Land of a Thousand Dreams (34 page)

Lately, though, she seemed to have trouble concentrating, even on the music. At the oddest moments, she caught herself feeling idle and useless. These feelings of worthlessness only served to strengthen a growing burden of guilt and stir all sorts of alien, disturbing emotions in her.

It would have made all the difference, she thought as the last notes of “Oh! Susanna” died away, if someone
needed
her. These days, Patrick was seldom at home for more than an hour or two in the evening, was often gone for days on end, attending to “business.” Since he had made it a policy never to discuss “business” at home, Alice hadn't the faintest idea what, exactly, he did. She knew only that he owned some hotels and boardinghouses and invested in other properties throughout the city. Obviously, he was successful.

Even the children had reached an age where they were rapidly growing more resourceful and independent of her. At thirteen, Isabel was quite the little woman; indeed, she had a way of treating
Alice
like a child. And Henry, already nine, disappeared most evenings after dinner to his room, where he presumedly studied and looked out the window through his telescope. Henry, Alice thought with no lack of affection for her youngest, might be just a bit odd.

The past weeks of restlessness had spurred her to do some serious self-examination and thinking about her life. In the process, she had discovered two significant facts about herself that were not altogether comfortable.

Alice had come to realize that she was almost entirely captivated by the needs of others. She
had
to be needed—indeed, she
existed
to be needed.

Yet her importance to her family was definitely on the decline. That was a situation not likely to change. As Patrick became more and more involved in his business interests, and the children grew older, they would need her less and less.

The other discovery Alice had made was that she had been
given
a great deal, and, up until now, had taken much of it for granted in the most shameful way. The only child of prosperous, middle-aged parents, she had lacked for nothing. She had known only comfort for all of her thirty-nine years, had been somewhat pampered, if carefully disciplined, by her parents, and had then gone on to wed a man who denied her nothing, indeed almost
encouraged
her to be extravagant.

Lately, these discoveries had begun to provoke her into serious questions. What, exactly, did she intend to do as her children grew older—and even more independent of her nurturing—and as Patrick grew more involved than ever with his business concerns? And how might she give back at least a portion of what she had been given?

She thought perhaps the time had come to involve herself in the church's charity outreach. As one of the member churches in a city-wide organization, Alice's church was perpetually in need of volunteers to aid in the extensive mission program.

Because her time had been so taken up with her family, up until now Alice had paid little attention to how the organization functioned. She had simply given money when a need was expressed. Recently, however, she had decided to learn more about this particular venture. And next week would provide the ideal opportunity.

Sara Farmington Burke was serving as hostess at an ambitious bazaar being held to bring together volunteers from all the member congregations throughout the city. The event would take place at the Farmington mansion on Fifth Avenue. The Reverend Jess Dalton, a vital force behind the mission effort, and one of its primary organizers, was to speak; and during the afternoon there would be an opportunity for new volunteers to become acquainted with the various slum mission programs.

Alice intended to go. She had sensed a kindness, a genuine warmth in Miss Farmington—
Mrs. Burke,
she corrected herself—when the young socialite had come to visit the injured Tierney Burke some months past. Although she'd seemed ill at ease, she had been cordial. She hadn't affected to patronize Alice or, even worse, ignore her—as did many among Alice's church acquaintances.

Alice had tried not to mind the social rejection she faced after her marriage. Patrick had risen above his Irish roots long ago, and there were as many who seemed to respect him for it as those who did not. At the same time, there were others who deliberately ostracized them. Such treatment both wounded and puzzled Alice. Occasionally, she even felt persecuted, as if she were the victim of something far more vicious than ethnic prejudice. At times, it was as if they were outcasts—despised outcasts, almost like criminals, though she supposed she might be exaggerating the situation.

At least, she reminded herself hopefully as she rose from the piano stool, she would not receive such shabby treatment from Sara Farmington Burke. The Farmington heiress had, like Alice, married “beneath her station.”

Somehow, Alice found great comfort in that fact. If a woman of Sara Burke's standing could face the often cruel and painful consequences of following her heart, it made Alice feel somewhat proud that she had done likewise.

Patrick Walsh was beginning to sense the screws tightening against him, thanks to that sanctimonious, self-serving police captain—Burke.

He stood, one hand in his pocket, the other knotted at his side, looking out the window of his Pearl Street office. A light snow had been falling since early morning and was now being whipped about the streets by a bitter February wind. Pedestrians hurried along, hats pulled down, mufflers slung over their faces, in their haste to take refuge indoors.

Angry, Walsh frowned as the thought of the new
Subcommission on Immigrant Crime
—and Michael Burke—again intruded on his peace of mind. There were a number of politicos and do-gooders on the subcommission, but from what he was hearing, it was Burke and his father-in-law, Lewis Farmington, who were stirring up most of the trouble. No doubt Farmington, as the chairman, had given his obnoxious son-in-law a free hand.

