thomas raised his shoulders at Bird before he took it down in one huge bite.
Mr. Mallon screwed the lid back on the empty jar and put it back into the pail. Then he reached inside for a thick slice of one of Annie's cakes.
Bird grinned. “Hughie and I thought that cake was gone. Mama must have hidden the last piece for you.”
“Lucky. One of you would have gobbled it down in a moment,” Mr. Mallon said. “How about a piece of this, Bird? Thomas?”
“Mama wants it for you,” Bird said.
He divided the piece of cake into three
even slivers.
Bird took hers in tiny bites, sucking on the raisins to make it last, but Thomas didn't waste time. He ate his piece, then went out in the rain to look at the piles of stone and tools. In back of him Bird's voice was light and quick, almost a whisper, and after a moment, her father answered. Maybe it had something to do with the book.
He was sure the Mallons didn't have a book, and he and Pop had all those books upstairs. He wanted to give her one to take to school, but he could see her, back straight: I don't need one of your books, thank you very much, Thomas Neary.
He heard banging; it was almost like the noise of a woodpecker he'd seen once in Greenpoint, a rat-tat-tat over and over again, but it wasn't a woodpecker, he knew that. He went back to the shelter, hearing Mr. Mallon say, “A nightstick.”
It meant trouble, one cop signaling another for help, banging his wooden stick against one of the wroughtiron railings or on the ground. It could be anything. A thief. A fire. Boys in trouble. Gangs fighting.
It could be Bird's brother, Hughie.
Another nightstick took up the sound, until they could hear them for blocks.
Mr. Mallon was thinking the same thing. “Was Hughie home?” He raised his hand to push back his cap, as if it were too tight.
“He was in the cellar after dinner,” Bird said. “And I think his jacket was still on the hook.”
“Good then.” Mr. Mallon handed Bird the dinner pail. “Go home.” He walked them to the gate and put his hands on their shoulders. “If he's there, tell him to stay home this night. Tell him I said that.”
They hurried down the dark back street, stepping around puddles, black and oily, in the alleyways.
“He's home!” Bird said, almost as if Thomas had said what he was thinking.
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
{BIRD}
Hughie would be at the back of the cellar in the small room Mrs. Daley let him use. They'd have to walk through the winding passageway with its storage rooms looking like prison cells, and only the dim light at the end to guide them.
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