American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Conn was half dozing, sitting upright on his berth and leaning against the wall, when he heard Vangie cry out for him. He sprang to his feet so quickly he slammed his shoulder against the iron brace that fastened the bunk, sending a knife of pain shooting down his arm.

  He reached James’s bunk in a heartbeat. Vangie was kneeling by the boy, and Conn put a hand to her shoulder to steady her as he stood staring down at his son.

  So it had come, then. What they had feared for days.

  He began to tremble. Cold…he was so cold. He couldn’t stop the shaking as he stood studying James’s inert form. It occurred to him that the boy looked strangely serene.

  He had to get a grip on himself, for Vangie’s sake. “So, is he gone then?” he choked out, putting a hand to her shoulder. “Ah, you should have called me sooner, love.”

  “No, Conn!” Vangie lifted her face to him, and Conn saw that her eyes were wide and shining, not with grief-stricken tears, as he would have expected, but with a kind of wonder and something else, some peculiar kind of excitement.

  “The fever is gone, Conn! James is only sleeping just now. He’s better. Much better!”

  Conn stared at her, then turned his gaze back to the boy for a closer look. Only then did he realize that James was indeed alive. Breathing deeply, evenly—peacefully—without the dreaded death rattle he had been expecting to hear all night.

  Vangie reached for his hand, and Conn dropped to his knees beside her. “You’re quite sure?” he choked out. “The fever is truly gone?”

  She was weeping now, but through the tears her tired eyes glistened with unmistakable joy. “ ’Tis true, Conn. James is going to get well! Our boy is going to be all right, after all! God has answered our prayers, don’t you see?”

  “Aye, glory be to God,” Conn said softly, his voice rough with emotion, his heart slamming against his chest as he watched his sleeping son. “But I can scarce believe what I see.”

  By now, Nell Grace and Johnny had come to join them. Like her mother, the girl was crying with stunned happiness, and Johnny was grinning down at his twin brother—and best chum—with huge delight.

  Something struck Conn, and he glanced toward Renny Magee’s bunk. The girl was simply lying there, watching them with those intense pale eyes of hers.

  Conn couldn’t be sure, for the lantern light was dim and flickering, but the lass appeared to be somewhat dazed. Her expression registered nothing except pure and utter amazement.

  As Conn watched her, she met his eyes, but only for an instant before quickly glancing away.

  She didn’t want him to know, he realized. He remembered what he had overheard as she prayed. Why, the foolish little scamp, she actually feared they would be offended at the thought of her going to the Lord in James’s behalf!

  Somehow Conn understood that even now, with James obviously past the dark hour, the girl would want to keep her secret. He could see the shock in her face, the look of incredulity, the glint of something akin to panic, and he almost smiled, to think that Renny Magee could actually be struck speechless.

  But why would she keep silent now? Oh, if James had died, God forbid, then in her confusion and ignorance, the girl might have possibly feared their disapproval—though her apprehension would have been unreasonable entirely.

  Or would it have been?

  But James hadn’t died, and the real surprise was that the lass apparently was not going to try to steal a bit of the credit for his recovery.

  He turned back to James, studying his son with damp eyes for a long time.

  He would keep Renny Magee’s secret all right, if that’s how she wanted it. But not from Vangie. At another time, when they were alone, he would tell Vangie. He could not keep such a thing from her, not such a strange, unbelievable thing as this.

  Regret came washing over him at the thought that he could not speak of this to the girl herself. He could not even thank her for caring so much about their boy that she would entreat a God she didn’t know, a God who, Conn suspected, even frightened her.

  But if he could not thank her directly, he could at least begin to treat her more decently. Perhaps he might even find a way to let her know that she was a heathen no longer in his eyes.

  Later that morning, Renny sat holding Baby Emma, listening to the family’s happy discussion about James.

  He had awakened once and spoke with them, then almost immediately drifted off to sleep again. But there seemed no doubt that he was improving and would eventually be completely well again.

  Renny did not know what to make of it. Certainly, it was no thanks to her. If MacGovern was right, she was a heathen, after all.

  Perhaps it was nothing more than a…a coincidence entirely, James coming out of the fever as he had not long after she had prayed to the Lord.

  It wasn’t as if she were the only one who had prayed for the boy. In truth, the family had not stopped praying from the time the boy had taken ill, and a great number of others among the passengers—good people, Christian people—had prayed for James, too.

  So she must not allow herself to make big out of little for her part in things. The fact that she had prayed, and in secret at that, could not possibly have had anything to do with James’s recovery.

  Indeed not.

  But there was the matter of what James had said when he’d finally come round. The boy’s words had left her head spinning.

  “I felt the fire go out, Mum…”

  When Vangie asked him what he meant, James told them of his dream.

  “I dreamt I was on fire. It was like I was burning up, inside and out. It hurt awful bad, Mum! But then an angel came and touched me, soft-like, and took the fire away. Snuffed it right out of me! I could feel it going, I could. And all of a sudden, I felt…cool. Not cold, but just good, like when you come out of the river on a hot day and the wind blows on you while you’re still all wet.”

