Between Before and After

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

THE MIRACLE BOY

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA—AUGUST 1955

  Molly

  “Explain to me again why we’re doing this.” Mom looked at her mouth in a compact mirror and blotted her cherry lipstick.

  “You know why. The Craters have invited us to dinner as a way of saying thanks,” Uncle Stephen said.

  All four of us were sweating in Uncle Stephen’s car. I wanted the windows rolled down, but Mom was afraid it would mess her hair. We compromised—two windows down, two up. We were going to have dinner with Robert the miracle boy and his family. I wondered how someone who had received a miracle would look. Would there be any signs of the miraculous?

  It had been a very long time since we’d had dinner at anyone’s house. Mom had actually dressed up for the occasion, twisting her hair into something French at the nape of her neck. Her gardenia perfume bloomed in the heat. Nothing could ever make Uncle Stephen look dressed up. Clothes wilted the minute they touched his body; the crispest shirt collapsed to wrinkles.

  Every time we left the house, we snuck out through the garage or the backyard. Once we were in the car, we were separated from the pleas of the faithful remnant in front of the house. As Uncle Stephen backed out of the driveway, I’d stared straight ahead, not wanting to make eye contact with so much hope and devotion.

  The Craters lived in a big house with a real front porch, and Uncle Stephen had told us they had two other children besides Robert. Mr. Crater met us on the porch with a baby boy in his arms. He was a big man—all muscle—and he carried his son like a football.

  “Hello. Hello. So glad you could come.” He nodded to all of us. “This is Roger. He’s nine months old today, and this is Richard.” A boy of about four or five with bright white hair wandered out. His hair was so startling that I stared for a moment or two longer than was polite.

  “Hi.” He looked at us and then stuck a thumb in his mouth. I was thinking Roger, Richard, Robert.

  “Take your thumb out, Richard. Big boys don’t suck their thumbs.” Mr. Crater looked annoyed. Richard obediently removed his thumb, wiping it across his stomach.

  Inside, the heat-saturated air was cooler. A large ceiling fan spun in lazy circles. Mrs. Crater bustled out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and we did the whole hand shaking routine again. She was a small, birdlike woman with the same white-blond hair as her son’s, cut close to her head. In her case, it reminded me of feathers on a newly hatched chick.

  I was wondering where Robert was when a thin boy about my age came down the stairs. You could tell he was part of the family by looking at the white stubble that was filling in on his head like a newly seeded lawn.

  It is difficult to search a face for signs of a miracle. I didn’t really know what I was looking for. But it seemed to me that the miraculous should leave fingerprints; a face would never look the same. Robert Crater’s face was beautiful. Perhaps it had always been that way. Perhaps it was the miracle. His skin and hair were so pale they reflected light, and his eyes were a lighter blue than the sky. I suddenly was aware that my own hair was sweaty and stuck to my head, and last year’s skirt too short.

  Mrs. Crater had made an impressive meal of pot roast and potatoes, Jell-O with slices of mandarin orange, and chocolate cake for dessert. Even in their cool house, it was almost too hot to eat, but we kept passing the dishes around anyway and smiling politely. I stole glances at Robert across the table. When I glanced up, his eyes would skitter away.

  At the end of the meal, the children were excused to go play. Angus immediately leapt up to join the middle R, but Robert and I stayed at the table, too old to be included in the definition of children, too young to be included in all the conversation.

  “Things have been different around here since the miracle.” Mr. Crater leaned in when he spoke as if we were part of a conspiracy. Mrs. Crater, with the littlest R now on her lap, nodded. “I hadn’t gone to church in years, but you can bet I’m there every Sunday now. This boy is destined for great things. That’s why God spared him.”

  A faint blush was starting to spread up Robert’s neck.

  “I tell everyone that my son was spared by a miracle.”

  Uncle Stephen cleared his throat as if he was about to speak, but Mr. Crater kept going. “I call it bearing witness.”

  “We can’t even begin to tell you how grateful we are.” Mrs. Crater’s blue eyes filled with tears.

  “But it really wasn’t me.”

