Finding Amy

by Poppen, Sharon

  “No, you take them. Please.” She pressed the candy firmly into Abby’s palm.

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Brien, but I really must go now. My clothes basket upstairs is probably solid ice by now.” Abby called over her shoulder, “Go inside. You're sure to catch your death of cold out in this wind. I’ll come to have tea with you later.” Her unruly mane of red curls bounced and danced in a frivolous ballet as she hurried up the stairs.

  In short order, the clothes were hung and Abby turned toward the kitchen.

  “Abby.”

  The voice from the top step of the porch bit into Abby’s ears with its soulful pang of despair. She turned and looked at a bent and broken man.

  “Uncle Maudie!”

  “Shush, girl.”

  She walked toward her uncle. “What is it?”

  “Oh colleen…” His six-foot frame slumped against the wall and slowly slid down to rest on the stairs.

  “I’ll get Aunt Kit.” She turned.

  “No! Wait.”

  Abby faced him again.

  He was running his fingers through his thinning salt and pepper hair. When he looked up, the despair in his eyes pierced deep into her chest.

  She sat next to him on the step. She had never seen him like this. He was the one everyone leaned on, so dependable. Aunt Kit had told Abby a million times how lucky she was to have found an Irishman who didn’t need the drink. Oh, he liked his ale well enough, but not to excess. He preferred to spend his nights with his family. Aunt Kitty and the eight children, plus Abby, were entertainment enough, he always laughed.

  “What is it? Can I help?”

  “It’s Liam,” he managed to croak. Tears were traversing the contours of his haggard face.

  Abby looked down the stairs checking for her cousin Liam. He was eighteen and had recently begun work with his father in the boiler rooms below the downtown buildings. It was dirty, dangerous work, but it paid well and gave them a trade. So many of the immigrants were stuck with coolie labor never knowing what they would be doing from day to day. The boiler workers were always busy and in high demand. He and his father left before dawn and returned at six-thirty each evening.

  “Where is Liam, Uncle Maudie?”

  A sob was her answer. Maudie’s head was down and all Abby could see was his shoulder twitching as he fought to gain control. Abby took his head between her hands. She raised it to look him in the eye.

  He spoke softly. “He’s dead. Liam is dead.”

  Abby could not believe her ears. She clutched her chest as it constricted and threatened to take away her own life sustaining breath. Liam, her favorite cousin, was dead? It wasn’t possible. He had complained about her coffee just this morning, but it was a standing joke between them. They had sat on this very porch step last night talking about their futures as he smoked his foul smelling cigar and sipped an ale.

  “No. No!” Her voice keened in grief and disbelief. “Liam is dead?” Abby spoke in a whisper.

  Martin John Moynahan nodded. Ice-tinged lashes glittered in the sunlight around his red-rimmed, brown eyes.

  Abby swallowed, but still had trouble finding her voice. “How? When?”

  Martin tried to speak, but failed in his attempt. His shoulders quivered.

  Abby reached across and put her small hands around her uncle’s large callused fingers. Despite the wind and cold, they were hot and sweaty. She touched his forehead to find it burning as if with fever.

  “Uncle Maudie. Come inside. You need to be where it’s warm. Please?” She started to rise.

  He grabbed her hand. “No.” He moaned. “No. I can’t face Kit. Oh dear God.” His voice trailed off.

  Abby stood and moved down one step. She pulled her uncle’s head into her midsection as she caressed his hair, much as a mother would do with a frightened child. Despite the anguish of her own heart, she began to coo to him. “Go ahead with you now. Get it out.”

  His arms encircled her waist as his body shook with primal grief and he sobbed into the cold, wet wool of her sweater.

  “There, there. Get it out, Love.” Abby continued to pat and caress his head.

  “My son. Oh, my son,” he moaned almost indiscernibly. He lifted his head and looked up at Abby. “How will I tell his mother?”

  Through blurred eyes, Abby encouraged him. “Tell me. I’ll help you.” She pulled his head into her midsection again. “What happened to Liam?” She kept her voice low and continued to pat his back.

