Away in a Manger (10 page)

“So was your mother American, Tig?” Sid asked. “Did she come from here?”

“I don't know.” He looked at Emmy for confirmation.

“Did she speak like the other people in London or more like people here?”

He wrinkled his nose, trying to remember. “Not like my father. He had a different way of speaking. But not like Aunt Hettie either. More like you, miss.” He looked up at Sid. “She has a soft, gentle voice. She used to read us stories and sing to us.”

“Emmy has a beautiful singing voice,” I said, looking down at the little girl who was holding my hand. “You must hear her sing Christmas carols.”

“Gus can play the piano for you,” Sid said.

“Who is Gus, your husband?” Emmy asked.

“She's my friend,” Sid said with a smile. “You'll like her. She's also very sweet and gentle, like your mom.”

Tig was frowning, stomping silently through the snow. I suspected he was worried about going home with a stranger, however nice we seemed. I remembered what Daniel's reaction had been when I told him about the beggar children—that people are not always what they seem. That the sweetest-looking children are sometimes the biggest scoundrels. In truth we did know so little about them. I just hoped Sid was not making a mistake, bringing the children into her house.

“We're almost home,” Sid said as we approached the Jefferson Market building.

“Oh, that's the castle you told us about,” Tig said, finally showing some animation. “We went to see the Tower of London once.”

“Did you go down to the dungeons?” Sid asked.

“Yes, we did.”

“And were you scared?”

“A little bit.”

“So was I,” Sid said.

“You've been to London?” Tig asked.

“Several times. It's fun, isn't it? Where did you live?”

“We lived near the river. My daddy worked at the docks.”

“I thought you said he was a singer,” I said.

“He was. But it's hard to find work singing and sometimes he didn't make much money. Then Mummy got sick and we had to pay doctor's bills, so my daddy went to work loading ships. That's how he got killed. Something fell on him.”

“How very sad,” I said. “Your poor mother, with two little children and no relatives nearby.”

“She cried for a long time,” Emmy said.

We turned into Patchin Place.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about your mother that might help us find her again?” Sid asked.

“She had a pony,” Emmy said. “When she was a little girl she had a pony called Squibs.”

“Anything more? Did she talk about her brothers or sisters?”

Tig shook his head. “She didn't like to talk about it because it made her sad.”

“Mrs. Sullivan!” A voice yelled behind us and footsteps echoed, unnaturally loud, against the silence of the snow. I turned to see a constable running toward me. His face was familiar and I remembered he'd been sent to deliver messages to Daniel before.

“What is it, Constable Byrne? If you're looking for Captain Sullivan, he's not here,” I said.

“You have to come right away, Mrs. Sullivan.” He gasped out the words. “There's been a shooting. Captain Sullivan has been shot.”

 

Eleven

The world stood still.

“He's been shot?” I forced out the words. “Where is he? What happened?”

“It was not too far from police headquarters on Mulberry Street. One of the new guys thought he'd go and arrest one of the big shots in the Cosa Nostra—the Italian gang, you know?”

“I know,” I snapped, fear and frustration boiling over.

“And the captain heard about it and went to stop him. And there was shooting…” He looked as if he might burst into tears himself.

“Is he dead?”

“I don't know, ma'am. I saw them putting him into an ambulance. He wasn't moving and there was a lot of blood, and I came running to get you. I knew you'd want to be with him.”

“Where have they taken him?”

“St. Vincent's, ma'am.”

“Then I must go to him.”

I looked at Sid. “Don't worry,” she said. “We'll keep the children with us. You go.”

“I don't think we'll find a hansom cab,” I said. “It's probably quicker on foot. At least it's not too far from here.”

“I'd like to come with you, Mrs. Sullivan, but I'm on duty. I shouldn't have left in the first place, but the captain has been good to me and I knew you'd want to know straight away.”

“That's all right, Constable. I can find my own way to St. Vincent's,” I said. “You were good to tell me. I just hope … I just pray … he's still alive when I get there.”

“The captain—he's tough, ma'am. He'll pull through if anyone can.”

