by Darcie Chan
The darkness had fully overcome her again, and she could think of only one way to escape it.
—
“Ron, Jean, this was such a lovely dinner. Thank you so much for inviting me,” Father O’Brien said as he paused at the Wykowskis’ front door on his way out. “You, too, Karen. It was a joint effort, from what Jean told me.”
“You’re welcome any time, Father,” Jean said. She handed him a large plastic food container. “It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without leftovers. There’s a little bit of everything in here, enough to hold you for a few days.”
“More than a few days,” he said as he accepted the container and felt its weight. “I appreciate it very much.” Secretly, he had a satisfying sense of accomplishment in that every one of the spoons he’d touched or used during the dinner was still safely in Jean’s possession.
He stepped outside and headed toward his truck. Karen and her son came with him, on the way to their house next door. When he looked down and caught her eye, Karen managed a smile, one of only a few he’d seen from her the entire evening.
“You look like you could use some rest,” he told her.
“Cooking that much is hard work,” she replied wearily.
“Maybe it’s the tryptophan in the turkey,” Ben chimed in. “They say it’s supposed to knock you out if you eat a lot of it.”
“Probably a little of both,” Karen said. “Ben, could you take these things in and stick them in the fridge? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Sure, Mom.” Ben extended a lanky arm. She handed him the two food containers that she was holding and watched him lope off toward their front door.
“He’s such a good kid,” Karen muttered.
“I was just thinking that very thing,” Father O’Brien said. “He still does well in school?”
“Very well. He’s never not made the honor roll. Even with Nick missing, he’s kept his grades up. Said he knows that’s what his father would expect of him, and he’s right.”
“He’s strong, like his mother.”
“He is, but I’m not, Father. I’m just existing, that’s all. Existing and trying to keep hoping for the best.” Karen’s eyes teared up as she spoke, as if her feelings and extreme fatigue had finally caught up with her.
“That’s all we can do,” Father O’Brien said. “Will I see you at Mass this Sunday?”
Karen hesitated before answering, and something about the way her eyes looked when she spoke bothered him. “I plan on coming. Unless something unexpected happens, I’ll be there.”
“All right. You’ll call me if you need anything, yes?” She nodded, and he got into his truck for the short drive back to the parish house.
At home, he put his leftovers in the fridge and lowered himself into his favorite recliner. His mind was focused on Karen and her son and how bravely they’d handled the emotional hardship of the holiday. He was increasingly worried about Karen, who had endured a lifetime of stress and sadness in the past few months. And even though Ben seemed the picture of youthful resilience, Father O’Brien knew that Karen’s son was as worried and as frightened as his mother over what had happened to his father.
Michael could empathize with Ben. He’d been in much the same position, with his own father far away and his family facing numerous hardships, on the last Thanksgiving he’d spent at his grandmother’s farm. It had been his last Thanksgiving at home before everything changed.
Chapter 28
Fall 1934
By mid-September, Michael’s routine had changed yet again. He now rose early to help with farm chores before heading to school. After school let out at three o’clock, he gathered his books and went straight to the loan office, where he worked until closing time. Then he walked home, did more chores, ate supper, did his homework, and collapsed into bed until the whole cycle started over in the morning. It was a grueling schedule, but he was determined to do his part, especially when he saw his mother standing before the stove holding the small of her back, her feet unusually swollen.
It seemed they were all waiting—for word from his father about his brother’s trial, for the happy day when he would be able to send them money again, for the new baby to be born, for the family to be reunited. On the evening of the day Seamus’s trial was supposed to start, Michael arrived home to find his mother sitting at the kitchen table, weeping.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, dropping his book bag by the door. “Did you hear from Father?” He noticed a telegram on the table and experienced a sinking feeling. He had never heard of a telegram delivering good news.
“Yes,” his mother said. “Just before they all went into the courtroom this morning, the prosecutor offered your brother a new plea deal. He said he’d drop the charge of attempted murder if Seamus would plead guilty to second-degree assault. It’s still a felony, but a lesser one, and the prosecutor said he’d ask for only one year in prison, since your brother had no other convictions.”
Michael was quiet, processing all the information. “So Seamus took the deal? He’s going to prison?”
“He took it. The lawyer said he’d better, since the government’s case for assault was a lot stronger, and he was liable to get more time if he went to trial on the amended charges and was found guilty. It’s a terrible thing, but it could be worse. A year isn’t so long. It’ll free up your father from paying legal expenses so he can start helping us again. He said in the telegram that he should be able to send us something as soon as he makes the final payment to the lawyer. And it means he’ll be home for the baby’s birth, and for Christmas.”
“He’s coming home? It’s for certain?” Michael asked. His father’s four-day visit in June was a blur, and the firm assurance that he’d be home in December had been gradually growing softer in Michael’s mind.
“Yes,” his mother said. She began crying harder, shaking her head as she tried to speak. “I’ve never felt so sad and so happy at the same time. All my feelings are scattered and swirling because of the baby, but I’m thankful he only got a year and that the whole thing is almost over. And to know that Niall will be here with us again. Oh!”
