When Callie made her rounds delivering the ironing, she always brought Rory with her, weather permitting. Her customers quickly became admirers of her son, and there was always an extra penny “to buy the lad something” or a freshly baked cookie, and on several occasions, Rory became the recipient of hand-me-downs from their nephews or grandsons. Mrs. Coen was particularly enthralled with the child, and for Christmas she had knitted him a pale blue sweater and hat. Callie was appreciative of this generosity and repaid it by doing extra mending or replacing lost buttons. While Rory’s popularity grew, her own reputation for her work did also, and there was almost more than she could handle. But she never refused work, and being of an enterprising mind, she engaged the help of Maggie Crenshaw, who lived several shacks down from her, to iron the flat pieces, such as sheets and pillow slips, extracting a small commission, while she herself continued doing the frilly petticoats and delicate laces and pleatings.
Dillis McGovern’s wife, Fanny, was a particular admirer of Rory. Never having had children of her own, Fanny was completely enthralled with Callie’s son. Little gifts from the store, such as stockings and tiny soft slippers and fleecy warm blankets, were bestowed with generosity. Almost every day that Hugh worked for Dillis he returned home with a sugar tidbit or a spare pint of milk or a cookie. Every so often a stranger on the street would pause to admire the child who rode in the rickety wagon beside the clean laundry and would press a penny into the baby’s hand. These pennies Callie would never refuse, taking them and hiding them away, saving for Rory’s future.
Although Callie’s prosperity seemed to grow, there simply wasn’t enough money to send back to Ireland. To her great relief, Peggy assured her that her help wasn’t needed. Things were looking up in Ireland; people were adjusting to shortages, and with so many people having left the country, there was more to go around. Prices were dropping slowly but steadily. Thom continued to work for the tinsmith, and there was always the washing that Peggy took in, and besides, Georgie had won himself a position at the mill as junior clerk, thanks to the help Callie had given during those first years so the lad could get an education. Everyone was fine, although Granda was almost completely blind now. Little Joseph was the terror of the neighborhood, petted and favored by his entire family.
Callie read between the lines and knew that although her family wasn’t going hungry, they were barely making ends meet. Georgie’s job at the mill indicated that he was no longer studying with Father Brisard, and there was no mention of Hallie attending a proper school. Peggy’s letters were infrequent, an indication that the pennies for postage could be better spent elsewhere. But whatever the circumstances, their love came through to her, and Peggy expressed that her greatest wish was someday to hold her grandson in her arms.
Callie’s life seemed to have fallen into the same pattern as Peggy’s, and she felt closer to her mother than ever before. Perhaps it was because she was now a mother herself, experiencing the same frustrated ambitions and worries for her child.
Time passed quickly for Callie. Almost before she knew it, Rory’s first birthday came and went. Hugh was drinking heavily, and Dillis McGovern had been forced to let him go in favor of more dependable help. Hugh took his dismissal in stride; it was almost as if he had expected it, Callie judged. Instead of chastising him or making mention of the lost income, Callie took on more work for herself and Maggie Crenshaw. At times it was even necessary to ask Maggie’s oldest daughter to give a hand.
Maggie’s daughter, Trisha, was fourteen years old and positively doted on little Rory. Because the girl was so reliable and trustworthy, Callie looked outside the shanty for employment. She found it only blocks away in the Tea Room, working as a waitress for Sylvia Levy, a buxom woman who was impressed with Callie’s refined manners and easy grace. The wages were small, but they added to the income from her ironing. More than anything, Callie wanted to save enough money to have a steady income so that she could take Rory out of Shantytown. Her one great fear the entire winter past was of fire. Earlier that December, fire broke out in the northernmost section of the field, and several people were burned in their beds or in the alleyways as they tried to escape through the narrow, twisted passages between the shacks. She knew Hugh didn’t approve of her hiring herself out, as he called it, but when she went purposefully about her business and threw an extra coin his way for an evening at Malone’s his protests were silenced.
