That night Callie slept beside her husband for the first time. While she slept, Hugh lay awake, turned on his side, watching her, longing for her. The small light from the dying fire illuminated her profile, and he could feel the warmth emanating from her. It was a long time before he closed his eyes.
In the days that followed, Hugh managed to find a few odd jobs to keep them in food and to purchase a second-hand stove. It was only a pot-belly contraction, but it was sufficient for stoking with wood and coals and was usable for cooking. Callie fought to keep a cheerful countenance, but she had never been more miserable. Because of her misery she went out of her way to be extra kind and patient with Hugh. None of this was his fault, really. It was her own doing that had brought her to this. She knew it was wrong to sleep with Rossiter; it went against everything Peggy had taught her. Mum had a way of saying, “Bad things happen to bad children.” But she was no longer a child, and had loving Rossiter been bad? Her hand covered the swelling of her belly as though shielding the child within. How could a baby be bad? If anyone had been bad, it was Rossiter. Callie vacillated between loving Rossiter and damning him. There would always be, she supposed, a tenderness within her for the man who had initiated her into womanhood, but also a deep resentment. She and the baby should have been Rossiter’s responsibility, not Hugh’s. Rossiter should be paying the bills and worrying after her and his child. Instead he had probably married his lovely, young Boston heiress and had never given Callie a passing thought.
The cold winter wind howled through the shanty, although Hugh, taking a cue from his neighbors, had stuffed newspapers and mud chinking between the open boards. It was little consolation to Callie that most of her neighbors were Irish immigrants like herself. She felt removed from them, isolated amidst the crowd. While she was pleasant and made acquaintance with many of them, she realized that they were worlds apart. Living on Staten Island with the Powers family had educated Callie. She knew about the finer things in life, about the culture of the upper classes. That time with the Powerses had acquainted her with fine china and sparkling crystal and made her greedy for a real home and clean clothes and a decent life. Living in Shantytown was like being reduced to an animal. It was almost impossible to do laundry when you had to carry water from the public pump, and coal and wood were so scarce and costly that to heat water would have been a waste of fuel, to say nothing of the cost of soap. Still Callie did her best to keep the shack as clean as possible, washing clothes and sheets in icy water and hanging them to dry inside. Hanging laundry outside was impossible. If everything wasn’t stolen within a matter of minutes, the black smoke from chimney flues and the everpresent mud would destroy all efforts. When she thought of the prospect of the baby’s laundry and all the diapers, she nearly cried.
Callie was no stranger to the care and keeping of a baby. Ever since she was a little girl, she had helped her mum care for the other children. She knew about sickness and sleepless nights and clothes so quickly outgrown. What must her family in Dublin be thinking? she wondered. It had been so long since she’d written and even longer since she’d sent money. The last time she’d written to Peggy she’d told her that she was married and had moved from the Powers’s house and that a child was on the way. If Peggy had answered, Callie would never know. The last address she’d given was the one on Fulton Street; there were no addresses in Shantytown. This lack of communication between her mother and herself depressed Callie, but she refused to lie to her mum, and she would never tell her under what conditions she was now living. Later, after the babe was born, when things were better, Callie would sit down and write a long, long letter. God willing, she would have the money to post it.
It was dark when MacDuff staggered home, a half-empty bottle under the crook of his arm. The temptation had been more than he could resist. It was cold, and a wee nip wouldn’t hurt a thing. There was food in the larder for the rest of the week. He wasn’t depriving Callie of food for her and the young one as yet unborn. That was what made him buy the bottle. The birth was almost here. It was almost time. A man needed a little fortification for something as important as his wife giving birth. No, the lass wouldn’t begrudge him this one bottle. He had after all worked for four hours scavenging down by the docks. Never once had the lass complained, and she wasn’t likely to do so now.
