“Don’t be. The cranky old bastard got better, which we should’ve expected. He’ll probably outlive us all.”
The corners of Nick’s mouth rose. It was only a partial smile, as though something were holding it down.
Shan sensed not to ask. In the quiet, he recalled his kitchen worker’s cap and tugged it off, a reminder of the confrontation. “Those fellas from earlier, I take it they weren’t pals from Siena.”
“Didn’t know ’em till last night. We played a few hours of poker. Guess they held a grudge over thinking I cheated.”
“Because you won?”
“Well—yeah. Also ’cause I cheated.” Nick’s eyes gained a glimmer. “I just figured they’d had too much wine to notice.”
They both laughed, and Nick paused to hold his right side, a flash of discomfort in his face. As he relaxed, Shan chewed his toffee into tiny pieces, almost missing the murmurs echoing from the hall. The door hadn’t fully closed. They were men’s voices, growing closer.
Maybe crewmen were headed here for supplies. Or worse yet, if the Italians had somehow uncovered the trick, they could be returning, and in greater number. Shan went still, his sudden worry mirrored in Nick’s eyes.
But then the voices became clearer, with the guttural consonants of German, and faded when the strangers continued past.
Shan and Nick traded smiles of relief.
After a moment, Nick geared up with a breath. “Well, I guess we’d better get some shut-eye. Big day tomorrow.”
“Aye. Big day.”
Nick pushed on his legs to rise. “Thanks again, Shan. I owe you one.”
“’Twas no bother.”
Nick tipped his head before exiting the room, leaving Shan suddenly drained.
Tomorrow would be the start of a new life, and he would need all the energy he could muster. With his book in hand, he returned to his berth, where the stench was as horrid as ever. Uncle Will slept in the lower bunk. Thankfully he wasn’t hacking away, and Shan managed to doze off.
That bit of peace, mind you, didn’t last for long.
7
It seemed only minutes had passed when chatter and bustling roused Shan from sleep. Through the fog of his mind came a child chirping, “It’s her, Mama! The statue. You have to come and see!”
Slowly Shan realized which statue it had to be. Jolted awake, he scrambled down from his berth, still in yesterday’s clothes. He had barely found his footing when he was swept into the stream of immigrants eager for a peek at paradise.
He shuffled up the stairs in a never-ending queue until emerging on the deck. Fresh sea air washed over him and the chill raised the hairs on his scalp.
Then he saw her. That beautiful green lady of liberty. She looked like royalty in her crown and robe, but also welcoming, holding a torch to guide in their ship. To Shan’s surprise, emotions swelled inside him and tears wet his eyes. How odd that the sight of sculpted metal could cause a squeezing in his chest.
People around him were waving to no one in particular. Somehow he didn’t feel foolish doing the same. For once, even the English and Irish seemed united.
After a time, word spread that they were close to docking. Shan followed the group down the way he’d come. First class would be let off, they said, then second class, then third. A good thing for Shan, since it took quite some time to weave through the commotion. Folks were crisscrossing while rounding up their families. Arranged brides were nervously primping for the grooms they would meet.
In the middle of it all, a young lass stood alone, tears rolling down her freckled skin. Frayed ribbons hung from her red puckered braids. Shan wanted to pass by, like everyone else, but he couldn’t. He knew how it felt to cry for help and not be heard.
He bent down to meet her gaze. “Gotten yourself lost, have you?”
She didn’t answer, but paused her weeping and took in a small gulp of air.
“Come on, now. Let’s find your family.”
Though wavering with uncertainty, she accepted his hand.
“You just tell me when you see someone you know.”
After he’d towed her around for a stretch, voices in all languages swirling about, the girl released her grip and shot straight into the arms of a mother whose face was twisted with worry. “Ah, thank the Lord! I’m grateful, very grateful,” she said to Shan. “With four little ones, and me husband not here, it took time to notice the youngest gone . . .”
