The Year We Sailed the Sun Page 16

  My stomach tightened a little. Miss Downey, they meant. She’d kept her promise about the piano lessons. It was old news now, even to me; there was no way not to know it. I’d spent my last two Wednesdays in the white room with my ears stopped, gritting my teeth till the torture was over, while her pupils down in the parlor plunked out sour notes for hours at a time.

  “Don’t look so glum.” Marcella grinned at me. “These charity ladies never last for long here. They get sick of it quicker’n we do. Trust me; she’ll be callin’ it a lost cause by Christmas.”

  But December slogged on and on, and still Miss Downey kept showing up, which was more than you could say for most of the world. We’d look out front and count the neighbors crossing clear to the other side of Morgan Street when they saw our stay-away sign. Only the doctor would come near us now—McGill was his name—and Father Dunne, as a favor on Sundays, so we could have Mass, since there was no use dragging such a sickly looking lot to church. And Jelly Donahoo, the milkman—at least he didn’t desert us—though he’d wrap his muffler ’round his face three times, so only his eyes peeked out, and leave the full bottles on the back stoop, then rush back double-quick to his horse and wagon, toting the empties by the woolly tips of his thick-gloved fingers. I met him by accident, one frostbitten morning, as I was coming back from the lavatory, and he let out a little yelp and tripped all over himself, scampering past me, looking as if he’d seen Old Scratch himself.

  But aside from the Fearless Four—Doctor and Dunne and Donahoo, and Downey, on Wednesdays—the world gave us a wide berth mostly, and minded its own business, and the nuns minded ours, same as ever.

  And all this time, Harriet the Doll waited mute as a stick under the mattress of my old bed in the slant-walled room, still wrapped in the pillowcase I’d borrowed from the infirmary when I smuggled her out. Not a soul besides me knew a thing about her. I hadn’t breathed a word to any of ’em. I was waiting, just like she was. I’d had days on end to think it all through and now I was biding my time, this time, till I was good and ready—till I was well enough and strong enough and steady enough on my feet again to beat it back over to Doc’s, to hock her.

  I hadn’t forgotten.

  I couldn’t have forgotten.

  My plan had swelled and swelled inside my head till it was so big and bright and clear to me that not even Mary with all her worrywarting could have found a flaw in it. Why, she’d said it herself, hadn’t she?

  Every penny counts when you’re saving for chickens. . . .

  Oh, wouldn’t Bill be surprised when he saw us coming? I’d have Gran’s old purse brimming over by then, stuffed full as a little black turkey. I just had to catch Doc in the right mood, that was all; he was no use to anybody in the wrong one. But if I got lucky—if it was a good day (even Doc had a good day, every now and again)—why, I bet he’d pay ten dollars, easy, for a doll like that! More than twice what Mary made in a whole month, taking care of a hundred Lenahans. He might even go as high as twenty dollars, or thirty—well, you never knew; he might—once he saw what a peach of a doll she was. What an elegant doll, really, with the china being bone and all. Enough for a boatload of train tickets, when the time was right: to Jefferson County, to start with (I’d need to stop and pick up Mary, of course), then straight from there to Boonville, for Bill. And then I’d send him a note, all in code, like the one he sent me, and he’d slip away to the depot, quick as he could. And once we had him safe aboard with us, why, no telling how far we’d go then . . . to the sun itself, maybe!

  First class, right up front—just us three, with plenty of legroom—and an ice cream bucket, and a couple of hens, besides.

  Chapter 24

  “O God,” prayed Sister Maclovius, “on this holy night of nights, when in thy infinite mercy thou saw fit to send a Savior amongst us, pour down thy light and healing grace on these thy children, in this house of contagion, whilst we commence celebrating this joyous season, as best we can.”

  She heaved a large sigh.

  “Amen,” we all murmured—what was left of us, anyhow—the cluster of nuns and plaid girls who weren’t upstairs itching at the moment, but were gathered around Sister at the parlor window, for the Christmas Eve candle lighting.

  “Hannah Hogan!” she called out now, stretching forth a craggy hand. “Come forward, child!”

  All the eyebrows in the room went shooting up, as usual, and all the eyes turned to Hannah, who’d gone pale as a ghost. She was off to the right a bit, next to Betty and me, looking minuter than ever.

