Michael nodded.
"And she planned to go off without saying anything, did she?"
Michael stayed perfectly still, stared at the little square of stars inside the slightly larger square of candy cane stripes.
"She wants you because, brave as she is, she doesn't want to go alone. And you've been places. She hasn't. You understand? Once she gets her bearings, she mightn't be so happy to have you around. That might take two years or it might take six months. I love her. She's my child. But I know her."
Michael nodded.
"You're still willing to go?"
Michael opened his mouth to speak but didn't know what to say. He never had any intention of going to America until Johanna had started with all the talk of We. Then he'd listened to her for so long, waiting for the right time to tell the truth, that now that it had arrived, he didn't know what he wanted. All his dreams of settling had looked just like Ballyroan. Every single thing about the place was right, down to the hawthorn trees and the rushes and the river stuffed with salmon. But after just a few months he could see why people had had to leave their lovely cottages behind and let their fields turn to scutch. Anything planted risked being torn up by the heavy salt wind. He had no money to start raising livestock straightaway, and even so, he'd have to get a stableful to make enough to live on. He was a stranger in Conch, suspected of being a tinker, and no shop would give him credit. The Cahills couldn't help him for much longer; he could see that. And he was lonely, a condition it took him a while to figure out. After a short time in Ballyroan he began looking forward all day to the supper meal, the passing of plates, the sound of chewing and tearing meat from bone and the steaming potato skins falling to the center pile. Aside from the time spent with Johanna down at the river, it was the only part of his day when he looked other people in the face and they looked in his. It would be worse after Johanna left. Sometimes he wondered what they'd do if he started a campfire beside the hay shed and invited them to visit him there. It would be their own upturned buckets they'd have to use for seats.
"You're not sure," Lily said. Johanna would run circles around this boy. If he loved her, and she loved him, it might be enough to keep her head on her shoulders, but they weren't in love, that much was obvious. He had sense, yes, but he had no hold on her. It wouldn't be enough.
"If I went..." His voice sounded strange to him, choked off, breathless. He cleared his throat and began again. "If I went, I'd need to get word to my father. I wouldn't like to leave without him knowing. Leave Ireland, I mean."
It was a practical question Lily had never thought of before. "How do you...?"
"They keep letters at the post station, and he picks them up whenever he's near. I've an aunt who's a decent reader, and she sounds all the letters out for him and anyone else who gets one. If he thinks a letter might have something in it he mightn't want the camp to know, he asks the postman to read it to him." Michael paused, let her catch up.
"I see," Lily said as she reached for a strawberry, scooped out a bruise with her fingernail, and put her finger in her mouth. "Well, I could help you with that. Couldn't I? You tell me what to put, and we'll work on it together. And in exchange you'd have to take good care of my girl. You'd have to protect each other and help each other no matter what happens. I don't know how it is in America, but here we help each other because we come from the same place."
For what seemed like the hundredth time, Michael nodded. We come from the same place, he thought, and the space beneath his rib cage hummed like a tuning fork struck with the iron head of a hammer and then, after the clamor faded away, was pressed down on the boards of the wagon to better hear the lowest sounds, the truest pitch, vibrations so fast they sounded like one continuous purr.
"This conversation is between us for now, Michael, and I ask you not to say a word about it until I've talked to Johanna and done a little thinking," Lily said. "Go on now and catch up with Little Tom."
Michael stood, pushed in his chair. "What about Greta?" he asked. He had not known he was going to ask until he was speaking the words.
Lily leaned back, folded her hands in her lap. "What about her?"
"Well, she mightn't like ... She might be lonely after us, after Johanna. I just wonder..."
"I have to think about that too. Now go on," she said, and waved him out of the room.
Michael rushed from the kitchen, lunged across the short length of the back room, barreled through the back door, ran up the lane to the coast road, where Little Tom's silhouette was still making its way.
Since handing over the letters, Greta had steered clear of the cottage. After chores, she spent most of her days up at the sea ledge, lying on her back and thinking that maybe after Lily stopped the plan and Johanna wasn't angry with her anymore, they could take the bus in to Galway and walk around. Maybe they could start doing it on a regular basis, and seeing the city so often might get ideas of America out of Johanna's head. They could catch the van to the Friday dances in Oughterard. Lily would be happy to let them go after coming so close to losing one of them completely.
