by Ann Moore
She nodded.
“The tear ducts are working properly now, and eventually he won’t need drops.”
“Will he see clearly, do you think?”
“We won’t really know for sure until he’s older and can talk, what the exact range is. But”—he smiled encouragingly—“he’ll be able to see something, even if it’s blurred. He’ll wear spectacles most likely, but that’s no burden considering the alternative.”
Julia shook her head, tears springing to her own eyes. “I can hardly believe it. That it’s worked.”
“You’ve done well by him, Miss Martin. Frankly, I thought he’d lose that battle with pneumonia over the winter, but he’s a fighter, isn’t he? And you kept his spirits up quite nicely. His mother would be grateful to know the kind of care you’re giving him.”
Julia felt a sharp pang of guilt as she watched Doctor Wilkes bend over the child’s face, intent now on holding the eye open and getting the drops in accurately. She’d told him Morgan’s mother had died, leaving the child in Julia’s care; the same story she’d told everyone—his nurses, the staff—until she’d almost come to believe it herself.
There had been no letter from Grace or any communication from Sean, and Julia had held off writing, telling herself the boy might not survive the winter, or any of the following surgeries; they had been difficult, and Doctor Wilkes had told her quite honestly that many patients succumbed because of low thresholds for pain, which was why he used opiates both orally and as tinctures he put directly into the eye itself. Still, it had been touch-and-go several times, and Julia had told herself it would be cruel to write to Grace saying he was alive, only to write again saying he’d died; maybe Grace herself was no longer living, or maybe she’d made a new kind of life for herself and her daughter and didn’t miss the boy so very much. She had repeated these excuses to herself over and over, trying to justify her actions, but then she had seen Aislinn and all those excuses had fallen to rot.
“All done.” Wilkes bound Morgan’s eyes again, sat him up, and ruffled his hair. “Such a handsome boy,” he said, handing him over. “I have to tell you, Miss Martin, that I’m grateful for having been given the opportunity to operate on the boy. It’s all very new and unproven. Not many patients would have risked this.”
She looked at him, surprised. “I guess I didn’t really consider the risk,” she admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “Not after everything he’s already come through. I only wanted him to have a chance to see his world.” She smiled lovingly into the little boy’s face.
“That’s what I admire about you, Miss Martin—you have your sights set firmly on the future. You’re willing to embrace a new and better way of living, and you do so with unshakable resilience.”
“Do I, now?” She grinned. “Must be the fighting Irish in me.”
He cocked his head. “I forget you’re Irish.”
“And how can you forget such a thing as that when my manner of speaking is so much more poetical than yours?” she teased, laying it on thick. “Or is it that you’re in need of a hearing doctor?”
He turned around to pack his kit bag. “Well, actually, I think I’m in need of a heart specialist.”
Julia’s eyes went wide and she felt herself blush madly.
“Um, I suppose it’s not proper protocol”—he faced her again, and pretended not to notice the change in color—“but I was wondering if we might not have dinner tonight? Away from all this.” He waved his hand at the room. “I know a lovely nurse who’d be quite happy to sit with young Morgan here, and there’s a place I’d like to take you. Quite respectable,” he added quickly. “No low lights and all of that …”
“I don’t mind low lights.” The words were out before she could stop them.
“Don’t you?” He laughed. “Well I suppose we could … um … yes, well, shall I call for you here at eight, then? Eight o’clock?”
“Eight would be fine.” Julia bit her lip. “But I must warn you, Doctor Wilkes—I’m as Irish as they come and I make no apologies for myself or my countrymen. I don’t like the English,” she said, then wished she could slap herself.
“Well, thank you for the warning, but I believe I’ll risk it anyway.” He closed his kit, trying not to smile. “I appreciate your making an exception in my case, and I won’t attempt to redeem myself, only hope that you’ll see past my obvious shortcomings. Good-bye, old man.” He patted Morgan on the back, then leaned close to his ear. “I’ll take good care of her for you.”
Julia pretended not to hear.
