The Promise of Home (5 page)

From now on, until she got word that Nick was safe, she would keep up her routine. She would be a pillar of strength for Ben. She would summon up her courage and confront the fear and uncertainty bravely, as she knew Nick would. He would return to them. She believed that because she had to.

The alternative was unthinkable.

In the parish house at St. John's, Father O'Brien had just settled into his recliner when the phone rang. He started and reached to answer it. An unfamiliar but pleasant woman's voice asked for him by name.

“This is Michael O'Brien,” he told the caller.

“Hello, Father. My name is Julia Tomlinson. I'm a reporter with
America,
the Jesuit magazine, and I'm working on a story about clergy in the United States who continue to serve past the typical retirement age. I learned about you from the bishop of Burlington at a conference here in Manhattan last month. He gave me your private number.”

Father O'Brien chuckled. “My number isn't really private, you know. Anyone can find it in the phone book. You're calling from New York, you said?”

“Yes, Father. Our headquarters are here in midtown.”

“New York City.” Father O'Brien paused as he tried to remember the last time he had been there.

“The reason for my call,” Julia continued, “is to ask whether I could interview you for my story. I've been doing some research, and I think you might be the oldest priest in the country with pastoral duties.”

“That might well be,” Father O'Brien said. “Of course, Ms. Tomlinson, I'd be happy to give you an interview.”

“Oh, wonderful! And please, call me Julia. I could come up to Vermont this week or next if you have time to meet with me.”

Father O'Brien chuckled again as he remembered the crowded streets and harried pedestrians in New York. “I have plenty of time, which is one of the wonderful things about Mill River. But even if I didn't, I would make time. Any afternoon this week would be fine.”

“Why don't we try for Tuesday around one? I can meet you at the church,” Julia said.

After he gave her directions to St. John's and ended the call, Father O'Brien leaned back into his chair. He removed the hearing aids from his ears and set them on the table next to the phone. Finally, his ears felt normal and natural, even if the deep quiet that surrounded him wasn't. “New York City,” he said again, his voice louder than before, but with no one there to hear him, it didn't matter.

When he closed his eyes, picturing the skyscrapers and bustle of the city, he felt a kind of nostalgia. It wasn't a longing for New York—far from it. Instead, he recognized the memory of childhood wondering, the feeling of not having seen and wanting to see. It was almost as if he were a boy again, yearning to know what his father and brother were lucky enough to experience while he had remained at his grandparents' farm in the Vermont countryside so many years before.

Saturday, March 31, 1934

M
ichael looked across the table at his mother. Their lunch had been meager—a bit of soup left over from the previous night's dinner and the last of a loaf of day-old bread—but she'd eaten very little.

“Mother, are you all right?”

“Just tired, that's all,” his mother replied. “Here, Michael, you have this. I'm not really hungry.” She pushed her plate and bowl across the table to him, and he didn't refuse it. “There's a bite of crust left in the kitchen, too,” she added.

Michael looked at his mother's portion of soup and bread. “That's all right. This'll be enough.”

As he finished her food, she reached over to pick up a postcard that had been wedged upright between the salt and pepper shakers. On the front was an image of the Hudson River Bridge in New York City, which had been completed only three years earlier. Niall had sent the postcard to tell them the address of the room he and Seamus had rented, along with a phone number where he could be reached in an emergency, and to show them something of the work they were doing.

The Triborough Bridge will be something like the one on the front of this card,
Niall had written,
but bigger and connecting more pieces of the city
. He had promised to send money once he had been paid.

While his mother traced a finger down the edge of the postcard, rereading the message, Michael stared at the painting of the bridge on the other side. In the foreground was a street called Riverside Drive, carrying several fine-looking automobiles. The bridge rose up in the background, with great metal towers and steel support cables swooping majestically over the Hudson River. He was so fixated on the image that he didn't realize someone had knocked on the front door until his mother rose to answer it.

A strange man stood on the front porch. His clothes were dirt-covered and worn, and he hastily removed his hat. “Good day, ma'am,” he said. “I was passing through, and I wondered if you might have any jobs that need doing.”

“I'm sorry, we don't,” his mother answered. She tried to shut the door, but the man took a step closer. Michael quickly stood up.

“Please, ma'am, I ain't had a proper meal in three days. Could you spare me anything to eat? Even a crust of bread, I'd be grateful for, if you have it.”

“Anna, you best not be feeding hoboes,” his grandmother hissed from her place at the table. His mother turned her head slightly, and Michael knew she had heard the admonition. No one spoke until Anna's soft voice broke the silence.

“Wait here,” she told the man. In a flash, his mother went to the kitchen and grabbed the small, hard nub of the bread loaf left on the cutting board.