  Following a half sigh and half sob, he continued. “There was an explosion. Liam and Frank Conroy had gone into the boiler. They were to scrape the slag buildup from the bottom of the tank. We’ll never know what caused a spark, but suddenly the oil dregs under their feet burst into flame. The pressure pipes were off, so there shouldn’t have been anything to cause an explosion, but it happened. Both boys were killed instantly and burned…” His voice choked again. Abby continued to caress his head as he fought for control. Eventually, he looked up. “There’s not even a recognizable body, Abby. Just the bones of two boys who…” He threw his head back, released Abby’s waist and stood. He gently pushed Abby aside and started back down the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  Martin turned. “I can’t face Kitty. I just can’t.” He turned to go.

  Abby caught him on the small landing between the third and second floor. “Uncle Maudie, you must come inside. Surely, someone will rush by to see if they can help. You don’t want Aunt Kitty to hear it that way do you?”

  Her words made their way past his grief and self-pity. “Oh, Christ no.” He looked to heaven, then looked toward the door at the top of the stairs. He took some deep breaths and turned to Abby. He grasped her hand. “Thank you, Love, for being here. I needed …”

  She reached over and patted his hand. “I know.” She noticed his shoulders were squaring and his voice was stronger.

  “Come girl, Kitty will need you desperately this day and probably for many days to come.” He inched toward the back door while holding Abby’s hand like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.

  ****

  Eddie, her three-year-old cousin, sighed in his sleep as he lay against Abby’s breast. She squeezed him lightly and the first hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Abby kissed his mop of dark curls; thankful for the warmth his little body was seeping into her heart. Chicago had been in the grip of a cold front for over a week now and the frigid wind would not let up, but Abby knew it wasn’t the weather making her feel cold to the bone. She looked at the crowd of mourners standing around a plain, newly varnished pine box. Her eyes were drawn to the deep hole next to the box. She shivered. Eddie stirred, but resettled into her breast as she patted his little back.

  Abby closed her eyes and gently rocked the child. Liam appeared. He was about six-years-old. His unruly black hair was in need of a haircut and his blue eyes were jumping with mischief. He called to her.

  “Hey, Red, bet I can beat you to the corner.”

  “No you can’t!” Off she ran, only to have him whiz past her on his already long, lanky legs. By the time she got to the corner, he had turned and was laughing in triumph.

  “Told you.”

  “I’ll get you next time.”

  He pulled her red pigtail and took off laughing and running with Abby in full pursuit.

  “Amen.” The response from the mourners broke her reverie and she opened her eyes. They were drawn to Aunt Kitty and Uncle Maudie. He stood stoically, his left hand on his wife’s shoulder. The red of his eyes and a three-day beard of salt and pepper testified to the pain that had been his constant companion for the last few days. Aunt Kit was staring at the casket, silent tears inching their way down her cheeks. Abby cuddled her little cousin and closed her eyes as the priest continued his platitudes.

  Liam, about eleven-years-old, sitting at the kitchen table peering over an atlas, called to her. “Red, come here. Look.”

  With tears in her eyes, Abby made her way over and slid
into a chair next to him. She had just lost her mother. The poor, young woman had died of pneumonia.

  He reached over and patted her hand. “Abby, don’t cry now.”

  She looked up. He never called her Abby; it was always Red. His eyes were a little glassy too, but he managed a smile.

  “Look.” He pointed to a map of the world.

  “Yes?”

  He swept his hand across a centerfold map that spanned two large pages. “All this is out there for us.”

  “What do you mean?” She sniffled.

  “Well, you know how your Ma always talked about seeing the world.”

  “Yes?” Abby started crying again.

  “Come on, Abby. Listen.” He reached over and clumsily wiped her tears away with his big, awkward adolescent hands. “I’ve an idea.”

  She sniffled and looked with trust into his eyes

  “You and me will travel to all the places your Ma used to talk about.”

