We all of us stared. Her words stood in the middle of the room like a coffin and not one of us had anything to say after that.
* * *
The last Sunday in June was warm and Ellen and Mary planned a big family picnic at Kelley Square after Mass. We all went around to the back of the house, where the lads had set planks on sawhorses for a long table. The older children brought out the food—platters of boiled ham, pigeon pies, stewed fruit, hard-boiled eggs, and bread. The conversation was lively—we talked about everything from the grand weather to whether Amherst would soon be putting gas lines in for streetlights. James had been to Boston and blathered on about attending High Mass at the new Catholic cathedral and seeing the Boston Red Stockings play baseball. I didn’t listen close, but my ears perked up when he said he heard police were still looking for Fenians who invaded Canada in the 1870 raids. I’d listened to more than a few lively conversations about those raids back when they happened.
“What are Fenians?” asked my niece Katie. She was eight and stuffed with questions. A body couldn’t move without herself wanting to know why.
Tom smiled across the table at his daughter. “They’re a band of Irish lads who swore an oath to fight England after the War of the Rebellion,” he said. “They’re after freedom for Ireland, though they’re living in America.”
“Pure mischief if you ask me,” Mary said. “It was five years ago. Sure, I’m glad that business is over and done with.”
“Don’t know that it is,” James said. “ ’Tis said they’re busy plotting again.”
“Aye, I’ve heard that too,” Tom said, nodding. “And I daresay we’d not be thinking they were just mischief if we lived in Canada.”
Ellen shook her head over her plate. “Maybe not, but it was the Fenians got themselves killed now, wasn’t it?”
“Made a laughingstock of the Irish, they did,” I put in, remembering the Squire sitting at breakfast and reading newspaper articles about the raids out loud, his voice full of mockery, setting Emily and Vinnie laughing. Once Emily had asked me if I knew any Fenians. I’d stood there with a bowl of stewed pears in my hands, having no words to answer and my face burning with shame. Knew she’d asked because I was Irish, though I’d never met a Fenian in my life.
“I hope the police arrest every last one,” I said, helping myself to a slice of ham and passing the platter to Mary. “ ’Tis a sin, surely. Didn’t the priest say they’d all be excommunicated?”
“That he did,” Mary said. “ ’Twas the Pope himself condemned them.”
“Sure, their hearts are in the right place, though,” said James. “ ’Tis love for Ireland and the rights of tenant farmers driving ’em, after all.”
I thought of Da and wondered what he’d be saying if he was alive. For years he’d been bitter about having the farm sold away from him, and who could be blaming him? But I’d never heard him talk about any Fenians or tenant farmers’ rights.
“I’m thinking you won’t be seeing them marching off to jail,” Tom said. “They’re a cagey lot. Keep their mouths buttoned tight, they do. Chances are, they won’t get caught even if the Pinkertons try to roust them out.”
“But Margaret’s right,” Mary said. “ ’Tis against Church teaching. They’re risking their immortal souls, same as the Freemasons, for swearing an oath.”
Ellen said it was a shame, but many folks didn’t seem to care what the Church taught these days.
“Aye, that’s the truth of it,” said Mary, and went on to talk about a hired girl from Pelham who was carrying a child. “She’s not yet fifteen,” she said. “Won’t say who the father is but most think it’s a married man.”
Ellen clicked her tongue. “Likely as not it’s the man she’s working for, more’s the pity.”
I shook my head at the shame of it, but I was glad they’d changed the conversation. In truth, I had no interest in hearing more talk of Fenians.
* * *
As her time grew near, Sue Dickinson stopped going out and about. In July she was sending messages to Emily instead of seeing her. Vinnie was wrought up with excitement. But it was plain Emily wasn’t sharing her sister’s mood. The closer Sue got to giving birth, the more agitated Emily grew. One day I came on her in the Northwest Passage, wringing her hands and pacing back and forth.