If Hugh noticed his wife’s labors and business sense, he did not mention it. He only knew that she no longer held out her hand for his day’s wages if he should manage to find work, and she never said a word about him spending his time at Malone’s Tavern. To Hugh’s chagrin, Callie never seemed to notice him at all except for the fact that his clothes were always clean, should he take the time to wash and change, and there was always a pot of soup or stew on the stove for his supper.
Callie tried to ignore Hugh’s drinking. When he came home from Malone’s, he would reek with whiskey and stale sweat. Rather than climb into bed beside him, Callie preferred to work long into the night, sleeping when exhaustion overcame her. Rory had his own small bed, and she had managed to put enough money aside to purchase a second-hand rocking chair that Hugh fixed for her in one of his more sober periods. Many a night Callie rocked herself to sleep in the chair, only to wake sore and stiff the next morning.
As Rory progressed from baby to toddler, Hugh became sullen and withdrawn. It seemed to him that Callie’s every thought, every action, was geared to the golden-haired child. It angered him, and his tone sharpened, and his moods went from dark to black when he watched Callie pick up the boy to rock him in her chair. He was sick of seeing her bending over the washtub to do Rory’s diapers and tiny clothes with such inordinate care, of seeing her straining her eyes near the lamp while she embroidered a pillowcase for his bed or hemmed and fixed the hand-me-downs so that they fit to perfection. Rory lived in Shantytown, but he never looked like the rest of the children. The others wore clothes that never fit and were gray and faded from either dirt or too many washings; Rory wore clothes fit for a prince. Just once Hugh would have liked to see the tyke with bare feet, dirty from the grime of Shantytown; just once he would have been satisfied to have Callie let the boy cry the way every baby should. But no, Callie was too devoted a mother for that. Rory was washed and scrubbed to a pink; he never was without stockings and little felt slippers, and he never cried. He simply had to make his wishes known, and Callie would stop what she was doing to fulfill them. It never occurred to Hugh that if Rory had been his own child, he would have been delighted with the love and patience shown him. But what infuriated Hugh more than anything else was when Rory would climb out of his bed and creep beneath it to sleep. Callie only shook her head in amusement and began keeping a folded blanket under the bed to cushion Rory from the hard floor. Hugh didn’t know why Rory’s antic annoyed him, but it did. Perhaps it was the way Callie would smile. She never smiled at him that way. Now that Hugh thought about it, Callie never smiled at him at all anymore. Once when he hadn’t found work for more than a week and his pockets were empty, he went to her writing box and took out enough money for a bottle of whiskey. He had watched out of the corner of his eye when Callie wiped her hands on her apron, hands that were red and chapped from scrubbing Rory’s clothes and bed linens, and started toward him. Seeing the expression on Hugh’s face, she had backed off and refused to meet his eyes. Tears of frustration burned her as she went back to the laundry in the round, wooden tub. Hugh had never gone near the box again.
Night after night, Hugh lay in bed, tormenting himself by watching her through half-closed eyes. His entire body, his soul, felt like one gaping sore that refused to heal, festering with a disease that had no name, a sickness that could only be cured by his wife’s loving touch.
Callie was aware of Hugh’s eyes always upon her, and it frightened her. She was perversely relieved when he took to the bottle, drinking himself into a stupor. She found it easier simply to give him
the money when he needed it and have him out of the shanty. Hugh’s bitterness and heavy hand were something she never thought she would have to endure from him. How often she’d seen the same fate befall her mother. “I made my bed, and I’ll be lying in it, thank you, Callie James,” Peggy had said often enough. And then the exhausting list of excuses she’d make for Thomas. Callie tried to make the best of her situation. Without Rory, she told herself, it would have been unbearable. She never allowed the thought to go to the next step. Without Rory, it would have been unnecessary.
Rossiter Powers returned to New York City on a cold dreary day in late March. Unknown to him, his son had celebrated his first birthday just the month before less than three miles away in the field of despair and devastation called Shantytown.
