Choices of the Heart

by Margaret Gay Malone

  The man’s alcohol-induced courage began to melt.

  Liam stood tall. “I am a wanted man.”

  As the drunk wavered, Liam wrested the gun from his hand. “I don’t want to see any more of you.” The man shrank back into the crowd.

  Eamon pumped Liam’s hand. “Havin’ only one good leg must have put a fever in yer brain.”

  “That may be so,” Liam acknowledged, “but I did have a backup plan.”

  “And what might that have been?” Daniel asked.

  “Run like hell behind you two.”

  They laughed and congratulated each other with claps on the back.

  The exaggerated story that Liam told passed from mouth to mouth faster than a bottle of whiskey, cementing a reputation fierce enough that no one dared bother him or his friends for the rest of the trip.

  February 13, 1888 was a day that lived in Liam Dwyer’s mind. Years later, he could taste the salt air on his tongue, feel the rough wool of the three sweaters he wore as he leaned against the ship’s rail, and relive the excitement that electrified him the first time he beheld the Statue of Liberty.

  Word flew. “America is just an hour away.” Families gathered the few belongings they did not have already in bags. “Maureen, your doll.” “Seamus, tie your shoes.” “Mary Elizabeth, help your sister with her sweater.”

  They abandoned the steerage compartment and rushed to the deck, crowded from rail to cabins, a sea of people, dense as the ocean itself, and breathing with a single heartbeat.

  “Land!” The cry exploded, and every neck craned for the first sight of it, Rockaway Point, a blue-gray promontory rising out of the morning mist. Of itself, it was simply a low-lying sliver of land jutting into the ocean, but it told them what they wanted to know most—they had made it. They were safe. The ship made its way past Norton’s Point Lighthouse and into Lower New York Bay, through the Narrows, the very entrance to New York Harbor, and into Upper New York Bay. They steered straight for Manhattan and the piers on the city’s west side.

  Liam and Maeve, holding tight to the sleeping baby, strained their eyes as the bay opened up and they could see the crowded skyline of lower Manhattan. Distance hid the sooty reality, and the city glistened in the sun.

  “’Tis a jeweled crown, fashioned by the fairies,” he told Maeve. “’Tis a crown of wealth and freedom, to be worn by you and me.”

  Though Maeve had known hours of homesickness during the voyage, she became caught up in the excitement and half-laughed at, half-believed his extravagance. “Liam, look at all those ships!” she exclaimed, seeing before her ships of every size, carrying the flags of many nations, some in port, some leaving, some just ahead of them. Their numbers gave bold testament to the energy of their new country—its commerce and the thousands of people like themselves, who sought its shores every day, day after day, to shout, “Look at me! I’m here!” and with restless energy of their own, join the humming, vibrant, headlong surge that coursed through the country’s veins and charged it with motion and purpose.

  Then, as one, the passengers pointed west, and a gasp rose from bow to stern. “There she is!” Some shouted it, some whispered it at the sight of that majestic lady, dreamed of in no less passionate terms than if she were flesh and blood. People waved their scarves in salute to her, while others sank to their knees in homage.

  Liam took Dermot from Maeve’s arms. “We have to wake the baby! I want him to see the grand lady with his own eyes.” He lifted the baby on his shoulder and looked from Dermot to the Statue of Liberty. “There’s many have lived a lifetime and never been blessed to see what you’re lookin’ at now, wee one. What a beautiful sight.” He brought the baby down and put his arms around Maeve, encircling the two in a joyful hug.

  The next half mile to Ellis Island was never-ending, and as Liam and Maeve passed the building on their way to port, they studied its ornate, two-toned brick exterior that rose like a confection from the sea, looking for a clue as to what awaited them when they were processed before being admitted to the country. The building told them nothing, except that it was large, no doubt to process thousands like them at a time.

  At last, the great ship steamed its way into port, ponderous as a giant whale. The travel-weary hordes surged forward, eager to leave, only to find that they had to wait until the first class passengers disembarked, and then they were to board a ferry to Ellis Island.

