Land of a Thousand Dreams (50 page)

32

Light of Grace, Wings of Hope

What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother's soul?

OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900)

E
van had first noticed the ugly bruises on the Hogan lad the week after the city mission bazaar.

It had been a warm, sun-sweet day, more like May than March, and their first rehearsal since the performance at the Farmington mansion. The boys had come out in short sleeves, some in undershirts, all free of sweaters and jackets.

As was his practice, Evan had been moving among them, one at a time, listening to each individual pitch and tone. When he reached Billy Hogan, he slowed considerably; that glorious voice coming from such a little fellow never ceased to amaze and move him.

He noticed the bruises on the boy's arms, the small cuts near the mouth, right away. At the time, he wasn't overly disturbed. Boys, after all, would be boys: climbing about, playing roughhouse with one another—most boys sported some bruises now and then.

Today, two weeks later, the cold temperatures had returned, forcing the boys to again don their winter coats—those fortunate enough to own one. Billy's arms were concealed by the shapeless jacket he wore, but Evan was sure the gash beside the lad's upper lip and the angry purple bruise next to his right ear were new.

A sense of foreboding nagged at him all the way through rehearsal. Acting on impulse after he dismissed the group, he stopped Billy at the door. “What happened, son?” he asked the boy directly. “Take a fall, d-did you?”

At first the boy simply gave him a blank look. When Evan motioned to the bruise on his cheekbone, his eyes took on an almost furtive expression.

“Aye, a fall, sir, that's what it was,” he muttered quickly—a bit
too
quickly, Evan thought.

“I see.” When the boy refused to meet Evan's eyes but simply stood, looking down at the floor, Evan hesitated, then asked, “And where d-did you fall?”

The lad looked up, then immediately glanced, away. “At…home, sir. On the stairsteps, it was.”

Evan studied the bowed head, the thatch of flaxen hair that seemed to grow in all different directions. It struck him that the boy was lying. But why?

“Yes…well, then, I hope you weren't hurt too b-badly.”

“No, sir.” The reply was mumbled, the thin little shoulders still hunched as he stood, staring down at the floor.

Evan felt an inexplicable twinge of protectiveness for the boy as he put his hand to the wheat-colored hair. “You b-be careful on the way home, Mr. Hogan. Take care.”

He stood watching as the small figure cleared the stairs and ran out the door on a gust of cold air.

Behind him, Alice Walsh cleared her throat, saying, “He's such a little fellow for his age, isn't he?”

Evan turned, still troubled. “Yes, he certainly is. I hope he's healthy enough. No d-doubt, things have been very hard for him and his family. They only came across recently, you know.”

His new accompanist nodded as she proceeded to collect the music off the top of the piano. “They all make me wish I could take them home,” she said with a sigh, “and give them a good meal and a new set of clothes.” With the music in her arms, she turned to Evan. “I want to thank you again, Mr. Whittaker, for asking me to help with the boys. I'm enjoying it immensely.”

Pleased by the woman's undisguised enthusiasm, Evan smiled. “I'm the one who's grateful, Mrs. Walsh. I can't tell you how m-much you've helped.”

At the door, she hesitated, “Mr. Whittaker?”

Evan turned as he shrugged into his coat.

“The little Hogan boy…” she said uncertainly. “Did you notice his face?”

Evan nodded, tugging at the collar of his coat. “He said he'd fallen. On the steps at home.”

Alice Walsh nodded uncertainly. “Yes, I heard.” She hesitated, then opened the door. “Well…I must go. I'll be back next week.”

As soon as she was gone, uneasiness again swept over Evan. He had recognized the doubt in Alice Walsh's eyes, and it only served to heighten his own concern.

What he was unable to identify was the
root
of that concern, the intuition that made him think the Hogan lad had lied.

A weak, gray weeping of afternoon light came through the only above-ground window in the room, doing little more than to prevent total darkness.

While Michael and Jess Dalton arranged chairs in a neat row, Sara stood near the door, appraising their surroundings with a critical eye and making mental notes of possible improvements. The bare wood floor was rough and splintered, and not overly clean. The room itself was damp, the walls smelling of mildew, stale beer, and tobacco smoke. But it was more than large enough for their purposes—a weekly Bible study—and, best of all, free of charge.

She couldn't imagine how Jess Dalton had convinced the surly owner of the dime museum to allow use of the room once a week, rent free. Something in Michael's tight little smile when she had questioned the arrangement made her wonder if he hadn't had a hand in the whole business.

Pastor Dalton had made just one trip to this dime museum in the heart of the Bowery, accompanied by Michael, before declaring that an occasional visit would never do, that instead he would start up a weekly Bible study. “We need to take some light into that dreary place,” he announced the same day. “More to the point, we need to take
the
Light into that place.”

