“You married Hugh MacDuff, the handyman! He’s old enough to be your father. How could you, Callie, how could you?”
Callie stared across the small table at the man she once had loved. Oh, she had no doubt of that, she had loved him, more than anything or anyone. Now he asked how she could have married Hugh, the only person who had given one roaring hoot what would become of her. How indeed! Her tone was light, almost musical, when she replied, “I married Hugh MacDuff because of your child, Rossiter. It was a question of survival. I’m certain you’ve never had to think in those terms, but I did. Hugh offered me marriage so your child would have a name. He was a good man. I’ll always be grateful to him. He put a roof over my head and saw to it I didn’t starve.”
Rossiter. scoffed, the corners of his mouth drawing downward in mockery. “He took such good care of you that you skipped out on the rent you owed on Fulton Street. I saw your old landlord. I paid your debt.”
“You’re a fool, Rossiter. You shouldn’t have done that. I paid that debt months ago and added a generous sum for the furniture we took. I’m not proud of running out on the rent, but Hugh had some hard luck and we had no other choice. It’s been paid back—every cent.”
It wasn’t possible, but it seemed her head was held even higher than before. Her cool stare was causing him great agitation. He shouldn’t have mentioned the rent; it made him appear petty and spiteful. “You should have gone to my family, Callie, regardless of your pride. After all, that’s my child you gave the name of MacDuff. That’s my child living in that abomination called Shantytown!”
“Your mother knew about the baby.” She waited for the impact of her statement to sink in. “So much for turning to your family. I told you, Rossiter, it’s called survival. I live where I can afford to pay the rent. I provide for my child the best way I can. If it means I have to live in Shantytown the rest of my life, I’ll do it. I’m not afraid of hard work, Rossiter. Your Mamán saw to that.”
“Callie, my poor, sweet Callie. Let’s not argue. All that’s important is that you’re here, with me. I want you, Callie. I want our son. I love you.” He took her hands in his, pretending not to see the ragged nails, the reddened, cracked skin. Callie made no motion to hide her hands from him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She should be in his arms, telling him how often she had dreamed of being with him again, professing her love for him. Instead she was sitting across from him, wondering if Hugh was at home and if Rory was all right with Trisha. Love and survival were two different things, as she had discovered, and she would rather have a healthy dollop of the latter than the former. “Aren’t you going to tell me you love me, Callie?” Rossiter asked petulantly, breaking into her thoughts.
“Is that what you expect? Yes, I can see you do. A lot of time has passed, Rossiter. I’m married. I have no intention of becoming your mistress. That was your intention, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes . . . no . . . what I mean is . . . I can take care of you, Callie. You and the boy. Divorce isn’t unheard of, and I’m certain that all you have to do is tell MacDuff that I’m back now and I’ll be looking after my own family.”
“Why should I tell him? Why don’t you tell him?”
“Come away with me, Callie. Now, today!”
“Go away where? To what? What about your parents?” Oh, God, was this her own voice speaking so indifferently, so callously? Would she ever forgive Rossiter for leaving her the way he had?
Rossiter paled and then reddened at her questions. “Papá will see it my way. He always thought the world of you, Callie. And now with little Rory, how could he turn us away?”
Callie stared at Rossiter for a long time; she didn’t like what she was seeing, what she was hearing. Instinct told her that Rossiter needed a way back into Jasper’s good graces, and Rory and herself would be just the ticket. “Tell me you’ll come away with me, Callie,” he was saying.
Finally Callie’s resolve melted. She thought of Rory spending his life in poverty with a laundress for a mother and a drunk for a father. Her son could have all the advantages if only she would agree with Rossiter. Advantages and opportunities that were his birthright.
“Tell me, Callie. Tell me!”
“I have to think about it. I don’t know just yet. It isn’t right . . .” She lifted her head, clear blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears for herself, for Rory, for Rossiter, and for Hugh. What a mess it all was. An ugly mess. She never doubted for a moment her mother’s words that bad things happened to bad girls. She had known she was being bad when she let Rossiter come to her in the middle of the night, but she often wondered how love could be bad. “If you want to talk with Hugh, I’ll make certain he’s sober and home when you arrive. The day after tomorrow will be fine. I’ll meet you here at the Tea Room and take you back with me.”
