The Promise of Home (25 page)

No, today was the first in nearly two weeks that she would have entirely to herself, and she wanted it to be a good day. Having time to herself presented its own difficulties, but since she'd spoken to Father O'Brien and he'd sprung into action, a day hadn't passed without someone in the community coming by to visit or take her out or bring her dinner. It had been wonderful at first. Knowing someone was scheduled to drop in had given her something to think about and look forward to. It had helped keep her from focusing on Nick's absence and her own tenuous mental state. But now, her refrigerator was a wasteland of partially eaten casseroles, and she was starting to feel like a child designated for constant supervision. The ideas of cooking a meal from scratch or having some time to spend as she wished were newly appealing.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stretched. Ben was still asleep. It had been a long time since she'd worn makeup, but after she'd dressed and wrangled her hair into order, she applied a bit of blush and lipstick. The color made a huge difference.

Feeling energetic, she went into the kitchen and started pulling things out of the fridge for breakfast. She heard the muted beeping of Ben's alarm clock through the wall, followed by the sound of footsteps and water running in the bathroom. Her teenager emerged in the kitchen a short time later. “You're up?”

The surprise on his face put a damper on her mood. She tried to ignore it. “Morning,” she said, holding a plate out to him. “I made you a breakfast sandwich. Scrambled eggs, ham, and cheese on wheat toast, just the way you like it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Ben said. He grabbed the juice on the counter and poured himself a glass, which he chugged before taking the plate. “You put on makeup,” he observed with his mouth full of the sandwich. “How come you're all dressed up? You don't go to work on Mondays. You usually don't even get up on Mondays.”

“I don't know. I guess I just felt good this morning,” she said. “Thought I'd spruce myself up for a change and do some shopping, maybe go see your grandpa.”

“Good, that way I don't have to go.”

His relief took her mood a notch lower, and she gave him a look of disapproval.

“What? I'm just being honest.”

“Maybe so, but it's insensitive of you to say things like that. You haven't spent much time with your grandfather. I know you don't feel all that close to him. But try to think of how it is for me, Ben. He's my father, and I love him very much. Imagine how it would be if
your
dad were sick like your grandpa is.”

She hadn't meant to bring up Nick, but once she had, she felt her mood sink again.

Ben chewed a mouthful of his sandwich with a sullen expression. “Okay, Mom, sorry.”

Karen doubted that he really was sorry, but she didn't want to lose what was left of a good start to her day by pressing the issue further. “You better take what's left of that and get out to the bus stop,” she told him.

“There's nothing left, see?” he said before cramming the last biggish piece of the sandwich into his mouth. “Bye, Mom. See you after school.” He gathered up his backpack and coat and rushed out the front door.

She took her time with her own eggs and toast and watched the morning news while lingering over a second cup of coffee. When she picked up her purse and headed outside to her car, she ran into her neighbor, Jean Wykowski, dressed in scrubs and heading for her car as well.

“Hi, Karen,” Jean called to her with a smile. “You doing all right this morning?”

“Yep. You?”

“Doing fine. Well, about as fine as going to work gets. Any word about Nick?”

“No, nothing new for a while now.”

“No news is better than bad news,” Jean said, and Karen nodded in agreement. “By the way, Ron and I were talking, and we wondered if you and Ben would like to join us for Thanksgiving dinner this year. We're not having any other company, so it'd be just us and the boys, but we'd love to have you both.”

“Oh, I hadn't even thought of Thanksgiving, but…Sure, that would be really nice. Let me know what I can bring. Better yet, maybe you and I can join forces in the kitchen and make it easier on ourselves.”

“That would be great! I'll call you when it gets closer to the date. We can plan out the menu and decide who will make what.”

“Sounds good,” Karen said. She reached down, feeling for the handle on her car door. She was desperate to get inside and shut the door. “Have a good day.”

“You, too,” Jean called.

Quickly, Karen slipped inside her car, buckled the seatbelt, and started the engine. Rather than pull out of the driveway, she took her phone from her purse and stared at it until well after Jean had driven away.

