Sometime in the middle of the night, William’s bedroom door opened for the second time. The floor creaked and William felt his father’s breath on his forehead, smelled Old Sam bourbon. Barley kissed the skin above William’s eyes and whispered that he loved him.
The floor creaked and the door closed, and William was alone again, heart pounding so hard he feared it was audible. Next, he heard Johnny’s bedroom door open down the hallway, and a minute later it closed. Then Barley entered Annie’s room. Barley closed her door and walked down the stairs. William waited to hear the front door open, but it never did.
The rock hit the window at three minutes after four. Polly was bundled in a coat that may have been Carly’s. It was cold enough for steam to escape her mouth. She waved him down. He contemplated the wisdom of sneaking out. Barley was on high alert and armed men stalked the porch. But then he looked at her pretty face, imagined her lips against his, and motioned that he’d be right down.
He tossed on some clothes and lifted the bedroom window. It wasn’t the first time he’d exited this way. Samantha, soon after Henry died, had a sudden fear of the house burning down. She’d made them practice climbing out the second-story windows in case a fire ever blocked their passage down the stairs.
“Like a cat out of a tree,” Polly said after he jumped the last three feet down.
“How’d you get past my father’s men?”
“I told them I was dizzy for a young man.”
“Really?”
“That word again, William.” She slapped his arm. “Yes, I said it. And I also meant it.”
“Well then, so do I.”
“So do you what?”
“You know . . . I guess I’m dizzy for a dame. Really dizzy.”
She grinned bashfully. William looked back to the house, specifically to his open bedroom window. The wind would rattle the door and make noises that could alert his parents of his absence. Before he had time to dwell on the repercussions, Polly grabbed his hand.
She ran and William followed, tethered at the fingers, feet pounding across dewy grass and moist leaves. A man and woman knelt praying, illegally taking a nocturnal turn with the Potter’s Field Christ. Apparently the police were easily bribed. The couple looked up at the sound of footsteps, so Polly pulled William behind a thick-trunked tree. Would their steaming breath give away their position? Polly kissed him, a deep kiss. Her lips were so cold, but her breath was warm. Then she giggled. “Steam comes out our noses!”
“Should I kiss your nose and see if it comes out our ears?”
The couple finished praying. As soon as the coast was clear, Polly and William ran directly to the aging house. Together they slipped inside, where it was warmer. The ricks had been stacked ten rows high with full barrels, and there were still thousands of spots to be filled. Moonlight entered the spaced windows, although Polly navigated the maze-like rows as if she’d designed them herself. She pulled William to a fixed spot in the far back corner where the boards had been upturned. Pillows and blankets had been positioned in a pallet, walled in on two sides by empty barrels and a third side by the rick house wall.
The smell of the angels’ share, especially from the open floorboards, was potent enough to taste, the air thick with vanilla, caramel, and corn. Polly pulled William down to the pallet. William’s ribs hurt with every movement, but he didn’t care. He lifted the blankets, and together they slid beneath the warmth.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Polly looked beautiful while she slept. William waited for the sun to rise, a sliver through the window and then a thick swath of light across Polly’s face. He traced her jawline with his fingers and her eyes fluttered.
Birds sang from the trees. The angels’ share had a different smell in the morning, more crisp than thick, and the aroma made him hungry. He asked Polly to listen, to see if they could hear the barrels. Supposedly they expanded and contracted when the weather changed.
“What time is it?” Polly kissed the corner of his mouth. “Are you afraid your father will find us here?”
He kissed her forehead. “Are you?”
The dog barked and a man’s deep voice sounded from the potter’s field. “Dooly McDowell! Come out and take what’s owed.”
Bullets cleaved the air, rapid fire, burrowing into wood and pinging metal, tin, and stone. Windows shattered all over the distillery. People screamed; Cat barked and barked.
