May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel

by Peter Troy

  Ahh lad, but don’t you worry none, he said patting Ethan’s shoulder. Yer Da an’ brudder’ll be sendin’ money from over dere, and it’ll be off t’America wit’ ya before long. You’ll be pickin’ gold nuggets up off the streets an’ stuffin’ yerself ’til ya can’t stand.

  Money did arrive just about the time they dug out the new potatoes in early July. They came out of the ground without any hint of disease, just as most of them had the two years before, only this time they didn’t turn black a week after harvest. Still, because so few tubers had been planted, the yield wasn’t much better than the previous two blighted years had been. It was enough for Mrs. Broderick to convince her husband to take them to her family home in Scotland so their two little darlin’s wouldn’t be exposed to any of the assorted diseases waftin’ their way up from the tenants’ farms. Only a skeleton staff would work the Broderick land and maintain the house, and Mam and Aunt Em were told of their release by Mrs. Broderick. She gave Mam six shillings as a severance, and gave Aunt Emily, who’d been with them since before their daughters were born, a single pound, a bleedin’ shillin’ a year, as Aunt Em called it.

  Ethan was given the chance to stay and tend the horses until the Brodericks arranged to have them shipped over in a month or two. But there was nothin’ left in Ireland for them other than scratchin’ a few potatoes from th’ground a month from now, then a winter of eatin’ th’Protestant soup an’ watchin’ each udder waste away, as Aunt Em said. So on a cloudless summer evenin’ in the middle of July, they ate their final meal in the cottage, sitting in a silence almost as disruptive as what’d filled their home after Aislinn’s funeral, until, mercifully, it was broken by a knock at the door.

  Evenin’ Mrs. McOwen, Mr. Hanratty said when Mam opened it.

  Good evenin’ Mr. Hanratty, she replied, stepping back a little. Won’t you come in? We’ve a few new potatoes left an’ there’s some tea from th’Brodericks’. I’m afraid we’ve used th’leaves a few times, but dere’s still—

  No, I’m not meanin’ t’interrupt yer supper. But I t’ank ya for de offer, Mr. Hanratty said in a more formal voice than usual. I know yer leavin’ in th’mahrnin’ an’ I brought this over for th’boy.

  He handed her a cap similar to the one he wore, only smaller.

  It belonged t’me son when he was a lad, Mr. Hanratty said. I t’ought young Ethan could make use of it.

  Yes, I’m sure he’d like it, Mam said, extendin’ her arm toward the inside of the cottage again. Woncha come in fer a minute, Mr. Hanratty?

  T’anks, but no. When you’ve said as many goodbyes as I’ve in me life, y’get t’avoidin’ ’em as much as ya can. He grabbed the brim of his cap and bowed his head slightly. My best t’ya, Ma’am, an’ yer sister, an’ th’boy. Safe journey.

  And he was off down the path without another word. Ethan knew Mr. Hanratty wouldn’t want him to run after him to say goodbye, much as he wanted to do it anyway, so he simply stood with his Mam at the door and watched as his friend disappeared over the rise. He hadn’t anywhere near the experience with saying goodbyes that Mr. Hanratty had, but between seein’ off his Da and brother, and then Aislinn, he knew they were something to be avoided too.

  When they’d finished supper, their meager packing began. Each of them would take two extra sets of clothes, their blankets and a few other trinkets. Ethan had originally hoped to take all of the books from The Library, but when he wrapped them in the satchel formed out of his blanket, he realized that they’d be quite a burden to carry even half as far as they had to go. One by one he took out the books that’d been their least favorite among the collection, with the histories of England going first, since he didn’t particularly care to read about their glorious conquests anymore. When he got the number down to six, the load at last felt manageable. He opened the front covers of the ones that were to make the trip, and checked the names that’d been inscribed long ago, back when two pennies for a jar of ink was a reasonable expense. Each carefully penned inscription read:

  This book passes now through the grateful hands of:

  Aislinn McOwen & Ethan McOwen

  (though the stories contained within belong to the ages)

  Of course every bit of it had been Aislinn’s idea. She was always comin’ up with interesting sayings like that, he thought, and from the time she’d brought the first batch of them home, she insisted that books were like the land, since no one could ever really own such an eternal thing. And now, as he ran his fingertips over them, rememberin’ when he and his sister first proudly staked their temporary claim to such treasure, he couldn’t help but think of what’d concerned him from the first moment his Mam told him they were leavin’. Aislinn was to be the only one left behind.

