“I should be hearing from the Navy office any day, now that they’ve got the photograph to help.”
Mrs. Capello smiled, but not without effort.
“Say, Ma,” Nick chimed in. “Anything for dessert?”
“Certo,” she said with an air of relief. Rising again, she directed Lina to gather the plates.
Soon every person had a piece of cake. To Shan’s dismay, it was soaked with bitter coffee. He worked through it in nibbles, his efforts as strained as Mrs. Capello’s attempts at light chatter.
She spoke about her shock that, in the brief years they’d been gone, the price of steak had shot up to forty-four cents a pound. And about news of a niece in Genoa expecting twin girls. She also discussed her preparation list for the religious feasts in the coming months. From there, in an almost-casual segue, she went on to inform her husband that Shan was well aware of the saints the community would celebrate—as if a Catholic upbringing alone made him welcome beneath their roof.
Unfortunately, her need to make that clear only confirmed the opposite.
11
Later that night, as Shan readied for sleep, the issue of his presence clung like threads of a spiderweb needing to be brushed away. At the wardrobe closet, he buttoned flannel pajamas borrowed from Nick, who preferred sleeping in an undershirt and drawers.
“Shut the door, will ya?” Nick was the first to slide into bed, parked near the window. His nightstand lamp produced an amber glow.
As soon as Shan fulfilled the request, Nick pulled a magazine from beneath his mattress and propped his head with a folded pillow. The cover advertised articles on the fishing trade, disguising its contents of nude bosomy figures drawn in suggestive poses. Admiring one of them, he let out a low whistle. “Boy, I’d love to see a real gal bend like that.”
Shan could visualize the legs-over-her-head pretzel position without looking; he’d secretly perused the magazine when no one else was around. “I think she’d have to be made of rubber.”
“I could live with that.” Nick grinned and proceeded to leaf through the pages.
Shan settled into the blankets on his mattress, which lay on the floor next to the small oak desk. Mrs. Capello had again apologized today for not yet scrounging up a bed frame. He’d insisted he was fully comfortable—the honest truth after two years on a lumpy mattress with metal springs against his spine. Plus, why bother when he planned to leave before long?
The sooner, perhaps, the better.
“Nick, I’ve been thinking . . .”
Nick mumbled in reply, only half listening.
Although Shan would have no place to live until connecting with his father, he had to at least offer the family a way out. A courtesy he’d been avoiding.
“Nick,” he tried again. Gathering his courage, he pushed out the rest: “Maybe it’s time I go.”
Nick turned with a crinkled brow. “Go where?” After a pause, he appeared to comprehend.
“You’ve truly been grand, letting me tag along. But I’m sure you all must be wanting to get on with your lives.”
Nick took this in and rested his magazine on his chest. “Look, don’t worry about Pop. He’s just been like that. Even before . . .” The sentence trailed off, but Shan recognized the reference to Tomasso. A boy no one had spoken of since Ellis Island. Shan had respectfully done the same. It wasn’t as if he himself blathered about loved ones he’d lost. But now that the conversation had led to the subject, it seemed appropriate to ask.
“Was it an illness he had—your brother?”
Nick shrugged lightly, despite his sudden graveness. “It was his heart. Kept him from running around like other kids. He had to stay inside most the time.”
“I see.” While Shan wasn’t one to pry, his want to understand the family pressed him on. “Did he . . . pass away in Italy? After you went to see your grandda?”
Nick issued a nod, supporting his mother’s claim about all three children traveling to Siena. “We stayed for a few years afterward. Then, like I said, my grandfather got better and it was time to leave. To start fresh.”
Shan could relate. As could most immigrants, he supposed, who’d dared make the crossing. But he sensed there was more to the story than Nick was sharing, unspoken words still hanging like threads.
“Well,” Nick said. “Better get some rest.”
Shan considered saying more, but thought better of it. The message was clear that Nick was done. He affirmed this by returning his magazine to hiding and turning off the lamp with a tug of its chain.
