The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  “Aye,” Caitlín said. “But first, I’ll be showing him to the bath.”

  Shan glanced down at his suit, his tie and shirt stained, his shoes in dire need of a polish. Second class was a great improvement over the accommodations of his original voyage, but his wardrobe options were still minimal. “Am I that bad?”

  “Not at all,” Caitlín replied. “You’re actually worse.”

  Though they all laughed at this, Shan recognized her lack of exaggeration when he stood before the bathroom mirror. His mustache and beard were far overdue for a trim. Then again, here, so far from America, neither would be necessary.

  He found scissors and a shaving kit in the mounted cabinet. As steaming water filled the claw-footed tub, he shed the remnants of his disguise.

  Over supper, it was as if Shan’s personal “Rule of Silence” had been lifted. All it took was a little whiskey and Mr. Maguire asking about America, and Shan’s stories poured out like a river. He began with Uncle Will dying on the ship, and the Italian family that welcomed him in. Of course, he said nothing of a borrowed name. Nor of the obstacle now keeping him from the Capellos, only that he direly longed to reunite with them someday.

  Next came his vaudeville tours, the excitement and gruel of them, and even a mention of his time in burlesque. Though Caitlín didn’t bat an eye, a slight blush did color her cheeks. Not surprisingly, Mr. Maguire got a good chuckle over the tale of Paddy O’Hooligan and could hardly believe Shan had performed with such legends as George Cohan, Steve Porter, and his favorite Billy Murray.

  Shan also spoke of his years in plumbing, including a few of Mr. Capello’s humorous anecdotes. And he talked about gardening—without specifics of location—and how he’d gained a true passion for the craft.

  “Why, with all those experiences,” Mrs. Maguire remarked, “you’re sure to have your pick of jobs whenever you’re settled.”

  “You know, you’re probably right,” Shan said. For years, his primary goal had been survival, with not much thought beyond it.

  Once they had finished their meals—a delicious plateful of sausages, beets, and buttered potatoes—an awkward quiet amassed over the room. Something was not being said. Perhaps Shan’s talk of burlesque, or of the pipe clogged from a mistress’s stocking, had caused offense, after all.

  “You’ll have to pardon all my blabbing,” he said. “I’ve obviously been cooped up on a ship too long.”

  “Not a bit, lad,” Mr. Maguire said. “Your tales are far more interesting than ours.”

  Shan nodded, though out of the corner of his eye he caught Mrs. Maguire and Caitlín sharing an odd look. Before he could define it, Mr. Maguire brought the meal to a close and suggested Shan retire for the night.

  It was a clear cue. Shan thanked them for the hospitality and bid good night to Caitlín before she headed for her flat. Yet hours later, as he lay in bed, the exchange continued to trouble him. Something wasn’t right. Unable to sleep, he decided to fetch a glass of water. He crept into the dark hall, careful not to wake the couple while passing their bedroom, and heard them engaged in conversation. The intensity of their voices drew his ear.

  “We have to say something to him,” Mrs. Maguire was saying. “I won’t be able to keep pretending. Truth is truth.”

  “I know, Nora. I know,” her husband said. “I’m just not sure how to phrase it.”

  “Well, if you don’t say it, I will.”

  “Aye. All right. Just give me the night to think it over, will ye.”

  “Fine. You have until tomorrow.”

  They knew.

  For weeks, Shan’s photograph had been plastered across America. Maybe somehow the news had traveled. Maybe he’d shared too much at supper, clues that solidified the connection. He rubbed his bare cheek, wishing he hadn’t felt safe enough to shave away his cover.

  He should go. In the morning, he would rise early and gather his sparse belongings. He would seek another refuge, once more without a home.

  54

  A note of thanks waited on the pillow. When the couple awoke and saw no sign of Shan, they would peek into his room and read his genial words. Relief would overcome them, as any needed confrontation would have left with Shan.

  He skulked into the hall, travel bag in hand. Thankfully the Maguires’ bedroom door remained closed. Shan had slept longer than he’d planned, but dawn had barely broken. There was still a chance for a clean getaway.

