American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Susanna allowed herself a long look at Michael, his dark head bent over the dancing yarn, intent on doing even this homely task to the best of his ability. She shook her head in disbelief that she had ever given credence to Deirdre’s rantings about his “selfishness” and “brutishness.” Deirdre, who had never had a thought in her short life for anyone but herself.

  But Susanna had believed those letters. And she would never have come to live at Bantry Hill were it not for two circumstances. One was that little Caterina, left motherless after Deirdre’s accident, desperately needed a caretaker. And the second was the bitter reality that Susanna needed a home. After the death of her parents, facing the prospect of either a loveless marriage or working for strangers, she’d decided it would be better to care for her only surviving family member, her young niece—even if her niece’s father was a brute.

  But he wasn’t a brute, of course. Far from it. And Susanna would be forever thankful she’d made the decision she had. For she had come to love Caterina as if she were her own child—and Caterina’s father more than she’d ever thought she could love—

  “You’ve slowed down,” Michael observed, ever sensitive to changes in her mood. “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “You’re perfect,” she told him, picking up the pace again—and acutely aware that it would be best to change the subject.

  “I wish you could see Paul with the MacGovern girl,” she told him. “He’s absolutely enchanted with her.”

  Michael chuckled. “I don’t have to see them. Pauli speaks of little else these days. And what of Miss MacGovern? Do you think she likes him?”

  “Oh, indeed! She has the most marvelous eyes, you see, and when she turns them on Paul they positively shimmer. It couldn’t be more obvious that they’re very taken with each other. And they do make a handsome couple.”

  “Ah. You have this all figured out, it seems.”

  “And something else—” she went on. “Did you notice how many questions your father was asking about Rosa at supper this evening? He certainly took his time fetching Caterina home from Rosa’s house. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your papa isn’t a bit smitten himself.”

  Michael raised his eyebrows. “Papa? And Rosa?”

  “Rosa Navaro is an extremely attractive, intelligent woman, Michael. And she and your father would have much in common, what with both of them being from Tuscany and loving music as they do. Think about it.”

  Obviously, he was doing just that. “Papa and Rosa,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Would my father have—appeal—for a woman like Rosa, do you think?”

  Susanna looked at him. “Your papa is absolutely natty. And yes, I should think women would find him most attractive.” She paused, unable to resist. “And there’s the Italian factor as well.”

  He frowned. “The Italian factor?”

  Susanna smiled to herself. “Well, some seem to think there’s a certain irresistible appeal about Italian men.”

  His hands stopped moving. “Oh? Irresistible, eh? And…what do you think?”

  “Well—oh, Michael! Be careful. You’re losing the—”

  He grabbed at a loop to avoid dropping the yarn, but too late. The remaining loops slipped from his hands to the floor. He bent to retrieve it and Susanna reached to help, dropping the ball she’d been winding in the process. They bumped heads, laughed, but quickly sobered when Michael reached for her, touching her face and drawing her to him for a brief kiss. And then another. Susanna’s gaze went over the darkly handsome Tuscan face, the black hair shot with silver, the quick smile that never failed to make her heart leap—as it did now.

  “I believe I like this work,” he teased. “Anytime you would like me to help, you’ve only to ask.”

  Flustered, Susanna tried for an even tone of voice. “You can help me untangle this mess is what you can do. Hold out your hands again.”

  He smiled and, like an obedient schoolboy, sat patiently as she draped the yarn over his hands and began to work through the snarled strands.

  “What is this you are doing?”

  Susanna and Michael both jumped at the sound of Riccardo Emmanuel’s booming voice as he walked into the room.

  “Papa,” said Michael. “I thought you would have been asleep long ago.”

  Michael’s father seemed to fill up any room he entered. He stood before them now, arms crossed over his sturdy chest, an imposing figure in a crimson dressing robe and matching nightcap.

  “What are you doing?” he asked again, frowning as he stared at Michael’s hands.

