“Hugh, what’s the gift? Tell me,” she cried excitedly.
Hugh made a pretense of rummaging in his coat pocket. His hand closed around the orange. Was she going to think him a fool? An orange, what if she laughed at him? Just because his mother liked oranges and McGovern’s wife likes oranges didn’t mean Callie was going to like it. Well, she was waiting, he had to give it to her now. For one brief moment he was tempted to squeeze the luscious fruit between his fingers. He pulled the orange out of his pocket and handed it to Callie.
Callie stared at the orange in her husband’s hand. How did he know that she loved oranges? On Christmas she always got an orange in her stocking. Her eyes were filled with wonder at the marvelous gift. “Why?” she whispered. “It’s not Christmas. It’s wonderful: You must tell Mr. McGovern how much I appreciate his thoughtfulness. And you, Hugh, how wonderful of you to think of me and for you to want me to have this.” For the second time in one day she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the cheek. Hugh drew back and pretended to be busy at the table. “Sit down here and I’ll peel and slice it for you. I want you to savor every mouthful.” Why was he feeling so strange? He should be happy as a lark at the look of delight on Callie’s face. He hadn’t made a fool of himself after all, and his worrying had been for nought.
“Sit down yourself. I’ll be eating some of it, and you’ll be eating some too. We’re going to share. I don’t want to hear a word, Hugh MacDuff. We share the orange, or we don’t eat it at all.”
They sat together, smiling at one another, one with eyes full of gratitude and the other with eyes full of wondrous puzzlement.
Callie and Hugh settled down into something akin to contentment. Each day he went out to work for Dillis McGovern and managed to pick up an odd job.
On the night of February 6, Callie went into labor. Outside a new snow had fallen, and it covered the shabbiness of Shantytown with its purity. The wind had quieted and did not howl through the cracks. It was still, as still as a church, Hugh had said when Callie first complained of pains, and thank the Lord the McInty funeral was over and the fiddler had fallen down dead drunk.
Hugh raced to Dillis McGovern’s apartment behind the store as planned, waiting impatiently for Dillis’s frail wife to give him directions to the midwife. Hugh took off on a dead run, his heart pumping furiously. He wanted to get back to Callie, and Molly Riordan’s calm attitude and slow pace annoyed and frustrated him to the point of wanting to pick her up and bodily carry her back to the shanty.
It was a long, hard labor that went through the night and the better part of the following day. Hugh never left Callie’s side. He walked with her, offering his arm for support. He wiped her brow and offered her sips of water. It was his hands that massaged her back and rubbed her feet and held her hands when the contractions came. He talked softly and gently while Molly sipped tea at the meager table. Every so often, between pains, Callie would doze, but Hugh remained alert, never taking his eyes from her. Poor thing, how she was suffering, but so far she hadn’t uttered more than a moan.
Callie opened her eyes, turning her head toward Hugh. She managed a weak smile, but to Hugh it was the smile of an angel, radiant and pure. She reached for his hand, holding tight, drawing on its strength through her pain. When the contraction passed, Hugh wiped her brow. “Hugh, you can’t know how much it means to me for you to be here,” she whispered her gratitude.
“I’m here, and here I’ll stay,” he told her, wishing his voice didn’t sound so gruff, so labored. In his heart he knew that sharing the birth of the babe would bring Callie closer to him. He loved her, but for the life of him he couldn’t find the words to tell her so. He had cursed himself many times during the past months because he was so unimaginative, so unspontaneous, that he was unable to express his feelings. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her what she meant to him, that the sun and the moon rose on her, that he was willing and prepared to love the child she carried as his own just because it was there inside her, part of her. He hoped she knew he loved her and appreciated her. She’d been so kind to him, and since he’d kept a hold of himself working for McGovern, she’d even displayed her affection. Why couldn’t he respond? Why was he so stiff and unbending, just like his own father had been? He was trapped in the prison of his own inhibitions, his own shyness. He wasn’t an ugly man, he knew. In his day he’d been considered quite handsome. Had he changed that much? He didn’t think so. He was a bit soft in the middle, but these past months on short rations had toughened him again. His hair was no longer black, but it was thick and wavy. Could someone as beautiful as Callie ever come to love a man like himself, or would he be forever bound by her gratitude?