William jumped from the floor and looked over the lip of the window to see Tommy the Bat at Asher Keating’s grave, facing the main house and firing a tommy gun with abandon. Three goons stood behind him, firing machine guns every which way. Bullets whizzed back at them from the main house. The screaming intensified as people ran from the onslaught; as the crowd fled, the deer that had been watching from the woods darted toward the chaos, frantically sprinting across the potter’s field. Then dozens of holes punctured the side of the aging house. Glass and wood flew inward. Bullets punctured barrels and bourbon sprayed across the floorboards.
“Polly?” William shouted. “Are you hit? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay!” Polly pulled the blanket up to her neck and hunkered down.
William scrounged for his shoes and threw them on untied.
“William, what are you doing?”
“I’ll know in a minute.” He put on his hat and took off running. He wished he’d had a gun on him, or a knife. He saw a police officer bleeding in the grass, alongside two dying deer.
“Dooly McDowell!”
Tommy Borduchi had disappeared around the corner of the house, calling out Dooly McDowell’s name. William realized all four cops were down. So were two of Tommy’s men, and three of Barley’s were in the grass near the house.
William made it to the locked back door. A deer scooted past and disappeared around the corner of the house. He banged on the window as shots fired from the front of the house.
“Dooly McDowell!”
A barrage of shots was fired. Someone yelled in pain; his mother screamed. William punched a hole through the lowest pane, shattering the glass and cutting his arm. He reached in up to his armpit and unlocked the door as more bullets rang through the house. He entered, lowered himself to a duck-walk, and scrambled into the dining room. The walls were shot to plaster and dust. In the living room he saw Samantha crouched next to the fireplace, guarding Annie. Johnny was on the floor, covering his ears. Barley moaned and leaked blood.
William’s heart was in his throat. He was exposed between the dining and living rooms without a weapon. The front door was creaking on one hinge, wide open, giving view of Barley’s fourth guard riddled with bullets and dead on the porch. Tommy dropped his machine gun, removed a baseball bat from his coat, and approached Barley.
“Stop!” William screamed.
Barley, who was alive enough to roll on his back, hissed at William, “Run.”
William didn’t run. “Some things just already are. My brother. He said some things aren’t learned. They just already are. Sometimes the bad stuff gets in. You cut yourself. You do it to let the bad stuff out, so you don’t burst. But still it comes.”
Tommy laughed. “Says the palooka standing unarmed in my face.” Polly entered the kitchen. William saw her from the corner of his eye, and in that glance he also saw Barley’s rifle leaning against the dining room table. A deer scurried through the open door, its hooves tick-tacking across the hardwood in a panicked dance. Tommy watched the deer.
William used the distraction to grab the Machete. “Take another step, Mr. Borduchi, and I’ll blow your head off.”
“You don’t have the sand, boy.” Tommy insolently took a step forward.
“Devil’s done taken his share from this family.”
The bullet bored a hole through the middle of Tommy.
Polly was the first to check on Barley. Samantha commanded Annie to stay put. Then she hurried over to her husband and wept as Johnny made it to his feet, crying, his face covered in white plaster dust. “We have to pr
ay, William,” he said frantically. He started toward the front door where the panicked deer had just fled.
Barley grabbed Johnny’s ankle. “No, son. Don’t.”
And then it dawned on William. It was a miracle that no one else had been hit. Barley was ready to die. He’d known. That was why he visited all of their rooms last night. But knowing this didn’t make it any easier to watch his father bleed to death. William bit his lip, fought the rage that was welling up inside him. He’d only begun to know his father.
He removed his shirt, tore strips from it, and attempted to stymie the blood flow.
“William, don’t,” Barley said. “Let me go.”
Cat walked in covered in dirt and blood. He licked Barley’s hand.
“William.” It was Polly. He tuned her out.
He turned toward Tommy Borduchi, who lay half-strewn across the sill of the bay window. William pulled the bat from his slack grip. He hoisted it above his right shoulder and brought it down. Annie started screaming. Her voice stopped him cold.
He dropped the bat, wiped his face. “Don’t look, Sugar Cakes. Don’t look. Everything’s going to be jake.”
