Speak Through the Wind (17 page)

Kassandra could now make out the little woman, herself nearly wedged between Mrs. Fisher’s legs, which were now bare to the thighs and spread wide across the bed.

“Kassandra, come.”

Imogene’s voice was tainted with urgency, but Kassandra felt herself rooted to the floor. The new light allowed her to distinguish two scabby heads plastered against her, eyes shut against the terror of the scene around them. Kassandra’s arms encircled them, holding them near. She made no reply, only shook her head violently against the idea of leaving this spot.

“Come here,” Imogene repeated, this time looking up from the impending birth to give Kassandra a pointed stare. “I need help.”

“I—I would not know what to do,” Kassandra said.

Imogene merely hissed—a sound that carried more weight than any amount of words possibly could. Kassandra carefully dislodged herself from the clinging children, tucked her coat tightly around them, and went to stand just behind Imogene.

“You see there?” Imogene said, gesturing for young Patty to bring the light closer. “Head. And part of shoulder.”

Kassandra looked, and shuddered a bit.

“She not strong enough to push baby out. She need sit up to push down.”

The women worked together to force Mrs. Fisher into a sitting position. Imogene grabbed her legs and turned her so that they dangled over the side of the bed, and Kassandra maneuvered the woman until her hips were perfectly balanced on the edge of the mattress.

“Hold her up,” Imogene said.

Kassandra sat next to Mrs. Fisher on the bed, her strong hands firmly gripping the slack woman’s shoulders.

“Now, sing.”

“What?”

“Sing. It soothe mother.” Imogene offered a slight glance around the shadowed room. “It soothe children.”

“Why don’t you sing?” Kassandra asked.

“I busy,” Imogene said, settling herself on the floor at Mrs. Fisher’s feet.

Sing. Kassandra didn’t sing, at least she hadn’t since coming away with Ben. She wracked her brain for a song, but only the bawdy tunes of the tavern came to mind. Even though Mrs. Fisher had spewed countless profanities from her toothless mouth, Kassandra wasn’t about to contribute to the vulgarity with a ditty about Marie in her red petticoat. So she searched back further, back to her days with Reverend Joseph, her hours spent in the front pew, the voices of the congregation, and her heart became still.

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow …”

The note lingered in the air, tremulous and uncertain, wrapped in the steam of Kassandra’s breath. The sound of her voice in song was as new to this world as the babe attempting to be born, and at the sound of it, the faces of all of Mrs. Fisher’s other children turned to look at her in wide-eyed wonder.

“That good,” Imogene said, not looking up. “Sing that.”

Kassandra didn’t want to, but she cleared her throat and began again.

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow

Praise Him, all creatures here below

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

“Again,” Imogene commanded.

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.

She sang the chorus several times, each repetition urged on by Imogene, each repetition stronger and surer, both of the notes and the words and the wealth of history and comfort behind them. Her singing was accompanied by the intermittent screams and moans of Mrs. Fisher, forcing Kassandra to strengthen her voice to cover the sounds of agony that threatened to overshadow the blessing of the simple doxology. During one rendition, when Mrs. Fisher slumped silently against her, Kassandra noticed that her voice was not the only one in the room. She paused a bit in the third line and noticed that the clear, pure voice of Patty carried on—

“… above, ye heavenly host …”

And, encouraged by their sibling’s courage, tiny mewling from the others—

“Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

Just then there was a final, exhausted yelp from Mrs. Fisher, and a new voice entirely joined the room. This one was full and wet, and the shock of it silenced all but Kassandra and Imogene, who joined together in a final, whispered, “Amen.”

“New sister,” Imogene said, directing her announcement to the stoic Patty, whose arm was violently shaking now, casting erratic shadows along the bare walls of the little flat. “Put that down now. Bring my bag.”

The child obeyed.

Kassandra continued to shoulder the weight of the now immobile Mrs. Fisher. She watched as Imogene reached into her bag, pulled out a length of clean white cloth, and handed the wet, squirming bundle of baby over to Patty, who held it with great reverence and skill. Imogene fished in her bag yet again to bring out some instrument with a sharp silver blade that winked in the waning light of the lamp.

Kassandra closed her eyes, the darkness a welcome change from the eerie shadows of the room. The body resting in her arms seemed every bit as helpless as the one beginning to quiet in Patty’s. Imogene continued to hum the doxology and Kassandra silently filled in the words, wondering how on earth God could be praised in this place.

“Lay her down now,” Imogene said.

Gingerly, responding to Mrs. Fisher’s wincing discomfort, Kassandra eased the woman back down on the mattress. No sooner had she done so than Patty deposited yet another bundle in her arms. Kassandra had never held a baby before, and the weight of it coupled with the weight within her took her last bit of breath from her.

“She is beautiful,” Kassandra said after a time.

The tiny pink mouth pursed from side to side, then gaped in a yawn destined to overtake the newborn face. A little fist popped out of the bundle of rags encasing the child, and Kassandra brought her own hand to it, offering her smallest finger to be clutched.

“She is just perfect, isn’t she?”

“Just.” Imogene took the child—tugged, actually—from Kassandra and began to rub the tiny body vigorously with the clean cloth. “But cold. Too cold. Need wrap her up in something warm. And clean.”

A thorough search of the flat revealed nothing appropriate, at least nothing up to the standards Kassandra instantly created for this new life. Nothing, that is, until her fingers grazed her wool muffler, still folded nicely, still lying where she had deposited it. She unfolded it to its full length, doubled the fabric, and handed it to Imogene.

“Here, use this.”

Imogene took the muffler from Kassandra’s outstretched hand, laid it on the bed and, after fastening the last bit of clean cloth around the baby’s bottom, wrapped her tightly within it.

