The Edge of Lost (7 page)

9

A
s it turned out, New York wasn’t paradise at all. In fact, even calling it a city was a stretch. It was a wide range of countries clustered on an island, almost as if a series of tornados had swooped from Europe to the Orient, picked up entire neighborhoods—a good many of them poor—and dropped them into the boroughs of New York.

There were no signs declaring
Welcome to Ireland,
or
Entering Russia,
or
Leaving Poland, Come Back Soon.
And yet, excluding some tenements, the borders indeed were there. It took but a few days of roaming for Shan to discover which streets bounded each territory. While many spent what money they could spare on typical American clothing, their efforts to blend appeared to stop there. Shan would cross a street and find himself in a different world. The language would change, both spoken and printed in newspapers, directly matching scents in the air. Chinese spices would give way to baking German dough, or fermenting wine from the basements of Italians.

Now, though, as he wove through Times Square, he smelled only the tang of gasoline from motorcars. Contrary to legend, American streets weren’t paved in gold, just rutted, grimy pavement. All around him people were walking and shouting; carts and delivery trucks rattled and veered. The city itself was a living creature that could swallow a person whole.

Shan glanced at the hulking buildings that for once didn’t make him feel small, not on this wondrous April morning. A day that could change everything.

In his coat pocket he fingered the blessed photograph, just to confirm it was there. Anticipation propelled him around the corner, past a paperboy touting headlines.

No different than in Ireland, here politics abounded from an excess of wants. Unions wanted better pay and conditions. Women wanted the vote. Protestants wanted alcohol banned from the country, of which they were making great strides. Given that reason alone, Uncle Will’s mortal end had come in a timely fashion.

Shan, on the other hand, had only a single desire: to find John Lewis. Yet in the two weeks since arriving, he had made little progress. “Might as well be John Doe,” scoffed a bartender in Manhattan. Shan had been lured into the club by a posted sign, a list of entertainers performing that week. But like in a dozen other places that featured musicians, no workers there were familiar with his father.

The reality that Shan could inquire at a thousand similar spots and still come up short had threatened to overwhelm him. Then last night, to salvage any resettlement funds, he’d emptied his uncle’s satchel. For many days prior, he had waffled over whether or not he should. Aside from the bag being tainted by death, it seemed a test of morals. That was before he recalled that much of the money he’d earned himself, lessening the intrusion.

What he discovered inside came as a shock. For in the paper sack of meager savings was a portrait: a Yank sailor in uniform. And on the back, written in the same hand as the letter to Shan’s mam, was the name
John Lewis
.

The fellow had a slight wave in his hair, which looked to be black. From his dark downturned eyes to rather thin lips, he mirrored Shan a decade older. His ears, too, made for a striking match, with one top rounded and the other more pointed. His skin, however, bore a deeper tone. Hinting to Italian, of all things. Or perhaps Shan’s view had been influenced by time spent with the Capellos.

Whatever the case, Shan now had proof of a father. He was equally thrilled and befuddled that his uncle had not only kept the photo—presumably from the belongings of Shan’s mam—but also packed it for the trip. Until yesterday, it seemed the fame and riches of vaudeville alone had enticed Uncle Will to cross the Atlantic.

But maybe that wasn’t so. Maybe, with Doc O’Halloran’s guidance, Uncle Will had recognized the chance at one act of decency before departing this world.

 

“May I help you?” the secretary said, a second before lifting her gaze from the paperwork on her desk. At seeing Shan, weariness flickered in her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. I was hoping Chief Madison might be available.”

“I see …” The woman wore her flaxen hair tight in a twist. It was her signature style, Shan guessed, based on his prior visits to the Navy recruiting office. Her blouse also was similar to before, with its pearly buttons and petal collar, but this time in dusty blue. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure that will be possible. Chief Madison is rather busy today.”

“But it won’t take more than a few minutes.”

“Yes. I’m sure that’s true, but—”

A hammering rattled the room. The woman glowered at the wall that was being pounded from the other side. Posters featuring drawings of battleships and sailors rippled where they hung, and a wooden chair scooted as if nudged by a ghost. In the second chair a teenage boy continued to flip through
The Saturday Evening Post
. The secretary, troubled by the nuisance, cursed under her breath—just as the noise stopped.