Greta returned to the cottage every evening braced for an explosion. Two weeks went by, and none came. She began to worry that Lily hadn't found the letters after all. Johanna was still asking Michael boring questions in an overloud voice. Lily still sat in her corner and knitted. Only Michael was different. A few times, when Johanna went to the back room for salt or an extra knife or a rag to wipe up crumbs, Greta noticed him glancing at her, as if he were checking on her, confirming she was still there, asking whether she needed his help.
When Lily finally showed her cards, it was not at supper as Greta had expected. It was far later in the evening, after midnight. Johanna had woken Greta by opening the bedroom window, the damp wood catching and groaning in its grooves, and she had one leg out, her body straddled on the sill, when she let out a shriek that woke Little Tom, woke Michael in the shed, woke all of Conch, if Greta had to guess.
"Jesus Christ," Johanna gasped just before she was yanked by a great strength to the grass outside.
"Johanna?" Greta called, unable to move her body to the window to see was Johanna alive or dead. "Johanna!" she said louder, a demand this time. The cold draft from the wide-open window swept over her face, filled the small room. She lay still, listening for any telltale sound. She heard Johanna yelp, say something in a sharp voice, and then nothing. Greta took a deep breath and on shaking legs crept over to the window. There was Lily, tall in her long, pale nightdress, like a shee fairy, with her gray-streaked hair whipping around in the wind. She had Johanna by the ear and was leading her around to the back door.
Greta shut the window and leaped back to bed, where she made herself small and whispered what she would say to Johanna, as if Johanna were already beside her. She mightn't understand now, but she'd understand later, when they were both grown up, with husbands and their own cottages, and Greta would remind Johanna of the time she almost disappeared to America.
"Get up," Johanna said hours later. Greta opened her eyes to daylight and Johanna's face above her, pale, exhausted, and Greta realized she'd never returned to bed. Johanna threw Greta's cardigan across the room. "Come as you are," she said. "Mammy needs to see you." Greta rubbed her eyes, reached for her glasses. "Now," Johanna said, and left the door to the cold hall open when she left.
In the kitchen, Lily was pleasant, fully dressed, her hair twisted up and pinned, no evidence of the scene she'd made the night before. Greta sat down at the table and faced not one but two sets of letters. The originals she already knew word for word: Shannon to Johanna, Shannon to Lily. Laid out beside these was a new set: a second letter from Shannon to Lily and a first from Shannon to Greta.
"I've big news for you, Greta," Lily said as she reached out to run her fingers through the tangle of Greta's hair. The child had knot upon knot upon knot. "What do you think about going to America?"
"Johanna going?" This was not the way it was supposed to go. Johanna was to b
e stopped from going, not encouraged.
"Yes, Johanna. And you as well, Greta. What do you think about that?"
Greta repeated the question to herself, thought of Mr. Joyce of all people, how quickly he'd learned not to put questions to her in front of the class. Greta laughed, not her own laugh, but her best impression of a woman's laugh: throaty, full, in on the fun.
"It's a joke, is it?" she asked when neither Lily nor Johanna joined her laughter.
"No, love." Lily stopped picking through Greta's hair. She pressed her hands against Greta's flushed cheeks, ran them down the back of her neck, settled them on her shoulders, where she squeezed so tight that Greta had to lean forward to get away.
8
ON A CLEAR OCTOBER morning in 1963 Lily and Little Tom stood apart on the crowded pier in Galway City as they waved goodbye. There was no dock in Galway for so huge a ship, so the small packet boat made trip after trip carrying luggage and passengers in groups of a dozen. It made for a long goodbye, the ship anchored out in the ocean, the figures on board too far away to recognize but close enough for their mothers and brothers and wives to keep trying. Michael Ward had been one of the first to go over, earning part of his way by unloading the luggage and delivering it to first-class cabins. Johanna and Greta were in one of the last groups, the cash from the sale of the bull in pockets Lily had sewn onto the underside of their skirts.
