May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel

by Peter Troy

  Oh, I was only teasing, she thought. I thought you had more fortitude than that, Mr. McOwen.

  And as she smiled at his discomfort and her early victory, only then did she notice that the edges were slightly frayed and the crease had been significantly unfolded.

  “Is this the actual copy from Mr. Sacramore’s?” she asked.

  He nodded and said, “He was very kind about it.”

  And Mrs. Carlisle and Catherine were practically beside themselves, putting their hands over their hearts. But there was more.

  “If you’ll turn it over to the back …” he said.

  And she did, hesitantly, seeing a handwritten inscription that read:

  To Miss Arroyo, my friend and accompanist,

  With fondest regards and delightful memories

  of our performance together.

  Awaiting an encore,

  Victoria Templeton

  And that was all the confirmation Mrs. Carlisle and Catherine would ever need, practically melting with sentimentality right there in the front parlor. They insisted that Mr. McOwen stay for tea, or come for supper, and he was only able to keep them at bay by promising he would gladly do so any other day but this one.

  “I was hoping that Miss Arroyo might accompany me for an excursion around the city today. It is such a fine day for this time of year.”

  And there was no need for him to explain any further, as Mrs. Carlisle and Catherine accepted for Marcella, with Catherine taking hold of her arm and insisting on going upstairs with her, as if she would need help selecting a coat and hat and gloves. Their relationship had undoubtedly changed over the years, with Catherine starting out as teacher and mentor to Marcella, then slowly becoming more of a friend on equal terms as Marcella became a woman. But lately Marcella had begun to see something new in the dynamic between them, sensing that Catherine had taken to living, in certain respects, vicariously through Marcella, often expressing her amazement at the boldness and vivacity she’d never had. And as Catherine sat on the edge of Marcella’s bed, gushing in a manner more befitting Pilar, “Oh he’s so gallant,” and, “What magnificent eyes,” and so on, Marcella hadn’t the heart to pretend that she wasn’t more than a little excited by the prospects of the afternoon herself.

  “It was a very thoughtful gift,” she confessed, and smiled reluctantly.

  Mr. McOwen had a taxi carriage waiting outside, and they were soon off without any instructions to the driver, as if the plans had already been discussed. He said nothing, content, it seemed, to watch the city pass outside the window while tipping his hat to pedestrians on occasion and smiling coyly for most of the ride. They turned right onto Fourth Street and rode over to the Hudson River waterfront, where the driver stopped alongside one of the piers as if on cue. Mr. McOwen stepped out of the carriage and walked around to her door, opened it, and silently extended a hand. She stepped down and stood beside him, looking at a small pier where a merchant ship was just pulling away.

  “That’s where the Lord Sussex landed,” he finally said. “That’s where I first set foot in America.”

  And she felt the need to say something nice about it, though it was a dreary sight to be sure, even in the flattering midday sunshine.

  “Oh, it’s—” was as much as she mustered before he jumped in to finish the sentence.

  “—indescribably ugly, yes I know.” And she laughed as he nodded his head up and down.

  “That’s where we landed,” he pointed out, “and the dock next to it is where I waited with Suah.”

  And he began to tell her about this man Suah, who he was sure had saved his life, continuing as they climbed back into the carriage, and somewhere along the way seeming to re-create the image of that twelve-year-old boy and his first day in a new world. The carriage traveled back to Broadway and then over to the edge of the Five Points, and he explained that they were retracing his and his Da’s steps from that very day. She smiled when he said Da, finding it so much warmer than Papa—probably because of the men attached to each term—as they continued on past Wall Street, and then all the way across town to the South Street Port. He pointed out the pier where his Mam and Aunt Em had arrived a year or so after him, describing the scene with such affection and relief, all these years later, that she was saddened by her own story of arrival, without Papa there to greet them, and her pressed into service to speak English and instruct one taxi carriage driver to take them to Sixty-Third Street and another to follow with their trunks piled inside. But she told him none of this, content to listen to the stories he so willingly shared. And before long they were aboard the ferry headed to Brooklyn, though only after he promised her that they were not going to meet his family.

  “I want you all to myself,” he said. “The rest of th’McOwens will just have to wait their turn.”

  It was the closest thing he had said, to that point in their acquaintance, that reminded her of something that might be uttered by one of the pretentious suitors Papa used to bring home to meet her. Perhaps it was the lilt of his lingering brogue, or perhaps it was the genuineness that seemed to be at the center of everything he had done and said so far, but for some reason she was not put off by such a compliment, as she normally would be. Instead, she smiled without intent, only catching herself after a moment or two and turning her gaze to the water and the sight of New York growing smaller in the distance. Well done, Mr. McOwen, she thought to herself, and summoned what remained of her resistance.

  Once in Brooklyn, they passed a few minutes staring up at the Heights, with him pointing out the general direction of the City Hall and of Reverend Beecher’s Plymouth Church. She told him that her only trips to Brooklyn were generally to hear the Reverend’s abolitionist sermons. And he told her that he had been there several times himself.

