Land of a Thousand Dreams (60 page)

Jess seemed encouraged. His spirits were brighter than she'd seen them for weeks. For her part, however, Kerry thought it would take a long time before she would completely forget the pain of the past.

It was dark when Arthur sneaked away, but by the time he reached the Five Points, the sun was beginning to come up.

In the first weak light of dawn, the slum looked even uglier than he remembered. Broken bottles and rubbish littered Paradise Square. Pigs rooted through the garbage piled high in the streets, ignoring those drunks who lay sprawled in front of doorways. Already, a few homeless children darted in and out of the alleys, heckling the few honest workers who made their way across the square, heading for the factories.

With the smell of the streets already filling up his nose, Arthur stood, delaying his return as long as possible. He had hoped never to smell the rotten odor of the Five Points again. But he had to stay somewhere, and this was the only place he knew to come.

It occurred to him that Mr. Jess would be waking up just about now. How long would it be before they realized he was gone? By breakfast time, for sure, if not before. Miss Kerry always made him and Casey-Fitz eat their breakfast before going to school.

The thought of them all—even Molly, the sharp-tongued housekeeper and her husband, Mackenzie—made his eyes sting. For a moment, he was tempted to turn around, to take off running as fast as he could and not stop until he reached the Daltons' house.

Instead, he pulled himself up a little straighter, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and started walking again. He couldn't go back. He had done enough harm, brought enough trouble on Mr. Jess and his family.

All the hateful things that had been said, the mean way they'd been treated—it had all been because Mr. Jess had defended the Negroes and wanted to help them. Arthur guessed taking
him
in must have been the last straw.

Now Mr. Jess had resigned from the big church as their preacher and was setting up what he called a “mission pulpit” in the Bowery, and another one here in the Five Points.

Oh, he and Miss Kerry had talked a lot about it being “God's will,” and that he'd had a “call,” but Arthur was pretty sure that if it hadn't been for him, things wouldn't have come to such a sorry place.

Now the family would have to move out of the parsonage and find another house. They'd be leaving the big church and their neighborhood—why, Casey-Fitz might even have to change schools!

And all because of him. Arthur Jackson, a runaway slave boy.

Nossir, he wouldn't go back. He'd done enough damage. He had made do down here in Five Points before, and he'd make do again.

Hiking his stick a little higher on his shoulder, Arthur jumped across a mud puddle and started toward Cow Bay. He'd go back to the Old Brewery, where he'd stayed before. There, one more darkie would never be noticed.

Casey-Fitz's heart raced as he stood in the middle of Arthur's bedroom. There was an air of finality about the neatly made bed and the orderly condition of the room's furnishings. The drapes were still closed against the early morning sun. The pine rocker was bare: no trousers or shirt hung across its back, no shoes or socks rested beneath it.

With his pulse throbbing in his ears, Casey went to the wardrobe and opened the double doors. For a moment he stood appraising the contents.

Arthur seemed to have taken scarcely anything with him. Most of the things they had bought for him still hung in place. The Sunday shoes sat, black and gleaming, right in front, directly under the good gray suit. The freshly laundered shirts and trousers hadn't been touched. But on the peg inside the door hung a red nightshirt, like a warning.

He was gone.

Not quite able to get bis breath, Casey turned away from the wardrobe, his gaze again sweeping over the silent bedroom. He had been afraid of this very thing.

But Arthur had
promised,
had given his word that he would not leave. With a sinking feeling, Casey-Fitz remembered his own promise of some months ago:
“God and Dad will take care of this,”
he'd told his friend.
“The two of them will handle everything, you'll see….

He had believed it then, and, although it was getting much more difficult as the days went on and the trouble mounted, he believed it now. Dad had tried to explain to them all that his resignation was by choice, that he felt good about his decision—“the Lord's persuasion,” he'd called it.

But Arthur blamed himself. Casey-Fitz had seen it in his averted gaze, his sober expression, his sudden silences.

Slowly, he walked to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he stopped, turning back to survey the room one more time. Finally, he stepped into the hallway.

