May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (8 page)

Ethan smiles at the recognition of his new stature, even extending his hand to his Da to shake as men do. And his Da takes his hand with a bit of a laugh and a nod of his head, adding only a slap on one shoulder to confirm that his youngest son is a boy no longer.

He is a fine and
brave
young man, Suah adds with a smile, and Ethan’s Da turns back around to look at Suah again, this time less suspicious than before.

This is Suah, Da, Ethan says, like one man introducing two of his lads to each other. Suah, this is me Da.

And they shake hands and share a few compliments about Ethan, and then Da mentions about how he was expectin’ the ship to arrive at the South Street Port and so on, Suah sharing a few details about the fever and landing on this side of the island and so forth. Ethan is quiet as he watches the men talk for maybe a minute, but then realizes that his life has just taken another leap into something new, this voyage, as always, filled with goodbyes, first Aislinn, then Mam and Aunt Em, the Quigleys … and now Suah. And the thought of it begins to bring the water to his eyes, just as his Da is gettin’ ready to take him home.

T’anks fer lookin’ after me boy, his Da says to Suah, extending his hand toward him.

Ethan wants to tell him that he’d done a whole lot more than that, that he’d saved his life and gave him food and even waited these hours
with him here on the pier. But the water’s pressin’ on his eyelids now, and he can’t say a thing, lest it escape down his cheeks and he go back to bein’ a boy instead of the man he’d just asserted himself as. Suah offers his hand to Ethan and places his other on Ethan’s shoulder.

Goodbye Etan, he says.

And Ethan can only respond meekly, Goodbye Suah, in kind, squinting to keep the water in his eyes from getting out.

His Da and Suah shake hands again, and as Da begins to reach into his pocket Suah shakes his head and holds up the book.

Your son give me dis book, he says, smiling broadly. I t’ink of you ev’ry time I read from it, Etan.

And that’s the end for them, with just a final wave from the distance once Ethan and his Da have made their way back to the pier and are headed off into the vast wilderness of the city. When they’re far enough away, Da asks him about Suah, and Ethan starts to explain about Mrs. Quigley and the storage container and readin’ and such, and it all comes out so fast that it’s just a jumbled mess, and his father’s expression becomes more confused.

You’ll see some colored folks around here too, lad, he says. We try t’keep t’ahr own the way this place is, but you come across a good man dere in yer friend. Sometimes you can tell that about a man, straight off … ahhhh lad, you’ll see how it is soon enough.

New York is a collection of sights, sounds, and smells unlike anything he could’ve ever imagined. The buildings are four and five and six stories high with one of them right next to another. In Liverpool he’d seen his first buildings this tall, but there were only a few of them. Here there are hundreds. There’s a very tall church spire that stands out from all of them, Trinity Church, his Da tells him, and in the valleys between the great buildings is the strangest element of all, the people.

It’s all a stunning, frightening, and oddly exhilarating assault on the senses. In the first few blocks they walk, he hears several languages, sees a few men who look like they could pass for nobility back in Ireland, and more than a few who resemble the battered masses by the docks in Liverpool. He sees women dressed in ways his mother would surely not approve of, and speakin’ to passersby in ways that make him blush. On another corner, near where the well-dressed men are gathered,
there’s a preacher or politician of some sort standing on a wooden crate and shouting at them about the evils of slavery.

Eventually they emerge from the tall buildings and are back at the water, and his excitement grows when he sees two dark-skinned men seated against a wooden gate by one of the ships. These two men, still at a distance from him, look like they’re wearin’ the same sort of clothes Suah did on the ship. And as he and his father approach them, Ethan begins to think that maybe they work on the ships too, that maybe they’ll know Suah and can invite him to come visit him in Brooklyn, the way he would’ve done before if the water hadn’t been in his eyes. But that hope is quickly forgotten as they approach the two men and he sees the chains connecting their wrists and ankles together. There’s a man standin’ right next to them with his hands propped on his hips, watching them, then lookin’ over at the ship they’re in line to board. And Ethan can’t help but stare at the three of them, the two dark-skinned men with the sort of expressions bein’ chained up should produce, and the white man with his right hand just a few inches from the gun in his belt. After he and his Da are well past them, Ethan can’t hold back the question.

Why’d those two men have chains on ’em? he asks. Were dey criminals?

His Da seems unhappy to hear the question, like it’s something he’d rather not discuss.

Most loikely runaways, lad, his Da says.

Runaways? Ethan asks.

And then his Da looks and shakes his head a little.

Oi’m sorry you had t’see that on yer first day here lad, he says. Dose colored fellas musta been slaves down sout’ an’ run off up here lookin’ for dere freedom.

But it doesn’t fit together in Ethan’s mind.

So if dey made it up here, how come dey got chains on ’em still? he asks.

Well, dat fella wit’ the gun next to ’em musta been a slave-catcher who’s bringin’ ’em back down sout’, Da answers.

And Ethan worries that maybe the slave-catcher, or someone like him, will spot Suah and try to put him in chains and bring him back
to Coo-bah, which he knows is south of New York. He imagines what would happen, how Suah would never stand for it and would fight the man, and maybe the man would have to shoot him. And the worry must show on Ethan’s face, because his Da puts his arm around his shoulders and pulls him to his side.

Ahh, don’t worry lad. Sure yer friend is safe. Now … dis is South Street Port, an’ dat’s th’East River, his Da continues, pointin’ to the water. Where you landed on th’udder soide o’ th’island is th’Hudson River—named after th’explorer. An’ Brooklyn is over dere.

