by Darcie Chan
“What was it that you wanted to tell me, Anna?” he asked, turning toward her.
“Show you,” she corrected him. Slowly, facing him, she moved her hands down over her slightly protruding belly, pressing the material of her dress against it to accentuate its changed shape.
His father gasped. “You’re…?”
She nodded. “More than three months along.”
“And you weren’t…you didn’t take ill?”
“I did, worse than before, but there are new treatments. I had to stay in the hospital for a little while, but this time I got better.”
No one said anything. The silence in the room was broken only by his father’s increasingly labored breathing.
“The hospital.” His father shook his head, and his voice was pained. “I wouldn’t have wanted you in the hospital alone. You should have sent word to me. I would have come.”
“I know you would have,” Anna said. She stepped forward and took one of his hands. “Please don’t be upset with me. I know you would have come, but you might’ve lost your job, and I wasn’t alone. I had Michael here with me, and Lizzie.” Her voice broke as she spoke his grandmother’s name. “She nursed me through the worst of the sickness. I…we…owe her so much. It’s a wonder that her time didn’t come until after I was through the worst of it.”
“Not a wonder. It was Providence,” his father said quietly. He took a step forward, reaching out with his hands to lay them tentatively on her belly. Before Michael knew it, his father had sunk to his knees. He slid his arms around his wife, drawing her closer until his cheek rested against the slight rounding of her middle.
“Oh, Niall,” his mother said. She touched his hair, holding his head as tears ran down both of their faces.
Michael, too, found it impossible to maintain his composure, but his parents didn’t seem to notice. As he stood against the back wall in the kitchen, he felt that his presence during their emotional intimacy was an inappropriate intrusion. Quietly, he slipped out the back door to start the evening chores.
On the evening after his grandmother’s funeral, once he and his parents had returned to the farm, Michael was again in the barn when his father came in with a clean milking pail. “Your mother will have supper ready soon.”
“I’ve got the stall cleaned out,” Michael said as he came out of the feed room with a bucket of corn. “Just have the milking left to do.”
“I’ll give you a rest tonight,” his father said as he took up the bucket of soapy water waiting on the old table. “After I go back tomorrow, you’re going to have a heavier load on your shoulders, at least for a while.”
“You are going back, then? I didn’t know if you would after you knew about the baby.”
“I don’t want to leave. But I don’t have a choice. There’s still no job here for me, and your brother still needs my help. I’ll be back when the baby is due, though, job or no job. And I wanted to talk to you privately for a few minutes.”
Michael didn’t know what his father was about to say to him. He waited, remaining silent as he poured the bucket of corn into the feeding trough. Once his father had Onion positioned in the stanchion, he glanced up at Michael.
“Even more than before, I’ll be relying on you, son,” he said as he washed Onion’s udder. “You’ll be the only one here with your mother. She assures me that she’s fine now, and maybe she is. Regardless of what she says—and I know how headstrong she can be—you are to call or send a wire to me without delay if her condition should take a turn for the worse. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. And now that school’s finished for the summer, you should look for a job—any job, no matter how low the pay. Both of us will need to earn as much as we can, however we can.”
Since learning of his grandmother’s death, Michael had scarcely thought about the job he was scheduled to begin on Monday. He had assumed his father would disapprove of it, like his mother, but perhaps, based on what he’d just said, his father would have a different understanding about doing what was necessary to get by.
“I found a job already.”
“Oh?” His father stopped milking and looked up at him, and Michael was encouraged.
“I went into Burlington last Thursday, before everything happened with Grandma. I walked around all day and talked to every business downtown, looking to see if they needed help. Only one of them did, but I got the job. I’m supposed to start working as a clerk on Monday.”
“A clerk? That sounds like a plum job!” His father smiled. “Who offered it to you?”
Michael took a deep breath. “Mr. Borisov, at the loan office.”
The smile melted from his father’s face.
“I didn’t expect Mother—or you—to approve,” Michael said quickly. “But I asked everywhere in the city. There aren’t any other jobs. Besides, you just told me that we need to earn money however we can. Mr. Borisov offered me ten cents an hour. It’s not much, but won’t it help?”
His father turned and resumed milking. “It’s a poor wage, even in times like these,” he finally said with an edge in his voice, “but it’s something, and yes, it’ll help. Still, you best not tell your mother, especially given her condition. Borisov robs good people of every shred of their dignity, and you’ll not continue working for him any longer than is necessary, not after I’m home again. And you’re not to let the job interfere with your schooling once summer’s over, do you understand? I know lots of older kids have left school to work, but your mother and I agree that you’ll not be one of them. We’ll do whatever else it takes to get by.”
“Yes, Father.” So strong was the relief Michael felt at having confided his job secret that he longed to divulge the others as well, especially about the hobo, so he could seek his father’s advice about how to rid himself of the guilt he carried—but he knew he couldn’t. Even stronger than the need to unload the remaining secrets was the craving for his father’s company. When his father was around, he felt that everything would be all right, even if there was a good chance that it wouldn’t be. Michael wanted so much to be able to talk with him at leisure, to hear his opinions, to enjoy having the family engulfed by his steadfast presence. But there were only precious hours before his father returned to New York. He would savor the time, not taint it by unfurling conversations about difficult matters.
