Miss Emily (32 page)

My body hums less noisily, and my legs jerk of their own volition, letting me know that sleep will soon come. All has changed, I think; the bird never resumes its egg, and nothing can be done to undo the terrible thing that has happened. As I fall further into repose, it strikes me that Ada does not know a soul in North End nor in the whole of Boston. I can only hope that her Daniel does. And I further hope that Boston will not ensnare them but that somehow they will end up in a green, leafy spot that will give them succor. I see Ada in my mind, fluttering loosely above the world but at last cocooned in a verdant place. Nature will, I pray, save her.

Miss Ada Concannon Returns

M
Y FOOT LIFTS AND DOES NOT LAND WHERE IT OUGHT TO, FOR
the swells make the boat have an uneven rhythm; I move crabways and have trouble correcting my gait. I walk to try to quell the heaving in my stomach. I blame the sea bread we have been given; it ferments inside me like cider, though it is hard and dry as wood. Our sea store is meager, for we did not have time to gather many supplies before we set sail.

We sat silent in Mr. Austin's carriage but talked softly when the man from Quabbin drove us. I spoke mostly, for Daniel was rigid with remorse and could not seem to form his thoughts.

“Where will we go, Daniel?” I clutched his hand in mine and rubbed it.

“I know not, Ada.”

“We have money. We could go west. Or north, to Canada.”

“They'd catch up with me.” He gasped as if only at that moment realizing that he might have killed Crohan.

“Well then, there is but one thing for it. Home.”

He whipped his head around to look at me. “Dublin?”

“Ireland, for sure. It's where we belong. But we need a clean start, Daniel, so not Dublin. I know a place we can go, where we'll be happy and safe. Where we can have a quiet life, us and our children.”

He put his head to my shoulder, and I held his cheek with my hand. The carriage jogged along, and we both fell into a rough sleep. When I woke, I asked the driver to bring us to the Port of Boston.

I take my walks while Daniel sits on deck, unmoving and silent, his face west to America. He does not seem to notice the beating sails above his head or the plunge of the ship through the water. His thoughts are not mine to know, but I guess that he is wondering about Crohan and whether he is alive or dead.

I watch the sun fall into the sea each night; it dips slowly first, and then, quicker than quick, it plummets into the water, leaving the sky bleached at the top, sooty at the bottom. Tonight the upsurge in my belly gets so bad that I go to the cook to ask for some ginger—Mrs. Child says it will calm the churning.

“The only cure for seasickness, miss, is to sit on the shady side of an old brick church in the country,” the cook says, and lets loose with a raucous laugh. I leave his galley hastily; he, and the milk stench of his lair, only make my bile rise more.

I stay below deck and check on my stowed belongings before heading for the steps to go up again so that I might sit with Daniel. As I reach the far end of the hold, I am amazed to spy the woman with the oranges who had traveled on the same boat as me last year. Sure enough it is her, and she is sitting alone at one of the long tables, peeling an orange. She digs her nails into the skin and breaks the fruit into pieces; she pops the slices onto her tongue, and the juice dribbles from her lips. My mouth fills with spit. She sees me watching and holds out half the orange to me.

“It will settle you,” she says. “You'll see.”

I take it and nod my thanks; the woman turns her face away and continues to eat. I bite into a piece of the orange and chew it up; it tastes bittersweet. I cradle the rest of it in my hand and bring
it to Daniel. He smiles when I hold the orange out to him and puts it in his mouth, not even asking where I got it. I am happy as I watch him enjoy its juices; I see pleasure on his face, and I have not seen that for a long time, it seems.

By night on the ship, I dream of Amherst, not the bad that happened there but the good. I hear the midnight click of Miss Emily's door as she goes below to the conservatory to pot plants or to the kitchen for something sugared and cheering. I hear the wind in the pines and the gurgle of the barn's doves. I hear the endless
chip–chip
of the crickets in the garden and the scratch of squirrel claws on bark. I am comfortable in my Homestead bed, with a clean white eiderdown over me. The factory whistle blows, and I rise to go to the yellow kitchen. Miss Emily stands before me and says, “You do not need to brave it out, Ada. I am here.”

In my dreams Patrick Crohan walks up to me, then passes, no sign of injury on him. Crohan does not threaten or speak but looks over his shoulder at me and wanders away. I do not tell Daniel about these night thoughts, for he might take a wrong meaning from them; he would maybe think that I want to be back in Amherst and not with him at all. I, who count myself lucky that he wants to be with me when I am a spoiled woman.

