Into the Storm (26 page)

N
athaniel Brewster led them west along Merrimack Street, a wide well-paved avenue full of fine office blocks, shops, and municipal buildings. Well-dressed people were everywhere on the sidewalks. Street boys were offering to shine boots.

Further along, in the area known as the Acre, there was little commerce save liquor stalls and small groceries. Almost all the houses were three- and four-story wooden tenements, red or white in color with three dull wooden steps leading to porches or narrow front doors flanked by deteriorating wooden columns.

“Here we are, Eighty-seven Cabot Street,” Nathaniel said, coming to a stop before a large white clapboard house. It rose to a height of three stories and had a gray slate-covered roof, dormer windows, and chimneys at either end.

While hardly a new building, it was certainly not in a state of collapse, as Maura had expected. That was reassuring. Even so, she had made up her mind that if her impression of this Mrs. Hamlyn was poor, she would refuse to stay.

Nathaniel banged the door knocker. A small woman looked out. Her pale forehead was high, her eyes large but mild, her mouth a Cupid's bow. On a gray head of hair — parted in the middle and tied behind her neck — was perched a white house cap. She wore a dark green floor-length dress with long sleeves. The only touch of brightness was a multi-colored striped bow at her throat.

Maura thought her severe.

“A good day to you all,” the woman said in a surprisingly soft voice. “May I be helpful?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hamlyn,” the young man said, hastily removing his cap. “I hope you remember me? Nathaniel Brewster. I came by last week, inquiring about boarding for friends.”

“So you did …,” the woman said. Her eyes swept over Maura, Patrick, and Bridy, taking note of their poor clothing as well as their bare feet. All she said, however, was, “Won't you come in out of the cold.” Pulling the door fully open, she beckoned them to enter.

The parlor to which the woman led them was a large room dominated by a deep fireplace. Some ten unmatched chairs had been placed randomly about. There was a horsehair sofa and a table upon which lay a large Bible and a few small token books. Faded pictures of flowers hung upon blue-papered walls. In one corner stood a tall grandfather clock, ticking loudly. The floor was partially covered by an oval braided rug of many colors.

Neither Maura, Patrick, nor Bridy had ever been in such a fine warm room. To them it spoke of riches. Maura was certain they could not afford to stay in such a grand place.

“Please be seated,” Mrs. Hamlyn urged. Only Maura sat, and it was on the edge of a chair. Patrick and Bridy stood nervously by her side. Nathaniel also stood.

Once her guests had arranged themselves, Mrs. Hamlyn seated herself, folding her delicate hands neatly in her lap.

“Well now,” the woman began, “as I recall, Mr. Brewster, you spoke of a young woman and her mother. Are you the mother of this girl?” she asked Maura.

“If it please you, mistress,” Maura replied very quietly, “I'm the young woman.”

“And your mother?”

“She chose … not to come,” Maura said with difficulty.

Mrs. Hamlyn's brow furrowed briefly. “I see. And you've come from Ireland?”

“Faith, only yesterday.”

“And was it a fair voyage?”

“We're glad to be in America, mistress.”

Mrs. Hamlyn allowed herself to smile. “And your name, my dear?”

“Maura O'Connell, if you please.”

“Tell me about these other young people.”

“This is my brother, Patrick. And here … my sister, Bridy.”

Bridy, hearing the word
sister
, looked around at Maura in surprise.

“Miss O'Connell,” Mrs. Hamlyn continued, “as I understand it, you've come to America expecting your father to meet you.”

Maura looked down. “By the Holy Mother, that's true.”

“But Mr. Brewster has informed me that, alas, he has passed away. I am most sorry.”

Grateful for the sympathy, Maura nodded and made herself look up at the woman.

After a moment's silence, Mrs. Hamlyn said, “My dear, this must be hard for you.”

“Yes … please,” Maura whispered, already convinced that Mrs. Hamlyn was a good person.

Mrs. Hamlyn went on. “Mr. Brewster,” she said, “has inquired as to whether you could board here with us.”

“Yes, please. It would be for me and Bridy here,” Maura said, clasping the girl's hand.

