Jostled by the incoming and outgoing patients, Patrick quickly led them to the bottom of the hill. For just an instant Callie saw him looking out over the river toward New York City, squinting past the sun, a yearning and longing in his face, a searching in his eyes. He looked like a man lost, without home or family, a man whose dreams must be abandoned. It wasn’t until they had made the long walk down the hill to the shelter where they’d spent the last month that Beth turned to her. “It’s Paddy,” she said, a pitiful sob caught in her voice. “He has consumption. Tuberculosis they call it here. He won’t be allowed to come into the country.” This last was said in defeat.
“Beth tells you truth, Callie,” Patrick said tonelessly. “They want us to send him back to Ireland. Beth and I have had our passes stamped. It’s the boy.”
Callie thought Beth would crumble from the pain and sorrow on Patrick’s face. Tears of frustration and humiliation coursed in rivulets down her cheeks. “We can’t send him back! There’s no one there to take care of him!” Hysteria was rising in her voice, making it shrill, so different from her usual modulated tones.
“Hush, Beth. Paddy will always have us to care for him. Don’t worry so. We’ll go back to Ireland. All of us,” Patrick said, stroking Beth’s back. But over the top of her head, his eyes again reached across the river to the city beyond, the place where his dreams told him his future began. He fell silent, locked in his misery.
Late that night, tucked in between Paddy and their assorted baggage, Callie lay awake pondering the dilemma that faced the Thatchers. She was angry, inflamed by the injustice of it all. Back in Ireland and Liverpool the only thing that mattered was selling packet tickets to America. The physical examination there had been a farce. Even she had known that Paddy was a very sick little boy. The Thatchers should never have been allowed to board ship, to undergo the hardships only to be refused entry on the other side after thirty days of living in subhuman conditions.
Callie blessed herself, raised her eyes to heaven, and called on her God. The bad is outnumbering the good, she complained. And Lord help me, but I’m about to give up on You. I was taught You’re our Savior, and I’d appreciate it if You’d start saving us! No bolt of lightning ripped across the sky; no roll of thunder sounded in the heavens. Had He heard? Or was He too busy with the prayers and pleas of others more important than she?
When sleep finally came to Callie, it was light and fitful. She was aware of Beth, just the other side of their rolled pokes, lying very still, small trembling sobs shaking her shoulders. Sympathy stirred her to sit up and touch Beth’s shoulder in commiseration. It was then she noticed Patrick was gone.
“Beth,” Callie whispered, putting her mouth very close to Beth’s ear, “where’s Patrick?”
A choked response, so unbearably pained and desolate—“He’s out, walking his disappointment. Oh, Callie, Paddy and I are such a burden to him. Such a terrible burden.”
“Hush. It was a shock to him, Beth. Surely you understand that. He had such wonderful plans for all of you. You’ll all go back to Ireland, and when Paddy is well again, he’ll see his dreams realized. Patrick loves you, Beth, and he’ll make it right.”
“That love is killing him, Callie.” There was no emotion in her voice, no tears on her cheeks. This dearth of emotion, of anger, of anything, frightened Callie. “Patrick can’t be making this right. It’s me and Paddy and the new babe that’s holding Patrick back. We’ve ruined his dream, Callie. And I’ll lose him because of it, just as I’ll lose Paddy up to his sickness.”
Words of comfort would not come to Callie. There was nothing she could say to ease Beth’s pain. All that had happened was beyond the realm of her own understanding. Peggy would know what to say, what to do. She’d set Beth’s head clear and thinking again. Mum could rebuild Patrick’s dead dreams.
“Callie,” Beth whispered, “would you change places with me? I want to be near my son. I want to hold him in my arms.”
Silently Callie helped Beth to her feet. The woman placed a hand protectively on her belly. “Patrick wanted this babe to be born in America. And as it turns out, ’twould be better if it’s not born at all.” Bumps broke out on Callie’s arms. The goose had stepped on her grave again. She’d always realized Beth Thatcher’s vulnerability, her insecurity; perhaps that was why she’d always felt protective toward her. But a new resolve had crept into Beth’s voice, and in the dim light of the lanterns that hung from the rafters in the bleak and overcrowded shelter, there was a new light in her eyes. It was a fervor, a determination, a grim decision to see things through to the end. Callie settled down against the bedroll, watching Beth through the darkness as she gathered her son close to her, folding him against her body as though he were the babe who lived in her womb.
