Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  Finally the Irish boy broke the silence. “Do you go to school?” he asked.

  Arthur shook his head.

  “So you work, then?” the boy asked, tidying the night table the doctor had used during the examination.

  “When there’s work to be had, I do,” said Arthur. Deciding the other boy seemed friendly enough, he asked, “How’d you get a job like this, with a doctor? You go to school for it?”

  Daniel Kavanagh shook his head and came over to the bed again. “No. I mean, I do go to school, but just regular school. I got the job because Dr. Grafton happened to be needing an assistant at the same time I was looking for work.”

  Arthur looked at him curiously. “Can’t see wantin’ to spend so much time around sick folks. You like it?”

  “Aye, I do. I want to be a doctor, you see, so this is a fine job for me to have.”

  Arthur nodded as if he understood, but he still reckoned this Irish boy might be kinda peculiar. Spending all that time with a doctor and sick people—it must get awful discouraging.

  “Where do you live?” asked Daniel Kavanagh, putting both hands in his pockets.

  Arthur shrugged. “Got a room in Five Points with some other fellows I know.”

  The other boy’s expression changed.

  “It’s not so bad,” Arthur muttered resentfully. He didn’t want no Paddy feeling sorry for him.

  Daniel Kavanagh nodded agreeably. For a minute Arthur felt as if he were looking right through him. But at least he didn’t say anything else about Five Points.

  “Ain’t lived there long,” Arthur said, yawning. “I come from Mis’sippi.”

  Daniel Kavanagh nodded. “Mr. Dalton told us. He said you ran away. That must have taken a lot of courage.”

  Embarrassed, Arthur kicked at the blankets with his feet. “Naw, just took a lot of runnin’, that’s all.”

  Daniel smiled, and silence descended between them again. This time Arthur yielded. “I can play the harmonica,” he offered. As soon as the words were out, he was sorry he’d said it. Some fellows thought it was sissy to play a musical instrument.

  But Daniel Kavanagh’s face lit up. “Truly? That’s grand. I play the harp.”

  Now that was a sissy instrument, Arthur thought. But the boy didn’t seem embarrassed. He sure wasn’t like any of the Paddies Arthur had met in Five Points!

  “Maybe I’ll bring my harp over sometime after you’re feeling stronger. We could play some songs together. If you’d like to, that is.”

  Arthur’s eyes bugged. Wouldn’t that be a sight, though? A colored boy playing music with a Paddy!

  “I don’t know anybody else who plays music,” Daniel Kavanagh said quietly. “Except for Morgan Fitzgerald, that is, and he’s in Ireland. He taught me the harp, you see, and we used to play songs together sometimes.”

  Arthur had never expected to like a Paddy. Yet, something in the Irish boy’s eyes tugged at him, and he found himself responding to what seemed like an offer of friendship on Daniel Kavanagh’s part.

  “Guess that’d be okay,” Arthur said. “But I dunno how long it’ll be before I got enough wind to play. I’m awful short of breath yet.”

  “Oh, don’t worry! With Dr. Grafton taking care of you, you’ll be feeling as good as new in no time at all! And I’ll pray for you!”

  Arthur stared at him, stuck for a reply.

  Then the door opened, and Mrs. Dalton and Casey-Fitz came in with the doctor. Everybody seemed to be talking at once, and the noise made Arthur’s head spin.

  These had to be the strangest folks he’d ever met. They treated one another like family, and they treated him almost as nice. Even if they were always talking about the Lord and praying, none of it seemed put-on.

  Some of their talk and proper ways made him uncomfortable, but he knew they didn’t do it on purpose. And not a one of them seemed to pay any attention that he was black.

  These were strange folks, all right. And now he’d met a boy who played a harp, just like an angel!

  Peculiar as they were, he guessed he liked them well enough. They seemed good people, especially Casey-Fitz and Daniel Kavanagh.

  Even if they were Irish.

  That night, up to his elbows in dishwater, Daniel told Tierney about his talk with Arthur Jackson. “He’s on his own keeping entirely. Just think of being on your own in Five Points!”

  Tierney grunted, obviously unimpressed.