He turned to her then, his eyes warm and full of good humor. “Eight o’clock then, Miss Martin. I won’t be late.”
Julia watched him go, Morgan in her arms, and when the door had closed she twirled the boy around gleefully.
“Well, what in Heaven’s name do you think about that?” she whispered into his ear. “Your mam’s having dinner out with handsome, brilliant Doctor Wilkes! Nigel,” she tried it out. “Nigel Wilkes. Good evening, Nigel,” she practiced, then laughed out loud.
Morgan laughed and patted her cheek; she caught his hand and kissed it, looked into his face and saw his father all over him, saw his mother written everywhere.
“They call me a saint for bringing you here,” she said soberly. “But there’s no truth in that.”
She carried the little boy over to the tall window and looked down at the grounds, soft and blurry in the lovely afternoon light of spring. She’d done a terrible thing by lying to Barbara, by not writing to Grace—she loved this child with a full and open heart, but all the love in the world did not make up for what she had done. One day he’d grow up and want to know about his father, his real mother; would she be able to look him in the eye and lie to him as she had to everyone else, most of all herself? Aislinn had asked her that; she had been kind and gentle, not condemning as Julia had feared she might, but she had asked if Julia could live with this all her life and if she would make Morgan live with it, as well.
Julia looked down into his dear sweet face aglow with peace and contentment. No, she had told Aislinn. No, she had said, and knew that it was true, the first step toward truth. Even if it meant giving him up—she closed her eyes, her cheek on his head—she had promised Aislinn that she would write and tell Grace everything. And she had. She’d made a dozen false starts, but in the end she’d written a long letter and now it was on its way to America. To Grace, the mother of this boy she held in her arms. And she could only hope it was not too late.
Thirty-nine
LIAM sat on the edge of his cot, face flushed, boot angrily banging against the leg of Grace’s chair.
“Stop that,” she demanded. “What have you to say for yourself, young man?”
“I didn’t do it,” he answered sullenly.
“Mister Marconi says you did.”
“Well, and he’s only saying that because he knows it’s my gang, doesn’t he?” Liam insisted. “But I wasn’t there! Ask any of the boys! Marconi’s just out to get me because—” He caught himself and stopped.
Grace narrowed her eyes. “Because why?”
“Because I’m Irish and he’s a stinking Italian!” Liam yelled, kicking Grace’s chair again.
“Liam Kelley, I’ll not have that talk in my house!” she yelled back, shocked. “We’ve no quarrel with Italians, and Mister Marconi is our own good friend!”
“He eats garlic,” Liam mumbled. “He’s a garlic eater.”
“And you’re a potato eater,” she retorted. “For goodness’ sake, Liam, what kind of talk is that coming out of you! I can’t believe I’m hearing it!”
“He throws rotten vegetables at us!”
“Well, you boys’ve been nicking apples off the cart every day, calling him garlic eater and worse! You insult the man and steal his wares—you’re lucky he’s not called the police on you! We don’t need that kind of trouble, Liam,” she warned. “I’m at my wit’s end with you, boy, and now he comes to me and says your ones kicked over his stand and ruin
ed his nice fruit!”
“He’s a liar!” Liam stamped his foot.
“He’s not a liar! There’s only one liar in all this, young man, and I’m looking at him!” she declared. “I’ve had enough of your running with those hooligans. You’ll go to work for him every day until it’s paid off—do you hear me?”
“I won’t. He stinks!”
“Liam!”
“You don’t care for me.” Tears spilled down his cheeks. “You only care for money. And Mary Kate.”
“Ah, now, Liam, that’s just not true,” she said wearily.
“Send me back to my da, why don’t you? I’m just like him!” He began to sob in earnest.
She went quickly over to his cot and sat down, putting an arm around his shoulders.
“Liam, Liam. I’m sorry I ever said that. It wasn’t myself talking. Can you ever forgive me?”
“No,” he said, tears dripping from his chin onto the dark fabric of his pants. “No,” he repeated, crying even harder, throwing his arms around her, burying his damp face in the warm place between her shoulder and her neck.
