Cursed

by Lynn Ricci

“I’m sorry,” she wiped her mouth and the coffee that had spilled on the blanket with her hand. She then pulled on her earlobe as she offered a plausible explanation. “Did you say 1972?”

  “No, Sarah. I said 1872.”

  He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes and remembering that clear cold morning that they set sail. How scared he had been at all the change since he had never been on a boat before and until just the prior week he had never even traveled as far as Dublin. He could remember his father on deck with his favorite hand carved pipe and how he pointed things out to him, always with one hand on his shoulder. The memories all flooded back in one torrential downpour that he could not stop. Talking might be best, he thought, so he began to tell her his story the way he remembered it, with his eyes remaining closed.

  “My mum was beautiful.” Mason was silent for moment, not wanting his voice to crack. “She had auburn red hair and the greenest eyes you ever did see. They were like the green hills of home and my father always would say he could see Ireland in her eyes." He paused, and Sarah saw a tear slip down his cheek.

  "The morning we left, those eyes were red with tears, leaving behind her sisters and brothers, mum and dad. It was a celebration though, because my father had done quite well despite Ireland’s economy. Both my mum and dad had been born during the potato blight but had been far enough removed from the south and west of Ireland that they survived when many young ones in those years did not. In the mid 1840’s, when they born, our land lost almost a quarter of its people to the famine and the fleeing. And, in a country still reeling from the great famine and subsequent upheaval of poor trying desperately to leave, landowners being taxed and shipping their tenants off to North America, and all the religious and political turmoil, my family up in the East had not been quite as affected. We were all lucky.

  The plan we had was we were going to go to America, to Boston which already had a large Irish population, and start a new life. We knew someone whose cousin was already there and with a little money funneled to the right people, could help us get a shop in the city. Boston, you see, had her own miseries in those years but had been coming back around already and buildings with shops were springing up everywhere. We had a steamer trunk full of fine Irish materials to set up the millinery and eventually we would be able to arrange for family members to come, too. My father couldn’t stand the thought of my mum missing home.

  We boarded the ship on that March morning and got mum settled down below and then my dad took me up on deck. We watched as we pulled away from Dublin, the steamer ship smelling and obliterating the sweet Irish air and for the next two weeks were at ocean where all the air smelled of salt. My dad told me all his plans again and again like he was confiding a private secret with his arm around my shoulder and the smell of his pipe filling my nose and calming me.

  The steamer was magnificent once you got past the smell. These were much better accommodations than the coffin ships my dad told me about when my mum was not around. The coffin ships set sail when my dad had been about my age, and were overloaded with human cargo, mostly sick and dying. Those who were not sick often caught ship sickness, which was really typhoid. People took their chances, fleeing from the potato blight in the 1840’s and paying for passage on these sailing ships that took up to a month to cross the Atlantic to places like Montreal, Boston and New York. Not like the grand steamer ship we took that only took two weeks or so in good weather.

  The weeks on the ship were pleasant enough. There were some boys my age and we would kick a ball around or play pickey-beds, kind of like hopscotch, when it wasn’t too cold and windy on deck. My father would be off playing cards most days and my mum spent time crocheting sweaters for me and Dad and talking with the other ladies about how much they missed their families. There was not a lot to eat and we had brought some food with us that didn’t last long. By the end of the trip we were weakened by the lack of activity, confined space, and rationed food and I could only imagine the poor souls on those sailing ships from before I was born.

  The morning we arrived in Boston was spectacular. It was late winter but felt like spring here. The sky was a bright deep blue, like my dad’s eyes, and there were boats and activity everywhere. By contrast, Dublin had been depressed with the soup kitchens for those fleeing the south’s countryside, reduced commerce, and ships in her harbor were mostly for trade and those leaving the country. Boston had numerous ships and boats of all kinds and a feeling in the air of truly being the Promised Land.

  My mum came out on deck with us as we steamed by the outer tip of Provincetown and into the bay. The wind whipped at her pinned up hair causing the fiery tendrils to dance in the strong ocean breeze. Her dress, long to the ground as they were in that day, was also taking on its own life with the material snapping like a flag on a pole. She stood close to my father on deck that morning and smiled a lot. It was the first smile I had seen on my mum’s face since we left our soil.

  It was still a few hours before we made it into dock but we could see land and knew this was our new home. My father lit a pipe and I stood between the two people I loved most in the world feeling joy and excitement of what was to come. My mum’s green eyes shown bright and she kissed my head several times before crying again but this time with a smile.

  Later she told me she had known about the coffin ships and was dreadfully worried the whole time that someone would get sick on board and wipe out her family. She said the moment she saw America, she felt safe. She always worried so much about us.”

  Mason opened his eyes and looked at Sarah. It appeared as if she had not moved a muscle during his narrative and she even let out her breath as if she had been holding it. He searched her eyes, trying to determine if she believed him, but knew he needed to push on for her to truly understand.

  “Go on, please.” Her voice did not convey acceptance or doubt, but he had to abide by her wish. He would have continued even without it. There was no turning back now.