Shan offered reassurance and wished them well, anxious to get back. By now, the greeting that waited at his berth would not be quite as warm. Hopefully seasickness had left Uncle Will too weak to shout.
As luck would have it, the man wasn’t even up to standing. He was sleeping the day away, as he often did following rough nights at home.
“Uncle Will, we’re here.” Shan rushed to collect any belongings that had escaped his satchel and shoved them back inside. A stray sock, a shirt, his book from last night. The other passengers in their room had already headed out.
All the while Uncle Will refused to rise.
“We need to hurry now. It’ll be our turn to get off soon enough.”
Still nothing. No gripe. No movement.
Not even, Shan realized, the rasp of his breathing.
Shan dropped his bag. He stared at the back of his uncle, layered in his clothes and the scratchy wool blanket provided by the ship.
“Uncle Will?” The name came out strained.
Shan’s fingers trembled as he reached out to poke his uncle’s arm—to no response. He moved in for a closer view. Uncle Will appeared to be asleep, his body curled and eyes shut. But a handkerchief lay wadded in his calloused hand. Large spots of blood wilted the cloth like a rose.
The shake in Shan’s hands traveled to his knees. Breath held, he grabbed hold of Uncle Will’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. His skin looked paler than usual above his reddish beard. As waxy as a candle. Lifeless.
Shan forced himself to touch the man’s cheek, in order to be certain. It was so cold Shan’s hand reflexively pulled away. His stomach curdled. His brain went dizzy. More than ever on the ship, he feared he might be sick.
When inspected upon boarding, his uncle had provided a note from Doc O’Halloran. It explained his cough as the result of years spent in factories, nothing more. The Spanish flu was still so prevalent; Uncle Will wanted to avoid any concerns.
Shan wondered now what had truly ailed the man. Not that it mattered. Whatever the illness, Uncle Will was gone.
Weighted by this fact, Shan lowered onto the floor. He was starved for air, for reason. Despite the hardships, he had grown dependent on this person to survive. There were times he’d despised his uncle so much, he wished the man would die in his sleep. And now that he had, Shan was confused about how he should feel.
There was relief and guilt, spite and grief. But mostly, he felt alone. At the entry to a foreign world, what was he to do?
Empty beds and scraps surrounded him, the remnants of old lives, shed like a used cocoon. Again tears rose to his eyes, but for an entirely different reason. No longer the beginning, it was now the end. During the trip over, he’d heard of immigrants being turned away, sent back for many a reason. What would they do to a boy with no guardian?
“But my father is American,” he could tell them. “A sailor named John Lewis. No, I don’t know where he lives. And no, he doesn’t know I’m coming. Nor, perhaps, that I exist.”
Even if Shan were allowed to stay, placed in an orphanage, who was to say the conditions wouldn’t be just as foul as the ones Uncle Will had described. “Act up the smallest bit,” he’d warned, “and they’ll lock you in a cage, starve ye for a week. And if you’re hopin’ good wholesome parents will show up one day to add you to their family, you’d better think twice. Any stranger willin’ to adopt the likes of you isn’t looking for a sweet child to raise. They only want free labor to work to the bone before they toss you out on your arse. Either that, or because the man of the house wants a n
ice young lad for other reasons.”
Sure, Uncle Will might have stretched the truth. But Shan remembered how boys lived in the alley, some of them homeless by choice, and he couldn’t rule out the claims.
On the floor his satchel had fallen open. A corner of his book peeked out in mockery. The story of Tom and Edward. Just hours ago, Shan had imagined himself as the pauper, slipping into the role of a prince.
He envied that fellow Nick. Moving to New York with his family, raised in a community with the same culture and traditions, even this far from Italy. They probably all shared similar looks, with olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Everything to make a person feel he belonged.
Not like Shan. Next to Uncle Will’s fair features, the same for Shan’s mam, one wouldn’t have guessed Shan was even related. More than one person had remarked that his dark Irish features could easily be taken for . . .
Italian.
