“Good day, Shanley.”
“Dr. O’Halloran. I didn’t realize we’d be seeing you.”
“Your uncle’s had a terrible coughing fit. Ended in a fainting spell at Callaghan’s. I happened to be across the way, sending a wire at the post office.”
“How lucky that you were nearby.”
“Indeed.” Doc O’Halloran smiled. The combination of his peppered temples, proper suit, and leather case reminded Shan of his da. Of course there were differences too. While Doc O’Halloran had a warmth about him, Shan’s da had been more of the logical, scientific sort.
Uninterested in the pleasantries, Uncle Will narrowed his eyes at Shan. “You might not feel so lucky, boy, when I find out what you’re tryin’ to hide from me.”
Shan glanced down at his hand, recalling his mission. “It’s only a record. But I wasn’t hiding it. Just protecting it from the rain.”
“Is that so? And how would you be affording a thing like that?”
“He lent it to me—Mr. Maguire did. For the night.”
“With no way to play it,” Uncle Will scoffed.
“Well, yes. But it wasn’t to play—”
“Bring it here. Now.” The command was firm but less harsh than usual. This was typically the case around Doc O’Halloran. Maybe it was on account of the doctor’s kindness, but more likely it was due to his skillful service. When a person had something you needed, it was best to show you were worthy.
As the doctor put on his long wool coat, readying to leave, Shan made his way toward the bed. Footsteps upstairs rattled the ceiling, and again a baby cried.
Shan displayed the record by holding it up, but his uncle demanded he hand it over. With dread, Shan obeyed, trying not to picture the disc snapped in two.
“If I find out you stole this, I’ll tan your hide, I will.”
“I only borrowed it to show you, I swear.”
“Oh? And tell me why I’d have any interest in a bloody record.”
Shan strained to recall the words he’d rehearsed on the way home. “I’ve heard . . . that is, Mr. Maguire said . . . the performers on the record have become famous for telling jokes . . . and singing songs in different voices.”
“And you think you’re going to be some grand star. Is that it?”
Shan wanted to clarify—to merely convey that his talents could prove more lucrative across the sea—but his focus was fixed on his uncle’s hands, in dire need of a wash, gripping the record too tight.
Doc O’Halloran stepped closer. “Is that a recording of Billy Murray you have? Ah, what a funny one he is. May I?” He held out a palm, and with only brief hesitation Uncle Will gave up the disc.
Breathing easier, Shan said to the doctor, “He’s my favorite.”
“As right he should be.”
Shan started to remember the points of his speech. Though not smooth and connected, they were at least within reach. “He’s a vaudevillian. Travels about with a troupe. They perform all over America. Singing and dancing and storytelling. Even some magic too.”
“Sounds exciting,” Doc said. “And not altogether different than the shows you do yourself.”
“Aye,” Shan said simply.
“Good money too, I’d bet. Over there in America.”
Shan felt a smile spreading from the inside out. Yet under his uncle’s heavy gaze, he aimed for an even face, not wanting to appear scheming. The seed of an idea would have no chance of sprouting if stomped out by suspicion.
“You know, Shanley. Before I go, I do have a private matter to discuss with Mr. O’Mara. If you could wait in the hall, I won’t be but a minute.”
The request was a surprise, but of course Shan agreed and found a seat on the floor in the hallway.
Before long, the temptation to eavesdrop became too much to resist. He pressed his ear to the door, yet heard only mumbles. Neighbors’ voices made the task all the more challenging. From behind thin walls Mr. Boyle ranted as usual about his support of the IRA and the Sinn Féin party, but not seeing Michael Collins as the savior every Irishman was making him out to be. Mrs. Boyle’s urgings that he hush down were nearly as loud as his objections to doing any such thing.
Suddenly, the knob of the apartment door creaked above Shan, and he scurried to his feet. Doc O’Halloran emerged with his bag in one hand and a jelly jar in the other. While he was more of the sherry-drinking type, he always accepted the moonshine with grace, not one to insult a man’s form of payment.
