The Year We Sailed the Sun

by Theresa Nelson

  So then I started looking for Jimmy again to ask him what in the world, but it wasn’t any use. Every time I’d come close, or catch even a glimpse of him, he’d go sliding away slick as goose grease.

  Still, supper was a wonder, when they let us at it: not just turkey with the oyster stuffing like the last time, but a huge glazed ham and pickled onions and soft white rolls with butter melting and three kinds of potatoes and four kinds of pies, which Miss Downey sliced herself. And while I was standing at the very tail end of the pie line, wishing I’d got there sooner, someone slipped in just behind me and leaned in close to my good ear and whispered, quick and desperate-sounding: “There’s been another shootin’.”

  “Jimmy?” I started to say, but—

  “Don’t turn around!” he added, so fierce I could feel his spit on my neck, his hot breath tickling my earlobe. “They shouldn’t see us talking. We’re not supposed to know about it. No one’s supposed to know.”

  “Not even the police?” I whispered back, looking straight ahead, as if I was speaking to the mincemeat.

  “The police? Are you nuts? It ain’t any of their business.”

  “Well, whose is it then? Who got shot? What happened?”

  “The Rats were havin’ a little party of their own today, and the wrong people came, that’s all.”

  “And now they’re dead?”

  “Shhh! Well, whadd’ya think? And now you watch, just watch, they’ll be sayin’ it was Mick who done it. You know they will, like the last time.”

  “Did he do it?”

  “Well a’course he didn’t. Why would he go to their party? He never owned a gun in his life. But they’ll say it was him, that’s all that matters. They’ll say whatever their boss tells ’em to say. Mick knows too much, remember? He saw Eddie shoot that other feller out there in the alley on Halloween; they’ll hunt him down now, for sure. They have to pin it all on somebody, if word gets out.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Jakey Nussbaum down at the newsstand. His cousin’s a barmaid over on O’Fallon Street, not two doors from where it happened.”

  “But if they’re talkin’ about it at the newsstand—if Jakey’s talkin’—”

  “Then the whole world’s talkin’.”

  “And if the cops find out—”

  “We’re sunk. Mick’s sunk. Every Rat in the Patch’ll swear they saw him do it. That’s why it’s a secret, don’t you see?”

  “So what are you tellin’ me for?”

  “I figured you’d want to know.”

  “Pumpkin or cherry?” asked Miss Downey, smiling down at the two of us. “I’m afraid we’re all out of the others.”

  “Pumpkin, please,” I said, doing my best to smile back, and Jimmy gave her his best gap-toothed-angel’s grin and took a large piece of each.

  “So I’ve gotta warn him,” he went on with his mouth full, as soon as it was safe to talk again. We’d slipped into the cloakroom with our plates—I’d borrowed the candle from the parlor window—though I wasn’t so hungry once we got there. But Jimmy was still chomping and jabbering away: “I’ll be goin’ across the bridge, first thing in the morning. Mick don’t even know what’s happened, I betcha. I’m his eyes and ears—remember when he said that? I have to tell him to clear out quick, before the Rats come lookin’ for him.”

  “He hasn’t left yet? What’s he waitin’ for?”

  “He’s savin’ up, he says. For him and Bill both. He’s got their getaway all planned out, but he’s gotta have cash to make a go of it. He’s been workin’ for more than a month now.”

  “Workin’ where? In East St. Louis?”

  “Shhh!”

  “Ah, for cryin’ out loud, we’re in the cloakroom, Jimmy. Workin’ where? Doin’ what?”

  “At the levee over on that side—I don’t know—whatever they do there. I couldn’t find him at first at the camp, last time, but then a feller pointed me back to the river, and there he was, haulin’ crates. Makin’ two bucks a week, he told me. But it’s too late for all of that now. He’s out of time; they’ll be comin’ for him. I know he needs the money, but I got him some tonight—look here—” Jimmy reached in his pocket. “The fat lady gave me two quarters just for standin’ there, and I got three bucks from the squinty-eyed man. He was giving out dollar bills to anybody who went near him, but he couldn’t tell us apart—he kept calling me Dennis—so I went back twice.”