  JULY 19, 1847

  It’s still night when he’s awake and slippin’ his way down the ladder from the loft. Mam and Aunt Em were up talkin’ way after he was supposed to be asleep, and he worried that he’d not wake in time to pay Aislinn one final visit. But something wakes him when there’s just the slightest hint of light on the horizon, and he gets past Mam and Aunt Em, who’ve yet to stir. Maybe it was Aislinn woke him up, he thinks, as he’s off down the Lane to the churchyard.

  The slate is still clear of any weeds or grass, often as he and Mam and Aunt Em come to visit, each of them separately, pretendin’ they didn’t do so, but each of them knowing every time the others’d been here. Ethan sits down beside her, careful not to touch the ground above her coffin, or the one alongside it either.

  Mahrnin’, Misses O’Neil, he says to the slate next to Aislinn’s. He barely knew the woman when she was alive, but it’s as if he’s become close to her, what with all the visits and settin’ down alongside her eternal resting place as often as he has by now.

  Mahrnin’, Aislinn, he says, sadder, the guilt of their departure heavy on his mind and in his words. We’re off t’day, loike I was sayin’ yesterday. Three days it’ll be to Newry, Mam says. I can only take six o’the books in th’Libr’y. We each gotta carry some o’ the food an’ six was all I figgered I could manage. I was gonna bring th’others out here an’ lay ’em alongside ya, but I figgered you’d be sad t’see ’em get rained on like dat, even if dey’re mostly th’English hist’ries an’ such. Better t’leave ’em in the cottage, an’ maybe whoever else comes t’live here’ll get a chance t’read ’em.

  He’s spent so much of his twelve and a half years with Aislinn as a constant presence, even in the ground like this, that his eyes can’t help but fill with the water at the thought of sayin’ goodbye once and for all. But he doesn’t want her to be sad, and doesn’t want Mrs. O’Neil to see him cry, so he opens the book he’s brought with him, and turns to the page he’d marked with an old piece of shoelace.

  I’m takin’ th’Shakespeare along wit’ me, he says. I still gotta sound out some o’ da words an’ I don’t know if I’ll ever understand him th’way you do, but I figgered you’d want me to keep workin’ at it. I remembered how you liked Much Ado About Nothin’, an’ I figgered it’d be better t’read somethin’ from one o’ da comedies than somethin’ sad. So here goes, it’s from Benedick. This can be no trick. The conf’rence was sadly borne. Dey have th’trutha this from Hero …

  When he finishes it, he half-expects to hear Mrs. O’Neil start applauding the way Mam and Aunt Em always did on Saturday nights. But there’s just the silence of the first light of mornin’. So he talks a little more, mostly about the journey, with a few you remember when’s … followed by a story and maybe a little laugh at the end of it, thrown in amongst the chatter. But there’s only so much of it he can handle, and before too much longer he’s off, not saying goodbye, just s’lahng, figurin’ that Mr. Hanratty had it right when it comes to moments like these.

  He’s not halfway back up the Lane when he sees Aunt Em making her way toward him. And he knows just what she’s doin’.

  We figgered you was here, she says. She’s not mad, not with the water in her eyes either, but still not h
er usual self, and Ethan realizes she’s lived here for more than twenty years. This was the church she was married in and the churchyard where her husband, who Ethan doesn’t remember knowing, was buried ten years ago. So she’s got to say goodbye to him as well as Aislinn. And then he remembers that he forgot to say goodbye to his Uncle Michael, Aunt Em’s husband who he doesn’t remember, and is sad for the omission.

  Yer Mam is back makin’ something t’eat before we go, Aunt Em says. She’ll be comin’ t’say her goodbyes before we’re off.

  And she slides her hand across his hair, smilin’ through her eyes squinted in the morning sun, then pats his cheek. Yer as foine a brudder as anyone could ever ask fer, she says.

  Sorry, Aunt Em, he answers.

  Fer what now?

  I fergot t’say goodbye to Uncle Moike.

  And she brushes her hand across his cheek again, smilin’ broader than before and saying, I’ll give’m yer best, love. And then she’s off, back the way he’d just come.

