Ghan chewed on the words but not long enough to awaken anything deep. The American turned to him and said sleepily, “I like you. I could use a man like you in my corner. You’re better than working for transport. You’re loyal, honest. I’ll remember that, Ghan. I will. Hell, maybe I’ll bring you back to Pittsburgh with me.”
Ghan did not know praise and he tried not to let it tickle his stomach like a feather. But the praise tasted good and sparkled over the horizon. Praise didn’t mean anything from a stupid man, but coming from a man like Owen Fairfield, it meant something. Ghan spit out his bitter coffee grounds, but the words still tasted good in his mouth and he grew bold. “Whot’s yers?”
“My weakness?”
“Yeah.”
“My wife.” He gave a resigned laugh, closed his eyes to the stars. “Always has been.”
If the Bailen Mine was a village, the Pilchard Mine was a city. The town swelled around the pit, a wide-open sore in the land, descending in rings like a flat rock skipping upon water. Shacks, humpies and tents freckled the outskirts. Everything grew from the mine—the telegram and post office, the market store, two restaurants, a blacksmith, a livery stable. The mine paid the workers; the workers paid the businesses. The businesses were funded by the mine, so the money went right back to the deep pockets that started it all.
Two boardinghouses kept the drink. Pubs weren’t allowed within the immediate miles of the mine. But drinking was a vice that could be contained, not eradicated, and the boardinghouses had their rooms in the basement with the cards and the drink. Ladies for hire were brought in every Wednesday by train.
The stores were open but traffic light. All the men were underground. The acrid air settled in the nostrils and the back of the throat. The metallic clang of the mine’s poppet vibrated through the ground. Ghan’s horses flared noses, their gait nervous.
“Drop me off at the main office!” Mr. Fairfield ordered.
Ghan followed the steel hammering. The smell of raw ore and rock thickened the air, made a man’s teeth hurt. There was no beauty here. Gray-blue smoke eclipsed the sun. Hard dins made the chest thump in unison. No flowers. No birds. Only tools. Rusty metal. Men.
“I’ll be here awhile.” Mr. Fairfield buttoned his white coat and Ghan stopped the wagon so he could get off. “Park the wagon on the main street,” he directed without looking back. The man was a sight walking into the office, strong and confident, nearly mean in intensity.
Ghan parked the wagon and stretched his leg, took off the peg, let it throb unrestricted. He didn’t mind waiting. Waiting was easy as moving. A minute’s a minute whether you’re sitting or walking. He took out an apple and munched into the warm skin, each crisp bite cracking the sound of pounding metal in the air. Ghan figured the meeting would take most of the day. Might as well rest a spell, he thought lazily. Owen never said where they were headed next. Might need to drive all night. Ghan chucked the apple core to the dirt and climbed in the back of the wagon, rested his head against his swag and fell asleep to the mine’s brittle lullaby.
Ghan woke with a dry mouth. A line of drool stuck to his whiskers. When he wiped his cheek he felt the indent left from the edge of the bedroll. He drank deeply from the water bag, tied on the wooden peg leg and pissed behind a tuart tree. He brushed the horses, filled the feedbags and waited against the wagon.
No sign of Mr. Fairfield, or anyone else for that matter. He looked toward the manager’s office and smirked. “Give anything to be a fly on that wall,” he said out loud. Ghan scanned the storefronts. The boardinghouse looked decent, its full verandah screened. There were tables and chairs set up for the restaurant. He was getting hungry.
If the meeting went well, maybe Mr. Fairfield would want to celebrate, Ghan thought. Seemed like the kind of bloke who would. Maybe they’d spend the night. How about that for a kid from the Sydney slums? Staying in a fancy hotel on an American’s dime! Probably eat a steak in the dining room. Of course, he’d be just as happy under the stars. Then again, he argued with himself, fine living like this doesn’t come around every day.
This rich American liked him and it felt good. He was getting used to it, didn’t feel so odd anymore. Almost like the man thought he was smart, nearly treated him like an equal. Kind of a glow about it. Who knew where this could lead. Plenty of mines he could show the man. If he did it right, if he showed him the real story like he wanted, hell, he could pick his work. As mines went, Bailen was on the bottom rung. Pilchard would be good. Nice to be in town. He could work at Pilchard. Hell, there’s always Pittsburgh. Never had options before. The faint smell of hope, sweet and foreign, tickled his slanted nose.
