The Promise of Home (3 page)

“Yes, they just got word,” Jean said, her voice barely above a whisper. “No one's seen him in four days, since he went out for supplies.”

“Oh, my,” Father O'Brien said.

“They've got people out looking for him, troops mostly, but some private security teams, too. Karen's taking it pretty hard.”

Father O'Brien nodded and went to the kitchen.

Karen looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. “Thank you for coming, Father.”

“Of course,” he replied. Carefully, he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. He waited for Karen to speak.

“I know Jean told you they can't find Nick,” she said. “Four days ago, he and a colleague left work in the morning and never came back. They were supposed to pick up some things for the shop, and they made it to the warehouse and signed for the supplies, but after that…” Her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath. “Someone from his company called, a man. I wrote down his name and number. He said they have people searching for them, retracing their route and all that, but no other information
at this time
.”

Her voice broke as she struggled to finish her sentence. Jean came up behind Karen to put an arm around her shoulders. Ben sat silently across from his mother and stared down at the table. Father O'Brien tried to think what he could say that would bring some comfort.

“Karen, I know Nick is a good man. He's smart and strong. Whatever happened, wherever he is, we have to believe he'll find a way out of the situation. We have to trust that God is looking out for him. Now, listen to me, Karen. You've got to stay strong for Nick, and for your son here. Both of them need you.”

Karen nodded through her tears, and Ben glanced up at him for the first time.

Father O'Brien took Karen's hand and Ben's hand. “Will you join me in asking our Heavenly Father to protect him?”

Karen nodded, and he and Ben bowed their heads. For a moment before he closed his own eyes, he watched Karen's son. Ben was growing up so quickly, and yet he was still so young, perhaps twelve or thirteen. It was a difficult age, at the beginning of the transition from childhood to adulthood, an impressionable time during which the boy would need his father more than ever. He knew exactly how Ben must be feeling. Even now, in the sunset of his life, it was all too easy to remember himself at Ben's age, sitting at his family's table and facing the great uncertainty of his own father's absence.

Saturday, March 17, 1934

F
rom his place at the dinner table, Michael O'Brien watched his mother ladle stew into his father's bowl. His stomach was gnawing at itself, and he tried to ease the uncomfortable feeling by fidgeting in his chair.

“Be still, Michael,” his grandmother whispered from her seat beside him. “You'll get yours in a minute.”

“Thank you, Anna,” his father said as he accepted the bowl from his mother. “This smells delicious.”

“Way better than that Hoover stew they were serving in Burlington.” Seamus, his brother, sat next to their father with his mouth scrunched up in disgust. At twenty-two years old, and over seven years his senior, his brother was a grown man. They had always been opposites. Seamus was brash, impulsive, even rough at times, whereas Michael was quiet and studious.

Seamus and their father had worked at the textile mill in Winooski, and both had been laid off when the hard times hit. Desperate for income, they had accepted menial jobs with the Civil Works Administration in Burlington. The funding for the program had run out, though, and the two of them had taken to walking the few miles into the city each day in the hope of finding odd jobs. They ate at the soup kitchen regularly.

“In times like these, you should be thankful for any food you're given,” his mother said quietly to Seamus. “And tonight, there's plenty of meat, thanks to Michael. He's become quite the hunter.”

Michael smiled, pleased at his mother's praise, even though it had no effect on his empty stomach.

“He has,” his father agreed. “And squirrel's the best wild game there is. How many did you get, son?”

“Six.”

“Well.” His father smiled. “You keep it up. They breed like rats in the trees. The woods will never run out of them, especially with spring on its way. There'll be a whole new crop of them, and other things to hunt, too. So long as you've got your good aim, having fresh meat is one thing your mother won't have to worry about while Seamus and I are away.”

The table fell silent save for the sound of the ladle scraping against the inside of the pot.

Thinking about his father and brother's looming departure was perhaps the only thing that could have pulled Michael's attention away from his hunger. They weren't going to Burlington this time. Instead, his father and brother would use the last of the family's cash to travel to New York, where they had heard that men were being hired to work on the construction of a great bridge connecting the various boroughs of New York City.

“I'm counting on you, Michael,” his father continued. “You'll have to take care of your mother and grandmother while we're gone. It's a lot of responsibility.”

“I will, Father,” Michael said quietly. “I promise.”

