she?
When sleep finally came to Callie, it was light and fitful. She was aware of Beth, just the other side of their rolled pokes, lying very still, small trembling sobs shaking her shoulders. Sympathy stirred her to sit up and touch Beth’s shoulder in commiseration. It was then she noticed Patrick was gone.
“Beth,” Callie whispered, putting her mouth very close to Beth’s ear, “where’s Patrick?”
A choked response, so unbearably pained and desolate—“He’s out, walking his disappointment. Oh, Callie, Paddy and I are such a burden to him. Such a terrible burden.”
“Hush. It was a shock to him, Beth. Surely you understand that. He had such wonderful plans for all of you. You’ll all go back to Ireland, and when Paddy is well again, he’ll see his dreams realized. Patrick loves you, Beth, and he’ll make it right.”
“That love is killing him, Callie.” There was no emotion in her voice, no tears on her cheeks. This dearth of emotion, of anger, of anything, frightened Callie. “Patrick can’t be making this right. It’s me and Paddy and the new babe that’s holding Patrick back. We’ve ruined his dream, Callie. And I’ll lose him because of it, just as I’ll lose Paddy up to his sickness.”
Words of comfort would not come to Callie. There was nothing she could say to ease Beth’s pain. All that had happened was beyond the realm of her own understanding. Peggy would know what to say, what to do. She’d set Beth’s head clear and thinking again. Mum could rebuild Patrick’s dead dreams.
“Callie,” Beth whispered, “would you change places with me? I want to be near my son. I want to hold him in my arms.”
Silently Callie helped Beth to her feet. The woman placed a hand protectively on her belly. “Patrick wanted this babe to be born in America. And as it turns out, ’twould be better if it’s not born at all.” Bumps broke out on Callie’s arms. The goose had stepped on her grave again. She’d always realized Beth Thatcher’s vulnerability, her insecurity; perhaps that was why she’d always felt protective toward her. But a new resolve had crept into Beth’s voice, and in the dim light of the lanterns that hung from the rafters in the bleak and overcrowded shelter, there was a new light in her eyes. It was a fervor, a determination, a grim decision to see things through to the end. Callie settled down against the bedroll, watching Beth through the darkness as she gathered her son close to her, folding him against her body as though he were the babe who lived in her womb.
Hours later, just as the dawn was breaking, Callie rolled over on the hard floor, pulling the blanket over her shoulders for warmth. She missed Paddy’s warm little body tucked against her own and awakened. Glancing around her, she realized Patrick had not returned, and the place she had given to Beth was empty. Callie sat up to look across the room; not a soul in the half-lit shelter was stirring.
It was unlike Beth to leave with Paddy without saying a word. No, it was foolish to worry, Callie comforted herself. Putting her head back down on the bedroll, she closed her eyes. But sleep would not come. She remembered Beth’s face and the way her eyes had burned. Could it be that the light that fevered Beth’s dark eyes was madness?
Callie rose from her hard place on the floor, her eyes once again searching out the dim corners of the shelter for a sign of Beth and Paddy. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and there was a heaviness in the pit of her stomach. Something was warning her, telling her, she must find Beth.
Stepping over sleeping bodies, picking her way through the assorted bedrolls and baggage, she finally made her way to the door, pushing against its flimsiness until it opened into the gray-pink dawn. She looked to the left, up the hill towards the hospital. All was dark there except for the yellow glow from gaslights left on for the night. No, Beth wouldn’t go there. She feared the hospital and all it represented: rejection, denial. To the right was the steep path leading down to the beach and the docks. The night air was frigid; frost crackled on the ground beneath her feet. Where was Beth? Where was Paddy?
Her heart beating wildly, Callie stepped onto the path to the dock. She peered through the dim light to the water of the bay where the packet ships lay at anchor. Her shawl was pulled tight around her shoulders, the light morning wind off the water ruffled the new freedom of her short curls.
Halfway down the path she heard the mournful humming of a familiar tune, “Sweet Maid from Killee,” Patrick’s favorite tune. “Patrick! Patrick!” A form, barely discernible in the light, straightened and began rushing toward her. “Patrick!” Her voice was a harsh cry; she had not known how desperate she was or how terribly frightened until she heard that cry break from her throat. “Patrick! It’s Beth! Where’s Beth?” Quickly she told him how she’d awakened to find Beth and Paddy gone.
“She’s probably taken herself off to the privy,” Patrick said logically, “Grab hold of yourself, Callie. I’ve never seen you this way.”
“No! Beth would never have taken Paddy to the privy. You know how she loathes the filth in there. Listen to me, Patrick, something is wrong, very wrong! I don’t know, there was something about Beth early this morning when I talked with her. Something desperate in the way she talked and what she said!”
Patrick responded to Callie’s distress. “Where do you think she might have gone? Beth! Beth!” he called at the top of his voice. The answering silence seemed to spur his growing alarm. “Beth! For the love of God, where are you?”
“Patrick. She won’t answer if she doesn’t want to. We have to find her. I’ll take the path down to the dock; you skirt around through the shelters and back to the privies and meet me down on the beach.”
Callie turned and tore off down the path, slipping and sliding over the loose rocks and pebbles underfoot. The wind from the river was rising with the dawn. Today would be another bleak day, harsh with the promise of the coming winter.
At the end of the path were the piers and docks, the longest of these a jetty of black and slippery rocks that snaked far out into the dark waters of the bay. At the head of the jetty Callie discerned a bulky shape—a woman holding a child, her face turned to meet the dawn. Beth!
At the sound of Callie’s footfalls on the pier, Beth turned, clutching little Paddy to her. “No! Don’t come any closer,” she warned, and to Callie’s ears it was the voice of a stranger. This was not Beth’s voice, soft and endearing—this was the sound an animal makes when he is cornered.
“Beth! Come back! Please, Beth! Patrick is looking for you; he sent me to find you.” Tentatively Callie approached, watching, listening for the slightest sound or movement. Paddy squirmed in his mother’s arms. “Callie, pick me up!” She heard his voice clearly as she moved closer to the end of the jetty.
“Hush, love,” Beth crooned. “Hush. It will all be over soon, so soon.”
The singsong quality of Beth’s voice frightened Callie more than anything else. It was the same voice Mrs. Collier used when her little Bobby had died of the influenza and she had rocked his dead body until they came and forcibly took him from her. Beth was rocking and crooning to Paddy in that same way, as though he were already dead.
“Don’t come any closer, Callie. You’ve been a good friend, but there’s nothing you can do for us now. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Beth, come away from the edge. There’s something I must tell you!” Desperately Callie searched for something to say, something that would give Beth hope, something, anything. “Beth, remember I told you and Patrick about my friend who owns a newspaper? He’s a very important man, Beth. I’ll