“You take care of your uncle, now.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good lad.” The doctor gave a thoughtful look before continuing on his way.
Shan never did learn what was said behind that door. Yet two nights later, after returning home from a pub show that paid a shilling, Uncle Will stared out the window in silence. He finished two cigarettes, one right after the other, filling the air with as much smoke as tension. Then without turning from his reflection, he said to Shan, “We’ll be going to America.”
6
The weeks following Uncle Will’s decision to move halfway across the world passed like a ride on a runaway horse. A bewildering blur of thrills and uncertainty. A forward charge with no time to rest. And if given a chance, you’d find yourself asking: What in God’s holy name have I done?
For Shan, that feeling came as clear as day on the morning of their departure. He had just entered Mr. Maguire’s shop when the realization that the visit would be his last struck with the force of a broad-knuckled punch. While the store’s sweets and records had initially lured him in, it was the Maguires who had truly drawn him back time and again. Although his conversations with the couple rarely surpassed light chatter, a sense of deep care had grown beneath their words, even in the quiet that lay between them. Maybe there most of all.
In light of this, he anticipated a heartfelt parting. On the contrary, in a level tone Mr. Maguire simply wished him a blessed journey, then without so much as a handshake he hurried off to handle inventory.
Shan stood there in silence.
“Now, now, don’t be taking that to heart.” Mrs. Maguire gently smiled. “Just needs a moment to himself.”
When understanding set in, that Shan wasn’t the only one feeling the blow of parting ways, he nodded.
“Truth be told, we couldn’t be happier for you, Shanley Keagan. And we know you’ll make us proud.” Mrs. Maguire’s eyes grew watery above her rounded cheeks. “Off you go now, or you’ll miss your grand adventure.”
The couple had never had children, which likely explained why her hug right then had a genuine but unpracticed feel. Then again, Shan’s memory of his mam’s made all others fall short.
He gratefully accepted a small bundle from Mrs. Maguire—biscuits, tea, and toffees for the trip—and left to meet his uncle. Shan refrained from taking a backward glance at the store for fear of changing his mind, as if that were an option. Their flat had been rented out, and every belonging he and Uncle Will could spare had been sold to help pay for their fare. The rest had been raised from Shan’s daily shows, on streets and in pubs all over town, sometimes four a day, and from sales of his uncle’s moonshine. The result was an extra bit of savings to be used for resettlement, to give them a decent start. Unfortunately, without a drop to drink Uncle Will’s mood soured further.
Once they’d boarded the ship, this was just one reason Shan avoided their assigned room. A greater deterrent was the stench of sweat, feces, and vomit on the third-class level, now beyond overcrowded. A steamer from Italy on its way to New York had a pipe burst, and a chunk of its travelers were moved onto Shan’s passenger ship. The buckets of waste were dumped out on a regular basis, yet there was no keeping up when seasickness hit from the rolling and rocking of the waves.
Thanks perhaps to his childhood days of fishing—the only hobby he’d shared with his da, who had appreciated the ruling quiet—Shan adjusted fairly well. There were many who’d been ill from the first day till now, almost twelve days later
. Uncle Will among them.
A better person than Shan might feel pity for the man, being stuck in his berth, unable to keep anything down. To Shan, it seemed a class of justice.
Of course, if he ever said so in confession, it would surely require penance. Ten Hail Marys and a heap of Our Fathers. But at the moment, he would enjoy the satisfaction. Besides, the sea was mercifully calm tonight and just one day remained before they would be back on soil. Lovely American soil.
The sheer excitement of it left Shan too restless to sleep. In the quiet, he crept down the hall and around the corner to reach a crew supply room. Passengers were prohibited from the area in order to prevent thievery. At this late hour, Shan had no worry of being discovered.
He settled in a back corner, away from the door and the dim entry light. The air was musty and thick with salt, but he didn’t mind a bit. The space had become his nightly cave. No babies fussing or couples bickering—the result of boredom in cramped quarters—just a song formed by small creaks from the gently shifting supplies.
