Maggie's Door

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  She slipped into the shed, ducked under the pieces of roof that had fallen inside, and rolled herself tight in one corner with the bag in back of her. It would be hard for anyone to see her, she told herself.

  She fell asleep looking up at the sky with its dark gray clouds and the threat of rain and dreamed of Granda telling her the story of white birds, and strange worlds under the sea.

  NINE

  SEAN

  It was dark in the hold of the ship, but not the same darkness Sean remembered on moonless nights in Maidin Bay. At home, as he stood in front of the house, his eyes would become used to the lack of light. He’d see the outline of the cliffs against the sky first, and then the stone walls of Nory’s house, and the shape of the boreen that led to Anna’s.

  But this!

  It was as if he were blind. If he raised his hand in front of his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to see his fingers or the shadow of his sleeve.

  But he couldn’t even raise his arms. Men stood on each side of him so packed in, he could hardly move. The water sloshed back and forth against his legs.

  How long had he stood like this, unable to sink down to rest? Hours? Days? Forever?

  How had he gotten himself to this? Lost Mam, lost little Patch, lost the cart?

  Around him was noise: the sound of men coughing, moaning, and from somewhere in back of him, someone was crying, a deep sobbing coming from his chest, and that sound went on and on. “This ship used to carry slaves,” someone said. “And now it carries the Irish.”

  It was almost as if he himself were crying. He took the same deep breaths the man took, could feel the same crying inside.

  Next to him a man was talking. Talking to him?

  “My name is Garvey, cook’s assistant. And I will get through this somehow.”

  “I am Mallon,” Sean said. “They call me Sean Red.”

  “But they call us ballast,” the man said. “Taking the place of whatever the ship was carrying on the way over. Taking the weight of it. We’re not men. We’re sheep or cattle or crates of wine to the English. We’re what keeps the ship from turning on her side.”

  Sean had known only two Englishmen: Lord Cunningham in Ballilee, and the one with the boots on the road. Once he and Nory had seen the inside of Cunningham’s house. It was because of a dare.

  “Climb the great wall,” she had said. “You’ll never do it.”

  So he’d done it, of course, and from the top of the wall he had dared her to creep up through the avenue of great trees. Together, breathless, they had come out at the very front of the house and ducked down in the shelter of the vines to look in the glass windows.

  The room inside was larger than his own house. The table in the center was the color of Anna’s blackthorn cane but gleamed in the light, shiny and smooth, and the chair legs were carved into the shapes of claws.

  “Wake up, lad,” Garvey said next to him. “You’re leaning on me.”

  “Sorry,” he said, trying to straighten himself. He remembered he had touched those windows, run his fingers over them, almost as if he were running his hands over that great table.

  He thought then of the Englishman with the boots, and his room filled with books that stretched as high as the ceiling.

  “What would someone do with all those books?” Nory would have asked.

  The walls of his own house were made of thick stones that had come out of the fields so long ago no one could remember when. Pa had whitewashed them with lime every year on St. Bridget’s Eve. By the next year, most of the lime was gone, and the stones had a greenish look to them. There were nails dug into the grout around the stones. And hung on those nails . . .

  “Wake up,” Garvey said again.

  . . . were fishing lines and a pail, the rush basket for potatoes. The loy for digging. Francey’s boots with holes in the soles. An old cap.

  They were all still there, would stay there until someone came to tumble the house.

  “What did you say?” Garvey asked.

  Sean shook his head. In his head he began to count the books on the wall of the Englishman’s house. Suppose there were fifty on each shelf? Suppose there were ten shelves, twenty shelves?

  He couldn’t count that. He could do ten and ten, his fingers, his toes, twenty, the number of rocks that made up the low stone wall in front of his house.

  He was falling asleep again. And then the thought came to him as it had in the Englishman’s house. Suppose he could read what was in those books?

  “What?” Garvey asked.

  “Read,” Sean said, his tongue thick.