For several minutes, they lay there in silence. From a small gap in the curtains, a slant of moonlight sliced the room. Shan rolled away from the window. He closed his eyes, nestling in. The grayness of sleep was just taking hold when Nick’s voice snagged him back.
“So, whaddya think you’ll do?”
Shan strained to follow the question through his grogginess. “About?”
“If it turns out you don’t find him—you know, the sailor.”
Although Nick had used the word “if,” somehow it felt like “when.”
Shan’s vision sharpened, gaining focus on the wall beyond the desk. Sure, the search could fail. He’d be demented not to know that. But he refused to give up.
“Really, I ain’t trying to borrow trouble,” Nick went on. “But it’s been a long time since he was with your mom, right? For all you know, the fella could have his own family by now.”
The suggestion delivered a sting that brought Shan to full consciousness. True, he should have considered it before: how the shocking appearance of a bastard son could disrupt a happy family. But to him the letter was new, the man’s loving words seeming fresh on the page.
A rustling indicated Nick had shifted on his pillow. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just concerned, is all.”
Part of Shan wanted to snipe back, spurred by a feeling of betrayal. But Nick’s genuine tone managed to soften the offense.
“I guess what I’m saying is, aside from standing on the corner, shouting the guy’s name like some newsie, seems to me you’ve tried about everything you can.”
Shan wished he could argue the point. Indeed, he was running out of options. But the same could be said of his welcome.
He simply chose not to answer.
Soon Nick drifted off, leaving Shan wide-awake. He combed his mind for ideas, grasping for hope, worn thin over the years.
Outside, the moon rose and the borough went still. And suddenly Nick’s comment circled back, about a newsie hollering a name. It floated through Shan’s mind until merging with a detail the secretary had shared. Together, they formed an idea.
There would be risks involved, from trespassing and deception, and costs of a sizable sum. Yet none of that would matter if the plan managed to work.
12
Already it was Sunday.
Shan had scouted the place earlier in the week. The legal firm would move in soon, according to the naval secretary. From furtive glances through windows, Shan had confirmed the renovations were almost done. He would have preferred more than five days for his ad in the papers to spread word, but there wasn’t time.
“This is downright stupid,” Nick said, crouching outside of the firm’s back door, small metal picks in hand.
The gripe was loud enough to reach Shan at the corner of the building, a lookout spot several yards away. He wanted to tell Nick to shut his gob, growing tired of the complaint that raised unneeded doubts, but he restrained himself. Nick was, after all, helping him break the law.
A city clock chimed, marking half past ten.
People were strolling here and there beneath the canopy of gray clouds. Though all appeared engrossed in their own lives, Shan’s skin hummed with jitters.
He whispered to Nick, “Could you hurry it up?”
“Think you can do better, feel free.” Nick shook his head and continued his efforts at the door.
When Shan had asked about anyone who could jimmy a lock, Nick named
himself before learning the reason behind the question. Hopefully he hadn’t overstated his ability. In less than thirty minutes, any John Lewis who had read or heard of the ad would surely be arriving. Not that there would be more than a few. The classified listing in various New York papers, costing Shan most of his savings, had been very specific.
DECLARATION OF INHERITANCE: Seeking a member or veteran of the U.S. Navy based in England in 1906, a musician known as John Lewis, for the receipt of a great valuable bequeathed by an acquaintance now deceased. Claim upon verification of identity at law office.
Shan had crafted the words with care. He’d included the office address with the time and date. Sunday had guaranteed the absence of construction workers and employees at surrounding offices, allowing Shan a better chance of slipping in unseen. If he ever got past the lock.
“How about that?” With a laugh, Nick rose and pushed open the door. “Thing was unlocked the whole time.”
The laborers must have forgotten, or figured there wasn’t a need for caution. Either way, Shan was grateful.