“Anna,”
his grandmother said, but his mother ignored her again.

“I'm sorry it's not more, but we have very little,” his mother said as she handed the crust to the man on the porch. “Now, you be on your way.”

“Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am,” he said. Michael watched over his mother's shoulder while the stranger cradled the stale bread in both hands, as if it were a precious jewel, before scuttling backward off the porch.

“You're asking for trouble, Anna,” his grandmother snapped after the front door was safely closed. “There are too many strange men wandering about. You start feeding them, and they'll mark this place to let others know there's food to be had here.”

“You didn't see his eyes, Lizzie. They were just…empty with hunger. Besides, the crust I gave him was hardly fit to be eaten.”

“Just the same, don't do it again. You'll put us all at risk, especially with Niall and Seamus gone.” His grandmother got up from the table and walked stiffly to the door. She put on an old coat and a pair of gloves. “I'm going to go check for eggs,” she said before she left.

His mother started to clear the table, and Michael picked up his own dishes and silverware to help her. “Mother, I thought I might go hunting this afternoon,” he said. Even though they had just finished lunch, he was beginning to regret his refusal of the hard crust she had offered first to him. His mouth began to water at the thought of the lovely ways his mother might prepare a rabbit or a nice grouse.

“We could use the meat,” she said, “but first, I need your help. The root cellar needs cleaning out, and it'll go faster with the two of us. Besides, there's something down there I want to show you. Something your grandmother doesn't know about.”

What frustration Michael felt at having to delay his hunting expedition vanished after hearing his mother's last statement. She set the dirty dishes in the sink and wiped her hands on her apron. When she put on her coat and went out the back door, he did the same.

The old farmhouse had both a front and a back porch, each shielded by an overhang. A door opened out of the floor of the back porch. From there, a steep stairway descended into a large root cellar.

“Your grandfather designed everything about this farm so well. It's really a blessing now, how our root cellar is hidden,” his mother said as she pulled open the door and started down the stairs. “Even the hungry wanderers going door-to-door these days can't tell it's here. And it's so convenient to the house, not like some that are built out in people's yards. Imagine having to dig a path through the snow every time you need an onion!”

The root cellar was lit by a pair of bare lightbulbs protruding from the low ceiling. The thick, damp air smelled of cold earth. Shelves ran the length of the walls. A few mason jars containing pickled vegetables and fruit preserves sat on the uppermost levels. Pumpkins and Hubbard squashes rested on the lower shelves, along with empty jars being stored until they were needed. Nets of dried onions and garlic hung from hooks on the ceiling. On the floor beneath the shelving and forming a center aisle were wooden crates and bushel baskets placed side by side. Michael looked down the line at the containers of produce. There were separate ones for apples, potatoes, carrots, turnips, and beets. Not a single container was anywhere close to being full.

His mother started thinking aloud. “We'll need to go through and take out anything that's gone bad or started to grow. Hopefully, there won't be too many. We need to stretch what's left for quite a while yet. But first, while Lizzie's out of the house…” She walked to the far corner of the room. In a space between the wall and the end of the shelves on one side was a pile of burlap sacks they used when it was time to bring in the root crops.

“What I'm about to show you must stay between us, Michael,” his mother said quietly. “But you're the man of the house now, and I want you to know about it.” She bent over and reached behind the pile to remove a shiny wooden case.

“What is that?”

“It's…my insurance policy.” She set the case on an empty stretch of shelving and opened it. Inside the rich mahogany, nestled in deep purple velvet, was a glowing set of sterling flatware. “This has been in my family a long time. My mother sent it to me years ago, even though my father would have abused her terribly had he known. He was a tyrant. When I married your father against his wishes, he disowned me and forbade everyone in the family to have contact with me.”

Michael was shocked to be hearing about the taboo subject of his mother's parents. He knew very little about his maternal grandparents—only that they had lived in Boston and had cut off all communication with his mother. Never had his mother spoken to him about the reason for the estrangement. “Why did he disapprove of your marrying Father?”

“My parents were well-to-do, and I wanted for nothing growing up. Mama's family owned a big department store in the city. My father was a banker. Naturally, they assumed I would go to finishing school and marry well, preferably a gentleman they selected. It was especially important to them, I think, because Frank had decided to study for the priesthood, and they knew marriage wouldn't be in his future.

“They arranged several introductions for me, each one worse than the last. I couldn't imagine marrying any of the men my parents presented. I wanted to marry someone I loved, who loved me in return for more than my family's wealth. I'd seen my father's cruelty toward my mother all my life, and I didn't believe he or any man would beat his wife if he truly loved her.”

