Whiskey Island (29 page)

“There’ll be sleighing on Euclid Avenue, and races,” Terence said. “Would you like to see them this winter, Lena? This year we’ll not put it off the way we did last.”

She was thrilled. Last year, and the year before, she had not teased Terence to take her to see the races, although Rowan had suggested it a time or two. She knew how tired Terry was when he returned from work and how much there was to do in the little leisure time he was allotted.

She also knew how it grated on him that others lived so differently, that the very men who forced the Irish into the holds of ore boats and paid them so poorly were living like kings on the Avenue. Although the Avenue was easily within reach by streetcar or foot, she had only been there once. Katie had taken her, and they had walked a short portion of the grand expanse, marveling at the mansions, the lofty elms towering over their heads, the proud street itself paved in stone and impervious to flood.

She had seen a manor house in Ireland, but she had never seen anything to rival this. One grand estate after another in the heart of a bustling city.

“Only if you want to go,” she told Terence, but the words nearly stuck in her throat. Because she wanted to go more than almost anything. There was little room for color in their lives, for laughter and fancy and excitement. Just for one afternoon, she wanted in the worst way to forget about Ireland, to forget how hard they worked and how little they had to show for it. She was happy with Terence. She couldn’t imagine a life without him. But she was still young enough to hope for even more.

“I want to go. We’ll go after the first real snowfall.” Terence reached out and tweaked her cheek, undoubtedly leaving a rust-colored smudge.

She beamed at him, happy enough to wish she could kiss him now, improper or not. But he turned away to make room for the others who were beginning to crowd around the cart to buy their own dinners. She didn’t have time to do more than wave goodbye to Seamus and Terence when they had finished and their dishes had been returned. She served and served, until both the soup and the stew were nearly gone, leaving just enough for the evening’s supper. Then, when all the men had finished, she packed up her wares to start the journey home.

She was just storing the last of the bowls in the cart when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“It looks as if you’ve done well this day.”

She faced Father McSweeney, the very last person she’d thought to see here. He was a young man, about ten years Terence’s senior, with brown hair and eyes so blue they seemed to have borrowed color from the wind-tossed lake. He was tall and broad shouldered, and had he not become a priest he would have been well suited to unloading ore. She was sure his obvious strength was appealing to the men of St. Brigid’s, who were proud to have a priest who could best them in a fistfight—were he so inclined.

The women sighed over him, as well, wondering, at their most sinful moments, why such a man had been called to the celibate life.

Megan straightened her spine, a mannerism she’d always adopted when confronting her village priest. “I’ve done well, Father. I’ve sold it all and cleared a small profit.”

“And you’ve fed many a St. Brigid’s man in the bargain. You can be proud.”

She relaxed and smiled up at him. “I thought pride was a sin.”

He returned the smile. “Only in excess.”

“Have you an errand here?”

“No, but there are men on the docks who seldom appear at Mass. From time to time I let them know that I’ve noticed. They usually attend the following Sunday.”

“I have enough soup for you, but no clean bowls, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve eaten already. But I’m going back up the hill now. May I accompany you?”

“It would be an honor.”

“And how does a slip of a woman pull such a heavy cart?”

“Women are stronger than men believe. Were I forced to carry my kettles to the riverfront strung from an oxen yoke across my shoulders, I could do that, too.”

“Would you be offended if I pulled the cart home for you?”

“And why should you?”

“Because I can, and because my work gives me little enough exercise. Would you deny me this chance to build my strength?”

“You have a silver tongue, Father. You’d have a fine career on the stage.” She stepped aside, nonetheless, to let him pull the cart.

They trudged in silence. Most of the men had gone back to work, and although the others lifted their caps in greeting, they gave Lena and the priest a wide berth. Once they were away from the docks and over the tracks, Father McSweeney spoke.

“How do you find life here, Lena? Are you homesick for Ireland?”

“Only for my mother.”

“Will she be coming to join you?”

“Once we’ve brought Terry’s family, we’ll save for her passage. But the cost only goes up.”

“And Terry’s wages don’t.”

