Bonds of Earth (3 page)

“Will you be going back to medical school afterward?”

The question takes Michael by surprise, and suddenly he is trapped by that sharp gray gaze. It seems as though Parrish can read every one of his secrets as easily as the headlines of the morning’s Times. “I don’t know,” he says, surprising himself with an uncharacteristic display of honesty.

Parrish leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his ample belly. “The men on this ward have need of an experienced masseur. More than that, however, they have need of a man who is committed to their recovery, more so in most cases than they are. You must be prepared to never let them see your disgust, your fear, your despair, and I guarantee you, you will feel those things every day. Privately, you may be as uncertain as you wish, but you must never show them a moment’s hesitation. Do you understand?”

Michael wants to tell him no, wants to walk out of the room right now and resign from the Red Cross—he’s a civilian, there is no force holding him here—but this is his last chance. He can see the hundreds, thousands of dead rise up before him, and he wants so desperately to help something to live, wants to make one last attempt to revive the dream he can barely remember before it leaves him forever.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I understand, sir.”

“Well, then, God help you,” Parrish says wearily, rising to his feet and offering Michael his pudgy hand, “the position is yours.”

“The position pays well—thirty dollars a week,” Mrs. Anderson said, the mention of money bringing Michael back to the present. He nodded at the woman politely. Millie paid him forty, and he often made that much again in tips. But at least here he’d have no expenses for food and lodging.

“That’s very generous, mum.” It was, truthfully, more than he’d been expecting; the bluebloods loved their charities, but they were notorious for paying their help next to nothing.

“Well,” she said with some asperity, rising to her feet, “you look like you’ve a good strong back, and you have a pleasant manner. With Mr. Sullivan vouching for you, I’m willing to offer you the position. I’m off to Philadelphia at the end of the week, and I can’t be bothered with interviewing twenty men who are probably equipped with few qualifications and even fewer references.”

“I’m honored to accept, mum. When shall I start?”

“As soon as possible. Can you be ready to leave Thursday?”

Two days. “I believe so. Yes, mum.”

“Good. I’ll have a ticket waiting for you at the station for the five o’clock train. Thomas will meet you in Stuyvesant.” She waved a hand at Michael’s unspoken question. “Thomas Abbott. He and his wife are the caretakers, but he’s advancing in years and isn’t able to tend the garden any longer.”

“Are they the only residents, mum?” Many of the estates on the Hudson were little more than summer homes or places to deposit the maiden great-aunt or the mad relative. He wasn’t looking forward to sharing a house with the family embarrassment.

“No. My nephew—my brother’s only son—has been living there for several months now.” She made another sour face. “He’s recently returned from the war as well.”

Michael nodded. No doubt he’d served his country as an ass-licking aide-de-camp or rear-echelon paper-chaser. “And I suppose I will be reporting to him?”

“You will be reporting to Thomas,” the woman informed him, ice in her words, “and Thomas will report to me. You will have no need to bother my nephew.”

“Yes, mum,” Michael said woodenly. Wonderful. The man was either mentally incompetent, a drunkard, or a completely useless bastard—or perhaps all three. Well, Michael had certainly put up with worse.

“If you have no more questions, I believe our business is concluded most happily for both of us. Thank you for your time, Mister McCreeley.”

Michael did not even consider correcting her again. “Thank you, mum. I will do everything in my power to give you satisfaction.”

“I’m sure you will,” she said distantly, already having dismissed him in her mind.

Taking his cue, Michael bowed slightly and let himself out. Once back on the street, he took a deep breath of the Manhattan spring air, which even in this fine neighborhood had the slight tang of the city’s ever-present layer of filth in it.

“I’ll miss you, you ugly old bitch,” Michael murmured, startling a young woman bustling past him on the sidewalk. Nodding at her, he tipped his hat and headed off in the opposite direction, toward the streetcar.