  “I even convinced Mam and Aunt Em to come along—though we sat in the back beneath the balcony in case the Lahrd was lookin’ down on that particular Sunday an’ moight see us surrounded by all manner o’ Protestants.”

  And she laughed again, the defenses weakening with every reference to his family that seemed in such direct contrast to her own, and the great affection he seemed capable of, like no man she’d ever known. Then, rather than walking up toward the Heights for what she expected would be a luncheon at some restaurant or inn designed to impress her, it was instead another taxi carriage ride, this one toward the south and the village of Red Hook. There were stories of fishing with his Da, and the tiny cabin that had been replaced with something much larger years before, and games of baseball with his friends in a field that was now covered with houses and a livery stable and a large warehouse as well. And he spoke of his boyhood friends with the same sort of affection he had shown when talking about his family, and she thought now of the gallery opening, thinking of the determined expressions of the men from the Irish Brigade, and trying to remember which ones were the fellows he spoke of now, Harry and Finny, knowing Smitty already of course.

  They disembarked from the carriage, and he left her to stand there by the dirt path, walking thirty or forty feet over to one of the small boats turned upside down along the shore. Leaning heavily on his cane for the first time that day, he struggled to flip the boat over with his free hand, and then, having managed the task, collected himself and with opened hand gestured to a picnic basket covered by a blanket that had been stored beneath it.

  “It’s a little cold for a sail,” he said, “but perhaps a picnic will do?”

  And for the first time that day, or in any of their moments together to that point, she saw him as what he might have been had fortunes been only slightly altered, in that instant imagining him as one of the contorted, lifeless bodies spilled across the canvas of a Mathew Brady photograph.

  Just seven weeks ago he was there at that dreadful place, she thought. And what a loss it might have been if that bullet had found his belly and not his leg, instead.

  He stood there beside the picnic basket that represented more effort and planning and t
houghtfulness than all the hothouse flowers and scripted greetings of all the men Papa had ever brought home put together. And she found herself unable, or unwilling at the very least, to remain as distant as she had been previously determined to be. A few awkward moments passed as he mustered up a hopeful smile, until his foot sank a little in the soft ground, and he had to brace himself against the boat to maintain his balance. And she remembered then what Violet Smythe had said, about all that seemed lost for him, including the joy of a sail.

  He must be thinking that it is all a terrible failure, she thought. Such a man as this.

  “Who says it’s too cold for a sail?” she said, feigning offense, and now possessed of a plan herself. “Or perhaps you think I am just a dainty little woman and unable to brave the raging waters of the Gowanus Bay? Yes, I know your type all too well, Mr. McOwen …”

  And a soliloquy ensued, as she walked down to the boat and began pulling at it, budging it only slightly toward the water and then growing concerned that they might not be able to manage it, even together, and he would be forced to admit his incapacity, or worse, his fear.

  “… we women are perfectly capable of a great many things you men will not give us credit for …”

  Oh, please move, you damn thing. Tugging harder now, not caring about the sand and dirt pouring into her shoes.

  “… it’s because you never give us the chance to prove ourselves …”

  Jesus, Marcella, what have you gotten yourself into now? Move, dammit!

  “… but we are not so fragile, you know …”

  And with bent back and feet entrenched in the earth to give her leverage, she looked up at him and saw a smile replacing the shock, and grew hopeful.

  “Well, I didn’t say we were as physically strong, you know …”

  And without saying a word, he stepped toward the boat and began to push.

  Such a man as this, she thought again.

  “The vote, for example … one of those rights you men conveniently reserve for yourselves …”

  And with the two of them working in unison, the boat began to slide more willingly along the sandy, grass-covered earth.

  Thank God.

  “… it’s all part of the grander scheme, you know …”

  And when they reached the edge of the water, he limped back for the basket and the blanket, placing them inside the boat. By now she was ankle-deep in the water, and he extended a hand to her as if to help her in, then caught himself.

  “I don’t mean to patronize, Miss Arroyo,” he said.

  And she smiled, relieved at the return of his wit.

  “Equality for women doesn’t mean you can’t be a gentleman, Mr. McOwen …”

  And he nodded his head, bowing slightly, and offered his hand again. She climbed in and, seeing the boat sink into the sand again, picked up one of the oars, pushing it into the earth and pressing on it to help him move the boat the last few feet into deep enough water. Then she braced it in the sand below, holding the boat still as he tossed his cane in first, then awkwardly folded his torso, and finally his reluctant legs, inside.

  “Too cold for a sail? Why, it’s a beautiful day …”

  Keep talking until he can collect himself, she thought. Dignity—let the man have his dignity.

  And then he was in, settled on the bench across from her, removing his hat and placing it on the floor of the vessel, smiling at her as he caught his breath.

  “You’ve been sailing before?” he asked.

  “Never,” she said, and handed him the oar she held as he picked up the other.

  It took a few moments for him to place them in the oarlocks, and then a few moments more to find a way to row with only one leg available to anchor him. And she did her best not to watch him struggle, ceasing her imaginary diatribe now and looking out over the water. But before too long he had them under way, with Marcella offering the distraction of myriad questions about the terms for everything in the boat. She learned that it was called a skiff, learned about the mast and boom and tiller and other such things until they were far enough out to raise the sail.