Downstairs he heard his parents in the dining room. Any moment now, Little Mother would come to the bottom of the stairs and call him and Arthur to breakfast—the “second and last call,” she would declare.

With heavy steps and an even heavier heart, he started down the stairs, slowly at first, then faster until at last he broke into a run.

When they had found no sign of the boy by midday, Jess Dalton began to feel the first stirrings of fear.

He had been so certain they would find him in the Five Points. That was where he would go, of course; it was the only place Arthur knew, except for the parsonage.

But they had been searching for over three hours, with still no sign of him. Both he and Casey-Fitz had scoured the tenements, trudged through the tramps' nests, among the blind beggars, the hungry children, the derelicts. They had crossed Paradise Square at least five times.

Jess was grateful he had brought Casey-Fitz with him to the Five Points before today. At least the boy had grown used to the squalor, the filth, the abject misery all around them. Nothing they encountered on their door-to-door search was likely to shock him.

They had enlisted some help along the way: Skipper Jones, an unemployed Negro hod carrier, and a Catholic priest known in the area simply as “Father John.” So far, however, no one had come upon the slightest trace of Arthur.

With Casey-Fitz gripping his hand, Jess led the way across the square. He couldn't stop the memory that flashed through his mind as they walked. This was where Arthur had first come into their lives. On a bitter November day, an angry Irish striker had shot him down, right here, in Paradise Square. Jess had taken him home to recuperate—and Arthur had stayed, to become a part of their family.

A tug on his hand called him back to the present, and he glanced down at his son.

“I'm sure we'll find him, Dad.” The boy's voice sounded anything
but
sure.

Jess studied the thin face, the solemn green eyes. “Of course, we will, son,” he said, squeezing the boy's hand. “We'll keep searching until we do.” He paused. “You're quite certain Arthur didn't say anything—anything at all—that might help us know where to look?”

Casey-Fitz shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing. I could tell he blamed himself for our troubles, and I know he fretted about your resigning—even after you explained. But I don't have any idea where he might go.” His voice faltered. “I should have watched him more closely, I expect.”

Again Jess gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “No, you couldn't possibly have known what Arthur was thinking. Don't blame yourself, son. There's no blame in this for anyone.”

“But Arthur thinks there is,” Casey-Fitz said softly. “He blames himself. That's why he's gone.”

Having no answer for the boy—or for himself—Jess remained silent. “Let's go get the buggy,” he finally said. “I think our next stop ought to be the police station.”

When Evan Whittaker walked into the rehearsal room, he knew at once that something was amiss. The boys were huddled together, heads down, and everyone seemed to be talking at once. From the looks of their grave expressions, Evan concluded that whatever had happened was not good.

They broke apart with obvious reluctance when he rapped his baton. Without waiting for permission to speak, Billy Hogan blurted out, “Mr. Whittaker, sir, Arthur Jackson is missing!”

No more were the words out of his mouth than Daniel spoke up. “Uncle Mike and Officer Price were just here, asking if we'd help with the search. They think Arthur ran away to the Five Points because of all the troubles Mr. Dalton has been having.”

Evan stared at them with dismay. He had developed a real fondness for the spunky young black boy. Arthur was one of his most dependable choir members and was showing real promise in the reading classes.

He glanced at Mrs. Walsh. She was sitting on the piano bench, her features troubled, her hands clenched in her lap.

“Of c-course, we must help,” Evan said distractedly. “Mrs. Walsh, we won't be rehearsing t-today. Is your d-driver waiting?”

She stood, saying, “He'll wait as long as necessary. I'll go with you and the boys to help look for Arthur.”

“Oh—n-no…I d-don't think that's—no, you mustn't d-do that! I'll see you to your carriage….

“No, Mr. Whittaker, I'm going to help,” she said firmly, putting on her gloves. “Please don't be concerned about me. I'll be quite all right.”

When she continued to override his protests, Evan reluctantly gave in. Before they left the rehearsal room, he pulled Daniel to one side. “D-don't let Mrs. Walsh out of your sight. I can't very well insist that she not g-go, but she can't possibly have a thought as to what it's like down here.”