She snapped a glance at the chief petty officer’s closed door, as if to confirm he hadn’t heard. Then she returned to Shan, explaining, “A legal firm is preparing to move in next month. That is, if I don’t burn the place down first.” She smiled without humor, and Shan nodded politely.

“As I was trying to say,” she went on. “I’d be happy to pass along a message for you.” She held a pencil over paper, ready to jot a note.

Ten days ago, Shan had been exploring Broadway, in awe of its playhouses, when the sight of
U.S. Navy
painted on a window reeled him onto a side street. The recruiter on duty had been kind enough to listen to Shan’s case; he suggested checking in after a couple of weeks for any updates on tracking down the right John Lewis.

Today marked Shan’s second visit since.

“I was being hasty, I know, coming back last week,” he admitted. “But I really do need to speak to him in person. You see, I have a photograph this time.”

The woman exhaled as though stifling a sigh. “You do understand this is a recruiting station?”

“Yes, ma’am. I do.”

She set down her pencil. “I’m sure Chief Madison would like to help. But given your situation, I think you’d get further at the Navy Yard. If you just go—”

“But I’ve tried that. They said no one there could help me. That’s why, when I first saw your office, I thought maybe someone here could, and I was right.” Shan smiled to reinforce that he was referring not just to her boss, but to her as well.

The secretary went to reply but held back, and her expression softened. She ignored another burst of hammering, this time resembling a bird tapping a tree. “You say you have a picture?”

Shan tamped his enthusiasm and reached into his pocket.

Holding out her hand, she said, “The chief really does have meetings most of the day. But if you’d care to leave it with me, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

Shan peered at the photo. He hadn’t been aware of its existence until the night before, but already he considered it a prized possession. Though he’d memorized the sailor’s features—an easy task, given their similarity to Shan’s—he still feared losing his only record of the man.

“I promise to keep it safe,” she said in understanding. “Or … if you’d like to come back with it, you’re welcome to. I just can’t guarantee when Chief Madison will be available. Recruits and Navy business take priority, as you can imagine.”

The phone rang on her desk.

Shan resented the insistence of its metal bell but welcomed the opportunity to think. He weighed his choices as the secretary handled the call.

The sooner the chief received the photo, the faster he could act. Shan struggled to trust anyone, let alone a stranger. But if he wanted to find his father, any such worries couldn’t block the way.

“Yes, three o’clock on Tuesday,” she said to the caller, and wrote something down. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Enjoy your day, as well.”

She hung up the phone and finished her notes. By the time she looked up, Shan had brought himself to relinquish the photograph. She accepted the offering only by its edges, a display of care, fulfilling her word.

“When you hear of anything,” he began.

“You’ll be the first to know,” she said. “And if I can personally help, I certainly will.”

10

O
f all the things the Irish had in common, their knowledge of rain—and by relation, clouds—ranked near the top. Among the most favored were light wispy ones that feathered a summer sky, and billowy puffs the color of milk. You had to enjoy them while they lasted, because inevitably they would darken into a wall of gray, dense and cold and ripe for a storm.

It was that type of cloud Shan now imagined hovering over the dining room, where tension saturated the air. Any moment it would reach its limit, unleashing a downpour on them all. Until then, Shan would quietly eat his supper in the guarded manner he had long ago mastered. And he would try not to dwell on thoughts of the recruiting station—even though three days had passed without a word.

“
Allora,
I forget,” Mrs. Capello said, breaking the silence. “We have bread.” She rose and scurried to the kitchen for what must have been the twentieth time since the meal began, either a motherly habit or an excuse to flee.

A minute later, she offered the small basket of rolls directly to Shan, suggesting she had noticed his trepidation over tonight’s oddities: eggplant fried in oil from olives, paper-thin slices of salty ham, and a grain called “polenta.” On the upside, they were something other than the family’s staple of noodles covered in sauce made of stewed tomatoes, referred to as “macaroni and gravy.” The latter, mind you, bore no resemblance to the gravy Shan knew from Ireland. But Mrs. Capello showed such pride in her menus—supposedly diverse, thanks to a southern Italian grandmother—he always did his best to clean his plate. Besides, food was food.

He accepted a roll with gratitude, then passed the basket to Nick. Once it had made a full round, Mr. Capello picked up the decanter of red wine to refill his glass. Shan, in fact, was the only one at the table not indulging in the drink that appeared to be treated as water.