How can we celebrate Thanksgiving without you, without knowing where you are?
she thought.
Please, please ring. Please call me and let us know they've found you and you're okay. Please.

To her great surprise, as she sat clutching the phone in her trembling hand, it
did
ring.

The name of the caller flashed across the screen: Maple Manor Assisted Living.

Still reeling from a good shot of adrenaline, Karen answered the call.

Thirty seconds later, she peeled out of the driveway. As she gunned the engine and headed north to Rutland, the words of the nurse supervisor rang in her ears again and again.

It's your father, Mrs. Cooper. We need you to come to the facility right away.

When she arrived, she ran inside, not bothering to stop at the information desk. There was a small group of people wearing scrubs gathered inside her father's room. Some were nurses and aides whom she recognized, but a few of the faces were new. Her father lay in bed with his eyes closed while a woman in a white coat leaned over him, a stethoscope pressed to his chest.

“I'm Karen Cooper, his daughter. What happened?”

“Mrs. Cooper.” The woman with the stethoscope straightened up and extended her hand. “I'm Rebecca Martin, the physician on call. The staff paged me a little while ago because your father seemed to be having some trouble waking up. His pulse and blood pressure are very low, and while I've been here, his respiration has become irregular. Am I correct in my understanding that your father has a do-not-resuscitate order in place?”

“Yes, he does.” Karen wiped at her eyes.
How can this be happening right now?
“I also hold medical power of attorney for him. Do you have any idea what might be wrong?”

“It's difficult to tell without a thorough evaluation in a hospital, especially in a patient who's uncommunicative. One of his pupils is dilated. That, as well as his abnormal breathing pattern, are often symptoms of a stroke, but I can't make any definitive diagnosis without running some tests. In a case like this, absent a DNR order, I'd normally recommend that we rush the patient to the emergency room. We can transport your father there, if you'd like, but given his instructions, our treatment options would be very limited.”

“No breathing machines, no shocking his heart or life support,” Karen said softly. “He was always adamant about that, especially after his Alzheimer's diagnosis.”

For a moment, nobody in the room spoke, and Karen could almost feel a blanket of finality descend over them.

Dr. Martin gave a slight nod, her eyes heavy with sympathy. “If there's anyone else you'd like to call, now would be a good time.”

“My brother, George, in Seattle,” Karen whispered. “I have his number in my phone.”

“We'll give you some privacy,” one of the nurses said, stepping forward to usher several others toward the door. “We'll be right down the hall at the nurses' station if you need anything.”

Once Karen was alone with her father, she dialed her brother's number, but the call went straight to voicemail. “Georgie, it's Karen. It's a little after eight-thirty my time. I'm at the center with Daddy. They called me this morning. He's not doing well, and they think he may have had a stroke, and the doctor said he might not have much time left. I think you should get a flight as soon as you can. Please call me back when you get this.”

She placed her phone in her purse and pulled a chair up beside her father's bed. He lay on his back with his eyes closed. One of his hands rested on the sheet before her, and she took it gently, holding it between her own as she spoke to him. “Daddy, can you hear me? It's Karen, your daughter. I'm right here with you. Right here.”

For a moment, her tear-blurred eyes could no longer maintain their focus on him. She paused, bowing her head, willing herself to hang onto some semblance of composure while she was in his presence.

The sound of his breathing seemed to confirm the prognosis at which the doctor had hinted. He would take several deep breaths, followed by increasingly shallow breathing, when his chest would rise and fall rapidly. Then there would be a period of fifteen or twenty seconds when he didn't breathe at all before the cycle repeated. As the minutes and cycles passed, his breaths seemed to grow weaker, and the periods of apnea increased in duration. She took comfort in the feel of his warm hand, large and well padded as it had always been.

“If you can hear me, Daddy, the doctor said you might not have much time. I want you to know that I called Georgie. He's on his way here right now. And I want you to know how much I love you. Nick and I, and Ben, and George and his family. We all love you so much.”