  He navigated the stairs with care. On the third step down, the wood creaked from his weight, and he cringed. He had just reached the bottom when a rustling came from his left.

  Mr. Maguire sat at the dinner table, gazing out the window. The start of daylight brushed a soft glow over his features. When Shan took another step, the man turned. “Shanley,” he said. “Could you not sleep well either, lad?”

  “Not really,” Shan said, which was true.

  “Would you care for warm milk?” Mr. Maguire raised his ceramic mug. “Usually does the trick for me.”

  Shan went to decline, but Mr. Maguire gave him a bewildered look. “Leaving so soon, are ye?”

  Shan glanced down at his travel bag. “I have some things to do yet, and didn’t want to wake you.”

  Mr. Maguire sighed, contemplating. “Well, then. I suppose now’s the time we’d better have a chat.”

  Shan wavered, certain this wasn’t necessary.

  “Please.” Mr. Maguire gestured to the chair across from him.

  The man had always given so much. How could Shan not honor the request?

  He set down his bag and plodded his way over. The second he took a seat, Mr. Maguire leaned forward with clasped hands on the table.

  “I’m not sure at all the best way to say this. So I’m just going to come right out with it.”

  Hopefully, the pain would lessen for them both if the discussion passed quickly.

  “Shanley,” he began, and hesitated. “You have a second father. He was a sailor from America.”

  Taken aback by the unexpected course, Shan stared at him.

  “I understand this must come as a great shock.”

  The only shocking part was Mr. Maguire’s knowledge of this.

  “John Lewis,” Shan supplied.

  “You knew? So your mother told ye?”

  Shan shook his head. “I found a letter. It was from him to Mam. In one of her books.”

  Mr. Maguire picked up his mug and sat back, appearing relieved. But Shan leaned forward in turn, anxious to know where the conversation was leading, and how the Maguires had come to uncover any of this. He had never shared a word with them on the topic, not wanting to risk shaming his mam’s memory in the eyes of others.

  Could Uncle Will have spilled the tale after a few too many pints? Or maybe he’d confided in Doc O’Halloran during a visit to the flat. It didn’t take long for gossip, Shan had learned, to make the rounds on an island.

  “Do you know anything more than that?” he asked, equally wary and hopeful.

  After a sip of milk, Mr. Maguire said, “I can only tell you what I’ve heard.”

  Shan was glad he had already taken a seat. On the verge of the unknown, he braced himself before signaling with a nod.

  “In that case, here’s my understanding . . .” Mr. Maguire geared up, setting down his cup. “When your mother was nineteen, she was in Liverpool on a mission with the church and met a special fellow. They apparently fell in love instantly and spent every spare moment together. On the morning she was to return home, the sailor proposed marriage. He had no idea how they’d manage, just that he couldn’t bear not seeing her again. Your mother accepted, and after telling her parents the news, she would come right back to marry. Then John would arrange for her to join him in America once he shipped home.

  “Sadly, as feared, her parents heartily protested. She ran back to the sailor anyway, only to discover his crew had shipped out. John tried his best to find her, having no address to speak of. But after several months and telegrams from various po
rts, he located the church she’d traveled with. He mailed her a letter with hopes of reuniting, yet heard nothing. He wrote many more, but all were ignored. Still serving in the Navy, what could he do? Though heartbroken, he eventually gave up.”

  “His final letter,” Shan chimed in, “that was the one I’d found.” At last he could understand how the sailor’s words on the page fit into their story. “Please, keep going.”

  “You see, months before, your mother came to suspect she was in the family way. Shunned by her parents, she had no money or home. When the doctor confirmed her condition, she wept from despair. It seemed the sailor was gone for good. But the doctor—never married and many years older than her—gave her another option. An offer that provided security for her and, most of all, her child.”

  “It was me,” Shan thought aloud. Finally he comprehended the choice his mother had made, and he loved her all the more. But he was also stricken by the tragedy of it all. “So the sailor never knew any of this?”