“What’s troubling you, miss?” I asked, tucking my dust cloth into my apron pocket. “Did you get bad news in the mail?” Like most days, she’d got another stack of letters. I couldn’t keep track of all the folks she wrote to.
She shook her head in a distracted way, like a horse shaking off flies. But it was plain she was distressed. The poor soul looked half lost in her own house.
“Come sit down and I’ll pour you a glass of lemonade,” I said. “It’ll do you a world of good.”
I was surprised she followed me into the kitchen. Wasn’t her usual way. Couldn’t remember a time we’d shared a glass of lemonade in the middle of the afternoon. Soon as she sat down, though, the truth came out—she was fretting over Sue.
“She’s terrified of childbirth,” Emily said. She turned her head to look out the window, where the path to the Evergreens was hemmed by a carnival of hollyhocks.
“Ah,” I said. “ ’Tis no wonder. It’s painful giving birth and Mrs. Dickinson knows what’s ahead of her. But there’s happiness at the end of it, surely.”
She shook her head. “Her older sister, Mary, died in childbed. It horrified her. She never wanted to have children.” I frowned, thinking of my sister and all the children she’d borne. Everybody knew bearing little ones was part of life for a married woman. A risk, to be sure, but the natural way of things. Mary never spoke of fearing it—she was strong and sturdy and a midwife as well. But I knew even she dreaded the births.
“I feel so cut off from her,” Emily said in a low voice. She was still gazing out the window.
I’d never heard her say such a thing. And it wasn’t the truth either—Sue had been sending her notes all week. “Well,” I said, “that’s easy to be fixing, now, isn’t it? There’s nothing stopping you from visiting her. She’s just a few steps away.”
She gave me a quare look and seemed to shrink back in her chair. “There are many kinds of distance,” she said. And then, for no reason I could fathom, she started telling me how she met Sue. “Father and Mother brought her home from church one Sunday. It wasn’t long after her sister died and she was grieving. We were both twenty—Sue and I. It seems so long ago now.” She sipped her lemonade and a soft smile came over her face. “Father had been talking about her for weeks,” she said. “He always had his eye out for remarkable young people. And he said she was extraordinary, with a rare gift for words. Of course, that excited my curiosity and I begged him to invite her to dine.”
I was trying to imagine the Squire being interested in young folks. Always seemed to me he was mostly interested in himself.
“Father was right—she was the most extraordinary creature,” Emily said. “From the first moment I saw her, I was bewitched.”
Surprised me, the way she was talking. Made me think of how ladies in romantic novels spoke of their lovers.
“Even though she was deep in mourning, her beauty was astonishing.” She finished her lemonade and flicked a look at me. “I’ve always been drawn to beauty, you know.”
I did know that, surely. Anybody could tell from the way Emily studied flowers and butterflies and the undersides of leaves.
“She was lovely—oh so lovely.” Her voice dropped. “A single star,” she whispered. She was looking off in the distance, as if the kitchen walls were gone and there was nothing between herself and the sky.
I poured us both more lemonade. I didn’t say anything, didn’t want to interrupt her. But there were a thousand questions on the back of my tongue.
“We were inseparable from the first,” Emily went on. “We
belonged to each other. Like sisters. Like twins.” She turned her head from the window and looked at me. It’s as if she came back into her body from wherever she was. “Did you know we were born only nine days apart?”
“Sure, I did not,” I said. My skin was prickling all over, like fleas biting me. I didn’t know how much longer I could sit still.
“I couldn’t bear it if I lost her,” Emily said.
“She’ll be grand.” I stood up. I didn’t understand what had happened just then, but it was a pure relief to be on my feet and moving. “Mrs. Dickinson’s constitution is strong as anybody’s I know.”
Emily nodded. “God grant it to be so,” she said. And didn’t she sound like my mam? Those words could have come out of her own mouth. I cast her a closer look, wondering if she was mocking my way of talking again. But her face was earnest and her eyes were glistering with tears.