  Michael kept his head bent over the yarn. “I am supposedly helping Susanna,” he said lightly, “although I think I’m more trouble than help.”

  “May I get something for you, Papa Emmanuel?” Susanna asked him. “Some warm milk and biscuits, perhaps?”

  He declined her offer with a wave of his hand. “No, nothing.” He paused, still frowning, and only then did Susanna realize that he was, if not angry, at least annoyed.

  Her instincts told her to leave the two men alone. “Well, I believe I’d like some for myself. Michael?”

  He nodded. “That would be nice, cara. If you don’t mind.”

  Susanna didn’t mean to eavesdrop as she left the room, but Riccardo Emmanuel had the kind of voice that couldn’t be ignored. She was no more outside the drawing room than she heard him proclaim, “I must tell you, mio figlio, it disturbs me to see you so. I hope you are not giving in to the blindness.”

  “Giving in?” Michael’s tone was definitely puzzled. “What do you mean, Papa?”

  Susanna stopped, unable to walk away until she heard Riccardo Emmanuel’s reply.

  “I find you sitting here, in front of the fire, working the yarn like a woman when I would expect to find you concentrating on your music.”

  Michael didn’t respond right away, and when he did, Susanna could still hear the confusion in his voice, as well as the slight thickening of his accent that invariably came when he spoke with either his father or Paul.

  “My music? But, Papa, always I work with my music. I spend hours every day—”

  “Uffa! Your music should be the most important thing in your life, Michael! It is God’s gift to you. You should have no time for trivial things such as—yarn.”

  There was a long silence. Susanna heard the sofa creak under Michael’s weight as he shifted and stood. “Forgive me, Papa. I don’t mean to be insolent, but you are wrong.”

  His father made a sound as if to interrupt, but Michael stopped him, his tone respectful but firm. “Susanna is the most important thing in my life, Papa. Whatever time I can spend with her is not trivial.”

  “Of course, of course! I understand about Susanna! She is a wonderful young woman, and you are most fortunate to have found her. But you must understand, Michael, that you are a very important man. A genius! Yet you have stopped using your voice, forsaken the opera, your singing—”

  “Did I not explain all that to you in my letters, Papa?”

  “Sì, you did, although I won’t pretend to understand. Michael…only God can give a man such a voice. Do you truly believe that He would not want you to use that voice? Is this how God would expect you to use the gifts He has given you? Helping a woman roll yarn? Unthinkable!”

  There was a long silence. Then, “I told you, Papa. I left the opera because it was…an obstacle, a hindrance to my faith. It was no longer a good thing for me. But I haven’t abandoned my music. Surely you must see this. I work very hard. With the orchestra, the composing—”

  With relief, Susanna heard his father’s tone change to a reasonable note.

  “I know, I know, Michael! Still, I see you—hiding away here, in this cold, dark place, like a—a hermit! Writing the music is good, sì, and your work with the orchestra is to be commended, but—your voice, Michael! To no longer sing—”

  “I do sing, Papa,” Michael said quietly. “I sing in worship. I sing for Caterina and Susanna, and sometimes I also sing with the orc
hestra. I sing…for God. And I’m not hiding away here. This is my home. I am at peace here. Finally, I am at peace. Please, Papa, this is not something I wish to debate with you. I made my decision, and I believe God led me to that decision. Please, you must try to understand.”

  His father said something in Italian, with Michael answering in kind, and at that point Susanna stepped away from the door and went on down the hall.

  This was not about yarn, she realized. Nor was it about her. At first she’d felt guilty, mortified that Michael’s father was blaming her for encouraging Michael to squander his time when there were more important things he should be doing. But now she sensed that Papa Emmanuel’s pique had been triggered not so much by what Michael was doing as by what he was not doing. It had to do with Michael’s turning his back on the stage, on the celebrity that had once been his. In the process, in Riccardo’s mind, he had disobeyed—and disappointed—God.

  More to the point, he had disappointed Riccardo.

