American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Her morning foraging had not been a colossal success, but at least she had more to show for her efforts than what she’d started out with. She had crammed her pockets with some sizable scraps of material salvaged from the bins behind the German tailor’s shop on Broadway. As clever as Vangie was with a needle, she would put the colorful pieces to good use.

  The best of her booty was a perfectly good wooden chair, which someone had discarded in back of one of the row houses. A coat of paint, and it would look as good as new. She had also come across one of yesterday’s papers, clean as could be, which MacGovern would appreciate. He enjoyed his newspapers, he did.

  Today she had gone as far as East Fourteenth Street, scouting for open parks and other sites where a busker might attract a crowd. Renny had gotten to know this end of the city fairly well by now, venturing into a new neighborhood every chance she got. Based on what she’d seen so far, she figured the district called the Bowery would be one of the more likely areas where a street performer could attract a crowd.

  For now, however, she needed to get back to the house and help Vangie with the boys and Emma. Mornings were devoted to exploring; afternoons for helping out with the children and doing chores about the house. Then in the evening, depending on whether Vangie needed her or not, she would go back to the streets.

  Renny had already figured out that if she were ever to turn a profit as a busker in New York, she had a great deal more to learn. Folks here seemed to mostly want songs and stories about the lands from which they’d come and this new land where they’d settled.

  Not so in Ireland. There they hankered for the old tales, the legends of the ancient heroes and fairies and favorite saints. Back home, it had been as easy as chasing a hare out of the bushes to entertain a crowd on the street. A tune, a tale, and dancing feet had enabled Renny to make out just fine. Why, she could have gone anywhere in Dublin—in the entire surrounding countryside, for that matter—and earned a respectable wage for her efforts.

  This place, though, was a city of foreigners. These people were strangers, with sundry origins and varied histories. How was she to learn such a jumbled mix of stories and legends, not to mention the different songs each clan boasted as their own? In two months of roaming about the littered streets and fetid alleys, Renny had taken in all she could, but in truth she was woefully ignorant of the different sects that made up this sprawling city.

  New York was a stewpot of foreign faces and foreign tongues. The music was strange, the food even stranger. She was coming to recognize some of the more distinctive features of the Italian peddlers, or the small Oriental folk who hobbled down the lanes with their hands clasped as if in prayer, or the solemn-faced Hebrews who hurried along in pairs, always looking to and fro. But although she was learning her way about the city, she felt as if she’d only begun to scratch the surface. Why, the very sounds of New York—not to mention the astonishing sights and revolting smells—were enough to confuse a scholar. Such shrieking and screaming and cursing and caterwauling the likes of which she had never heard! It seemed to Renny that, for the most part, these New Yorkers were a demented lot entirely.

  Demented or not, she meant to soak up all she could about them. And she needed to do it as quickly as possible, if she were to earn her own keep and help out the MacGoverns. Things were hard for them right now, and Renny meant to do whatever she could to ease Vangie’s worries and the needs of the children.

  If only she could read…

  Her mind raced as she hauled the chair along behind her, heading down Mulberry Street. If she could read, there would be no limit to what she could learn. If she could only access the newspapers—and perhaps even books—why then, she would surely find everything she needed to know and then some.

  The MacGoverns could read, every one of them—except for Baby Emma, of course. Even the twins knew their letters and a number of words, and them only eight years old. Apparently, MacGovern himself, who claimed to have had an educated da, had taught his entire family, including Vangie.

  So far Renny had been able to keep her inability to read a secret. None of her chums back home had been able to read, either, and such things hadn’t mattered on the streets of Dublin. But she was beginning to realize that, here in America, a person who could not so much as read a newspaper was at a definite disadvantage.

  She had briefly considered asking Vangie to teach her. Or perhaps Nell Grace. But they were always so busy, tending to their piecework and the household tasks and the children. She couldn’t imagine presuming on them to spend time helping her. Why should they?

  Besides, the very thought of revealing her disadvantage to anyone—even to Vangie—made Renny’s skin heat with shame. No doubt it would make her even smaller, poorer, somehow, in their eyes, were they to know the truth.

  It cut against the grain for Renny to ask for help. With few exceptions, she depended on no one but herself.

  She despised admitting that there was anything—anything at all—that she could not manage quite well on her own. But when it came to the reading, if she didn’t make her problem known to someone, then how could she ever hope to learn? No matter how resourceful she happened to be, she couldn’t fathom how she could teach herself to read.

  She slowed her steps, hefting the chair onto her shoulders as she turned the corner to Baxter Street and home.

  Home. Was that really how she thought of her present situation, then? The rickety shack with the tarpaper roof, perched in the midst of all the other shanties just like it. Had this really become home to her?

  In truth, Renny had never had a real home, so it was difficult for her to understand exactly what she felt, or was supposed to feel, about the place she shared with the MacGoverns. Yet she did like the sound of the word. Home. She liked the snug feeling that came whenever she said it aloud. Sometimes she would repeat it over and over to herself, savoring it as if it had a taste all its own.

