Whiskey Island (26 page)

“I’ve been around.”

“I thought you might need a little private time to think about everything.”

“That was considerate of you.”

“Was I right?”

“I’m tired of being pushed, Nick. As far as my father’s concerned, you seem to have your own agenda. My agenda’s different. I think you expect me to feel things I don’t.”

“Are we talking about your father or us?”

She lifted her eyes to his. “Maybe we’re talking about both.”

“I’m not pushing you on either front.
You
came to
my
house, remember?
You
wanted
me
to take you to Whiskey Island.”

He saw the conflicting emotions in her eyes. She realized she was being unreasonable, yet she was powerless to control a flood of feelings.

He reached for what was left of his Guinness. “Maybe I didn’t leave you alone long enough.”

“Maybe you didn’t.”

He tried not to feel hurt, then he wondered why. He was an ordinary mortal now, allowed to feel emotions long forbidden him. Why was he struggling so hard to be more than he was?

“I’ll leave you alone,” he said at last. “But if I do find out more about Rooney, would you like to know? Would Casey?”

“You’re not going to find anything. If he
was
there, he’s gone. I saw that with my own eyes.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Of course I’d want to know!”

They had come to the end of their conversation, quite possibly the end of their short-lived relationship. Of all people, Niccolo understood endings. “Do I pay at the front?”

“Dinner’s on me.”

He almost refused, until he realized this was Megan’s way of coming out on top. He wanted no contests. “Thanks.” He pushed his chair back. “They really are the best pierogies in town.”

“If you do find out more about Rooney—”

He got to his feet, cutting her off. “I’ll call if I do. I can always leave a message if you’re not in.”

“Right. ‘Megan, I found your father. Call me back if you want to know more.’”

“You know,
you’re
making the rules, not me. If that’s not the way you want things to happen, then let me know.”

She didn’t speak, and he guessed that she didn’t know what to say. He dropped a five dollar tip on the table and walked out the door.

There had been so much more Niccolo had wanted from Megan. Even if he subtracted the hot-blooded response of his body to hers, the undeniably sensual feel of her skin, the soft warmth of her lips, he was left with myriad empty spaces inside him.

He had wanted to tell her about the growing band of teenagers who were helping with the house. Now another girl showed up occasionally, a friend of Elisha’s, as well as a high school dropout named Roy, who had taken to coming early every afternoon to help out while the others were in school.

Niccolo wanted to tell her that Joachim and Elisha always asked about her. That Elisha was showing ability as a designer, bringing in paint samples and magazine photos of window treatments every time she arrived. And the “clubhouse.” He wanted to tell Megan about that, too, about the furtive, funny way the kids were turning the drafty attic into a place of their own with discarded rugs and furniture they scavenged on garbage day. He’d spent one afternoon showing them how to rewire lamps, and now most days one or the other arrived with a new find to repair and rewire.

And despite that, despite shouting adolescents and hammers banging and old wood splintering under inexpert hands, the house was still too silent for him. Because it only came to life when Megan was there.

God help him.

He had arrived at Whiskey Island and parked before he realized that was the direction he’d headed. Maybe it was the conversation—or lack of one—with Megan. Maybe it was the gnawing ache of frustration that had brought him here. Maybe it was Rooney, a man he’d only glimpsed but who spoke, in Niccolo’s mind, with Billy’s rasping voice.

Niccolo had never before come at night, although he had come in the evening just before dark. The place seemed haunted, with white wisps rising from the lake like ghostly fingers. A crescent moon hung in a cloud-obscured sky, and even the seagulls were silent.

On one of his trips he had learned a back way into the woods. He got out and took it now, moving slowly as his eyes adjusted. Whiskey Island was in the center of a major city, yet the urban glow barely illuminated his path. He might as well be in rural Ohio, on a country road singing with the clip-clop of Amish carriages.

He pulled his cap over his ears against the cold and took his time, searching in every direction for signs of someone else who shouldn’t be here. He was aware that he was probably breaking the law, but he moved forward anyway, more impressed by a higher authority.