  Mr. Crater cut right through Uncle Stephen’s words. “Of course it wasn’t you. God has set aside our son for a special purpose. And you won’t let us down, son, will you?”

  By now, the flush had spread to Robert’s face and his ears. I hadn’t noticed his neat, flat ears before, but now they were a most unbecoming shade of purple. I was suddenly glad that I was not a miracle recipient. Mom looked uncomfortable too. In fact, she looked like she was winding up to say something. I had to cut her off.

  “Did it hurt?” All eyes at the table turned my direction. I sank down into myself. “Being cured, I mean.” This time my voice was almost a whisper.

  “No, my head felt strange—warm all over.” Robert looked at me, embarrassed.

  “To whom much is given, much is expected, eh? Remember that, son.” Mr. Crater turned back to Uncle Stephen. “We’ve taken out a life insurance policy on him.”

  “What we were wondering,” Mrs. Crater chirped up, “is what you think we should do with him. We need to protect Robert for God’s purposes. I’ve been keeping him in so that nothing can happen to him.”

  The words that had been building up in Mom finally burst out like steam from a kettle. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! This boy has been protected from one thing or another his whole life! When does he ever get to be a boy?”

  Now everyone at the table was staring at her. Mrs. Crater’s mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish’s. Robert’s eyes were circles of surprise, but he was smiling his angelic smile.

  Uncle Stephen stepped in to smooth things out. “I’m sure God has his reasons for healing Robert. We don’t always know what they are. He may be called to do amazing things, but I don’t think growing up as a normal boy would stop that.”

  Mr. Crater shook his huge head slowly from side to side. “He is holy ground, Mr. Fitzgerald, holy ground. I thought you, as a miracle worker, would understand this.”

  Uncle Stephen tried a different tack. “Well, let’s take Jesus for an example. He was the holiest man that ever lived, and God did mighty things through him.”

  “Amen.” Mr. Crater nodded his head this time.

  “But he grew up like a normal boy, helping out in a carpenter’s shop.”

  I looked across at Robert and thought I spied a gleam of hope in his eyes. This boy was desperate.

  “Maybe Robert can come over to our house sometimes and hang out with Angus and me.”

  Mom drew her penciled eyebrows together so tightly that they made a bridge over her nose.

  “Why, that would be nice.” Mrs. Crater smiled and wiped some drool off little R’s chin. “It must be someplace where he’s safe, where folks understand Robert’s situation with God.”

  “That poor boy,” was the first thing Mom said when we got in the car to go home. “To have parents like that.” She clucked her tongue.

  “Miracles can do funny things to people,” Uncle Stephen agreed.

  “Oh, it wasn’t the miracle,” said Mom. “It’s them—pretending they have a direct line to God. In my experience, he’s too busy to answer the phone.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE RIVER

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK—OCTOBER 1919

  ELAINE

  Monday morning the sky was a grimace, waiting for sleet—a preview of winter. Overnight the temperature had dropped to hover at that point just above freezing, too cold for pleasure, too warm for snow, the point where all of Brooklyn shivered for most of the winter. Elaine’s mind had insisted on chattering most of
the night. And now, barely awake, it began again with questions about Howard. It had been a week since the picnic, and she hadn’t seen him once.

  She dragged the covers off a sleeping Stephen, and then checked for what she already knew in her heart. Pop had not come in during the night. Maybe he slept somewhere else last night and was drinking his tea in Tim Meeks’s kitchen, ready to hurry off to his job.

  After heating the tea water, she called Stephen to hurry up and then climbed on a chair to get down the sugar jar, a place to keep her pay where Pop wouldn’t look. Two dollars and twenty-five cents left. Bread, milk, and eggs for the week. When she got paid again, she’d have to decide whether to put the money toward rent or food. Slipping the money into the pocket of her skirt, she finished dishing up the sticky oatmeal.

  After seeing Stephen off to school, she headed south along Myrtle to Clinton as businesses opened for the day. Wind tugged her umbrella and bit at her cheeks. Her stomach curled at a whiff of coffee brewing and the scent of chocolate from the Rockwood factory.