She stroked his hand with one of her thumbs and took a few seconds to breathe, to steady herself enough to say goodbye. “I've told you before, but thank you again for everything you've given me and done for me. You were the best father, Daddy. The best father I could have asked for. My protector when I was little, my friend once I was all grown-up, and even now there isn't a day that goes by when I don't think of you, or something you taught me, or something we did together in the past.

“You've been sick a long time, Daddy, but you're going to be in a better place real soon. I just don't know what I'll do without you. I'm sure Mama will be waiting for you. She's been waiting a long time to dance with you in heaven. Give her a hug for me and tell her I love her, okay? I love you, too, Daddy, so much. I'll think of you every day, I promise. Every day for the rest of my life.”

May 31, 1934

E
arly on a Thursday morning, Michael rose and put on one of his nicer pairs of trousers and his best shirt. Downstairs, the house was quiet, although a glass of milk and a small paper bag containing two egg sandwiches—one for breakfast and the other for lunch—had been set out for him, probably by his grandmother. His mother's bedroom door was closed, and when he looked out the window toward the barn, he could see that the heavy wooden door had been propped open, as was his grandmother's habit when she went to do the milking.

Michael smiled to himself. His grandmother knew he had special plans for today, and in addition to the pre-packed sandwiches, she had given him the rare treat of a morning off from milking duty. How wonderful it was, starting the day in a good mood and knowing Onion wouldn't have a chance to ruin it!

On the kitchen table, tucked gently between the salt and pepper shakers, was the most recent letter from his father. Michael slid the letter from the envelope and began to read it silently, even though his mother had read it aloud the previous evening.

May 21, 1934

Dear Anna, Mother, and Michael,

I read your most recent letter with great relief. I am glad to know you are doing well and that things at home are fine.

I've not much news to report since my last letter. Seamus and I are both as well as can be expected. He is still behind bars, on account of my being unable to raise the funds to make his bail, and we are both anxious for his case to proceed. The prosecutor offered a plea bargain after the arraignment, but his lawyer advised him to reject it because it would require some jail time and would keep a felony on his record. The lawyer also believes the government's case is weak on a charge of attempted murder and that Seamus will be found not guilty at trial, if the case proceeds that far. It is possible that the charges will be dismissed or reduced once the prosecutor understands that Seamus has capable representation and is willing to go to trial. Unfortunately, his trial date has been set for the sixth of August, so we have another two months to wait.

I've been working long hours to be able to pay the lawyer's fees and have enough left to live on. One good thing is that I've applied to join the ironworkers. If I'm accepted, I would be working on the actual bridge structure, and for higher wages. It's difficult work, but I'd welcome it, as it would mean I'd have money to send home to you. I worry about all of you, and I'm ashamed that I've not been able to provide what I should for you…

Michael folded the letter back into the envelope, guzzled the milk, and grabbed the bag of sandwiches before leaving the house. He would eat his breakfast on his walk into Burlington.

The past month had flown by. His mother had spent another three days in the hospital during a relapse of her sickness, which had added another eighteen dollars to the hospital bill. Finally, though, her health seemed to have stabilized. She still struggled daily with feeling nauseated, and she ate and drank less than what she should, but she rarely got sick. Her expectant condition was starting to become visible—a slight rounding of her belly.

Although Michael dared not speak of it, he wondered what might have happened had recent medical advances been available to his mother in the past. It was amazing to think that doctors could now nourish and hydrate a person by inserting fluids into the body through a needle. It was expensive, yes, but the treatment had kept his mother from losing the baby she carried, he was sure. It might have saved her life as well.

If only intravenous therapy had existed five, seven, ten years ago, there might have been a houseful of siblings at the farm instead of a somber ring of stones in the pasture.

Not another stone this time
, he thought. True, his mother wasn't due to give birth until early December. Months stretched out before them as a separated family, months in which his father might be unable to send them money, in which they would have to make do on their own. Michael was determined to do his part, to see his family through. And when his father returned home for the holidays, hopefully with Seamus, he would arrive to the joyous discovery of a new baby.

