by Tom Murphy
Finally Sister Cathleen spoke, gently. Her words sounded as though they came from far away.
“God,” said Matron with the easy intimacy of one who knows him well, “works in mysterious ways, Lily. I know this must be a terrible thing for you, that you may feel Fergus has abandoned you, but we must always try to see things from another’s point of view. He was not happy here, Lily, and this may be for the best it may make a man of him.”
And what will it make of me, Sister, can you answer that? But Lily merely nodded and said: “Yes, Sister.”
“At the end of his note, Fergus asks you to pray for him. We must all pray for Fergus, Lily, for his safety and for the salvation of his immortal soul. I’ll have the bishop himself say a special Mass for the lad.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
It won’t help. None of it will help, any more than St. Jude helped me when I prayed for her to save Ma. He’s gone, and left me, and gone forever, is my Fergy, and I’ll never set eyes on his green eyes again.
Lily saw a clear and awful vision as she sat there in the pleasant little office. She saw a storm at sea, huge dark waves crashing down on the frail vessel, masts snapping in the wind, and Fergy, swept overboard, thrashing in the churning sea, pale hands clutching, but with nothing to clutch at, going down and down into the green darkness where the patient fishes waited for their prey.
Lily sat as if paralyzed, sure to the bottom of her heart that there weren’t now and never would be enough bishops or Masses, not from Mott Street to Rome, never enough to rescue her Fergy from his certain doom. And what, she wondered, would be his chances of getting into heaven when the end did come? Slim as a tinker’s donkey, that was for sure. And naturally, being Fergy, he’d walked right into it!
Lily tried to remember just how she’d felt when her mother died, when the prayer to St. Jude failed her. She could remember nothing, only the loss, only that Fergus had been there.
And now she had lost even Fergus.
Sister Cathleen shifted a paper of her desk. The tiny noise was loud in the quiet room. There was a soft knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Father Gregory stood there, tall and solemn, and once again Lily thought of the day her mother died, and how kind the priest had been, and Fat Bessie and the scarf.
“I’m sorry, Lily,” he said softly. “’Tis a terrible unthinking thing he’s done.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“I was wondering, Sister Cathleen,” he said, “if I could be taking this young lady for a bit of a stroll?”
“Yes, Father, that might be a good idea.” Sister Cathleen smiled brightly, too brightly, Lily thought. She must be flooded with relief to get me off her hands.
“May I keep his note, Sister?”
“Of course, child. I’m sure he’ll write to you soon, just as he says. And we’ll pray for him, Lily.”
“Thank you, Sister. I will, too.”
Lily folded the note carefully and put it in her sewing bag. Then she stood and followed Father Gregory out of the office and down the hallway.
Lily was halfway down Prince Street, hand in hand with Father Gregory, before it dawned on her that this was a rare treat indeed, a walk outside the orphanage, and practically alone! Sometimes they were taken on special holiday-treat excursions, to a park or a free concert, once even to Barnum’s Museum down on Broadway, but always in groups, walking in pairs like so many little ducklings, escorted and formed into lines: it was necessary, of course, and it was surely better than nothing, but there was an air of regimentation about those excursions that made Lily more than usually conscious of the uniforms, of the fundamentally impersonal quality of her life. But this, this was truly special. The price, of course, had been too high. Still, it was a change, another act of kindness from Father Gregory. She wondered where they were headed.
They turned right on Mulberry and headed north past the back of the cathedral with its rusticated stones and brown-stone lintels.
Mulberry Street was alive, crammed with merchants and shoppers and people selling vegetables from pushcarts, animals underfoot, straying chickens and wandering pigs and any number of mongrel dogs and dray horses. Now and then a fine carriage would come pushing its proud way through the crowd, once with a lady so haughty and fine Lily gasped aloud at the sight of her: all dressed in dark red velvet she was, even to her rakish hat, the velvet trimmed with rich braiding in black, and a grand black plume. The window of her barouche was open to the bright October afternoon, and as she passed and saw Lily looking up in wonder, the fine lady smiled—a special smile, Lily knew it, meant only for her.
“Who,” Lily asked her tall companion, “was that?”