Walking away from the pier where the steamship had brought him from Boston, he tipped his brown beaver hat at several well-dressed ladies who eyed his impeccable tailoring and his tall, broad-shouldered figure. He hailed a cab and instructed his driver to take him to the Midtown Bank on Third Avenue where Jasper still kept a suite of offices. He was eager to see his father again, especially since his rift with his mother. He was certain he would find an enthusiastic welcome from Jasper, whom he had not seen in almost two years. Two years! Mary would be dead two years late this summer. Where had the time flown?
Jasper Powers seemed even taller and broader to his son, his cheeks ruddier, his hair whiter. And there was a kind of contentment around the button blue eyes that hadn’t been there before, Rossiter thought. He supposed it was due to the fact that his parents had abandoned their marriage, and since his sister had made a fine marriage, there was little need for pretense between them. Anne Powers had taken up household in her widowed brother’s . home in Boston, while Jasper had taken a house with Loretta Cummings, his lady love for more than fifteen years. Mary’s death had created a total separation; the family would never be restored.
Jasper’s welcome of his son was cool and distant, almost wary. They spoke in quiet tones, measuring one another. He saw a young man who looked no different from the last time he had seen him. There were the same good looks, the same square chin, the abundance of thick, golden hair that waved about his head. There didn’t seem to be a trace of the maturity he had always hoped Rossiter would achieve. The kind of sobriety and seriousness with which Byrch Kenyon seemed to have been born. Jasper was pleased to see his son, but he wondered at Rossiter’s sudden appearance. Since Mary’s death and the rift between Anne and himself, Jasper had little or no contact with his surviving children.
“We were all saddened that you couldn’t get home for Mary’s funeral,” Jasper found himself saying. His tone was so flat, so devoid of emotion, that Rossiter felt close to cringing.
“I want to explain about that, Papá. As you know, I traveled to Chicago with Uncle William.” Rossiter took a deep breath and then blurted, “Papá, you and I both know that I’m not cut out for business. I want to paint! I have talent, I know I do. I’ve even sold a few things.” Even Rossiter heard the whine in his voice. He cleared his throat and went on more calmly. “I went north, into Minnesota. That’s why I didn’t hear about the tadpole until it was too late. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there. I find it so difficult to believe she isn’t with us anymore.”
Jasper softened toward his son. There was genuine grief there, of that he was certain. Rossiter always was kind and loving to Mary. He had been quick to spot the intensity in Rossiter’s eyes when he spoke of his painting. Maybe Rossiter had talent, but Jasper didn’t believe he possessed the discipline necessary to bring it to fruition. Rossiter had never possessed ambition and dedication; he always looked for the easy way out and refused to accept responsibility for his actions. Like with young Callie. Anne had told Jasper after the funeral that she had sent Callie away because of the girl’s unabashed and embarrassing fascination towards Rossiter. Jasper doubted that Rossiter was completely innocent, as Anne had claimed. His son’s past deeds and scandalous behavior with comely young women were well-known to Jasper and to his purse as well. God, how he wished he knew what had become of the girl. He was genuinely fond of her and missed her, especially now since his little Mary was gone. Her dismissal was something Byrch Kenyon would never forgive. How well he remembered the steely glint in his friend’s eyes and his harsh words. “Dammit, Jasper, I trusted that girl to your keeping!” Byrch had been like a madman the next few days as he tried to discover Callie’s whereabouts. “She can’t just have fallen from the face of the earth!” He had attacked anyone within hearing, even Lena, who claimed to know nothing. They had to accept that Callie was lost to them just as Mary was.
“Have you seen your mother?” Jasper asked, turning a sharp glance toward his son. He found it remarkable that Rossiter had come to see him this way. What could the boy want that Anne would refuse him?
Rossiter hung his head, finding it difficult to face his father. “I’m afraid Mamán is very upset with me. In her opinion, I’m guilty of an unforgivable faux pas. I found it necessary to break my engagement to Dorothy Lyons. Of course, my actions are unforgivable, and I quite understand Mamán’s disappointment.”