  He instructed her to walk around to the stern and man the tiller, then caught himself and joked that he didn’t mean to use such an offensive expression and would she please tend to the tiller. And the great effort of just a few minutes before seemed gone then, as if, in his present condition, he could be more at home, more fluid in his movements, out on the water like this. He first pulled up the mast, raising it against the hinge at its base until it was fifteen feet high straight up and down, and he could lock it in place. Then he attached the sail and raised it the length of the mast and fixed it to the boom.

  “Oh, how men like to give such determined names to things,” she said, amidst the flurry of vocabulary.

  “How else are we to keep women subjugated?” he said, without looking at her, tending to the business of righting the boat.

  Ahhhhh … THERE you are, Ethan, she thought, deciding that he would never again be held at such a distance to think of him with any more formal manner of address.

  Once the wind took full hold of the sail, he maneuvered himself onto the back bench, separated from her by the tiller, and she looked at him as if he would take hold of it. But he smiled at her, his comfort and confidence fully restored, it seemed, and his dignity intact, content to handle the boom line while she did the actual steering.

  “You’re doing fine. Just keep her straight on into the wakes,” he said, pointing out the little waves rolling in. And they passed silently over them, Marcella focused intently on the task of keeping the tiller straight and Ethan alternately smiling at her, then allowing himself to feel the freedom of being on the water once again.

  How long has it been since you’ve been out here? she thought, but wouldn’t venture to ask, lest she stir up memories that needn’t be a part of this day.

  They passed several minutes this way, with him pulling the boom line closer, then letting it out again, finding what manner of wind there was to be employed on such a mild autumn afternoon. Ethan nodded every now and again, pointing out a possible direction for her to follow, and she turned the tiller toward it, eventually taking them out of the Gowanus Bay and up along the East River, with the Brooklyn Heights and Manhattan Island serving as their bookends on a glorious day.

  And then he looked at her, purposefully, as if surprised by the direction this entire day had taken. He turned his head slightly to one side, boyishly almost, and stared intently at her the way he had the night he first met her at the gallery. Only now it wasn’t a painter’s or photographer’s eye gleaning bits of her heart, but the opposite entirely, as if he were confiding something in her that would be diminished with every frivolous word used to describe it.

  “Thank you,” he finally said, then turned back around, closing his eyes and taking hold of a deep saltwater breath, holding it for a moment longer than usual, then letting go.

  She looked at him, understanding, as if welcoming him back to these waters, to normalcy. And letting go of all her reserve, of everything she had felt was necessary by way of self-preservation just a few hours before, she smiled back at him.

  No, she thought … thank you.

  ETHAN

  FORT SCHUYLER HOSPITAL, BRONX

  NOVEMBER 20, 1862

  If he wanted to think of it that way, he could, that if it hadn’t been for her, he never would’ve even considered Mr. Prendergast’s offer. Mam and Aunt Em, and even the men in his family, had so doted upon him when he returned from the hospital that he’d begun to feel that his would be a convalescent’s life for whatever years might remain of it. But not her.

  She’d been the first one not to ask about the leg or the shoulder every time she saw him. She’d allowed him to become a man again by not treating him as anything else, and he’d gravitated toward her for that as much as for the glisten of her eyes or the curve of her cheek or the thrill of earning a laugh from her. And they’d spent at least some time together ever
y day since the sail on Gowanus Bay, as if they weren’t safely tucked away in New York but were stuck right in the thick of the war and couldn’t waste time with trivial hesitations since the whole world could be torn asunder at any moment. More than once she’d begun to tell him something, then stopped, smiling and shaking her head slightly as if surprised at what she was confessing. Then she’d say to him I’ve never said this to anyone—no one living anyway—and then she’d tell him the thing all the same. And he’d come to know that the nonliving person she’d shared all these things with was her Abuela who’d been left behind in Spain half her lifetime ago, which made him smile and tell her a secret of his own—about Aislinn, and how he still sometimes talked to her when he was down by the water somewhere, and his words could be carried off to her resting place along the lane back in the Old Country.

  And she smiled only slightly to hear it, then caught herself and squinted her eyes closed with head tilted slightly to one side. Well, you’re far crazier than I am then, she said, and they laughed together.

  If this had been back in Enniskillen, there’d have been structure to all of this, even at their ages, with the two of them falling under the collective supervision of the village as they took late afternoon walks together or went half a mile out of their way to pass by the other’s cottage on the off chance they’d meet. And she’d told him that if her father had his way, she never would have met him, and certainly never would have been permitted to court him without bank statements to verify his suitability. Then it would be stuffy dinner parties and stuffier visits to the opera seated in separate boxes to demonstrate sufficient chastity to all the gossip-thirsty onlookers. But the fates had freed them of all that, to somehow bring them together and leave only their own inhibitions to overcome. And he began to think of this three-week interlude as something of a happy accident in the midst of a world that, with all its wits about it—free from the unbalancing effect of war—would have conspired to keep them from ever crossing paths. But now that fortunate disruption in the natural order of things was over, and it was time for the real world once again.