Shan turned back to the book. When the characters changed places, they managed to fit in only because they looked so much alike. Granted, it was a made-up story and happy endings were harder to come by in real life. But at this point, what did he have to lose?
I owe you one, Nick had said. He might not have truly meant it, not in the literal sense and surely not this soon.
Nevertheless, Shan was determined to collect on the favor.
8
In the Great Hall on Ellis Island, iron railings funneled passengers into winding queues like cattle in an endless maze. Most had fled their homelands to escape the lingering effects of war, yet after the two-week voyage every immigrant, from young to old, appeared to have served on the front. The stained clothes, the dirty faces. Worst of all, the smell.
But not even the stink bothered Shan now. All of his thoughts, along with his hopes, hung on a person he’d yet to find. He adjusted his grip on the handles of his bags. As a courtesy after being ferried over on a barge, folks were invited to check in their luggage. Although Shan wasn’t the only one to keep his belongings close, his reasons were likely darker.
Before rushing off the ship, he’d covered Uncle Will with a blanket. He was picking up his own satchel when he remembered his uncle’s belongings in the corner. It could take longer to identify a body, he figured, without the passenger’s documentation. And so, adding to his infinite list of sins, Shan snatched the second bag and embarked on a search for Nick.
Unfortunately, a series of medical exams had hindered the mission. Stoic in their blue uniforms, inspectors performed separate duties to decide who continued on. They observed fingernails and skin, the ability to walk and raise both arms. Eyelids were lifted, teeth were viewed, as if purchasing a horse at market. The verdicts were displayed on passengers’ clothing in a secret code of chalked letters.
Now that Shan had finally made it through, he hoped he wasn’t too late. He surveyed the massive hall, teeming with restless strangers. Their suits and shawls peppered the area in an endless quilt. Brimmed hats covered the head of nearly every man; same for the women except for those wrapped in scarves. Rigid expressions reflected Shan’s own fear of still being turned away.
“Stay calm,” he told himself. A bead of sweat slid from under his tweed cap. Could he trust his memory to locate a face he knew only in shadows?
Uniformed officials shouted instructions in an impressive number of languages. The sharp clicks of their knee-high boots echoed off the floor and up to the vaulted ceiling. People should have their documents ready, they said, to be identified and registered in the most efficient manner.
Shan moved about, carefully scanning as panic gnawed inside. He was halfway through the room when he spied a familiar face. Yes. It was Nick. He and his family had almost reached the front of the final line. To have any chance, Shan would have to hurry.
“My family, they’re right up there.” He repeated this over and over to glaring immigrants as he wormed his way past.
“Nick,” he said, approaching, and the fellow turned. After a moment of recognition, Nick looked pleasantly surprised. Shan wasted no time quietly explaining the situation. He’d barely finished when Nick went straight to his father, standing several feet ahead. They spoke in hushed tones, and once again Shan wished he knew Italian.
He studied Nick’s mother, who stood close enough to hear the conversation. She was a petite woman with high cheekbones and full lips, her brown hair pulled into a low, graceful roll befitting her demeanor. With the faintest nod or smile, she could dispel Shan’s worries, assure him that her husband would be willing to help. Instead, her face was drawn into an unreadable expression. All the while, her daughter, a few years younger than Shan, stared back with deep, curious eyes. Her nose and chin were as round and dainty as buttons. She swung a foot, brushing the floor, while clinging to her mother’s side.
Down the rows, people jaggedly moved forward, taking their places before the long series of desks. The seated immigration officers wore the hardened faces of magistrates. They brought their stamps down like gavels.
It was almost time for Nick’s family to take the stand.
Inspectors continued to work through the room. Before long, Uncle Will’s death would be discovered and an investigation would lead to Shan.
He swung back toward Nick’s father. In a charcoal gray suit, the man stood with his arms crossed and his square jaw set, as still as the statue that had greeted their ship, but not as congenial. He was of medium height and average build, just like his son, though his presence made him larger. This didn’t stop Nick from attempting another plea. But then his father turned gruff on a single word, a verbal stomp. The discussion was over.
