LITMIR.BIZ

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it’s all topsy-turvy curls about my head. Mr. Thatcher tells me I look about twelve years old. If my haircut makes me look twelve, it makes Beth look about a hundred. Hers doesn’t curl like mine, and it’s unmercifully short and lopsided. When I told her I would try to fix hers like she did mine, she just pulled her shawl over her head and cried.

      They say it was a hair-cutting ring, Mum, and they just rowed out to the island and set up shop. They caught them, Mum. Policemen came and took them away because it’s a crime to cut someone’s hair and sell it for profit. Mr. Thatcher says whoever buys Beth’s hair and mine will make the finest wigs for some rich lady.

      We are all sleeping in a shelter just outside the hospital gates, and there must be over a hundred people in here with us. I used the last bit of my tea yesterday. I did what you told me and used the same tea leaves three times before tossing them away.

      I have still not seen or heard from cousin Owen.

      Your daughter in America,

       Callandre

      It was the twenty-seventh day of the Yorkshire’s quarantine. While the ship stood at anchor in the bay, her passengers mingled among the thousand or more who had sailed to America in her sister ships.

      The month of October had been dry, the last traces of summer warming the days until All Hallows’ Eve. Then November struck with vengeance. The waters of the bay were whipped by foul winds, the ground became hard and frozen during the cold nights, warming again beneath the day’s sun to become muddy trenches from the abuse of too many feet.

      A roll was called, and the passengers from the Yorkshire were told to climb the long hill to the hospital for the medical examination before receiving the stamped passes that would allow them access to the City of New York and beyond.

      Callie was dismayed to discover that she was expected to undress and submit to a thorough evaluation by a harried doctor and his even more harried nurse assistant. She was standing outside the hospital long before the Thatchers made their exit. One look at their faces told her something was terribly wrong. Beth was ashen, and Patrick’s usual bright gaze was dulled and pained. Only Paddy remained the same, whimpering and listless.

      Jostled by the incoming and outgoing patients, Patrick quickly led them to the bottom of the hill. For just an instant Callie saw him looking out over the river toward New York City, squinting past the sun, a yearning and longing in his face, a searching in his eyes. He looked like a man lost, without home or family, a man whose dreams must be abandoned. It wasn’t until they had made the long walk down the hill to the shelter where they’d spent the last month that Beth turned to her. “It’s Paddy,” she said, a pitiful sob caught in her voice. “He has consumption. Tuberculosis they call it here. He won’t be allowed to come into the country.” This last was said in defeat.

      “Beth tells you truth, Callie,” Patrick said tonelessly. “They want us to send him back to Ireland. Beth and I have had our passes stamped. It’s the boy.”

      Callie thought Beth would crumble from the pain and sorrow on Patrick’s face. Tears of frustration and humiliation coursed in rivulets down her cheeks. “We can’t send him back! There’s no one there to take care of him!” Hysteria was rising in her voice, making it shrill, so different from her usual modulated tones.

      “Hush, Beth. Paddy will always have us to care for him. Don’t worry so. We’ll go back to Ireland. All of us,” Patrick said, stroking Beth’s back. But over the top of her head, his eyes again reached across the river to the city beyond, the place where his dreams told him his future began. He fell silent, locked in his misery.

      Late that night, tucked in between Paddy and their assorted baggage, Callie lay awake pondering the dilemma that faced the Thatchers. She was angry, inflamed by the injustice of it all. Back in Ireland and Liverpool the only thing that mattered was selling packet tickets to America. The physical examination there had been a farce. Even she had known that Paddy was a very sick little boy. The Thatchers should never have been allowed to board ship, to undergo the hardships only to be refused entry on the other side after thirty days of living in subhuman conditions.

      Callie blessed herself, raised her eyes to heaven, and called on her God. The bad is outnumbering the good, she complained. And Lord help me, but I’m about to give up on You. I was taught You’re our Savior, and I’d appreciate it if You’d start saving us! No bolt of lightning ripped across the sky; no roll of thunder sounded in the heavens. Had He heard? Or was He too busy with the prayers and pleas of others more important than she?

      When sleep finally came to Callie, it was light and fitful. She was aware of Beth, just the other side of their rolled pokes, lying very still, small trembling sobs shaking her shoulders. Sympathy stirred her to sit up and touch Beth’s shoulder in commiseration. It was then she noticed Patrick was gone.

      “Beth,” Callie whispered, putting her mouth very close to Beth’s ear, “where’s Patrick?”

      A choked response, so unbearably pained and desolate—“He’s out, walking his disappointment. Oh, Callie, Paddy and I are such a burden to him. Such a terrible burden.”

      “Hush. It was a shock to him, Beth. Surely you understand that. He had such wonderful plans for all of you. You’ll all go back to Ireland, and when Paddy is well again, he’ll see his dreams realized. Patrick loves you, Beth, and he’ll make it right.”

      “That love is killing him, Callie.” There was no emotion in her voice, no tears on her cheeks. This dearth of emotion, of anger, of anything, frightened Callie. “Patrick can’t be making this right. It’s me and Paddy and the new babe that’s holding Patrick back. We’ve ruined his dream, Callie. And I’ll lose him because of it, just as I’ll lose Paddy up to his sickness.”

      Words of comfort would not come to Callie. There was nothing she could say to ease Beth’s pain. All that had happened was beyond the realm of her own understanding. Peggy would know what to say, what to do. She’d set Beth’s head clear and thinking again. Mum could rebuild Patrick’s dead dreams.

      “Callie,” Beth whispered, “would you change places with me? I want to be near my son. I want to hold him in my arms.”

      Silently Callie helped Beth to her feet. The woman placed a hand protectively on her belly. “Patrick wanted this babe to be born in America. And as it turns out, ’twould be better if it’s not born at all.” Bumps broke out on Callie’s arms. The goose had stepped on her grave again. She’d always realized Beth Thatcher’s vulnerability, her insecurity; perhaps that was why she’d always felt protective toward her. But a new resolve had crept into Beth’s voice, and in the dim light of the lanterns that hung from the rafters in the bleak and overcrowded shelter, there was a new light in her eyes. It was a fervor, a determination, a grim decision to see things through to the end. Callie settled down against the bedroll, watching Beth through the darkness as she gathered her son close to her, folding him against her body as though he were the babe who lived in her womb.

      Hours later, just as the dawn was breaking, Callie rolled over on the hard floor, pulling the blanket over her shoulders for warmth. She missed Paddy’s warm little body tucked against her own and awakened. Glancing around her, she realized Patrick had not returned, and the place she had given to Beth was empty. Callie sat up to look across the room; not a soul in the half-lit shelter was stirring.

      It was unlike Beth to leave with Paddy without saying a word. No, it was foolish to worry, Callie comforted herself. Putting her head back down on the bedroll, she closed her eyes. But sleep would not come. She remembered Beth’s face and the way her eyes had burned. Could it be that the light that fevered Beth’s dark eyes was madness?

      Callie rose from her hard place on the floor, her eyes once again searching out the dim corners of the shelter for a sign of Beth and Paddy. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and there was a heaviness in the pit of her stomach. Something was warning her, telling her, she must find Beth.

      Stepping over sleeping bodies, picking her way through the assorted bedrolls and baggage, she finally made her way to the door, pushing against its flimsiness until it opened into

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