Once the food was served and his father opened his eyes after saying grace, Michael snatched up his spoon. He had intended to try to eat slowly so his food would last longer. Still, he couldn't help but take a huge first bite. The hot stew burned his mouth and his throat when he swallowed, but it quieted the ache in his stomach.

It was safer to eat his bread first, and he dipped his piece into the rich gravy in his bowl. While he chewed, he watched the four other members of his family.

His father, Niall, sat at the head of the table. He was tall, with thinning brown hair that faded to gray at the temples. His prominent shoulders were hunched forward as he ate. His tough, sinewy arms evidenced his long years of hard work at the mill.

Anna, his mother, was meek and soft. She had dark hair and a fair complexion. With her dainty wrists and dimpled elbows, she appeared doll-like next to the lean, rugged form of his father.

“This is good, Anna,” his grandmother said from the chair next to him. Her name was Elizabeth, but almost everyone called her Lizzie. She had a raspy voice and was as wiry and tough as her son Niall. Several of her teeth were missing. Michael knew his grandmother was partial to his mother's stews because not only were they delicious, but also everything in them was tender and easy for her to eat.

“I'll sure miss your cooking, Mother,” Seamus said. “No telling what we'll be eating while we're gone.” Michael's brother was a fiery-tempered, younger version of their father, except that his hair was dark, like their mother's.

“Now, son, you ought not to worry your mother by saying things like that,” Niall said. “We'll be fine. And we'll be able to look forward to better times, and more suppers like this, once we're home.”

“You're sure you'll travel tomorrow, then?” Michael noticed a slight tremor in his mother's lip as she waited for a response.

Niall nodded with his mouth full. “We'll catch a train leaving Burlington in the morning. We should be to New York by nightfall.”

“I just hope there will be enough work to go around,” Lizzie said. “Seems like the projects in Burlington ended soon after they started. It would be a shame for you to get all the way to New York and find nothing available.”

“The real shame is that the projects around here were only designed to last the winter, and most of them weren't anything of substance,” Niall said. “If the government wants to pay people, it should be for something more than make-work. At least the bridge in New York will be something that's lasting and useful.”

“And they ought to pay bridge workers a decent wage,” Seamus said.

“How long will you stay, Father?” Michael asked.

His father's face sagged into an apologetic frown, and he paused to swallow a mouthful of stew before he answered. “I suppose we'll stay as long as we can. If we're hired on, I expect there'll be work to do at least through the summer and into next fall. I'd guess they'll want to do as much as can be done while the weather's good.”

“If you get steady work, that will be all we could ask for,” his mother said. “You mustn't worry about us here. We'll be fine, the three of us. The animals and the garden will keep us busy, and Frank is nearby if we need him.”

Michael smiled. Uncle Frank's visits were something he hoped would happen more often. His mother's brother was a priest at the Holy Cross Mission in Colchester, and he was always cheerful and pleasant. He often brought a small surprise or treat when he came to the house.

“I'm thankful for that,” his father said. “We may be gone until next winter, if the work and the wages are good.”

“What if things turn around here? What if the mill calls you back?” his mother asked.

“You should send word to me, but I doubt it will happen. Orders had all but dried up when I left. If anything, the mill may close completely.” His father leaned back in his chair and looked earnestly at his family. “They say Roosevelt has all sorts of plans to lift the country out of the depression, but I'll believe that when I see it. Until then, it'll be every man for himself. There are no jobs here, and I won't sit idle with a family to provide for. I'll take my chances in New York.”

Michael heard his mother working in the kitchen soon after the first faint rays of sun came through his bedroom window. He turned his head and saw Seamus pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders. A large rucksack sat on the twin bed next to his brother.

“Sorry to wake you,” Seamus muttered.

“I'm glad you did. How long have you been up?”

“A while. Didn't sleep much last night.”

Michael threw back his covers and sat up. “How are you and Father getting to the train station?”

“Whibley offered to give us a ride. Said it was the least he could do after all the milk and butter we've given him.”

Michael nodded. Aaron Whibley owned the farm next door. Anna usually gave milk and butter to the Whibleys, even though Niall often spoke with disapproval about the needy neighbors who had more children than they could afford to feed.

“Better get dressed,” Seamus told him. “We'll be leaving soon.”

Michael put on his clothes and hurried downstairs. The fire in the woodstove was starting to warm the room. His mother was packing up sandwiches while his grandmother and father sat at the table with cups of coffee. The plate in front of his father was already empty, and a rucksack similar to Seamus's was on the floor by the front door.