  But Sister Bridget, just behind us, leaned over to her, smiling. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s a very great honor to be chosen. It’s because you’re the youngest in the House, you see; only you can light the candle for the Christ Child. And only a girl named Mary can blow it out—”

  Betty’s eyes lit up. She tugged on Sister’s sleeve.

  “Yes, Betty. I know. You’re Mary Elizabeth. But that’s not till later, remember? Go ahead, Hannah dear. . . .”

  “Come along, Miss Hogan!” said Sister Maclovius. She’d put down her cane by this time and picked up a box of matches with one hand and a tall white taper with the other, and was beginning to look a little thin in the lip, waiting for the kid to get moving.

  “Yes, Sister,” Hannah whispered, soft as a bird’s peep. It made her seem even smaller, if that was possible. Still, she took a deep breath and inched her way to the window, one teeny-tiny footstep at a time. And after four broken matches and a good deal of fumbling, and a great deal more sighing from Sister, they managed to get the thing lit.

  “All right, then,” said Sister Maclovius. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and mopped her face—it was beaded up slick with sweat now—and then she squared her shoulders and tried again: “Will you tell us, please, if you can, Miss Hogan, for whose sake we light this candle? Whose dear family traveled afar, midst the cold and gloom, that first Christmas Eve? And just as they trusted in the True Light to shield them from the Power of Darkness, when the inn was full and the road was rife with peril, whose bright coming do we await in utter confidence, Miss Hogan, this drear winter’s night?”

  Hannah’s eyes grew even wider. “Santa Claus?” she whispered.

  Winnie gasped.

  Hazel tittered.

  Only Betty gave a glad little whoop and went running to the window, and she and Hannah pressed their noses to the pane, and the two of ’em stood there all aquiver, squeezing each other’s hands—looking for what? Flying reindeer? On Morgan Street?

  But there were just the same old garish lights from Kelly’s, spilling down on the same old snow, and three or four of the same old customers stumbling about, and a man with a holly wreath ’round his neck, who grinned when he saw us staring, and wiggled his ears at us, and lurched down the sidewalk, singing at the top of his lungs:

  I saw three ships come sailing in,

  On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day!

  I saw three ships come sailing in,

  On Christmas Day in the morning!

  Sister Maclovius cleared her throat.

  “Look out,” Marcella muttered, and the rest of us jerked to attention and turned back from the window, expecting all manner of trouble.

  But Sister only lifted her eyes heavenward and closed them for a second, as if she had a pain somewhere. And then she breathed in another mighty breath, and kept right on praying:

  “Grant us strength, O Lord, that what we lack in understanding, thou wilt rectify in patience, like unto Job’s. And make us wary of the devil’s snares, lest we doubt—in our mortal weakness—the wisdom of thy ways. And though we might be tempted to wonder, on occasion, why certain of thine enemies among the criminal element might appear to be enjoying no end of the bloom of health and no shortage of Christmas cheer, even whilst the innocent children ask, ‘Will Santy Claus come, Sister?’ ”—she pressed her handkerchief to her brow again, took yet another deep breath, and went on—“Please aid us nonethe
less as we attempt to explain that it’s highly doubtful, this year, unless he’s had the measles, which I’ve never heard mentioned, since he can’t be spreading diseases over the entire continent of North America and who knoweth how far beyond. Amen.”

  Still, it could have been worse, as Christmas Eves go. No one cried herself to sleep, not even Winnie. And Betty and Hannah—who evidently hadn’t understood a word that Sister had said—went to bed still beaming about Saint Nick, and woke up happy as clams.

  It made me want to punch somebody.

  “Poor little chumps,” I muttered to Marcella, while we were getting dressed for Mass. “I wish I had something for ’em. They’ll be disappointed as hell.”

  “Ah, they’ll get over it. We all get over it, don’t we?” She buttoned her top button and gave her collar a fierce tug, straightening it. “When was the last time Santa Claus brought you a present?”

  I picked up my left boot. Sister Bridget had mended the sole on this one and patched the hole in the other, though they were getting a bit tight in the toe now. “Last Christmas,” I said, squeezing my foot in.

  But when we came out of chapel an hour later and went to the refectory for our mush, like always, we found the tables covered with long white tablecloths and pots of red flowers, and platters of bacon and eggs, still steaming, and mugs of hot chocolate, and baskets of cinnamon buns and muffins. And on each of our plates there was a huge, fat orange, with a sprig of holly stuck to it, and a bit of green ivy, tied with a ribbon, and a red net stocking stuffed clear to the top with walnuts and great stripedy chunks of hard candy.