Molly Riordan stood by Callie’s bed, grateful for the daylight. This girl would have a hard time of it, she knew. This shanty, although remarkably clean, was no better than the gutter as far as she was concerned. And Mr. MacDuff, for all his care and solicitousness, didn’t seem to be much of a provider. Those were the things a woman depended upon, Molly reminded herself. Sobriety and ambition. Everything else was just window dressing.
Callie’s contractions were coming closer together; her back arched in agony. She felt the compulsion to bear down, to grit her teeth, to curse the heavens and bear down, to be done with it, rid of it, this stranger invading her body. Perspiration beaded on her forehead as she sank her head back down into the pillow. All the while, Hugh murmured words of encouragement, talking to her softly, seeing her through the pain.
“It’s almost time now,” Molly said. “It won’t be long.”
Callie turned to Hugh, saw the worry in his eyes, heard the concern in his voice. “Hugh, go away. Go away now!” Another pain ripped down the small of her back, gripping her thighs, forcing her to arch against it.
“I’ll stay, Callie. I want to stay, lass.”
Callie shook her head, gritting her teeth. She didn’t want him here to see the last of her pain, to see what she was going through to bring another man’s child into the world. Her tone was sharp, pained. “Hugh, please, go! I don’t want you here!”
Tears stung his eyes. He didn’t understand. “I’ll be right outside then, Callie. I’ll be right outside the door. . .”
Callie brought herself up on her elbows. Her eyes were wild with pain, with fear. She’d seen childbirth before, knew what was to come. She wanted to be free to shout, to call for her mother, to plead with God. But most of all she was afraid she would scream Rossiter’s name and that would be the cruelest blow of all. “No! I don’t want you here! I want you to leave! Go sit with Mr. McGovern—”
“You’d better go,” Molly interceded. “She shouldn’t be upset this way. This is woman’s work, and you’ll only clutter up the place. Get on with you now!”
Hugh stood by the bed, smoothing Callie’s hair back from her face, bending to kiss her cheek. “All right, lass, if it’s what you want.”
Hugh shrugged into his coat and stepped out the door. Once outside, he bent his head into his hard, calloused hands and wept. She didn’t want him; even now when her need was the greatest, she didn’t want him. Head hung low, shoulders stooped, he walked off in the direction of Malone’s Tavern.
The hours bore down on Callie during her long labor with the same incessant need that caused her body to bear down in an effort to expel this child. With each pain she seemed to be losing more of herself, her conscious mind retreating to a place of sunshine and safety, away from the black pit that threatened to engulf her, away from the fear that held her in its grip with evil fingers, seeming to squeeze the life from her. The shadows of the valley of death, she’d once heard childbirth called, and now she believed. How could a child that was so dearly wanted, loved even before its birth, punish her this way? How could her body, which had warmed with welcome for the seed that had planted this child, now be stiff with cold fear, rigid and unyielding?
Between the pains Callie threw herself back against the pillow. Molly fanned her perspiring face wit
h yesterday’s newspaper, but to Callie it was the cool breezes of Ireland, fresh from the sea. The fire in the stove became the warm summer sun, bright and golden. And in that precious golden light, her dress billowing in the sea breeze, was Peggy. Mother. Safety. Love. Peggy’s arms opened to her, gentle eyes sending comfort, a small secret smile playing about her mouth. “That’s my good girl,” the wind seemed to bring her voice with it, “that’s my own Callie. Go with it child, let the babe come. Sweetly now, Callie,” Peggy called. “Soon you’ll have him in your arms, and it’ll all be worth the pain.”
Callie felt herself filled with her mother’s presence, taking strength from it, smiling through her pain just the way Peggy had smiled away Callie’s worry when the twins were born. As Callie’s child came into the world, it was Peggy’s voice she listened to, Peggy’s smile she saw, her mother’s love reaching halfway around the world.