He had wanted to tell Megan about Father McSweeney’s journal, but the opportunity seemed to be gone now. He hadn’t gotten far, but far enough to discover how extraordinary a document it was. The sights and smells of Irishtown Bend, including Whiskey Island, were coming alive for him through the magic pen of a man long dead. Last night before bedtime Niccolo had pondered a description of this very place, a description so removed from today’s reality that it haunted him still.

Men, women and children, too, had died on this piece of land. They had loved and fought and shared what little they possessed. They had mourned for family left behind in Ireland, dreamed new dreams, buried old ones. He was particularly entranced with McSweeney’s careful unveiling of one family’s story. Terence and Lena Tierney, of County Mayo. McSweeney had performed their wedding and seemed particularly fond of them both.

And now, as Niccolo walked where the Tierneys might well have walked more than a century before, he searched for Rooney, whose family had lived here, too.

A man materialized not fifty yards away. One moment no one was there; the next the man stood outside the shadows.

Niccolo stood perfectly still. The man had seen him. He was staring straight at Niccolo, and he didn’t seem inclined to move away. Niccolo was reminded of a hunting trip in his adolescence, of the wonder of stumbling across a magnificent stag in a western Pennsylvania forest. The stag had raised its head to stare, as if to let Niccolo and his father know their lowly place in the forest hierarchy. Neither of them had raised their rifles. In time, the stag had simply drifted away.

Niccolo tried to remember the man he’d glimpsed in the parking lot on the night of the carjacking. He thought the height was the same, but he couldn’t be sure. In truth, he remembered no details; at times he wondered if he’d seen anyone at all that night.

His voice seemed too loud in the crisp, silent air. “I’m looking for a man named Rooney Donaghue.”

“Stars out tonight. Just four. The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. I don’t know about that other one. Could be the Virgin Mother.”

Niccolo took a step. The man didn’t seem inclined to run away. As he drew closer, the man glanced at him, but not as if he were frightened or even curious.

From what Niccolo could tell, he was dressed in multiple layers of clothing, swaddled so that what was probably a slight build had been padded to double its size. He was wearing at least one hat, a knit stocking cap, but there might be another beneath it, since it bulged in a rim over his ears. His overcoat was torn and muddy, but it fell nearly to his ankles and looked to be of heavy wool.

Niccolo stopped about ten feet away. The man appeared to be in his sixties, maybe older. But the life he led would add years to any man. His face was streaked with dirt, but he was clean shaven. “My name is Niccolo Andreani.”

The man wasn’t looking at him now. “They’re watching us, you know. Making sure we pay attention.”

There were many more than four stars peeking through the winter clouds. But not in the eyes of this man.

Niccolo kept his voice low. “I’m looking for a man who may have saved my life in the Whiskey Island Saloon parking lot. Have I found him?”

“You can’t get away from them. They watch, no matter where you are or what you do. They know….”

Niccolo was trying to memorize the man’s features, although he wondered what good it would do. Megan hadn’t seen her father in years. Any man of approximately the right age could be Rooney. She might recognize him in person, but not in a string of adjectives.

“What do they see?” Niccolo asked. “The stars. Who do they see?”

The man turned. “They see you. You come here a lot.”

Niccolo felt a tiny thrill of success. “You’ve seen me, but I haven’t seen you.”

“You don’t know where to look.”

“I’m not here to hurt or bother you. I just want to help.”

“No help to be had. Stars watching. I have to pay attention now.” He gathered his coat closer and turned as if to leave.

“Rooney…”

The man faced him. He didn’t seem surprised Niccolo had called him by name, and that was a victory of sorts.

Niccolo had been about to tell him that he knew Megan, that she and Casey were worried about him. But something told him that the pressure would destroy the fragile bond they were forging.

“Did you get your things?” Niccolo said. “Your photograph and drawing? They were gone last time I came.”

“Hid them.”

“You don’t need to hide anything from me. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help. Do you get enough to eat?”

“From the stars. From God the Father.”

“The stars give you food?”

The man laughed. “Hid them from the stars. Shh…” He sobered. “I can’t protect…”

“What do you need to protect?”