A young bloke came out the side door of the brick manager’s office, jogged head down to the wagon, a grin on his lips like he was listening to an old joke. Ronnie Peters. Ghan met him a few times during transport. Snot-nosed office assistant trying to make his way up.
“G’day, Ghan.” The half boy, half man waved.
“G’day,” Ghan answered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Ghan watched the boy’s face for clues from the meeting, but Ronnie just scratched his head, widened that shit-eating smirk. “Damn, that bloke got stories!”
“Been travelin’ wiv him awhile.” Ghan nodded, proud in familiarity. “He’s full of ’em.”
Ronnie reached an arm over the side of the wagon and hefted out a bag, set it on the ground before reaching in for the big leather satchel.
“Whoa,” Ghan warned. “Those belong to Fairfield.”
“I know.” Ronnie pulled the heavy bag to the ground and reached for the next. “Told me to bring ’em in.” He grabbed the last one, placed it on the pile, then slapped Ghan on the shoulder. “Yer free t’go, mate.”
The kid’s voice waffled between insult and stupidity. Ghan leaned back into the wood of the wagon, crossed his arms at his chest. “Naw. Gotta wait ’ere for Mr. Fairfield.”
Ronnie cocked his head. “Yer done, mate. He told me t’send yeh on yer way.”
Ghan spit on the ground and grinned at the kid. “Must of heard wrong. Got another week on the road at least. Probably just wants t’stay in town for the night.”
“Yeh his mother now? Heard him just fine.” Ronnie scowled. “He’s in there smokin’ cigars an’ sippin’ scotch. He says, ‘I’m not moving any more north. When a man sees what he likes, he doesn’t go any farther. ’ ” The boy’s American accent was piss-poor.
Ronnie beamed. “Naw, I heard every word. Bloke talked t’me like a mate. ‘Ronnie, my boy!’ he says. ‘Bring me my bags and send that poor man home!’ Then he says, ‘I swear if I sit on that rickety wagon one more minute my nuts gonna crack like a walnut!’ ” Ronnie laughed hard at this, rubbed a palm over his eyeball, then picked up the bags, strained under the weight.
Ghan swallowed something rough and jagged in his throat. A tightness crimped his belly. Poor man. That’s what he called him. Send that poor man home! Heat inched from the tightness and flushed into his face and he shrank against the wagon. “He say anything else?”
Ronnie thought for a minute, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh yeah, said yer ear givin’ him the bloody creeps!” He hoisted up the bags. “Christ, cover that thing up, mate. Gives everybody the bloody creeps.”
Ghan watched the half man wobble across the street, followed his movements hollowly until he was obscured in the building. The words punched his gut, quick jabs that repeated with each replay. For a second, he thought he had heard wrong, chalked it up to a cocky kid, but he knew the rhythm of Mr. Fairfield’s speech, felt its flow in his weakening limbs.
The office door slammed and laughter filtered out before the men. Mr. Bradley came out first, Mr. Fairfield next, white and clean, his arm around the man’s shoulder. A fat cigar hung in the corner of his mouth, the soaked tip bloated as he spoke. Another two men followed and then Ronnie, galloping in their dust.
The men veered in Ghan’s direction and he sighed with relief, pulled himself
together, postured like a soldier waiting for a salute. But then the group turned, crossed the street toward the boardinghouse, the party giving him no more notice than the wagon or the horses or the dirt. Their laughter trailed off, then swelled again as they entered the boardinghouse.
The flush throbbed quicker this time. The air pushed dry and hot and his mouth filled with spit. Ghan looked at his foot, the leather boot as red and dust covered as the ground beneath it, the sole worn down on one side from years of crooked walking. The stick leg posed beside it, skinny, hard and ugly—useless as the dead tree it came from; useless as the man who perched on it.