“The day after tomorrow!” Rossiter exclaimed. “Surely you can fit me in before that! That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Fitting me in?”
Callie didn’t like his snarly tone nor the expression on his face. She set her teacup down and picked up her gloves. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing, Rossiter. I have to leave now. I’ll be here at nine-thirty in the evening day after tomorrow. You have till then to reconsider.”
“Callie, don’t leave until you tell me you love me. You do, don’t you?”
“I’ll see you on Thursday, Rossiter.” Without forethought, she allowed her hand to fall on his golden hair, feeling the soft waves resist her fingers. How like Rory’s. A smile illuminated her face, and Rossiter felt as though the moon and the stars were shining just for him. She must love him, she must!
Chapter Twenty-Two
Callie dragged herself home. She felt as though her entire body was boiling with turmoil. What had she done? Why had she been so harsh with him, so unbending? Hadn’t he fulfilled her dreams by declaring his love for her? Callie shook her head. It was wrong, all wrong! The feelings, the emotions were all wrong. He had asked her to say she loved him, but the words would not come. How was it possible to be so in love and then two short years later to find that love had gone, burned itself out, until there was nothing but dead, cold ashes that would never burn again?
He had wanted her to go away with him, but he had not said one word about marriage. He merely wanted her, wanted their son, and the awful truth of it was that he never for one moment believed he would be refused. The blurred vision of the adolescent was clear now, and she saw him through a woman’s eyes. He was still golden, still beautiful, but he was still a boy. She wondered when she had become a woman. Was it when Rory was born? When she’d had her fill of suffering and uncertainty and had begun to seek ways to support herself and her son? Is that what it would take for Rossiter to become a man? Responsibility and suffering?
She didn’t look forward to telling Hugh about Rossiter. She knew Hugh would be upset when she brought him to see Rory, but she mustn’t allow it to make a difference. Rory was Rossiter’s son, and with God’s help, he deserved some of the advantages that relationship could bring him. A vision of her son living in a big house with a big yard to play in and a room of his own flashed through her head. Her thoughts never progressed to consider herself or Rossiter or Hugh.
It was early the following morning when Callie took Rory to Maggie Crenshaw’s and left him in Trisha’s care. She went back to the shanty she shared with Hugh and met him at the door. “Where you been?” he slurred with the effects of last night’s brew.
“I just took Rory over to Maggie Crenshaw’s. I have to deliver these two baskets of ironing. I made coffee, Hugh. It might be good if you drank some. You don’t look well to me. Are you ill?” Callie asked quietly, her tone patient and concerned.
Hugh sneered at his wife. He knew she disapproved of his drinking. Why couldn’t she just come out and say she knew he was drunk instead of saying he looked ill? All she cared about was that boy of hers. There was no room left in her heart for an old drunk like himself.
Hugh had a moment of remo
rse when he watched her load the heavy baskets onto the rickety old wagon he’d fixed for her. She did work hard. There was no sense in lying to himself. She doled out his allowance for whiskey and never said a word. And why should she, Hugh defended himself. Whatever she gave him was only a pittance compared to what she stashed away under that loose floorboard. One of these days when she was out, he was going to lift that board and see for himself how much she’d saved. Callie thought he didn’t know. Ha! There was very little he didn’t know about Callie. He told himself that he’d have to be in pretty desperate straits and beyond caring before he touched her hoard.
He watched through the open door as Callie trundled the wagon down the mud-rutted lane. When she returned, she would have the wagon filled to overflowing with more ironing to be done. He was sick of seeing Callie leaning over the board through the wee hours of the morning. He was sick of having other people’s fine clothes hanging about the shanty and even sicker of seeing Callie dress and go out to work at that fancy Tea Room. She took no pleasure in anything, Hugh scowled, only Rory. Rory alone could bring a smile to her face. Why couldn’t Callie smile in his direction for once? Why couldn’t he make her laugh? Why didn’t she remember the orange? Why?