His laugh surprised her. “That, my dear, is a fallen woman.”
But she looked so happy and fine, her smile was not a false smile, and there was something in her eyes, not wickedness at all, but a sort of humor, as though she knew a fine secret and nothing could make her tell.
Lily and Fran knew about fallen women, for their romantic speculations were not confined to Sister Claudia. In truth, just before Lily had come there, St. Paddy’s had developed its own fallen woman—fallen orphan, more properly—in the person of one Maureen Nesbit, who, at the early-ripening age of thirteen, had contrived to become pregnant by the gardener’s boy, Billy Logan, and both of them cast out into the streets, where, official opinion decreed, they belonged. But delicious legends had grown around the sinful saga of Maureen and Billy, and the prevailing opinion among the girls was that what you did for love was well done, wicked as the world might see it. Lily looked at the elegant carriage as it quickly vanished up the street. And if she had fallen, that woman, sure and there had been someone generous to cushion the fall!
“Can you guess where we’re going, Lily?”
“No. Where?”
“To visit your parents. And that might seem an odd thing to be doing on a day when you’ve had such bad news, Lily, but there is a reason for it. ’Tis this: I’ll wager you’re feelin’ like you haven’t got a friend in the world now, that Fergy abandoned you, and you’re right at the end of your tether. Am I right?”
I am hanging by the neck at the end of my tether, and nothing will ever be right for me again, never, not here or anywhere else.
But Lily thought how kind the priest was, and answered gently: “You are, Father. Sure and that’s just how I feel.”
“Loneliness is a funny thing, Lily. It is quite possible to be lonely even when there’s lots of people about—even though they’re your own flesh and blood. It’s in your head, I guess, is what I’m meaning to say.”
That’s all very well, Lily thought, but it won’t bring Fergy back. She could think of no reply to what Father Gregory had said, so she made none. They walked on and on. Soon she could see the brick wall of the graveyard at Twelfth Street looming up just ahead. For a moment Lily was gripped by a new and nameless fear. It had been a little more than three years since Mother died, and in those years Lily and Fergus had been taken to the graveyard only three times, on the anniversary of mother’s burial. Lily had gone because it seemed to be expected of her. But whatever she had been meant to feel at the familiar gravesite, it hadn’t happened. All Lily had felt on those three occasions was a dull and empty sense of loss. Her memory of Big Fergus was dim—she was only five when he died—but she could see him in Fergy, the shining red hair, the laugh, the bold green eyes. But her mother’s image was fading. She tried in earnest to conjure up the gentle voice, the soft brown eyes, the kindness. But all Lily truly had of her mother’s memory was the admonition to save her tears for some nameless tragedy yet to come, and the fine, scarcely worn lace-and-linen scarf she’d wrested back from thieving Fat Bessie Sullivan.
And suddenly, as they came upon the black iron gates and Lily felt her feet moving inexorably down the path, she knew the name of her fear. Oh, and for the love of God let me not displease poor Father Gregory. Isn’t he trying as best he can to help me, and aren’t I a m
iserable excuse for gratitude if I let him see how little any of it means, feeling the way I do right now, with the blackness rising up and like to drown me, and wouldn’t he think I’m a heartless thing, if he knew?
In silence they walked into the graveyard, down the neat path past regiments of gravestones in white and gray and black stone, past stone angels with pious folded hands and wings that would never feel the sky again, past willows forever weeping, carved in shallow relief, past urns of stone flowers in cold and permanent bloom.
They turned a corner and found themselves in a poorer section of the burying ground. Her parents were just over there—beyond the big tree. And still Lily felt nothing for them, but only a longing for Fergy so deep there could be no bottom to it, so painful it burned her with a cold fire.
The plain white headstone was as Lily remembered it. The afternoon sun shone through the branches of a nearby willow tree and made long waving shadows on the stone. Lily did not have to read the words, for they had long been carved on her heart, “FERGUS MALONE 1810-1842 / MARY DUGAN MALONE / BELOVED WIFE 1812-1847 / RIP”
Some of the other markers had long flowery epitaphs, but at fifty cents the letter bare names and RIP must do for the Malones. And who could care for a poem when Death himself stood by you with his scythe all sharp and ready?
