The Tea Rose Part 23

Nick, she had learned over the course of their journey, had had a falling out with his father; that's why he'd left London. His father owned a bank and expected him to run it one day, but Nick had other ideas. He was pa.s.sionate about what he called the new art -the work of a group of painter~ who lived in Paris. He'd worked as an art dealer for a time in that city and now he was going to open a gallery of his own in New York. He would represent these new painters exclusively.

Impressionists, he called them. He'd shown her the half dozen canvases he'd brought with him. At first, she'd thought them very odd. They looked nothing like the paintings she had seen in windows of shops and pubs-ones of children and dogs, or courting couples, or hunting scenes. But the more he told her about the ideas behind the paintings, and the painters themselves, the more she grew to like them.

Nick kept one of the canvases - a small still life of white roses, apple~, bread, and wine-on the night table that separated their two beds, where could always see it. It was signed "H. Besson,"

and Fiona had found herself strangely drawn to it. It made her think of Joe. Of how much she still missed him, longed for him. She had wondered how this simple little painting could stir up such feelings. Nick said it was because the artist had painted it with his heart.

Though they'd been apart for only half an hour at the most, Fiona missed, I Nick already.

Horribly. Today was Thursday. They'd promised to meet till' following Thursday at his hotel. It was only a week away, but it seemed lib, forever. She missed his enthusiasm and his optimism, his irrepressible sense of adventure, his funny, impractical ways. She remembered their first supper together. As they were walking to the dining room, she'd been seized by panic. She had no idea how to act or what to say. How would she ever pa.s.s as his wife, as one of the quality?

'It's simple," he'd told her. "Always be rude to the help. Sneer at every new idea the world presents. And never stop talking about your dogs."

She would have preferred a bit of useful advice -like which gla.s.s was for water and which for wine. That first dinner had been a disaster. She'd been confused by the profusion of cutlery, crystal, and china. By the time she'd figured out which was the soup spoon, Seamie was drinking his consomme right out of the bowl. He'd lowered it, made a face, and said, "This tea is "'orrible!" She'd made him put it down and use his spoon and tear pieces off his roll and b.u.t.ter each piece-as Nick did-instead of slathering the whole roll. She couldn't get him to do much else. He was balky and cranky and didn't understand why he suddenly had to call his sister Mother and a strange man Father.

He didn't like the lobster salad and refused to eat his quail because it still had its head on.

To make conversation, Nick had asked her about her family. While she'd been busy formulating a reply to that difficult question, Seamie answered it for her. "Our mam's dead," he'd said plainly. "She was stabbed by a man called Jack. Our da's dead, too. 'E fell at the docks. They cut 'is leg off. Charlie and Eileen are dead, too. Bad men chased us. They wanted our money. We 'id be'ind a mattress. It 'ad rats in it. I was scared. I don't like rats."

When Seamie finished, Nick's mouth was hanging open. After a few seconds of excruciating silence, he asked if it was true. She told him it was. looking at her plate, she explained what had happened to her family, leaving out William Burton's involvement. Seamie knew nothing about it.

n.o.body did and she wanted to keep it that way. It was a black. horrible thing-a thing for herself alone. When she'd finished, she'd raised her eyes to Nick's, expecting to see an expression of distaste on his fine, patrician face. Instead, she'd seen tears in his eyes.

During the nearly three weeks they'd shared a room, meals, and a life, she'd grown incredibly close to this charming, impossible, good-hearted man. She still wasn't quite sure how it had happened. Perhaps it was because they were both so alone in the world. She had lost her family and I been forced to leave her home, and so-in his own way-had he. She never expected them to become good friends; she'd a.s.sumed their backgrounds were too different, the cla.s.s divide too great, to permit it. But that was before the two of them, with Seamie nestled in his cot, had spent stormy nights huddled in their cabin, sipping tea as the ship pitched and rolled, telling each other their hopes and dreams. It was before Nick made both her and her brother practice the phrase "h.e.l.lo, Harold, I hear Havana's h.e.l.lishly hot," over and over until they stopped dropping their aitches. Before she'd brought him ginger tea and read to him from his volumes of Byron and the Brownings during the strange spells of fatigue he was p.r.o.ne to. Before he'd sat on the edge of her bed, soothing her, after she'd screamed herself awake from yet another nightmare.