I wake to the heaving sea and the slap of sail and rope and bone ache from the hard bench under me. The smells of salt and tar, grease and sweat, assail my nose. I hear the coughs of the other women, their vomiting and whispered conversations. Babies yowl, and mothers shush them; those who are ailing moan and cry out. I wish for the voyage to end, for I am impatient to start our new life. I wish that Daniel could lie alongside me at night and that he did not have to go to his own bunk. But I am glad to have his long body stretched beside me by day as we walk the decks and sit to
look at the churning sea. That is one very fine feeling, and I thank God for it. I am strong and determined; my mind is rushing forward to the future and to all that might happen, all the pleasing things that are yet to come.

The first thing is the rain, of course. We stand at the rail on the ship from Liverpool and watch rain sheet across the sea from Kingstown; it moves toward us like a great travail, the sorrows of the country and our own sorrows made into weather. I take my hands from the railing, and they are grained with salt, reminding me of the day I set off less than a year ago. Sea spray has soaked the ends of my skirts and the cuffs of Daniel's trousers; it has made our cheeks slick. I slip my arm through his and hug him to me.

Daniel knows all about me now. Up on the quiet of the deck one dusk, I told him of that terrible night and everything that happened afterward. The stars came out one by one above us, and the cold was mighty, but we were wrapped well against it. We sat side by side in our steamer chairs, and I got it all out. The words were hard to find, but I managed as best I could, and he listened with bowed head. I told him about the calomel and the sarsaparilla and what they were for. I told him of my growing feelings of health and had him feel the curve of my hips, which are rounding out nicely this last while. We spoke about what Crohan had done to us.

“We were both cursed by the same devil, Daniel, but God will be his judge,” I said. “We can only try to forgive him.”

“That is true, Ada,” Daniel said. We both cried, lamenting the loss of our former selves. But we held each other close and agreed that we mean to march only forward now.

Daniel slides closer to me at the rail, and we look west, waiting for the coast to show itself. I feel giddy of a sudden and do not wish to witness our approach to Ireland.

“Will we go below until we dock?” I ask.

He shakes his head, wanting, I suppose, to see Dublin loom through the murk, to make sure it is real. These last few weeks, I have been passing from one moment to the next, keeping watch on Daniel, allowing myself only small sallies in my mind into the days and months ahead. Now, as the boat slips in past the piers that are like two arms outstretched in welcome, it is as if I am releasing a long-held, jagged breath. A smattering of laughter rises from the passengers beside us, and I grip Daniel's arm tightly, needing his body close to mine to stay me. We look at each other and smile, and anticipation surges through me.

Dublin is washed with showers, not made clean by them but made gray and grayer. The city smells of itself: a hoppy, thick, smoky smell that I find pleasant and restorative. Gulls as big as dogs careen above the harbor, letting out eager cries. We stand on Queen's Road looking back at the boat, trying to adjust ourselves to the feel of solid ground under our feet and the familiar, easy air of home.

Rose meets us in our boardinghouse on Sackville Street. She embraces me, then stands back, holding my arms to take me in.

“You seem well, Ada. You've lost weight, but you appear strong in yourself.”

“And you, Rose, have budded into a young lady while I've been gone.” It is true; my sister looks composed in a way that she never used to. Maybe I had to get out of her path in order for her to grow up. Her eyes flick shyly to Daniel.

He steps forward and offers her his hand. “How do you do?” he says.

“Very well, thank you.” Rose shakes his hand and looks at me. She knows who Daniel is, for my letters to her have been crammed with him, but she is made quiet by his presence.

We sit into the parlor, and the lady of the house brings a tray.

“Not one letter from you, Rose, in eleven months,” I say, pouring milk into her cup for her to douse with tea. “Did your pen meet with an accident?”

“Ah, Ada, I never took to writing.” She knows I am teasing, and she laughs.

“Do Mammy and Daddy know where you are today, Rose?”

“I didn't say anything, like you asked in your note. But will you not come out to Tigoora? Mammy would be so pleased to see you.”

“We will by and by, Rose. We are going south first. We want to get settled. Then we'll come and visit.”

Rose sips her tea. “Why did you come back at all, Ada? You were getting on fine beyond. I had no notion of you returning to Dublin.”

I glance at Daniel.

“Ireland is our home, Rose,” he says. “There's nothing can replace that. We mean to raise a family here.”

Rose looks to me, and I smile. I open the lanyards on my bag and take out my money pouch; I hand her a few notes. “For Mammy. Tell her I will explain everything when I come to Tigoora.”