Secret Hearts

by J. L. Jarvis

  He slowed as he approached the skirts of the murmuring crowd that had gathered outside the plant. Like a stone tossed into still water, Jake’s arrival set off a rippling wave of turning heads and silent stares as bodies shifted to make a clear path for him.

  Will?

  In the midst of unnatural stillness, he fought the violent energy that surged through his body. The faces around him blurred as he stepped forward with deliberate effort. Once inside the plant, someone guided him to the site of the accident. Faces flashed and faded before him. Large parts of machines seemed to have paused in mid-motion, grotesque in their stillness. The throbbing blare of machinery was absent. Inside his head, a new throbbing began.

  “No.” It was his voice, strange and guttural.

  Will lay there before him. The newly constructed train rail that had crushed him had been lifted and moved. Jake’s knees bent beneath him.

  Crouched at his brother’s side, he said, “Will?”

  Will’s eyelids flickered. Jake grabbed his brother’s hand with both of his own, and he gripped it as though he would pull Will back from where he was going.

  Will’s mouth twitched into a suggestion of a smile that never was formed. He looked up at Jake with such effort. His chest heaved in abrupt and jolting breaths, but he opened his mouth in an effort to speak. Jake moved closer to hear him. “Your turn,” he whispered. Will looked up at his little brother. Jake held his gaze, willing him back. But he left.

  Hornpipes and jigs chased away sorrow in uneven, syncopated strains. People spilled out into the back yard of the O’Neill house, drinking, dancing and laughing. Several men sat on the back porch playing guitar, button accordion, Irish harp, tin whistle, bass and drums. Jake walked out into the evening chill with his fiddle hanging from his left hand. He remained on the sidelines while the others played. Lifting the neck to his ear, he repeatedly plucked strings and twisted the tuning pegs until he was ready to play. As he stepped forward, a hush fell over the crowd and a plaintive melody spun forth. He was joined by a young soprano with sad eyes and a voice clear and pure that could pierce the soul.

  Hearing the fiddle from the kitchen, Maggie set down her dish and towel and stepped outside. She walked through the crowded yard until she came to a spot at the skirts of the crowd, where she leaned on a fence. A young couple walked by, arm-in-arm, and said something to her. She gave them an inattentive nod and continued to watch the musicians.

  Jake’s coal-stained fingertips gently fingered the neck of the fiddle as he pressed the bow down and drew sounds from the strings which, were there words to convey them, would be too mournful to utter. Someone offered Maggie a beer, which she accepted mechanically. Each phrase that Jake played came from his soul, and touched Maggie’s until there were tears in her eyes. When the final note vibrated against a straight tin whistle at unearthly intervals, a hollow ache took hold of her heart.

  The elongated hush was broken by the driving beat of the next song, which set some people to dancing. Jake lowered his fiddle and looked up as though someone had called to him. He looked straight at Maggie, and she was transfixed. Long since spent of emotion, his expressionless gaze gripped her heart. A half-drunk neighbor grabbed Maggie’s arm and tried to drag her into a dance. She politely declined and backed away. When she looked back at Jake, he was gone.

  A constant flow of people and dishes kept Maggie busy in the kitchen for most of the evening. Jake would walk through every now and then, but he never spoke more than a word. And he never lingered.

  It was early morning by the time everyone had gone. Maggie had long ago sent Maeve upstairs to rest, and Beth had gone home to Robin and Hank. Maggie remained to finish putting things in order. As she removed her apron and hung it on a hook, she heaved a long sorrowful sigh. She looked at the empty kitchen and thought of Maeve. How does a mother set one less place at the table?

  Too fatigued for sleep, Maggie stepped out onto the front porch for some air. It was the part of night some found the darkest, but Maggie found solace in its quiet. It soothed her despite the grief that hovered, watchful and ready when people awakened. It was a tireless companion.

  A creaking chair and a couple of footsteps startled her. She had thought she was alone.