It was before she'd discovered the photograph. The one she was sure she wasn't meant to see.

One morning, after Nick had left for his customary walk on deck, Fiona saw that he'd left his watch open on the night table. It was gold, beautifully worked, and undoubtedly valuable. Not wanting anything to happen to it, she'd picked it up to tuck it away. As she did, a small photograph fluttered out. She retrieved it and saw a handsome, dark-haired man smiling back at her. His face was full of love for the person who'd taken the picture. She'd known then that the photographer had been Nick and that this man was his lover.

Who else would he be? People didn't keep pictures of friends in a watch case. It would certainly explain why Nick never talked of a sweetheart, even when she'd told him about Joe. Or why he'd never shown interest in her. Or any other woman on the ship. She'd been afraid of that when they first settled into their room. She'd been so eager to get on the ship, she'd never even considered that he might be motivated by something other than a kind heart. That first night, tucked under her covers, afraid to fall asleep with" strange man just feet away, she asked herself what she would do if he mad,. a move. She could hardly complain to the captain-they were supposed to be married. But he'd never given her one second's cause for concern. She had stared at the handsome man for a few more seconds, wondering what he was like, if he would ever come to America, wondering what on earth two men did together. She'd never met a man who liked other men. Then she'd chided herself for being nosy and put the watch away.

The cab stopped short, jouncing Fiona into the hard wooden door, making her forget all about Nick and their journey. There was more cursing and yelling as the driver fought his way through the intersection of Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, bouncing over ruts and b.u.mps on his badly sprung wheels. Fiona could see that the factories had given way to neat, well-kept houses and shops.

The cab picked up speed again, then stopped four blocks later in front of a squat, three-story brick house on the east side of the avenue between Eighteenth and Nineteenth streets.

Fiona, her hands shaking with antic.i.p.ation, scrambled out of the cal" then lifted Seamie and their things down. She paid the fare and the carriage lurched of: its wheels spraying dust and gravel.

Holding her carpetbags in one hand and Seamie in the other, she looked up at number 164.

It was not what she expected.

The sigh over the shop read: M. Finnegan Groceries and listed the opening hours, but the shop was closed. The door was secured with a padlock; the large shop window was streaked with dust. Inside of it, dead bugs and mouse droppings littered a display of goods, their wrappers bleached and wrinkled by the sun.

In the bottom right-hand corner of the window was a sign. It read: To be offered at Public Auction by First Manhattan Bank: 164 Eighth Avenue: 25"-wide three storey building on a 100' lot.

Operated as a retail establishment and residence.

Date of auction: Sat.u.r.day, April 14th, 1889.

For further details, please contact Mr. Joseph Brennan, Real Estate Agent 21 Water Street, New York.

FIONA BLINKED at the sign. She put her bags down, made blinders of her hands, and peered into the window. She could see a white ap.r.o.n balled up ,," the counter, a large wall clock behind it-its hands indicating the wrong time, a bra.s.s cash register, gas lamps, and shelves still stocked with goods. What happened? she wondered anxiously. Where is everyone?

"Come on, Fee. Let's go see Uncle Michael."

"In a minute, Seamie."

She took a step back and looked up at the second floor. There were no signs of life. She tried the door to the upper floors; it was locked. She told her brother to stay put, then went to knock on the door of number 166, but that too, was empty. From the dress forms inside, the bolts of cloth and spools of thread scattered about, she guessed it had been a dressmaker's. She tried number 162, after picking her way through a pile of empty paint bucket and old brushes stacked outside of it. Again there was no answer. She was biting her bottom lip, and starting to panic, when a teenage boy pa.s.sed her on the sidewalk.

"Excuse me ... " she said. "Do you know Michael Finnegan? Do you know where he is?"

The boy, hands in his pockets, said, "Whelan's Ale House, most likely."

"Sorry?"

"Whelan's. One block north." He started to move off.

"Wait, please! Doesn't he live here anymore?"

"He sleeps here, miss, but he lives at Whelan's." Smirking, he pantomimed a drunk upending a bottle. Fiona's confused expression told him she hadn't understood. The boy rolled his eyes. "Do I gotta spell it out? He drinks. Spends his days at the boozer, then staggers back here. My dad does same, but only on Sat.u.r.days. Mr. Finnegan, he's there all the time."