“Shhh, take a deep breath, now, that’s it.” Michael wrapped her up in a hug. “Everything’s going to work out. We’ll keep doing what we’re doing, and we’ll be fine here until the baby comes.”
“I know you’re right, Michael. I’ve been crying over nothing these days,” his mother said as she backed away and pulled up her apron to wipe her eyes. “And I shouldn’t be sitting here when there’s supper to be served. You must be starving. Let me get you a plate.”
His father’s telegram renewed Michael’s determination. He rose extra-early the next morning and had a spring in his step throughout the day. Mr. Borisov looked at him strangely a couple of times that afternoon. Even the long walk home in the evening didn’t seem as long as usual.
The months leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday passed quickly. The money from Michael’s part-time hours was just enough to cover their necessities until his father could send twenty dollars in late October. Ten dollars followed a few weeks later in a letter dated November 8. The week of Thanksgiving, despite her awkward size and increased fatigue, his mother gleefully planned out an ambitious menu.
“Are you sure you’re up to all that, Mother?” Michael asked, although his belly rumbled at the thought of roast goose and pumpkin pie.
“I’ll manage. We haven’t had much to celebrate in a long time, and now that things are looking up, we’re going to do it properly, even if it’s just the two of us and Frank.”
The Wednesday before the holiday, Michael expected the loan office to close a bit earlier than usual, but Mr. Borisov insisted on staying open an extra half hour after closing time.
“Busy today, Michael O’Brien. Very busy,” Mr. Borisov said, and before he had finished speaking, three more people entered the shop.
The only downside to the part-time schedule, working the last two hours the loan office was open,
was the fact that it was when most of the desperate customers appeared to speak with Mr. Borisov. Perhaps it was because they thought it would be the slowest time of the day, when folks were on their way home and the atmosphere in the loan office might be most conducive to privacy. Unless Mr. Borisov had something specific for him to do at the front of the store, Michael stayed toward the back, away from the counter and the heartbreaking stories of hardship told there.
At ten minutes after five, the loan office had cleared out, and Michael wondered whether Mr. Borisov would change his mind and call it a day. He busied himself by tidying up the back shelves and checking the tickets for the items in the storage cubicles to make sure all was in order. When he heard the front door open, he didn’t think much of it, other than to realize that the store would remain open late as planned.
The voice of the woman who had entered, though, immediately drew his complete and undivided attention. “Mr. Borisov,” the woman was saying, “I brought something in the hope that you might see fit to loan us a small amount. Just enough to buy some groceries for dinner tomorrow. I’ve got my grandmother’s Sunday brooch. It’s got real jewels, a few diamonds and some rubies, I think.” The woman paused as she reached into her pocketbook and withdrew something small wrapped in cloth, which she handed to him. “It’s the only valuable thing we have, but I’d rather part with it than see my children go hungry on Thanksgiving.”
Michael didn’t see the piece of jewelry that Mr. Borisov unwrapped, nor could he have, from where he was standing. But he wasn’t looking at the brooch. He stared instead at the woman who stood at the counter wringing her hands.
It was Clara Whibley, his next-door neighbor.
Mr. Borisov took his time looking at the brooch. He peered at it through a loupe, carefully inspecting the gemstones. Mrs. Whibley looked around the shop as she waited. She glanced at Michael and made brief eye contact before he could lower his face and turn his back to her.
“I think I can help you,” Mr. Borisov said. “You’re looking for a loan, yes? Not sale?”
“Y-yes,” Mrs. Whibley said, turning her focus back to the shop owner. Michael’s hands began to tremble as he continued to work, so much so that he took refuge in the water closet. When he emerged, Mrs. Whibley was gone, and Mr. Borisov was putting on his overcoat.
“You haf happy Thanksgiving, Michael O’Brien,” he said as Michael came to the front of the store. “And here, for you.” He held out two one-dollar silver certificates. “Pay for week and little extra for holiday.”
“Thank you, sir,” Michael said. “I appreciate it very much. A happy Thanksgiving to you as well.”
Michael put on his coat, and they stepped outside together. “See you Monday,” Mr. Borisov said as he drew the bars across the front door and locked up the office.
She probably didn’t recognize me, Michael thought as he started his long walk back to the farm. It’s pretty dim inside the loan office, and I was all the way at the back. Besides, I can’t remember the last time I was in the same room with her. By the time he reached home, he had talked himself into believing that the secret of his employment was safe.
The next morning, he heard his mother working in the kitchen before he got out of bed. He entered the room in time to see his mother try to put a roasting pan containing a large goose into the oven.
“Wait, Mother, let me,” Michael said. He grabbed the roaster from her and maneuvered it into the oven. “It’s too heavy for you. You should have called me to help.”
“I didn’t want to wake you. You need the extra rest. But that was quite a goose you got. I think it’s the biggest one I’ve ever cooked. It’ll be nice and tender, and I’ll make lots of gravy.”