  “It’s cold out here.” Jake pulled off his jacket and held it out to her. “Here.”

  “Jake. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.” She turned to leave.

  “Don’t go.”

  Maggie found herself unable to move in either direction. Jake put his jacket about her shoulders. It was still warm from his body. He smoothed out the collar and his eye crinkled into that incomplete wink that she liked, and then he sat down. Maggie drooped onto the top step and looked out into the night. Clouds and smoke obliterated any stars that might have been, leaving only an expansive, dusty slate.

  With his elbows on his knees, Jake leaned forward and looked into the night. Maggie studied his solemn face, with its faraway look. She wished she could join him wherever he was. She nearly touched his shoulder to soothe his grief, but she thought better of it and withdrew her hand.

  Jake began to laugh.

  Maggie studied him, concerned.

  Jake saw her confusion and said, “Will.” He shook his head, still laughing. “Remember that time you, Will and me were skinny dipping up by the reservoir?”

  Maggie covered her grin with her hand. “Oh, my gosh, yes.”

  Jake began to snicker. “We saw you coming. And I told Will to act like he was drowning, while I went and hid by the bank.”

  “That’s enough, Jake. I remember.”

  Jake could barely speak through his laughter. “So Will’s waving his arms like this, crying ‘Help! Help!’ And you come running—and dive in—with all your clothes on. And by the time you get to him—you practically drown the both of you.”

  Maggie couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Well, it’s not that I couldn’t swim. Those wet skirts were heavy—”

  “So Will takes a few strokes, then stands up in waist-deep water and drags you to the shore. And—when you finally stop coughing, you look up—” Jake was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “You look up and see him—bare naked—and scream!”

  Maggie’s eyes closed in amused shock as she said, “All I could hear was you laughing, but you were nowhere to be seen.”

  “There you were—screaming—and looking like a drowned rat in a dress. Meanwhile, Will’s trying to cover himself with his hands, while he runs all over the place looking for his clothes—”

  “Which you had hung from the highest tree limb!” Maggie added.

  Jake was beside himself with laughter. “What a sight—Will climbing that tree—flapping in the breeze—trying to reach his clothes!”

  “I wouldn’t know. I covered my eyes.”

  Jake nudged her, and then leaned mischievously toward her. “Oh, c’mon, Maggie. You peeked, didn’t you? Just a little?”

  “Jacob O’Neill! I did not!” Maggie pushed him away, which only compounded his laughter.

  “I don’t know which was funnier, the sound of your hollering—or the look on his face!”

  The laughter rang out through the early morning haze, and then faded. Jake swallowed. His eyes glimmered through his somber expression.

  His voice lowered. “He was just lying there, looking up at me, like he knew, but it didn’t make any sense to him.” Jake squinted as though that might make him remember the sight more vividly. “And I just looked at him. I didn’t do anything. Just watched him looking at me. And then, he wasn’t looking back.”

  Maggie gently put her arms around Jake. He turned and wrapped his arms about her and buried his face in her neck as he let out a mournful sob. She cradled him in her arms and stroked his hair until the sun rose unheeded.

  Night still clung to gray sky as Jake gave his mother a peck on the cheek and walked out the door to work. His brother’s death had left a vacancy at the mill, which Jake reluctantly filled. Maeve never asked her son
to give up his new job in Pittsburgh, but she didn't tell him to go, either. He was the oldest son now, and he knew she would need him here. How could he ask her to give up another son just yet, even if it was only to another town?

  Jake arrived early at the mill, and stood waiting with the other men. A rough looking man with a creased face and reddish hair approached him.

  “We’re meetin’ tonight, after work, at Quinn’s Shebeen.” He shoved his hands in his pocket and leaned against the wall.

  Jake watched from the corner of his eye as the foreman walk past, then looked at the man they called Finn. “If they find out, they’ll fire the lot of us.”

  Finn eyed Jake. “Not if we all stand together.”