He went to say something more, then took off, half running, half slithering, back along the snowy sidewalk. Sid was already shepherding the two children down Patchin Place. I picked up my skirts and headed up Greenwich Avenue. My numb and frozen feet burned within my boots. The icy wind stung my cheeks. I found it hard to breathe but I didn't stop. “Must get there in time,” I chanted over and over, mixed with the prayer, “Holy Mother of God, please let him live. Please let him live.”

The hulking building of St. Vincent's Hospital loomed ahead of me as I turned onto Seventh Avenue. I staggered in through the main door and was met by a sister in a crisply starched veil and uniform.

“Where are you going, my dear?” she asked in broader Irish than my own, grabbing my sleeve as I went to push past her.

“My husband. Where is he?” I asked. “Where have they taken him?”

“Your husband? What's his name, my dear? Brought into casualty, was he?”

“Captain Sullivan. A policeman. He was just shot. They were taking him here.”

“We've nobody just arrived who has been shot,” she said. “Maybe he's still on his way. It's not easy for an ambulance to get through in this snow, you know.” She took my arm and started to lead me. “You look as if you're about to pass out. Come on in and I'll get you a cup of tea.” She led me through to a plain scrubbed kitchen and sat me at a bench while she poured me tea. I took a grateful sip, realizing that my hands were shaking. What would I do without him, I thought. How would I survive? I'd be like that poor woman who brought her two children to America because she had nobody to turn to in London. Then I made myself calm down and see sense. I did have people who cared for me. I had Sid and Gus and Daniel's mother … it wouldn't be the same for me at all. It was just that I couldn't bear to think of life without him.

The Italian gang. The stupid Italian gang. Daniel had warned his fellow officers that they were not to be trifled with, neither could they be stamped out. But nobody had listened to him and it had cost him … The sister stood up, her head cocked like a bird's. “Ah, that sounds like horses' hooves,” she said. “That will be them now. And our doctors here are first-rate. So don't you worry. They'll save him if anyone can.”

I followed her out to a side entrance and watched the ambulance come to a halt under the portico, the two horses' breath still coming like smoke and their flanks steaming. Two orderlies had come out to open the back door of the wagon. The driver climbed down from his perch. “Policemen,” he said. “Been shot.”

I hung back. The orderlies climbed inside the wagon and then one of them jumped down and between them out came a stretcher, and it was covered in a white cloth.

“Didn't make it,” the orderly said as the driver came around to assist. “Looks like he was shot through the heart. Nothing we could do. I think he was killed outright on the spot.”

I put my hand to my mouth to stifle the sob. I was shaking all over now, vaguely aware that the sister had put an arm around me. “You'd better come inside out of the cold,” she said.

“Put that stretcher down and give me a hand with the other one,” someone shouted from within the wagon. “We need to get him into the operating theater before he loses any more blood.”

They scrambled back into the wagon and lowered a second stretcher. I saw Daniel's dark curls, his face deathly white, one hand hanging lifelessly over the side of the stretcher. I shook myself free of the sister and ran up to him.

“Daniel, my darling. It's me, your Molly is here. You're going to be just fine,” I babbled as I walked beside them.

“Stand out of the way, please, ma'am,” one of the stretcher-bearers said. “We're taking him into surgery. You can't come with us.”

One of them had opened double doors. I caught a glimpse of a long white corridor stretching away.

“Daniel, I love you,” I called. The doors swung shut behind them. The sister led me to a waiting room and brought me another cup of tea. Other people were sitting around the walls, but in truth I hardly noticed them. I could not say how many or how old they were. They were just a vague blur of color against the pale green of the walls and the gray linoleum on the floor. It was horribly cold and the disinfectant smell wafted in from the corridor. I couldn't stop shaking and the teacup rattled against the saucer in my hand. Did people survive gunshot wounds? I had been there when President McKinley had been shot. He had lived for a few days and then died anyway.