“You go now,” Imogene said, never taking her eyes off the child. “It late.”

“What about you?”

“I stay. Wait for mother to wake.”

“How will I find my way back?” Kassandra had no idea how long they had been in this place, but she was certain any remnants of daylight were long gone.

“You find.”

Kassandra nodded and bent to pick up her coat. The children beneath it were quite still, and closer inspection showed that they were asleep. The coat was still tucked snug around them, and the idea of dislodging it and exposing them yet again to the bitter chill of the room tore at Kassandra’s heart.

“Take mine,” Imogene said, nodding toward the pile of discarded garments at the foot of the bed.

Kassandra smiled, knowing that Imogene’s coat would sooner fit Patty than herself. Instead, she picked up the rough-knit shawl that she had so fervently clutched in following Imogene up the dark stairwell and wrapped it as tightly as she could around her. Her gloves were hopelessly lost in the dark shadows, but no matter. She asked Patty to accompany her to the building’s entrance, bringing the light so that she would not get lost within the bowels of the tenement, and the child—after looking to Imogene for permission—nodded and opened the door.

Just as Kassandra was about to step over the threshold, she turned to Imogene and said, “What kind of life is this for a child?”

Imogene surprised her by emitting a slight, rasping laugh. “Maybe this one get lucky. Get kicked by a horse.”

It was, indeed, dark. This was a street largely left without street lamps, and the minute Patty escorted Kassandra over the threshold of the building and onto the snowy steps below, Kassandra was disoriented. From which direction had they come? She took a few tentative steps to the left; then, unsatisfied, turned to walk in the opposite direction, coming into full collision with a tower of a man.

“You were right the first time,” said a familiar voice, and she looked up to see Sean, whose firm grip steadied her. “Mr. Connor would want me to see you home.”

“Does—does he know where I am?” Kassandra asked, overtaken with a new fear.

“Not exactly.” Sean took her elbow and urged her to walk with him. “I only told him that you left with Miss Imogene.”

“Oh.”

“You’re cold,” Sean said as he unbuttoned his jacket.

“No,” Kassandra said, stilling his motion with her hand. “Just … walk with me. I am quite fine.”

“As you wish,” he said, his dark eyes giving no hint of emotion.

They walked as quickly as the snow and the refuse of the streets would allow, dodging the occasional reeling drunkard and huddled body She was grateful for the silence of her escort—just as grateful as she was for the steadying hand when she encountered the occasional patch of ice. The brisk walk did warm her somewhat, though the tip of her nose and ears burned with cold. Yet she harbored no regret for the loss of her muffler, only steeled herself to face the biting wind head-on.

Soon everything looked familiar, and just around the next corner would be the Mott Street Tavern, with its usual robust crowd filling a room that would actually be too warm, and above it, the flat that now seemed palatial. Before they actually turned the corner, though, Sean stopped straight in his tracks and grabbed Kassandra’s arm.

“What is it?” she asked, looking up into his face that, for the first time, showed an expression close to fear.

“Mr. Connor would kill me for this, you know,” he said.

“For seeing me home? I do not think so.”

“Not for that,” Sean said, glancing furtively around. “For this.”

He reached for Kassandra’s hand and, once it was firmly in his grasp, pulled her close.

“What are you—” Before she could finish, she felt something placed firmly within her hand. She glanced down and saw that it was a crumpled bit of paper. She unfolded it and saw the familiar handwriting on the outside of an envelope. The sight of it caused her legs to nearly buckle beneath her, and she would have welcomed Sean’s steadying hand. But when she looked up, he was gone, his tall frame disappearing just around the corner.

She was standing just under a streetlamp, and with shaking fingers she opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper within.

My Dearest Sparrow
,

I do not know when you will get this letter, or what state you will be in once you receive it. I only know that I pray continuously for your safety. Please do not feel that I have abandoned you. Quite the opposite. The minute I returned home to find you gone I began my search, but it was soon made clear to me, by persons of whom you are by now well aware, that any attempt to bring you home would be most unwelcome. I have been assured that you are safe and well, perhaps even happy, and while I cannot fully understand your decision to leave, I will trust that it was a choice made with the utmost prayerful consideration.

Please know that, should you ever decide to return, there is always a home for you here, warm and welcoming. And remember the conclusion to the Gospel of Matthew, as our Lord promises, “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.”

She should have felt something—relief at knowing his concern, regret for having left, joy at the possibility of return, uneasiness at knowing she was at the end of the world. But what she felt instead was an utter distance from the man who had written this letter, as if it were a polite correspondence from a long-lost relative. It had the formality and voice of a purely social epistle. He wasn’t begging her to come back, wasn’t exhibiting that ‘he was beside himself with grief. It was months ago that Kassandra gave up waiting for him to come pounding on the door to take her home. Months, in fact, since she had thought of his house as her home.

Sean seemed to think he risked his life to deliver the message. Kassandra smiled. How much greater that risk would have been last summer. For now, she was nearly numb with cold, and the thoughts of returning to Reverend Joseph were dulled behind the impossibly long, cold journey it would be to get there.

She took one last look at the letter before folding it into her skirt pocket and pulling Imogene’s shawl tightly around her. There was no date on the letter; Kassandra had no idea how long ago Reverend Joseph had written it, or how she would ever reply.

Right now, neither question mattered. Ben would have questions of his own.

he youngest Fisher was not the only child Kassandra would see into the world that winter. For the next two months she accompanied Imogene on countless visits. Sometimes the occasion was even a joyous one, as the resounding cheer of a celebrating father toasting his newest child streamed from the open door of a saloon down the street.