Finding Amy (12 page)

“I’ll try.”

“I washed some clothes for my dear Mary. You know she works so hard and long each day. Well, as I was hanging her stockings…” The old woman stopped and pointed to the line of clothes on the first floor. There, draped over a white sheet was a long black stocking. Abby knew how Mary hated for her mother to do the laundry. Seems it wasn’t always done to Mary’s satisfaction. Now, the poor old dear was in trouble.

Abby smiled. “Sure and I’ll be happy to get it for you. Wait there.”  She raced down the two flights of stairs, retrieved the stocking and brought it up to the second floor porch. She hung it on the line, along with two or three other items for the rosy-cheeked old dame.

“Abby, you’re a darlin’. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Abby turned to go, but the old woman touched her arm.

“Here. Take these. Mary and her Johnny brought them back from Maxwell Street last Sunday.”  She handed the girl two colorful pieces of taffy wrapped in wax paper.

“Oh, I couldn’t. They were meant for you to enjoy.”  Abby’s mouth watered as she thought about all the exotic foods available at the street bazaar known simply as Maxwell Street. She loved that the confluence of so many ethnic groups provided a potpourri of strange and exotic foods, clothing, linen and heaven only knew what else.  She’d flutter along, her eyes agog at the crowded tables and carts. Abby had learned how to bargain by watching her aunt and uncle haggle with peddlers. Sometimes, they couldn’t even speak the same language. To Abby it was a learning place that stimulated her imagination.

“No, you take them. Please.”  She pressed the candy firmly into Abby’s palm.

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Brien, but I really must go now. My clothes basket upstairs is probably solid ice by now.”  Abby called over her shoulder, “Go inside. You're sure to catch your death of cold out in this wind. I’ll come to have tea with you later.”  Her unruly mane of red curls bounced and danced in a frivolous ballet as she hurried up the stairs.

In short order, the clothes were hung and Abby turned toward the kitchen.

“Abby.”

The voice from the top step of the porch bit into Abby’s ears with its soulful pang of despair. She turned and looked at a bent and broken man.

“Uncle Maudie!”

“Shush, girl.”

She walked toward her uncle. “What is it?”

“Oh colleen…”  His six-foot frame slumped against the wall and slowly slid down to rest on the stairs.

“I’ll get Aunt Kit.”  She turned.

“No!  Wait.”

Abby faced him again.

He was running his fingers through his thinning salt and pepper hair. When he looked up, the despair in his eyes pierced deep into her chest.

She sat next to him on the step. She had never seen him like this. He was the one everyone leaned on, so dependable. Aunt Kit had told Abby a million times how lucky she was to have found an Irishman who didn’t need the drink. Oh, he liked his ale well enough, but not to excess. He preferred to spend his nights with his family. Aunt Kitty and the eight children, plus Abby, were entertainment enough, he always laughed.

“What is it?  Can I help?”

“It’s Liam,” he managed to croak. Tears were traversing the contours of his haggard face.

Abby looked down the stairs checking for her cousin Liam. He was eighteen and had recently begun work with his father in the boiler rooms below the downtown buildings. It was dirty, dangerous work, but it paid well and gave them a trade. So many of the immigrants were stuck with coolie labor never knowing what they would be doing from day to day. The boiler workers were always busy and in high demand. He and his father left before dawn and returned at six-thirty each evening.

“Where is Liam, Uncle Maudie?”

A sob was her answer. Maudie’s head was down and all Abby could see was his shoulder twitching as he fought to gain control. Abby took his head between her hands. She raised it to look him in the eye.

He spoke softly. “He’s dead. Liam is dead.”

Abby could not believe her ears. She clutched her chest as it constricted and threatened to take away her own life sustaining breath. Liam, her favorite cousin, was dead?  It wasn’t possible. He had complained about her coffee just this morning, but it was a standing joke between them. They had sat on this very porch step last night talking about their futures as he smoked his foul smelling cigar and sipped an ale.

“No. No!” Her voice keened in grief and disbelief. “Liam is dead?”  Abby spoke in a whisper.