“Say, Pop,” Nick said, and swallowed a bite of bread. “Since we got a guest, I was wondering if I could borrow a few bucks. Thought I’d take Shan to Coney Island, show him the highlights.”

“Borrow?” Mr. Capello repeated the word as though unfamiliar with the translation. Affording his son barely a glance, he set down the decanter with a little extra force. “Borrow means you pay back.”

“Yeah, I know. And I will. Just need a chance to save up some dough.”

“And you think this
dough
will appear from nothing.”

Nick remarked just loud enough for Shan to hear, “I was hoping it would appear from your pocket, actually.”

Shan dipped his chin to hide a smile as Mrs. Capello reminded her husband not to speak of finances at the table.

“This is not finance,” Mr. Capello said. “This is life.” Then toward Nick, he pinched invisible coins in the air, his hands strong and toughened from his trade as a plumber. “You want money? You work. For five generations, this is how Capello men survive.
Capisci?
”

Across from Shan, Lina observed the scene in her usual way—head tilted, an artist surveying her subjects—until Mrs. Capello scooped a heap of polenta on the girl’s plate. “
Basta,
Mama. I’m full.”

“Eat,” Mrs. Capello said, then returned to her own meal.

Nick slouched in his chair. “Look, Pop. I already talked to Mr. Sarentino. He said there might be an opening this summer to help out at the bowling alley.”

Mr. Capello took a gulp of wine and nodded. “
Va bene
. Then soon you will have enough money for Coney Island.”

Nick started to roll his eyes but apparently knew better. He poked his fork at his remaining food, and silence reclaimed the room. Not a single call rang out from the phone, set on a table near the entry. Though Mrs. Capello would grumble whenever customers interrupted supper—at which her husband would insist, “Pipes do not break on a schedule”—tonight she, too, might have welcomed the distraction.

Shan had once heard Italian family meals were as lively as a circus. But here, the majority of the sounds came from chewing, sipping, and the clinking of silverware, all magnified in the seclusion of a house.

On Maywood Place, in a modest neighborhood not far from Prospect Park, the rented home had two floors and three bedrooms: a small one for Lina, the largest for her parents, and one of moderate size for Nick—shared with Shan for now. A private bathroom and real bedroom doors were luxuries Shan would never again take for granted. There was a sitting room for guests, complete with furniture, and a kitchen with cabinets and drawers.

Shan could only hope that his own father’s dwelling would be just as lovely.

Mrs. Capello caught Shan’s eye and gestured to the last slice of eggplant. “You want more? Uh … yes?” She struggled, as they all did, to know what to call him. As if an immigration officer might be listening at the door.

“I’m just fine. Thank you.”

“Prosciutto?” She lifted the plate of salty ham.

“Really, no, but thanks. My stomach couldn’t fit another bite.”

Shan could feel Mr. Capello watching. The intensity of his eyes could eliminate the heartiest of appetites.
How long will this go on?
the man wanted to know. Or more aptly, with all this talk of money and earning one’s way:
How much longer must I support a stranger’s child?

“Mr. Capello,” Shan said finally, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I found a bit of money from my uncle. If it’s all right, I’d like to contribute in some way.”

Mrs. Capello waved this off. “Nonsense. You will need money until you are living with your father. Mm?” Her gaze dodged that of her husband, who simply finished off his wine.

It went without saying that the predicament was more burdensome than what the couple had agreed upon. If Shan could do anything to speed up the process, by all means he would.

“I should be hearing from the Navy office any day, now that they’ve got the photograph to help.”

Mrs. Capello smiled, but not without effort.

“Say, Ma,” Nick chimed in. “Anything for dessert?”

“
Certo,
” she said with an air of relief. Rising again, she directed Lina to gather the plates.

Soon every person had a piece of cake. To Shan’s dismay, it was soaked with bitter coffee. He worked through it in nibbles, his efforts as strained as Mrs. Capello’s attempts at light chatter.

She spoke about her shock that, in the brief years they’d been gone, the price of steak had shot up to forty-four cents a pound. And about news of a niece in Genoa expecting twin girls. She also discussed her preparation list for the religious feasts in the coming months. From there, in an almost-casual segue, she went on to inform her husband that Shan was well aware of the saints the community would celebrate—as if a Catholic upbringing alone made him welcome beneath their roof.

Unfortunately, her need to make that clear only confirmed the opposite.