  “…then an angel came and touched me…and took the fire away…”

  Renny swallowed, hard. Her throat felt tight. She had no way of knowing what exactly had happened to James. But something had happened; that much was clear. Something unlike anything she could have imagined. Something strange. Very strange.

  After a moment, she closed her eyes. Even if she dared not let herself believe that she had contributed in some way—no matter how small—to James’s recovery, she reckoned it would only be polite to say thank you.

  And so she did.

  25

  A MATTER OF TRUST

  Lament for the land where the sun beams wander,

  And shadows deeper than elsewhere fall…

  JOHN SWANWICK DRENNAN

  Bantry Hill

  Today, Susanna decided, she would make the visit she had been putting off far too long.

  Not that the delay had been entirely her doing. What with getting settled in and then Caterina’s illness, there had been little time for anything other than managing the daily routine. But now there was time, and she intended to go while she could.

  Shortly after breakfast, she went looking for Paul. She found him alone in Michael’s office, putting some papers in order.

  He looked up and, seeing her, broke into a wide smile. “Ah, Susanna! Come in! You are not taking your walk this morning?”

  “Not yet,” Susanna said, returning his smile. “Actually, I have a visit I’d like to make, and I was wondering if you might have time to drive me.”

  “Of course! Where would you like to go?”

  “To Deirdre’s grave,” Susanna said, watching his reaction, “but I have no idea where she’s buried.”

  His expression sobered. “The cemetery is not far. And, of course, I will be glad to take you.”

  “I thought—” Susanna stopped, then went on. “I thought perhaps we could also stop at the site of the accident. If you’re quite sure it’s not too much trouble.”

  He studied her for a moment, his usually lively features now altogether solemn. “It is no trouble at all. When wo
uld you like to leave?”

  “Would it be convenient to go early this afternoon? Perhaps while Caterina is napping?”

  “Sì, that would be very good. I will bring the buggy around front, say, at one o’clock.”

  “Thank you, Paul. I appreciate it.”

  Instantly, his expression brightened. “But it is my pleasure, Susanna! You never ask for anything. Never. I am more than happy to do something for you.”

  He had seemed pleased, Susanna thought on her way back upstairs. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that perhaps she should make more of an effort to get to know Paul Santi. In time, they might even become friends. He had certainly gone out of his way to make her feel at home since she arrived, often stopping to chat with her, inquire after her day, or inspect Caterina’s latest drawings.

  Not that he had ever indicated any sort of interest other than friendship. To the contrary, his behavior couldn’t possibly be construed as anything but the natural courtesy and kindness he would have extended any other member of Michael’s family.

  At another time and under different circumstances, Susanna thought she might have responded more readily to his overtures toward friendship. She did enjoy Paul’s company, especially since he never made things awkward by flirting or displaying any hint of romantic interest.

  She had to smile a little at the very thought. Her experience with men was admittedly limited, but she couldn’t help but think it would be Paul, not herself, who would find the idea of a “romantic interest” awkward—if not positively alarming.

  Most of the time, he reminded her of a mischievous boy who entertained himself by amusing the entire household. His high energy and zany antics often made it difficult to remember that as concertmaster for the orchestra, he was an accomplished musician in his own right, not just Michael’s assistant.

  No matter how much he enjoyed playing the court jester, Susanna was convinced that back of his puckish high spirits there was a keen intelligence and sensitivity rarely glimpsed by anyone except those closest to him. Yet even though she liked Paul a great deal, she deliberately kept a certain distance from him. In truth, with the exception of Caterina, Susanna supposed it was fair to say that she kept a safe distance from everyone.

  Perhaps her self-imposed reserve had to do with the fact that she could not shake the feeling of impermanence about her situation. After more than two months at Bantry Hill, she still could not completely relax, would not risk allowing herself to be seduced into a false sense of security. While she longed to share Caterina’s life—at least until the girl was fully grown—a part of her lived in dread that circumstances might somehow dictate otherwise.

  Outside Caterina’s bedroom, she stood listening for a moment to the child’s chatter, which was, of course, directed to Gus, the wolfhound. As she stood there, amused by her small niece’s one-sided dialogue with the hound, something inside her gave an unexpected wrench at the thought of just how painful it would be to have to leave Caterina now, after becoming so fond of her, so involved in her life.

  In an attempt to shake the melancholy that had been stalking her since daybreak, she went to tidy up her room a bit, then stood looking out the window. It was a sunny October morning, almost crystalline in its brightness and clarity of view. And yet Susanna had come to realize by now how quickly that could change. In fact, she half suspected that the gloom which sometimes hovered over her own spirit these days had much to do with the landscape itself.

  There was a certain brooding secretiveness about this entire river valley, and Bantry Hill was in no way exempt from it. This was a world of dark, moldering estates, dense forests, and always the mighty river that gouged and wound its way through an almost surreal vastness. Magnificent but primitive, spectacular but formidable. It was all too easy to imagine that Bantry Hill might harbor some awful truth or terrible secret that, once revealed, would prove to be more than she could bear. Something that might even drive her away from this place—and from Caterina.