  Jake glanced about at the men around him, then asked Finn, “Are you sure you can trust the others?”

  Finn nodded.

  The whistle blew to signal the start of the next shift. Jake took a step and said over his shoulder, “I’ll be there.” Then he walked into work.

  The mill got its money’s worth from Jake that fall. He had always worked hard, but after Will died, he worked harder. The more grueling and dangerous the task, the better. Brutish labor drove away pain, thoughts, and finally memories, until fatigue took the place of feeling.

  There had been talk of unions and striking as long as Jake could remember. The miners had tried it, but the companies were too strong and the unions too weak to prevail.

  “They will listen to one voice, if it’s one voice backed by a thousand men,” Jake told the men at the gathering. A young woman filled their quart pails with beer. Jake watched her. There was something familiar about her.

  “They’ll listen to this,” said Finn as he pulled out a gun and set it on the table.

  “I ain’t no Molly Maguire,” said an older worker. “I just want food for my family and a roof over their heads.”

  “We’re puttin’ food on somebody’s table—but it ain’t our own,” murmured a quiet man from the corner.

  “And what about over in Braddock?” said the older worker. “My cousin works there. Carnegie pays them on a sliding scale, according to the price they get for the finished steel. If the mill makes more money, the workers make more money.”

  Jake listened, and then spoke up. “So we want two things: a safe workplace, and a share of the profits.”

  As the union talk digressed, Jake’s gaze settled on the familiar young woman until he grasped the elusive memory. “Sophie?”

  She turned to him and smiled.

  If Jake worked hard at his job, he worked harder for the union. If they were going to build a formidable union, they would need to recruit the majority of the work force. When Jake wasn't working, he was mustering support for the union. His days were full, and his heart was deadened.

  If he had not been so busy running from his grief and disenchantment with life, Jake might have found time for Maggie. But Maggie had been one more disappointment. He was determined to put her behind him and focus on a goal he could attain—making work conditions safe so men would stop dying for steel. Maggie was part of the past. She had offered him friendship, nothing more. Now friendship was all he would take—from a distance. Even that seemed more than he had left to give.

  Beth and Maggie worked together to finish the last of the Thanksgiving dinner dishes. It had been a good day. Hank was on his good behavior, and had been for some time. Life had settled into a comfortable routine. Maggie still thought of Andrew, but her tears had dried up. Her heart no longer leapt at the thought of him.

  As for Jake, he was seldom around. He was gone all day at work. He was gone most nights. Maggie didn't know where, and she wondered. Sometimes she would sit by her window to read, and then catch herself watching for him to come home. She had just put a pot of coffee on the stove when someone knocked on the back door.

  “I’ll get it,” said Beth, as she pulled off her apron.

  “That’s alright. I’ve got it.”

  Maggie opened the door. There he stood. Jake’s eyes locked onto hers. Each greeted the other by name. Beth broke the awkward silence that followed but could not break the tension. She invited him in.

  He took one step inside, and then seemed to notice his hands and the pie he was holding. “Ma sent it over. It’s mincemeat.”

  No one in Beth’s house liked it but Beth, so she never made it. Knowing this, Maeve always made an extra. Beth and Jake spoke with ease while Maggie observed like an awkward outsider. A couple of times Jake’s eyes flickered toward Maggie’s. Their spark was quickly snuffed out, but sometimes they settled there, hard and dark. Then Maggie would search Jake’s austere face for her old friend and his eyes would dart away.

  “I’ve got to get back now,” he said with a smile to Beth. He nodded to Maggie and walked through the door.

  How their lives had changed, Maggie thought as she watched him leave. Faded remnants of friendship were all they had left. People change, Maggie reminded herself. Her parents had died. People moved in and out of town, people of different homelands, faiths and color. Some lived and moved among her people until they were part of their lives. Others moved on. Jake was just one more person, a part of her life that had changed. It bothered her.