The street quieted; the drone meshed with his pulse. Behind the walls of the boardinghouse, down in the basement, Ghan knew it was not quiet. Whiskey would slosh, fill the air sweet, mingle with sweat and ripe breath. Stories would be shared, grown and added to; jokes would dirty by the sip. Laughter would fill the cracks, drown out the sound of clinking glass.
Ghan’s bones were tired. The pull to stay, to see it out, to hold out for something shining in the haze, made moving hard. But he cursed and rolled a fist, thought about smashing it into his own nose. Wouldn’t feel it anyway; wouldn’t change a damn thing.
The horses were quiet as they waited for him under the sun. A man could beat a horse and it would still wait for him. Not right how people treat animals. Not right what people do.
Ghan gave a last, quick glance to the boardinghouse and then pulled himself onto the hard seat, shifted the pit from his chest to his gut. He heard Ronnie’s words again, except the voice was Mr. Fairfield’s: I swear if I sit on that rickety wagon one more minute my nuts gonna crack like a walnut! The heat flushed again. That ear giving me the bloody creeps! Ghan sat still for a moment, looked at the white scars along his arm, bold and round in the light. He picked up the reins and gently stirred the horses, turning them back to take him home.
Ghan stuck the key into the hole, turned and pushed, but his shoulder landed flat against the hard door. He jiggled the key again, tried to turn the knob. Damn it. He was so goddamn tired. His bottom was numb and hot from the wagon; his stump ached like it was pinched between two thumbs. Now he’d have to hunt down that lazy Pole to let him in.
On the gravel, he favored the good leg while the wood leg stuck out like a thorn. Ghan found the Pole at a table outside the butcher, playing cards with three other men. Not a single one raised a head as he limped over. “My key ain’t workin’,” Ghan announced.
Lupinsky chewed a fat cigar squeezed in the side of his mouth, the stub so short it was nearly flush with his lips. He threw down a queen of diamonds, chuckling. The man to his right rolled his eyes, threw down his cards.
“I says my key ain’t workin’!” Ghan snapped. So help me, if that Pole don’t get up I’m going to turn this table over.
Lupinsky looked up at him now, his fat, round face poked with greasy black shoots. “No vrent, no vroom,” he answered with a shrug. The Pole spread out his flush and laughed as the third man shoved his cards away.
Damn manager late on the bills again. Jesus Christ, all I want to do is to lie down. Ghan pushed on across the street to the brick office at the edge of town. With each step, he pressed his lips together against the pain and focused on resting his head against the cot.
The cool was instant in the small office. Ghan wiped the sweat off his neck with a stained handkerchief. Andrew Morrison, the assistant manager, came in through the back door buttoning up his fly, then noticed Ghan with a jump. “Crikey, yeh scared the crap outta me!”
“Just got back,” Ghan stated. “Had to drop that American off at the depot.”
Andrew suddenly looked down at the floor, scratched his chin nervously. “Crikey.”
“Matthews late on me rent again,” Ghan grumbled. “Pole done locked me out.”
The scratching increased. The man’s fingers clawed the back of his neck like he had fleas. “Whot yeh go an’ do, Ghan?” He stopped scratching and put his hands up. “Why yeh go an’ blab all that stuff to Fairfield?”
Ghan’s leg trembled, the peg clicking the floor like nervous finger taps. “Whot the ’ell yeh talkin’ about?”
Morrison sat down at the edge of the desk, his shoulders hunched, his hands holding his knees. “Yer a good bloke, Ghan. Hardest-workin’ bastard I’ve ever known. Told yeh that b’fore, an’ I’ll say it again. Nearly kills me I got to be the one t’tell yeh.”
“Tell me whot?” he asked. “If yeh need me outta the boardin’-house, just say it. I don’t mind livin’ in the camp.”
“Ghan.” The man leveled his eyes, the tone and look raising the hairs on the back of his neck. “Matthews came down yesterday hot as piss. Said you’ve been waggin’ yer tongue to that American bloke. Never saw ’im so angry, like somebody shagged his wife or somepin.”
Morrison’s eyes lingered on Ghan’s face. “I’m sorry, mate, but yer fired.”