Michael walked quickly up the driveway to the main road. Somewhere in Burlington, or along the way, he would find a job. There had to be someplace that needed help for the summer. He didn't care what the job was—he was willing to work hard for whatever wages he could get. Anything was better than nothing.

He made it to the edge of the city after walking for an hour, and several minutes later, he stood at the intersection of Main Street and Church Street with the city's business district stretched out before him. There were shops and restaurants of all kinds, punctuated by dark storefronts of businesses that had failed. Those that had managed to survive the poor economy were just opening for the day. Store owners and employees were out sweeping the sidewalks in the mild fresh air. Ignoring a bout of nervousness, Michael focused on the corner coffee shop nearest him.

He removed his cap and stepped inside. There were some customers already seated inside, and the air was scented with coffee and bacon and warm maple syrup. Even after the egg sandwich, his stomach rumbled.

A waitress caught his eye. “Sit anywhere you'd like, hon. We've got plenty of empty tables.”

He nodded and approached a small table, although he didn't sit down. “Ma'am, I'm not here for breakfast,” he said in low voice when she came over. “I'm actually looking for a job.”

“A job?” A few of the patrons in the restaurant glanced over at her shrill exclamation, and Michael felt a flush of heat color his face. “Sorry, hon, there's nothing here. It's just Luke and Larry behind the counter and me waiting tables. It's a wonder we're still here and getting paid, with business the way it's been. Good luck finding something, though.”

Michael nodded and quickly left. He didn't know what he could do in a restaurant, anyway, except perhaps clear tables, and there was a whole street of places to try.

For the rest of the morning, he made his way slowly up the street, stopping into each business to make inquiries. He visited shoe stores and department stores and more restaurants and cafés. There was a store that sold radios and phonographs. Another one sold refrigerators, the sleek new white ones made by General Electric.

None of those places was hiring. At one o'clock, disappointed, hungry, and with feet aching from being squeezed into shoes that were too small and heavily worn, he sat down on the stoop of a shuttered business and ate his second egg sandwich.

Maybe Grandma and Mother were right
, he thought.
Maybe it's still impossible for anyone to find a job around here.

But he had to find
something
. His family was depending on him.

He stood up, stretched, and started out again. His hopes soared when he entered the grocery store his mother frequented and learned from one of the clerks that the store sometimes hired summer help.

“Let me get the manager so you can speak with him,” the young man told him before leaving to fetch his boss.

Michael waited anxiously at the front of the store. There was plenty to be done in such a large, busy place. Deliveries needed to be unloaded and stocked. Groceries needed to be checked out and bagged for customers. The whole store itself needed to be kept clean and tidy. And, it would be a pleasant place to work.

“Here's Mr. Baird,” the clerk said breathlessly as he approached. The older man following him had a kindly face and salt-and-pepper hair.

“Hello, sir,” Michael said, extending a hand. “My name is Michael O'Brien, and I'm looking for a job for the summer.”

“I expect you are—you and the whole city.” The manager sighed as he shook his hand. “You look like a nice kid. Do you live here in Burlington?”

“Just outside the city a few miles, sir.”

“Um-hmm. And how old are you, Michael?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

Mr. Baird nodded. “I'm sorry to have to tell you, but I just hired a couple of kids, and I'm afraid that's all I can afford to hire right now, even paying reduced wages. I'm happy to take your name and address, though. If I have another position come open, I'll contact you.”

Michael swallowed hard and struggled to keep his disappointment in check. “Thank you, Mr. Baird. I would appreciate that very much.”

“You have a good day, now, son,” the manager said, and Michael went back through the front doors.

One by one, he tried the rest of the businesses on Church Street. Without any employment prospects by late afternoon, he walked down a few of the other streets in the center of the city, stopping every so often to make inquiries. His desperation increased when he realized that the businesses had starting closing for the day. He was on a side street several blocks from where he had started in the morning when he looked up and realized that he was standing in front of the loan office.

The sign above the door was unchanged, a wrought-iron frame from which three gold balls were suspended, and the display of gleaming gold jewelry and watches in the front window was much the same. The other items in the window were different. A violin and bow rested in an opened case. A silver tea set and matching tray was arranged in one corner, and a pair of sterling candlesticks stood in the other. Up above, two hunting rifles were suspended, their shiny barrels pointing at each other and nearly touching in the center of the window.