  “Ah, now,” Garvey said. “There are few that can do that.”

  “I know my name,” Sean said. “There’s an S, and an E.” He was too tired to remember the rest.

  He didn’t have to. Suddenly there was a grinding sound, as if the ship had struck something. The hatch cover was opened, and light streamed down on top of him.

  Blinding light.

  He closed his eyes against it.

  “We’re here,” Garvey said. “We did it.”

  Sean opened his eyes, blinking, and waited his turn to climb, wondering if his legs would hold him.

  Still he thought about the letters of his name and all the books in the Englishman’s house. He thought of Brooklyn and his family waiting for him: gentle Mary, Francey, Nory’s Maggie. And where were Mam and little Patch?

  If only they were safe somewhere.

  He promised himself he’d find them someday.

  He thought of books then. Someday he’d have a book for himself, too, and he’d be able to read it, one page after another.

  TEN

  NORY

  Her mouth was dry. “Celia,” she called to her sister. “Just a cup of hot water from the hearth.”

  “Am I your servant then?” Celia asked.

  “I’ll sing you a song for a swallow of water.”

  “Do you think I have time for singing now?” But Celia held out the cup.

  As Nory reached for it a drop splashed onto her chin, and another onto her nose. “How can I sing if I’m drowning?” she asked.

  Celia was laughing. Nory could hear the sound of it, like the patter of soft rain at Patrick’s Well. She raised her hand to wipe her face, then opened her eyes.

  There was more water on her face now, and she wondered if she was crying. It was dark, and she turned her head to look at the banked fire in the hearth. After a moment she realized where she was.

  Not home with Celia.

  No hearth to spread its warmth.

  No Patch in the middle of their straw bed.

  She was alone, and the drops she felt on her face were drops of rain coming down into the shed without its roof. She opened her mouth to catch some of the water. It washed her cracked lips and ran down her throat, and she kept swallowing, feeling the thirst leaving her.

  She pulled some of the thatch around her, thinking about the food that was left: a mouthful of brack and that wee bit of dried meat. Should she eat now? There was a tapping somewhere in back of her eyes, so it was hard to think.

  She heard something, not the rain. She lay very still, listening. Was it the sound of geese honking?

  She sat up carefully. It almost sounded like the rough voice of a woman. A woman crying?

  Just the wind. Only the wind.

  She reached into the bag and took out the brack. She felt the hard crust in her fingers, the center slightly softer. She remembered Anna at the hearth swinging the pot over the fire, making brack. Before that it was her sister Maggie stirring the flour and water: “Just so, Nory. Don’t work it too much, only enough to make a smooth round loaf.”

  Maggie in America.

  Nory took the tiniest bite of brack, saving the rest of it. She felt the bit of meat in the bag, and then the small bags of leaves and seeds Anna had given her. Leaves and seeds for cures.

  The thatch was damp and her clothes were cold and wet. It must be almost morning. She’d start now in the early darkne
ss and get that much closer to the port.

  She reached for the plank and left the shed. The rain was ending, and a faint hint of light came across the edge of the field to the east.

  There it was, that crying again.

  It came from the cart in the center of the field. Hearing Anna’s voice in her mind, Keep going, keep going, she turned her back and started for the boreen.

  The woman was crying, she told herself, because the wheel of the cart had come off. There was nothing she could do to help.

  Celia would have helped. Maggie would have helped. Granda . . .

  She turned as the woman came around the side of the cart. A big woman, rough-looking.

  She drew in her breath.

  It was Sean Mallon’s mam. Sean’s cart then?

  And another breath.

  Patch must be nearby.

  She hobbled toward the cart, the plank digging into her arm, but she had no time to think about that. She went faster, stumbling; it was hard to breathe.

  “Nora?” the woman was saying. “Nora?”

  She found him lying on the edge of the cart, his legs drawn up, his arms covering his head. Small puddles of rain had gathered in his clothes.

