Land of a Thousand Dreams (36 page)

You back-stabbing Pharisee,
Lewis thought.
You've already decided to try to force a resignation.

Drawing himself up to his full height—which was still considerably less than Pauling's—Lewis summoned all the self-control he could muster. “I don't want any part of your meeting, Chester. I don't want anything to do with this whole business. Mostly,” he said, scowling, “because I happen to believe it is
none of our business.
Quite frankly, Chester, I think you should be ashamed of yourself.”

When the other man tried to stammer out a protest, Lewis ignored him. “I can almost guess who
will
be at your meeting, though. Ashton and Maltby and Felix Willard—oh, yes, and I'm sure Charles Street as well.” He stopped, drew in a long breath. “Thank you for asking, Chester, but I believe I have a prior engagement tomorrow evening.”

Without giving the red-faced Pauling an opportunity to reply, Lewis turned and got into the carriage.

Winifred was all concern. “Lewis? Is something wrong? You're
quite
flushed!”

He patted her hand and managed a smile, although he wanted nothing more than to drive his fist through the roof of the carriage. “Everything is just fine, my dear. Don't worry your pretty head. I just had to present my apologies that I couldn't attend a meeting tomorrow night, that's all.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Lewis. Are you disappointed?”

Lewis looked at her. “Actually, Winnie, I am,” he said quietly. “I'm
very
disappointed.”

As they drove off, he silently consoled himself with the reminder that Jesus, too, had preferred the company of sinners to that of Pharisees.

22

Hope for the Hopeless

And love can reach
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach
Than those by mortals read.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY (1844–1890)

W
hen Mr. Whittaker asked to talk with him just before rehearsal on Thursday, Billy Hogan immediately started worrying that he'd done something wrong.

Ever since he'd been caught sneaking Finbar into the practice room, he'd taken extra care to be on his best behavior. Of course, the business with Finbar had worked out all right, after all. Mr. Whittaker had taken the mischievous kitten home to his wife and family, and they liked him just fine.

As he gauged the director's expression just now, he saw that he didn't look a bit cross; indeed, he seemed to be smiling. Still, Billy's mouth felt dry as dust, and his belly burned with anxiety as he faced the Englishman at the door. Trouble always meant the chance that Uncle Sorley would find out.

Billy would do just about anything to avoid another of his uncle's fierce thrashings.

Evan quickly went out of his way to reassure the freckle-faced youth, for he looked about to bolt at any moment. “How old are you, B-Billy?”

“Sir? Oh—nine…close on nine, sir.”

Evan nodded, thinking the little fellow looked even younger. “Then I should imagine you're old enough to accept the additional responsibility I have in m-mind for you.”

The boy simply stared. Evan was struck by the dismaying realization that the lad seemed to be afraid of him. He could not think why; moreover, he found the idea highly unsettling. To his knowledge, he had never intimidated a single soul in his life. Certainly, he had no wish to frighten a child.

Gentling his voice even more, he went on. “Of course, you re-remember that next week is the m-mission bazaar at the Farmingtons', and that we will be singing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes…well, I have something rather special I'd like you to do that d-day, if you will. You know that we've b-been rehearsing the ‘Star-Spangled B–Banner'—”

At the boy's nod, Evan went on to explain. “I'd like you to t-take a solo p-part in the song, Billy—I'll show you where today as we rehearse. Also, there's a short reading I thought you might render just b-before we sing.”

Evan had expected the youth to be pleased. Instead, young Billy simply gaped at him, obviously appalled. “A—a reading, is it, sir?”

“Why…yes.” Puzzled by the boy's behavior, Evan added, “Just a b-brief recitation about why and when the song was written. A paragraph or so, no m-more.”

The boy squirmed and looked away. “I'd—I'd rather not, sir, if you don't mind.”

Evan frowned. The boy's face was absolutely white. “But why
not,
son? You have a s-splendid voice—for reading, I expect, as well as for singing. And this is a m-most important song.”

Still avoiding Evan's eyes, Billy mumbled, “I'll do the singing part, right enough, Mr. Whittaker. I know all the words. It's just that I'd rather not do the reading, don't you see?”

Something in the tremulous tone of voice and averted gaze told Evan he mustn't press. “Very well, B-Billy,” he said reluctantly. “That's fair enough. You will sing the solo, and I'll assign the recitation to one of the other b-boys.”

The lad nodded, keeping his gaze lowered.

An uneasy suspicion stirred in Evan; it continued to nag at him throughout rehearsal. Trying not to be obvious, he watched the Hogan boy more closely than usual. After a time, he began to study some of the other youths as well. By the end of the hour, he thought he understood.

With a heavy heart, he wondered why he hadn't seen it before today. He already knew that none of the boys could read the music itself. Most of them, though, used the scores he passed among them to learn the words.

But not Billy Hogan. Billy, and at least four other boys, were, he was convinced, learning by rote: memorizing what they heard as they went along.

It was, Evan strongly suspected, the only way they
could
learn. Unless he was mistaken, and he rather thought he was not, the boys could not read.

Throughout the entire ferry ride home, Evan fretted about his discovery. He could not imagine what it would be like being unable to read. For most of his life, reading had been both a passion and a comfort to him. He had explored the world through books, and in the process gained a certain solace in his childhood loneliness, found a kind of escape from his miserable shyness and the hateful stutter of his speech. Books had enlarged his schoolroom, expanded his vision, encouraged his dreams. He simply could not conceive of a life without reading.

His mind went to the wretched souls in Five Points, that abysmal slum so infested by evil and hopelessness. For some, decimated by their poverty and in despair of a mean survival eked out in filthy cellars and garrets, reading might well represent the only chance of escape. At least for a few moments, they could be transported to another place, another time. They might even catch a glimpse of a dream of their own, or find a glimmer of hope in the words of another.

Yet, here were at least five boys—five that he knew of—within his singing group that could not, he feared, so much as read the Scriptures for themselves!

It wouldn't do. It simply would not do!

As he stepped off the ferry onto the dock, Evan paused, shivering in the cold. It was almost dusk; the spray off the river was icy, the wind rising. Yet, he stood, thinking, unable to shake off his troubled thoughts.

The Hogan lad had obviously been embarrassed that he'd had to refuse Evan's request. No doubt the other boys, if confronted, would have felt just as awkward.

No one, Evan thought sadly, young or old, should have to be shamed by illiteracy. Yet, more than likely it was a common problem throughout most of the slum settlements, especially among the immigrant population.

Something needed to be done. Obviously, only those more fortunate—those who could read—were in a position to help.

I'm one of those,
he reminded himself.
At least, I know enough to help my boys.

Tugging the collar of his coat more snugly about his neck, Evan started to walk. He smiled at his own thought…
my boys…
then realized that in a very special way, that was exactly what they had become: his boys.

Well,
his boys
would not be cheated of this immeasurably precious gift.
His boys
would have the opportunity to learn to read. He would see to it!

It was a promise to himself—and a promise to God as well.

Arthur Jackson hunkered down inside the buggy that Mr. Jess had sent to fetch him and Casey-Fitz home.

It was almost dark. Casey-Fitz had fallen asleep on the seat across from Arthur. A cold rain pattered against the roof of the buggy. Somehow, rain after dark always made Arthur feel cold. Cold and kind of lonely-hearted and sad.

Would he ever get used to the cold weather in the North? Seemed as if he hadn't seen the sun for months. Mr. Whittaker claimed the sun shone more in New York than it did in England, but that seemed near about impossible to Arthur. For sure, he wouldn't like a place like England. Uh-uh, not a bit!

He thought Mr. Whittaker had acted a little strange today. More than once Arthur had caught him staring at him and Billy Hogan and some of the other boys, too, during rehearsal.

Had he done something wrong? He didn't think so. Unless maybe Mr. Whittaker had caught him not paying much attention to the songs.

That was possible. Truth was, he was having a time of it, trying to keep his mind on singing—or on much of anything else, for that matter. He couldn't stop thinking about the trouble the Daltons had gone and gotten themselves into, all on his account.