  “He was hurt, but he’s getting better, thanks to Dr. Grafton.” Daniel frowned as he scrubbed a grease-caked frying pan. “He’s the same boy Uncle Mike helped to save from the strikers, you know.”

  Tierney lifted an eyebrow. “The black kid that got shot? The one the Daltons took in?”

  Daniel nodded. “Arthur Jackson is his name. He plays the harmonica.”

  Tierney’s indifference turned to scorn. “They all play the harmonica.”

  Daniel shot a look at Tierney. “What do you mean?”

  Tierney shrugged and went on swiping the dish towel over a plate. “Colored boys. They all seem to play some kind of music. Jungle drums, mostly.” He grinned, but there was no humor in it, only contempt.

  Daniel swallowed down his anger. “That’s an ignorant thing to say, it seems to me.”

  Tierney looked at him, a threatening glint in his eyes. “You’re saying I’m ignorant because I don’t like Negroes?”

  “No, I’m simply saying it sounds ignorant when you talk so. Especially when I don’t think you even mean what you say.”

  Tierney’s eyes narrowed, but Daniel pretended not to notice. Turning back to the sink, he attacked the frying pan with a vengeance. Tierney was forever making cutting remarks about the Negroes or the Germans or the Poles—about anybody who wasn’t Irish. Yet Daniel did not believe Tierney was as prejudiced as he let on. He half-suspected Tierney said some of the things he did because he thought it was expected of him.

  In New York City, the Irish hated the Negroes, and the Negroes hated the Irish. And Tierney would be the last to go against the mold. He fancied himself as the tough man, one who would brook no questioning of his being thoroughly, unmistakably Irish.

  Daniel could not help wondering if Tierney might not be more intent on convincing himself than anyone else. This was only one of the traits in his friend that had begun to worry Daniel lately. He was changing, Tierney was, becoming harder, more impatient—sometimes even unkind. But Daniel had been unable to determine just how much of this hardness was authentic, and how much was sham—a mask Tierney had chosen to wear, for whatever his reasons.

  Uneasily, he sensed a wall going up around his friend—a self-erected wall—that was slowly shutting out everyone around him, including Daniel and Uncle Mike. Tierney was building a fortress around himself—whether for protection or isolation, Daniel could not say. He only knew that he was beginning to feel left out, separated from his friend. It made him feel unhappy and increasingly troubled.

  21

  A Christmas Like No Other

  And never was piping so sad,

  And never was piping so gay….

  W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

  Christmas Day, for the most part, was a festive, glad occasion, an occasion that, at the Farmington mansion, began weeks—even months—before it arrived.

  The house was elaborately decorated. Dried flowers and leaves, carefully preserved from the past autumn, had been added to the profusion of evergreens in each room. Even the last rosebuds of the fall had been saved by dipping their stems in melted paraffin and wrapping the blooms in tissue paper. Stored in cool dresser drawers, they were retrieved and recut, then placed in warm water to grace the immense dining room table for this one day.

  Christmas dinner was like nothing Daniel had ever imagined. For the first time in his life, he grasped the full meaning of the word feast—roast turkey and stuffed ham, stewed oysters and candied sweet potatoes, fried celery, lemon pudding and cranberry pie. And that was in addition to a seemingly endless assortment of fruit a
nd nuts, decorated cookies and candies!

  The entire day was a wonder. From the ornate decorations that filled the spacious dining room to the magnificent table spread in full splendor before them, it was an astonishing occasion altogether.

  Glancing up from his half-empty plate, Daniel studied the immense chandelier overhead with some concern as to how firmly anchored it might be. Festooned with lush evergreens, brightly colored leaves and berries, it hung like a great adorned tree suspended from the high ceiling.

  Across the room, Daniel’s own gift to the Farmingtons rested proudly against the far wall. At the inspiration of his mother, he had made a large Christmas harp, forming its frame from some lightweight wood strips and stringing it with thin wire. Decorated with colored leaves, Christmas greens and tinsel, it stood as tall as a man grown, drawing attention to itself from any point in the room.