  “Not until many years later, when he received a letter.”

  “A letter? From whom?”

  “Your mother,” Mr. Maguire said. “She wrote it when she was suffering from the consumption. Certain you’d be orphaned soon, she reached out to John, confessing the whole lot. She wanted him to know you were his son.”

  “He knows I exist?” Shan said, stupefied.

  “After saving up a good sum, he came looking for ye. Searched high and low, town after town. Even had your photograph from your mother.”

  Shan took a moment to digest the blistering revelation. He had to remind himself to breathe. “When?”

  “About six months after you left for America.”

  The irony was enough to make Shan burst into tears—or laughter.

  “We told him we knew you but had no inkling when we’d hear word. He stayed in Dublin, waiting for a postcard, a telegram. Anything. He’d come around sometimes, just to hear stories about you and your love of records and music.”

  “That’s how you learned all of this,” Shan realized.

  “Aye. Then after a while, he knew he ought to move on with his life. He married and had children. A boy and a girl.”

  Shan gazed out the window, orange and pink lighting the sky. By a cruel twist of fate, John Lewis was probably living in Brooklyn now. One of the many places Shan wouldn’t be able to visit for years to come. “Where did he go?” he dared ask.

  “He never left, lad. He’s here. In Dublin.”

  Shan’s face snapped back to him, and his throat tightened. “What?” he rasped.

  “Works at Trinity College. A music professor, he is.”

  A thousand thoughts raced and tumbled through Shan’s mind. The sailor—his father—was alive. And here. And he’d wanted Shan in his life. All that time they had been searching for each other, they’d have likely crossed paths if just one of them had stayed put.

  Shan registered a gentle hand patting his arm. He looked back at Mr. Maguire, who smiled gingerly. “As I said, I know this must be quite a shock. There’s no rush at all. But if ever you’re ready, Caitlín would be glad to take you to meet him.”

  For Shan, there was no question of if.

  “How is now?”

  The music building on campus didn’t open for hours yet. But the minute it did, Shan followed Caitlín inside. As they walked, her flared green dress swished beneath her winter coat.

  “He’s got a half-past-eight class every mornin’,” she explained, guiding Shan through the empty halls. “If his routine hasn’t changed, he’ll be settling into his office first.”

  Shan nodded, his nerves suddenly buzzing. After several turns, Caitlín stopped before an office door. The room appeared dark, but she peeked through the glass pane. She even tried the knob. Locked.

  In the distance, footsteps echoed. They were gaining volume, coming closer.

  Shan removed his hat and smoothed his hair, styled with tonic, and straightened his tie. Though sized perfectly, his suit felt confining.

  “You look handsome,” Caitlín said, and squeezed his hand.

  It was silly to fret about his appearance, really, but he couldn’t help himself. The academic surroundings of brick walls, polished tiled floors, and fancy display cases added to the sense that he was preparing for an exam.

  The footfalls continued to approach. From around the corner some thirty feet away, a suited man appeared wearing thick glasses and a long beard. He walked with the aid of a cane.

  Shan looked at Caitlín, who shook her head. It wasn’t him.

  “He’ll be here,” she whispered.

  Once the bearded man passed, Shan started to pace. He rubbed the sixpence in his trouser pocket, the coin as smooth as silk, trying to envision his father.

  Father. Would Shan call him that? Or was “Professor Lewis” more appropriate? The man was still a stranger.

  Either way, if he didn’t arrive soon, there would be no time to talk before class. A meeting at the end of the day would be more practical.

  “Come over and sit beside me,” Caitlín said. She had taken a seat on a bench across the hall.

  Fussing wouldn’t speed up the process.

  He sat down next to her, clutching his hat. On the way here, he’d grown excited over not only meeting his father, but also having two siblings. But now doubts were filtering in. The man had moved on with his life, Mr. Maguire had said. Established his own family. Why would he want another grown son complicating the situation?

  Shan could write a letter first, to give the man time to absorb the shock.