She held him tightly, cringing at the memory of her hard words, the way she’d shaken him, angry and out of control. Was it any wonder he was angry now, uncontrollable now? Forgive me, Lord, she prayed, hot tears prickling her eyes and nose—forgive me forgive me forgive me for not looking after the one You placed in my care, this little boy You trusted to me. Forgive me for only thinking about the one that wasn’t here. And so she held him and rocked him, murmuring all the words of love she would have murmured to her own son, until his sobs subsided and his breathing grew deep and slow, his body slack; until he had fallen asleep, exhausted from the burden of holding himself together. She would hold him together now, she promised. She would make it up to him. Gently, she kissed the top of his hot, sweaty head, then lowered him onto the cot, untying his heavy boots and slipping them off, drawing a blanket up over his shoulders.
“Mam?” he murmured, eyes still closed. “I’m sorry, Mam.”
“Shhhh,” she whispered. “Never you mind, now. Go to sleep.”
She sat a minute longer, brushing the hair back off his forehead, looking at his weary, tear-streaked face, thinking that she’d get up in another minute, go down and see to his supper. But in the end, she sat beside him the entire time he slept, unable to go, wanting him to wake up and see that she had not left him, but had remained by his side.
Boardham was counting his money when Callahan unlocked the door and walked in.
“Keeping that safe for me, are you?” He jerked his head and two henchmen closed the door, then stood before it, barring any quick exit.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Boardham replied, casually pushing the cash back into its bag. “This is mine. What I’ve saved.” He glanced at the thugs. “From my pay, you know.”
“Very industrious.” Callahan straddled the chair opposite. “But I don’t think so. What happened to the money you were supposed to pick up from Stookey last night?”
Boardham shrugged. “He didn’t give it to me. He—”
“Says he did,” Callahan interrupted.
“Not all of it,” Boardham said smoothly, though beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. “I’m getting the rest tonight was why I didn’t bring it over straightaway. No sense making two trips.”
Callahan eyed him calmly, noted the sweat, the tremor in the hands. “You’ve been cheating me.” He let that sink in. “And you know what I do to people who cheat me.”
“No!” Boardham held up his hand in protest. “I swear to you—”
“Stookey, Harriman, Jimmy Doyle, Big Dan.” Callahan ticked them off on his fingers. “Apparently they’ve been paying out more than you’ve been turning in. Why is that, do you suppose?”
Boardham glanced at the two men by the door. Definitely trapped. He turned belligerent. “You’re getting your price.” He crossed his arms. “I’m not taking a penny out of yours. Where’s the harm in me making a little extra?”
Callahan considered this. “That’s what I like about you, Boardham.” He smiled congenially. “You’re a backstabbing double-crosser who makes no apologies to anyone.”
Boardham licked his lips, unsure of the compliment.
“Here’s what I’ve decided.” Callahan put his hand on the table. “You’re going to give me half of what’s in that bag, and I’m going to let you keep your fingers, sticky as they are.”
“Half!” Boardham snatched up the bag, indignant.
“Half right now, or all of it with interest. Boys?”
The two men took out their iron knockers and a small hatchet. It appeared to be stained.
Boardham immediately opened the bag and poured the money back out onto the table.
“Smart man. But then, you’ve always been a smart man.” Callahan counted out his half. “Don’t forget that I took care of your Captain Reinders. Remember that thorn in your side?” He arched his eyebrow. “Run off for good, I expect. House closed up, ship gone, partner, too.” He pushed his money into the bag, leaving Boardham’s on the table. “You should be looking for ways to pay me back, instead of stealing from me.”
Boardham nodded contritely, though he felt oddly let down by how things had turned out. He’d dreamed of painful revenge for so long that merely running Reinders out of town left him feeling deflated, depressed. Graft had taken his mind off things, had been a welcome distraction.
“Don’t do it again.” Callahan stood up, pocketing the bag. “And I’ve got a job for you. I think you already know him—a Doctor Draper. New health inspector for our buildings. Make sure he’s our friend. Pay him out of your share there.” He laughed.