"That can't be," Fiona said. Her uncle was no drunkard. He was a hard working shopkeeper.

She had his picture, his letters, to prove it. "Do you know why his shop's closed?"

A piercing whistle came from the end of the block. "Coming!" the boy yelled. He turned back to Fiona, impatient to join his friends. "Didn't pay his bills. Went crazy when his wife died."

"Died!" she repeated, stricken. "Molly Finnegan is dead?"

"Yeah. Cholera. Last fall. It took a lot of people. I gotta go," he said, trotting off. "Whelan's Ale House. On Twentieth," he shouted over his shoulder.

He left Fiona standing on the pavement, her hands pressed to her cheeks. trying to take in this latest disaster. This can't be happening, she told herself. It can't be. The boy must be mistaken. She had to find Michael. He would explain everything and then they'd have a laugh over the silly misunderstanding. "Come on, Seamie," she said, picking up their bags.

"Where are we going now, Fee?" he whined. ''I'm tired. I want something to drink."

Fiona tried to sound cheerful and sure of herself so her brother wouldn't hear the anxiety in her voice. "We're going to find Uncle Michael, Seamie. He's not at home right now. We have to see where he is. He'll be very happy to see us, I'm sure. Then we'll all have a nice drink and something to eat, all right?"

"All right," he said, taking her hand.

WHELAN'S ALE HOUSE did not look like the sort of place when respectable workingmen went for a well-earned jar. Dingy and run-down. it was the type of place gutter drunks crawled into after they'd sc.r.a.ped up four cents for a shot of gin or whiskey. Taking a deep breath, Fiona pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was quiet, at least. Three men were playing a game of billiards; two more sat slumped at the bar.

"Ladies drink in the back," the bartender said, wiping a gla.s.s with a dirty rag.

"I don't want a drink," she said to him. ''I'm looking for my uncle, Michael Finnegan."

"Hey, Michael!" he yelled. "Someone here to see you!"

"Tell 'em to f.u.c.k off," a figure at the end of the bar said, not bothering to turn around.

"Stay here," Fiona instructed Seamie, leaving him by the door. She'd seen belligerent drunks before and she wanted to be able to grab her brother and make a quick exit if things turned ugly. She approached the man who'd spoken, he was wearing a worn tweed jacket with holes at the elbows. His black hair was long and unkempt.

"Excuse me, are you Michael Finnegan?"

The man turned to her. She gasped. He was the spitting image of her father. Same chin, same cheekbones, same startlingly blue eyes. He was a few years younger than her da and not as broad-shouldered. He was clean shaven. His face was softer, not weathered from years at the docks, but still, she knew it as well as she knew her own.

"I t'ought I told you-" he snarled, then, seeing he was addressing a woman, he apologized.

"Sorry, la.s.sie, t'ought you was one of them vultures ,after me for money. Didn't mean to ... " His words trailed off. He squinted ,at her, staring into her eyes as intently as she was staring into his. "Do I know you?" he asked.

''I'm your niece, Fiona."

He was silent for a few seconds. "Me niece?" he finally said. "Paddy's la.s.s?" Fiona nodded.

She pointed to Seamie. "That's my brother, Seamus."

"Me niece!" he repeated wonderingly, his face softening into a smile. "Let me look at you!

Jaysus, if you don't look just like me brother! Just like him! Me niece!" He lumbered off his barstool and enveloped her in a bear hug, nearly suffocating her with whiskey fumes.

"Can I get you something, miss?" the bartender asked as Michael released her.

"No, thank you. I don't-" she started to say.

"Tim!" M.ichael bellowed. "Get a drink for me niece, Finona!"

"Fiona ..."

"Here, sit down," he insisted, giving her his stool and pulling up another one. She demurred.

"No, sit," he said, pushing her down onto the stool. "Sit and tell me how you got here. Tim! A drink for me niece! A shot of your best whiskey! "

"A soda water will do," she said quickly.

"And somet'ing for the nipper," he said, beckoning Seamie to join them.

"Come on, Seamus lad, come sit next to your Uncle Michael." He pulled up another stool and Seamie, wide-eyed and uncertain, climbed onto it. "Give the lad a whiskey, too, Tim." He went to sit down, missed the barstool, and landed on the floor. Fiona jumped up to help him.