Nick gestured to the doorway. “Your show.”
It was only right for Shan to go first, as the mission belonged to him, but a curse of conscience gave him pause. He had been raised to adhere to rules. To mind his parents, priests, nuns, teachers, doctors, elders, and more.
“Second thoughts?” Nick said, clearly hopeful.
Shan took it as a challenge. He strode inside, and Nick trailed him with a sigh.
They wound their way through an L-shaped hall, sprinkled with sawdust, tools, and ladders. The air smelled of fresh wood and paint. Plenty of daylight shone through the lobby windows. There were no proper desks, cabinets, or couches to be found, but the worktable and chairs would do.
Shan immediately went to work, spouting out directions. Nick helped carry and move as needed, though not without muttering. When the stage was set, Shan used his coat sleeves to dust the tabletop and wipe down the chairs. From a coat pocket he unfolded a paper sign and propped it on the table.
ATTENTION: JOHN LEWIS
BE BACK SHORTLY!
PLEASE WAIT HERE.
At last Shan unlocked the entrance and retreated to an office with the most strategic view, located just off the hallway. Inside, Nick was seated against the wall on the tile floor. He was flinging cards one at a time, from the deck he always toted, using an upturned hard hat as the target.
Shan kept the door open a crack. Too nervous to sit, he peeked out at least once every minute. It had to be ten o’clock by now. “Please, someone come,” he said under his breath.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nick said. “They’re coming, all right. Suddenly, every bum without two nickels to rub together will be named John Lewis.”
Shan wasn’t a dimwit. He understood the possibility. But he was also aware that this particular office, known for housing experts of the law, would help as a deterrent.
“It’ll work,” Shan contended. “You’ll see.”
“If you say so.” Another flick of a card.
Shan clenched his jaw, resentment growing. Yes, this whole plan was a gamble, but considering Shan’s life so far, by all counts he was due for a blessing.
Finally a noise sounded from the entry. Shan raised a hand to halt Nick’s movements, but Nick had already gone still. Peering through the door’s gap, Shan spied a man in a suit. A brown bowler hid his face as he gazed down, reading the sign Shan had posted. An eternity passed until he raised his head and Shan could see it wasn’t his father.
The man had a beak-like nose and terribly pale skin. He sniffed, raising his upper lip above a line of crooked teeth, yellowed from cigarettes.
Shan had barely registered his disappointment when another figure entered. He had a promising build, dressed in a pea coat. The common coat of a sailor. And he wore a tweed cap, like Shan’s.
Shan strained to see his face, but the first man blocked the view. Then the new arrival stepped toward the sign, revealing his features—none of them familiar. Grizzled and worn, he had the look of a dockworker. He removed his cap and swiped a hand over his balding head.
Nick whispered, “Well?”
Shan shook his head. Again, he homed in on the front door, envisioning the sailor from the photograph walking through.
Ten minutes must have passed before a third fellow shuffled in. Right away, Shan’s hopes dropped another notch. Even past the walrus moustache, the man bore no resemblance to Shan.
The dockworker leaned against a wall, folding his burly arms. The other two sat in chairs, the first with legs primly crossed and tapping an impatient tune on his bowler.
Over the next half hour, maybe more, no one else arrived. Nick played several rounds of solitaire. Now and then, the group traded questions regarding the ad, and eventually about one another. A challenge of who was there under false pretenses colored their tones, though the accusations went unsaid.
At one point, the dockworker surveyed the hallway in a suspicious manner, and Shan jerked his head back from the door. He held his breath.
There was a window in the office, but no way of exiting without being detected. What would happen if the men decided to snoop?
Then Shan heard voices.
With caution, he returned to the door. The three were discussing their surroundings, agreeing that something was fishy. Before long, to Shan’s relief, they donned their hats, buttoned their coats, and went their separate ways.
But the relief was short-lived. Because left behind was a cavernous space that echoed with a harsh reality.