* * *
A week later, word came Sue was in labor. Emily was distraught. But when I tried to soothe her, she told me to go straight to the Evergreens and do what I could to help. She’d promised me to Sue, she said—as if I belonged to her instead of myself. Like a stick of furniture or a horse, to be sent off to another mistress without even being asked what I wanted. God’s truth, it made me cross. I went, but couldn’t be putting a cheerful face on it.
Sure, I’d seen my share of babbies born, so I didn’t fret, though Sue was heaving and moaning. But what woman doesn’t when she’s pushing a new one into the world? Birthing always seems to take hours, even when it’s quick. Dr. Bigelow was there and Meg and Eileen, the new maid. So there was little for me to do but watch and wait.
When the child was born Dr. Bigelow told Sue she had a son, turned the babby upside down, gave him a slap on his backside, and spilled him into my arms. I wiped him clean and wrapped him in a towel. Before I even gave him to his mam, he was rooting for the breast. The weight of his little body wriggling against my breasts made something unfold in the bottom of my chest.
“This mite’s looking for his dinner,” I said. God’s truth, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
“I’ll take him,” Eileen said, and plucked him out of my arms.
And just like that, I felt robbed. It was so surprising, I stood there blinking. Struck by a fierce longing for a child of my own.
* * *
It was Mattie showed up at the Homestead a few days after the birth, carrying a note for Emily and the news they’d named the babby Thomas Gilbert. “But he’s too small for a big name,” she said, “so we’re calling him Gib.”
Eight years old, she was, with a habit of scowling that blunted her pretty looks. But she was all smiles that day, and after I served up some cake and a glass of milk, Emily whisked her off to her room. “So we can conspire to our hearts’ content,” Emily said with a wicked spark in her eye. She doted on Mattie like she was her daughter. Left me thinking it was a pity she never had young ones of her own.
Part III
Windows
Chapter Fourteen
1916
After Mattie D turns me out of the Evergreens, I’m raging the rest of the afternoon. It helps speed me through my chores, and by the time my boarders get home, the table’s set and the smell of cooked sausage is filling the house. The lads come in together—all six of them—straight from the lumberyard on the far side of town. I stand at the door, see to it every last one of them scrapes his boots clean before stepping over the sill. Dan Casey’s grousing as usual—this time about the weather—and I can’t be blaming him, for it’s spitting rain now and it looks like he’s been in mud up to his knees. I make him take off his boots right there on the porch. Which sets him grumbling all the more.
As they troop upstairs to wash, the thought comes to me I could be buying the Homestead myself. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. The place will suit well for a boardinghouse, roomy as it is. In truth, it makes me smile, thinking of these Irish lads tramping through Emily’s house, taking their tea in the double parlor and sitting on the veranda on warm Sunday afternoons. Would set Emily laughing, to be sure.
I’ll go have a chat with Tom after the washing up. He’ll know how it’s done. He’s been buying property of one kind or another since he came to America.
* * *
At supper the lads are stirred up about the war in Europe. Jimmy Brennan says his brother is fighting with the Irish Sixth Battalion. “The Huns are using poison gas now,” he tells us. “It chokes the breath from the lads and burns like Hell itself. ’Tis the Devil’s own creation.”
I give him a frown, for the lads know I don’t tolerate crude talk at my table.
He scoops another spoonful of colcannon and sausage into his mouth. In truth, I don’t know how he can eat at all, thinking of his poor brother. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says. “But you’d be agreeing with me if you read his letter. Harms every living thing that breathes it, the gas does.” I expect he’s right—Germans are brutal as the English, surely. I’ve no taste for war, and all the tales I’ve ever heard of battles are dreadful. Yet it seems some lads are born to relish the fighting. It’s the same the world over.
“Why are Irish lads fighting an English war? I’m asking,” Dan says. “Let the English do their own brawling.”
“When they come home victorious, they’ll be given Home Rule and you’ll be singing a different song,” Jimmy says.