“And your brother?”

“He can stay with me,” Nathaniel interjected.

Mrs. Hamlyn nodded. “We keep a simple home, Miss O'Connell, just girls. Mostly Irish. My husband is confined to his bed. We passed his room when we came down the hall. In all probability you'll not see him.

“Our rules are simple. This room is shared with other boarders, all young women like yourself. If you have visitors or gentlemen callers, they may come to this room between the evening hours of eight and nine. The town curfew bells ring at ten. We require you to be in by nine. Exceptions can be made upon a suitable request. The front door is locked at ten. All lights out by ten-thirty. That clock there” — she pointed
to the corner clock — “chimes the hours quite accurately. I wind it every day. There are full meals, of course. We do not allow spirits in the house. And strict moral behavior is expected, or you will be asked to leave.

“We can offer you a small room, with a bed you can share with your sister. You will keep it clean yourself. As to the fee, it is one dollar and twenty-five cents a week, payable in advance. Will that do?”

Maura, having no sense of American money, looked up at Nathaniel.

“Her father left some cash,” the young man said. “Enough for a few weeks. And she'll be looking for work.”

“An operator in the mills?” inquired Mrs. Hamlyn.

“If it pleases,” Maura replied.

Mrs. Hamlyn pursed her lips. “They are hard places to work. It's there my husband …” She checked herself and forced a smile. “But that's neither here nor there. Since Adam and Eve were driven from the Garden, we must toil. Isn't that so? Perhaps I can even be helpful in finding employment for you. A landlady's recommendation will often suffice.

“But for now, would you like to inspect the room?”

“I'll be pleased to have it,” Maura said in a low voice.

Mrs. Hamlyn nodded. “Then, Miss O'Connell, consider it yours. You may have your things brought directly to the house.”

“Please, mistress,” Maura whispered in deep shame, “we have nothing.”

Mrs. Hamlyn considered Maura anew. “How old are you, my dear?”

“Fifteen.”

“Miss O'Connell, if I may be so bold, there is much of life to come.”

L
eaving Patrick and Nathaniel in the parlor, the landlady gathered up her skirts and led Maura and Bridy up two flights of steep stairs to the top of her house. In an alcove she opened a door and invited the two to step inside.

The room was spotlessly clean, with a gabled window that flooded the small space with sunlight. There was a single bed covered by a quilt of many colors, as well as a small chest of drawers upon which sat a white pottery basin and water pitcher. The walls were white too, adorned with a print of George Washington praying in the snow on bent knee.

To Maura's eyes the room was the most beautiful she had ever seen. Its warm simplicity filled her with peace. “It's wonderful fine,” she said softly.

“Oh, yes, the necessary is out back.”

“The necessary?”

Mrs. Hamlyn blushed. “The privies. Now then, we don't have keys for the rooms. We trust one another.”

“Thank you, mistress,” Maura whispered.

“You'll want to say good-bye to your brother, I'm sure.”

“If it pleases,” Maura agreed.

As they were going down the steps, Mrs. Hamlyn paused. “Miss O'Connell, some of the other girls and young ladies who have boarded left any number of garments and shoes. If you'd care to have some of them, that will be fine. No doubt we can find something for your sister too. I'll lay them outside your door. You may pick and choose.”

“You're a fountain of blessings.”

“Miss O'Connell, I take my Bible seriously. ‘And if a
stranger sojourn with thee in your land, ye shall not vex him.' I'm quoting from Leviticus.”

In the parlor Maura took Patrick aside to say good-bye. “Now, Patrick,” she said to her clearly troubled brother, “Mr. Brewster said you'll not be far at all. So it's no real parting, is it? And as I'm standing here, I'm vowing by all that's holy that as soon as we have money enough, we'll find a place for the three of us.”

“Can I see you later?” Patrick asked. “Today?”

“Faith, of course you can.” Quickly they agreed to all meet again in Mrs. Hamlyn's parlor at eight that evening. Nathaniel promised to bring the money Mr. O'Connell had left.

As soon as the young men went, Maura and Bridy returned to their room. Once there, they stood in the middle of it, afraid to touch anything.