  He sat forward and sipped at his now cool coffee, settled back and closed his eyes again, remembering the buildings and shacks along the waterfront as they docked, the immigration desk, the confusion of people and the different languages he heard on the dock for the first time in his life. He thought about where they stayed on the first night, he and his dad hauling the steamer trunk together and his dad promising he would get them a place of their own the next day. The dirty, foul-stenched place they stayed with all the other Irish and Germans that arrived in port that day and his mother staying up the entire night to watch over him, afraid a rat would come and bite him. Then he remembered their apartment with two rooms which was grand by Irish standards, and his father’s store with the front window where he could proudly display his fine hats, and how his mother would walk all those many blocks every mid-day to bring him his lunch and he decided this is where he would continue his story.

  “We were not poor, but we were not rich either. Here in America, they had something in between. A middle class. We took a two room apartment, which was all we had at home, but this was bigger and had running water inside and walls that did a fairly good job of keeping out the cold.

  Every day, except for Sunday, my father would leave early to walk to his store. He had found a few suppliers and had set up shop making toppers, or silk top hats, as well as flat hats and the bowler hats, or what some called derbies. He had brought his wooden hat blocks from Ireland and all his tools and I think he was starting to build a name for himself quickly with the quality hat he sold. Plus the flat hats were fairly new, being common in Ireland and was a nice alternative for weekend wear in the country instead of the formal top hat.”

  Mason opened his good eye and snuck a sideways look at Sarah who nodded back to show she was listening.

  "I would be up most mornings before he left, to share our morning meal, but on the occasion I was still asleep he would rough up my hair and tell me to be good for my mum."

  Mason stopped and took a deep breath, remembering that
cold November morning when his world changed. His memory had not lost the details over all these years, still remembering the smell of his mum's porridge on the stove and could almost hear her gentle hum of some long ago forgotten Irish tune. It was very dark in their apartment and he felt it wasn't quite morning, but he knew something was still off from the night before.

  The previous evening had been lively with people in and out and adults talking amongst themselves. Although nearing his bed hour, Mason had slid the front window open a crack and sat on the floor with the cold night air seeping in and enveloping him, making him shiver. His mother had tried to pull him away but then she sat too, nose to nose with her son and their breath mingling together in smoky puffs in the cold, with her ear pressed to the opening to hear the men's voices on the street below telling his father the news.

  A fire had started in a warehouse basement on Summer Street in Boston and the rumor was it was spreading quickly. Many of the fire boxes used to alert the firehouse had been locked to prevent false alarms. They were complaining about how this delayed the response and how the fire had grown. The warehouse that was originally aflame was occupied by a dry goods manufacturer and a few clothing manufacturers. Most of the buildings were granite and Mason had been confused why they would burn but then he heard the men speak about the pine, Mansford-styled roofs and how the fire was sending flames and burnt cinders to ignite the adjoining buildings. Also, the fire was spreading internally and in some cases the gas lines along the street to deliver gas to the lanterns were causing small explosions. The men also spoke at length about how the fire department had been ill-prepared for this on top of the horse flu that had spread from New York and Canada and gripped Boston, affecting a great portion of the animals quickly.

  Growing up in Ireland's countryside, he was fond of horses and had found that he had a good way with them. One of the things he most missed about home was now living in the city and not owning a horse. The news that had been coming in from all circles about the extent of the horse flu had been all he could think about recently.

  Tram service had shut down in parts of the city and deliveries had slowed. The epidemic had provided work to many immigrants getting off at the docks and finding work that very same day unloading ship cargo and pulling wagons with teams of men as equine replacements.

  Unfortunately, as the men that spoke outside their building the night before pointed out, the Boston Fire Department relied on horses to deliver their firefighting apparatus but the horses were lying in their stalls, weakened, coughing and unable to get the equipment where it needed to go.

  His father was concerned and wanted to go with the group of men to see what could be done but with his shop so many blocks away he was worried he should wait to see which way the fire would go.

  When Mason's father returned to the apartment to find Mason and his mum sitting at the table he told them briefly of the fire but assured them it would all be fine and the fire would be extinguished before it reached as far as his store and certainly not to their apartment.

  Mason sitting in the here and now reflected on that morning and how he had been lying under the warm blanket wondering with a young boys innocent mind what had become of the fire overnight. His mother was moving around quietly but he pulled back his blanket and quickly pulled on a warm sweater before going to see her at the stove.

  "Where's Dad?"

  His mother turned and fixed her bright green eyes on him. They were rimmed in red and although he knew she had cried earlier, she had a smile for him.

  "Here, sit. I will get you something warm."

  Mason sat at the table and his mother placed a large bowl of porridge in front of him, steam rising bringing the warm familiar scent from home straight up his nose and he immediately picked up his spoon. He had found lately that he was growing a lot which was probably why he was hungry all the time. He felt an incredible amount of guilt with not being satisfied with his share of the food and he tried to keep his growling belly to himself but his mother seemed to know.