Boardham started to protest, then stopped, defeated.
“Do a good job,” Callahan warned. “My patience is short.”
He signaled his boys, who opened the door, and when it had closed Boardham slumped over the table and the remains of his day. Reinders was gone, half his money was gone, the other half as good as gone—life, he sighed, was so unfair.
Doctor Draper was an opium addict and strapped for ready cash, which was why Boardham’s offer of a bribe was less distasteful than Boardham himself. He had taken the money—yes, he admitted it—and Callahan’s rank, rat-infested tenements got clean bills of health. It was Missus Draper’s fault really, the doctor rationalized; she was the one with the family money, he the one with the brains and a pauper’s purse. She’d been thrilled to marry a physician on the rise, but sadly her expectations had not been fulfilled, and Draper seemed to be slipping ever backward on the professional ladder instead of nearing its highest rung. The opium probably didn’t help, but he didn’t think it hurt much either. Certainly, it left him animated and enhanced intellectually, while still relaxed—a man in his line of work, married to his line of wife, needed a place to call his own.
Missus Chang’s over on Mott Street was Doctor Draper’s private refuge. Downstairs, in the gambling rooms, games of fan tan and pak ko piu went on all day and night; but upstairs … upstairs was nirvana. He loved the ritual as much as he loved the drug itself—the sticky ball of opium paste skewered and warmed with precision over the flame of a candle until it was firm enough to stuff into the pipe, the pipe held delicately over the flame until just the right moment when smoke could be effortlessly drawn through the long ivory mouthpiece. An experienced smoker, Draper could draw in a good-sized ball of opium in a single breath—the effect: euphoria.
This little bit of Heaven in the evenings made somewhat easier his days in Hell—in and out of the worst neighborhoods in the worst parts of town, made completely intolerable by the smell of raw sewage, slaughterhouse offal, glue making, and human decay. He needed the solace of Missus Chang’s on a regular basis now, required it, prescribed it for himself. But this took money, of which he had very little of his own. And so he’d sold his endorsement to Boardham—the devil himself—and now he only waited to be caught out and removed, for how long coul
d it go on like this? he wondered. How long could he continue passing for healthy buildings with dead rodents in the walls, their decomposing carcasses visible through the chipped plaster; buildings with garbage piled into the street for the refuse carts that never came, not into those neighborhoods; buildings packed tight with the near-naked, the destitute, the insane. If this heat continued, there would be cholera, he had little doubt, and then he would quit if they had not the foresight to fire him, for even Missus Chang’s sweet smoke could not save him from that horror.
He was no longer worried about the loss of income—Boardham’s man Callahan had intimated that he had other work for the good doctor now he’d gotten himself in so very deep, now they owned his soul. And so he made his daily rounds and filled out his reports, collected his pay and then his bribes, and in the evenings he went to Mott Street, the quickest way to salvation.
Forty
REINDERS slipped in the back way of the big house, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Really, Captain, you mustn’t slink in and out like a poor relation,” the housekeeper scolded from the corner of the kitchen. “The front door does work, you know.”
“I’m only here for a couple of days, Missus Jenkins,” he explained. “And I’d rather not see anyone.”
“Yes, sir.” She pressed her lips together tightly.
“Any mail for me?”
“In your rooms, Captain. Excuse me, sir, but will the Darmstadts be returning anytime soon? I really should know,” she insisted, “so that I might open the house back up. Mister Jenkins and I have been keeping to our own quarters and the kitchen, but I wouldn’t want them to come home and find everything still in dust covers.”
“They seem to like it in San Francisco, Missus Jenkins. But I’m sure they’ll write and let you know when they’re coming home.”
She frowned; this was not the news she expected. “Will you want dinner tonight, Captain? Or will you be out?”
He thought for a moment. They were playing the new baseball out in Elysian Field and he wanted to take Liam Kelley to another game—the boy was mad about it, and they were anonymous enough in that crowd. But he’d been out of town a couple weeks again, and there would be a stack of correspondence from Lars. Baseball would have to wait, he realized reluctantly.
