The Year We Sailed the Sun Read online

  “Pop!” Bill keeps hollering. “Where are you, Pop?”

  Whoso diggeth a pit, shall fall therein.

  Whoso diggeth a pit, shall fall therein. . . .

  “PAPA!”

  “Ah, for the love o’ Mike. . .”

  “There she goes again.”

  “Wake up, Julia!”

  “Who’s that yellin’?”

  “It’s you, ye dope.”

  “You’re havin’ another nightmare.”

  “Go shake her, Hazel.”

  “I ain’t shakin’ her. You shake her.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “I ain’t touchin’ her.”

  “Her bed’s wet. . . .”

  “PAPA!”

  “Ah, crikey, she’s burnin’ up!”

  “Somebody get Sister. . . .”

  Chapter 22

  White.

  All white.

  Holy hell, my eyes hurt.

  I closed ’em again, and lay on my back, breathing.

  How long had I been here?

  “Measles,” the doctor had said, a million years ago. “Have you ever had the measles, Julia?”

  But my pillow had been swelling just then, so I couldn’t answer. It always did that when I got a fever. It swelled up like an elephant’s head with a trunk as long as a fire hose that wrapped around my neck and squeezed and squeezed—

  “Definitely the measles,” said the doctor, snapping his black bag closed. “You’ll be in for it now, I’m afraid, Sister. They’re spreading like wildfire already. I saw four cases just this morning, down by the river.”

  And Sister Gabriel had laid the back of her cool hand on my hot cheek and said, “Ah, well, we’ll manage, won’t we, Julia? You see now, it’s nothing serious. The whole world gets the measles sooner or later.”

  And once the whole world got ’em, they put the whole world in the infirmary—that was this place here, remember?—though you couldn’t see the others but only heard ’em every now and again, coughing and sneezing or calling for Sister, while you lay alone in your single cot in all the white: white sheets and white pillows and white curtains all around you but for one white wall, with a single window looking out on the white, white snow. And the pigeon brought you broth in a steaming cup, though you threw it up mostly, and sips of water with bits of ice in it, and a cool cloth for your burning eyes, and said, “Ah, no, now, Julia, you mustn’t cry. You don’t want to make them worse, dear. Thank God that it’s only the measles. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” And so you stopped crying after a while, a day or a week or a million years, maybe, because what was the use? Bill was gone, and Mary was gone, and Mama and the twins and Gran were gone, and Papa was lost in the fog forever, but you were still here; here you were, Julia Delaney. It was only the measles, thank God.

  Plink, plink . . . plink, plink . . .

  What was that sound?

  I pulled my pillow over my ears—the good one and the bad one both—but I could hear it still somehow, from down below me in the house:

  Plink, plink . . . plink, plunk . . .

  From the parlor, maybe?

  There was a piano in the parlor off the front hall, wasn’t there? The infirmary was on the second floor, just above it. Nobody had ever played it, that I knew of, in all the time I’d been living here, but—

  Plink, plunk . . . plink, plunk . . .

  Well, sure, that was it. Someone was tuning the piano. I’d heard the piano man in the Patch doing the same, plenty of times, when the windows were open at the Brannigans’, down the street. They’d had a lovely old upright in the house they rented, before it burned down. . . .

  Plink plink plink plink plink . . .

  I took the pillow off my ears, and opened my eyes again. They still ached, but I was awake now. I couldn’t just lie here forever. I sat up and sneezed twice, then climbed out the left side of the bed and used the chamber pot that was under it, and then the room started to spin a little, so I climbed back in and listened to the plinks and stared out the window at the falling snow. Was it still November? I wondered. My skin was afire with itches, paper-thin where I’d scratched and dry as dust, but the sheets were cool against it. I stretched my arms and my legs till they tingled—

  And then my right hand touched something in the bed beside me.

  A lumpish something or other.

  I sat up, trembling, with my head pounding and my heart bumping (because you never knew—it might be anything; all manner of creatures crept inside when the cold came). I gritted my teeth and took hold of the edge of the covers by the tips of my fingers, but with a good strong grip, and pulled ’em back an inch at a time: little by little, thread by thread, all ready every second to pull ’em down again and yell bloody murder if the lump moved or squeaked or bared its teeth at me (Gran had killed a rat in the pantry once with two swift swats of her broom) . . .