Jasper exhaled in a loud whoosh. “I should say your action is beneath a gentleman. You know, of course, the embarrassment you’ve caused Miss Lyons; a broken engagement when not initiated by the woman can ruin her reputation. And if I know Dorothy’s father, and I think I do, Anthony Lyons will not stop at any extreme to discredit you and undoubtedly make things quite unbearable for your mother, who still lives and socializes in Boston. You’ve created a scandal, Rossiter, and that alone is unforgivable in your mother’s eyes.”
“Yes, but I insisted that Dorothy feel free to take credit for the broken engagement. I would never say otherwise!”
“That was most generous of you, Rossiter,” Jasper sneered. “However, truth has a way of surfacing. Every servant in the Lyons household knows the truth, and the servants in your Uncle William’s house, and the entire family. You’ve made the girl a laughing stock, although I am quite of the opinion that she is better off without you. Little wonder your mother will have nothing to do with you. So now you’ve come crawling to me, is that it?”
“I’m not crawling. You’re my father—”
“What do you want, Rossiter?” Jasper cut him off, wanting only to be rid of him. He decided at that moment that there was nothing to be salvaged in their relationship. He stood up from his desk, indicating that their time together was at an end. Rossiter held out his hand; Jasper pretended not to see. “I ask you again, why have you come here? Money?”
Rossiter choked back his answer. Although money had been the primary reason for coming to Jasper, it would be beneath him to admit it now. Where had everything gone wrong? First Mamán and now Papá. He felt lost, without roots, floating adrift in a sea of unfriendly faces. He missed his mother’s strength, her abject approval and devotion. It had been months now since she would even have him outside her door. She had cut off his allowance. And now Jasper too had withdrawn his support. Rossiter needed someone who would accept him for exactly who he was. Someone who wouldn’t keep insisting he prove himself. Someone who loved him blindly, just as Mamán once had.
“I know you’ve sold the house on Todt Hill, Papá, but I wonder if you know where. . . where Lena or MacDuff are? Are they managing the farm in Kreischerville?” He wanted to ask Jasper directly if he knew of Callie’s whereabouts, but the sudden piercing glance from Jasper’s bright blue eyes made him hesitate.
“No, the farm in Kreischerville is up for sale. I’ve no idea where MacDuff took himself off to, but Lena is working in Richmondtown. Give my regards to your mother if you should see her.”
Rossiter swallowed past the bitter lump in his throat. He had told his father that he intended to remain in New York indefinitely, but this abrupt dismissal indicated Jasper’s disinclination to meet with his son again. He shuffled from one foot to the other. How could he just walk off this way? Surely
there was more to be said between father and son than this. There were so many things he wanted to say to his father, things he would have liked to confide. He would have liked to tell him about Callie. Rossiter felt less than ten years old when he left Jasper’s presence. A ten-year-old who had just been punished for something that was none of his own doing.
Outside in the bracing air, Rossiter walked down Third Avenue. The biting wind tore at him, making him clench his teeth. If it remained this cold for even several days, the buds would freeze. All the color and life of spring would be destroyed. It saddened him. Life should be full of vibrant colors, beautiful words, and wonderful music. That’s what his life should be, but he’d been stripped of everything that mattered. Home, family, parents, and most of all, his self-respect. Somehow he must regain it. Somehow he must find someone he could mean something to, someone to love him. Someone like Callie.
The chilling wind sent shivers up Rossiter’s back when he disembarked from the ferry at St. George and hired a hansom to bring him up the hill across Staten Island to Richmondtown, the island’s oldest community. It would be good to see Lena again, almost like touching home base, something Rossiter sorely needed. The Powers’s former cook could usually be depended upon to have answers to questions he had never wanted to ask his parents. Questions like what had become of Callie James.
Rossiter left the hansom at the end of Aultman Avenue and walked the rest of the way. He thought about Lena and the delicious aromas that used to come from her kitchen. For some reason, he had always thought that some day Lena would marry Hugh MacDuff.
Here it was, a large, four-story house set back from a wide, sweeping lawn. Two carriage houses in the back at the end of a long, curving drive. Although it sat in the center of town, the house dominated the location and was graced by a grove of elm trees near the street. Rossiter’s gaze sharpened. He’d been here before, he remembered, visiting with his mother.
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