  Sara Farmington had declared the harp “quite the most wonderful Christmas gift” she had ever received. Daniel had been enormously gratified with her enthusiasm. Both Miss Sara and her father had seemed genuinely impressed that he would go to so much effort on their behalf. In truth, it had helped him to feel less an outsider.

  When the Farmingtons first insisted that everybody—Daniel and his mother, Evan Whittaker, and the Fitzgerald children—share their Christmas at the mansion, Daniel had worried that he might feel out of place. Miss Sara was a grand lady, and Mr. Farmington a prince—but his son, Gordon—“Gordie,” the family called him—and his wife took on insufferable airs.

  As it happened, the Gordon Farmingtons spent Christmas with the wife’s family, considerably easing Daniel’s apprehension. Throughout the entire day, Miss Sara and her father spared no efforts in making their guests feel at home. Gifts were lavished on them all. Ice skates and books for Daniel. A silver-handled mirror and a soft wool shawl for his mother. A huge sack of marbles and a toy train for Little Tom. For Johanna, a doll and a miniature tea set. And for Evan Whittaker, a fine leather-bound journal and a framed sketch of a pastoral scene—an English countryside.

  Toying with his food, Daniel was disappointed that in the face of such abundance he had so little appetite. The headache and raw throat that had been plaguing him overnight worsened as the day wore on. He simply could not bring himself to eat more than a few bites of the banquet.

  His mother had noticed, of course, chiding him for not eating more. Daniel pushed his food around on his plate and made no mention of not feeling well. Fretting about him would only spoil the day for her, and he refused to allow anything to steal the Christmas light from her eyes.

  He grew more uncomfortable by the moment, however. The dining room was warm and oppressively stuffy, and he longed for an appropriate moment to excuse himself.

  Biding his time, he could not help but reflect on the drastic difference between this Christmas and last. Last year in Ireland, with Da recently dead, food and money had been so scarce as to be a continuing source of despair. Christmas Day had passed almost unheeded, except for a service at the meetinghouse and the few small playthings his grandfather had whittled for the children. Mother had been silent and grieving, while Tahg, Daniel’s elder brother, and his wee sister, Ellie, had both been too ill to take notice of the day at all. It had been a terrible Christmas—the bleakest in his memory.

  This Christmas Day, now—well, it was quite different. The only imperfection to mar its joy—aside from his feeling so poorly—was the fact that Tierney and Uncle Mike had chosen not to share the day with the rest of them.

  Miss Sara had invited them, but Uncle Mike had quickly declined. Too quickly, Daniel realized. Obviously, he was still peeved with Mother. As was Tierney.

  Tierney had told Daniel what had transpired at the Opera House that night in late November. His light blue eyes had been glazed with anger, his tone hard and cold, when he related how Uncle Mike had encountered Daniel’s mother and “the Englishman,” the both of them “decked out in their borrowed finery.”

  For days afterward, Tierney had remained withdrawn and aloof toward Daniel, almost as if to punish him. Uncle Mike, too, had seemed excessively quiet and distracted. It came as no surprise, therefore, when he refused the Farmingtons’ invitation; nevertheless, it was a great disappointment. At least Tierney had recently attempted to patch things up, resuming his usual teasing remarks and pranks over the past two days. And hadn’t he given him a fine pocket knife, almost exactly like the one he’d bought for Uncle Mike?

  Glancing across the table, Daniel met Johanna’s eyes. Her hand went to the bright emerald scarf at her throat—Tierney’s gift. Daniel winked at her, and still touching the scarf, she returned his smile.

  Forcing down one last bite of pie, Daniel winced at the swollen ache in his throat. He was feeling more than a little ill now. He dared not delay in getting some air, else he would disgrace himself by being ill in front of everyone.

  “Excuse me, please,” he muttered thickly, pushing himself away from the table. Half-rising from his chair, he quickly gripped its back when the room began to spin. He swayed, catching his breath and hoping nobody had noticed.

  He should have known better.

  “Daniel John?” His mother’s voice was sharp, her tone questioning. She left her chair and hurried round to him.

  “Mother…I feel—I might be a bit ill…” he managed to choke out. Then the entire sea of faces round the table began to spin crazily out of control.