  The journey to Newry is nearly fifty miles, so they carry just a few pounds of raw potatoes and bits of bread with them, hoping to arrive by the end of the third day, where they can maybe take a room for the night and have a proper meal. The four pounds, three shillings they have is a fortune that could’ve fed them for three months, but they can’t afford to buy some salted pork or even a few more potatoes for the voyage. A full three pounds of that money, the amount Da and Sean sent over, is for Ethan’s passage to America. The remaining shillings’ll take them on the ferry from Newry to Liverpool, then take Mam and Aunt Em as far as the textile mills of Manchester, to work and wait, maybe, for their own turn.

  They leave an hour after first light, with Ethan and Aunt Em meeting Mam at the churchyard, waitin’ some more for her to finish saying goodbye to Aislinn. They walk for a long while without sayin’ a word, take a short rest, then get a ride on the back of a hay wagon for nearly two miles. Then it’s walk and walk and walk some more, with only little rests in between. When darkness sets in, they make a small fire beside the road and cook a few potatoes, certain that they’ve covered twenty miles that day. But the next day they’re slowed a little by a steady rain, slowed a great deal more by the soreness each of them feels in their feet and legs, and The Hunger that eats at their spirits. They cover slightly more than half as much ground as the first day, and by the time they scrounge up enough relatively dry wood to build a tiny fire, it’s already dark. Watchin’ three small potatoes boil while sipping water from a nearby well, each of them stares into the fire as if lookin’ at it will somehow warm their aching bodies, but before long the rain returns and they’re left to nibble on their dinner beneath woolen blankets that soon become heavy and wet.

  On the mornin’ of the third day, they twist the water from their blankets and eat the last of the potatoes. The plan was to spend that night in Newry, where Aunt Em swore she’d eat da Protestant soup or even kiss de Archbishop of Canterb’ry square on th’lips, if it meant a decent meal an’ a bed. Ethan’d often heard people talk about the Protestant soup like it was some sort of evil witch’s brew, but Mr. Hanratty told him it was regular food the same as any other, just that the Prods’re no better’n the Priests or the bleedin’ English, what with how all of ’em want to grab holda yer soul b’fore they’ll thinka feedin’ ya. Whatever it is, Ethan figures he could go for some of that Protestant soup just then, or English soup if there’s any, or even a handful of the hosts the Father gave out at Communion, God save his immortal soul for thinkin’ such a thing. And while he’s full of such sinful thoughts, Ethan watches his Aunt unwrap the six ceramic plates her husband had bought her as a wedding present. They’re hand-painted with different designs, and she looks each of them over before picking out her favorite.

  Well, dis one’ll have t’be enough to remember better days, she says, and wraps it back in her extra dress.

  Don’t, Em, Ethan’s Mam protests. Moichael gave ’em to ya.

  I have to, Nora, I can’t carry ’em anymore.

  Well I can carry ’em for a time an’ den maybe you’ll feel better an’ can—

  Nora, all I want t’do now is get to th’damn boat an’ get on wit’ whatever else it is th’Lahrd sees fit to test us wit’. I got enough to remember ’bout Moichael wit’out luggin’ dese plates halfway ’cross th’bleedin’ country.

  Since at least Aislinn’s funeral, Ethan’s felt like he’s let everyone down. Da told him he was the man of the house when he left, and even if he was just kidding about that, seein’ how he was just a lad of ten when his Da said it, Ethan still feels like he’s failed to take care of all of them the way he should’ve, the way his Da would’ve, or even Seanny. And to see Aunt Em leave this treasure behind, after all she’s already left back home, is about all he can take of that shame without doing something drastic. So he ducks behind a tree, unwraps his satchel, and makes the difficult decision in just a few seconds. Shakespeare, Homer, Milton, and Chaucer make the cut, while Shelley and Swift are left behind. Out of sight from his Mam and Aunt Em, he places the two books side by side and leans them against a tree, hoping they’ll be adopted by passersby for something more than kindling or to wipe their arses. Then he walks over to the discarded plates and begins to wrap them carefully in his satchel.

  Ethan, what’re ya doin’? Aunt Emily asks.

  I can carry dem, he says with confidence.