  Lately she had been wondering whether friendships could survive anywhere but in memories. Will had been her friend. So was Jake. No, Jake was something more. Well, he used to be. With Will’s passing, she felt as though she had lost most of Jake, too. She grieved for them both. Maggie pulled herself up and exhaled. Only the young or the foolish expect things to stay constant.

  Maggie glanced through the window at Beth tending her garden, and then pulled from her pocket a letter posted from Pittsburgh. It had just arrived, and she had not yet read it. She rubbed her fingers against the familiar cotton watermarked stationary. Feelings she had not yet buried were pounding against her chest. As she opened it, she imagined tearing it into pieces, dropping it into the stove, and watching it burn like the other one.

  My Dear Maggie,

  How are you?

  Maggie scoffed under her breath. “How am I?—he asks!”

  I know you must hate me,

  “You have no idea.”

  …and no more than I deserve.

  Her eyes softened. As much as she wanted to hate him, her heart had not broken from hate.

  But, Maggie, I must see you.

  “No.” But her heart leapt in spite of herself.

  Please give me a chance.

  “You had it,” she thought. But then she recalled his face and his touch.

  Maggie, meet me. Just once.

  “Why? Why now?”

  On Thanksgiving weekend the firm is coming up to the lake for some hunting. I’ll get away Sunday. We’ll go for a drive. I miss you. Is your hair still soft as silk through my fingers? Maggie, you know that I'm still

  Yours,

  Andrew

  Maggie combed her fingers through her soft as silk hair. The letter hung limply at her side as she looked through the window. He didn't deserve to be seen. All the pain and anger came back, and the way she once felt. And she knew she would see him.

  “Are you alright?” Beth stood staring in the doorway.

  “Hmm? Fine. I’m fine.”

  “You look a bit flushed. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

  Maggie put her cool fingertips to her burning cheek. “I just need some air.” She stepped outside and leaned her back against the closed door.

  Maggie sat in the park in her favorite spot, looking up toward the mountain where the snow was fresh fallen, with a layer of thin icy glaze. Here the paths were well traveled, with deep worked in ruts. She looked about. She grew restless. She got up and wandered about, trying to enjoy the crisp air, but it held a damp cold that was beginning to chill her. She looked toward the mountain. No Andrew. Uneasy anticipation gave way to anger, and then finally a feeling of sick disappointment.

  Maggie walked briskly toward home. She was rounding the corner when she heard a
n approaching horse and the scrape of a sleigh along the snowy road. She paid it little heed, and kept up her quick pace. A shadow overtook her as a cutter pulled over and stopped up ahead. Out stepped Andrew, looking gallingly handsome. His clothes were flawlessly cut to fit his tall and lean body. The cold had brought color to his face, which accentuated his brilliant blue eyes. Maggie steeled herself. Her pace slowed as she quickly considered her options. She could turn around and make a scene in front of all the neighbors, or she could face him head on. He stepped in her path. She could make a wide circle around him. That would entertain the neighbors. Or she could stop.

  “Maggie.”

  “Mr. Adair.” Maggie lifted her chin and tried her best to look anywhere but at his piercing eyes. Already, she imagined the neighbors peering through gaps in the curtains.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. It was out of my control.”

  “A good deal of your life is out of your control.” She looked straight at his water blue eyes. He had the nerve to look wounded.

  Andrew scooped Maggie’s hands into his, and then lowered his lips to the back of her hands, first pressing then gently brushing his lips against her soft skin.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she pulled her hand free. In soft, urgent tones, Maggie whispered, “Please don’t!”

  He lifted his eyes with a look that disarmed her. He moved closer, or was it she who was leaning?

  Andrew maintained a stance that was gentlemanly enough but a hair’s breadth closer than what most would consider respectable. She just hated herself for the thrill that went through her to hear his voice, muted and intimate. “Maggie, don’t turn away. Just listen to me. Look at me.”