  She dropped the stick and pulled herself up on the cart to kneel awkwardly beside him, reaching out to touch that bony back, the bitten nails, the freckles on the side of his face.

  He never woke but he moved closer to her. She gathered him up, feeling how cold he was, and sat there rocking back and forth, holding him against the dampness and the wind that was sweeping across the field.

  And the woman’s voice again. “Nora. How can it be?”

  Patch stirred in Nory’s arms. “We’ll see 416 Smith Street,” she whispered. “And we’ll knock on the door, all of us holding hands. And when Maggie opens it . . .”

  She spoke calmly, but her heart was beating so fast in her throat she could hardly swallow. She had to get him warm.

  She looked up at Mrs. Mallon. Here was someone to take care of Patch, to take care of her. Not to be alone. How strange. Wanting Mrs. Mallon to take care of them, Mrs. Mallon who was rough and often unfriendly. Nory remembered her chasing the pig in the field, yelling at her sons, never laughing. But now for the first time she thought of her as a mother. Sean’s mother.

  Nory looked around, rubbing Patch’s arms, his legs. “Where is Sean then? What has happened?”

  Mrs. Mallon shook her head. Once she had been stout with plump cheeks, but now her skin sagged and was the color of old milk.

  “Where is Sean?” Nory asked again.

  Mrs. Mallon shook her head slowly. “He was to go for food, but he never came back that night. I tried to pull the cart away, tried to hide it. I dragged it all the way up here, but you can see what has happened to it.” She looked over her shoulder at it. “I have been down at the edge of the sea all night trying to find something for us to eat.” She stopped to run her hand over her face, and when she spoke again Nory could hardly hear her. “Sean is dead,” she said. “He must be dead.”

  Nory could feel the strength go out of her own legs, out of her hands and her fingers. “How long ago?”

  “Days. And I will not go to America without him.”

  Mrs. Mallon’s eyes were so sad Nory could hardly look at her.

  Sean, who had danced with her at Maggie’s wedding. Sean, who had promised to take care of Patch. Sean, who would be there if he could. Sean, who someday might have been her husband. She tried to swallow.

  “What will we do?” Nory asked.

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Mallon shook her head slowly.

  “Please . . . ,” Nory began, then took a breath. In her arms Patch was the size of a child half his age. She reached into the bag for the piece of brack and held it up to him. “Open your mouth,” she said.

  She fed it to him, a few crumbs small enough for the sparrows that nested in the hedges at home, and he never once opened his eyes. She saw Mrs. Mallon bite her lip and look away.

  Anna had given Patch milk once, and stared her down, knowing she wanted milk too. “You are strong,” Anna had said, and given all of it to him.

  “I have no food to spare,” Nory told Mrs. Mallon. “What I have is not for you or me. It is for him.” She thought about the meat, but she’d wait to give it to him later in the morning, or even when the sun went down, to hold him through the night.

  Mrs. Mallon sat opposite them, her hands pulling at a clump of grass.

  “I will help you fix the cart somehow,” Nory told her. “And we’ll go on.”

  “Go on?” Mrs. Mallon put a blade of grass into her mouth. “I tried to pull the cart over a rock and now the axle is broken. It will be here until someone cuts into it for firewood and the nails rust away in the field.”

  Nory took a breath. “I’ll carry Patch then.”

  Mrs. Mallon looked at the board and then at her foot. “You will never—”

  “I will,” Nory said, hearing Anna’s voice in her head. “My foot is better now. I won’t need the board.”

  “I will walk back to my house in Maidin Bay,” Mrs. Mallon said. “I won’t be alone. Anna is there still. If I don’t die on the road, I will die at my hearth.”

  Nory shook her head. “The roof will be tumbled. Your house will be finished, and the English will never let you stay there. Come with me. Together—”

  But Mrs. Mallon went to the cart and came back with pieces of paper fluttering in her hands. “Papers that would have taken us on a ship to America,” she said. “I won’t need them. Sean won’t. But Patch . . .” She handed them to Nory, then touched the top of her head as she went heavily past her down the boreen and was gone.