But what hurt the most was that Callie didn’t trust him to mind little Rory. Oh, no, she paid out good money to the Crenshaws to keep an eye on the little one. She had never said he was too drunk and wasn’t to be trusted, but actions spoke louder than words.
Hugh lowered himself onto the bed, his thoughts focusing on his beautiful young wife, the young wife who had never lain in his arms. He was surprised she hadn’t left him by now. He didn’t know why she stayed with him. Was gratitude enough, or was it possible that she cared for him?
Hugh slept fitfully. His dreams were filled with a laughing Callie romping through the meadow of wild flowers with Mary Powers fast on her heels. He could see himself standing by the buggy, his pipe clenched between his teeth as he watched them frolic. And then the young and spirited Callie seemed to change before his very eyes, losing the roundness of girlhood to the sharper, more defined curves of a young woman. Her long chestnut hair flowed behind her as she glided through the field, cherry petals falling like snow all about her. Her crystal blue eyes looked into his, her full, ripe mouth parted, inviting a kiss.
Hugh woke in a sweat from his dream. His heart pounded, and his mouth was dry as he punched his pillow and rolled over. It was a dream he hated, a vision he loved. He hated that she’d become a woman—cool and lovely, responsible and independent. The very qualities he so admired were the same ones that put such a breach between them. He wanted her to be the young girl he’d adored for so long, the girl who was within his reach, the girl he could love without expecting anything in return. But Callie’s beauty did things to a man. A man could expect a woman to return his affection, to show her love. Tears of frustration dropped onto the pillow. Callie was a woman now, and he was a man. Not much of a man by some standards, but a man nonetheless.
Callie returned to the shanty with the wagonload of fancy goods to be ironed. The flat pieces and simpler garments had been left with Maggie Crenshaw. As she sprinkled the freshly laundered goods and ironed, she kept a watchful eye on Hugh, who was sleeping off his drunk in their bed. It was good that she’d left Rory with Trisha Crenshaw. Hugh was more restless than usual, and he could be nasty and surly when he awakened. His rantings and threats were not something she wanted Rory to see.
Callie didn’t like Hugh MacDuff these days. The sour smell of whiskey seemed to follow him wherever he went, leaving traces where he sat and where he slept. She would have given anything for a bed of her own, not to be surrounded by the stink even as she slept. Her life was little better than her mother’s, and she wondered how and when she had become such an extension of Peggy, inheriting her own mother’s lot in life.
Rossiter could be her answer. But what exactly was Rossiter prepared to do for her? He’d mentioned divorcing Hugh, but he’d never said anything about marriage. Could she leave Hugh so heartlessly? Did she want to marry Rossiter? Now, seeing him through a woman’s eyes, she realized how immature and selfish Rossiter really was. She had married Hugh out of desperation, making her vows reluctantly, but they were vows nonetheless. Could she break them? Could she just take Rory and leave? What kind of person would that make her? Her Mum wouldn’t ever consider such a thing. Callie brushed back a lock of her hair with the back of her hand and spat on the flatiron to test its heat. The iron slammed down on the board, paralleling the force of her emotions. Well, she wasn’t her Mum! She was herself, Callie James MacDuff, and her own wants and needs had no bearing on the situation. What was best for Rory, that’s what she had to decide.
At eight o’clock the following evening, Callie began to dress for her meeting with Rossiter. It was amazing that she felt so calm. She remembered the days in the Powers’s house on Staten Island when just the thought of seeing Rossiter would set her heart to pounding. Now, tonight, it was simply something she had to do. Callie had given every waking thought to the dilemma she faced, and she had finally made up her mind. She would bring Rossiter here to see his son, and she would not, in the future, prevent him from seeing Rory. But as for herself, she had made her bed, and she would sleep in it. She was a married woman, regardless of how reluctant her vows were, and she would not leave Hugh for Rossiter. It had been a simple decision actually. If Rossiter was inclined to be generous toward his son, so much the better, but she would not leave her husband for a man she no longer loved. She supposed she would always have a tender place in her heart for Rossiter, but he was from the past, and Callie could only direct her eyes to the future.