Hours later, just as the dawn was breaking, Callie rolled over on the hard floor, pulling the blanket over her shoulders for warmth. She missed Paddy’s warm little body tucked against her own and awakened. Glancing around her, she realized Patrick had not returned, and the place she had given to Beth was empty. Callie sat up to look across the room; not a soul in the half-lit shelter was stirring.
It was unlike Beth to leave with Paddy without saying a word. No, it was foolish to worry, Callie comforted herself. Putting her head back down on the bedroll, she closed her eyes. But sleep would not come. She remembered Beth’s face and the way her eyes had burned. Could it be that the light that fevered Beth’s dark eyes was madness?
Callie rose from her hard place on the floor, her eyes once again searching out the dim corners of the shelter for a sign of Beth and Paddy. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and there was a heaviness in the pit of her stomach. Something was warning her, telling her, she must find Beth.
Stepping over sleeping bodies, picking her way through the assorted bedrolls and baggage, she finally made her way to the door, pushing against its flimsiness until it opened into the gray-pink dawn. She looked to the left, up the hill towards the hospital. All was dark there except for the yellow glow from gaslights left on for the night. No, Beth wouldn’t go there. She feared the hospital and all it represented: rejection, denial. To the right was the steep path leading down to the beach and the docks. The night air was frigid; frost crackled on the ground beneath her feet. Where was Beth? Where was Paddy?
Her heart beating wildly, Callie stepped onto the path to the dock. She peered through the dim light to the water of the bay where the packet ships lay at anchor. Her shawl was pulled tight around her shoulders, the light morning wind off the water ruffled the new freedom of her short curls.
Halfway down the path she heard the mournful humming of a familiar tune, “Sweet Maid from Killee,” Patrick’s favorite tune. “Patrick! Patrick!” A form, barely discernible in the light, straightened and began rushing toward her. “Patrick!” Her voice was a harsh cry; she had not known how desperate she was or how terribly frightened until she heard that cry break from her throat. “Patrick! It’s Beth! Where’s Beth?” Quickly she told him how she’d awakened to find Beth and Paddy gone.
“She’s probably taken herself off to the privy,” Patrick said logically, “Grab hold of yourself, Callie. I’ve never seen you this way.”
“No! Beth would never have taken Paddy to the privy. You know how she loathes the filth in there. Listen to me, Patrick, something is wrong, very wrong! I don’t know, there was something about Beth early this morning when I talked with her. Something desperate in the way she talked and what she said!”
Patrick responded to Callie’s distress. “Where do you think she might have gone? Beth! Beth!” he called at the top of his voice. The answering silence seemed to spur his growing alarm. “Beth! For the love of God, where are you?”
“Patrick. She won’t answer if she doesn’t want to. We have to find her. I’ll take the path down to the dock; you skirt around through the shelters and back to the privies and meet me down on the beach.”
Callie turned and tore off down the path, slipping and
sliding over the loose rocks and pebbles underfoot. The wind from the river was rising with the dawn. Today would be another bleak day, harsh with the promise of the coming winter.
At the end of the path were the piers and docks, the longest of these a jetty of black and slippery rocks that snaked far out into the dark waters of the bay. At the head of the jetty Callie discerned a bulky shape—a woman holding a child, her face turned to meet the dawn. Beth!
At the sound of Callie’s footfalls on the pier, Beth turned, clutching little Paddy to her. “No! Don’t come any closer,” she warned, and to Callie’s ears it was the voice of a stranger. This was not Beth’s voice, soft and endearing—this was the sound an animal makes when he is cornered.