Samantha stopped crying. She gripped Barley’s hands in her own and kissed them. Her lips had blood and tears on them.
“I see you,” Barley said softly.
Samantha nodded, squeezed his hands.
William knelt beside Barley.
“Nice shot, William.” Barley’s chest rose and settled through gurgled breaths. “William.” Barley choked on blood. “Tell Wildemere . . . he’s forgiven.”
William’s voice caught, but he stayed strong. “I’ll do that, Father.”
Contentment washed over Barley. His eyes gleamed and a tear trickled from his right eye. “Henry . . .” Barley’s lips parted and his eyes opened wider.
Samantha sobbed and so did Johnny. William reached out, closed Barley’s eyes. He closed his father’s mouth. He gripped Polly’s hand. Together they pulled Samantha and Johnny into the fold along with Annie.
Just the way Barley would have wanted it.
TWENTY-EIGHT
November 26, 1934
Dear William McFee,
My condolences on the tragic death of your father. I pray your family is able to move on from such unspeakable horror. I do my utmost to keep such news from my patients. They have experienced tragedies of their own and need not be reminded of the evils outside our walls. But, as water often finds ways through cracks, so does the news. Maryanne Keating has learned of what happened at your distillery and has begged to send you a letter. I understand the crowds have diminished, and she hopes that her son can finally have peace. Maryanne’s behavior has improved of late. Although she still sometimes has illusions of grandeur, she has been much sounder of mind since your visit, and she prays that the enclosed finds you, and finds you well, after all that has occurred.
Sincerely,
Dr. Sebastian Givens
Superintendent, Central
Kentucky Asylum for the Insane
I was at sea for twelve days, aboard the RMS Celtic of the White Star Line. From Liverpool to New York with a call at Queenstown.
Steerage was full with over four hundred foreigners. Women without escorts were stowed on the sides of the ship, like pockets, divided into rooms that held up to sixteen people, with a common meal room. The air was soured with body odors. There was no repository aside from the corner of the berth. No sick cans. Washrooms were too few and overcrowded. The bunks were iron with straw mattresses, the blankets made of horsehair, and we each had a tin plate and pannikin, a knife, and a fork or a spoon. I was the only one with child.
We all set about fixing our bunks in silence, and I noticed that most of the women had something for seasickness: bottles of foul-smelling liquids and medicines, lime drops, apples, and raw onions. I brought nothing but my small bundle of clothing and the growing bundle inside my belly. I rubbed it when the boat tossed and turned. A German woman asked if it was for good luck that I rubbed my belly, and I nodded. A Finnish woman asked if a genie was going to come out. All across steerage hooligans had begun their drunken rowdiness. People danced and made love while flutes and accordions played and dancers did the jig. The atmosphere turned to misery as we ventured deeper out into the Atlantic. A northwester tossed the boat across the clumpy sea. I kept to myself, speaking only to the baby inside me, numbing my fears with sips from the flask of whiskey in my pocket.
On day three the stewards rounded up steerage for vaccination. I waited for three hours in line. Everyone was tired and hot, and we’d yet to eat that day. Babies cried, and so many complained in a variety of languages. One child in particular, in the arms of his overwhelmed mother, screamed so loudly, and it was incessant. A Welshman threatened to shut the boy up himself if the mother would not, but the boy just kept crying. His eyes were directly on me, on my belly. The mother soon noticed it as well and walked the baby back to me, allowing the ones in front of me to pass her. “Go on,” I told her. She stepped closer, cautiously, for her screaming baby was now reaching for my belly. His tiny hand brushed me and his crying calmed. He began to pet me, so gently that his touch gave me comfort as well. He kept his hand on my belly until it was his turn for inspection, and by then he’d calmed enough for his thankful mother to lure him away from me. That evening, the same woman who’d asked me if I had a genie inside me made a comment about my baby being special. I nodded in agreement. She asked if I thought it was a boy or a girl. I told her it was a boy. She asked how I knew. I told her it felt like a boy. She asked me if I had other children. I told her no, this was my first. She left me alone, although she watched me from across the room for the rest of the voyage.