Johanna had surprised all of them by crying through supper the day before, and she was still sniffling, Lily could see, as the packet moved its passengers away from the pier. Greta hadn't eaten a thing and had spent the night before vomiting into a basin while Lily rubbed her back. "If you hate it," Lily promised the girl, "you can just come home." Greta promised she would hate it, and why go to the bother of going all the way to America just to come back again and be short one bull? And why couldn't she and Johanna just get jobs in Conch? And so what if there were no jobs in Conch? Couldn't they take the bus to Galway and get jobs there? How could there be no jobs in Galway either? It wasn't possible. But Lily had already decided that the girl would go with her sister, would see a new place, would meet people from all over the world and earn some money for herself. It was like Sister Michaela said that time she cycled all the way to Ballyroan to see for herself whether Greta was ready for school: it was time. She'd given the girl no choice.
As the small boat drifted farther away, Lily could tell that Greta had already lost sight of her. She watched her youngest scan the crowd, the water, her face screwed up as if she'd tasted something sour. She and Johanna were pressed together on the narrow bench seat, Johanna with one hand holding tight to the leather strap of their shared case, the other hand squeezing Greta's, telling her it was fine, if she needed to lean over the side and vomit, then do it, the wake of the boat would carry it away, and no one knew them anyway. It's cruel to send that child, Lily thought. It's heartless of me to make her go. But then next to her guilt over making Greta go was the danger she felt at the idea of sending Johanna without her sister. She watched Greta clutch her stomach and heave and Johanna reach over to stop her from leaning too far over the side. It'll be just like that in New York, Lily thought. They'll be there to pull each other back, speak the language of home.
In their suitcase, thanks to Lily, they had each packed three clean skirts, three blouses, a sweater each, knitted by Lily, underwear, socks, toothbrushes, two clean cotton washcloths, a bar of soap, a single hairbrush to share, a new package of bobby pins. Johanna hadn't wanted to bring anything at all, claiming she'd wear the clothes on her back and start from scratch once she got to America. Greta, at the moment Lily intervened, was headed in the opposite direction and had every single thing she owned stacked in piles at the foot of the bed. Ready for transfer to the case were every old and yellowed gansy, every threadbare pair of underpants, even the old cardigan she wore for milking. After Lily decided on what they absolutely needed, she let them each bring something extra. Johanna's choice: a road map of the United States she'd bought in Galway. Greta: the contents of the old cookie tin she kept under her bed, dumped into an old pillowcase and tied off at the top.
As the packet reached the halfway point between the pier and the ship, Lily could just make out Greta's dark head bobbing with the rhythm of the tide, Johanna moving slightly away on the bench and looking up at the sky. Through the crowd, she saw Little Tom shake his head and then look over at her.
An hour later Lily and Little Tom made their way through the narrow cobblestoned streets back to the bus station, Lily dreading their return to the silent cottage, recalling the chaos of a short time ago, the comings and goings of a full house and herself giving out about tracked mud, Little Tom wondering whether he'd like sleeping in his sisters' room and whether his own room could simply be hacked off from the rest of the cottage, broken up into pieces, and heaved into the ocean. The cottage was sinking in that corner, and maybe taking off that room would free the rest of the rooms from the deadweight.
They were on top of him before they noticed him, Lily's chest square against the pony's flank, the man making a wet, clicking sound with his mouth as he led the animal out of her way.
"Pardon, Missus," the man said, pulling his hat down over his face and plowing shoulders-first into the crowded byway, the pony walking behind him. From the window of the bus a short time later they saw him again, this time playing his fiddle down by the river, his hat turned skyward like a hand held out palm up. There were no tents down by the river, no wagons either, and Lily remembered that it was October and he should be at the horse fair in Ballinasloe.
"He didn't see us," Lily said to Tom, who was seated across the aisle. "He wouldn't know us, anyhow."
And down by the place where the fresh water of the river rushed up unseen against the salt water of the harbor, Dermot Ward leaned against a bench and ran through every song he could think of about the men of myths, the women who mourned them. Finally, his elbow screaming, his neck aching, his shoulder crying to be let loose, he exhausted himself enough to face the songs he'd gone down to the river to sing in the first place, the old, beaten ballads about leaving for America.
