Shan’s world had spun, a torrent of thoughts. Among them was the date on the letter: a month before his own birth. Overwhelmed by what it all might mean, he struggled to find his voice. “Are you saying . . . my mam and . . . that they only married because—”
Uncle Will had halted and his glossy eyes widened, as if Shan had interrupted a private talk. Not a second later, the man’s face hardened with fury. “You want to beckon the banshee, do ye!”
Some believed merely speaking of the dead would invite death to the door. Regardless of whether Uncle Will ascribed to such a thing, he ensured an end to the discussion with a fierce slap to Shan’s face. Before Shan could recover, Uncle Will snatched and wadded the letter and threw it into the stove. Had there been enough money for coal that day, the page would have been burned to ashes, instead of rescued by Shan in the wee hours of the night—though perhaps he shouldn’t have bothered. His parents were gone, almost two years passed.
“On account of the consumption,” the nurse had explained. A female patient of Shan’s da had died from the sickness in the lungs, but not before spreading it about. Revenge for not finding the girl a cure, some would claim. Whatever the case, it left Shan’s parents in a terrible state, too terrible to even say good-bye. “Best to remember them as they were,” the nurse had said. “Let bygones be bygones.”
It wouldn’t be as easy as that, but what choice did Shan have? Determined to try, he’d prepared to burn the letter himself. And yet, when the moment came, so did an unshakable thought: that somehow his mam had guided him to that letter, that she indeed wanted him to know the truth.
He considered this again now. In seconds at most, Uncle Will would be lost to sleep, taking his willingness to share with him. Given the man’s grogginess, Shan stood a decent chance of pressing the issue without earning a slap or worse. Or so he hoped.
“Uncle Will?” Absent a reply, Shan hurried to retain his nerve. “My father—the one by blood. Could you tell me anything about him?”
Uncle Will grunted. Likely a warning, but Shan persisted.
“Please tell me, is there something more you know?”
His uncle murmured, producing a recognizable word.
“Music. Is that what you said?” Shan was sure of it, and his mind raced. Maybe the sailor had a knack for singing, or played an instrument. All at once it made sense that he himself was drawn to performing. “He was a musician, then. In America.”
Uncle Will yawned and more sounds tumbled out. Shan leaned closer, enduring the man’s sour breath. What he caught were snippets of information—about the sailor’s being from New York and the name . . . John . . . Lewis.
Lewis. A surname.
“What happened between them? Was there something that tore them apart?”
Uncle Will was drifting away.
With little choice, Shan gave him a gentle shake, attempting to stir his uncle without waking an angry giant. But a rattling snore rose from the man’s nose, confirming his drunken slumber. There would be no more shared tonight.
Frustrated, helpless, Shan relented. He returned to his chair and poked at the remaining meat. He’d lost all appetite.
But why? Now he had hope.
The man’s name was John Lewis. A musician from New York. While the details were few, they made the sailor more real. Which meant Shan wasn’t an orphan.
Was it possible the sailor, too, was alone?
Right then, Shan’s purpose became clear, the reason he’d found that letter.
One day he would go to America and find this John Lewis. Surely, with such devotion in his writing, the man would embrace his child with open arms. They would reunite, Shan and his father, in the glamorous city of New York, and embark on a splendid life together.
It was just a matter of time.
3
Over the next several days, whenever speaking to his uncle, Shan would drop casual mentions of America. How he’d heard that the wives of the Doherty and Gallagher families were busy packing to move, now that their husbands had earned enough in New York to buy passage for them all. And my, how it must be nice to see a brand-new film at the pictures in America so many months before they reached the likes of Ireland. Oh, and did he know what people have been saying about the fine quality of Yankee cigarettes and liquor?
This last one caught Uncle Will’s attention, but only in the way of a stern warning for Shan: to steer clear of such depravity, if he knew what was good for him.
Though the rest of Shan’s hints were brushed away or ignored, he wasn’t about to give up. Even now, plenty more highlights were flitting around in his head as he and Uncle Will waited to be seen at the Labour Exchange. The thoughts were like birds in a cage, desperate for release, but trapped for the time being.