No one else was coming.
They rode the trolley in silence, the aisle separating their seats. Shan stared out the window, unseeing. He didn’t dare meet Nick’s eyes, dreading a gleam of smugness. It was enough to sense its presence, and that certainty stoked the frustration and anger simmering deep in Shan’s chest.
They were nearly at their stop when Nick spoke. “Hey, about today . . . I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
After days of mocking and muttering, was Shan really supposed to believe him?
“I doubt that,” he replied under his breath.
After a moment, Nick said, “Look, I just thought—”
Shan turned to him. “I know what you bloody thought. I’m stupid. You said it a hundred times.”
“Now, hold on. I wasn’t saying you were—it was the idea . . .”
The trolley was slowing. Shan didn’t wait. He rose and hopped off while it was still in motion. After a block of walking, he heard Nick’s steps in his wake but continued his determined strides. He refused to listen to one more word about the futility of his search, how any effort was doomed from the start. How he should have known better.
Shan entered the house and tugged off his coat. He flung it onto a chair in the sitting room, where Lina lay on the floor, propped on her elbows. Her black braids dangled as she looked up from her journal. “Mama said she needs more flour from the market.”
Leaving the duty to Nick, Shan sped up to their bedroom and shut the door. He fisted his hands, wanting to strike something down. To make someone feel as low and beaten as he did himself.
He sat on the desk chair in an effort to rein in his temper, and took several deep breaths. What he inhaled were smells of garlic and stewing tomatoes, a stark reminder that this wasn’t his home. Not his family. Not even his room. He was an outsider, borrowing a life, just as he’d borrowed that office.
The door swung open. Nick hitched his hands low on his hips. “Now, listen,” he said with forced patience, as if Shan might otherwise not understand. “I was just worried you were gonna get conned. That’s all I meant.”
“Ah, so you were worried for me.” Shan laughed spitefully, surprising even himself. “Because I thought it was about your need to be right and for everyone else to be wrong.”
Nick’s mouth became a hard line. When he replied, he barely moved his lips. “You know what? I’m gonna do you a favor and walk away.” He started to turn, but Sha
n couldn’t hold back.
He shot to his feet. “Don’t do me any damn favors.”
Now Nick was the one who laughed with spite. “I see. So you don’t need my help. That’s what you’re saying? ’Cause it sure as hell didn’t seem like that when you got off the boat. You remember—back when nobody else was there to save your ass.” Nick gasped, tight with sarcasm. “Oh, wait. That’s right. You got a father you’re supposed to meet up with. The hero who made it through the war and isn’t some lousy bum on the street.”
The words struck straight at Shan’s gut. It felt like Uncle Will taking swings all over again, only worse. At least with his uncle, he was prepared for what was coming.
“Niccolò?” Mrs. Capello’s voice floated up the stairs. “Sbrigati. I need flour for the supper. Niccolò?”
Hesitant, Nick turned toward the hall. “I’m coming, Ma.” He slowly angled back to Shan, regrouping, and raised his hands in a truce. His fingers held a slight tremble. “It’s been a long day. Let’s just . . . take a break. All right?”
When Shan didn’t respond, Nick went to speak again but stopped. He shook his head before heading downstairs, leaving Shan all alone. The way he wanted to be. The way, in truth, he always was.
Suddenly the ceiling seemed lower and the walls closer. They cinched around him. He pressed his fists to his temples, desperate for escape, tired of feeling unwelcome.
Why delay the inevitable?
He crossed the room and pulled open the wardrobe closet on a hunt for his satchels.
Nick was right about one thing. It was time for a break.
13
By his fourth day on the streets, the money had run out.
Shan recalled the war veterans back in Ireland. How he’d seen them on the streets or in pubs, looking lost, without purpose, harboring the worst of their wounds far beneath the surface. How they would hunch their shoulders as if hauling a sack they couldn’t put down.
The Edge of Lost Page 7