Earlier today, when Sara commented on the speed with which he had gotten things done, the pastor had simply laughed and said, “From the looks of things, Sara, I may be needing a new pulpit in the near future. Who can tell? Perhaps this will be the start of my next congregation.”

He had made the remark offhandedly, as if in jest. But Sara had felt an instant of dark foreshadowing at the thought that his words might prove prophetic. If men like Chester Pauling and Charles Street had their way, this dismal cellar room might turn out to be the only pulpit in the city left available to Jess Dalton.

The thought enraged her, and at the same time made her want to weep. If it should come to that, she thought, if things could actually reach such a shameful pass, she was not at all certain she could ever again trust in any sort of human decency.

Hearing voices at the top of the stairs behind her, she stepped farther into the room, waiting: Her stomach knotted with apprehension as she stared at the open doorway, and she was appalled to realize just how anxious she was about this meeting.

Michael had spared no details in describing the deformities of the “museum's” residents, determined that she not be caught unawares, once all his efforts to dissuade her had failed. Quick to reassure him that she wouldn't be at all put off by these poor outcasts from society, Sara found herself wondering now if she mightn't have been a touch too brash.

True, she managed to deal with the atrocities and misery of five Points well enough these days, but it had taken months of grueling experience to do so. And unless Michael had exaggerated, there was nothing in Five Points to prepare her for the residents of the dime museum.

Now, as she heard the strange slide-and-bounce sounds on the steps, followed by murmurings and one or two shrill laughs, she could only hope she wouldn't do something awful and embarrass her long-suffering husband…and herself.

Michael thought he had never loved the woman more than he did at this moment. Watching her with Bhima and his friends, seeing her natural wit and generosity of spirit win them over, he wondered that he had ever questioned her ability to handle the situation.

From the night of the bazaar, when she'd first coaxed him into telling her about the unusual boy named
Bhima
and the other residents of the dime museum, nothing would do the indomitable Sara but to make a visit to the Bowery.

Today, as the inhabitants of the museum shuffled into the room, Michael realized there was a great deal of skepticism and nervousness on their part. They entered slowly, with obvious reluctance: Bhima, the Tattooed Man, the tall, thin albino, the Strong Man with his arms like oak trees and neck like a giant bull. There were others as well—nonresidents of the museum, but outcasts, all the same: a man with no arms, a one-eyed sailor, his face horribly disfigured by burn scars, and, to Michael's astonishment, the dwarf, Plug—Roscoe Brewster's wee, fierce bodyguard.

Jess Dalton was splendid with each one of them, of course, with his big, genial laugh, his hearty handshake, his unmistakable kindness. But it was Sara—his Sara—who created the magic right from the first, putting them at ease with her irresistible charm, her winsome smile, her quiet compassion. And it was Sara—the remarkable Sara—who managed to create a sense of belonging for these undesirables of society, giving them what might well have been their first real sense of welcome.

Throughout the afternoon, he watched it happen, this amazing event that somehow worked to give these unwanted souls a measure of acceptance, even self-respect. They had come into the room a defeated, abandoned group of misfits, their eyes downcast, their bodies hunched as if to hide their differences from those within.

But before they left, most were making eye contact—at least with Sara—and some even shook hands with Michael and the pastor.

In Bhima, Michael saw the most moving effects of Sara's gentle gifts of grace and caring. She drew him out of his shyness, out of himself, fielding questions, comparing their preferences in newspaper columnists—even teasing him a bit. Little by little, the boy's reserve and uncertainty seemed to fall away in her presence.

His smile was almost beatific when Sara took his hands and leaned forward to say goodbye. With Fred, the albino, waiting nearby with Bhima's cart to help him upstairs, the boy looked from Sara to Michael. “Captain, I do thank you. We asked you for light—and you brought us the sun.”

His heart aching with love for her, Michael studied his wife. “Aye,” he said softly, smiling at Sara. “It would seem so.”

Heart pounding, Billy Hogan raced down Mulberry Street toward home.

He shouldn't have stopped to shoot marbles with Tom Breen. Rehearsal had run over as it was, and then he'd gone and dawdled another hour away. He was late—again. It would soon be dark, and if he'd been at the drink, Uncle Sorley would be in a rage.

Billy dreaded nothing else as he dreaded his uncle's drunken fits of temper. Uncle Sorley was big, he was, and mean clear through when he'd had too much—so mean he thought nothing of throwing Billy against the wall. Yet, to try and dodge him or defy him might cause him to take out his spite on one of the wee wanes. So Billy suffered his thrashings without challenge.