After a restless night of coughing fits, Uncle Will had no tolerance for yapping. The fact that smoking in the queue was frowned upon, as it displayed a vulgar waste of spending, only worsened his uncle’s mood. Soon, though, they would receive their weekly dole—the free funds always cheered Uncle Will—and Shan would again plod toward his goal.
“O’Mara!” The mustached clerk stood in the hall. “William O’Mara!”
“Aye.” Uncle Will rose, clutching his cap.
Shan followed as usual, eager to flee the area that smelled of sweat and nerves and stale breath over yellowed teeth. He grabbed hold of his uncle’s free hand, as was expected. It was dry and rough with calluses, his grip rather awkward, but deep down Shan couldn’t deny craving the comfort in it, even if logic said he shouldn’t.
In silence, they passed the wooden benches packed with men in hats and dark suits, many with stitched-up holes, all with eyes lowered. A charity line was one of the few places where even the proudest men sank to a slouch.
At the open doorway, the clerk directed Uncle Will toward the center of the room, where he and Shan would stand before the table of three to be judged.
“I’m well aware what to do,” Uncle Will muttered.
One would think the clerk would recognize them by now and deem the instructions unneeded. Then again, his ambivalence made it clear that the men who filed past him each week were all but a faceless mob.
The committee leader, on the other hand, seemed to keep mental notes on every man on the dole. Or at least on Uncle Will.
“Ah, yes,” sighed the suited gentleman with a ring of gray hair. “Mr. O’Mara . . .” He paused then and traded knowing looks with the men seated to his sides. This was typical of the routine, but Shan sensed a change coming on, even before the next words: “We’re very pleased to see you today.”
Uncle Will’s bushy brows dipped. His hand tightened around Shan’s. “Are ye?”
“Indeed we are. We’ve heard some troubling news, you see. And we’re all hoping you might be able to clear it up.”
The other men nodded, signaling the leader to continue.
“As it so happens,” he explained, “we have it on good authority that a man by the name of William O’Mara has been using a portion of his funds to create a drink meant to lure fine Catholic men into a shameful life of sin. A temptation as poisonous as Eve with that juicy red apple. And we want to be sure this isn’t the case.”
Of course, Shan could see they wanted just the opposite.
“Clearly,” Uncle Will said, “I have the misfortune of sharing a name with a grave sinner.” His indignant tone was almost impressive. “To make me wee poor nephew here suffer as a result would be an unthinkable tragedy.”
Shan recognized his cue to look up with desperate eyes, which in truth took no effort. For he well knew the consequences of going without a meal and, more than that, of Uncle Will’s displeasure when he viewed Shan as not doing his part to aid in their struggles.
From the committee’s sympathetic nods, there seemed to be hope. But then the leader of the group asked Uncle Will about his failure to keep a job for any reasonable length of time. The inquiry was a standard one—it was the rages, of course, to blame—but at that p
articular moment William O’Mara had reached his limit for being challenged. Suddenly he exploded, like a spark to gunpowder, sending his own accusations flying, of the board being full of thieves and dictators and surely Protestants at that.
The last one caused the greatest offense. In a blink, Shan and Uncle Will were escorted to the street, banned from ever returning.
Shan’s performances in filthy pubs would now be their only source of income. But this wasn’t what caused the twisting of Shan’s gut. It was the realization that a trip to America would be that much further away. Absorbing this blow, he only vaguely caught his uncle’s parting words: about needing a pint to ease the injustice before meeting Shan at home. Then Uncle Will ambled away while scouring his pockets for change.
Reminded by the sight, Shan reached into his coat to retrieve his sixpence. He had taken a great risk, keeping the money a secret, with hopes of saving up for their tickets. What an eejit he was for thinking it would make a difference. He should have spent it all on himself by now.
