You remember his name, don’t you, Beth?” Cautiously Callie stepped closer and closer as she spoke, hoping she could divert Beth’s attention. “Mr. Byrch Kenyon. You said it was such a fine name, remember, Beth?”
As though Callie had never uttered a word, Beth lifted her head. Her voice was a harsh whisper; the madness in her eyes shone. “Tell Patrick I’m so sorry. Tell him the only thing I can give him now is his dream.”
Even as Callie watched, Beth stepped backwards, tumbling off the jetty, hardly making a splash in the cold black water, into the greedy current. Callie heard Patrick’s shout of denial from somewhere behind her. She heard his feet thundering along the pier, heard him cry his wife’s name. And that was all she knew until she found herself shivering in the arms of a stranger. At the end of the jetty there was a crowd of people, like buyers at a market stall. That was her first thought.
She looked down at the black and oily waters of the bay. This was a day she would never forget, didn’t want to forget. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Callie walked away from the crowd, away from Patrick, away from the knowledge of what Beth had done for love. All for love.
This was America.
This was the land of hopes and dreams.
This was the day Callie James grew up.
Chapter Six
Callie pulled her shawl closer about the shoulders of her brown woolen dress, careful not to disturb the hand-crocheted lace collar that had been a gift from Peggy. The dainty white cotton lace contrasted sharply with her wind-pink cheeks and the delicate paleness of her throat. It was her best dress, although it was now a bit short and swung just above the ankles of her high-topped, black-buttoned shoes.
She had risen very early that morning to have access to the privy where she washed herself all over, including her hair which now tumbled in thick chestnut curls about her head. Her shoes, a bit run-down at the heels, were wiped and polished with spit the night before. Everything she owned was rolled and packed into two pokes which were secured with laces from an ancient pair of Thomas’s shoes. She had to look her best, as Peggy had instructed, when she met cousin Owen for the first time. Only Mum couldn’t know that soaking in a tub for three days couldn’t remove the Tompkinsville stink that soiled not only the body but the soul as well.
Yesterday afternoon they had found the bodies of Beth and Paddy, snagged on rocks and tree stumps nearly half a mile from the pier where she had taken that final leap. It amazed Callie that hardly any thought was given to the living here in Tompkinsville but huge efforts were made to find a dead woman and child and bring them back for proper burial. Even in death, Beth could not escape Tompkinsville. The current in the river had carried her downstream but never across to the city of New York.
The last time Callie had seen Patrick was at the funeral. Patrick, thinking clearly for the moment, had instructed Callie not to utter a word that Beth’s plunge had not been purely accidental. Callie understood. Beth had died an unholy death by committing suicide and would not be allowed to rest in sanctified ground. The unbidden thought that Beth had also committed murder by taking little Paddy with her left Callie breathless and shaken. No one would understand that Beth had been out of her mind with grief and disappointment. Patrick was right. The less said the better. Everyone believed that Beth had had an unfortunate accident; no woman intent on suicide would take her unborn child and her young son with her.
On the flat of land behind the hospital, long deep trenches were dug in the soft and porous soapstone. Here the reek of death was all around, filling the air, even in the cold of November. The dead were buried in trenches nine feet deep, and the rustic coffins were placed in three tiers. The ground was dug out by pick, and broken pieces were scattered to cover the graves. The rain penetrated through the strewn rocks and thin earth, and the stink rose. Here, in an unmarked place, Beth and Paddy were laid. Patrick had stood woodenly at the grave site, head bowed, eyes dry, but in them an expression of grief and defeat that had never been there even during the hardest of times. Callie grieved for Beth and Paddy, placing on the lonely grave a bouquet of thistle and bittersweet she had picked in the bramble hedges along the road to the cemetery. But when the prayers were over, she looked at Patrick and realized, somewhat to her shame, that he would now have a chance to fulfill his dream. It was a gift from Beth, given with her heart. And the cost was her life.
Callie sat on a crate, poke baggage at her feet, riding the ferry across Upper Bay to the city. The November wind lashed at her cheeks on this sunless, dismal day as she looked back at Staten Island and the hospital facilities that stood high on the hill. She raised her eyes to heaven. “I pray it’ll be the last I ever see of that place,” she said softly. Then she turned to look at the nearing shoreline of the island of Manhattan. And even as I live and work here, she told herself with resolve, I’ll never look across the water again! Callie did not seem to be alone in her thinking. As she looked about at the other passengers, not a single head was turned back towards Tompkinsville; all eyes were searching the city before them, looking to the future, determined to forget the past.
The open ferry slid soundlessly into its berth. The engine belched steam, and its whistle blew with an asthmatic groan to herald its arrival at the South Street port. Falling into step with the other passengers, Callie walked the cobbled slope into the busy terminal. Hustled and jostled, she found a relatively quiet corner against a window looking out onto the streets of New York. Byrch Kenyon had told her the truth; the street was not paved in gold nor did anyone here seem especially prosperous. New York City seemed to hold the same ragged masses as did Dublin. Long lines of travelers and peddlers waited to be taken across on the returning ferry to Tompkinsville. Vendors selling hot chestnuts and peculiar twists of bread plied their wares. Men pushed wooden-wheeled carts filled with rags or vegetables; others sold apples at three cents apiece. That was something she’d have to learn, American dollars and cents. She’d had a taste of it during the quarantine, and it seemed simple enough. Patrick had shown her a silvered coin and told her it was called a nickel. Callie had decided it was her favorite. Still, all manner of money was acceptable to these Americans. The lead-colored shilling she had saved from Uncle Jack’s generosity, the copper penny, and the little round ha’penny were all safely stowed away in a little drawstring pouch pinned to her chemise.
Callie huddled into her corner, waiting for the appearance of cousin Owen. Most of her fellow passengers from the ferry had left the terminal, having been met by family or friends or wandered into the city on their own. Porters, or runners, as Callie had heard them called, wrestled with crates and baggage, checking names against tags and extending their hands for gratuities reluctantly given. As she waited, apprehension was churning in Callie’s breast. She had no way of knowing who, among these men loitering about the terminal, might be Peggy’s cousin. For that matter, he had no way of knowing her either. Colleen had sent him a description of herself as he had asked, stating her height and weight and bright auburn hair. But where Callie was diminutive, Colleen was tall and buxom; where Colleen was bright-haired and freckled, Callie felt as brown and dim as a backyard wren. Also, there was the difference in their ages: Colleen was almost nineteen and already a woman; Callie was just sixteen but looked even younger. Would Cousin Owen be terribly disappointed?
A small man, wearing what Callie could only think of as a horse blanket tailored into a jacket and trousers, was staring at her across the nearly empty terminal. She could feel his eyes boring into her even though she looked away. Was this the way Americans dressed? Bright tweeds and boxy plaids, walking sticks and jaunty caps? A shiny stickpin was prominently displayed in the fold of his cravat. A diamond? Glass? Whatever, it was big enough to choke the horse who’d lost the blanket. As she had feared, the flamboyantly attired man approached her, a lopsided grin breaking across his narrow face. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss, but you wouldn’t be Colleen O’Brien, would you?”
It was clear to Callie that the man truly hoped she