“You make the best gravy. Grandma always loved it, and your mashed potatoes, too.”
“I remember,” his mother said from her place by the stove. “I know we’ll both be missing her today.”
Michael nodded. “And Father and Seamus.”
She brought him a plate of eggs and toast and then sat next to him to peel potatoes. He ate at a leisurely pace, thoroughly enjoying the fact that he didn’t have to rush off to catch the school bus. His uncle Frank showed up before he was halfway done.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” his uncle said. “I brought a little something. It’s not much, but since today’s special…” Frank held a flat yellow box out to Anna, and Michael recognized it as a Whitman’s Sampler.
“Frank, you shouldn’t have,” his mother said, but she looked delighted all the same. “I can’t remember the last time we had something so decadent.”
Michael’s mouth watered at the thought of the bite-sized chocolate candies inside the box, but he didn’t dare ask for one.
“Why don’t we each pick one now and save the rest for after dinner?” his uncle said. He winked when Michael looked at him.
“My goodness, I’ve never heard of eating chocolate so early. We’ve all barely finished breakfast. There’s some coffee left, Frank, if you’re interested.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “I think it would go better with something sweet.” He held up the box of candy and looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“All right, all right, you win,” his mother said. “It figures you’d feel that way, seeing as how you were the one who taught me to snitch sugar when we were kids.”
After Frank lifted the lid of the box, his mother chose a small round candy. When the box was presented to him, Michael selected a small, lumpy mass of chocolate. He was guessing there were peanuts inside.
Frank’s surprise helped them enjoy the day despite the three empty chairs at the table. They lingered in the kitchen, talking and laughing, as he and his uncle tried their best to help his mother or stay out of her way, whichever she needed. In midafternoon, they sat down to one of the most delicious meals Michael had ever had. He steadily ate his way through pieces of succulent goose, a pile of mashed potatoes with gravy, giblet dressing, and several other dishes. When his stomach was filled to capacity, he and Frank cleared the table while his mother went to sit on the sofa with her swollen feet elevated.
The only blemishes on the holiday were the absence of his grandmother, father, and brother, and the memories of countless people, especially Mrs. Whibley, begging Mr. Borisov to help them scrape by. Michael realized again just how much he had and how thankful he was to have it.
There was no school on the Friday after Thanksgiving, and the loan office was also closed, so Michael took the opportunity to finish his homework for the week. It was clear and bright outside and unseasonably warm, so he also spent some time outside cutting wood and playing with Tabby in the puddles of sunshine that moved slowly across the floor of the barn. He fed and watered Onion and the chickens before he walked back to the house. There were lots of Thanksgiving leftovers in the icebox, he knew. He didn’t think he could ever get tired of them.
When he came inside, his mother was sitting on the sofa, but she wasn’t alone. He had neither seen nor heard Clara Whibley arrive at the house, but there she was, wearing an expression as unhappy as his mother’s.
“Michael, sit down, please,” his mother said. She spoke in a strange, soft monotone, and the stare she leveled at him as he obeyed could have melted iron. “Mrs. Whibley came by to return some empty milk bottles, and she mentioned that she saw you in the city the day before yesterday…in the loan office.”
Michael glanced at each of the women in turn but remained silent.
“I told her there must be some mistake, that you work at Radcliff’s and have since the beginning of the summer. But she insisted it was you there, working alongside Mr. Borisov. Would you care to explain why she might be so sure of that?”
He swallowed, thinking frantically of what he could say and how he should say it. His mother’s expression made it clear that he had very little time to think.
“That day I went into Burlington to look for a job, I did inquire at Radcliff’s. Forelli’s, too, and the grocery, and every other place all
up and down Church Street and the whole downtown area. Nobody had any jobs open. The loan office was the last place I stopped, more out of curiosity than anything else. And I talked to Mr. Borisov, and he told me he’d give me a try as a clerk.”
His mother made a little choking sound and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Please, Mother, I know you don’t approve of the loan office, and I almost didn’t take the job because I knew how you’d feel, but I had to find work somewhere, something that would pay enough to settle up our bills and keep us going until Father could help again. I even told Father about it, when he was here back in June, and he agreed I should keep the job and not tell you where I was working. Please, please, don’t be angry, Mother. I know I shouldn’t have lied about it, but I didn’t know what else to do. I felt I didn’t have any other choice. I promised Father. I promised him.”
“Your father knew? He allowed—”
His mother’s response was interrupted by her sharp intake of breath, followed by a loud cry. She clutched at her belly and grimaced as Mrs. Whibley leaned over and touched her arm. “Anna, are you all right? What is it?”
“The baby,” his mother gasped. “It hurts, but not like it should. It hurts so much.”
Chapter 29
On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Emily was working in the marble mansion by herself. Gus was lounging on his dog bed, as usual, but Matt was up in Maine visiting his family for the long holiday weekend.