  My head was starting to hurt. “That’s grand, Jim. That’s good work. But—”

  “Don’t say it. It’s no use.”

  “What’s no use?”

  “What you’re thinkin’.”

  “You don’t know what I’m thinkin’!”

  “Yes I do ’cause I thought it first and I already asked Mick that day at the levee and he said, ‘No, not yet, it’s a one-man job, Jim, it’s all in the plan, you’ve got to stay here for now, we’d never get in if it was all of us but I can do it alone and then we’ll send for you later, once I get Bill out, you and his sisters, too, I swear it. You can tell ’em that for me.’ ”

  Good Lord. “He said all that?”

  “He did. And that ain’t even the half of—”

  But I never did hear the rest, because just then there was the sound of more piano music starting up in the parlor and somebody hollering out in the hall: “Brannigan? Jimmy Brannigan! Come on, will you? We’re up again!” And Jimmy said, “Ah, hang it all, I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” took one last bite of pie (he’d started in on mine now), and went rushing away, still dribbling crumbs, banging the door behind him.

  In the bleak midwinter,

  Frosty wind made moan,

  Earth stood hard as iron,

  Water like a stone;

  Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

  Snow on snow,

  In the bleak midwinter,

  Long ago.

  I didn’t run after him. Not right away, anyhow. I just sat there for a while, half listening to the carol—I didn’t know this one, though I could have sung most of ’em in my sleep—trying not to see all the new pictures he’d planted in my head: guns going off on Christmas Day and Rats on the loose all around us and the dark pressing in again on the House itself, whispering, slithering, bleeding right through the walls—I could feel the weight of it, even in the cloakroom—even while the candles flickered and the little girls smiled and the newsboys kept on singing:

  Our God, heaven cannot hold him,

  Nor earth sustain;

  Heaven and earth shall flee away

  When he comes to reign.

  In the bleak midwinter

  A stable-place sufficed

  The Lord God Almighty,

  Jesus Christ.

  And blast it all to blazes, why did Mickey Doyle’s plan have to sound so much like my plan? Had he read my mind and stolen it?

  It’s a one-man job, Jim. . . . I’ll get him out of there, J. . . . I swear to you I’ll get him out. . . .

  And who asked him, anyhow? Bill was my brother, not his. I could bust him out of Boonville just fine on my own, and I didn’t have to hang around levees hauling crates, neither. I already had our ticket money, didn’t I? Harriet herself, tucked up safe in her pillowcase upstairs, under my mattress, just waiting for me to cash her in, just as soon as—

  As soon as—

  Was that Jimmy, singing all alone now?

  What can I give him,

  Poor as I am?

  If I were a shepherd,

  I would bring a lamb;

  If I were a wise man,

  I would do my part;

  Yet what I can I give him:

  Give my heart.

  Well, hell.

  Ah, hell, Jimmy . . .

  Who taught you to sing like that?

  I wiped my nose on the cuff of my sleeve. I was standing at the back of the parlor now. I’d come out of the cloakroom to see him for myself, that little squirt, just singing away up there like there was nothing to it, like he could do i
t any day with the whole world watching and still take money from the squinty-eyed feller.

  Money for Mick. For his friend . . .

  So the Rats wouldn’t get him . . .

  So he could help Bill . . .

  Ah, hell . . .

  People were applauding now, and saying goodbye, and the newsboys were getting their coats on, and there wasn’t time to think about it. Thinking would get me nowhere. If I thought any more my head would explode, so I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. I just waited till Jimmy was alone for half a second, while the others were busy gabbling, and slipped over next to him and told him what I was going to do. And then I took my candle, what was left of it, upstairs to the slant-walled room, and put it in the window so he’d know where to look for me, and got Harriet from under my mattress, still wrapped in her pillowcase, and took her to the window, too, and pushed open the sash. . . .