“I've got eggs in the skillet for you, Michael,” his mother said, but he didn't feel like eating yet. His stomach was unsettled. What he really wanted was some fresh air.

“I'll eat in a few minutes. The wood box is almost empty.” Before his mother could answer, he threw on his coat and hat and slipped out the back door.

The late winter air was biting cold. Still, he took a deep breath through his nose and enjoyed the clean, crisp scent of pine and impending snow even though the hairs inside his nostrils froze stiff. It was so different here, on his grandparents' old farm, than it had been at the mill tenement in Winooski. He and his parents had lived here after the Great War, before his father had found work in the mill. True, the farm wasn't really a farm anymore—not since his grandfather had died and his grandmother had sold most of the cows—but it still had plenty of space to move around. He remembered running around the farm as a young child, when his grandfather waved at him from the barn and the pasture held a pair of sturdy Percheron horses and a good-size herd of dairy cows.

It was a godsend, really, that his grandmother had held on to the property. When his father and brother were laid off and they could no longer afford the rent for their apartment, the old farmhouse a few miles south of Burlington had given them a place of refuge. The nearly thirty acres of woods along the back of the property were ideal hunting grounds. With a decent flock of chickens and a good Holstein cow, plus a couple of mature apple trees and a large garden patch, the farm provided their family with basic sustenance. It wasn't income, but it was more than many families had these days.

The snow crunched beneath Michael's feet as he walked around to the woodshed. There, he filled his arms with the logs that he and Seamus had split. He realized that once his brother had left, many of the heavy chores would fall solely to him. There would be splitting wood, certainly, which was never-ending, and the more unpleasant work of cleaning up in the barn. After the snow melted and mud season was over, he would have to help his mother turn over the soil in the garden. Doing all that, on top of school and homework and hunting to supplement their dwindling food supply, would be a challenge. Perhaps he would have to leave school altogether.

A part of him wished that he could go with his father and Seamus. He'd never been outside Vermont or even outside Chittenden County, but the farm was close enough to the tracks of the Rutland Railroad that they often heard the whistles of passing locomotives. The thought of riding a train all the way to New York City was something out of a dream. What did the country look like between here and there? Were the people different? What sorts of towns might they pass through along the way? And the city itself, the city that supposedly never slept, must surely be a wonder to behold.

Someday he would see it for himself. In the meantime, he would keep his word and take care of his mother and grandmother while his father and brother were away.

Seamus had come downstairs by the time Michael returned to the house with the wood. His brother and father were buttoning their coats as his mother placed a cloth bundle of sandwiches in his father's rucksack. His grandmother, holding one of his late grandfather's old pipes, had pulled her chair closer to the woodstove. She had the stem of the pipe in her mouth, chewing it with the few teeth she had left. It was a sure sign that she was feeling as uneasy as he was.

As Michael deposited the logs in the box next to the woodstove, a horn sounded outside. “That's Whibley,” his father said. He turned to the older woman sitting by the stove and put his hand on her shoulder. “Mother” was all he said, and Michael's grandmother looked up and squeezed her son's hand.

He turned to Michael next. “Son, I'm leaving this place in your hands.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said. “I'll take care of everything.”

His father nodded, and Michael thought he might say something more or extend a hand in a gesture of man-to-man trust, but instead, his father pulled him into a tight, quick embrace.

His mother was standing to the side, and his father turned to her last. “I wish you didn't have to go,” she said as Niall took her in his arms.

“I know,” he said. He kissed her tenderly and drew her against him, pressing his cheek against her hair. “I'll send word once we get to New York and get ourselves settled, so you'll know where to reach us.”

His mother nodded and wiped her eyes. When she looked up at her husband, she seemed to be trying to smile.

Seamus followed their father in saying goodbye. He quickly hugged their mother and grandmother, giving them each a peck on the cheek, and he clapped a hand on Michael's back. “Hang in there, brother. And keep your fingers crossed for us.”

“I will,” Michael replied. His brother's tone of voice reminded him just how much younger than Seamus he was.

With his mother and grandmother, Michael stood in the open front doorway and watched the other part of his family squeeze into the cab of Whibley's old pickup. His father peered out the side window as the truck backed onto the road, and Michael focused on his father's steady gaze and nodded. His grandmother heaved a sigh. His mother said nothing but raised a hand, holding it up amid the newly arrived snow flurries until the pickup had disappeared in the distance.