Apparently, that included a personal strike at
him.
According to one of Patrick's men on the force, Burke was out for his hide. To Patrick, that meant the policeman must have sniffed out his involvement with the runners. No doubt some misplaced sense of loyalty to the Irish—Burke was an immigrant himself—lay behind his tactics.

Had it been another cop besides Burke on the prowl, Patrick would have simply paid him off. But the word on the hard-nosed captain was that he couldn't be bought, and Patrick was inclined to agree. He'd seen enough of the man to suspect that money wasn't his weakness.

It
was
a fact that some men—though they were few—could not be bought with
money.
But it was also a fact, Walsh was convinced, that
every
man had a price of some kind.

Somehow, he was determined to make it his business to find out what the honorable Captain Burke's price happened to be.

21

Pharisees and Sinners

The lawyers have sat in council,
The men with the keen, long faces,
And said, “This man is a fool….”

PADRAIC PEARSE (1879–1916)

M
ichael, you
are
going to be at the bazaar next week, aren't you?”

It was early Sunday morning. Sara sat across from her husband at breakfast, who, for the most part, seemed to have forgotten she was in the room.

“Michael?”

Finally, his dark eyes met hers across the top of the newspaper. “You're joking, of course.”

“I'm not. But I
am
counting on your help.”

“My
help?” The paper slipped another notch, down to his nose. “What sort of help would that be?”

“I had hoped you might speak about Five Points—from a policeman's perspective.” Ignoring the strangled sound that bounced off the paper, Sara went on. “You can explain better than anyone else about the illegal boardinghouses—and what happens to the immigrants who end up in them.”

The newspaper came down, although he clung to it like a shield. “Sara,” he said reasonably, “I'm a policeman, remember? I arrest robbers and help elderly ladies across the street. Sometimes I crack heads, and I often chase pigs. But I never,
never
address mission bazaars. Never.”

When he would have hidden once more behind the paper, Sara reached across the table and stayed his hand. “It's important, Michael. These women need to know the hard truth, even if it makes them uncomfortable.”

“What will make them uncomfortable, Sara
a gra,
is the visible proof that their genteel lady chairman has gone half-cracked and not only married a crude Irish cop, but is actually parading him about at her teas.”

Sara glared at him. “You are not at all crude—except when you choose to be, as you are doing right now. More than likely,” she added with a smug smile, “I'll be the envy of every woman there for having the courage to marry such a dangerously handsome man.”

He grinned at her. “No doubt. But I'm still not giving a speech to your church ladies,” he said with annoying finality. “Your grandmother is late this morning, isn't she? Have you checked on her?”

“She's getting dressed. I expect she'll be down any time now. Don't change the subject, Michael. There's another reason I'd like you to be at the bazaar, although I really
do
hope you'll consider speaking. I think Jess Dalton is going to need all the support he can get; having you there will guarantee him at least one ally.”

Michael sighed, folding his papers with great precision as if to make a point. “Why is that?”

“The news is out about their plans to keep Arthur Jackson in their home indefinitely.”

Michael groaned his understanding, and Sara went on. “The Pulpit Committee has already called a special meeting.”

Michael straightened in his chair, frowning. “You don't think they'd ask him to leave?”

Sara looked down at her plate. “Quite frankly, I don't know what to expect. I wouldn't be so concerned if Father were on the committee, but he isn't.” She sighed. “There are some truly good people in our congregation who won't be bothered in the least by the Daltons taking in a Negro boy. But there are others…” She let her words drift off, unfinished.

“There are others who will make things miserable for them,” Michael finished for her, scowling. He shook his head. “It's too bad. He and Mrs. Dalton genuinely care for the lad, that's obvious.”

Sara nodded, then brightened somewhat. “Well, one thing is certain: Jess Dalton isn't a man to back down in the face of opposition. If he's decided to give Arthur Jackson a home, he'll do just that.”

“Aye, he will,” Michael said, still frowning. “But let us hope he doesn't lose his pulpit in the process.”

Just then Sara's grandmother appeared in the doorway of the dining room. “It's outrageous,” she said, walking the rest of the way into the room. “Heaven help the Daltons—and the boy—if the wrong people happen to discover he's a runaway slave. Someone will turn him in to those awful slave catchers.”

Michael rose and helped her into her chair. “Fortunately, those who know Arthur's background are very few,” he pointed out, bracing her cane against the table. “And there's no one among them who would deliberately hurt the lad.”

“Still,” said Grandy Clare, “there will be trouble. You wait and see if there's not.”