  Maeve took it all stoically, relieved that the worst of the trip was over and willing to bear last delays, last discomforts, last indignities, because they were the last. She tried to calm Liam, whose energy turned to anxiety as he was forced to wait, the prize just out of his reach.

  The ferry sagged its way to Ellis Island, creaking as its human contents pressed against its sides. Then, as hundreds of feet left its decks for their first steps on American soil, the engorged vessel rose up in relief.

  Liam carried their one remaining bag, and Maeve rested Dermot on her hip as they jumped onto the dock and took their place in line, a line which led down the dock, across the lawn, and into the entrance. There was no beginning to be seen, because the lucky ones who had made it to the front were inside the building. The line dragged on. Children sat on their baggage or stood leaning against their mothers’ coats, not understanding the fear that echoed in their parents’ voices as they passed the word from family to family: Doctors examine you, and they have the power to send you back to Ireland. In near terror, many awaited a health examination, the most important one of their lives because, after all their waiting and dreaming and suffering, America might be denied them.

  Two hours later, still outside but much closer to the entrance doors, Eamon and Daniel huddled together with Liam and Maeve. “They’re sayin’ that ye can be kept out if ye have trachoma, or any other diseases that’s catching.” Daniel bent close to Liam and whispered, “Or if ye be lame.”

  The blue in Liam’s eyes grew cold as the February waters. “I’ve not come this far to be sent back,” he said quietly. His head bent over, hands thrust in his pockets, he pondered an answer should he be singled out. Think, man. The right answer means success, a dream fulfilled, a new life. The wrong answer meant despair.

  Finally, he turned to Maeve. “I’ll hold the baby while ye look through your bag. I’ll be needin’ your petticoat.”

  Entering the great hall, Liam, Maeve, Daniel, and Eamon gaped at the cavernous room, the ceiling rising to the height of the highest hills at home in Ireland, and the din of thousands of people, many of whom had arrived ahead of them, coming from other countries and speaking languages they had never heard before.

  “This must be Judgment Day,” said Liam, “the multitudes lined up, each speakin’ in his own tongue, each one waitin’ for St. Peter to divide the wheat from the chaff, and sayin’ to us, ‘Dwyer and Murphy and O’Hanlon, all of ye, the finest wheat. Come right in.’ ”

  They laughed at his joke. His bravado, even though feigned, was what they needed to calm the queasiness in the pit of their stomachs. Fear of rejection marked them as immigrants as much as the landing tags every one wore on their coats.

  They decided not to check their single bag, in order to leave faster when they were through, and Liam and Maeve took turns holding Dermot or watching the bag as they inched to the center of the room and up a long flight of stairs. A doctor at the head of the stairs observed each immigrant as he ascended. They watched with concern as, after several dozens, he picked out someone and chalked a letter on the shoulder of his jacket.

  “What does that mean?” Maeve asked him.

  “Their records are likely not complete,” Liam lied. He knew the immigrant was marked as undesirable because of a disease or—the pain shot up his leg from standing so long—a handicap.

  With great effort, in the crush of people and given the slowness of the ascent, Liam was able to hide his limp, and the doctor at the top of the stairs let him past without questions.

  They waited inside two hours before they reached the s
econd doctor, a tall, thin man with a frozen face who checked eyes by lifting each eyelid with a button hook. The crowd grew apprehensive as they inched closer to their turn. No one wanted to anger the doctor, but people gasped and winced from the pain of having their eyelid turned back with that crude instrument.

  “I won’t have ye submit to that!” Liam said to Maeve. “It’s barbaric!”

  “Hush, Liam, everyone has it done. It will be over in a minute. Let’s not call attention to ourselves.”