She brushed her hair to a gleaming shine and used its length to create a charming, soft puff on top of her head. Loose, unruly tendrils escaped at her nape and against her cheeks, curling around her tiny ears. She pinched her cheeks for color and used a touch of rose water and glycerine salve on her lips. She put on her lavender blue dress and adjusted her petticoats. She cast a dismal eye at her red, chafed hands. The glycerine helped somewhat, but they were work-worn and unattractive. It would be a long time, if ever, until her hands were restored to their former whiteness.
A smile tugged at her lips when she tried to imagine the expression on Rossiter’s face when she brought him to the shanty. She knew he would never see the order and cleanliness she had worked so hard to achieve, nor would he notice the scent of pine water and soap. No, Rossiter would only see the drabness, the ugliness of the sagging bed, the rickety table, and the hard, wooden chairs that cried for a coat of paint. It was only tarpaper shack, but it was a roof over their heads, and Callie was thankful for it.
She almost laughed aloud when she recalled an article that had appeared in a lady’s magazine one of the patrons of the Tea Room had left behind.
On the west side of the city above Fifty-ninth Street, on the outskirts, squatters’ shanties are perched on the rocks or nestled in the hollows. The luxuriance of the vines over those small abodes is a comfort and a refreshment to the eyes; grapevine, trumpet-creepers, scarlet runners, morning glories, big posies of sunflowers subdued into almost delicacy of form and color by the green surroundings and the gray of the background.
Apparently the writer had stepped no closer than her nose would allow. Or was it that reporting hardship and squalor and misery was unfit for the fashionable magazine? There was nothing mentioned of the stink from the varnish factory or the mud and filth. It wouldn’t be long before Callie could leave this shack behind and afford an apartment in a decent house. And she would require no help from anyone, not even Rossiter, to achieve her end. This thought alone brought a triumphant smile to her face. She had decided that what was best for Rory was a mother with principles and ethics and character. Just as Peggy had been the best for her, so Callie would be for Rory.
Maggie Crenshaw came to stay with Rory while Callie went out. Maggie was typical of the women in Shantytown—old before her time, worn and sour-
faced. But she had an abiding loyalty to Callie, who had helped improve the Crenshaw circumstances by commissioning out the simpler ironing. She knew the fancy ladies on Columbus Avenue were impressed with Callie’s neat appearance and pretty face and that she was able to secure work where Maggie could not. Settling in the rocking chair, Maggie took Rory onto her lap, crooning to him in her native brogue.
“I won’t be long, Maggie. I’m only going up to the Tea Room to meet an old friend and bring him back here.” Rory held out his arms to Callie for her kiss, his bright, button blue eyes half closed with drowsiness, his cheeks pink and soft beneath her lips. Rory wasn’t upset at his mother’s leaving. Maggie or her daughter always sat with him while Callie went out to work. But tonight he wrapped his sturdy arms around her neck and held fast.
“Mama won’t be long, darlin’. And when I come back I’ll bring a new friend for you.” She buried her face in the sweet warmth of his neck, giving him an extra squeeze. “You be a good boy for Maggie.”
“I won’t be long, an hour at best,” she repeated for Maggie, wrapping her shawl over her shoulders.
“What should I do if the ’auld blether comes home?”
“Wait till I get back, Maggie. Hugh won’t be fit to take care of Rory. Promise me?”
“You’ve my promise, Callie. Would yer think I’d leave this angel to the likes of his father when he’s in his cups? Believe me, I’ve enough of that at me own house, that’s fer sure.”
Callie arrived at the Tea House a few minutes before nine. She was surprised to find Rossiter drinking a cup of tea. Since Sylvia Levy usually closed at seven, she raised a questioning eyebrow.
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