2

S
TUYVESANT
was exactly what Michael had been expecting, which was to say not very much at all. There was one main street that housed a greengrocer’s, a milliner’s, and a general store, a couple of side streets with tall oaks lining the dirt roads, and exactly three motorcars, one of which had been assigned to pick him up from the station.

Thomas Abbott may have been an excellent cart driver back in the day, but he obviously had little understanding of how motorcars worked. Michael thought about offering to take the wheel but doubted it would be well received. The old man had taken one long, disdainful look at Michael upon first meeting him, then gruffly introduced himself. His hands were as long and bony as the rest of him, and he had the air of someone who was used to looking down his hooked nose at the rest of the world in the way that some household servants had. Michael wasn’t yet sure if he hated Irishmen or merely strangers in general.

“It’s not a very big town,” Michael observed as the shops soon gave way to farmers’ fields and the wide lawns of fine homes.

“It suits us,” Abbott said shortly. “But don’t worry, you won’t be seeing much of it.”

Michael bit back the reply that this would not exactly be a hardship; no point in aggravating the old coot. “Lots of work to be done around the place, is there?” he asked instead.

Abbott cut his eyes at him. “Madam wants the gardens restored to the way they once were. Can’t imagine why.” As soon as the words were spoken, he pressed his lips together as though he’d revealed an intimate family secret to the milkman.

Michael said nothing to this, because there was nothing to say. The reason for the job didn’t much matter to him; he had it now and had to make the best of it, like it or not. And for all that he’d hated working with Paddy, he had to admit he’d enjoyed working in the dirt as a child, making things grow with his own hands. He’d bought a couple of books on garden design and maintenance before leaving the city. They sat in the bottom of his pack, ready to be taken out and studied when he had a few spare moments. He hadn’t done this kind of work in over a decade, and then it had been under Paddy’s direction, but there was no chance he was going to present himself as an ignorant Mick to anyone.

He made no more attempts to engage Abbott in conversation, and Abbott seemed content with this arrangement, so they passed the rest of the bumpy, gut-churning journey in silence. Even when the old bastard nearly drove them off the road, Michael held his tongue. He had to admit it would be the supreme irony if he met his fate here in this peaceful place, among the tall, stately trees and the birds bursting into song above them. For one who now associated death with blasted, barren landscapes and battered bodies that were more carcass than man, it seemed impossible to believe that anyone ever died here.

Eventually Abbott wrestled the car up a long, winding drive that led them to a sprawling two-and-a-half-story monstrosity surrounded by trees and gently sloped grounds. Michael took in the state of the landscape as they drove past. Beds that looked as though they hadn’t been tended in several years ringed the house, and an assortment of ornamental shrubbery on the front lawn was beginning to grow wild, odd limbs poking up from the otherwise round or oval shapes. Michael gasped as the sight revived a memory that slammed into him without warning, stealing his breath.

The merciless September rain beats down on them as he and Eddie carry the dead man to the pile of bodies outside the Casualty Clearing Station. Peeling back the tarp someone has thrown over it to keep off the worst of the weather, Michael reveals a pale white arm poking out from the otherwise neat mound.

Laying down the stretcher, he grasps the hand and tries to tuck it back in amongst the bodies, but it won’t stay. Rigor has set in, and it keeps popping out again. It’s almost comical, a routine for a vaudeville performer in hell.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Eddie’s exasperated voice cuts through his thoughts, and Michael realizes he’s been laughing like a madman.

“Nothing,” Michael gasps, still trying to catch his breath.

“Then help me lift him, will you?” Eddie orders, hefting the feet of their latest charge. “This rain is making him weigh a goddamned ton.”

Michael bends down, hooking his hands under the armpits of the body, and they swing him up onto the pile, then cover the remains as best they can with the tarp. When he looks back as they walk away, the arm is still visible, its pale hand waving goodbye.

The car jerked to a stop in front of a wide triple-bayed garage that had doubtless been a stable not so long ago. Abbott shut off the engine, then closed his eyes briefly as though sending up a silent prayer of thanks.