  Caitlín broke into the thought. “You know what the middle initial stands for, don’t ye?”

  She was clearly trying to distract him. He followed the direction of her finger to the stenciled letters on the door: John S. Lewis.

  He shook his head, not in the mind-set to guess.

  “It’s for Shanley,” she said, a point of assurance. He noticed she smelled of lavender. Together with her smile, it managed to bring him comfort.

  “Caitlín?” a man’s voice came from the side. “What a lovely surprise.”

  “Hello, Professor,” she replied, rising.

  Though she didn’t state his name, Shan knew it was him. His features, while aged by decades, matched those on the sailor’s photo ingrained in Shan’s mind. The downturned eyes, the thin lips. His uniform long gone, he now wore a brown suit and tweed overcoat. He removed his brimmed hat while greeting Caitlín, revealing wavy black hair like Shan’s.

  “What can I do for you?” the man said to her brightly.

  Caitlín glanced at Shan, waiting for him to stand and answer. But his legs had turned to stone and his mouth refused to cooperate. All notions of what to say in this moment had slipped out of reach.

  “I’ve brought someone to see ye,” she supplied. “A person you’ve been waiting to meet for a very long time.”

  “Is that so?” John looked over, interest piqued.

  Mustering the courage, Shan finally came to his feet and said, “My name is Shan.”

  He got no further before the man’s expression changed. Like shadows from passing clouds, the expressions on his face moved from curiosity to recognition. Disbelief. Then joy. His jaw trembled and his eyes moistened as he stared at Shan, a mirror of his youth. A past that had haunted him with longing and hope, love and loss. A portion of himself always missing in his depths.

  Just as it was for Shan.

  Overwhelmed by the journeys that had delivered them here, they both stood unmoving, paralyzed by emotion, until Shan drew a breath and took the first step.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I was searching online one day when I happened across an intriguing documentary titled Children of Alcatraz. The compilation of interviews featured people who had grown up on Alcatraz Island as children of the prison staff, some even claiming to have secretly befriended notorious inmates despite rules to prevent any contact. By the end of the video, I knew I had a story to tell, one of a hardened pr
isoner whose acquaintance with the young daughter of a guard would ultimately change both of their lives.

  When I began to research Alcatraz, I was particularly surprised to learn about an inmate named Elliot Michener. As an entrusted passman, he had been assigned to work in the warden’s mansion, where he later built and tended a greenhouse, and was even granted special permission to work outdoors seven days a week under limited supervision. The paradoxical setting fascinated me: one of a colorful, peaceful haven meant for nurturing and growth, set next to a bleak concrete prison where lives often withered. During a night tour on Alcatraz, surrounded by the steel bars and cold gray walls of a cell, I gained a sense of appreciation for the cherished respite found in that greenhouse.

  It was on this trip that I became enthralled with numerous escape attempts outside of the widely known Great Escape of 1962. I was amazed to discover how many had occurred in broad daylight, some without even the cover of fog. Two cases that especially piqued my interest took place below the Model Industries Building, including that of Ralph Roe and Theodore Cole. Although their bodies were never found, and various reports of sightings filtered in for years afterward, the two were soon presumed to have drowned. Similarly, Floyd Hamilton, the driver for Bonnie and Clyde commonly dubbed “Pretty Boy” Floyd, was also pronounced drowned after an extensive search failed to find him hiding in a stack of discarded tires in one of the island caves. He surrendered two days later, propelled by an onslaught of hunger, frigid temperatures, and snapping crabs.

  In another attempt, using inflated rubber gloves for floatation, John Paul Scott managed to swim across the bay, nearly reaching fog-enshrouded Fort Point before he clung to a rock for fear of being swept off to sea. Battered and in shock from the cold, he was treated in a mainland hospital before being returned to Alcatraz. Other true accounts that influenced my story were tales of inmate performances in plays and bands at various U.S. penitentiaries, as well as internal corruption that infested the ranks of guards, chaplains, and even wardens.