Shan fastened the top button of his wool coat to keep warm. He borrowed a flashlight from a shelf, tucked among linens, towels, and such, and over his lap he opened a book. It was one of the few he’d been allowed to keep, having convinced Uncle Will the bindings were too tattered to make the sales worthwhile.
On this day in particular, Shan was grateful for The Prince and the Pauper. Fittingly, the story centered on choosing a new life. A far better one, with opportunities rarely found back at home. Turning the pages now, Shan envisioned himself as Tom Canty, the character known as the pauper. From the dregs of London he was raised by a mean-hearted father, turned even meaner from the drink. Shan was so deep into the tale it took him a second to notice the squeak of a door handle, and his heart jumped. He raced to turn off the flashlight and held it close.
Across the room footsteps made their way inside and the door clicked closed. Shan sat as still as a rock, trying not to breathe. The ship had originated in England, same for the crew. Who knew what punishment they would hand down to some Irish kid breaking the rules? A toss over the side seemed extreme, but history said they’d do worse.
The steps proceeded, moving ever closer, then paused. Shan felt a hammering in his chest, a throbbing in his ears, before he caught a giggle. Light and airy, the sound of a girl. There was also a boy, speaking just above a whisper. The snippets of words suggested Italian. A second giggle was muted by the rustling of fabric and the moist sounds of kissing.
Shan quietly sighed. He had wondered in recent days if the sixpence in his pocket, the coin he’d yet to spend, was the reason for his luck, and now he had the answer.
The couple continued with their flirting, and Shan worried how long he’d be stuck in this spot. He craned his neck to see if sneaking out was an option. A gap in the shelves offered a view of the teenage pair. The girl’s back was pressed to a wall, the boy’s face buried in her neck, where the motion of his kisses sent her head to the side and a moan from her throat.
Shan’s mind flashed back to the woman at the pub, the way her bosoms rose and fell. This time he wasn’t forced to turn away.
Again the Italian boy murmured; then he covered the girl’s mouth with his. Shan rose onto his knees—drawn by the devil’s magnet, as the nuns at school would say—enabling a better look. He was almost at full kneeling height when something dropped from his lap.
The book.
Oh, God. Had they heard?
Shan shrank against the wall. He braced himself for the boy to come charging over, for the girl to blush with embarrassment. But in a split second he heard the door swing open and immediately shut. The couple must have taken the noise for that of a crewman, or maybe a ghost, causing them to flee.
That was Shan’s assumption until more voices entered the air. No one had left; rather, more had joined, and all were speaking Italian. Shan was familiar with the accent when used in English, but not the language itself.
Soon, talk turned to laughter, a threatening sort, followed by a thud.
Far more careful this time, Shan raised his head for a peek through the shelves. There were three more Italian boys in their late teenage years. Two of them had pinned the original fellow against a wall, his face now in view as he struggled to break free. He was fourteen at most. Shan had seen him on board from a distance, gambling with dice under the stairs and smoking on the lower deck, a sooty area reserved for steerage. He had a grand charm about him, clearly not missed by the girls. Perhaps not even by those who were already spoken for.
Shan discounted this as the issue, however, when the girl held out her palm and the fourth fellow filled it with coins.
“Ciao, Niccolò,” she said, and blew a kiss toward the boy she had baited. His eyes, even in the low light, flared with betrayal. As soon as she slipped out, the leader of the gang fisted his hands. He gave a snarling smile before pounding away on Niccolò. Twice to the face, the same to the gut.
Shan yearned to help, but what could he do? From the handful of times he’d defended himself against scrappers in Dublin, along with the dozens of pub brawls he’d witnessed, he knew how to throw a punch. But there were three here to take on and he was the smallest of the group.
Then the leader pulled a knife. He moved closer to Niccolò and held it between their faces. Niccolò took in a sharp breath, but then pushed out his square chin, a dare—even as the blade hovered over his throat.
Panicking, Shan scoured his thoughts for a plan. He tightened his grasp on the flashlight.