CHAPTER 26
James gone. His son. And in his place, a hole with sides that did not mold together in scar tissue but widened with each breath. And the hole dripped blood, soaked the footprints left by each of Father McIntyre’s steps.
Life moved slowly now in the blackness. Nothing the priest did was without great effort and he dragged from one useless moment to the next as a sleepwalker, existing now at a great distance. Noises and chatter from the children were hollow, echoing as if from a cave. Food had no taste, and if he ate he didn’t remember doing so.
The priest turned into the barn and closed the red door behind him, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. In looking for something familiar, he found only a cut wound. James was all around this place. The pitchfork leaned against the wall and waited for the boy’s hands to lift and work it. The hay piles were disorderly now, stale, since none of the boys were as thoughtful as James in their duties. The horses were quiet. They missed him, too. The void of the boy was everywhere and it choked the priest.
Shadows hovered above doorways, in corners. Cobwebs hung and joined the eaves with silk, and beside them all Father McIntyre sat fully aware of his own blackness. Sun filtered in particles through the cracks between the boards, forming white lines across the floor. Emptiness. His face twisted for tears, but none came. Tears needed feeling to push to the surface, and his insides were numb and cold as an empty well.
Father McIntyre turned his palms up, stared at the blue veins that connected his hand to his wrist. He touched the scars that lay healed and horizontal. The lines sickened and warmed him all at once. For a moment there was longing. For a moment there was a future where the pain would stop. Then, in a fury, he pulled his wrists into the sleeves and crossed his arms, tucking his fists in his armpits. He closed his eyes and rocked against the shadows.
April 9, 1902
Afternoon
No record would be written or kept of her departure.
The coach, six horses deep, must have been the finest Northampton had to offer. The driver’s suit and hat showed no signs of dust or grime. The Fairfields were not present. Only Mr. Newton, Esquire, awaited the party.
Mrs. Fanning, the new tutor, short and squat, not much taller than the girl at her side, lifted a hand for the lawyer’s support as she entered the open door of the carriage. Leonora waited at the wheel, both hands holding a small suitcase. She was dressed in a pale blue dress, white cashmere stockings and black patent-leather shoes that did not have a single crease. Her hair was pulled back in one long tail, tied at the top with matching blue ribbon.
“Good-bye, Father McIntyre.” He did not recognize the voice. Leonora’s Australian accent was washed away, the words American now, even and perfected. There was no whisper or shyness in her tone. She had learned well. She hadn’t had a choice.
Father McIntyre was the mute now. He did not reach to embrace her shoulders. He did not promise that all would be all right. He did not ask her to trust him. He wanted these reassurances from her, but she was already gone. The carriage left before he even knew it had pulled away.
With her departure, the darkness swelled thick and fat. The light left and followed the little girl like a sieve. It did not matter that no clouds dotted the blue sky; it did not matter that the sun’s smile was wide and open—it was a round rip in the blue that scalded his vision.
The shadows crept from the ground, carried numbness to his toes, through skin, across his chest, stalled his brain. No thoughts told him to turn from the drive; no intention moved his shoes over pebbles. He didn’t hear the crushed sticks underfoot.
Flashes, memories, replaced sight. Old sounds played in his ears. A shot of gunfire hatched, its dull rhythm reverberating. It came again, bounced his joints.
Blown to bits. Bit by bit. The carnage of his world unmasked in one full sweep. His mother’s body shattered. His father’s holed and gaping. His brothers ripped, their chasms manifesting into real wounds, then death. And here he hid, like a whole, selfish fool. Hiding behind walls too thick to crush, yet it all gets in. It comes digging underground or seeps through the rafters. It enters, and just when you feel secure it blows you to bits.
His legs moved in long strides up the winding path, the salted air pungent and thick in his nostrils that breathed in air with quick, tight spurts. Father McIntyre passed the invisible line that had always stopped him before—the line that said the sea, the never-ending cliffs, would be in view. He came closer and his stomach sickened.
His face was damp with salted water—from tears or from the sea, it did not matter. The memories were around him, poking with dead fingers. He closed his eyes against the wind, pushed forward, felt the warmth of a future without pain, and he moved faster.
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