Part III: Letters
November 1, 1963
Mrs. Lily Cahill and Tom Cahill
Ballyroan
Conch
Co. Galway
Ireland
Dear Mammy and Tom,
Just a quick line to say we've landed, safe and sound. There was great fun on the ship though not for me as I was sick the whole time and after so many days we're delighted to be on firm ground. Shannon met us and took us for a sandwich and that's where I am right now—standing outside a place called Broadway Delicatessen. We've barely had a chance to look around and see are we really in New York City. You both should see the electricity here and this is only daytime. I haven't even seen it at night. And no wires in the air to carry the current so I don't know how they do it. When we got up to the street there were so many people and cars rushing I thought great, we're here in time to see the big emergency and Shannon said it was no emergency, just the way things always are here. We took a yellow taxicab because of the bags and Michael sat up front with the driver. We've still not seen the place where Shannon lives so that tells you how long we've been here. An American woman on the ship gave Johanna and me an airmail stamp each when she heard we were gone from home for the first time and told us to write our mother. We would have done anyway but I thought that was nice. Johanna was tempted to tell her we didn't have a mother just to give her something to chew on but in the end she took her stamp and said thank you. Saving Johanna's stamp for news once settled.
Love you both, miss you, God Bless.
Greta
November 7, 1963
Mrs. Lily Cahill
Ballyroan
Conch
Co. Galway
Ireland
Mammy,
I hope you are well and not missing us too much. Hello Tom! Shannon is a pure saint. We've been here six nights, myse
lf and Johanna on a bed that folds out of a sofa, and Michael on the floor of another small room she uses for pressing and to hang up some of her clothes. She seems happy to have us though three is a lot and her flat is about the size of our kitchen at home with your bedroom attached. We try to make ourselves scarce and clear out sometimes to give Shannon room, but we don't want to wander too far yet. I never knew places could be this busy and I'm amazed at how everyone knows exactly where they're going and how to get there but that's very stupid of me I suppose. I mentioned the electricity in my first but now I've seen it at night and I think they must have to replace bulbs every day with the brightness all night long. The streets are lit, the shops, the windows of the buildings, and everything is packed in so close together that it makes it so it's bright out all the time. There's even doors that swing open by electricity when they feel you standing there which takes a while to get used to. Michael already found work moving furniture for people switching flats and needing their things carried downstairs and into a lorry. He starts on Monday and found it thanks to a man on the ship whose friend runs the business. Guess where the man's friend is from? Roundstone. He was surprised we don't have much Irish, and we explained a bit about Ballyroan. Michael was smart and said he was from Cork where the man had never been. Shannon wasn't telling tales when she said there's Irish everywhere and every other kind of a person you could think of as well. The moving will earn Michael good wages and he says he will give half to Shannon. Johanna and I will do the same when we find something. First thing we'll do is cook her up a nice supper to have waiting when she comes home. It'll take a while to get used to the shops here though Shannon says they try to be like the Irish shops because that's where everyone is from who lives in Queens. Or lives in Woodside. I keep forgetting if Woodside is inside Queens, or Queens inside Woodside. I don't think they're a bit like Irish shops, though I suppose I only ever shopped in Conch and maybe that's different. I forgot to say last time that within an hour of getting here we saw people who were dark like that man we saw in Galway once, but not the same type of dark. These were Indian. They are lovely looking people and reminded me a bit of home the way the women had their babies in a sling that went over their shoulder and around their backs. Shannon says there's sections of the city all Indian like Woodside (that's Queens) is all Irish. We met two girls in Shannon's building yesterday from Limerick who said they can't go home because they were only supposed to be here thirty days and now it's gone over a year and if they go home they won't be let come back. They said we're lucky we got a sponsor and the right paperwork because that means we can work here without going off the books which means our employer can pay us with a check and nothing is in secret. They had another friend who was illegal and got a job making up the rooms in a hotel. They paid her for a few weeks and then stopped and told her the wages would be delayed. Long story short she worked for six weeks without wages and can't do a thing about it because she's not supposed to be here working in the first place. There are a lot of rules about it and Johanna is already studying them. Send the news from home whenever you have the time.
The Walking People Page 19