  But it was only a doll.

  A doll, for the love of mercy.

  I started to breathe again.

  If you caught the measles, they gave you a doll?

  Didn’t they know I was eleven?

  Still and all, though . . . as dolls went . . . this one here was a beauty, wasn’t she? She was a lady, not a baby. I picked her up. Oh my. . . . Harriet Bocklebrink, that was who she looked like. Aunt Gert’s dead husband’s rich niece—the Harriet who used to come to the house with her stuck-up mother to bring the baskets at Christmas. The mother was an old bat no better than Gert herself, but the daughter was next door to an angel from heaven, with her sweet smile and little white teeth. I always figured she must’ve been stolen from her cradle when her real ma wasn’t looking. She used to give me a wink and then slip me some secret treat, peppermints or gingersnaps or a gingerbread man with candy buttons or—on one unforgettable occasion—an entire jar of sweet gherkins she’d put up with her very own hands. And now as I lived and breathed, here she was again, only shorter: same gray-blue eyes and goldy locks and the pink of her cheeks like roses on cream—china, was that it? Was that what her head was made of? I’d once heard Doc Monaghan spouting off in the River Arcade and Pawn Shop about a doll that wasn’t half as good as this one. “Bone china,” he’d said. “Best there is to be had.”

  Oh, bless her little bone head, what was she doing in the House of Mercy?

  She had a string of pearls wrapped double around her neck, and pearly buttons on her sky-blue dress, which was made of some soft, shiny stuff that surely must be satin. It had little puffed sleeves and a soft net overskirt shot through with flowers, all purple and green and peach-colored, like a fruit stand in summer. And there was lace dripping from the edges, and a shiny ribbon—pale green—tied around her tiny waist, ending in a pair of miniature roses, one yellow, one blue. And her hat! And her parasol! Why, they were blue, too, trimmed with more lace and soft white feathers and another teensy rose, and every last bit of it made to match, just so.

  I wondered if they’d given her regular legs, or balanced her on a cone of wax, or stuck her on the top half of an umbrella, like some I’d seen. So I checked. But she was as perfect as perfect could be, right down to her snow-white bloomers and stockings, right down to her two little feet in their dainty dancing slippers.

  “Hello, Harriet,” I whispered. She was so beautiful, she made my chest ache.

  I half expected her to shut one eye and offer me a pickle.

  Plink plink plink . . .

  Plink plunk plink . . .

  Plinkety plunk plink plink—

  Oh! You beautiful doll!

  You great big beautiful . . .

  “Good afternoon, Julia! Well, now, are we awake yet?” Sister Gabriel sang out from the curtain on my left, as she pushed in backward with a loaded tray. “Look here what a feast your friends have brought us all! Happy Thanksgiving!”

  It was Thanksgiving?

  What friends?

  I turned even redder than the rash had turned me already, and shoved the doll back under the covers. Ah, crikey. Had sh
e seen me holding it? Marcella would make no end of fun if she ever got wind of such a thing. A great girl of eleven, playing with dolls . . .

  But Sister didn’t say a word about it, if she’d noticed, only bustled into my little white box of a bedroom, all smiles, and propped the tray on my lap. “And what’s this? Sitting up today, are we?” she chirped on, checking my head for fever. “Well now, that’s more like it. That’s a grand sight, Julia. And just in time for the turkey, too! Oh, do have a taste, dear. Miss Downey made the stuffing herself—see there? With the lovely oysters in it? She was ever so concerned when you weren’t downstairs with the others. It seems you’ve made quite an impression. Oh my, yes. And on the gentleman too, I believe. They’d have come right up and brought your tray themselves, if I hadn’t mentioned the measles. Mr. Hanratty-Maguire hasn’t had them, you see, that he can recall. And though Miss Downey is quite sure she has, still he begged her not to risk it, since there’s always that chance, as he pointed out: What if she’s mistaken? And then of course she’d be catching them, and he’d be catching them, and there they’d be in a fine fix. They’re to be married in the spring, you know. Oh my, such a handsome couple! Won’t you have a bite, Julia?”