Maura sighed. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she said, “it smells so sweet and fine, I'm thinking of a spring flower.”

Bridy nodded.

With some trepidation, Maura sat on the bed. She touched the quilt gently, thrilling at the fine work, the multitude of colors. She marveled too at the thickness of the mattress, almost two inches.

Now exhaustion seized her. Her whole body felt leaden. She yawned. She lay back and closed her eyes. The bed was wonderful.

After a moment she opened her eyes. Bridy was still standing nearby.

“Come, Bridy,” Maura said, patting the place by her side to entice the girl. “There's room for you.”

Bridy, as silent as ever, lay down, arms stiffly at her sides.

Maura stared up at the ceiling. There were minute cracks upon it. It made her think of the innumerable wanderings of the many streams back home in Ireland.

By her side, Bridy stirred slightly.

“Are you like me then, Bridy?” Maura asked softly. “Awful tired but unable to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Bridy, love, I've been thinking how peaceful it is here in
this new world. Sure, but America is as fine as people say. What would you be thinking?”

“Am I …,” Bridy faltered, “am I really to be your sister?”

Maura shifted her head. The girl — her brow furrowed — was staring at her with eyes full of sadness. Her mouth — soft and moist like an infant's — was trembling.

“Bridy Faherty,” Maura said gently, “aren't you already a sister to me? And don't you know that I have no better friend?”

When Bridy said nothing, Maura reached out and put her arms about the girl and hugged her close. In response Bridy pressed herself against Maura and began to cry, the first time since her family died.

“It's a kind and gentle place, Bridy,” Maura whispered into the sobbing girl's ear while softly stroking her hair. “And look up at the sun on the ceiling now. Sure, but it's dancing with a kind of joy.”

Bridy looked to see for herself, but her eyes were too full of tears. She turned back to Maura, who smiled, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

For a long while Bridy watched Maura's face. Then she leaned forward and softly kissed her cheek. In her sleep, Maura sighed and drew the girl closer. Bridy smiled.

P
atrick struggled to keep up with Nathaniel's long strides. The young man was absorbed in thoughts he chose not to share, so Patrick — hugging himself against the cold — contented himself by looking about the neighborhood. What he had seen of America, he liked.

“Mr. Brewster,” he finally asked, “is there no one living here about?”

Nathaniel laughed. “Sure there are. But they're working.”

“All of them?”

“Lowell is nothing without work. Lots of it goes on in rooms. Women doing sewing. Or stitching shoes. It's not bad out today but still too cold to be sitting in the sun.”

“Do you work?”

Nathaniel laughed again. “Of course I do. I took the time off to fetch you.”

“I'd like to earn some money,” Patrick said after a while.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

Nathaniel shook his head doubtfully. “You can try, but it won't be easy. There's not too much work to be had these days, and they're kind of particular in the mills.”

“Faith, I can do what they ask,” Patrick said stoutly.

“Better wait until you see one,” Nathaniel cautioned. “Some of the foremen can be fussy.”

After they had gone a bit farther, Nathaniel said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Does your sister have a beau?”

“A what?”

“A fellow she's keen on?”

Patrick looked up at Nathaniel. The young man looked very somber. “Not that I know,” the boy said.

Nathaniel smiled.

It was not long before they went down the side of a building, then through the back door and up the stairs to the small cold room that Nathaniel called home. Once there, he lit the lamp and set to work getting a fire started in the stove.

Patrick remained standing tentatively by the door.

“That was your father's bed,” Nathaniel said gently, pointing. “You can have it if you'd like.”

Patrick stared at it. “Did my da … die there?” he asked softly.

“He did.”

The boy crossed himself.

“I reckon you'll want some shoes,” Nathaniel said finally. He pulled his storage box out from under the bed and extracted a pair of boots. Though not new, they looked sound. “They were your father's,” he explained. “Maybe you can use them.” He held them out.

Patrick took the boots into his hands. “Did he get them in America?” he asked.

“He did.”

Patrick sat on the floor, the boots before him. He looked at Nathaniel. “Sure, but he'd want me to be wearing them, wouldn't he?” he said.