“How did you meet Father, then?”

His mother smiled. “Your uncle Frank introduced us. Mama and I came out to Vermont to visit him a few years after he was ordained, and your father was up at the church with a delivery for needy families. Your grandfather did that often, you know. Donated milk and butter from the farm for the less fortunate. He was a good man.”

“Times must have been much better back then.”

“Financially, yes. Not like the twenties, but better than now.” She traced her finger down the side of the wooden case. “Much better than now.”

“If your parents wouldn't have approved of you marrying Father, how did you manage to do it? And when?”

“Frank helped me again.” She gave a little laugh. “I suppose it's true that my brother can be a bit devious at times. He certainly isn't like any other priest you're ever likely to meet. He always tried to shield me from our father, and he told me once that he felt guilty for entering the seminary because it would mean I'd be left at home without a big brother to protect me. Oh, he genuinely felt the call, don't misunderstand. But he knew, too, that the priesthood was his escape, and that marriage could be mine, if it were to the right man. He agreed with me that a marriage should be based on love.

“Your father and I wrote to each other secretly for nearly a year after we first met, and every time Mama and I came for a visit, Frank would make sure to let your father know so we could see each other. Eventually, your father raised the subject of engagement. He wanted to speak to my father before proposing, but he was the son of a dairy farmer. I knew my own father would never agree to meet him, much less consent to our marriage.

“It got worse once my parents grew impatient with my refusal to accept an engagement. My father was trying to force me into a marriage with the son of one of his partners at the bank. I panicked. I sent a wire to Frank, and he arranged for me to travel to his parish in Vermont. When I arrived, your father came up to the church, and we got married.”

Michael looked at his mother as if seeing her for the first time. She was so small and quiet and deferential to his father. It was odd to hear her speaking matter-of-factly about her secret courtship and marriage. Could she really have been so bold and willful as a younger woman? Or was it that he simply didn't understand his mother's inner strength and what she was capable of doing?

“Did you go back home after you got married?” Michael asked in an incredulous whisper.

“I did. Or rather,
we
did. Your father and Uncle Frank and I went together. We thought my parents would take the news better if we were already married and there was nothing they could do to prevent it from happening.

“How foolish and naive we were! My father went into a rage when he realized what we'd done. He cursed at me, and Frank, too, for his role in it, and he tried to hit your father. My mother just cried. It was horrible. We left quickly and came here to the farm.

“We planned to stay until we could get our own little place. Seamus was born two years later, and then the war hit. Your father volunteered to fight, along with his two brothers, even before the government passed the conscription law. They were all sent overseas in early 1917, once we were formally at war. I stayed here, with Seamus and your grandparents, while they were gone. Being here turned out to be a good thing.

“With my privileged upbringing, I didn't know anything about cooking or keeping house or taking care of babies—it had all been done for us. Your grandmother taught me about living on a farm, growing and storing food, cooking and cleaning, and raising children. She and your grandfather always felt it was important to be self-sufficient. By the time the war was over, I had learned so much about the work that goes into being a wife and mother.”

Michael nodded. “What happened after Father came home?”

“Your father was the only one of his brothers to survive the war. It happened soon after they were all deployed. Even though his term of service hadn't expired, they sent your father back to the United States after his brothers were killed. After that, as his parents' only remaining child, he felt obligated to stay at the farm and help. He took a job at the mill only after Seamus was older and the income from the farm wasn't enough anymore. I think he always wanted to come back here someday and take over the farm and build it up, but after the crash and then your grandfather's death…”

His mother looked down at the case of flatware. “It was a long time after I got married before I heard anything from my parents. I never saw Mama after that last time being at the house, though eventually, she did start writing to me. Before she died, she managed to send this set of silver to me. It's by Towle Silversmiths, the rare Clover pattern from 1887. Twelve place settings and a matching server set. She begged me to keep it a secret from everyone—from your grandparents and even your father. She wanted me to have something valuable of my own, something that could be converted into money, in case I ever needed a way out of a bad situation. Mama sympathized with me, but she didn't dare go against my father. She was trapped and terrified by him. I think this silver was her way of providing me some sort of escape route that she never had.”

Michael looked carefully at the flatware. There were tiny four-leaf clovers and clover blossoms etched into the silver. The designs were perfect, miniature likenesses of the clumps of clover that grew all over the farm in the summertime.

His mother carefully lifted a small round spoon from its place among the other, larger serving pieces. “The pieces aren't monogrammed. Mama knew engravings would diminish the value of the set if it needed to be sold. But she did have something engraved on this one special spoon for me. It's a sugar spoon.” She held it out to him. “Look at the handle, in the little space between the clover leaves.”