“Well, get your things and let’s get you settled,” he muttered, though his tone was slightly less cold than it had been at the start.

Abbott’s wife proved to be more welcoming than her husband, insisting on sitting them both down for the noon meal before any more was done. Mary—for so she insisted he call her—was plump, with strong features and capable hands, her silver hair perfectly tied back into a complicated bun. She made, Michael swiftly decided, the best dumplings for stew he had ever eaten, and he told her so. Smiling, she accepted his compliment graciously, then turned back to the stove.

As soon as he was finished eating, Abbott rose from the table and took the tray his wife had prepared mere moments before—clearly, she had timed it to be ready upon the conclusion of his meal—then walked out of the kitchen with it. Michael admired the precision of it the way one might admire an intricate watch mechanism. It was obvious they were used to one another’s company, their silences only contributing to the feeling of harmony between them. There had been no such cooperation to be found at his uncle’s home. His Aunt Kathleen had borne the burden of raising the children, preparing the meals, and ensuring that Padraig didn’t piss away all of his weekly earnings in the tavern before she could lay her hands on a portion of it. By the time he and Margaret had come to live with them, she’d had no smiles left in her.

When Abbott returned, he took Michael up two flights of stairs to his room—a surprisingly large space in the attic above the kitchen. The clapboard was painted the color of freshly churned butter, the bed was covered in a bright cotton quilt, and the washstand was adorned with fresh towels, a china bowl, and pitcher. Michael set down his pack, feeling out of place in the overly cheerful room.

“This isn’t a hotel,” Abbott muttered. “You’re expected to keep it clean.”

Michael smiled, the gruff words oddly comforting. “Of course,” he replied easily.

Abbott watched him carefully for a moment before snorting. “Come along, then. I’ll show you the rest.”

After a brief tour of the property, Abbott left Michael at the groundskeeper’s shed near the back corner of the grounds, where the grass yielded to untended forest. “Dinner’s at six on the dot,” Abbott informed him. “Leave your muddy boots outside on the porch, and don’t be late.” Before Michael could trust himself to offer a suitably deferential reply, the old man was already headed back across the lawn toward the house. Shaking his head, Michael schooled himself to calm and dove into his work.

He spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the shed. After sweeping out the structure from top to bottom, he dedicated some time to sharpening and oiling rusted tools before turning his attention to the small planting greenhouse attached to the southern wall. What soil remained in the dozens of clay pots was gray and dry; he dumped the earth into the nearest bed and scrubbed the pots clean. The first of next week, he’d find a way back into town. Doubtless the general store would have seeds available, or at least a catalogue. When he was done, he placed the pots back on their shelves in neat rows, surprised when a mild wave of satisfaction rose in him.

Before dinner, he made a more thorough survey of the grounds at the back and sides of the house. The more he saw, the more the pleasant feeling of accomplishment he’d cultivated tidying up the shed faded. The beds were even more overgrown with weeds than he’d imagined, although the next couple of weeks would tell for certain how many of the original plants had been choked out. Even now a few spindly tulips were showing themselves, and here and there the pale shoots of peonies fought to push through the dead leaves. He would need to work carefully to coax whatever remained back to health, but all was obviously not lost.

Dinner was lighter fare, a plowman’s plate of breads, cheeses, cold ham, and homemade pickles that Michael devoured eagerly. Their only other company was a thin, red-haired girl of seven or eight who stared at Michael silently for the entire meal. She was introduced to him as the Abbotts’ granddaughter, Sarah, but no more of her history was forthcoming. Knowing well the value of silences, Michael respected hers, though his head was filled with questions. Although they looked nothing alike, she reminded him of Margaret at that age, just after their mother had died. His sister had borne that same hollow-eyed look, that same ethereal quality, as though she had been suspended between the worlds of the living and the dead. It had taken all of Michael’s strength to bring her back to earth, but he had done it. He wondered if some tragedy had led this girl down the same path.