“You know, Michael, you’ve done a fine job these past few months. Seems like you’ve grown quite a bit while I’ve been away. I suppose doing a man’s work has made you into a man.”
Michael felt warmth spreading through his chest in response to the praise. “Thank you, Father. I promised you I’d take care of everything while you’re away, and I aim to keep doing that.”
“I know, son. I know you will.”
His father stopped speaking as he focused on finishing the work at hand, so Michael crossed his arms over the walls of a stall and listened to the rhythmic spurts of milk entering the pail. After a while, Onion’s head came up out of the empty trough. Michael thought of his grandmother’s advice and tried to pucker his lips to whistle, but his mouth only trembled and refused to form the proper position. It was just as well. His father had already eased the full milk pail safely away from Onion’s hooves, and the lump in his throat would have distorted any sound he managed to make.
Summer 1934
By the end of July, having worked for nearly two months at Mr. Borisov’s loan office, Michael had learned more about the intricacies of the pawn business than he ever thought possible. His title was clerk, but he was expected to do anything and everything that Borisov didn’t have time to do or didn’t feel like doing. These tasks included maintaining and changing the display in the front window, polishing sterling silver items on display, sweeping the sidewalks every morning and the floor inside the shop every evening, fetching items from storage when their owners showed up to get them out of pawn, and wrapping and storing new items that Borisov took as collateral for a loan or bou
ght outright. Michael also kept a daily tally of items that were originally accepted as collateral for a loan but whose owners had failed to repay once it had come due. Ownership of these items—the former, often cherished possessions of residents in and around Burlington—immediately transferred to Borisov.
Michael had also learned a great deal about human desperation and the resulting hard choices it required. Never did a day pass without someone’s loan coming due. If the owner of a pawned item appeared in the shop on the day the loan expired, the person might pay the amount due and take back the item. More often than not, a more unpleasant exchange took place.
Michael still cringed when he remembered the woman who had come in just before his two-week trial period had ended. Mr. Borisov had been in his usual place behind the counter, and the woman had stepped quietly forward, her hands clasped in front of her around a yellow pawn ticket.
“Mr. Borisov? I’m Martha McFadden. I brought my wedding rings and some other family jewelry to you about six months ago. This is the ticket. I’ve tried to put back enough to repay the loan you gave me, but seeing as how my husband still isn’t working, I was wondering…would you have it in your heart to give us a bit more time?”
Mr. Borisov had taken the pawn ticket and flipped through his ledger until he found the entry. “One ladies’ gold wedding ring. One ladies’ gold pearl ring. One gold pocket watch.” He was silent as he glanced over the notes for the entry. “Loan term, three months. First loan extension, two months. Second loan extension, one month.” He glanced up at the woman with an emotionless, almost nonchalant expression. “Sorry. Can only do two extension. Must pay loan balance today to get rings and watch.”
Michael had been sweeping in the rear part of the store, but even from there, he’d been able to hear the woman’s breathing become ragged as she began to plead.
“Please, Mr. Borisov. My husband doesn’t know I pawned my rings or the watch. The watch is his, you know. He thinks he lost it somewhere in the house. His father gave it to him just before he died. It’s the one thing he has to remember his father by. And the rings, if my husband finds out I don’t have them…Please, I just need a little more time, just another month, to get the money together.”
While the woman had been speaking, Mr. Borisov had stared down at the ledger, refusing to make eye contact with her. “Office policy is two extension, no more. I wish could help more, but I also haf bills to pay. Loan is loan. Times difficult for everyone.”
At that point, the woman had started to sob and dropped to her knees before the counter. Michael had tightened his grip on the broom handle, willing himself not to stare or intervene in support of the woman.
“Please, please, Mr. Borisov, I’m begging you, I can’t lose my things, I just can’t. Please have mercy, Mr. Borisov. I’ll bring you the money soon, I swear it. I’d give it all to you today if I could. Please…”
Michael didn’t know how long the woman had stayed on the floor or how Mr. Borisov had managed to get her to leave the loan office. Michael had gone into the water closet at the back of the shop and stayed there until he heard nothing coming from the front of the store except the ticking of the various clocks displayed on the wall.
When he finally emerged, he took up the broom and resumed his sweeping. Mr. Borisov seemed entirely indifferent to what had just happened. He was still in his seat behind the counter, writing in the ledger. After a moment, he glanced up and held out the yellow pawn ticket left by the woman. “Find these things. Put in display two weeks. If no sell there, we save for gold buyer at end of month.”
“Gold buyer?”
“Gold buyer come from Boston first Monday every month. Take what gold I haf, measure karats, give me eighty percent value in cash. He take silver, too, measure troy ounces. Also pay eighty percent for silver.”
“Why only eighty percent?”
“Gold buyer haf expenses, too, and do all melting to give to government. Gold, silver only real money right now.”