  “How?” Abby was old enough to realize that her Ma had been a dreamer. The Barrons and the Moynahans were lace-curtain, Irish poor. They spent their lives trying to make a mean living; there was no time for frivolous travel. Her mother’s dreams had brought a measure of scorn from many of the neighbors. If it hadn’t been for the kindness of Aunt Kitty and Uncle Maudie, Lord knows where or how Abby and her mother would have lived. An unmarried woman with a child was a pariah in this close-knit Catholic community.

  Liam smiled and set his jaw in that determined pose that always preceded his occasional streaks of stubbornness. He spoke to Abby’s eyes in a firm voice. “I don’t know yet.” Abby lowered her head. He lifted her chin and continued. “But, Abby, we’re going to do it. You and me.” His eyes challenged. “Have I ever let you down?”

  She shook her head no. Then, despite her misery, she felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You won’t forget?”

  He smiled broadly. “Forget you, Red?” He tousled her hair. “Not likely.” He turned and refocused on the atlas. “Come on. Look, here’s New York and here’s Washington where the president lives.” He swept his arm across a blue expanse. “And look here, Paris.” Soon the two of them were engrossed in the atlas and Abby’s healing began. The atlas became their bible over the years. As news events and school topics brought strange and exotic places into their lives, they found them on the map and often added them to their list of future destinations.

  Eddie coughed and brought her back to the funeral service. He squirmed in her arms, looked through the crowd of people and spied his mother. “Mama. Mama.” He stretched out his little arms.

  Kitty wrenched her eyes from the casket as his plea penetrated her grief. Abby tried to silence him with a hug. Kitty held out her arms as Eddie intensified his efforts to be set free. Abby set the toddler on the ground and watched him rush to his mother. She gathered him to her and he cuddled against her. His little hands brushing away her tears as he kissed her cheek.

  “I love you, Mama. Don’t cry.”

  Kitty smiled and put her finger to his lips and glanced toward the priest. “Shush, I love you too.” She hugged him tight and the child settled down.

  Abby folded her arms across her chest. She wasn’t sure if the gesture was to warm herself or brace her aching heart.

  The words of the priest droned on. “In times like these, we must remember that God knows what he’s doing. He had a reason for calling these two young men home. He has blessed them by bringing them to his side, away from the strife and toil of this life here on earth. I believe that right this moment our lads are sitting alongside the Lord. They …”

  Abby raised her eyes to the heavens and gazed at the gray Chicago sky. She sighed and risked a thought contrary to the words of the priest. Liam had not been blessed by being taken away. He had wonderful plans; the future looked good to Liam. In fact, the night before his death, he and Abby had sat on the back porch steps discussing their first adventure. They were going to the Yukon. He showed her another article in the evening paper about the frozen north where hardy miners were finding traces of gold in the rivers and streams. It was generally felt that there was a mother lode somewhere up there just waiting to be discovered. They had decided some time ago that they should start their travels there.

  “I just know we’ll find our fortune up there, Red.”

  “But Liam, they also say it’s too cold for humans out in that wilderness.”

  “Ah, and it could be worse than this Chicago wind?”

  Abby laughed as she pulled her collar up against the frigid breeze whistling through the stairwell. He had a point. “But we know nothing about gold mining.”

  “We can learn. I’ll bet the library has information on how it’s done. We’ll teach ourselves. We’ve got a little over a year before the twins will be old enough to go to work.”

  To Abby, a year was a lifetime. So much could happen. Six-foot Liam was a handsome lad with his dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. He loved to dance and sing. At the monthly block parties, he was the center of attraction for all the young colleens.

  “Oh Liam, a year from now you’ll be married with a baby on the way.”

  He laughed and blew a smoke ring. “Now why would I want to tie myself to one colleen?” Then he got serious. “Besides, I want to offer my future bride more than this grimy neighborhood, a third story flat, a passel of kids wearing hand me downs and a husband who works twelve hour days and is old before his time.”

  A loud sob broke into her reverie. It was Aunt Kit. Even little Eddie, in the distraught woman's arms, was crying. Soon all the mourners were in tears. Grown men were walking away to hide their grief.