Hugh walked slowly, his gait lopsided as he tried not to step in the squalid, filthy puddles that were everywhere. A mangy stray dog came up to him, sniffed, backed up a step, and then sprang forward, sinking his teeth into Hugh’s bony leg. The bottle dropped to the ground and shattered. Sharp curses and a well-aimed kick sent the slat-ribbed dog scurrying. The sight of the whiskey laying in a puddle made Hugh want to cry. It wasn’t fair. Goddamn it, it wasn’t fair. It was so long since things had gone right for him. Ever since the day he married Callie James, things had gone wrong. Wiping at his eyes, he staggered on down the rat-infested road. How could doing something good for someone turn out so miserable? Where had it all gone wrong? Was it his fault that the rich folk only wanted to hire younger men? Was it his fault the lass was pregnant? Was it his fault that Miss Mary died and the Powerses moved out? None of it was his fault. He’d never told anyone, even Callie, that he heard the whispers on Todt Hill that maybe he had something to do with the little girl’s death because he was the one who called off the search in the middle of the night and he was alone when he found the still, little body. The gossips didn’t know about Mary’s hearing loss, and he wouldn’t give the hateful people anything more to talk about. Jasper Powers didn’t blame him, he was sure of it. Lena knew the truth, Callie knew the truth. Jealous, spiteful people with nothing better to do than blacken a man’s good name were the ones responsible for such vicious rumors. That was all behind him. St. George was a long way from here, and he felt in his gut that he would never go back. He hated the thought that he would continue to live, and maybe die, in the squalor of Shantytown.
Hugh kicked out at a tin can as he tried to see where he was going. It was dark as hell, and each damned shack looked like the other. Which one was his? There was no number, for Christ’s sake. There was nothing to say where he lived. Down one crooked road into another, like a maze. A maze for rats. He was a rat like all the others. Only the rats could find their way home, and he couldn’t. He was drunk. Drunk as sin. He wished he knew what time it was. Why were the damn hovels so dark?
The mangy dog was back, sniffing at his leg. Hugh kicked out again and slipped in the slimy mud. Cursing and yelling at the dog, he picked himself up and continued down the maze. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Like a child, he leaned against one of the buildings and shouted Callie’s name. Over and over till he was hoarse, he called her name.
Callie woke, listless and light-headed. She hadn’t eaten today at all. It was so dark. Where was Hugh? He should have been home a long time ago. Fear knotted in her throat. What if something happened to him? What would become of her? Quickly she lit the lamp to see if there were any signs of her husband having come home and gone out again. The hovel was the same as before she fell asleep. And then she heard it. Someone was calling her name. Over and over she heard her name being called. She hated to open the door and go out into the night, but she had to do it. It must be Hugh. Maybe he was hurt. She stood still listening to the calls. Gingerly she made her way through the litter that lined the lane, careful to hold her hems high.
He was so pitiful. Her voice was soft and gentle when she spoke to him. She struggled to get him to his feet. With her arm around his shoulder, she led him down the darkened lane. The moment she got him through the door, he slid from her grasp and fell to the floor. Callie stood looking down at her drunken husband. In no way, shape, or form was this a dream. It was her reality. Would it be better to die than to have only this, with nothing to look forward to? Beth. Was this how Beth felt before she stepped off the dock? Dear God, don’t let me think such dark, terrible thoughts. I have a baby to think of. If I can’t make it with Hugh, I’ll have to do it
on my own. If it means I have to go to Byrch Kenyon, then I’ll go to Byrch Kenyon. Not for myself but for my baby.
Callie grabbed the quilt from the bed and covered her husband. She pulled her cloak from the nail on the wall and drew it close about her. The end of another miserable, wasteful day.
Hugh MacDuff woke slowly. He was aware of the sour taste in his mouth and the stench-of his unwashed body. He looked around the mean, little one-room shanty, his eyes went to the rusty brass bed and his wife. She lay curled in a tight, little ball with her cloak for a blanket.