Martin John Moynahan nodded. Ice-tinged lashes glittered in the sunlight around his red-rimmed, brown eyes.

Abby swallowed, but still had trouble finding her voice. “How?  When?”

Martin tried to speak, but failed in his attempt. His shoulders quivered.

Abby reached across and put her small hands around her uncle’s large callused fingers. Despite the wind and cold, they were hot and sweaty. She touched his forehead to find it burning as if with fever.

“Uncle Maudie. Come inside. You need to be where it’s warm. Please?”  She started to rise.

He grabbed her hand. “No.”  He moaned. “No. I can’t face Kit. Oh dear God.”  His voice trailed off.

Abby stood and moved down one step. She pulled her uncle’s head into her midsection as she caressed his hair, much as a mother would do with a frightened child. Despite the anguish of her own heart, she began to coo to him. “Go ahead with you now. Get it out.”

His arms encircled her waist as his body shook with primal grief and he sobbed into the cold, wet wool of her sweater.

“There, there. Get it out, Love.”  Abby continued to pat and caress his head.

“My son. Oh, my son,” he moaned almost indiscernibly. He lifted his head and looked up at Abby. “How will I tell his mother?”

Through blurred eyes, Abby encouraged him. “Tell me. I’ll help you.”  She pulled his head into her midsection again. “What happened to Liam?”  She kept her voice low and continued to pat his back.

Following a half sigh and half sob, he continued. “There was an explosion. Liam and Frank Conroy had gone into the boiler. They were to scrape the slag buildup from the bottom of the tank. We’ll never know what caused a spark, but suddenly the oil dregs under their feet burst into flame. The pressure pipes were off, so there shouldn’t have been anything to cause an explosion, but it happened. Both boys were killed instantly and burned…”  His voice choked again. Abby continued to caress his head as he fought for control. Eventually, he looked up. “There’s not even a recognizable body, Abby. Just the bones of two boys who…”  He threw his head back, released Abby’s waist and stood. He gently pushed Abby aside and started back down the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

Martin turned. “I can’t face Kitty. I just can’t.”  He turned to go.

Abby caught him on the small landing between the third and second floor. “Uncle Maudie, you must come inside. Surely, someone will rush by to see if they can help. You don’t want Aunt Kitty to hear it that way do you?”

Her words made their way past his grief and self-pity. “Oh, Christ no.”  He looked to heaven, then looked toward the door at the top of the stairs. He took some deep breaths and turned to Abby. He grasped her hand. “Thank you, Love, for being here. I needed …”

She reached over and patted his hand. “I know.”  She noticed his shoulders were squaring and his voice was stronger.

“Come girl, Kitty will need you desperately this day and probably for many days to come.”  He inched toward the back door while holding Abby’s hand like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.

****

Eddie, her three-year-old cousin, sighed in his sleep as he lay against Abby’s breast. She squeezed him lightly and the first hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Abby kissed his mop of dark curls; thankful for the warmth his little body was seeping into her heart. Chicago had been in the grip of a cold front for over a week now and the frigid wind would not let up, but Abby knew it wasn’t the weather making her feel cold to the bone. She looked at the crowd of mourners standing around a plain, newly varnished pine box. Her eyes were drawn to the deep hole next to the box. She shivered. Eddie stirred, but resettled into her breast as she patted his little back.

Abby closed her eyes and gently rocked the child. Liam appeared. He was about six-years-old. His unruly black hair was in need of a haircut and his blue eyes were jumping with mischief. He called to her.

“Hey, Red, bet I can beat you to the corner.”

“No you can’t!”  Off she ran, only to have him whiz past her on his already long, lanky legs. By the time she got to the corner, he had turned and was laughing in triumph.

“Told you.”

“I’ll get you next time.”

He pulled her red pigtail and took off laughing and running with Abby in full pursuit.

“Amen.”  The response from the mourners broke her reverie and she opened her eyes. They were drawn to Aunt Kitty and Uncle Maudie. He stood stoically, his left hand on his wife’s shoulder. The red of his eyes and a three-day beard of salt and pepper testified to the pain that had been his constant companion for the last few days. Aunt Kit was staring at the casket, silent tears inching their way down her cheeks. Abby cuddled her little cousin and closed her eyes as the priest continued his platitudes.