  The priest could scarcely be heard as he concluded the eulogy with, “Rest in peace young Liam Martin Moynahan.”

  ****

  Abby woke to the smell of coffee. The aroma snaked its way into her consciousness. Her eyes popped open. She sniffed. It was definitely coffee. Her feet hit the cold floor as she chided herself for oversleeping. She was still tying the belt to her threadbare, pink chenille robe when she entered the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Abby.”

  “Aunt Kit!” The surprise in her voice was not lost on the older woman.

  “Yes, it’s me.” The woman held her hand out to her gaping niece. “Come, have a cup and a chat with me while I finish packing your uncle’s lunch.”

  Abby sat. As she sipped the strong brew, she noticed the tremor in Kitty’s hands. It had been a week since the funeral and the dark circles under her eyes told Abby that the poor dear had had another tear-filled night. Abby reached across the table.

  “Let me …”

  “No. I need to do this. I need to be busy.”

  “It’s too soon. You need to …”

  “Abby, I need to take care of my other children and my husband. I loved Liam as only a mother can love her first born; the child who taught me as much as I taught him.” Her voice quivered. She cleared her throat. “But, the others deserve a mother too. I can do this. I can take care of my family.” She forced a weak smile.

  Abby started to say something, but her uncle entered the room. The fact that he was alone caused a sharp pain to the hearts of the two women as real as if they had been physically struck.

  Kitty recovered first. “Mornin’, Love. Come. Sit. Your coffee’s ready.”

  Within minutes, a bowl of warm oatmeal, laden with butter pads and mounds of brown sugar was placed before the man along with a cup of coffee. The three of them made feeble attempts at small talk before Martin made his good-byes and left for work. Alone.

  The women spent the remainder of the early hours getting the children off to school. Once the morning chores were over, Kitty retired to her room to rest and Abby headed out to market.

  The morning sun on her face felt warm despite the twenty-degree temperature. The sidewalks were clear, but shoveled snow created a one to two foot high barrier between the walkways and the street. The week old snow was soot covered and frozen into ugly b
lack-laced mounds. The street was quiet. The men were at work, the children at school and the housewives deep into their daily chores.

  As Abby turned a corner, she slipped on a piece of ice that the morning sun had yet to reach with its warm, melting rays. Her body began a ballet of movements in an attempt to stay on her feet. The efforts would have been futile but for the arms of a tall, dark-haired young man who offered his hands as an anchor. Abby instinctively grasped them and steadied herself. She was flustered, red-faced and out of breath when she looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  “Whoa there, Red. Are you all right now?”

  The man’s eyes mesmerized her, but the word ‘Red’ thrust into her heart like a lance. She teared up and let out an anguished sob.

  “Hey, hey. It’s all right now. You didn’t fall. You’ll be fine.” He maintained a tight grip on her hands.

  The tears were coming in an uncontrollable surge. Abby’s rubbery knees buckled. The young man pulled her close. He stroked her beautiful tresses as she sobbed into his chest.

  Abby was not thinking. Her body had control. Her brain reacted to the welcome relief of the anguish she had bottled up since the accident. The man’s rough pea jacket, smelling of wet wool, was reminiscent of Liam’s coat when he arrived home on a rainy or snowy day. She snuggled into it for comfort. Visions of her handsome, kind cousin, her best friend, drifted through her mind alternating between colorful scenes of him alive and happy with dark pictures of his coffin and grave. The fact that her body was being transferred from one set of arms to another registered into her brain with the sound of a familiar voice.

  “She just lost a loved one. Poor dear.”

  Abby drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. She was now in the arms of Mr. Corcoran, the owner of the local market. The handsome stranger was across from her. The concern in his eyes touched her, but as she gained more control, embarrassment set in. Her face felt feverish. She lifted her hand to her face and felt the wetness from her tears amid a warm mucous substance. Oh my God, my nose is running. She brought both hands up to cover her nose and mouth.