Michael reached for the door handle, but as his fingers brushed the metal, he hesitated. Even though he had just turned fifteen, his mother might try to tan his hide if she learned that he had gone inside the loan office. Did he dare do it? And if he did, would it be to ask about a job or to satisfy his own curiosity?

He glanced nervously over his shoulder, but the sidewalk in front of the shop was empty in both directions. Without answering the last question, he pulled open the door and went inside.

It was much darker inside the loan office, and while his eyes adjusted to the change in light, his sense of smell enjoyed a moment of dominance. The air was heavy and musty and tinged with scents of damp cloth and grease and gunpowder. There was another odor, too, a distinct pungency emanating from a counter positioned farther in, against the wall. A woman was finishing up her business there. As she turned and came toward the door, the man behind the counter, who was undoubtedly the source of the odor, came into view.

Mr. Borisov fit his mother's description exactly. Light brown hair, curly and greasy, was slicked back from a high, shiny forehead. Beads of sweat clustered along the sides of the forehead and lined up along the brow, then ran in shimmering rivulets downward from each graying temple. A pair of gold-framed spectacles rested halfway down the man's nose and appeared ready to slide all the way down onto his bushy mustache. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, simultaneously exposing corpulent forearms while encasing doughlike rolls along his torso.

Michael quickly removed his cap and took another step forward. Mr. Borisov was writing in a ledger of some sort and gave him a cursory glance. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, sir,” he began. “Are you Mr. Borisov?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Michael O'Brien. I've finished school for the summer, and I'm looking for a job. I was wondering if you had any positions available.”

Mr. Borisov laid down his pen and stared at him. After Michael had finished speaking, there were a few seconds of silence before the man's laugh filled the room. “Job? You want job?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man laughed again. “I haf people come in for many things. Sometimes loan, sometimes to sell something. Sometimes to ask for more time to pay loan. But never haf I had someone come here and ask for job. Tell me, what do you think you could do here? What kind of job do you want?”

Michael took a deep breath and quickly looked around. Behind the counter and on either side as high as the ceiling, the wall was covered by small cubicles. The contents of many were visible—clothing, shoes, hand tools, small firearms, and any other common possession one might venture to use as collateral for a loan. The remaining cubicles contained items wrapped in brown paper, for privacy, he assumed. Larger shelves and display racks picked up where the cubicles left off, to accommodate larger items. There was a section of long-handled tools: shovels, rakes, axes. Another portion of the wall was covered in paintings of various sizes and styles. The shelves held everything from kitchenware and small appliances to mantel clocks and sets of books with elegant gilded spines.

“I could keep the place neat. Maybe help with the displays in the front window. Or whatever else you might need help doing. I learn quickly, and I'm a hard worker.”

Mr. Borisov squinted at him and then shrugged. “Maybe you are hard worker. You look like nice boy. Skinny but clean. Speak good English. Why you want to work here, Michael O'Brien? Why not shoe store or grocery?”

“I've made inquires, sir, but they have no positions open. I asked at almost every place up Church Street and then some.”

“This not good place for nice boy to work. Besides, I always haf problems with O'Briens.” The owner's tone was final and dismissive. Michael felt a surge of panic as Mr. Borisov took up his pen and bent once more over his ledger.

“Please, sir. Please, I've got to find a job. My father's gone away, and my mother's been deathly sick. We need cash wages to pay her hospital bills. She's expecting a baby, but it's just me and my grandmother trying to take care of her.”

Mr. Borisov stopped writing but kept his gaze fixed downward. He remained this way for a good minute, and Michael scarcely breathed. Finally, he looked up with a stern expression. “All right. I gif you job as clerk. I teach what you need to know. Start Monday, nine o'clock to five o'clock closing time. I pay you only child wage, ten cents an hour. We try for two weeks. If you learn what I teach and work hard, we keep going. If not, you lose job. Do we haf deal?”