  Liam knew she was right and sulked in silence. Liam went first, and the doctor was not gentle. He was glad that he had to hold the baby for Maeve, or else he might have punched the man when he saw Maeve’s shoulders quiver in pain as he grabbed her eyelids. Mercifully, it was over quickly, and the party of five moved on to the line for the last medical exam. Only a few had a letter chalked upon their backs, and that warned Liam of the seriousness of it. He prayed as he had not done in a long time. Merciful Father, if You allow me to pass this test, I will reform my life. No more fightin’, no more drinkin’—well, a little for medicinal purposes. I didn’t want to leave my beautiful homeland, but already I feel the energy of this new country and want to be a part of it.

  “Step forward, please,” the doctor barked. Though he tried not to, Liam limped forward. The doctor studied him.

  “Were you born lame?”

  “No, sir, I’m not lame.”

  “How is that?”

  “Sir, I turned me ankle badly as I jumped off the ferry.” He bent over and lifted his pants leg. He had torn off part of Maeve’s petticoat and made a bandage of it, twisted around his ankle as if in support.

  The doctor had his chalk poised. Liam tried not to look at it, and suppressed the bile that rose in his throat.

  The doctor pointed to his leg. “And how am I to know you just twisted it?”

  “The ferry captain can attest to it,” he said, holding up his hands. “I can look for him.”

  “Impossible!” The doctor squinted his eyes, boring into Liam’s all-too-innocent eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the doctor slammed down his chalk. Taking a stamp from the table, he imprinted it on Liam’s medical card. He waved them on. “You’re free to go.”

  Liam moved quickly behind the doctor, smiling in spite of himself, and waited for Maeve to be examined. She quickly passed his scrutiny, but he put his hand on Dermot and looked into his eyes. “Is he a good baby?”

  “Oh, yes, Doctor. He hardly cries,” Maeve said.

  “How old is he?”

  “Nine months.”

  “Does he sit up?”

  “No.”

  “Does he follow you with his eyes? Does he seem alert?”

  “Oh, yes, Doctor,” Maeve lied. In fact, Maeve had begun to notice that he seemed too placid, perhaps listless.

  “Well, that’s a good sign,” the doctor said. “Keep an eye on him. He seems behind for his age. Could be a slow child.” The doctor pointed to his own head as he said it, a sign that someone was mentally deficient, and Maeve gasped.

  He stamped her medical card without further comment, and Maeve fled to Liam’s arms. “Did you hear what he said?” she whispered.

  “He’s wrong. He sees too much here every day, all kinds of sickness. Our Dermot will be fine.”

  “Yes, of course.” Maeve hoped that what the doctor saw and what she herself had noticed was a problem that would pass. As they completed their four-hour ordeal, boarded the ferry, and made their way to a new life, the chance that their darling Dermot might be impaired gnawed at both of them.

  Chapter 13

  On the way back to the priests’ residence, the monsignor did not question the young priest about the surprise meeting. There was no need. The look in their eyes told all—they were lovers. And the child, such a beautiful boy, so like Vittorio it was uncanny. It was as though through some aberration in time, one person stood there, simultaneously child and man. Vittorio was so taken with the woman he seemed unaware of the likeness between himself and the boy, unaware that the child was his son.

  A potentially explosive situation. Father di Rienzi’s indiscretion, if it were found out, would reflect badly on himself as his mentor. It was he, Tulano, who had pushed to have the young nobleman on his staff. It was he who had championed him, put him in line to move up when he himself became Cardinal. Monsignor Tulano has used poor judgment, they would say, perhaps deny him the Cardinal’s hat. He would keep a close watch on the young priest for now, while he decided what to do about him.

  At dinner, he watched Vittorio, seated between two important monsignors, men of influence like himself, and apt to rate him by the priests he had on his staff. Vittorio alternated between being a charming conversationalist and staring straight ahead, his mind far from the dinner and present company.

  He seemed to relax more by the time espresso was served, and Monsignor Tulano gave his full attention to the Cardinal who was his guest of honor. They had an animated conversation, and he was feeling better about di Rienzi until he looked over and was shocked to see the young priest’s place empty.

  He summoned the housekeeper and whispered to her, “Where is Father di Rienzi?”

  “He had to go out, Monsignore,” she replied. “He didn’t say when he would return.” She saw anger chill his eyes and hurried away, not remembering when she had last seen his features as cold as the hills in winter.