  She hugged her arms to herself, as if to press the miasma of dread out of her body, out of her soul. With a sigh, she told herself it was simply her Celtic imagination running amok. The prospect of visiting her sister’s grave had cast a pall over the entire morning.

  On a day like this, she chided herself, her surroundings should inspire her, not depress her. She had no excuse for this shadowed, nagging sense of foreboding that darkened in the recesses of her spirit. She had a niece she adored, work she enjoyed, and people—like Paul Santi and Rosa Navaro—who seemed to care about her. God forgive her, what more could she want?

  Without warning, the thought of Michael—the image of his darkly bearded face, the quick, brilliant warmth of his smile—caught her unawares, striking her like a blow and leaving her to reach out a hand to the window frame in order to steady herself.

  After a moment she opened the window. Perhaps the morning air would clear her head. Leaning forward a little, she could see Michael and Paul standing just in back of the house. They seemed to be having a brisk, even heated, exchange, with much gesturing of the hands and waving of the arms—mannerisms Susanna had come to associate with the two men as typical of the Italian male.

  Her first inclination was to close the window, or at least to step away. But when she heard her own name mentioned, her curiosity overcame her reservations about listening in, and she edged to the side of the window so she could hear better without being seen.

  “—But it is not right, Michael! You should tell Susanna the truth! You should have told her long before now!”

  Michael checked the impatient retort that rose to his lips. “And what should I tell her, Pauli? What exactly do I say to her, to Deirdre’s sister, eh?”

  “That is exactly the reason you should tell her the truth, Michael. Because she is Deirdre’s sister. She has a right to know!”

  “She has no need to know!”

  “How can you be so sure? Is it really for you to judge?”

  “Who else but I?” He could hear Paul’s shallow breathing and knew he was debating on whether or not to continue. Michael gave him no chance. “You of all people should understand why I do not speak of this to Susanna. You were here, Pauli. You saw how it was with us.”

  There was a silence. Although Paul sounded more guarded, obviously he wasn’t ready to desist. “Michael, you think you are protecting Susanna. But I wonder if it is not yourself you are trying to protect.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Do you really not see what you are doing?”

  “No, I do not see what I am doing,” Michael shot back, his words laced with sarcasm. “Apparently, I must depend on you even for this.”

  Michael regretted his sharpness the instant the words left his lips. But he wasn’t accustomed to criticism from Paul, except perhaps when it pertained to a difference of opinion over a music score, and he was surprised by how much it hurt. Paul was closer to him than a brother, yet he could not seem to understand why Michael had chosen to keep his silence about Deirdre. Instead, Paul saw his actions as unreasonable, even selfish.

  “This is not right, Michael. It’s not fair to Susanna! Why are you doing this? It is not like you to be deceitful.”

  Michael gave a long sigh, groping for patience.

  “You are so intent on keeping the truth about that night—that one, terrible night—from Susanna, that you are keeping everything else from her as well, including—”

  “Including what?” Michael bit out, losing the struggle to restrain his temper.

  There was another silence. Then, “You care for her, Michael,” Paul said quietly.

  Michael tensed, knotted his fists at his side. “Enough, Pauli. You overstep.”

  “I see it, cugino. You care for Susanna, but you suffocate your feelings with your stubborn silence. And Susanna—”

  “What about Susanna?”

  When Paul finally answered, he sounded unexpectedly deflated. “Never mind. Perhaps you are right, I hav
e spoken out of turn.”

  “Sì, avete,” Michael said tightly.

  “Yes, you have…”

  They had lapsed into Italian now, but even if Susanna hadn’t understood their words, she could have detected the frustration in Paul’s voice—and the tightly controlled anger in Michael’s.

  She waited another moment, then heard the back door slam as one or both of them came inside.

  So Michael hadn’t told her the truth about the night Deirdre died. At least not the entire truth. Indeed, it sounded as if he was hiding a great deal more than just the truth about the accident.

  “You care for her. I see it.”

  Her heart leaped again, just as it had when she heard Paul speak those words. But obviously, Paul was wrong. If Michael really cared about her as something more than a friend—for that clearly was what Paul had insinuated—he wouldn’t deliberately deceive her about her own sister. Would he?

  “I wonder if it is not yourself you are trying to protect.”

  What had Paul meant by that accusation? At least, it had sounded like an accusation.

  Suddenly, her every instinct urged Susanna to fly downstairs and confront Michael. She wanted to rip away those unnerving dark glasses and demand that he tell her everything. She wanted to lash out at him, to challenge him until that dark, inscrutable countenance finally showed some emotion, until he admitted that he had been in some way responsible for Deirdre’s horrible death.

  But of course she would do nothing of the kind. She could not face him and admit that she’d been eavesdropping, no matter how much she was tempted to do so. Nor could she go charging downstairs and provoke a scene that might prompt him to send her packing like the poor relative she was, leaving Caterina behind.

  No, she could not risk arousing his anger to the point that he might actually banish her. Caterina had already lost her mother. God forbid that she should have to suffer yet another loss of one she loved.

  And the child did love her. Susanna had no doubt of it.