Liam, about eleven-years-old, sitting at the kitchen table peering over an atlas, called to her. “Red, come here. Look.”

With tears in her eyes, Abby made her way over and slid into a chair next to him. She had just lost her mother. The poor, young woman had died of pneumonia.

He reached over and patted her hand. “Abby, don’t cry now.”

She looked up. He never called her Abby; it was always Red. His eyes were a little glassy too, but he managed a smile.

“Look.”  He pointed to a map of the world.

“Yes?”

He swept his hand across a centerfold map that spanned two large pages. “All this is out there for us.”

“What do you mean?”  She sniffled.

“Well, you know how your Ma always talked about seeing the world.”

“Yes?”  Abby started crying again.

“Come on, Abby. Listen.”  He reached over and clumsily wiped her tears away with his big, awkward adolescent hands. “I’ve an idea.”

She sniffled and looked with trust into his eyes

“You and me will travel to all the places your Ma used to talk about.”

“How?”  Abby was old enough to realize that her Ma had been a dreamer. The Barrons and the Moynahans were lace-curtain, Irish poor. They spent their lives trying to make a mean living; there was no time for frivolous travel. Her mother’s dreams had brought a measure of scorn from many of the neighbors. If it hadn’t been for the kindness of Aunt Kitty and Uncle Maudie, Lord knows where or how Abby and her mother would have lived. An unmarried woman with a child was a pariah in this close-knit Catholic community.

Liam smiled and set his jaw in that determined pose that always preceded his occasional streaks of stubbornness. He spoke to Abby’s eyes in a firm voice. “I don’t know yet.”  Abby lowered her head. He lifted her chin and continued. “But, Abby, we’re going to do it. You and me.”  His eyes challenged. “Have I ever let you down?”

She shook her head no. Then, despite her misery, she felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You won’t forget?”

He smiled broadly. “Forget you, Red?”  He tousled her hair. “Not likely.”  He turned and refocused on the atlas. “Come on. Look, here’s New York and here’s Washington where the president lives.”  He swept his arm across a blue expanse. “And look here, Paris.”  Soon the two of them were engrossed in the atlas and Abby’s healing began. The atlas became their bible over the years. As news events and school topics brought strange and exotic places into their lives, they found them on the map and often added them to their list of future destinations.

Eddie coughed and brought her back to the funeral service. He squirmed in her arms, looked through the crowd of people and spied his mother. “Mama. Mama.”  He stretched out his little arms.

Kitty wrenched her eyes from the casket as his plea penetrated her grief. Abby tried to silence him with a hug. Kitty held out her arms as Eddie intensified his efforts to be set free. Abby set the toddler on the ground and watched him rush to his mother. She gathered him to her and he cuddled against her. His little hands brushing away her tears as he kissed her cheek.

“I love you, Mama. Don’t cry.”

Kitty smiled and put her finger to his lips and glanced toward the priest. “Shush, I love you too.”  She hugged him tight and the child settled down.

Abby folded her arms across her chest. She wasn’t sure if the gesture was to warm herself or brace her aching heart.

The words of the priest droned on. “In times like these, we must remember that God knows what he’s doing. He had a reason for calling these two young men home. He has blessed them by bringing them to his side, away from the strife and toil of this life here on earth. I believe that right this moment our lads are sitting alongside the Lord. They …”

Abby raised her eyes to the heavens and gazed at the gray Chicago sky. She sighed and risked a thought contrary to the words of the priest. Liam had not been blessed by being taken away. He had wonderful plans; the future looked good to Liam. In fact, the night before his death, he and Abby had sat on the back porch steps discussing their first adventure. They were going to the Yukon. He showed her another article in the evening paper about the frozen north where hardy miners were finding traces of gold in the rivers and streams. It was generally felt that there was a mother lode somewhere up there just waiting to be discovered. They had decided some time ago that they should start their travels there.