  “Don’t go,” Nory called after her. “Please stay with us. Please . . .”

  She shivered. Could Mrs. Mallon really be gone? Had she really left them? Nory closed her eyes, thinking of Anna and then Granda.

  “Patch, you are a great boy, a stór,” Nory said, turning back to him. “You will put your arms around my neck and your head on my shoulder. You will hold on to me and I will take you to the ship, and to Maggie.”

  ELEVEN

  SEAN

  Liverpool. A strange word, an English word. Streets were filled with lodging for those who had money. Men in aprons sold skillets, and pots, and blankets so thin Sean could see through them. Great crowds of people wandered among carts and bales of hay. Men shouted, animals lowed, and in the harbor were great ships. People around them were speaking in English, that strange language.

  He breathed in the smells of the water, and filth, and food. Food was being sold from carts and small tents.

  If only he could have a bite of bread, a potato, or a bit of fish.

  Garvey stood next to him.

  Sean took a breath. “I must find my family,” he said. “They’re ahead of me somewhere, I think.” His mother was strong. He held on to that. He looked away so Garvey couldn’t see his eyes.

  Garvey scratched one of his large ears. “You’d have to look at every face, every soul who is here in Liverpool, and it seems as if it is the entire world.” He put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “I will spend my last wee bit of money on a fish that swam in the sea this morning and jumped into the net with me on his mind.”

  His brothers had caught fish in their curragh, Sean thought, white-bellied fish that they salted and mixed with potatoes. But that was before the potatoes had failed. That was before the English had taken their sturdy curragh and locked it on the quay to pay the rent.

  Garvey turned aside to dicker with a woman over the price of the fish. He came back a moment later, pulling the fish apart in his hands, and gave a strip to Sean.

  Sean took it in his hands, feeling the softness of it, smelling the sea in it. He held it in his mouth then, not chewing. He had never tasted anything as good as that bit of fish on his tongue, against his teeth, on the roof of his mouth. “I thank you, Garvey,” he said.

  But Garvey was pointing. “The ship!”

&nb
sp; An old dark ship, Sean thought, with sails limp and clinging to the wooden masts, as if they had no strength left in them. And the name? He spelled out the letters: S, the start of his own name, A, a pointed letter, an M, S for Sean again, a circle for O, ending with an N for Nory.

  A good omen, their names together on the back of the ship. It was almost as if the letters would push him across the sea.

  “The Samson,” Garvey said. “It will take us to America.”

  TWELVE

  NORY

  She wondered at herself that she could do this, leave the plank on the side of the road, put the weight of her foot on those hard stones, carry Patch, her bag slung over her shoulder, and keep going hour after hour. A day. Two days. But she did do it, and she knew she would reach the port.

  She thought of Mrs. Mallon taking that long walk back to Maidin Bay. Did she have the strength for it?

  It was almost dark now, and she sang for Patch as she walked, the sound in her throat dry at first, but gathering strength: “Wee melodie man, the rumpty tumpty toddy man.”

  She wanted to cry for Sean, but something had happened to her eyes. They were dry and burning, and the tears that would have bathed them wouldn’t come. And always there were pictures in her mind of Mrs. Mallon handing her the papers for the ship, papers that were like the ones Da had sent her.

  Sometimes Patch spoke a few words in a rusty little voice, and she tried to question him. “You saw an Englishman?”

  “Yes, with boots,” he said. “And I too . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She finished it for him. “Yes, someday in America you will have boots.”

  What had Sean said? “I will have fields and I will give you cabbage and a clove of garlic.”

  “And what did the Englishman tell you?” she asked.

  “He would give us food,” Patch said. “I think colcannon.”

  Nory closed her eyes, remembering her sister Maggie as she stirred milk and butter into soft white potatoes and cabbage.