“There are better jobs, but the longer he stays on the docks, the less strength he has to look for one. It’s enough just to get up each morning and go down in the hold.”

“I wish I had a better answer, but no matter if I vouch for a man’s character, I’m an Irishman, too. My word is suspect.”

Lena knew this to be true. Although some Irishmen were finding jobs as streetcar operators, even firemen or policemen, like Rowan, Terence’s lowly work as a terrier was the standard. The Irish were thought to be wild men, quarrelsome and untrustworthy. And their Catholic faith was so foreign to the majority of Clevelanders that it was suspect, too.

“We’ll make our way,” Lena assured him.

“I’m sure of it.”

She sought to change the subject, and the perfect detour occurred to her. “Father, I should tell you that Katie Sullivan’s having her baby.”

“Is she now?” He sounded pleased.

“Granny O’Farrell claims it will be another boy.”

“That would be a great blessing. I’ve prayed for it.”

“And for me, I’m sure.”

“Do you need my prayers, Lena?”

She warmed at the way he said her name. Lena was as devout as her rebellious soul allowed, but it was easier to accept the words of a priest she could admire, a man who truly seemed to love the people he served.

“No more than anyone else,” she answered.

“I’m not certain that’s true.”

This surprised her. “And why is that, Father?”

“I sense in you a strong determination to do whatever you believe to be right.”

“And you pray for my soul because of it?” She was perplexed.

“You’re impatient with God. At times you choose your way over his.”

“Well, if he’d only make his opinions known, it’s happy I’d be to listen to him!”

Father McSweeney laughed. “But he does make his opinions known through church doctrine. Now, tell me true, were you faced with listening to God’s voice from the pulpit or God’s voice in your heart, which would you follow?”

She considered. “The voice that spoke loudest, I suppose.”

“There’s my concern.”

“Am I so different from everyone else?”

“Truly? You’re more intelligent than most and stronger-willed. And you don’t look to heaven for solutions. The promise of a better life after death is small comfort to you.”

That much was true, although she wasn’t going to admit it. “Have you a plan for my life, Father? Something I should be doing that I’m not?”

“Not a plan, just advice. Be careful, Lena.”

“Careful of what?”

“Careful of making choices you shouldn’t.”

They had walked down Thompson Street to Union, and now they were at Tyler, where she would turn for the final block. He held out the pull rope, and she took it. “Father, I have no choices to make. I try to be a good wife, a good neighbor, a good Catholic. I’ve no plans to leave my husband or take up strong drink. I struggle to do what’s right.”

“But for you that’s never as simple as it should be.”

She supposed that was true, but she had no desire to change. She could no more stop thinking than she could grow wings and fly.

She tried to make light of their conversation. “If I make the wrong choice, I’m certain you’ll tell me.”

“And will you listen?”

“I’ll always listen to you, Father.” But would she obey? It was a different question entirely.

He seemed to know further discussion would be fruitless. “Tell Katie and Seamus I’ll be by on the morrow to see the new baby.”

“I will. And thank you for pulling my cart.”

He smiled down at her, but his blue eyes seemed to be searching her soul. “Have a good day, Lena. God’s blessings.”

She watched him go, trying to put his warning out of her head. But hours later, when she was sitting beside Katie holding her hand as she labored to bring her new son into the world, Lena was still thinking about the things he had said.

19

November 1882

L
ena had a new dress, the first she had owned that was hers alone. It hadn’t belonged to an aunt or a cousin; it hadn’t been passed on to her from someone wealthier who had tired of it. She bought the fabric, dark green wool, from a store near St. Brigid’s after an autumn storm blew away the roof. With clever cutting and a contrasting ivory collar to hide water stains, she had fashioned a simple garment that—after a few frustrating errors—fitted her perfectly. Katie had given her an ivory comb that was better suited to Lena’s heavy red hair, and Rowan had presented her with three carved whalebone buttons he’d discovered in a shop off Public Square. Christmas was still weeks away, but she already had her gifts.

She finished the dress just in time for Mass and the trip to Euclid Avenue to see the sleighing.