There was no time for Shan to make a case for himself. He needed an alternative. The mother he had helped on the ship—she might be grateful enough to claim him. Plus, she was Irish and in need of an extra hand. But how could he weave back through the room without drawing attention?
Just then, Nick’s mother held her husband’s arm. She whispered inches from his ear and connected with his eyes. A long beat passed between them before his face softened, and he talked to his son. Then Nick faced Shan, and he nodded.
They’d agreed. Ah, thank goodness, they’d agreed.
For the moment, Shan had a family.
He nearly burst into a grin but pressed it down. It was no place to celebrate and far too early. He slid over to wait by Nick, who spoke under his breath. “Just keep your head down, and don’t talk unless you got to.”
By no means were those a challenge for Shan.
“You’re my brother, all right? And you were born in Jersey, same as me and Lina.”
Nick’s brother, Jersey . . . Lina? Of course. His sister. Shan nodded, absorbing it all.
“Oh, and listen. If they ask—”
“Next!” The closest officer flicked a hand, an order to approach.
The people in front of them had been processed much too fast. Shan stayed at the rear of the family, beside Nick, as they gathered their belongings. At the desk, they set down a suitcase and a black steamer trunk. Shan did the same with his satchels, freeing his hands to tilt his hat lower.
“Italiano, signore?” the official asked.
“Si, si.” The father nodded. “Buongiorno.”
The officer went straight to business, no warmth in his words. It was clear Italian wasn’t his native tongue. Nick’s father produced documents from his coat. He flashed an envelope of cash, which he then put away. Proof they had enough funds, apparently, to be respectable members of society.
“I speak English, if that is helpful,” the father offered.
“Oh. Yes, good.”
The two continued in English, back and forth, with basic questions and answers. Between each, the officer referred to a form, scribbling notes. He was confirming details, Shan realized, based on information the father had provided before departure. Just as Uncle Will had.
The officer paused and surveyed the family, puzzled.
Shan’s body tightened. Bloody hell, he knew where th
is was going.
“I see on the manifest that you traveled with only two children.”
“No, no. Three,” the father insisted. “There are three.”
“But I have two written here, clear in black and white. Why didn’t you formally declare all three children at your point of embarkation?”
“Maybe, eh . . . maybe the man who writes this down did not hear correct.” Nick’s father sounded perplexed, though Shan detected a current of nerves.
“Sir, your son could not have boarded without being accounted for.”
“Yes, but—mistakes, they happen, si?”
Lina tugged on her mother’s skirt. “Mama, perché—”
Her mother furtively shushed her, a stern message in her eyes.
The idea had seemed simple. Shan had assumed a family with American-born children would enter with ease. It wasn’t meant to cause them trouble. Could they actually be denied entry, thrown back on a boat? Could the consequences be worse, all because of him?
Before it was too late, Shan whispered, “Nick.”
Nick shook his head, gaze locked forward.
Once more the officer flipped through the documents. He looked weary and agitated from issues of this kind. “Now, which of these children are”—he read from the paper—“Niccolò and Angelina?”
“That’s me,” Nick jumped in, “and my sister here. And this is my brother, Tomasso.”
The officer eyed Nick skeptically before switching his focus to Shan. “Tell me, young man. In Italy, did someone check you in upon boarding?”
Shan froze, unsure how to answer. Not just regarding content. Back in Dublin, he’d earned many raves over his Yankee accent, but all by the Irish. Standing before an American now, one with raised suspicions, Shan suddenly doubted his ability to mimic.
“Son, do you speak English?”
Shan hesitated before nodding, aware more difficult questions would follow.
“Allora.” The mother’s interruption turned the officer. She clapped her hands once and clucked her tongue at a thought. “Un momento, per favore. I show you, okay?” She gestured to the steamer trunk.
The Edge of Lost Page 5