  “No, thank you,” I croaked, feeling dizzy again. I’d have said it louder, if I could have, but my throat was still ragged.

  “Oh, do try, dear. Just a taste or two. Miss Downey has taken such an interest. And there’s more she’s planning, on top of it all—not only this good dinner. Listen, now. . . . Do you hear that?”

  Plink plink plink . . . plunk plunk plunk . . .

  I sighed and nodded. “The piano?” I said.

  “Exactly!” said Sister. Her eyes were bright as berries. “Well, you’ll never guess our luck, Julia. Miss Downey has promised piano lessons to all the girls who want them! Now, isn’t that marvelous? So I thought of you right away, of course, what with the musical talent on your father’s side. ‘Julia might have the gift,’ I told her. ‘They say it often runs in families.’ ”

  “No, thank you,” I said again. Louder this time.

  “Oh well,” said the pigeon, putting her head to one side. “You don’t have to decide right now, of course. There’ll be plenty of time later, when you’re better.” She lifted a hand to smooth my hair, but I bristled and pulled away. I didn’t want Miss Downey’s music lessons or her charity turkey (never mind my traitor stomach, growling again). I didn’t need her stupid oyster stuffing or—my knee brushed the lump under the covers and jerked back—or her dressed-up lady dolls, neither. Ah, sure. It was them that had brought her, wasn’t it? Blue-eyed Harriet with her little white teeth. It was them that had brought it all. The millionaires, that was who, the Optima Petamusers, with their hats and their gloves and their fancy binoculars and their nickels and dimes clinking and clanking on their fine silver plates. I burned with shame, just thinking of it. Well, I’d never take another crumb from any of ’em, ever again. They couldn’t make me take it, could they? I’d smash the piano first. I’d hock the damn doll. I’d buy a one-way ticket to Boonville and find a way to get Bill out and then—

  Plink . . . plink plink plink plink plink . . .

  I sat up straighter.

  Sister Gabriel was smiling.

  Plink . . . plink plink plink plink plink . . .

  I covered my ears. Oh no. . . . She wouldn’t dare, would she?

  “Julia?” The smile was gone now. “What’s the matter, dear? Don’t you like the music? We thought for sure you’d like it. I told Miss Downey about your father, you see, and asked did she happen to know the tune, and—ah, no, now, Julia, don’t get up. You’re still on the mend, remember? Is it the lavatory you’re needing? It’s too far, dear; use the chamber pot. You’re not up to all those stairs yet. . . . Don’t you hear me, child? You can’t be going out there. . . . Come back this minute, Julia!”

  But I was gone already. She was grabbing at air again like she did the day I met her, and I was climbing out of bed and ducking under her arm and running along the cold linoleum with my two bare feet, and I didn’t care who saw me. Billows of white from the other patients’ curtains blew around me, and startled faces came and went (was that Marcella in the bed by the door there, grinning from ear to ear?) and now Sister Gabriel was running after me; I looked over my shoulder and saw her puffing along with the turkey tray still clutched to her pigeon breast in one hand and the other hand waving over her head—“No, no, come back, Julia! Your fever’s not gone yet, dear; you’ll be spreading the measles all over the—”

  Only I didn’t hear the rest because I was too far ahead now and the room was spinning again and my head was pounding and my eyes were burning like hellfire itself but it didn’t matter, none of that mattered. I couldn’t stop to think about it. I was out of the infirmary and down the stairs before I knew it, and then I was lunging through the parlor door and pushing my way through the crowd of nuns and orphans that were sitting in chairs, all facing the piano, where the handsome man was standing, turning pages for Miss Downey, who didn’t see me coming but was pounding away on the black-and-whites—

  “Stop it! Stop! You can’t! It ain’t yours. . . .” I meant it to be a shout, but my nose was running and my throat was all in tatters and I couldn’t do more than croak like a hop-toad: Stop it, stop it, stop it. . . .