  "Mr. Peters came by during the night with some other men off to fight the fire. It was well after you went to sleep. Your father went out to help." She folded and unfolded her cloth napkin as she spoke, and Mason became fixated on the napkin.

  "Fire departments from all over were arriving in Boston overnight to help with the fire, but the water pressure for their hoses was far too low so they were setting up brigades and needed every many they could find."

  "Is the fire out?"

  "I don't think so. They said it was much worse than they originally thought and it was burning out of control in some areas. Mr. Peters said that they might blow up buildings to try to stop the fire from spreading."

  Mason watched as the napkin now got twisted in her ivory white hands and knew his mum was scared.

  "Dad will be fine, Mum. Don't worry. Do you want me to go find him?"

  "No!" It came out harshly for his mum, but she quickly recovered, "No, Mason, you stay here with me. We will wait for him to come back. I am sure it will be soon."

  Mason finished eating and went to the window, looking towards the south and Summer Street and saw the orange glow in the heavens.

  "Mum, come see this odd light." He gestured out the window and his mother came reluctantly to his side, holding his arm. A thought occurred to him that he had reached her height and would be gaining on his father soon. Maybe by next year if he keeps growing the way he had been. His mother had let down the hem on all his pants already and he knew he would need new ones soon.

  Mum stared out the window with him. "Yes, I saw this earlier before your father left. He said it was the fire reflecting on the clouds and smoke." She pressed her lips together causing her mouth to become a straight line and deep worry wrinkles had set into her brow. "I don't like the look of this at all. It looks like Hell’s sky."

  Early Sunday morning after dawn broke there were men on their street, covered in black soot. One yelled 'news of the fire' and windows along the street slid open without a care for the cold blast of air or how long it would take to heat their apartments again. The heavy smell of smoke entered their apartment and made his mum choke.

  Someone yelled "Is it over?"

  The man in front of the group, who appeared to be their speaker, looked up towards women and children's heads poking out the windows.

  "We need any blankets you can spare. The fire is moving towards the Old South Meetinghouse and they are looking to wet the building as best they can with blankets!"

  Mason could see heads disappearing and then moments later blankets being pushed out, some probably right from their beds, fluttering to the ground. His mother had disappeared and returned with their spare blanket for cold nights and looked at it once before pushing it through their window.

  "Mum, the fire has spread a lot for it to be that far."

  "Not to worry." But she looked very nervous.

  The explosions had started to create a fire dam and yet the fire continued. We could hear them in the distance and they sounded like thunder. It was the first time I had heard anything like it and I thought this must be what war sounded like. We would hear cries in the distance, sounds of men hollering news, buildings collapsing, and the loud, black powder triggered explosions that made me cringe.

  We waited word of Dad all morning and finally a knock came at the door from a woman up the street. Her English was not that good but she could manage.

  "Frau Brown?" Called a heavy accented woman from the hallway.

  Mum turned whiter than her typical pale skin expecting the worst and I moved in close thinking she was going to collapse.

  "Yes?"

  "I am Frau Schroder. I live on corner house. Husband returned to give word of fire."

  She appeared to wait for my mother to say something but Mum only shook her head in acknowledgement.

  "He is now to meet your husband and Mr. Peters and Mr. Butler to the stores. People are . . . " Frau Schroder frowned, tapping her forehead wi
th her fingertip as she searched for a word. "Taking. Taking from stores."

  Slowly her story unfolded as she told us her husband had stopped at home and brought word of looters. The militia had been called in to try to stop the chaos but people were even going into burning buildings and getting hurt with pieces of the structures breaking off and collapsing into the street. They were also told that an apparatus had arrived by train from Manchester called a self-propelled Amoskeag Steamer that was helping deliver water to the fires and aiding in slowing the fire's progress.

  Mr. Peters, Mr. Butler and her husband, along with his father were heading back to the south towards the waterfront where their stores were. Due to the water pressure issues in the center of the fire, the fire department had to take some calculated risks with where to focus their efforts. Some had been saying these decisions were politically charged and the merchants were getting hit harder than others as it was evident where they had let the fire run while they tried to head off the fire raging up towards the old post office, Milk Street and Faneuil Hall.

  By the time Mrs. Shroder was done, struggling as she was to deliver so much information in a foreign tongue, my Mum remembered her manners and invited her in for tea.

  The day never brightened with the black smoke hanging low in the air. After Mrs. Shroder left, promising to bring me some sort of German treat when this was over, Mum started working on Dad's meal. She told me he would be hungry and since I was already hungry again after the porridge I was sure she was right. She packed the food and prepared to leave, now knowing where my dad would be." He paused again, looking around.

  "Mason, you be a good boy and stay here until I return. Do not leave unless someone official comes and tells you to. If they do, start walking to the store and I will find you as I am coming back."

  "Yes, Mum," I said solemnly, looking at those green eyes and thinking of how badly I wanted her to stay here with me and then feeling badly for my hungry father. She leaned in and hugged me tight, holding on longer than normal, her hair tickling my nose. I offered to go with her and she shook her head firmly. "Stay here."