  But she was hard-pressed to find the right words to define it. A roof over her head. A mattress on the floor alongside the baby’s cradle. Food on the table, no matter how plain the fare or how scanty the portions. A place where she didn’t have to fear the shadows that moved about in the night, where she could sleep without a brick clutched in her hand for protection.

  And yet it was more than that. Home, for Renny, was the MacGoverns.

  But only, she reminded herself, as long as she was under her pledge to them.

  Six months. That’s what she had committed, to stay with them for six months in exchange for her passage to America.

  She considered six months quite a long enough period of time to be obligated to anyone. She had her own life to live, her own future to see to. She had not come to America just to fetch and carry for the MacGoverns, no matter how decent to her they might be. Renny Magee was not meant to be anyone’s property.

  Indeed not. And that being the case, she would do well not to attach too much importance to her present circumstances. In a relatively short time, having kept her commitment, she would be free to go her own way. No doubt the MacGoverns would be as pleased to see the last of her as she would be to leave them behind.

  And yet the thought of her eventual freedom failed to kindle in her the sense of anticipation and excitement it once had. Still, she had four months left to go before she could reclaim her independence—a considerable length of time. It was only natural she wouldn’t yet feel any real eagerness at the prospect. For now, she would simply do the work expected of her and bide her time. When the day finally arrived that she could once again be responsible to no one but herself, she expected she would scarcely be able to contain her enthusiasm.

  The house was in sight now, and as the morning fog lifted to reveal the small, leaning shack at the edge of the row, Renny stepped up her pace. Vangie would have saved her a bowl of stirabout, and there would be water heating on the stove for the dark tea the MacGoverns fancied.

  All in all, Renny decided, the day was looking fine.

  4


  SOMETHING OF GENIUS, SOMETHING OF GOD

  Sweet blind singer over the sea,

  Tuneful and jubilant, how can it be,

  That the songs of gladness, which float so far,

  As if they fell from an evening star,

  Are the notes of one who may never see “visible music” of flower and tree.

  FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL

  Every day for weeks now, Caterina had taken to coaxing the old Irish tales from Susanna. Today was no exception. So, after lunch, with Gus the wolfhound dozing at the foot of the bed, Susanna spun yet another of the mythic tales, this one about the lazy princess and her three aunts.

  “…And although the girl was lovely as the day itself and had three mysterious helpers to aid her in winning the prince, she was lazy to the point of despair. No doubt when she grew older and was no longer so fair, she would pay a dear price for her slothfulness…”

  By the time the story was finished, Caterina was asleep. Susanna watched her for a moment. For the most part, the little girl seemed to have regained her strength, but two successive bouts of croup had left their mark. There were still times when the child seemed to tire too easily, times when her color wasn’t quite as it ought to be. Susanna thought it was probably a good thing that Dr. Carmichael would be stopping by later in the week to check on her.

  Finally, she went to her own bedroom to freshen up before going downstairs. She had barely managed to brush her hair and smooth her collar when she heard the sound of the piano coming from the music room. Apparently, Michael was already at work.

  She hurried down the steps, anchoring her hair clasp as she went. By the time she reached the end of the hallway, the music of the piano had changed to that of the mandolin. With it came Michael’s voice, honeyed and light.

  Susanna stopped to listen just outside the music room, marveling at the tones that seemed to flow with such ease, such perfection. He was singing what sounded like an Italian folk song, a tune infused with sunlight and rolling hills and peaceful pastures.

  Through the doorway, Susanna studied him. He sat on the window seat, the late afternoon sun casting a dappled glow on his features. He had changed to a scarlet-colored shirt of soft wool, which only intensified his dark good looks. With his eyes closed, his strong profile haloed by the light streaming through the window, he appeared younger, less formidable. Perhaps even vulnerable. And undeniably handsome.

  At almost the exact moment she walked into the room, he stopped playing, unfolded himself from the window seat, and stood, smiling. “Ah, Susanna, you are here.” He laid the mandolin on the window seat. “Buono.”

  There seemed to be no such thing as sneaking up on Michael, despite his blindness. And yet it both pleased Susanna and unsettled her that he always seemed to know the instant she entered a room.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long. Caterina wanted a story.”

  He waved off her apology. As he reached for the dark glasses in his shirt pocket and slipped them on, Susanna felt a familiar sting of irritation. Why was it he never seemed compelled to wear the glasses in the presence of others, only with her? It was almost as if he felt a need to shield himself from her.

  Susanna suddenly felt awkward and uncertain. “Michael…I don’t know how much help I can be—”

  Before she could finish, he motioned her to the piano stool. Susanna eyed the Bösendorfer’s keyboard with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. She loved to play this magnificent instrument, yet she was so tense that for a moment she could only sit and stare at the smooth ivory keys before her.

  Michael, of course, could not see her agitation. He leaned over her shoulder to place a pad of manuscript against the music rack, and Susanna gave an involuntary shiver.

  “If you would play this for me and then make notation, please? Paul will render the Braille later.”

  The section he pointed to was several pages into the score and barely legible. Susanna did the best she could, disconcerted as she was by his voice.