The flashlight . . . meant for the crew . . .
His gaze shot to a box at the end of the row. It was the size of a small crate. Like so many stages he had performed upon. Could it really work?
Among the shadowed shelves before him, he found a kitchen worker’s hat. No time to search for something better. Donning the cap, he prayed his scheme wouldn’t fail, or he might be tossed off the ship after all. In quick succession he stepped onto the box, flicked on the flashlight, pointed at the Italians’ faces, and ordered in a low British tone, “You there! Stop what you’re doing.”
All eyes snapped toward the beam, squinting. It was clear the fellows were puzzled by the presence of a stranger suddenly in the room. From another door perhaps?
At the possibility that they might investigate, Shan’s nerves rose like a rash. He hastened to add, “This area is strictly prohibited! Give me your names this instant.”
They appeared to understand. One of them nudged the leader, who threw Niccolò to the floor, and the trio scrambled into the hall.
Thank heavens.
Niccolò coughed as he pushed himself to rise, trying to scurry out.
“Wait, don’t go.” Shan switched to his natural brogue, but with a tremble from his jitters. “You’re safe now. Don’t you see?” He shined the flashlight straight up under his chin, wishing he could say it in Italian.
Niccolò watched as Shan hopped off the box and added, “I thought you could use some help.” He slowed down and exaggerated his speech. “You understand what I’m saying? Help.”
The start of a smile stretched Niccolò’s lips, the bottom one swelling. He used the back of his hand to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I got that part. Just a little shocked how you pulled that off.”
Shan looked at him, stunned. After all, the fellow’s olive skin and brown deep-set eyes were typical of an Italian immigrant. “You speak English.”
“Well, I’d hope so. I was born and bred in the States. It’s my Italian that needs work.”
Shan shook his head, feeling ridiculous. “Sorry about that.”
“For what? You just saved my ass.” An Italian accent did actually dip his words, though it was faint enough for many to miss. “I’m Nick, by the way.”
“Shan.”
They shook hands. Then the fellow stretched his jaw and gave it a rub, no doubt stiffening from the hits. Shan knew the sensation.
“Are you all right? Took quite a beating t
here.”
“Ahh, that was nothin’.” Nick shrugged, but the movement caused a slight wince. “Girls, huh?” He rolled his eyes, as if recognizing his failure to see it coming.
“Might want to rest here a bit. In case them fellas are still hanging around.”
It was truthful advice, but not Shan’s sole motivation. Aside from the relief of pleasant company, Nick was a real Yank, a member of a group Shan was eager to join.
“Sure. I suppose,” Nick said. “For a minute.”
Shan quickly pulled over a second box, keeping the flashlight angled downward, and they took their seats. Nick’s dark hair was close-cropped like Shan’s, a common tactic to fend off the lice that often plagued the ships.
“You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would ya?” Nick asked.
“I’m . . . afraid I don’t.” Shan regretted not having one of his uncle’s. But he did have something else. He grabbed two pieces from his coat pocket. “Toffee?”
Nick grinned. “Why not.”
They were soon sucking on sweets, filling the air with the heavenly scent of caramel. The smell was straight from Mr. Maguire’s store. One of the many things Shan was leaving behind.
He pushed away the thought. “So, you’re from the States, you said.”
“New Jersey. But we’re moving to Brooklyn.” Shan’s puzzlement must have shown because Nick added, “It’s a borough in New York. A lot of Italian Americans there.”
It was hard to believe the ship would be arriving in a matter of hours. Shan felt heady from the thrill of it.
Nick shifted on his box, perhaps antsy to leave. Not wanting him to go yet, Shan stammered to form a question. “Where did—or how long, I mean—have you been away?”
“About three years.” Nick used his tongue to move the toffee from one cheek to the other, where it clicked against his straight white teeth. “My parents took us back to Italy when my grandfather got sick, so my dad could run his business. It’s a shoe shop in Siena. And now we’re finally going back.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry about your grandda.”
The Edge of Lost Page 4