Indeed that was exactly what he’d do. On chocolates or toffees or anything he pleased. And he knew just where to buy them. It was a minor rebellion at best, but better than nothing. Out of spite, he would gobble the sweets in a single sitting, simply because he could. Even if it meant a bellyache for the night, he would relish the fact that Uncle Will would never know.
4
Beneath the overcast sky, bloated with coming rain, Shan marched toward Kerry Street. Every sound grated on his ears: motorcars rattling and honking, horses clacking the cobblestones, vendors shouting the prices of their goods in open carts. Just after noon, hordes of people bustled about, the smug upper class most of all.
Even aside from their fashion and cleanliness, it was easy to tell the rich from the poor. The rich were always in a hurry: walking and shopping and traveling with purpose. Quite backward, in Shan’s eyes. If anyone should be enjoying a leisurely stroll, it ought to be the wealthy.
Soon he arrived at Maguire & Co. The familiar fragrance of tea and sweets filled his nose and lungs. He felt his bitterness waning. Determined to keep hold of it, he reminded himself why he’d come.
Among the customers sprinkled about, two ladies were admiring trinkets in a glass case, a display of Celtic crosses and pendants devoted to saints. Others sifted through the wall of books, shelved in rows as straight and orderly as King George’s guards. While most stores had a particular specialty, this one offered a bit of this and that, linked by a simple goal of bringing people joy.
Out of the storage room stepped Mr. Maguire. He carried a pair of winged figurines to the register counter. His buttoned vest wrapped tautly over his belly and his scalp peeked through his black hair. “Well, well, now,” he said after a glance at the entry. “If it isn’t the world-famous Shanley Keagan. Right under me very own roof.”
“Hello, Mr. Maguire.”
“Come let me look at ye.” A sparkle lit the man’s eyes as he waved Shan over, making it a great deal harder for Shan to retain his rightfully sour mood. “Growing like a weed, ye are. Won’t be long before your hair’s caught fire on the sun.”
Only a few weeks had passed since Shan’s last visit. Still, from the flattery, he couldn’t help standing straighter, feeling older and more . . . important. As he always did around Mr. Maguire.
“Ah, I nearly forgot!” The man pointed emphatically, then bent down and opened a cupboard behind the counter. “Now, where did my Nora put it?”
His wife, as the shop’s bookkeeper, organized so well that Mr. Maguire often couldn’t find a thing.
“Ah, yes, there it is.” He rose with a gramophone record, and not one of his usual. Shan knew each and every disc in Mr. Maguire’s personal collection. “I hear it’s a belter,” he said with a grin.
“You’re saying . . . you haven’t listened yet?”
“Brand-new in the case. Been waiting for you to come by before putting the needle to it.”
Bridling his eagerness, Shan accepted the offering as if handling fine crystal. He read the label: Billy Murray and Steve Porter. He wasn’t familiar with the second performer, but the first was far and away his favorite. Though Shan had acquired most of his accents from the funny recordings of Ralph Bingham, no one delivered jokes and silly songs better than Billy Murray.
Plus, there were personal reasons for the preference. More than a year ago, when Shan first came into the store to buy sweets with a halfpenny he’d found on the street, he saw a younger lad, poor and scrawny, sneaking toffee into his pocket. Mrs. Maguire caught him red-handed, and the boy blubbered with pleas for her not to tell his da. Never do we take what doesn’t belong to us, Shan’s da had ingrained in him since birth, deeming the act worthy of consequence. Even so, the sheer panic in the lad’s eyes said the punishment at home would far outweigh the crime, spurring Shan to volunteer his halfpenny as pay for the boy’s toffee. Mrs. Maguire accepted, despite her reluctance, and shooed the lad out with a warning.
Weeks later, Shan had wandered back in, seeking refuge from the rain and his uncle’s wrath. He leafed through the records, though he had no money to buy such a thing and doubted he ever would. It had been a terribly low day. His heart was aching for his parents and the life he’d once had, and Mrs. Maguire happened to notice. From the warmth in her eyes, it was clear she remembered him. The roundish woman with light hair in a soft bun did something quite unusual. “Follow me,” she said, and led Shan to the back room. Between the shelves of supplies, she invited her husband to show off his latest gadget, a beautiful oak gramophone, which the man kindly did.