“I think so.”

Patrick pulled one onto his lame foot. “It's a bit big,” he said with disappointment.

“Nothing to it. We can get some paper and stuff them with it,” Nathaniel suggested.

“Could I be getting some now?” Patrick asked, pulling the boot off.

“I think I saw some around the front of the house,” Nathaniel said. “People leave it.”

“Can I look?”

“Go on down the way we came.”

Feeling a sense of adventure, Patrick easily made his way down the steps. By the front of the house, on the porch, he found a stack of old newspapers.

And then he heard voices. He turned around. Three boys were watching him from the street.

In a glance Patrick saw that they were all older than he, certainly bigger. Their coats were bigger still. Each carried a small box on which was crudely written,
SHINE
, 2c. Patrick had no idea what that meant.

“What are you looking at?” the biggest boy called to him in a sneering voice.

“Sure, nothing much at all,” Patrick answered in as neutral a voice as he could muster.

The three boys grinned at one another. The biggest said, “Jeb, Tom, I think we've got a Paddy. That right?”

“What?” Patrick asked.

“A dumb papist. An Irishman,” Jeb said sarcastically. “Eh, Nick?”

Patrick stared at them, baffled by their hostility.

“Can you fight?” Tom demanded. Though Patrick saw no humor in the question, the other boys laughed uproariously. “Or have you already had too much to drink?” the boy asked. This remark was considered even funnier by his companions. They laughed louder than before.

Patrick took a step back.

Nick advanced toward the porch. The two others followed, pushing and shoving at each other. “Come on down here,” Nick called.

Patrick, alarmed but not knowing what else to do, moved nervously toward the corner of the porch steps.

“Now we'll let you go fair and square. All you have to do is fight one of us. You can take your pick as to who. Biggest” — he thumped himself on the chest — “or smallest.” He pushed at Jeb's shoulder.

“F-F-Fight?” Patrick stammered. “But why?”

“Because you're Irish, and we don't like Irish,” Tom cried shrilly. “You're all a filthy lot.”

“But … I'm … not …,” Patrick managed to say.

“Not Irish or not filthy?”

“I'm not filthy.”

“But you are Irish,” Nick said. “Look at you. You don't even have shoes.” He came up the steps and thrust his face close to Patrick, who retreated, tripped, and fell backward.

“There, you see,” cried Nick with glee. “All you have to do is breathe on them, and they fall down!”

Patrick tried to get up.

“Give him a poke, Nick,” Tom called.

Nick reached out, put the flat of his hand on Patrick's shoulder, and pushed, throwing him back again.

“Go back to where you came from, Paddy,” Nick cried. “You're not wanted here!” He brushed off his hands as if they had been dirtied.

Jeering and laughing, the three boys marched off.

Full of humiliation, Patrick watched them go. Eyes welling with tears, breathing hard, he gathered up some paper and carried it back to the room.

It was much warmer than when he had left it. Nonetheless he shivered.

“Find any paper?” Nathaniel asked over his shoulder.

Patrick, unable to speak, held it up. Then he sat down on his bed and began to crumple the newspaper and shove it into one of the boots' toes. As he did, tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Here, what's the matter?” Nathaniel asked. “Is it your father's boots?”

Patrick shook his head. Then he said, “Mr. Brewster, do they not like the Irish in America?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Sure, out on the street just now, weren't there three mocking me, wanting to fight.”

“Three who?”

“Boys.”

No sooner did Patrick speak than Nathaniel ran from the room, down the stairs, and out into the street. The boys were nowhere in sight. As he climbed back to the room, he wondered if they were the same ones who had brought on Mr. O'Connell's heart attack. He was not sure what he should say to Patrick.

“Did you see them?”

“Nope,” Nathaniel replied.

“They wanted me to fight. And pushed me down.”

Nathaniel knelt before the boy and helped him pull on a boot. “There are some like that. But not many.” He looked up. “Anyway, a strong lad like you will be able to take care of himself.”

Patrick, stuffing the second boot with paper, was not so sure.