“I have to pay attention now.”

“If I bring you things and leave them here, clothes and food, will you use them? Is there anything else you need?”

“Come when there are clouds.”

“You are Rooney, aren’t you? Rooney Donaghue? I’ll help you no matter who you are, but I’d just like to know.”

“The stars took my name.”

“Were you Rooney once upon a time?”

“I have to pay attention.”

Niccolo was fairly certain this was Rooney, but he knew he’d lost him for now. There was no value in pushing him further. “I’ll be back with food and clothes. And blankets. On the next cloudy night.”

“You can hear them if you listen, you know.”

“The stars?”

Rooney laughed softly. “The dead.”

Niccolo thought of all the people buried on Whiskey Island, under hills of iron ore pellets, beside railroad tracks, beneath tons of pottery shards and the dredgings of the Cuyahoga. In his research he had read that sometimes the Irish had been forced to bury their dead secretly, that there was no other place they could afford.

“Your people?” Niccolo asked. “The dead are yours?”

“The dead belong to everyone who listens.”

“Do the stars belong to everyone, too?”

“The stars belong to themselves.” He turned away for the last time, gathering his coat closely about him. He limped toward the line of trees, then, as Niccolo watched, he melted into the shadows.

And only the stars knew where he’d gone.

October 13, 1881

I
f God could watch his only begotten son die in agony on a cross, then surely we mortals can learn to accept the death of children we love. Yet how terrible is the pain that ensues and how great the test of faith. I have seen mothers and fathers destroyed forever as a beloved son or daughter draws a final breath. I have wished I had the power to intervene, even against God’s holy will. The men and women of St. Brigid’s face life’s greatest trials with humor and courage. But there is no courage great enough in the face of a child’s last moments.

Even as I say the prayers and administer the sacraments, I must ask forgiveness for my own doubts.

From the journal of Father Patrick McSweeney—St. Brigid’s Church, Cleveland, Ohio.

17

Whiskey Island
October 1881

F
our-year-old Tommy Sullivan was dead, and Katie Sullivan, pregnant with her third child, hadn’t shed a tear.

“He’s with the angels now,” she’d said at the moment of her son’s death. She hadn’t spoken since. Not at the wake that had drawn so many other grieving mothers and fathers, and not when the tiny coffin, constructed of driftwood planks by Seamus Sullivan’s own hands, was lowered into the ground.

Katie went silently about her business, scrubbing her house until her callused fingers bled. Lena knew her friend was trying to scrub away the fever that had taken her son and might yet take his baby sister, Laurie. Lena also knew that Katie would not succeed. Illness and death crept into the cleanest homes, wound their way past the most diligent parents, struck down the sturdiest, happiest children.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been six days since my last confession.” Lena lifted her eyes to the screen that separated her from Father Patrick McSweeney. Her hands were reverently clasped, but her heart was rebellious. She followed the familiar ritual, waiting for the moment to list her sins. Today they were more numerous than usual, and far more serious.

She was furious at God.

“Something’s troubling you, my child. Tell me what it is.”

For a moment Lena was taken aback. The gruff old priest in the small village church where she’d made her confession as a child had been ruthless. He had searched for indiscretions like a miner panning for gold, disdaining the smaller nuggets as unworthy of his attention. He had been happiest when presented with mortal sins, and capable of exaggerating the merely venial until they suited.

He had never asked what troubled her. If she was troubled, she surely deserved to be.

“I’m angry, Father,” Lena said, pulling her shawl farther over her head as if to shield herself from the heavens. “I don’t understand why Tommy Sullivan had to die, and why Katie and Seamus must suffer so. What have they done to deserve such a thing? What have any of us done to deserve God’s wrath? We work hard, help each other, give what we can to the poor, even though we’re poor ourselves. We trudge up the hill for Mass, but does God trudge down the hill to Whiskey Island? Where was he when little Tommy couldn’t draw another breath? Where is he when the price of passage from Ireland rises and Terry’s wages do not? Is he with our families as they slowly starve in Mayo?”