Michael nodded. The government had confiscated all monetary gold the year before and revalued it at thirty-five dollars per ounce. The resulting devaluation of the dollar had destroyed people’s savings. It was no wonder that most people saw gold and silver as the only sure sources of value.
“So, the lady who was just in here, wanting more time on her loan…” Michael hesitated. He didn’t want to ask the question in a way that would anger Mr. Borisov. “Do you ever give in when someone begs like that? I mean, she has a family to take care of. You can’t expect her to repay a loan and let her kids go hungry.”
Mr. Borisov shrugged. “I feel bad, but I haf business to run. My business help people. Give cash to people when banks say no. If I give extra extension to one person, I get hundred more, all wanting same thing, and my business lose. No more money come in. Kids go hungry every day, Michael O’Brien. Is sad but true. I haf four children at my home, and good wife, too. If I haf to choose which children hungry and which eat, my own children eat every time.”
Michael had not considered that Mr. Borisov might have a family of his own. No one in town seemed to know much about him or interact with him, other than to take care of whatever unpleasant business they might have with him. It was true that there were a great many items for sale in the loan office—collateral of loans never repaid—but as the weeks passed, Michael rarely saw anyone come in to shop. Money was so scarce that folks were making do with what they had or simply going without.
Fridays were Michael’s favorite day. Mr. Borisov paid him four dollars in cash each Friday before he walked home. It was a joyous feeling, leaving the loan office with money in his pocket and a whole two days with nothing to do but work on the farm and spend time with his mother. Even mucking out Onion’s stall was enjoyable, compared with seeing and hearing the hardship faced by Mr. Borisov’s customers. And Michael was proud to give his wages to his mother, whose condition was now obvious and whose health continued to remain stable.
“I’m so proud of you, Michael,” she’d told him one Friday in early August. “With this week’s wages, you’ve earned more than thirty-five dollars since you started. You’ve kept food on our table, paid our bills…By the end of August, we’ll have the hospital bill completely evened up and maybe some left over to put back for when the baby comes.”
Michael smiled as she embraced him. It was the first time he had heard his mother speak about the baby being born with utter certainty. Until this moment, he hadn’t dared mention it for fear that this time would ultimately be no different than the others.
“Here, give me your hand,” his mother said, and he extended it to her. She pulled it closer and pressed it, palm down, against her belly. “Keep it right there for just a minute,” she whispered.
He stood and she sat still, waiting, when there was suddenly a surprisingly strong shove against his hand.
“Whoa, I felt it! That was strong!”
“I know. That was a kick. It always happens after I eat something.”
Michael looked down at the table in front of her, where a plate held a half-eaten slice of bread. He couldn’t help but smile again. “I’ll bet he’s going to be a strong baby,” he said.
“Or she. Although, this one reminds me of when I was carrying you. I thought you’d kick me to death before you were born,” his mother said. “And you were lots bigger than Seamus when you came out, although you’ve got some catching up to do now. I worry about your working so much. It might keep you from filling out as you should.”
“I’m tall and thin like Father, that’s all,” Michael said. “But speaking of work, I’ve been meaning to ask you about something. I think I should speak to my boss, maybe ask him if I could stay on at part-time in the fall, at least until Father gets home.”
“We’ll see. Part-time might work if it doesn’t affect your grades, and an education is the only way you’ll do better for yourself than your father and I did. But selling shoes isn’t too tiring, and the shops aren’t open late.”
“Radcliff’s?” she’d said. “I don’t care much for that store. Their prices are too high. Forelli’s is better, with a better selection. But I suppose it’s work, all the same.” After that, his supposed place of employment wasn’t a topic that came up often, though when it did, he tried to end the conversation as quickly as possible.
“I’m going to go cut some wood while it’s still light,” he said.
“I’ll call you when supper’s ready,” his mother said. “Before you get started, I wonder if you might bring me a few ripe tomatoes from the garden? It seems like I can’t get enough of them these days.” She rested her hand on the top of her belly, which protruded out far enough to form a little shelf.
“Yes, Mother.”
He went into their vast garden, past the neat rows of carrots and chard and the hills of squash. The tomato patch loomed, its plants tied to stakes and yet still overgrown. A tangy scent hung in the air above vines heavy with tomatoes in various stages of ripening. Michael found three large globes, all a deep shade of red-orange. They were so perfectly ripe that they practically fell into his hand; he was careful to grasp them gently as he started back through the garden to the house. It was such a small, simple gesture, the picking of a few ripe fruits for his mother to eat, but it made him happy that she had asked and that he was able to do it for her.
If only everything could be so easy and honest.
Chapter 27
At noon on Thanksgiving Day, Claudia had already been in the kitchen for hours. A huge turkey was roasting in the oven. She had a tray of traditional stuffing and a healthier version made with quinoa ready to slide onto the top rack above the roaster. A pumpkin pie and a low-fat, sugar-free pumpkin custard, which she’d baked upon rising, were cooled on the countertop. A pot of green beans was sitting on the stove, ready to be cooked, and a large relish tray was in the refrigerator.