Sparing the horrifying details of nearly two weeks in steerage with drunken fools and filth, we eventually docked at the East River pier, and I was fortunate enough to witness the arrival from the deck’s railing, with a cool washrag against my forehead. I’d been having contractions for hours, and my fellow passengers had enough heart to give me space—there was a noticeable upturn in mood as we’d approached the shoreline.
The first- and second-class passengers passed Customs on the boat and were immediately allowed down the gangway, but third class and steerage were roped back and held on the boat for another hour as we gathered our citizen’s papers. For two hours we waited on the pier for the barge to take us to Ellis Island for our medical and legal inspections. There we baked in the sun while Americans swore at us and told us to go back home.
An Italian man asked me where the father was, and his words made me melancholy. Was I doing the right thing running from home? I pondered the question, just as I had before leaving Dublin, leaving behind a family who loved me, I once thought, unconditionally—until they called me a harlot. How could I not know the father? My own father never wanted to see me again. He had wholesome daughters to take care of, and if I was old enough to be with child, I was old enough to be out on my own. My mother was of the opinion that I should be sent to the asylum. She called me a blasphemer and said the Devil in me needed to be cast out before any more harm could be done to my tender brain. Of all the words they’d thrown at me, oddly enough, it was the word tender that made me want to leave and never come back. Up until then it had been a pleasant word, but then it became a closing door, a feared future. Perhaps in another country I would be understood, and welcomed. I didn’t ask for this.
On that pier, while mean-spirited men and women shouted slurs, it was the voices of my mother and father that I heard. They’d followed me across the Atlantic and they will follow me until the end of my days, for they follow me still. I entertained thoughts of suicide—I’d nearly tried it a half dozen times in the first five months, before I’d begun to show. The truth was I never pressed the knife deep enough. I never swallowed enough to do the job. The noose was not tied correctly when the chair toppled.
I thought about drowning myself in the river, and possibly would have had the deer not tapped across the
pier with its nose perked to the river and its eyes on me. It watched as the first group of us loaded onto a barge. It watched as we drifted away, and then all of a sudden it got a running start and leapt. Some people screamed, some laughed, but everyone backed away to give it space. The deer never came close to me as I sat on the grungy floor, but it watched; it watched me until we docked at Ellis Island, and then it followed me as two kind gentlemen helped me walk to steady land again. Lines formed toward the building. The deer stayed outside near the water, skittish as immigrants passed it by.
Jesus was born in a manger, I told myself, hobbling into the Great Hall, where we were grouped and tagged. There were animals present to witness His birth. Doctors scanned quickly for anemia, varicose veins, or goiters, and when they noticed my obvious discomfort, they pulled me out of the line. Two things happened at that instant. The deer ran through the open door and into the Great Hall, and I gave birth, right there on the floor of the Registry Room, as a thousand immigrants watched. There was no crying. None at all. But my boy was alive. His little eyes watched over the room. I named him Asher. I’d decided on the Hebrew name before I’d boarded the steamship. It means “happy, lucky, blessed.” I hoped to be all of those things when he was born, and in that moment my hopes came true, for I’d never been so happy, never felt so lucky, never felt so blessed. I cried, however, because I knew I now had a future.
I kissed Asher’s forehead. I forgave my family for not believing me, for they understood not what was needed from them. Had that nosy Italian man asked me at that moment about the absence of the father, I would have proudly told him to look into my son’s eyes, and there you will find the Father, because his Father is everywhere, and in everything, and the voice that had come to me in my dreams was as real as the baby who never cried.
AFTER
NOVEMBER 1940
Annie McFee said Johnny would look handsome in an army uniform. But Samantha had begged her wayward son not to enlist. William had known since ’39 that his brother would try to go; he said he wanted to kill Nazis like his father had killed Krauts.
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