  Susanna ached for Michael. She knew how painful it must be for him not to have his father’s approval or understanding. He loved his papa intensely. Even an ocean apart, they had remained close over the years. Now, to learn that after all this time, his father didn’t accept the path he had chosen, that indeed he disapproved of that choice, perhaps even believed that Michael had betrayed his gift—this would cause Michael a terrible anguish.

  Still, it was good that his father was here. Only by being with Michael on an everyday basis could Riccardo come to realize what a strong man—what a truly remarkable man—his son had become over the years.

  Michael and his father loved each other—of that there could be no doubt. Surely this time together would not only help deepen that love, but would also restore Riccardo’s pride in his son as he came to better understand the choices Michael had made and his reasons for making them.

  But, please, God, let Michael not be too wounded in the process.

  5

  MAKING MAYLEE SMILE

  Friendship improves happiness, and abates misery, by doubling our joy, and dividing our grief.

  JOSEPH ADDISON

  The best things about Bantry Hill, at least in Renny Magee’s estimation, were its endless opportunities for exploring and the limitless treasures to be found within a hand’s reach. To a girl accustomed to big-city slums—first in Dublin and then in New York—the open countryside held an irresistible appeal.

  For the first few months of their resettlement on the river, Renny made it her business to spend nearly every free minute investigating her new surroundings. Now that the weather had grown milder, she could extend the scope of her kingdom, climbing trees the likes of which she’d never seen in Ireland, examining footpaths that led into forests so dense the daylight couldn’t break through, scouting the wildlife—red foxes and black squirrels, owls that lulled her to sleep at night and delicate gray doves that woke her in the morning. She climbed massive rocks so high the view made her dizzy, and she walked crumbling stone bridges where the moss and lichen of another century had stamped their patterns for all time. She spied on giant elk and deer and every now and then engaged a moose in a staring match.

  She had even gained a bit of familiarity with the Big House itself.

  At first, the blind man’s mansion had been off limits. Both Vangie and MacGovern had cautioned that Renny was not to go near the place unless invited. With the arrival of her new friend, Maylee, however, the situation changed. Because she and the wee girl—who in truth looked more like a little old lady than the eleven-year-old girl she actually was—had struck up well together from the first, Renny was soon invited to the Big House on a regular basis. So far these visits had taken place entirely in the frilly downstairs bedroom where Maylee had been ensconced, but Renny held hopes that she might one day see the rest of the rambling old mansion that reminded her for all the world of a castle in a storybook.

  Today it was late afternoon before she arrived for her visit with Maylee. She’d taken time to collect a pouch of colored stones and an armful of pussy willow branches. Maylee liked to touch the catkins, and she would add the stones to the rest of her collection.

  Inside the house, Renny found her friend waiting eagerly, sitting in the big rocking chair by the window with her new kitten on her lap. Renny darted a look to the bed where, sure enough, several books were laid out for her choosing.

  She could scarcely wait to make her selection, but first she handed Maylee her “treasures,” as the other girl called them. As always, Maylee’s smile grew larger with each stone and branch she examined.

  “Oh, Renny! These are the best ever treasures! Thank you!”

  Although Renny pretended to shrug off the other’s gratitude, in truth she was highly pleased. She liked doing things to brighten things up a bit for Maylee. The younger girl asked for nothing, but Renny had soon learned that these little gifts from outdoors or a tune played on the penny whistle would invariably bring a smile.

  And making Maylee smile had come to be of special importance to Renny, who couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be in the other girl’s place. It seemed cruel beyond all understanding that someone so young should be afflicted in such a way. Miss Susanna had explained about Maylee’s “condition,” about the strange disease that somehow speeded the process of aging so that, although Maylee was only eleven years old, her body was much like that of an elderly woman.