  And then Betty was standing beside me, watching—I didn’t know she’d followed me upstairs—but I didn’t mind; I was glad of her company, though she couldn’t understand, of course. And we looked outside, and there was Jimmy below us, looking up.

  So I took a deep, deep breath, and flung the wrapped-up doll out the window, and Betty and I watched her sailing down to him, down and down and down. . . .

  Until he caught her, and waved, and tucked her inside his coat, and ran off to join the others. . . .

  And Betty sneezed a great loud sneeze, so hard she blew out the candle.

  And then she laughed.

  We both laughed, because it was so funny, and we couldn’t help it.

  We stood there in the dark by the open window, watching the snow fall, laughing and laughing and laughing.

  January

  Chapter 25

  “Jelly Donahoo claims the river’s freezing again,” said Hazel, kicking the back door closed behind her as she clumped inside with the milk bottles, still stamping snow off her boots. “He says there’s chunks as big as boulders pilin’ up by the bridge now, and the ferry ain’t made it across in four days.”

  “I don’t c-care,” I said, pushing past her, bracing myself for the icy blast as I opened the door again, my teeth already chattering.

  “Well, lah-dee-da, pardon me, Your Majesty,” she hollered after me—it was my turn in the lavatory—but I didn’t care what she called me, neither. It was too cold to care. Fourteen below yesterday on the back porch thermometer, and no telling how much worse now; no use stopping to read it in this weather. The very water in my eyeballs had been froze up solid for two weeks straight.

  Still, it couldn’t last forever, could it? Nothing lasted forever. Not even winter, I told myself as I tromped through the hoarfrost, wishing I could feel my toes. Not even the epizootic—now there was a miracle—it must be over now for sure, I figured, if Jelly Donahoo wasn’t dying of fright when he saw us coming. Sister Bridget had ripped the nails out of the stay-away sign on New Year’s Day, when the last bed had emptied in the infirmary, and fed it to the furnace to celebrate, and we’d all said an extra round of the Joyful Mysteries—though we’d been a bit early, as it turned out. Sister Gabriel had scarcely had time to change the sheets the next morning, when I brought Betty in to her. I’d noticed the spots on her back and neck while we were getting dressed for school.

  But it was only a mild case, the doctor said. Thank heaven for that much, anyhow. Betty hadn’t even realized she was sick, till he told her she was. She’d been cheerful as ever and more surprised than anybody when he’d ordered her to bed—the last of the last—“sitting up there in lone splendor, eating custard,” Sister Bridget had reported later, “like the Queen of Sheba herself.”

  More than a week now, wasn’t it? Tuesday, Wednesday . . . ah, sure. She’d be up and about in no time. And no one else had come down with anything much since then—no more than the usual winter throats and chilblains and stuffed-up noses—so the sign had stayed gone. And good riddance.

  Now, if only . . .

  If only . . .

  Ah, nuts. If only everything. If wishes were horses and pigs could fly and I could feel any part of my left foot . . .

  I finished up in the privy (it was even colder inside than out, without the sun to warm it) and closed the door behind me.

  I heard him before I saw him:

  “Psssssssssst! Over here!”

  And there was Jimmy Brannigan’s head, poking out of the buggy barn.

  I thought my heart would bust right out of my chest, the way it started hammering. But I didn’t say a word till we were both safe inside, where no one could hear us. And then it came pouring out all at once:

  “So what happened with Doc?”

  “Well, I—”

  “How much did he give you?”

  “Well, he—”

  “Was it enough for Mick’s train ticket? Did he make it to Boonville? Did he get Bill out yet? What have you heard?”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to—ah, for Gordon’s seed, Julia, will you let a person talk, for once in your life?”

  “So talk,” I said. “Who’s stoppin’ you?”