Less than an hour later, Rory James MacDuff came into the world. Callie looked down at the pink cherub in her arms. Golden curls framed the perfectly round head. Tiny pink lips groped for her breast.
Molly stood back to admire the infant. She’d delivered so many over the past years; they all looked alike. Except this one. Pink and white and golden, an angel of a child. The mother was pretty, true enough, and in better times might be called beautiful. But of all the children she’d brought into the world, this child was exceptional.
“He’s going to be a real heartbreaker,” Molly said.
Callie stared down at the babe in her arms, touching the damp, golden curls, lifting the tiny star-shaped hand to her lips.
Rory James McDuff looked just like his father.
Chapter Twenty
Hugh sat alone in Malone’s, drinking steadily. There were so many things he didn’t understand. Maybe he should go to church. Maybe his luck would turn. Women, he knew, were a mystery. Ever sine he’d turned over his new leaf almost three weeks ago and took his snoot out of the bottle, he and Callie had been, if not quite happy, at least content. There was nothing he liked better than coming home to her and the supper she’d prepared for him. Afterwards, she’d sit near the one lamp on the kitchen table and read to him from those newspapers he’d brought her. He loved the way she seemed to understand things, and he loved her smile when he would walk through the door, carrying last night’s paper from McGovern’s, waving it like a flag.
Sitting quietly, head hanging, he ignored the rough men’s talk going on about him. He had too much thinking to do. All the while Callie had been in labor he’d sat by her side, wiping at her brow, holding her hand and offering kind words when the pains got bad. And just when she needed him the most, she had turned on him, chasing him away like a stray dog from a back door. Told him to leave, not just to move from her side, but to leave the shanty. How could she have done it? In his drunkenness, Hugh decided it was because giving birth to Rossiter Powers’s child had nothing to do with him. He was good enough to feed her and put a roof over her head, but not good enough to share the birth of her child. Her child and Rossiter’s. For months now, he’d deluded himself, made himself believe that the baby would be more his own than any other man’s. As he gulped at the fiery drink, he felt confusion settle over him.
The bottle was almost finished when the men started to leave the tavern. Instead of following them, he ordered another. He ignored the angry-eyed proprietor and kept up with his steady drinking. He was drunk as a loon on a warm September night, and he didn’t care. When it came right down to it, he didn’t care about a hell of a lot this day. He should be home with Callie, he told himself. Callie didn’t need him. The baby didn’t need him. The midwife didn’t need him. His drunken mind tried to focus on something tangible in the tavern, but his eyes were too clouded with mist.
“I’ll be closing now, MacDuff. Best be on your way to that beautiful wife of yours,” the bartender said, not unkindly. “Come along, man, I’ll help you outside. I’ll cork the bottle for you, and you can carry it with you.” Hugh didn’t object to the man’s helping him outside. When he heard the snick of the bolt being shot home, he knew he had no place else to go. MacDuff tried to keep his balance as he staggered down the rabbit warren of crooked streets. When he finally came to the shanty, only a dim light burned within. He fell against the door and lurched inside.
“Close the door, Hugh, so the baby doesn’t get a draft. Come here and take a look at my son.”
Not our son, her son. He supposed it was true. Why would he want to look at another man’s son? Maybe he would be interested in looking at another man’s daughter. He was so sure it was going to be a girl.
“Oh, Hugh, you’re drunk. Why?” Callie asked anxiously. Hugh shuffled on his feet as he dutifully leaned over to peer at the tiny bundle in Callie’s arms. She looked so different with her hair pulled back from her face. The thin nightgown was buttoned to her neck, making her look as angelic as her new born baby. He frowned when he looked down at the pink-faced child whose head was crowned with golden ringlets. Just like his father, he thought sourly.
“Sit here, Hugh, and tell me why you got drunk. You were doing so well, Hugh. We had a little money put aside and things were beginning to look up for both of us. I want to thank you for being here with me and making it easier for me. I owe you so much, Hugh. You have been good to me. Whatever would I have done without you?”
Hugh heard the words she was saying, but they seemed to be floating about him. The most important day of his life and she had sent him away. Didn’t she know how that hurt him? Didn’t she care?