It took a minute or so before Hugh could make his bleary eyes focus on the quilt that covered him. All his wonderful plans and grand promises had been reduced to cinders. His gaze went to Callie again. How was he to face her when she awakened? Not by look or word would she condemn him, he knew. He wished he had a drink. He had to get hold of himself before he began whizzing in his pants during his drunken stupors. The horrible thought forced him to sit upright. A thin dawn was prying its way into the shanty. Rubbing at his stiff joints, Hugh struggled to his feet, careful to make no sound. The lass needed her sleep. It was almost her time.
Another wave of guilt washed over him. Almost her time and no midwife, much less a doctor, and no money to pay for one. He was certain the neighbor women would help; all of them had had children of their own. But he wanted so much more for Callie, had promised her a better life than this. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could turn over a new leaf. First, he would go outside and get some water from the rain barrel and wash himself. He would change into the clean clothes Callie had laundered and ironed for him. He would shave, clean up his shoes, and slick down his hair.
Hugh felt much better when he finished washing and dressing. He crept about the shanty, stoking the fire, brewing coffee, and taking the cold ashes from the stove outside. He’d eat a little of the soup she had made from beef bones and potatoes and brace himself to go out and earn the money for the midwife. If there was no work to be had, then he’d steal. He was going to keep his promise to his angel wife, come hell or high water!
The soup didn’t sit well in his sour stomach, but he took deep breaths and swallowed hard. The strong, bitter coffee helped. He wished with all his soul that he had some oranges for Callie. Some long forgotten memory from boyhood rose to the surface of his mind. He could see his mother, big and swollen, sucking on an orange, pure rapture on her face. That would be his goal for the day. An orange for Callie. An orange and a mid-wife—in that order.
Callie stirred and woke instantly. Her eyes went immediately to where she had left Hugh the night before. She was surprised to see him sitting at the table, clean-shaven and looking like the old Hugh from the Powers’s house. Had something happened? She said nothing but watched him as she tried to move her cumbersome body from the dip in the middle of the smelly mattress.
“Sit there a moment, Callie,” Hugh said, pouring coffee into a cracked cup. Callie was startled to see that his hands were steady. Something must have happened. Something good. She could feel it.
“Where are your dirty clothes, Hugh? I’ll wash them right away. You look nice and clean,” she said shyly.
“I’m sorry about last night, girl. You just saw the end of my drinking days, You won’t be finding my snoot in the bottle again.” There it was again. The rash promise. Callie understood. He was going to try.
Callie smiled at her husband. How many times had she heard her Da say the same thing? How often had she seen her Mum smile just the way she was doing? The bottle was part of him. His good intentions would last a while and then something would happen and he’d be swigging away. For now it was all right. A man had to do what he had to do. It didn’t matter if she liked it or if her Mum liked it. That’s the way it was.
“Did you eat anything?” she asked with concern. “It was nice of you to make the coffee. You should have woken me up. I would have done it for you.”
“I know that, lass. It didn’t hurt me to do it, now did it? Yes, I ate the soup, and right good it was,” he lied. “You sit here and drink your coffee. I have to go out for a minute. I’ll be right back. Don’t be washing clothes now or anything else. I want your promise, Callie.”
“All right.” She smiled as she promised. How could she not smile at this repentant man? The long day stretching in front of her made her jittery. After she washed Hugh’s clothes, tidied up the shack, and thinned out the soup what would she do? Write to her mum. Maybe, she told herself. Take a nap. Eat a little. The day and early evening yawned ahead of her. How she wished she had a friend. What she should do was go to church. Perhaps talk to the priest. If it wasn’t so far, she would have seriously considered it. Her legs would never hold up. The unborn child moved within her. Quickly Callie set her coffeecup down and placed both hands over her stomach. She loved to feel the child move and to see her stomach ripple with its movements. Again, as she did every day, she said a silent prayer that the child would be a boy and that he would be healthy.
Callie was rinsing out the coffee cups when Hugh returned, a beaming smile on his face. “Now don’t be asking questions so I don’t have to give you answers. Look what I fetched for you.” Proudly he pulled his hands from behind his back, held out a stack of newspapers, and handed them to Callie. “Every paper is there for the whole week. I’ll stoke up the fire for you and stack some wood. You sit here on the chair and read every word in all them papers. Tonight when I get home you can tell me what they said.”