“Beth! Come back! Please, Beth! Patrick is looking for you; he sent me to find you.” Tentatively Callie approached, watching, listening for the slightest sound or movement. Paddy squirmed in his mother’s arms. “Callie, pick me up!” She heard his voice clearly as she moved closer to the end of the jetty.
“Hush, love,” Beth crooned. “Hush. It will all be over soon, so soon.”
The singsong quality of Beth’s voice frightened Callie more than anything else. It was the same voice Mrs. Collier used when her little Bobby had died of the influenza and she had rocked his dead body until they came and forcibly took him from her. Beth was rocking and crooning to Paddy in that same way, as though he were already dead.
“Don’t come any closer, Callie. You’ve been a good friend, but there’s nothing you can do for us now. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Beth, come away from the edge. There’s something I must tell you!” Desperately Callie searched for something to say, something that would give Beth hope, something, anything. “Beth, remember I told you and Patrick about my friend who owns a newspaper? He’s a very important man, Beth. I’ll send word to him about Paddy. He’ll help, I know he will. You remember his name, don’t you, Beth?” Cautiously Callie stepped closer and closer as she spoke, hoping she could divert Beth’s attention. “Mr. Byrch Kenyon. You said it was such a fine name, remember, Beth?”
As though Callie had never uttered a word, Beth lifted her head. Her voice was a harsh whisper; the madness in her eyes shone. “Tell Patrick I’m so sorry. Tell him the only thing I can give him now is his dream.”
Even as Callie watched, Beth stepped backwards, tumbling off the jetty, hardly making a splash in the cold black water, into the greedy current. Callie heard Patrick’s shout of denial from somewhere behind her. She heard his feet thundering along the pier, heard him cry his wife’s name. And that was all she knew until she found herself shivering in the arms of a stranger. At the end of the jetty there was a crowd of people, like buyers at a market stall. That was her first thought.
She looked down at the black and oily waters of the bay. This was a day she would never forget, didn’t want to forget. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Callie walked away from the crowd, away from Patrick, away from the knowledge of what Beth had done for love. All for love.
This was America.
This was the land of hopes and dreams.
This was the day Callie James grew up.
Chapter Six
Callie pulled her shawl closer about the shoulders of her brown woolen dress, careful not to disturb the hand-crocheted lace collar that had been a gift from Peggy. The dainty white cotton lace contrasted sharply with her wind-pink cheeks and the delicate paleness of her throat. It was her best dress, although it was now a bit short and swung just above the ankles of her high-topped, black-buttoned shoes.
She had risen very early that morning to have access to the privy where she washed herself all over, including her hair which now tumbled in thick chestnut curls about her head. Her shoes, a bit run-down at the heels, were wiped and polished with spit the night before. Everything she owned was rolled and packed into two pokes which were secured with laces from an ancient pair of Thomas’s shoes. She had to look her best, as Peggy had instructed, when she met cousin Owen for the first time. Only Mum couldn’t know that soaking in a tub for three days couldn’t remove the Tompkinsville stink that soiled not only the body but the soul as well.
Yesterday afternoon they had found the bodies of Beth and Paddy, snagged on rocks and tree stumps nearly half a mile from the pier where she had taken that final leap. It amazed Callie that hardly any thought was given to the living here in Tompkinsville but huge efforts were made to find a dead woman and child and bring them back for proper burial. Even in death, Beth could not escape Tompkinsville. The current in the river had carried her downstream but never across to the city of New York.
The last time Callie had seen Patrick was at the funeral. Patrick, thinking clearly for the moment, had instructed Callie not to utter a word that Beth’s plunge had not been purely accidental. Callie understood. Beth had died an unholy death by committing suicide and would not be allowed to rest in sanctified ground. The unbidden thought that Beth had also committed murder by taking little Paddy with her left Callie breathless and shaken. No one would understand that Beth had been out of her mind with grief and disappointment. Patrick was right. The less said the better. Everyone believed that Beth had had an unfortunate accident; no woman intent on suicide would take her unborn child and her young son with her.
