The Crimson Thread by Suzanne Weyn

dry, so she twisted it into a knot, pinning it into place.
                Today she would go to church and pray for Eileen. It was the only thing she could think of to do. She would be back before Eileen and Liam even awoke.
                She knew where to find the church, it was higher and grander than any she’d known back in Ireland.
                Bertie found it comforting to hear the words of the Mass spoken in Latin. It was a language she did not understand, but the sounds were familiar from her childhood, when she’d attended Mass every Sunday. All the while she kept her thoughts on Eileen, begging God and his other, Mary, to help her get better. Once or twice James Wellington came unbidden into her mind, but he was quickly banished.
                After Mass she placed a penny in the tin collection box to light a candle for Eileen and knelt to say one more prayer. By the time she was done, most of the other had left the church. She went out of the dark, cool, silent building and once more returned to the bustle of the street.
                She was heading toward home when Ray Stalls fell into step with her. “You are looking quite the lady today,” he complimented her.
                Since the day he had gotten Eileen to the doctor, she had dropped her wary suspicion of him. How could she be anything but cordial to him after all he’d done for her and her family? “Thank you,” she said.
                “How is the little girl?” he asked. That night, in the hallway outside the doctor’s office, after she had finished crying on his shoulder, he had excused himself, saying he had an appointment he could not moss. She had not seen him since.
                “She is better but not much,” Bertie reported. “I’m worried about her.”
                “So many little children get sick,” he commented sympathetically. “Children cannot stay healthy in these filthy conditions, without proper water of food.”
                “She wouldn’t be as healthy as she is if you hadn’t helped us,” she declared.
                “Ach!” he said, waving his hand dismissively.
                “You know, we have never been introduced,” she pointed out.
                “My name is Ray Stalls,” he said, extending his hand to shake.
                “Mine is Bertie Miller,” she replied, shaking.
                “Is that your real name?” they both asked at the same time, their voices overlapping.
                “It depends what you mean by real,” Ray considered. “Here, in America, this is really my name. Is it the name I was born with? No.”
                “The same for me,” she admitted. “What is your real name?”    
                “It’s a secret.”
                “I was born Bridget O’Malley,” she offered.
                “That is a lovely name, as is Bertie Miller. My real name is not as lovely, and so I will keep it to myself.”
                “That’s not fair,” she argued.
                “Nothing is fair.”
                “But America is the land of equality for all, is it not?” she stated.
                “It is a lofty goal, yes. It is certainly better than the places we came from, where no on even thinks equality is something to strive for.”
                “But don’t you think everyone is equal?” she questioned.
                “Does it look like that it true to you?” he countered.
                She thought of life at the Wellington home and her life in her Five Points tenement. Clearly they were not equal. “Everyone is equal in the eyes of God,” she remarked.
                He smiled. “All right. Maybe there.”
                She stopped at a narrow building, where wire