Daniel's tough.
I repeated the constable's words.
He'll make it if anyone can.
The clock on the wall ticked annoyingly loudly. Feet tapped up and down hallways, just out of sight. Other people were called out of the room until there were just one or two of us, sitting wrapped in our own cocoons of misery. Time dragged on, minute after painful minute. Then finally I heard heavier footsteps approaching. A man in a white coat appeared—a young man with red hair and a freckled face, looking ridiculously young to be a doctor.

“Mrs. Sullivan?” he said.

I jumped to my feet. “Is he…?” I couldn't finish the sentence.

“Your husband is a lucky man,” he said. “The bullet passed through his shoulder, just missing his heart and his lungs. It went clear through him and out the other side. So we didn't even have to dig around to find it.” He even smiled. “He's lost a lot of blood, but we've patched him up and dressed the wound and with any luck he'll be fine.”

A great sob escaped from my throat. I put my hand to my mouth. “Can I see him?” I managed to say.

“We're transferring him to a ward right now. When he wakes up and he's settled you'll be able to see him.”

“I'm glad it was good news, my dear,” said a gentle voice from across the room, and I noticed, really for the first time, that an old woman sat there. She was dressed in an aged, moth-eaten fur coat and held rosary beads in her hands.

“Thank you,” I said.

“My own dear Timothy was brought in with pneumonia,” she said. “It came on so quickly. Fighting for his life, they said. I don't know what I'll do without him. We've been married fifty-one years.”

I went over to her and took her hand. “It's a good hospital,” I said. “He's in the best hands.”

“He's in God's hands,” she said. “I can't tell you how many times I've said this rosary as I've been sitting here. Would you like to say it together with me, one more time? They say when two or three are gathered in His name God will answer our prayers, don't they?”

And so I prayed the rosary with her. It had been years, since the nuns had taught me at St. Brendan's, that I'd prayed a rosary. But the old familiar words slipped off my tongue as if it was yesterday. And I did find it comforting. Maybe I had stayed away from the church because of my unhappy experiences with priests and nuns, and my hostility had nothing to do with God. Maybe He had been there, unchanging, all the time.

Outside I heard a clock chiming four. Incongruous thoughts flashed through my head: My son wouldn't have had his nap. And my mother-in-law would be arriving to an empty house. Surely she'd have the sense to knock at Sid and Gus's front door and find out what had happened. Why was it taking so long for Daniel to regain consciousness and to get settled in a ward? Finally I could stand it no longer. I got up and wandered out into a hallway. A young sister came out of a side room. I hurried after her. “Please, can you find out where they have taken my husband,” I said. “I want to see him.”

“Your husband?”

“The policeman brought in with a gunshot wound?”

“I expect he was taken to the morgue, ma'am,” she said.

“No, he was alive. The doctor said he was going to be all right,” I insisted.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize there were two of them. If they are through with him in surgery they'll have taken him to Saint Luke—the men's surgical ward. It's up one flight of stairs and to the right.”

I set off, my feet echoing from the high stairwell. I had just found the men's surgical ward when a nurse came out.

“Have they brought Captain Sullivan up to this ward yet?” I asked as she started to walk past me. “The policeman with the gunshot wound.”

“Yes. They brought him in a little while ago.”

“Thank you,” I said. As I made for the door she added sharply, “But visiting hours ended at four. You'll have to come back tomorrow. Noon to four.”

I had had enough of being patient. I spun to face her. “My husband has been shot and nearly died. If you think I'm going to wait until tomorrow to visit him, you've got another think coming.” Then I stalked past her and into the room.

I heard her saying, “But he shouldn't be disturbed…” but I didn't wait to hear the rest. I didn't wait to see if she was following me. It was a long ward, with at least twelve beds on either side. Some patients were bandaged so that it was impossible to recognize them. I walked slowly, examining each bed, but didn't see Daniel in any of them. One of the beds at the far end had a screen around it. I peeked around the screen and saw Daniel lying there, his face almost as white as the pillow behind him. His eyes were closed and he looked so peaceful that for a second I thought he must be dead. Then I saw the sheet gently rise and fall with his breathing. I tiptoed up to him and took his hand. It was awfully cold and I held it tightly in mine. I perched on the side of his narrow bed, looking at him.