  And then the music was stopping and Miss Downey was turning around and looking at me with her beautiful, puzzled face, and Mr. Hanratty-Maguire was staring at me, round-eyed, holding his handkerchief to his nose, and Sister Maclovius was all purple-cheeked again, heaving herself to her feet and shaking a gnarly finger, while Betty came barreling through the crowd and Miss Downey took me by the elbows, saying, “Child? . . . Child, child!” and then someone was tugging me away from her and the voices were all jumbling together. “She means no harm, Sister,” and “I wouldn’t bet on it, miss; best mind those teeth,” and I knew they didn’t understand, none of ’em understood, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t theirs, was it, Papa?

  Oh, come with me, my love!

  Come away, come afar. . . .

  No one else in this bleedin’ world could play “Julia Delaney.”

  December

  Chapter 23

  Lucky for me, they told me later, when the shouting was over mostly, that I had been sick as a dog that day, and looked it. And that Sister Gabriel had come puffing into the parlor right behind me, apologizing every step of the way—Sorry, sorry, sorry, the poor child doesn’t know what she’s saying; it’s only the fever talking. And that Sister Bridget had elbowed her towering self through the crowd then, and peeled Betty off me, and carried me upstairs, kicking—Beg pardon, Miss Downey; excuse us if you will, sir; for heaven’s sake, hush now, Julia—before Sister Maclovius could clap me in the Sin Room for the next million years.

  “And your face was all scabby and wild-eyed,” Hazel informed me, her own little pea eyes glittering. She’d had a front-row seat by the piano, she said, and enjoyed every minute. “I wouldn’t have gone near you, if I was a nun. Not even if the Pope said I had to. I wouldn’t have touched you with a ten-foot pole. And I’ve already had the measles.”

  She leaned across the refectory table and tapped my plate with her fork—ding-ding!—as if she was expecting me to . . . to what? Congratulate her? Or smack her one, maybe.

  But I wasn’t up to fighting yet. It was only just that morning they’d let me out of the infirmary on purpose, two weeks after I’d got away the first time. I’d been telling ’em I was fine for the past five days, but the doctor had made me wait. “I don’t like the sound of that cough,” he’d said, and Sister Gabriel’s eyes had gone wide with worry, though she had more than she could do as it was, what with the flood of fresh cases that kept pouring in.

  The white room was full to busting when I finally left it, jam-packed with wheezers and sneezers, and Sister Bridget was down on the front porch with a mouthful of nails, hammering a large yellow sign on the door:

&n
bsp; MEASLES WITHIN

  ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL

  STAY OUT UNLESS YOU’VE HAD THEM

  “Do you see what you’ve started, Your Majesty?” said Marcella. She’d got sprung before I did and was sitting next to Hazel now at the half-empty table, pointing her fork at me. “You’re the Queen of the Epizootic, that’s what. You’ll be the top-liner in the morning edition: ‘Typhoid Mary Loses Crown to Measles Delaney’!”

  Hazel laughed so hard at that, she gave herself a choking fit, and Marcella had to pound her on the back, which would have set Sister Sebastian’s eyebrows dancing if she’d been there to see it. But Sister Sebastian wasn’t on dinner duty today. She’d caught the bug herself last week and was laid up now, they told me, in whatever secret place it was nuns went to be sick in.

  “So who teaches our lessons, then?” I wondered out loud.

  “They’re taking turns,” said Hazel, when she’d finally got her breath back. “Sister Genevieve was the first. She taught us cooking in the kitchen on Monday. We all blubbered like babies, chopping onions. And Sister Bridget came Tuesday and Thursday both, and made us learn a monstrous long poem about the Light Brigade getting slaughtered. She said it would give us backbone.”

  Marcella rolled her eyes and saluted. “Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do or die. . . .”

  “But that wasn’t the worst,” said Hazel. “Friday was the worst. We had Sister Maclovius in the classroom for two solid hours, trying to teach us Latin.”

  “Speaking of slaughter,” said Marcella.

  “Amo, amas, a mouse, a moose—”

  “The piano lady comes on Wednesdays,” said Winnie, tapping softly on my left shoulder. And Betty, on my right, lit up like a lamp then (she hadn’t left my side since they let me out of the infirmary) and started playing the table with her fingers, as if it was a keyboard.