“Do you feel them, Lily?”
“Sometimes.”
It was true. She did feel them, now and then, but not here, not now. What Lily felt of her parents was a vague warmth of memory, always followed by the bittersweet pangs of regret.
They knelt, and Father Gregory recited a prayer. He finished and was about to make the Sign of the Cross when Lily spoke.
“Pray for Fergus.”
He looked sideways at her, and smiled, and spoke a long prayer in Latin. Lily didn’t understand Latin, but the flow of it soothed her, and as she knelt in the soft grass she could imagine Fergus on the blue ocean, hearing these same words, and smiling. The priest finished. They rose.
“Thank you, Father.”
“Do you know that prayer?”
“I don’t.”
“’Tis St. Christopher’s own prayer, the prayer for safe return.”
“He’ll return, I know it.”
“Sure he will, Lily, and who are we to judge the lad, for in truth it may be the making of him. Young America, as the papers call these brave young adventurers, do you know that term?”
Lily had heard the phrase more and more these last two years. Fergy used it himself sometimes, on fire with dreams. “Sure, ’tis the force of destiny, Lil,” he’d say. “Young America, they call us, because we hold all the future in our hands.” Lily had smiled when she first heard this, and hoped to God the future was in steadier hands than the hands of Fergus Malone Junior.
“Yes,” she answered quietly, “I’ve heard Fergy himself say that.”
“Don’t be too quick to judge the lad, Lily. Sometimes we do what we must do, and ’twould be wrong if we didn’t. There was nothing personal in his leaving, nothing against you, if you take my meaning.”
But surely it was against me, who could think else? There’s nothing more personal than leaving, Father, you must know that, leaving without so much as a warning, sneaking off, a thief in the night, and sure it was my own poor heart he was stealing, and him not even knowing, much less caring. Oh, leaving is personal, very personal, Father, it may be the most personal thing of all, for could he not know I need him, just to be there, even if it was only once a week? Fergy must have known it, felt it: how in God’s blue world could he not? It was a question Lily didn’t try to answer, not then or ever.
“Oh,” she said, “for sure, Father, I do understand. It was the surprise of it that shook me. Deep down, I knew he’d do something like this one day.”
“And did you ever try to stop him?”
“Sure and I did. You might as well stop the wind from blowing.”
“He’s a strong-willed lad, is Fergus.”
“Father, I do wish he hadn’t gone.”
“Ah, Lily, Lily, if wishes were dollars we’d all be millionaires, now, wouldn’t we? True, Fergus ran away, but he’d have been going out into the world soon anyway. And if he must do such a thing, if he must go out and try himself against the luck of the world, why, maybe the sooner he does it, the sooner he’ll be back to you. Have you ever thought about that, now?”
“In fact, I haven’t. I haven’t thought much about it at all, Father, seeing as how it’s just come on me, as it were.”
“Of course. Well. There’ll be time enough for that, my girl. But in the meantime, there’s one other thing you might be thinking on. Can you guess what that is?”
“No.”
“You must be thinking of yourself, Lily. Of what’s to become of you in this world. My opinion is that you’ve been thinking too much of others, and not enough of yourself. Which is a charming way to be, only it can go too far. How old are you now, Lily?”
“Thirteen, Father.”
“Well, then, ’tis never too soon to be planning, now, is it?”
They were walking back down Mulberry Street. The afternoon shadows were longer now, and the sun was losing its warmth. There were fewer people in the street, and even some of the stray animals seemed to have found their way home. Father Gregory’s big hand felt good to Lily as he casually held her small hand in his. She felt well-protected, and as they walked, Lily realized for the first time that this was the way she felt about Saint Patrick’s orphanage, about Sister Cathleen and Sister Claudia and Frances, and Father Gregory himself. The life wasn’t all easy, that was for sure. But they did care for her. This walk to the graveyard proved that, if it needed proving, even though she might not feel what Father Gregory expected her to feel. They walked on in silence for a moment while Lily thought about her future for the first time ever.