Brooklyn is much smaller, disappointing by comparison. Everything looks more spread out on the Brooklyn side of the river, and the docks are filled with mostly fishing boats and ferries, it seems, with only a few ships the size of those on this side of the river. Onboard the steamboat ferry, Ethan watches the paddlewheel propel them forward as Da tells him what the past few weeks have been like. It sounds like a grand adventure, with him up before sunrise every mornin’ to take out a small boat called a
skiff
and fish for a few hours. That’s his new profession, he tells him with a proud smile.

Yer Da’s a fisherman just loike Saint Peter himself, he says with a laugh, before filling him in on the rest of his routine.

After sellin’ the fish at the pier, it was the ferry over to South Street, where he’d checked on all the ships that arrived there. Then he’d walked across Manhattan to the Hudson River side to see if maybe Ethan had landed there.

Three cents each way on da ferry for da past t’ree weeks lookin’ for you, his Da laughs. I’m glad you showed up today, because we was runnin’ outta money.

At first Ethan feels guilty for having put him out so, but then is happy that his Da would go to all that trouble. They land at a place called Fulton Street amidst a flurry of pedestrians as Da continues explaining everything he can to him, saying how Brooklyn’ll one day be as big as New York, but for now they get to live in a nice quiet little piece of it out in the distance more than a mile away.

That’s Red Hook, Da says, pointing south along the shore.

And as they walk toward it, the buildings grow smaller and sparser, with farms spread out in the distance inland until, approaching the
settlement of tiny cabins along the shore, Ethan’s struck, practically dumbfounded, by a sight that’s become foreign to him. He hadn’t seen it in the last weeks in Ireland, nor on the long walk to Newry or in Liverpool, and certainly not in the weeks on the ship. But here it is, a strange and most welcome sight to be sure. Out in the open fields, amidst the brilliant late afternoon sunshine, are children
at play
.

They’re mostly around his age, it seems, and there are about a dozen in all. The game involves a ball, a long stick and running around in the field, and everything that’s happened that day and over the past weeks gets put away somewhere inside him now, until all he can think of is being a part of the game.

They call dat
Base
, Da tells him with a smile.

He stares at the game goin’ on as they walk the final steps to the small shanty house his Da says is their home. It’s no bigger than Aunt Emily’s cottage back in Ireland and is made entirely of wood, without a stone or thatch to be seen. His Da has him put his satchel up in the loft that’ll be all his now that Seanny’s found an important job over in New York.

Seanny’s tendin’ streetlamps in da Foive Points, an’ it pays a dollar a day, he tells him, so he found anudder place in dere insteada th’long walk an’ th’ferry back an’ fort’ every day.

When they go outside to see the skiff, Da talks about how he’s planning on
bringin’ over Mam an’ yer Aunt Em, an’ someday buyin’ one o’ dem big brick houses we passed up in Brooklyn Heights
. But Ethan’s attention quickly focuses on the nearby field again, and the game the boys are playing.

Supper’s in an hour, Da says, smilin’. Why doncha play wit’ da lads ’til den.

Ethan smiles back at him and doesn’t have to be told twice as he trots off, amazed to feel himself running for the first time in weeks.

Is Mr. McOwen yer Da? the boy with the stick asks when Ethan approaches them.

Ethan nods.

He told us you was comin’. I’m Terrance Harrison, but the lads call me Harry, he says, extending his hand, talking and acting just like the grown men do. Then he points to the boy standing just a few feet away. This is Finny Caldwell. What’s
yer
name?

Ethan, he replies, shaking the other two boys’ hands as if they’re about to discuss important matters.

So you wanna play Base, Ethan? Finny asks.

I don’t know how.

It’s easy, Harry says. Ya hit th’ball wit’ this bat, an’ run to the tree over there an’ th’one over there an’ back home if you can. Don’t worry—you’ll be knockin’ th’ball into the bay in no time at all.

Ethan has little idea of what Harry’s just explained, and doesn’t care very much either. All that matters is that they play until the sun disappears behind the tall buildings of New York across the river, all the while him thinkin’ just one thing, thinkin’ it’s good to be a
boy
again, if only for these few moments.

And then there’s that night, after they’d gone to sleep. Da’s got to wake up before the sun for the fishing, but not Ethan, not tomorrow at least,
maybe in a day or two lad
, Da said to him. So Ethan slips down the steps of the loft while Da snores like Aunt Em and Mam put together on their worst nights. And it’s nothin’ to slide the latch across the door and push it open, and then step into the late summer air, hot like Ireland never was or he imagined it ever could be. Still, in the air that feels wet without rain
—humid
as Da called it—there’s something mysterious, like Odysseus arriving on a new island, still searching. And Ethan walks out toward the water, as if it’ll bring him closer to his Mam and Aunt Em and Aislinn and everything he’s known. He stands close to the edge of the bay, feeling like Odysseus now more than ever, safe from the ravages of the sea, but somehow … not
home
.

Still, thinking she can hear him, that maybe the Ever After makes such a thing possible, he talks to her, partly in his mind, but partly aloud too, so as to let her know not to worry about him and not to think he’s forgotten about her.

Aislinn
, he whispers … 
I made it, Ais’
.

It’s a birthday ritual that dates back to before Micah can remember. Every March 21, brought out to this same insignificant field. Told the same story by his Daddy. Every year, every birthday, the story grows a little bigger, same as him. And the number attached to it grows larger. This year the number’s seven hundred and forty-three. As in seven hundred and forty-three pounds down. Two hundred and fifty-seven to go. And Micah just turnin’ sixteen years old this very day.

His Daddy’s a storyteller. Spins a yarn like no one else anywhere near
Les Roseraies
can hope to. Isabelle’s just like him. Fixin’ to be the same kinda storyteller when she gets to growin’ up for real. But for now she just peppers Daddy with questions. Leaving Micah and his Momma standin’ like bookends. Either end of Daddy and Isabelle. Doing nothin’ but listening. It’s all right by Momma, who told Micah same time last year what a special day it was for Daddy.