"What are you doing here? Have you come for a visit?" he asked, brushing himself off.

"More than a visit," she said, settling him back on his stool. "We're in New York for good.

We've emigrated."

"Just youse? Where's Paddy? Isn't he with you? And Kate?"

Fiona dreaded having to tell him. The man had lost his wife and from the look of things, wasn't handling it well. "Uncle Michael ... " she began, pausing to hand Seamie one of the two soda waters the bartender had brought, " ... my father is dead. He fell from a loophole down the docks."

Michael said nothing, he just swallowed hard. "My mother's dead, too. murdered."

"Murdered!" he cried. "When? How?"

Fiona told him about Jack. She told him about Charlie and the baby and how she and Seamie had only survived it all because of the kindness of Roddy O'Meara.

"I can't believe it. All of them gone," he said, dazed. "Me brother ... so many years went by, but I always t'ought I'd see him again." He looked at Fiona with eyes full of 'pain. "Did ... did he suffer?"

She thought about her father's last moments. She remembered the way he had looked in the hospital bed, his body broken. She remembered over hearing Burton and Sheehan talking about his death, laughing about it. Michael didn't have to know his brother had been murdered over a penny-an-hour wage hike. She could at least spare him that. "It was a bad accident. He didn't live long," she said.

He nodded, then ordered another shot. The bartender placed it in front of him. He tossed it back as if it were water.

"Uncle Michael," Fiona said. "Seamie and I, we were just at your house. What happened? To Molly and the baby? To the shop?"

"Another round, Timothy. Make it a double."

Another one, on top of the one he'd just downed. He was already p.i.s.sed. Fiona watched him wait agitatedly for the fresh gla.s.s, drumming his fingers on the bar. He was desperate for it. The boy she'd met was right; he was a drunkard. The gla.s.s arrived. She watched as he downed that in one swallow, too. His gaze was becoming detached and unfocused.

"Aunt Molly ... " she pressed.

"She's dead. Cholera."

"I'm sorry."

"She was weak after the baby. Might've licked it if she'd been stronger."

"The baby was born?"

"Aye. Two weeks after the outbreak." "What happened? Did it ... is it . , . ?"

"She lived."

"Lived! Where is she?" Fiona asked, alarmed. "She's not in the flat, is she!" She couldn't bear to think of a little baby all alone in a dark, empty flat.

"No, she's with Mary ... a friend ... " He heaved a sigh; talking was growing more difficult for him. " ... friend of Molly's ... took her after the funeral." He held up a finger for the bartender.

Blimey, not another one, Fiona thought. He can hardly speak as it is. "Where does Mary live?" she asked. "Where's the baby?"

"With me ... at home ... with Mary ... "

He was becoming incoherent. She had to get answers out of him quickly, before he couldn't talk at all. "Uncle Michael, the shop, it's to be auctioned, isn't it? Can the auction be stopped? How much do you owe?"

"I hate that f.u.c.king shop!" he shouted, banging his fist on the bar. Frightened, Seamie slid off his barstool and hid behind his sister. "I won't set foot in it! f.u.c.king bank can have it! It was our shop, mine and Molly's. She made it pretty. Made it t'rive." He paused to slug down another mouthful of Whiskey from yet another gla.s.s the bartender had put in front of him. His eyes were bright with unshed tears. "My Molly!" he cried brokenly. "I wish He'd taken me when He took her. I can't go on without her ... I can't ... " He picked up his gla.s.s again. His hands shook.

"The shop, Michael," Fiona persisted. "How much do you owe?"

"T'ree hundred-odd dollars. That's the bank. Another hundred or so to me vendors ... haven't got it ... only got a few dollars to me name, see?" He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out two bills, scattering coins as he did. "f.u.c.king t'ings ... " he muttered, as pennies and nickels rolled and spun over the dirty plank floor.

Fiona leaned her elbows on the bar and rested her head in her hands; it ached unbearably.

This was not how it was supposed to happen. Not at all. She had imagined a warm welcome. Hugs from her aunt. Sandwiches and tea, and a fat, jolly baby to hold. She hadn't imagined this. After a minute, he stood up. She had to get out of Whelan's. Coming to New York had been a mistake. There was no family here to help her. She was on her own.