On the flat of land behind the hospital, long deep trenches were dug in the soft and porous soapstone. Here the reek of death was all around, filling the air, even in the cold of November. The dead were buried in trenches nine feet deep, and the rustic coffins were placed in three tiers. The ground was dug out by pick, and broken pieces were scattered to cover the graves. The rain penetrated through the strewn rocks and thin earth, and the stink rose. Here, in an unmarked place, Beth and Paddy were laid. Patrick had stood woodenly at the grave site, head bowed, eyes dry, but in them an expression of grief and defeat that had never been there even during the hardest of times. Callie grieved for Beth and Paddy, placing on the lonely grave a bouquet of thistle and bittersweet she had picked in the bramble hedges along the road to the cemetery. But when the prayers were over, she looked at Patrick and realized, somewhat to her shame, that he would now have a chance to fulfill his dream. It was a gift from Beth, given with her heart. And the cost was her life.
Callie sat on a crate, poke baggage at her feet, riding the ferry across Upper Bay to the city. The November wind lashed at her cheeks on this sunless, dismal day as she looked back at Staten Island and the hospital facilities that stood high on the hill. She raised her eyes to heaven. “I pray it’ll be the last I ever see of that place,” she said softly. Then she turned to look at the nearing shoreline of the island of Manhattan. And even as I live and work here, she told herself with resolve, I’ll never look across the water again! Callie did not seem to be alone in her thinking. As she looked about at the other passengers, not a single head was turned back towards Tompkinsville; all eyes were searching the city before them, looking to the future, determined to forget the past.
The open ferry slid soundlessly into its berth. The engine belched steam, and its whistle blew with an asthmatic groan to herald its arrival at the South Street port. Falling into step with the other passengers, Callie walked the cobbled slope into the busy terminal. Hustled and jostled, she found a relatively quiet corner against a window looking out onto the streets of New York. Byrch Kenyon had told her the truth; the street was not paved in gold nor did anyone here seem especially prosperous. New York City seemed to hold the same ragged masses as did Dublin. Long lines of travelers and peddlers waited to be taken across on the returning ferry to Tompkinsville. Vendors selling hot chestnuts and peculiar twists of bread plied their wares. Men pushed wooden-wheeled carts filled with rags or vegetables; others sold apples at three cents apiece. That was something she’d have to learn, American dollars and cents. She’d had a taste of it during the quarantine, and it seemed simple enough. Patrick had shown her a silvered coin and told her it was called a nickel. Callie had decided it was her favorite. St
ill, all manner of money was acceptable to these Americans. The lead-colored shilling she had saved from Uncle Jack’s generosity, the copper penny, and the little round ha’penny were all safely stowed away in a little drawstring pouch pinned to her chemise.
Callie huddled into her corner, waiting for the appearance of cousin Owen. Most of her fellow passengers from the ferry had left the terminal, having been met by family or friends or wandered into the city on their own. Porters, or runners, as Callie had heard them called, wrestled with crates and baggage, checking names against tags and extending their hands for gratuities reluctantly given. As she waited, apprehension was churning in Callie’s breast. She had no way of knowing who, among these men loitering about the terminal, might be Peggy’s cousin. For that matter, he had no way of knowing her either. Colleen had sent him a description of herself as he had asked, stating her height and weight and bright auburn hair. But where Callie was diminuative, Colleen was tall and buxom; where Colleen was bright-haired and freckled, Callie felt as brown and dim as a backyard wren. Also, there was the difference in their ages: Colleen was almost nineteen and already a woman; Callie was just sixteen but looked even younger. Would Cousin Owen be terribly disappointed?
A small man, wearing what Callie could only think of as a horse blanket tailored into a jacket and trousers, was staring at her across the nearly empty terminal. She could feel his eyes boring into her even though she looked away. Was this the way Americans dressed? Bright tweeds and boxy plaids, walking sticks and jaunty caps? A shiny stickpin was prominently displayed in the fold of his cravat. A diamond? Glass? Whatever, it was big enough to choke the horse who’d lost the blanket. As she had feared, the flamboyantly attired man approached her, a lopsided grin breaking across his narrow face. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss, but you wouldn’t be Colleen O’Brien, would you?”
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