  Anger fueled his resolve that no one would stand in the way of his success. It was at that moment the monsignor decided that the woman would have to go.

  ****

  Vittorio walked briskly through the streets, a warm evening breeze on his cheeks and rippling through his hair. He headed for the Arno, for the exact spot where they had met this afternoon. If she wasn’t there, he would find the address of her sister’s house and, caution be damned, would seek her there. But somehow he believed she would return to their meeting place, just as they had known many years ago to meet in the hills.

  He pictured her as he walked. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. The way she loved her child, their private laughter as they looked out over the Arno, the terror on her face when he almost fell, all made her more beautiful to him.

  He slipped off his priest’s collar, revealing a simple white shirt, and as he turned the last corner that would give him full view of the street where they had met, he quickened his pace. Breathless when he arrived, he looked around for Ottavia. Couples strolled in the moonlight or watched the candles glowing in the inky river, throwing little haloes that, in their dappled light, rivaled the stars. He paced, hesitating when a lone figure approached, but she was not there. He decided to sit on one of the benches, his back to the river, so he could see her approach from any direction.

  He paced, he sat, he paced again as an hour passed. His heart lurched as he saw a solitary figure hurrying along. From her walk, graceful and unconsciously sinuous, he knew it was Ottavia. He met her, put his arm around her, and she fell into step with him.

  “I had to put Federico to bed,” she said.

  “I would have waited. Have you seen the lights in the river?”

  When she shook her head, he guided her to the railing, and they looked down at the glittering orbs below, then at the rainbow of stars above. Surrounded by light shimmering in the dark, they were so close, feeling the touch of their clothing and the warmth of their skin.

  She touched his cheek. “What does one say, meeting like this after so many years?”

  “No words are necessary.” He enfolded her in his arms, and she slid her arms around his neck. Slowly their lips brushed, met, and lingered. No longer longing for the past, tonight they had the present. Couples passing by smiled, thinking they were lovers such as they, young and dreaming of the future.

  They strolled along the Arno, sometimes stopping to sit on one of the benches, he touching her face and lifting her fingertips to his lips, she studying his eyes and brushing an invisible lock of hair from his forehead. Then they
would blend in a kiss, two hearts that had never believed they’d feel as one again, their union all the sweeter. They melted into the darkness as long as they dared, needing each other. For years, they had despaired. Now, miraculously, they were together. Here and now. It was enough; it was not enough.

  Ottavia rested her head on Vittorio’s shoulder. “My sister will worry.”

  “I know. I’ll walk you home.”

  Arm in arm, they strolled back, feeling in harmony with the night. They talked of their lives over the years, and Vittorio was anxious to hear about young Federico. Ottavia spoke lovingly of him, but knowing the pain it would cause him, she did not reveal that the boy was his son.

  Because Federico Gibelli had died on his wedding night and the child was named Federico, he assumed that the marriage had been consummated. The thought of Ottavia making love with another man was so painful he thrust it out of his mind. He imagined he saw much of Ottavia in the boy, her good looks and her sunny smile, and he immediately loved Federico for being Ottavia’s child. He never dreamed that the child was his.

  “Will I see you again?” she asked at her sister’s door.

  “Of course you will see me again. And again, and again. I can’t let you go this time.”

  “Vittorio, don’t say that. You have your vows.”

  “I have thought of nothing but you.”

  He did not want to go back to the priests’ residence and instead wandered the streets for hours. He finally returned early in the morning and crept up the stairs in the darkness. He did not see the door to the monsignor’s room open a crack as he passed by in the hall. That was the moment that the monsignor, keeping a cool head though he was seething within, decided that he had to act quickly.

  ****

  Ottavia was at home alone the next morning, as her sister was out with Federico and little Carlo, and her brother-in-law was at work. She did not know when Vittorio would come to the house, but she hummed to herself, knowing that it could be any time. At the sound of the door knocker, she ran to the door and flung it open.