  She’d taken special care with her hair that morning, twisting it into a bun as she recalled the feel of Howie’s hands on the back her of neck. With her hair up, she could easily pass for sixteen, even when the damp air made tendrils curl and frizz around her face.

  As she walked, her thoughts fell in rhythm with the tap of her shoes. Pop and Howie, Howie and Pop. Pop had been gone this long before; he’d always appear again as if nothing had happened. But now with his job at Drake Brothers, there was more to lose. Was he still showing up for work?

  When she was little, he was the only one who could comfort her. He sang and made up stories, carried her on his shoulders to the market, and brought home candy in his pockets. But sometime after Stephen was born, when her mother was having miscarriage after miscarriage, he changed, stopping off for a nightcap on the way home. When Claire and her mother died, it was as if the last strings holding him to them were cut. Where was Claire now? Aunt Agnes said babies who weren’t baptized got stuck in a place called purgatory. They had to be prayed out. If Claire’s escape depended on Elaine’s prayers, her little sister was still in that gray, forsaken place, wailing for her mother. Guilt settled on her shoulders. Who else remembered to pray for her baby sister?

  And then Elaine was on the Gossleys’ back porch, heart galloping out of control. Howie was probably waiting to see her before he left for school. Would he kiss her again, right in the kitchen? If he did, she’d kiss him back, right in front of everyone. With a deep breath, she closed her umbrella, gave it a shake, and walked in. The scent of fresh-baked rolls enveloped her.

  “Go ahead and take one.” Kay nodded her head at the pans lining the table. “You look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

  Elaine gratefully closed her hand around one of the warm rolls as she listened for Howie’s clatter in the hall. But the house was strangely quiet.

  “Mrs. Gossley’s down with a cold and Mr. Howie’s already off to school.” She shot Elaine a quick look that Elaine chose not to interpret. “Go on in. Mr. Seward’s expecting you.”

  A weight dropped from nowhere onto her chest. She was tired. Her throat felt sore. It didn’t matter; she’d see him at lunch. She rapped on the door to the morning room. When there was no answer, she walked in. Mr. Seward sat with his feet up, his head thrown back, mouth open. The newspapers were piled, as usual, on the table next to the silver teapot and two empty cups.

  Quietly, Elaine unwrapped her shawl, pulled up a chair, and poured herself a cup of tea. Mr. Seward’s breathing was regular and deep. She reached for the Herald Tribune, took a bite of roll, and chased it with a sip of tea. The steel worker’s strike had turned violent. Police in Pennsylvania had clubbed down hundreds of the striking workers. She flipped through the other papers. Every headline had something to do with the steel workers’ strike. What would it be like to want something so badly that you’d be willing to be beaten for it? She chewed thoughtfully, tallying the things she wanted. She wanted a family again, for Pop to come home and take care of them; she wanted to go back to school; to live in a house like the Gossleys’; and to do something important with her life. Her odds were even greater than the steel workers’. She also wanted Howard to kiss her again. This time she’d be ready.

  An hour passed, and Mr. Seward still slept. May hadn’t appeared and given her any work to do. Elaine wandered into the kitchen.

  “It doesn’t look like there’s much for you to do today. Perhaps you should head home. I’m sure Mrs. Gossley won’t mind.”

  If she left now, she’d miss her chance to see Howie at lunch. He’d probably get there early since he missed her this morning. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to having you peel some apples. I’m making applesauce this afternoon when the baking’s done.”

  For the rest of the morning she peeled the grainy skins from green apples. If she was careful, she could undress the apple with one long curl like a snake shedding its skin. Elaine inhaled the routine of the kitchen.

  Noon came and went. No sign of Howie. The box of apples was empty. Three bowls overflowed with their shed skins. Through the steamy window, she could see the back walk bordered by golden trees. Each day more gold spilled to the ground. Soon the branches would be bare. Where was he? Maybe he had extra work to do, a test to study for. Maybe he’d gotten into trouble again. Elaine turned over his words. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Every time I look at you.