  “He came!” cried Hannah, grabbing Betty’s hand again.

  Sister Sebastian—back from the measles—saw my face and closed one eye.

  What was she winking about? I wondered.

  And then my heart gave a bump, and it hit me—ah, sure, it was them who had done this, wasn’t it? The meddling millionaires. The Optima Petamusers. They were at it again, weren’t they?

  “He came! I knew he’d come!”

  I fought down the lump in my throat.

  Well, what if it was them? What did it matter?

  Of course I’d sworn I wouldn’t be taking any more of their charity—and I wouldn’t, neither; I’d stick to that. Except for the chocolate. And the muffins. And a bun or two, maybe.

  Since I wouldn’t be here much longer.

  I slipped my orange in one pocket and my stocking in the other.

  I could hock the lot with Harriet.

  We all figured we’d had plenty of Christmas, after that. Once that magical breakfast was over. The morning was mostly gone by the time we staggered to our feet, full up to the gills. Still, it was good having the whole day off from lessons, though it was a little on the short side, this being December. It was practically dark by midafternoon, what with the sun going down so early, and more snow starting up, and the backyard too cold to go out in, even if we’d had a mind to. So the Sisters let us rest and read instead—whatever at all we wanted—as long as we could find it on the bookshelves in Sister Sebastian’s classroom. I groaned a bit when I heard that part. I was afraid I’d get stuck again with William Wadsworth Longfellow, or the Lives of the Saints, Part Six. But I ended up with a grand book about a girl named Gypsy Breynton, who had “a merry laugh and large brown eyes that shone like a whole galaxy of stars,” and a peach of an older brother, who was forever taking her on “uproarious adventures.” And I sat glued to my seat then, reading and reading, till it was nearly suppertime and I was way down deep in the story—which had some silly parts and some sad parts, but was lovely, mostly—when Betty came in and started tugging on my arm.

  “Not now, Betty,” I said. “Just another little while; there’s no hurry, is there? Look here, you’ll love it; they’re about to go camping. I’ll read aloud to you—”

  But she wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t stop tugging; she wouldn’t let me be till she’d dragged me all the way to the parlor and flung open the door with a bang—

  Only it didn’t look like the parlor anymore.

  “Oh my,” I breathed.

  It was all done up in green and white—white satiny ribbons wound through great green branches that smelled like—oh, sweet mercy, what was that smell? Something fresh and cold and Christmassy—like snow on the mountains and deep piney forests, or what I imagined forests smelling like, anyhow. And everywhere you looked there were tall white candles—candle after candle—as if our one skinny light from last night (half its old size now, in the window) had multiplied a million times, over and over and over. And right in the middle of ’em all, all lit up with even more candles, was the biggest Christmas tree I’d ever laid eyes on, and an easy chair just beside it, and Santa Claus himself sitting in it, with the younger kids all around him: Winnie O’Rourke on his right and Betty tugging me to his left, and little Hannah on his knee between ’em, perched there like a tiny bird, looking like she might faint dead away from happiness: too happy to smile or breathe or move a muscle, but with her brown eyes shining like—well now, wasn’t that something?—a whole galaxy of stars.

  “Merry Christmas!” said Santa Claus, handing me a candy cane.

  “Merry Christmas,” I muttered, wishing my face wouldn’t burn so. I hoped Marcella wasn’t watching. There’d be no end of teasing if—

  Wait a minute. That voice . . .

  I looked at him again.

  I couldn’t be sure right away, with the beard and all. Not till Betty reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of jelly beans, and offered me one.

  Ah, crikey . . .

  A hundred jumbled pictures tumbled over themselves in my head. The barn in the rain and the priest and the cop . . . I’m asking you once more, Julia. . . . If there’s anything at all you can tell us . . . and the train smoke clearing from the track by the river, and Mickey Doyle standing across it, looking right at us. . . . If Bill ever mentioned a place, a name . . . and the door and the key and the great dragon bridge and the camp on the other side and even the handcuffs—the damn handcuffs—I hadn’t seen those with my own eyes, but it didn’t matter; they were clear as day anyhow. The damn handcuffs he’d put on my brother’s good arm—he himself, Pop the Cop—clearer than all the other pictures put together.