If anyone had asked Lily about the future six months ago, when she was in the midst of saving Dreadful Dolan from herself, she might well have answered, “Sure, and I’m going to take the vow, and just maybe become a saint in heaven.” Now she wasn’t so sure. Because now she knew that any plans she’d had before weren’t plans, truly, but more like dreams. It was a dream she could ever be a saint, a mad dream, mad in its own way as anything Fergus had ever come up with.
“I guess,” Lily said, thinking out loud, “that I’ve never truly thought about it. About the future.”
“Well, sure and there’s no rush. You can stay with us for many a year, Lily, and we’d be glad enough to have you. I know for a fact that Sister Claudia relies on you to keep the new girls in order, and Sister Cathleen, too, is happy with the way you’ve pitched in and helped poor Bertha Dolan. It’s possible you could become a lay teacher one day. We’ll be needing teachers aplenty, once we’ve settled into the new place. Or you could go into service, if you’d like a bit more independence. Sister Cathleen has a fine record for placing our girls in good homes—sometimes very fine homes they are, too—as maids and governesses and the like. That might not be such a bad thing. Or, should you get the calling, should God speak to you as he has to me and to Sister Claudia and the others, you might think of taking the veil. Oh, there’s a lot to think of, Lily.”
“I see that.”
Lily felt her head swimming. She didn’t want to decide anything. All she wanted was to get her brother back safe, and soon. They walked on. The air was taking on a definite chill now. A pungent aroma filled the air, riding on wood-smoke. It was an old Italian man with a brazier, roasting chestnuts on the corner.
“Well, now,” said Father Gregory, “have you ever tasted roast chestnuts, Lily?”
“I haven’t. Are they good?”
“Here’s your chance to find out.” He gave the old man three pennies and got in return a newspaper cone with perhaps a dozen steaming chestnuts in it. “Try one,” he said, offering the cone. “They’re just what the doctor ordered to take the chill off an afternoon like this.”
Lily took the big blackened
shell and at first almost dropped it, it was that hot. Then she pried off the shell and saw the fat yellow nut inside. She bit into it. Here was a taste unlike anything she’d tasted before. Lily chewed the mealy, sweetish, hot fascinating object in silence for a moment then quickly ate the rest of it.
“Delicious. Thank you.”
He gave her another, took one himself, and before they reached the next corner all the chestnuts were gone.
“Well, now,” said Father Gregory, “there’s a new adventure waiting round every corner in this life, Lily, and some of them can be fine ones.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, thinking of Fergy, and that his adventure was not fine at all, only painful, “sure they can.”
Lily and the priest walked on in silence for a moment. Her mind was dazzled by all that had happened this day, and the mixture of new sensations was enough to set her head spinning. The shock of Fergy’s leaving, Father Gregory’s unexpected kindness and the rush of remembrance at the graveside, the feeling of total abandonment, even the strange and wonderful taste of the hot chestnuts were all mixed up into a heady drug.
Lily didn’t hear the wild hoofbeats. She didn’t heed the shouts of laughter that rode with them. She was about to step off the curbing at the corner of Mulberry Street and Prince when Father Gregory suddenly reached out and stopped her with a firm but gentle grip on the shoulder. She looked up at him, but he was looking at the careless riders. Lily followed his gaze.
Two young men were cantering up Mulberry Street so fast it was almost a gallop. Too fast, Lily realized, but her fear dissolved as she watched them. What fun that must be, a day like this and fine horses, and them so free! Lily got only a glimpse of the young men as they swept past: very swell they were, and beautifully dressed, right to the sleek beaver hats, and the horses no less fine, gleaming bays all bedecked in leather that had an almost silken gloss to it, and brass glittering like the rare gilt altar sticks of St. Patrick’s. One of the boys was nearly full grown, but a boy for all that, Lily thought, and the other was a smaller, younger edition of the first. Brothers they must be, and rich, and with never a care in all this world. No one ever left them without a warning, or if someone did leave, they wouldn’t care a damn, not those two. There was no envy in Lily’s heart as she watched the boys vanish up the street, but rather a sense of deepening awe that God should have ordained such great differences in the amount of luck a person was born to.