  What had begun as a shining gift of a day ended in a nightmare for Nora, with Daniel John almost fainting dead away at the dinner table. Breaking his fall, Nora saw at once that the boy was afire with fever. More frightening still, his skin was blotched with a fine, bright scarlet rash.

  Mr. Farmington half-carried him to the chaise in the parlor, then immediately sent Uriah for Dr. Grafton. While they waited for the doctor, Sara herded wee Tom and Johanna from the room; Evan stayed to help Nora with Daniel John.

  The lad was restless, thrashing about anxiously on the chaise as he groaned and muttered meaningless, disjointed words. He seemed too ill to manage more than a nod or a small shake of his head when they questioned him.

  Nora was beside herself with fear. “He’s not making any sense at all, Evan!”

  “It’s the fever,” Evan said softly, his forehead lined with a worried frown.

  Nora looked from him to her son. “He’s delirious, do you mean? But how…he was perfectly fine until the dinner! I don’t understand…” She let her words drift off, unfinished. Putting a hand to Daniel John’s brow, she uttered a soft gasp of surprise from the heat she felt with her fingertips. “He’s so hot! And the rash…” She hesitated, staring at her son with growing horror. “Lord have mercy, I have seen this rash before!”

  Evan put his hand to her shoulder. “Nora, I’m sure the d-doctor will be here any m-moment—”

  Nora continued to stare helplessly down at the boy. “It was in the village, years past,” she choked out, her voice trembling. “I remember… because of Johanna.”

  “Nora, it m-may not be the same thing—”

  “Scarlet fever.” Nora stopped and tried to get a breath, but could not. “’Tis called the scarlet fever! Johanna had it—that’s why she cannot hear or talk!”

  Whipping around to Evan, her voice rose with her fear. “’Tis the same thing, Evan—the scarlet fever!”

  Evan started to speak, then seemed to change his mind as he gripped her shoulder more tightly.

  “Scarlet fever,” Nicholas Grafton announced within moments of his arrival. Indeed, it had not even been necessary to examine his young assistant. He had seen enough scarlet fever during his years of practice in the city—especially of late—to recognize the disease at first glance.

  Guilt tugged at him as he continued to examine young Daniel. He had almost certainly contracted the disease from other patients; they had been seeing an increasing number of cases over the past few weeks.

  The boy was feverish, the rash widespread. Bad throat already—swollen,
and just starting to ulcerate.

  Dr. Grafton straightened, turning to the mother. “How long since the rash appeared?”

  “How long?” The woman stared at him with frightened eyes, all the while wringing her hands until they were white-knuckled.

  The one-armed English fellow at her side answered for her. “Little m-more than an hour ago. We were still at d-dinner. Daniel seemed faint, and when we helped him away from the table he could scarcely walk. He complained of being d-dizzy and sick to his stomach.”

  Grafton gave a short nod. “The rash is fairly widespread already—probably started on his chest and back earlier in the day.” He looked at the boy’s mother. “I feel bad about this, Mrs. Kavanagh. Undoubtedly, he picked it up on calls. Daniel’s not one to keep his distance from the patients—he’s a fine assistant, willing to do whatever needs doing.”

  Sighing heavily, the doctor closed his medical case. “He’s going to need a great deal of care and close attention. Will he be staying here?” Grafton found his young assistant’s living situation somewhat peculiar, although the boy seemed content enough living apart from his mother—with his “Uncle Mike,” as he called him.

  Lewis Farmington was standing directly behind the mother. “Why, of course he’ll stay here! Nora will want to be with him. Just leave instructions as to the proper care, Nicholas. We’ll see that he gets everything he needs.” He paused. “In addition to Nora, he’ll have Ginger and Sara to help. They’re both very good with illness.”

  “Yes, well, that’s fine, but the thing is—scarlet fever is highly contagious. You still have two other children in the house, isn’t that so?”

  Farmington nodded.

  “Johanna—Johanna has already had the sickness,” Nora Kavanagh offered. The woman appeared to be more in control now, though still frightened.

  As well she might be, Grafton thought. Scarlet fever was a treacherous disease. In addition to making a body miserably ill, it often wreaked havoc on the vital organs, at times causing irreparable damage. Sometimes it even killed.