“You’re sure it will do?” Lena held the skirt away from her slender body and twirled for Terence one last time.

“Lena, you’ll turn daft spinning that way. You’re lovely. The dress is lovely. It will be my pleasure to escort you this afternoon. I’ll be the luckiest man on the Avenue.”

She decided there was nothing left for the poor man to say. She threw herself into his arms and slumped against him to catch her breath. “We’ll have such fun, Terry!”

“That we will. After St. Brigid’s.”

“I’m so thankful it snowed.” She pushed herself away and clasped her hands. Her eyes were glowing, and she couldn’t keep from smiling.

Terence didn’t smile back. In fact, he looked troubled. “You have little enough fun, don’t you? You’re young still, but no one would know it by how hard you work.”

“I don’t mind working hard, but I won’t mind playing hard, as well.” She pinched the corners of his mouth to force a smile. “Have you forgotten how?”

He gathered her close and held her against him for another moment. “You’ll help me remember.”

The sun shone brilliantly on the walk to St. Brigid’s. The ground was cloaked in shimmering white; the trees and roofs of Whiskey Island’s shanties looked as if they’d been dipped in fairy dust. For once the wind was still and the air was crisp.

They greeted friends along the road, and more as they climbed higher. Others were on their way to Mass, entire families with stair-step children parading before them. Old women with heavy shawls hiding their heads, young women in wide-brimmed hats searching each clump of humanity for a likely young man. Dogs frolicked on snowbanks, along with grubby-faced urchins who slid to the bottom huddled in splintering wooden crates.

The church, built of gray stone, was a substantial if uninspired building that kept out the cold as it kept hope glowing inside. Lena’s good mood was irrepressible. Despite her misgivings, with Terence beside her and the people of Irishtown Bend crowded in the pews surrounding her, she felt warmth seeping into her unreceptive soul. As she knelt and stood and made the sign of the cross, she watched Father McSweeney, transformed from a lowly priest into an instrument of God. His rich bass filled the sanctuary as he completed the ancient rituals. He was no longer a simple man, a good man called to service, but a warrior come to drive the devil from their souls.

By the time she returned from taking Holy Communion, all her doubts, her petty rebellions, seemed childish and unworthy. In the golden light of flickering candles and sunshine softly muted by ash-streaked windows, her mind wandered and she gave silent voice to the unthinkable.

She had not bled in six weeks, a far longer time than she had ever gone before. At first she had simply believed she was wrong, that she was confused because one week was so much like the next, and she had little to mark her days. But as day followed day and her bleeding still didn’t commence, the possibility that she might be pregnant was inescapable.

She had prayed so often in this very place to give Terence a child. Now she considered the likelihood that her prayers had been answered at last.

Terence couldn’t know what she was thinking, but he chose that moment to brush against her, his body warm and solid, still the source of her greatest pleasure. She realized he was gazing at her, and she smiled a little, although she kept her eyes focused straight ahead. She wondered what it would feel like to hold Terence’s child in her arms, to feed it at her meager breasts. The child would be another life for which they were responsible, but the joy it would bring! No child could be wanted more.

Snow was falling when they emerged. Lena’s newly cleansed heart lifted in anticipation of the fun still to come. Terence tucked her arm under his. “I’ve another surprise for you.”

She frowned, because he was leading her away from the road back to Whiskey Island. “What sort of surprise would that be? I have a husband to feed before we set off for the Avenue.”

“That would be the surprise. You won’t be cooking today.”

She was astonished. She couldn’t remember a meal she hadn’t helped with, not since she was old enough to light a fire on the hearth. “Terence, have you—”

He silenced her with a finger over her lips. “We’ve saved enough money, Lena. I inquired on Friday afternoon. We’ve saved enough to buy passage for my mam and da. I’ll be purchasing their tickets next week and posting them to Ireland. When the weather warms in the spring, they’ll be here with us.”

They had waited so long for this, and she hadn’t even realized how close they were. With Terence’s parents in Cleveland, they would only need to send money to Lena’s mother in Dublin. The little house on Whiskey Island would be crowded, particularly if a baby arrived. But living together, they could save quickly.