“He’s a fine-looking boy,” Hugh mumbled as he bent down to take off his shoes. As drunk as he was, he was careful to walk straight and even more careful when he sat down on the bed and pulled the cover up to his chin. Truth was truth. It was a fine-looking boy child. With Callie for his mother, how could the child be anything but perfect? Normally he would be asleep in seconds with as much whiskey as he had in him. Instead he lay for a long time, listening to Callie as she softly hummed an Irish tune to the baby. He lay rigid, wanting to reach out to her beneath the covers, to hold her hand. He wanted to say so many things to her, to apologize for breaking his promise. Did she know that he wasn’t sleeping? Something told him she wasn’t even aware that he was in the same bed. He felt like blubbering. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed silently for sleep to come.
Callie stared at her newborn child. The baby’s head seemed to be as golden as the lamplight. A smile played around her mouth. This child, her child, was more beautiful than any of the cherubs painted in the church. This was indeed an angel. Her own angel. If only her mum could see him. She knew she would never tire of looking at this exquisite child who was as beautiful as the beginning of a summer day. This child was going to grow up into a bonny lad, knowing only love and devotion from his mother. She made a vow to herself that she would work day and night to give him every advantage in this new world. She would make it up to him that he didn’t have his own father. She was young, healthy, and strong. She could make a life for the both of them. For all of them!
In the weeks and months that followed Rory and Callie both bloomed like flowers in early spring. Hugh MacDuff watched his wife change from a young, frightened girl into a strong woman who juggled the care of her son with minding the shack and taking in ironing. No longer did she hand him her money, but instead put it in her writing box. Now, when Hugh managed to work for Dillis McGovern, Callie would hold out her hand when he walked in the front door. She added his money to the fund in the box. Each Saturday night she would count out enough for him to go to the tavern. Fair was fair, she decided. Any extra money Hugh managed to pick up, he kept for a game of cards or a bottle during the middle of the week. Callie said nothing about this, allowing him his own measure of freedom. As long as a bit was put by for medicine or a doctor for Rory, should the need arise, Callie was content. She barely noticed Hugh’s late return each evening. She learned to prepare foods that were easily reheated, and he said nothing about the fact that he oft
en ate alone.
Sometimes when she sat near the stove nursing Rory, she would catch a certain look in Hugh’s eyes as he studied mother and child. She would look up at him and smile, but rarely did he return it, and if he did, it seemed begrudged. He would watch Rory pulling on Callie’s breast, hungry little mouth working the nipple, star-shaped hands continually plucking at her flesh or the bodice of her dress. Something naked and crude in Hugh’s eyes would cause Callie to cover her breast, shielding her body from his view. Never guessing the depths of her husband’s emotions, Callie couldn’t know that it wasn’t her breast that fascinated him but Rory, greedily sucking. Hugh was resentful and jealous that Rossiter’s child meant the world to Callie while he, her husband, counted for nothing.
As Rory grew, and the spring lazed into summer, it was a usual sight to see Callie delivering ironing to the women outside of Shantytown. At first Rory would lie amidst his swaddling of blankets in the used wagon Hugh had found for her, and later Callie propped him up in his own little basket, riding along with the clean laundry and taking his first look at the world.
It brought Callie no end of pleasure and pride when men and women would stop to admire her son. Pink and golden, bright blue eyes smiling, Rory accepted their appreciation as his due, cooing and gurgling his delight. “That’s a fine boy you’ve got there, Mrs. MacDuff,” her neighbors would compliment. “He’s got the face of an angel and a disposition to match.” Callie’s heart would swell with pride.
Rory was indeed a beautiful child, and Callie was beguiled by him. A strong, sturdy boy, Rory could pull himself up on his feet before he was nine months old; he’d been sitting erect since the age of five months.
Callie literally glowed from within; she loved her child with such devotion and passion that at times she had to force herself to put him down in his bed. Every minute she could spare from her ironing was spent with Rory: playing, cooing, rocking, just feeling his soft warmth against her. The only thing that could equal her love for Rory was her pride in him.
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