Several of the lads are nodding. Then Martin O’Day speaks up. He’s usually the quiet one, Martin—keeps a tight bridle on his tongue—so when he has something to say, we pay attention.
“Won’t be any Home Rule without a fight,” he says. “We need a rising.” His voice is low and raspy, but we hear every word. The lads look at Martin and one another, but not one of them says anything.
I put down my fork. “There’s been talk of a rising for years and years. Folks were blathering on about it when I was a girl. There’s been risings here and risings there. But the end is always the same—Irish lads in prison or dead, more’s the pity.”
“Freedom’s a long time coming, surely,” Dan says. “But ’tis a new century now.”
“That it is,” I say. “And I’m hoping you’re right. No one wants to see a free Ireland more than myself.”
“Amen to that,” says Jimmy, and there’s nodding all around.
I take up my fork again. “Now finish what’s on your plates, lads. There’s apple torte for dessert.”
* * *
I make short work of the washing up and hurry across Kelley Square to Tom’s place. He’s alone, smoking his pipe and warming himself by the parlor fire. I feel the same jolt I always do seeing himself instead of Mary in the old rocking chair. She’s six years in her grave now, and Tom’s days are long and lonesome without her. His rheumatism vexes him and his bad legs bind him to the house, after he spent his whole life coming and going. It’s plain he’s glad for the company, especially since Nell has gone off to the moving picture show for the evening. She’s the one takes care of him and helps out at the boardinghouse when I’m needing an extra pair of hands.
We chat awhile and I tell him about being turned out by Mattie D and that I’m wanting to know how to go about buying the Homestead. I remind him I’ve saved money from selling the New Mexico land my brother Tommy gave me. He looks doubtful, says it’ll likely be costing a lot more than I’m expecting. Says I should apply for a mortgage at the bank and tells me how it’s done in his careful way, till my head is spinning with the particulars and the clock on his mantel is striking nine.
When I go out the door I’m more cheered than when I came in. I never gave any thought to buying a place on Main Street before today, let alone the Homestead. But Tom makes it seem possible. Sure, it’s not the first time chatting with him has lifted my spirits.
* * *
Still, I’m feeling edgy walking to the Savings Bank in the morning. I’ve been inside it more tim
es than I can count, but never with the thought of begging for money that wasn’t my own. If there’s one thing galls me, it’s being on the unfortunate end of charity. Asking rich folks for money—even when I’ll be paying it back—is mortifying. But I’m wearing my new hat and it makes me feel lucky.
There’s a black automobile in front of the bank—sides so shiny I can see my reflection. Gives me a pang, seeing a machine where a horse and buggy should be. Nell is always reminding me times change and I need to get used to things. I try, but can’t help noticing the world was not so frantic in earlier years. Ever since the War of the Rebellion, things have got louder and more wearying.
A sober feeling comes over me whenever I go in a bank. A bit like a church, it is, though not so holy. The walls are always fresh painted, no matter the season, but half the property is behind bars. Wouldn’t like to work in such a place myself—sitting in a cage all the day long. I tell the bank teller I’ve come about a loan and he directs me to a chair where I wait till I’m summoned. Takes twenty minutes before a woman comes out of a back room and asks me to follow her. Twenty minutes of myself sitting on a hard chair, all stirred up and fretting over what I’ll be saying.
The woman looks like Kate Grady’s daughter—with the same big hands and snaggy left eyebrow and black hair frizzing out of her bun. She leads me through a door and down a hall to a tiny office where a round-faced man is sitting behind a desk. He has dark eyes behind his spectacles, but it’s his mustache strikes me. Thick, brown, and lush as a mink’s pelt. Can’t stop staring. It’s the spitting image of Alexander Bianchi’s.
The man tells me to sit down, and when he asks how he can help, I come right out with it. “I’m after buying the old Dickinson place on Main Street,” I say. But before I get a chance to tell him how much I’ve saved, he’s shaking his head and telling me I’ve come to the wrong place.
Emily's House Page 11