  Could he see me seeing ’em? I wondered.

  But there wasn’t time to think about it. People were pouring into the parlor now—and the laundry girls, too, and even Sister Gabriel and her charges from the sickroom—the ones who were halfway well enough, at least. I suppose the nuns must have figured, what the heck, it was Christmas, and surely the worst was over. Anyhow here they came—a whole crew of ’em, blinking in the candlelight—a dozen or more infirmary girls, still dressed in their nightgowns and wrappers, looking around half-dazed with their splotchy faces, while the millionaires escorted ’em in. So this was their party, wasn’t it? And now they were milling about all over the place: whiskered gentlemen and white-gloved ladies and the president with the Adam’s apple bobbing away, with Agnes Crouse on one arm and Geraldine Mulroney on the other (flashing me a squeeze-lipped, saucer-eyed grin as she passed, looking fit to bust out laughing any second). The whole bloomin’ club was there, it looked like—even Mrs. Horace Merriweather, smiling up a storm and clasping her coin purse to her bosom and handing out quarters left and right—why, they’d all turned up, hadn’t they? Every last one of ’em, except the handsome man, maybe; I didn’t see him anywhere. Prob’ly tucked up snug at home with his hot water bottle, dreaming about catching something.

  But I guess he hadn’t convinced Miss Downey to stay home with him, because here she was now, coming around from the back of the Christmas tree, where she must have been lighting candles. The taper was still burning in the holder in her left hand.

  “Merry Christmas, Julia,” she said. And she looked me in the eyes with her own steady gray ones, and held out her other hand. So I shook it. But I was blushing red-hot the whole time, thinking of the last time I was
in this room with her—that misfortunate Thanksgiving—when I’d stood here howling like a spotted dog.

  “I do hope you’re feeling better,” she said.

  “Yes’m,” I mumbled.

  “Well, that’s wonderful news. I’m so glad to hear it.”

  I would have said thank you—I could have managed that much—but before I could get it out, the door was opening yet again (was the whole world coming over tonight?) and this time it was Father Dunne and a crowd of his newsboys who came tramping in, apple-cheeked, brushing snow off their shoulders, with music books clutched in their mittens.

  “We’ve come to sing for our supper,” he told Miss Downey, thanking her for the invitation and shaking Sister Maclovius’s hand (she was standing beside the hat lady now, looking nearly as dazed as the invalids, and almost as happy as Hannah, for once in her life). “Though it’s not the whole group, I’m sorry to say; only the ones who’ve had the measles already. And Tobin has the toothache, and Tommy’s laid up with the mumps, and young McMahon here’s hoarse as a crow, so no high C. But we’ll do our best, won’t we, boys?”

  And while they were saying, “Yes, Father, we will, Father,” I looked over the lot of ’em, thinking, Ah, no, he wouldn’t be here, would he? He’d never be part of this gang. . . .

  But there he was, all right—no mistaking that freckled face—poking his nose up over by the door there, looking right at me.

  When had Jimmy joined the choir, for Pete’s sake?

  But he only shook his head, once he’d caught my eye, and put his finger to his lips, and waggled his eyebrows, as if—what? What was he saying? Had he brought another message, was that it? Was I supposed to pretend I hadn’t seen him?

  Ah, come on, Jimmy!

  Only I couldn’t get near enough to ask him what was up. He’d wave me away every time I even tried, or go rushing off somewhere or other. And he wasn’t the only one acting peculiar, neither. The whole house was all awry that night, once the boys got there. Even after the music started, and they were chirping out the old songs to Miss Downey’s piano-playing—“Jingle Bells” and “Joy to the World” and “fa la la” and all—there was still something odd in the air. Something was wrong, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. . . . Dark looks I’d halfway see out of the corner of my eye, and whispers all around me that I couldn’t quite catch, and more heads shaking, too, though they’d stop quicker’n they started if they saw you staring. And while Miss Downey and her helpers were putting out supper on the sideboard, Father Dunne crossed the room to the big chair by the tree and said something to Officer Doyle that made him widen his eyes and shake his old head, red cap and all a-jangling, and get to his feet right then and there and give out all his candy canes in under a minute (and his jelly beans, too, when Betty ran after him), and make right straight for the door.