  Now don’t be stahrtin’—

  I can carry dem, he interrupts like he never would, somehow stumbling upon a man’s sense of resolution, what with how neither his Aunt, nor his Mam, say anything more about it.

  They walk slowly, coverin’ maybe five or six miles through the entire mornin’ before stopping for a short rest. When it’s time to continue, Ethan can feel the weight of the satchel dig into his bruised and beleaguered shoulder, as he sets it in place. There are four books remaining, but he knows now that they can’t possibly all make the trip with him, not if he’s going to carry Aunt Emily’s plates. Newry must still be ten or twelve miles off, he figures, and as they plod along, slower than ever, he begins to consider which book to leave behind next. The Shakespeare, Aislinn’s favorite, will stay, of course. He’ll drop his extra set of clothes before it comes to that. And The Odyssey is his favorite of all of them, so that’ll stay as well. That leaves Chaucer and Milton—Canterbury Tales and Paradise Lost. Chaucer’s the first to go, left at the base of a stone wall after their midday rest. Then, as evening arrives in the distance, he excuses himself from his Mam and Aunt, sayin’ he has to visit the necessary just off the road. He places his bag against one tree, then walks to another twenty feet farther away to tend to business. When he returns to his satchel, he removes Milton and notices just a whisper of relief in the load he still carries.

  They walk for another mile or so, then stop as darkness sets in with still no sign of Newry in the distance. Ethan can feel the blood collecting near the back of his shoes where blisters from the first day of walking had torn open on the second and then again today. He takes them off slowly, excruciatingly, then turns them over on the ground to let the blood trickle out. His Mam and Aunt sit exhaustedly beside one another, broken, nothin’ proper or ladylike about their appearance now, and he knows that if they had the energy, they’d cry at the sight of each other. There’s enough daylight left to collect wood for a fire, but there’ll be no more progress today, no roof over their heads, no proper supper or even the Protestant soup. But Ethan feels a sense of pride as he sets the large wooden match to the kindlin’ he’s gathered in bare feet, then begins putting in the larger sticks to make a nice fire to warm their spirits. With his Mam and Aunt stretched out on their blankets, admirin’ his handiwork, he unfolds his blanket and stacks his Aunt’s plates neatly alongside him. She leans toward him and smiles a little while examining them.

  Dey look wonderful, thank you Ethan, she says, and kisses him on the forehead.

  He nods and smiles back, but then she looks at the rest of his things and a worried e
xpression comes over her face.

  Where are th’resta da books ya brought? she asks.

  Ethan says nothing.

  Ethan, you had what … six of ’em when we left? she asks, lookin’ over at his Mam for a second and then back at him. Don’t tell me … awwww Ethan, why’d ya go and do that? Just fer some silly plates …

  She shakes her head and the water’s in her eyes and down her cheeks, and he can’t help but feel like he’s done something wrong.

  Et’an, his Mam asks tenderly. Where’d ya leave ’em?

  He shrugs his shoulders at first, then figures it isn’t much of a man’s response. After all, it’d been his decision to carry the plates, what with Aunt Em doin’ so much for them, taking them in when Da and Seanny left. It was the least he could do to carry her wedding plates.

  Two of ’em I left behind right off, he says matter-of-factly. Den Chaucer somewhere ’round midday, an’ Milton beside th’tree where we stopped about a mile back. I didn’t know we were dis close to stoppin’ fer th’night. But dat’s it, Aunt Em—an’ I’d do it again soon as I got da chance.

  He stretches out his blanket, still a little wet from the night before, then folds his arms and lies down on it. After a final glance over at his Aunt and Mam, he closes his eyes, placing the cap Mr. Hanratty’d given him over his face, as if declaring the matter resolved. Neither of the women says anything, but he can hear Aunt Emily sniffling for a few minutes before the tiredness overtakes him and he gives in to sleep.

  JULY 22, 1847

  The Hunger wakes Ethan a few hours later, and he opens his eyes to the faint light of the quarter-moon. His exhaustion is gone, it seems, chased off by the sound of his stomach. Aislinn used to tell him to think of the noises their stomachs’d make as a cat’s purring, softening it into something nice, the way she did with most difficult things. But this is more like the sound of some kind of African lion who’s mad as hell, Ethan thinks, and he worries it’ll wake Mam and Aunt Em, whose silhouettes he can see in the shadows just a few feet away.