  Kay returned to the kitchen with Mrs. Gossley’s lunch tray. “You’ve been a great help to me today. Mrs. Gossley says to take the afternoon off, but be back tomorrow.” She cut two thick slices of warm dark bread and spread them with butter and honey. “A little something for the walk home, and take some of the chicken left over from the picnic. I’m sure that brother of yours is hungry.” She handed Elaine a plump bag of fried chicken. “Now, shoo. Go enjoy yourself.”

  That was how Elaine found herself walking down Clinton Street at one thirty on a chilly Monday afternoon. The sleet had stopped, and the umbrella hung from one hand, her bag of food from the other. After the holidays she hoped to try school again like Mrs. Gossley suggested. But that depended on Pop. For now, she had an entire afternoon to herself, a bag of chicken for dinner, and no one depending on her. Her feet led her toward the river.

  The Brooklyn Navy Yard covered much of the banks of the East River in the Wallabout Basin. But to the north of the Yard, there were muddy paths that all the children knew. Here eager swimmers made their way to the river’s edge when the heat and humidity of summer became unbearable. Elaine followed one of these, through weeds and brambles, to the riverbank.

  Today, thick tongues of fog unfurled, lapping at the water of the East River. Across the river, Manhattan was only a moving shadow. To the north, the Williamsburg Bridge connected the two worlds, the largest suspension bridge on earth. Elaine remembered her parents’ stories of fireworks lighting up the night sky in the middle of December, when the bridge had opened in 1903, a year before she was born. She had never crossed the bridge to that other world beyond Brooklyn.

  To the south, she could see the steel girders of the Manhattan Bridge fade into white. The river damp enclosed her, made her teeth chatter, yet she lingered, straining into the mist. It was as if she was called by a voice just beyond hearing, just out of reach. There wasn’t a name for this longing. It was an ache composed of sadness and hope, as real but as insubstantial as the fog. It was easy to believe that the far bank was an illusion, that life in Brooklyn was all there was. But, if she stared hard enough, she could see the ghosts of buildings and trees, a rumor of life beyond what she knew. By now, the dampness had reached her bones; her whole body shook. She turned from the river, and with the wind and fog at her back trudged the long blocks home.

  There would be time today, before Stephen came bursting through the door, to do some laundry, but instead, after she heated water for tea, Elaine opened the Hansel and Gretel book. She
could hear the shuffling of the forest. Trees with faces and gnarled limbs peered from the pages. While she traced the intricate lines of bark, Stephen charged through the door looking for food.

  Dark was coming earlier now. Elaine had saved the surprise of chicken for a special dinner. She laid out enough for Pop, hoping he’d come whistling in and tell them stories of the day’s work at Drake Brothers. She even made Stephen wait until six o’clock, the time they had always eaten dinner when her mother was alive. It would be right after Claire was fed and rocked to sleep. However, six o’clock came and went without Pop. Elaine served up the warmed chicken with potatoes and bread. As they chewed, Elaine though about the fact that if they kept only the front room heated, they could move the beds in there, saving some money.

  Rain tapped the window. Elaine’s eyes slipped shut while Stephen talked. Did Howard miss her? Was he looking out the window right now at the same rain and wondering what she was doing? A pounding on the door jolted her fully alert.

  “Maybe it’s Pop?” Stephen looked hopefully at the door.

  “Why would he knock at his own door?” But the same flutter of hope stirred inside her like an animal awoken from sleep. They rarely had visitors at all. Cautiously, she opened the door an inch or two. Mr. Meeks, hat in hand, stood on the landing.

  “Come in.” Elaine swung the door open wider, hoping to see Pop right behind him. But Mr. Meeks came in by himself, reeking of whiskey as he brushed past.

  “I’ve got some hard news.” He looked at the ground rather than at Elaine or Stephen. His scrawny shoulders were hunched as if he were bearing a burden too heavy for him. “Your father was injured. They took him to the Brooklyn Hospital.”

  A chill, like the river fog, seeped into Elaine. She began to tremble. “What happened to him?” she asked as she grabbed her shawl from the back of the chair.

  Mr. Meeks twisted his hat and shrank further into himself. “There was this fight, see, down at Clancy’s. Some sons of mothers hit him over the head with a chair and he went down hard.”