“Oh, Hugh, how wonderful. Where . . . thank you.” Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the cheek. Her protruding stomach pressed against Hugh. The baby made a quick movement, and Callie laughed aloud as she pulled at Hugh’s hand to place it on her stomach. She laughed again in pure delight at the stunned look on his face.
Hugh had trouble regaining his composure. If she had given him moonbeams and stars, he would have ignored them for that one touch. He had things to do, an orange to find, and a job so he could pay a good midwife. He felt like cock-of-the-walk as he whistled his way up the filthy alley that led to the main street. But before he did that, he had to go by the corner carry-all store and clean up for the man who gave him the week-old newspapers and had generously tossed in today’s copy. He would make that store cleaner than it had ever been before. The man trusted him to come back. He had to honor that promise. What was three hours out of a whole day? Maybe he could make a deal for an orange. He was sure going to give it one hell of a try.
Hugh swept, cleaned, and dusted the store till it sparkled. He set shelves to rights, stacked cartons, and cleaned the bakery glass. When he was finished, he whistled with satisfaction. Old Mr. McGovern would be hard pressed to find fault with his work. “Tell me, Mr. McGovern, what would I have to do for you to give me one of those big oranges. My wife is pregnant, and that orange would taste mighty good to her. I’d be most obliged if you’d let me work it off.”
Dillis McGovern knew a man in need when he saw one. He liked this hard-working man. “Pregnant wife, eh? I’ll be making the orange a gift to you if that’s all right by you?” Seeing the look of indecision on Hugh’s face, he added hastily. “You’re not to be considering it charity now. It’s a gift. A gift is different than charity. Me wife would agree.”
Hugh stared at the cherry-cheeked Irishman and knew he meant everything he said. “I’ll be accepting the orange, Mr. McGovern. You have my thanks. You wouldn’t be knowing any of the shopkeepers needing help, now would you?”
The old man shook his head. “I could be giving you an hour or two of work a day if you have a mind to accept. My wife is ailing, and it would give me some time to spend with her. We live in the back of the store. Can ye be making change?” Hugh nodded. He would do anything, say anything. “Ye got an honest look in your eye, Hugh MacDuff.” They settled on a fair amount for wages. Hugh’s nimble brain quickly calculated what he thought the cost of a midwife would be and how long he’d have to work. Now if the baby didn’t arrive ea
rly, he could manage to keep his promise to Callie.
His hat in his hand, Hugh reached out to grasp the older man’s hand. “I can’t be thanking you enough, Mr. McGovern. Not nearly enough.”
Bright blue eyes twinkled. “The Good Book says to help those in need. It’s bad times we’re seeing. One day ye might be helping me. Only the good Lord knows what the future holds.”
Hugh fondled the orange in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. “What time would you want me tomorrow? Hugh asked.
“Early afternoon,” the storekeeper replied. Hugh tipped his cap and left the store, his step jaunty.
He felt good. Damn good. He’d done two really wonderful things for Callie today. He would go down to the fish market and see if they could use an extra hand for an hour or two. Fresh fish came in early, and if there was any day that would be best, this was it. His luck held, and he worked for four hours. He would never be rich, but he felt like King Midas as he walked back to Shantytown with his meager earnings. The orange meant more to him than the seven hard hours of work he’d put in. Hell, he would have worked ten hours for the orange. But no one besides himself needed to know that. Callie was going to be pleased and proud of him. He could feel it, see the look on her face. Damn, he felt good.
Hugh could barely contain himself as he told Callie about his day. He told her about Dillis McGovern and his gift to her, careful not to mention what it was until the right moment. He handed over his wages and watched as her eyes widened and then settled into relief. Lord, she was beautiful.
“McGovern told me he could give me a few hours work every day, at least for a while. The Lord was watching over me today, Callie, that’s for sure.”
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