  And his nearness.

  After she’d finished the notation in a shaky hand, he asked her to go back and play from the beginning. Susanna looked at him, then turned back to the manuscript, flipping through the first few pages. The first part had already been roughly scored for orchestra, but soon melded into a primary melody line with just some harmony and miscellaneous notes.

  She eased her shoulders, flexed her fingers, and willed herself to relax. This was no concert hall, she reminded herself, and she was not a performer. She was merely helping Michael through some initial stages of his own music.

  “Remember, Michael, I’m no virtuoso—”

  “I know, I know. So you have said. Just…ah…play it as you like for now. In parts or with accompaniment. However you like.”

  At first Susanna had no conception of what she was playing, no real awareness of anything except the cool smoothness of the ivory under her fingertips, the absolute purity of sound as she pressed each key. She did exactly as she was told, initially playing one part at a time while Michael, still standing directly behind her, hummed a little and occasionally uttered, “No, that’s not it,” or, “Ah, yes! That’s exactly what I want there.”

  It took Susanna a few minutes to realize he wasn’t commenting on her playing, but rather on his own composition. The first time she brought together all the parts, she both felt and heard the stiffness in her technique, the utter lack of color and emotion in her playing, and she cringed.

  But Michael didn’t seem to notice. He merely went on humming, occasionally murmuring to himself. Then he moved around and began to tap lightly on the side of the piano to spur her on to a brisker, more strident rhythm.

  The longer she played, the more the music began to reach out to her, beckoning her, drawing her out of herself. She started, caught off guard when Michael moved behind her and began to tap her shoulders with both hands, urging her forward, driving her on. After a moment, however, she lost her self-consciousness, and her fingers seemed to fly over the keyboard, improvising, adding, drawing forth an extensive accompaniment to the notes on the pages. The force of the music infused her spirit, raising her to the level of performance such glorious music demanded. The sounds and rhythms marched and danced, filling Susanna’s soul, transforming the room into a concert hall, the Bösendorfer into an entire orchestra.

  This was Michael’s newest work, the American Anthem. He rarely spoke of it to her, but she had heard him and Paul working on it together, knew he often labored over it long hours into the night. Twice he had incorporated excerpts from it into the orchestra’s concert program.

  A distinctly nationalistic flavor ran through the work, as if it had been woven by the people of many nations, striving to form a whole. Although symphonic in its structure and complexity, it was an earthy folk music.

  But more than anything else, it was a music of the spirit. Triumphant and rejoicing, it proclaimed a mighty faith, yet in places it was imbued with such plaintive melodies and sweetness it brought a kind of yearning to the soul.

  Too quickly, it ended.

  Susanna reached the end of the pages in front of her, her hands clinging to the last chord as she sat in stunned disbelief. The work was not even half complete; obviously, it was destined to be a huge, expansive score. But even in its unfinished and preliminary state, it left her both exhausted and exhilarated, her pulse thundering, her mind racing.

  On occasion, Susanna had caught such a strong sense of a composer through his music that she felt as if she knew him, or had at least caught a glimpse of his heart. So it was at this moment. She was convinced that she had heard the song of Michael’s soul in his music. She had heard something of genius, certainly, but even more, she had heard something of God.

  She felt acutely disappointed, even stricken, by the music’s incompleteness. It was like being held captive by the power of a thundering, monumental story—only to find that it was a story without end.

  Then she came to herself and realized that Michael
’s hands still rested on her shoulders.

  The strength and warmth of his hands stole the breath from her, even as the Anthem had left her breathless. She tensed, and he dropped his hands away, leaving Susanna to wonder at the inexplicable feeling of abandonment that followed.

  Michael heard her catch her breath, felt her stiffen beneath his touch. Immediately he released her, but too late. She jerked to her feet, made a hasty apology, and left the room.

  He hadn’t meant to offend her. In truth, he’d been so caught up in the music and her interpretation of it that his actions had been more instinctive than deliberate.

  Yet more than once he’d been seized with a strong urge to touch her. Whenever she took his arm to guide him, or drew close enough that he caught the sunny scent of her hair, he would find himself overwhelmed by the desire to pull her closer. But always he stopped himself in time. He had no way of knowing whether she might welcome the familiarity or shrink from it. Or slap his face.

  Now, standing alone at the piano, he wondered why he found it so difficult to sense Susanna’s feelings. True, he was often frustrated by his inability to assess facial expressions, but he considered himself reasonably intuitive. Despite the blindness, he believed he was capable—at least in most circumstances—of gauging another person’s response to him.

  Not so with Susanna.

  Just when he thought she might be warming to him, if only as a friend, he would hear a distance in her voice. He could never be quite certain whether she genuinely wanted to be with him, or simply tolerated him as she might have endured the attendance of a tiresome but unavoidable employer.

  The very possibility made him cringe.

  Michael found the idea of being tolerated just as abhorrent as being pitied. And to be tolerated by a woman who could make his head swim simply by entering a room was more than he could bring himself to face.