  At times Renny thought she could almost see her friend growing weaker and more frail by the day. Lately, she had felt a kind of desperation to bring whatever pleasure she could to the ailing girl. But it seemed almost like trying to stem a hemorrhage from a mortal wound. She had the sense that at any moment, despite her best efforts, the flow of blood might accelerate and drain the very life away from its host.

  She shook off her gloomy thoughts when Maylee raised the question Renny had come to anticipate during each visit.

  “Well, you’re ready for a new book, Renny. Which one do you want to start today?”

  Renny took her time making up her mind, finally settling on a book of fairy tales. Maylee had many books, some of which had been given as gifts while she was still at the children’s home, others given to her by Miss Susanna or the blind man’s cousin, Mr. Santi. Renny favored the small set of Bible stories with lots of pictures, though she also was partial to the books featuring animals that talked or particularly hateful people who got their comeuppance in the end.

  “Oh, you’ll like that one, Renny!” Maylee said, indicating the volume of fairy tales. “The brothers Grimm wrote some of the very best stories of all!”

  Renny thumbed through the first few pages. “ ’Twas written by brothers?”

  Maylee nodded. “Brothers from Germany. It’s called ‘collaborating,’ Miss Susanna said.”

  “What’s called collaboratin’?”

  “When two people write a book together. Go ahead and start. I like to hear you read.”

  Renny cracked a small smile, trying not to show how pleased she was. “Could be because you taught me how, I expect.”

  Maylee was always telling her how quickly she learned and what a good reader she was by now. Renny still remembered the first time Maylee had loaned her a book in return for some stones and ferns Renny had brought her from the woods. Too ashamed to admit to the other girl that she didn’t know how to read, Renny had simply taken the book with a mumbled thanks and made a hasty getaway. When she returned the book a few days later, Maylee insisted on sending another home with her.

  For days afterward, each time Renny returned a book, Maylee pressed another upon her until finally, confused by the girl’s generosity and at odds with her own pride, Renny had burst out with the lie that books were really of no interest to her, that she had more important things to do.

  She cringed now as she remembered how Maylee’s pointy little face had fallen, almost as if Renny had struck her. But after a moment she had simply tilted her head in that funny way she had and, with a long look at
Renny, said, “Can’t you read, Renny? Is that why you don’t want the books?”

  Something in that steady, kindly-natured gaze had made it impossible for Renny to deny the truth any longer. Her face burning, she confessed her secret.

  Instead of looking down on her, as Renny expected, Maylee had taken it upon herself that very day to begin teaching her, assuring Renny that “as clever a girl as you are, you’ll be reading everything in sight in no time.”

  Renny wasn’t one to boast, but in truth she had learned quickly. And the more she read, the more she wanted to read. By now she and Maylee had a well-oiled system in place. Renny collected items from outdoors she thought Maylee would enjoy: pinecones, sprigs of greenery, shiny stones from the river, and anything else she thought would appeal to her friend. In return, Maylee would listen to Renny read, helping her where it was necessary, then send her off with a book or two until next time.

  Thanks to Maylee, Renny no longer had to work to conceal her humiliation. Now she could take turns with Nell Grace and Vangie reading three-year-old Emma a bedtime tale, and when MacGovern was ready to relinquish his newspapers at the end of the day, she could pore over them the same as he, although not quite so quickly.

  Maylee’s teasing voice called her back from her thoughts. “Renny? Where have you gone? I asked if you’d play your tin whistle for me.”

  Renny nodded and pulled the penny whistle from the back pocket of her skirt. She had finally, albeit reluctantly, given in to Vangie’s insistence that she do away with both pairs of her boy’s trousers and don a skirt. In Renny’s estimation, skirts were a big bother. Trousers were ever so much more comfortable for exploring and just about anything else—but Vangie had it in her head that since Renny was “growin’ up,” it was unseemly to run about “dressed like a raggedy plowboy.” In truth, she had grown tall enough over the past few months that the one skirt she had brought from Ireland and the boy’s trousers she had scrounged on the streets of New York were noticeably too short. So Vangie had had her way—as was generally the case.