  Hyacinth stuck his nose over his stall half-door, blew out a great steaming cloud of oat dust and horse breath, and nudged Jimmy in the shoulder, as if he was waiting for an answer, too.

  I guess he figured all short people were like Betty, with apples in their pockets.

  “Well, say,” said Jimmy, laughing. He rubbed the old boy’s muzzle. “You’re Hyacinth, ain’t you? Ah, sure, I heard all about you. And I never put you in the kitchen, did I? That was Little Joe Kinsella, as the whole world knows. I only dared him to, that’s all. I never thought he’d go and do it. . . .”

  I gave his other shoulder a shake. “Don’t stand there talkin’ to the horse! What did Mick say when you saw him?”

  Jimmy sighed. “I never saw him.”

  “But you said you were going the next day—first thing in the morning—you promised me you were going—”

  “And I did, too! Well, a’course I did, straight after I went to Doc’s.”

  “So then—”

  “Mick wasn’t there, that’s all. He’d already gone when I got there.”

  “Gone where? Gone to Boonville?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t there, I told you. He musta got wind of the shootin’. Half the town had heard by that time.”

  “Well, didn’t you talk to anyone, then? What about that feller at the camp—the one you saw before—didn’t he know something?”

  “I never found him, neither. Them guys are always comin’ and goin’; this was a whole different crowd than the last time. But you don’t have to worry. Mick knows what he’s doin’. He gave us his word, remember? And just look here—” He reached in his pocket. “I brought you your money, see?” He pulled out a wad of something that smelled like old cigars, then squinted at it and shook his head. “Nah, that ain’t it.”

  Sweet Mary and Joseph . . .

  “Hang on, I got it here somewheres. . . .” He started rooting around again. “A’course, Doc took a bit of finagling, like always, but I was ready for him. He didn’t even want to look at your doll, at first, till I talked him into it. He said, ‘Don’t waste my time, ye clabberhead, there ain’t no market fer it. Nobody buys dolls the day after Christmas.’ So then I took her out of the pillowcase and showed her to him, like you said—she’s a peach, all right—and you could tell he sorta liked her, though he’d never admit it in a million years. You know how he is—ah, sure, here we are—”

  But that wad of paper turned out to be a pair of ancient-looking tickets to a prize fight between No-Neck Najinsky and Rooster McGee, who’d died of old age, last I heard.

  “Ah, for cryin’ out loud, Jimmy; I’m freezin’ to death here. . . .”

  He was checking his inside pocket now. “So then Doc—well, you know Doc—he has to act like he’s doin’ you all kinds of favors. ‘Well, all right, then,’ he says. ‘I suppose I could spare you a dollar fer your dolly, just this once, seein�
� as how it’s the hand-out season.’ ”

  “A dollar?” I gave his arm a thump. “You didn’t sell a fine doll like that for a dollar, did you?”

  “Well, a’course not. Whadd’ya think? I wasn’t born yesterday. And I told him so, too. ‘Why, just look at her,’ I told him. ‘With the hat and the pearls and the feathers and all. I’d be the laughingstock of the neighborhood if I sold this doll for a dollar.’ ”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “He said I could save my bleedin’ blatherskite breath; them were paste pearls and chicken feathers, dolls like that were a dime a dozen at the corner junk store, and who did I think I was dealing with here, did this look like the lunatic asylum, ‘Get out before I throw you out, ye cheeky little beggar.’ So I tipped my cap and headed for the door and said, ‘Well in that case, then, good day to you, sir, I’ll take my business elsewhere.’ ”

  I rolled my eyes. “And then what?”

  “He offered me a dollar-fifty.”

  My heart sank. “Ah, crikey, Jimmy, she’s worth ten times that! You didn’t take it, did you?”

  But he wasn’t listening. He was looking in his boot. “Aha! Here you are!” he announced, puffing up proud as a sugar toad, and he pulled out the third wad and handed it over: