Land of a Thousand Dreams (51 page)

Uncle Sorley thought the singing a waste of time, the reading lessons
raimeis
—nonsense! “Like throwing shillings down a well!” he would snort if Billy forgot and talked to his mum in front of him.

What Billy counted on was that, so long as he did his chores and sold his papers, Uncle Sorley would let the singing and the reading go, would forget them entirely.

For in this foul swamp called the Five Points, in the airless, gray despair of his existence, the music and the books were like the first fresh winds of morning to Billy. At last, his life held more than the younger tykes crying, his uncle swearing, his mother sobbing. More than peddling his newspapers and taking out slops and struggling from one day to the next to stay alive.

Now there was the profound and utter beauty of words riding his mind, dancing on his tongue like pearls in a silver stream. And there was the inexpressible joy of the music. It was like flying, flying free above the ugliness of tenement houses and garbage-strewn streets, out of reach of Uncle Sorley's rages and his mother's unhappiness.

Some nights, after a particularly painful buffeting, Billy would lie next to Patrick, awake, on his straw-filled cot, listening to the drunken snoring of his uncle across the room and feeling almost overcome by the hopelessness of his life. But then a word would come to his mind, a musical word like
Jerusalem…
or
bluebell.
He would silently repeat it, over and over, like a promise. And it would comfort him.

Sometimes a song would come, one of the songs Mr. Whittaker was teaching them, and he would sing it to himself, inside his head, like a lullaby, until the throbbing and stinging of his body ebbed enough that he drifted off to sleep.

Reaching the sagging tenement where they lived, Billy ran inside, taking the steps two at a time. On the upstairs landing, the door to their rooms flew open in his face.

Billy stopped short, the fire in his belly blazing high. Uncle Sorley, his face flushed and mottled, his shirt stained with the whiskey, towered above him. Swaying slightly, he jabbed a pudgy finger in Billy's face. “Didn't I warn ye about bein' late for your supper again, boy?
Didn't I?
”

Attempting to sidestep him, Billy gulped out, “I'm sorry!” But Uncle Sorley yanked him inside by the neck, shoving him into the middle of the room.

Billy twisted, struggling to shield his head. Instead, he only managed to put himself, square in the path of Uncle Sorley's fist as it came crashing down on his shoulder with a blinding pain.

After an early dinner, Sara went upstairs, admitting that their unusual day had exhausted her.

Michael, too, found the idea of a quiet evening alone together appealing. But first, he made his usual quick inspection of the downstairs rooms to be sure the lamps were extinguished, doors locked, and windows securely fastened. He'd been too many years on the force, he thought with a sigh, to be anything less than cautious to the extreme.

Entering the library, he stopped just over the threshold. The oil lamp on the desk flickered brightly. Sara's grandmother, in her dressing gown, turned toward him.

“Grandy? Is something wrong?”

She smiled faintly. One hand gripped her cane, the other held a thin volume. “Actually, I'm feeling a bit restless tonight. I came looking for a book—” She indicated the one in her hand. “I decided on Mr. Poe.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Not what I'd call relaxing reading for a lady.”

She grinned at him. “Because he's so gloomy?”

“Demented,” offered Michael.

“Unhappy, perhaps,” she said with a sigh. “Poor man. He's had a rather tragic life, I think. Small wonder that he'd be morose.”

“They say he's more than a little fond of the drink. And his opium.”

“Oh, bother
‘they'
!” she retorted, waving the book in her hand. “He has a ghastly reputation, of course, and perhaps he deserves it all. But I happen to know a good deal about one or two of his more vicious critics, and I can tell you they're far worse reprobates than Mr. Poe. In any case, I get dreadfully bored with some of our more ‘respectable' authors; they tend to lecture or preach, and I've never felt that literature is the place for either. Mr. Poe is…refreshingly different.”

Her eyes took on a glint of amusement. “Sara disapproves, you know. She finds his work morbid and disturbing.”

“The little I've seen of it, I'd have to agree.”

“Yes…well, Sara, bless her, wants everyone to be happy.”

Michael grinned. “She does indeed. She was wonderful today,” he added, sobering. “You should have seen her with those people—Bhima and the others. They adored her.”

Grandy nodded, her eyes warm. “Sara is very special.”

Michael was aware of Grandy Clare's good-natured scrutiny as they stood, saying nothing, for a moment. Sara's grandmother often gave him the unsettling sensation that she could read his thoughts—and everybody else's. Yet, she was so wholly generous about the foibles of others that no one ever seemed particularly bothered by her perception.

“I'm so glad you changed your mind about taking Sara along to meet the people at the dime museum,” she said, tucking the book under her arm. “I was afraid you wouldn't.”

Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, Michael gave a frown. “Well, I didn't much like it, you can be sure. It's an evil place entirely down there. There's something so corrupt about it that it seems to hang in the air. You can almost feel it still clinging to your back when you leave.” A cold shudder swept through him and he added, “It's not the sort of place a man wants to take his wife. But you know how she is, our Sara.”

Grandy nodded. “It's a fine thing to be protective of your wife, Michael. A woman like Sara
ought
to be cherished and safeguarded. But I'm glad you also have sense enough to realize you can't protect her to the extent of interfering with God's will for her life. That can be a very grave mistake, and one we often make in regard to our loved ones.”

Michael studied her, still frowning.

“My late husband—Sara's grandfather,” she said with a sigh, “did everything but lock me up in a box during the early years of our marriage. At first it was rather flattering; I suppose I even reveled in it. It made me feel…treasured—and special. But after a time, I began to feel as if I were suffocating from lack of air. There were things I sensed God calling me to do, things I began to suspect might be a part of His plan for my life. But Samuel was so protective that, somehow, he just kept getting in God's way.”

She shook her head as if saddened by the memory. “We can do that, can't we? In our desire to shield those we love from the ugliness or the pain or the danger of the world, we actually end up thwarting God's better purpose for them, perhaps even keeping them from becoming all He intended them to be.”

She looked up, met Michael's eyes with an unwavering gaze. “I'm so relieved that you aren't like that, Michael. Letting your son have his freedom as you did must have been very, very difficult for you. But it was probably the best thing for you and the boy, at least at this time in your lives.”

Michael hoped the pain he felt at her reminder of Tierney was well hidden. For the truth was, he seldom thought of his angry, rebellious son without wanting to weep. As for giving him his freedom, he had no illusions about that: it had been more an act of desperation than anything else. In truth, there had seemed no other choice. He was tempted to voice the fear that was never far from his mind, the nagging dread that, by giving Tierney his freedom, he might have only hastened the boy's undoing.

“You're wonderfully good for Sara, Michael.” Grandy's quiet voice tugged his thoughts away from Tierney. “I'm so thankful she married a man who's wise enough to give her all the room—the ‘air'—she needs, in order to grow into the person God intends her to be.”

Looking away, Michael swallowed down his impulse to deny her affirming words. Surely she had seen his dogged determination to insulate Sara, to provide, as much as humanly possible, a fortress of his love and protection around her as a way of keeping her safe from all the ugliness and fearful things the world might inflict.

“You do understand what I'm saying, Michael?”

He met her gaze and found her regarding him with an odd little smile.
Of course, she had seen! This was her inimitable way of telling him she had seen, and warning him, in love, of the possible consequences.

For a moment Michael stared back. “Why, I expect I do, Lady Clare,” he finally said, meeting the faint twinkle in her eyes with a rueful smile of his own. “I believe I understand exactly what you're saying.”

33

An Absence of Conscience

The hands that fail to halt the knife
Are stained with the same blood
As those that hold the knife.

ANONYMOUS

A
lice Walsh hadn't realized she was so preoccupied with her own thoughts until Patrick observed to the children, “I do believe your mama isn't feeling well this evening.” His eyebrows lifted as he glanced across the dinner table at her. “Another headache, dear?”

While his words were solicitous, his tone was somewhat sharp. Hurt, Alice was tempted to point out that she seldom had headaches at all, and certainly not often enough for him to make such a remark. Just as quickly, she decided that
she
was the one being unfair. Obviously, her husband was just showing his concern.

“No, I'm quite all right, thank you, Patrick.” Picking up a bowl of fruit, she passed it to Henry. “I'm sorry if I seem distracted. Something's been troubling me since choir rehearsal this afternoon.”

She waited, but Patrick neither inquired about the reason for her distress nor showed any real interest. Setting his cup very carefully onto the saucer, he said, “Alice, it seems to me that this business with that…choir is becoming too much for you.”

When Alice leaned forward and would have protested, he silenced her with an upraised hand, going on. “No, now hear me out. It's all very well to do your good deeds and give to charity. You're very generous with yourself, and I commend you for it. But you know you're not overly strong, dear. Frankly, Alice, you've been more than a little…strange this evening. You're worrying me and the children.”

Alice glanced at Isabel, who was eyeing her with a disapproving frown, then at Henry, who seemed wholly engrossed in dissecting his apple. Neither looked in the least worried about their mama.

Anxious that he not insist on her giving up the choir, Alice forced a smile. “I'm sorry if I've been negligent, Patrick,” she said, choosing her words with care, “but playing the piano for Mr. Whittaker and the boys takes almost no time at all, and very little effort. Actually, I believe the experience has been quite good for me. It's just that there's a little boy I've been somewhat concerned about.”

The memory of the little Hogan boy, the thin, freckled face…the bruises…the cuts…slipped into Alice's thoughts, stirring a pool of concern. “I'm afraid something might be wrong,” she said softly, more to herself than to her husband.

She looked up when Patrick pushed away from the table. “That's too bad, dear,” he said vaguely, getting to his feet and pushing his chair in to the table. Coming around behind Alice, he gave her shoulders a brief squeeze. “I'm sorry to rush off like this, but I've a meeting at eight. Now, I want you to be sure to turn in early tonight. You're obviously exhausted. Isabel—Henry—see that Mama minds.”