will never work.”
Bird went over to the table. She was halfway through Sister Raymond's book. It was about the terrible famine in Ireland thirty years earlier. It was Mama's famine, she realized, Da's famine. She thought of Da saying,
“Ah, Bird, you'll never really know what it was like. How far we've come.”
The downstairs door opened. Bird put her finger between the pages of the book, listening to the footsteps: too heavy for Thomas's, too light for Annie's, too steady for Mr. Neary's.
The knock came on their door, more a scratch than a knock. Bird pulled it open, startling the girl waiting there. She wasn't much older than Annie, but already there was the beginning of a line between her eyebrows. She had the Viking color of the people from the west of Ireland, and Bird could hear Mama's brogue in her voice. “Are you the healer?”
Bird shook her head. “I'm sorry, she's not here.”
“You go with her sometimes, don't you?” the girl said. “I saw you last summer in the street, carrying her bag.” She leaned forward. “I know you do.”
Bird swallowed. “No, I can't.” From the doorway, she could see Thomas on the stairs looking down at them.
“I'll pay you.” The line between the girl's eyebrows deepened. “Just what we've always paid your mother. Really, I will.” The girl gripped Bird's arm so hard she felt the pain of it. “You have to come.”
“No. I can't help.” Bird raised her shoulders helplessly, her hands out. “You'll have to get the doctor.” But as she said it she could see Thomas on the landing now, shakinghis head, reminding her that they had seen the doctor driving his horses hard a few hours ago. He'd never be back in his office yet.
“They will die then.” The girl's mouth was chapped, tight and pinched, her skin dry. Mama would say she looked woebegone, but as Bird looked at her eyes, the word she thought of was
desperate.
“Bird,” Thomas said.
For a moment she looked up at him; then she asked, “Who is it that's sick?”
“Just come,” the girl said. “My baby sister—”
“But your mother … Isn't your mother there?”
“She's sick. Please.”
Bird still might not have gone, but she thought of Mary Bridget that summer day, the happiest day she could remember. And Thomas was still standing there, and she knew he wanted her to go. “Wait,” she said. “Just—”
She went to the coat stand and leaned her head against the wooden bar. She couldn't do this. She knew she couldn't. But then with her heart pounding hard enough so she felt it in her throat, she reached for her coat, her hat, and pulled open the kitchen drawer for the cure book, spilling out knives and spoons. It wasn't there.
She hurried into her room to search under the bed, and to push back the closet curtain to see if she had left it on the floor. Always missing, that book, but she told herself she knew every line of it by heart. She decided to go without it.
Thomas was at the doorway now. “I'll go with you, and wait outside.”
Thomas. Always there.
Downstairs there was a line at the bakery door. Sullivan had fresh bread, and there was a tray of Annie's cookies in the window. Bird threaded her way around the women.
It was an easy walk: three blocks down, one over, and the girl began to talk as they crossed the street. “I don't know what's the matter,” she said. “My mother is sick, my sister, my brother.”
“Three of them?” Bird's voice didn't sound like her own. “How sick?”
The girl didn't answer.
How was she going to do that, take care of three of them? She cut off the thought as the girl went on. “They have fever. They're burning up, I've covered them, kept them warm, but their faces—” She waved a chapped hand in front of her own face. “And myself—”
Bird took a quick look at her, but she seemed healthy, her cheeks rosy, her eyes clear.
Stay healthy
, she told the girl in her head.
The family lived on the first floor. As they went up the steps in
Bird went over to the table. She was halfway through Sister Raymond's book. It was about the terrible famine in Ireland thirty years earlier. It was Mama's famine, she realized, Da's famine. She thought of Da saying,
“Ah, Bird, you'll never really know what it was like. How far we've come.”
The downstairs door opened. Bird put her finger between the pages of the book, listening to the footsteps: too heavy for Thomas's, too light for Annie's, too steady for Mr. Neary's.
The knock came on their door, more a scratch than a knock. Bird pulled it open, startling the girl waiting there. She wasn't much older than Annie, but already there was the beginning of a line between her eyebrows. She had the Viking color of the people from the west of Ireland, and Bird could hear Mama's brogue in her voice. “Are you the healer?”
Bird shook her head. “I'm sorry, she's not here.”
“You go with her sometimes, don't you?” the girl said. “I saw you last summer in the street, carrying her bag.” She leaned forward. “I know you do.”
Bird swallowed. “No, I can't.” From the doorway, she could see Thomas on the stairs looking down at them.
“I'll pay you.” The line between the girl's eyebrows deepened. “Just what we've always paid your mother. Really, I will.” The girl gripped Bird's arm so hard she felt the pain of it. “You have to come.”
“No. I can't help.” Bird raised her shoulders helplessly, her hands out. “You'll have to get the doctor.” But as she said it she could see Thomas on the landing now, shakinghis head, reminding her that they had seen the doctor driving his horses hard a few hours ago. He'd never be back in his office yet.
“They will die then.” The girl's mouth was chapped, tight and pinched, her skin dry. Mama would say she looked woebegone, but as Bird looked at her eyes, the word she thought of was
desperate.
“Bird,” Thomas said.
For a moment she looked up at him; then she asked, “Who is it that's sick?”
“Just come,” the girl said. “My baby sister—”
“But your mother … Isn't your mother there?”
“She's sick. Please.”
Bird still might not have gone, but she thought of Mary Bridget that summer day, the happiest day she could remember. And Thomas was still standing there, and she knew he wanted her to go. “Wait,” she said. “Just—”
She went to the coat stand and leaned her head against the wooden bar. She couldn't do this. She knew she couldn't. But then with her heart pounding hard enough so she felt it in her throat, she reached for her coat, her hat, and pulled open the kitchen drawer for the cure book, spilling out knives and spoons. It wasn't there.
She hurried into her room to search under the bed, and to push back the closet curtain to see if she had left it on the floor. Always missing, that book, but she told herself she knew every line of it by heart. She decided to go without it.
Thomas was at the doorway now. “I'll go with you, and wait outside.”
Thomas. Always there.
Downstairs there was a line at the bakery door. Sullivan had fresh bread, and there was a tray of Annie's cookies in the window. Bird threaded her way around the women.
It was an easy walk: three blocks down, one over, and the girl began to talk as they crossed the street. “I don't know what's the matter,” she said. “My mother is sick, my sister, my brother.”
“Three of them?” Bird's voice didn't sound like her own. “How sick?”
The girl didn't answer.
How was she going to do that, take care of three of them? She cut off the thought as the girl went on. “They have fever. They're burning up, I've covered them, kept them warm, but their faces—” She waved a chapped hand in front of her own face. “And myself—”
Bird took a quick look at her, but she seemed healthy, her cheeks rosy, her eyes clear.
Stay healthy
, she told the girl in her head.
The family lived on the first floor. As they went up the steps in
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