He’d placed the needle on a record featuring Billy Murray, and what emerged was a fanciful tune called “Foolish Questions.” The lyrics put such a smile on Shan’s face that Mr. Maguire asked if he’d like to hear it again. The second time through, Shan softly chuckled. By the end of the third, he laughed out loud, something he hadn’t done since his parents had passed.
“Come back anytime,” Mr. Maguire had said, to which his wife winked in agreement. And so Shan began his regular visits after school, losing himself in every record the shopkeeper owned. With little to offer in return, Shan would sometimes help with dusting the shelves or counting inventory or unloading boxes—becoming easily distracted when those boxes included new books. Yet as long as he used care and scrubbed his hands clean, Mrs. Maguire allowed him to peruse the pages. On occasion Mr. Maguire would even share a handful of toffees while he and Shan listened to records, ranking their favorites. Certainly, Shan enjoyed the likes of Marion Harris’s “I Ain’t Got Nobody” and John McCormack’s “It’s a Long, Long Way to Tipperary.” But not half as much as Billy Murray’s “I’m the Guy” and “Under the Anheuser Bush.”
Shan wound up visiting so many times he could recite the recordings on his own, entertaining the Maguires—often until their cheeks were red and sore from laughter—and sometimes the customers too. Eventually, a friend of Mr. Maguire suggested the act was quite fitting for a local pub. Uncle Will, upon hearing the news, called the idea bloody rubbish—until learning there would be pay.
A fortunate thing for them both. As of today, how else would they live?
The reality of this would press down on Shan later, but not now.
“This Steve Porter fellow, is he a comedian too?” he asked.
Mr. Maguire nodded. “A real amusing one, at that. I’m not sure he’s a vaudevillian, like your Billy Murray. But he’s also a Yank, and making quite a name for himself, I hear.”
“I can hardly wait to hear it.” The fact that the record had never been played made it all the more enticing.
“Sir? Pardon me.” A woman at the trinket case raised her gloved hand. “I wish to purchase this claddagh pin, if you please.”
“’Tis a grand choice.” Mr. Maguire turned to Shan. “Back in a bit.”
While waiting, Shan ran his fingers over the record label. He imagined what it would be like to watch the performers in person. The velvet curtains and brightly lit stage
s. The orchestra and balconies and ushers. Each of their theaters was surely elaborate, as was everything in America.
The vision of the scene played through Shan’s mind, and from it came a thought. A solution to all their troubles. An idea that should have come to him long ago.
Uncle Will would take some convincing, of course, but all the evidence needed to make a strong case was literally in Shan’s hands.
5
“Where the hell’ve ye been?” Uncle Will yelled from the bed.
Shan had just walked through the door, expecting the room to be vacant, and the shock loosened his grip. Too late, he felt the record slip from inside his coat. He scrambled to save it, but Mr. Maguire’s brand-new purchase toppled to the rough wooden floor. “Ah, Jaysus, no!”
He dropped to his knees. Hands damp from the rain, he used his fingertips to slide the disc from its flimsy casing. Distantly he heard his uncle scolding him for the use of foul language. But Shan continued to examine the record as best he could. The table lamp and afternoon grayness seeping through the window provided the only light.
Not shattered. Not cracked. No scratches he could see.
“You’ll answer me now, boy, if you know what’s good for ye.”
Shan’s awareness returned. “I-I’m sorry, Uncle Will.” He returned the record to its cover. “I didn’t expect you back from the pub this early.”
“Plainly so. Or you’d have gone straight home as I told—” Uncle Will broke off into raspy coughs. He muffled them with a yellowish handkerchief that might have been white when originally sewn.
Shan rose to explain himself, but was detoured by the clacking of shoes. Doc O’Halloran appeared from behind the half-closed privacy curtain, dropping his stethoscope into a medical bag. He was as slender as he was tall, and looked even more so under the flat’s low ceiling.
The Edge of Lost Page 3
