Cursed (16 page)

Early Sunday morning after dawn broke there were men on their street, covered in black soot.
One yelled 'news of the fire' and windows along the street slid open without a care for the cold blast of air or how long it would take to heat their apartments again. The heavy smell of smoke entered their apartment and made his mum choke.

Someone yelled "Is it over?"

The man in front of the group, who appeared to be their speaker, looked up towards women and children's heads poking out the windows.

"We need any blankets you can spare.
The fire is moving towards the Old South Meetinghouse and they are looking to wet the building as best they can with blankets!"

Mason could see heads disappearing and then moments later blankets being pushed out, some probably right from their beds, fluttering to the ground.
His mother had disappeared and returned with their spare blanket for cold nights and looked at it once before pushing it through their window.

"Mum, the fire has spread a lot for it to be that far."

"Not to worry." But she looked very nervous.

The explosions had started to create a fire dam and yet the fire continued. We could hear them in the distance and they sounded like thunder.
It was the first time I had heard anything like it and I thought this must be what war sounded like. We would hear cries in the distance, sounds of men hollering news, buildings collapsing, and the loud, black powder triggered explosions that made me cringe.

We waited word of Dad all morning and finally a knock came at the door from a woman up the street. Her English was not that good but she could manage.

"Frau Brown?" Called a heavy accented woman from the hallway.

Mum turned whiter than her typical pale skin expecting the worst and I moved in close thinking she was going to collapse.

"Yes?"

"I am Frau Schroder.
I live on corner house. Husband returned to give word of fire."

She appeared to wait for my mother to say something but Mum only shook her head in acknowledgement.

"He is now to meet your husband and Mr. Peters and Mr. Butler to the stores. People are . . . " Frau Schroder frowned, tapping her forehead with her fingertip as she searched for a word. "Taking. Taking from stores."

Slowly her story unfolded as she told us her husband had stopped at home and brought word of looters. The militia had been called in to try to stop the chaos but people were even going into burning buildings and getting hurt with pieces of the structures breaking off and collapsing into the street.
They were also told that an apparatus had arrived by train from Manchester called a self-propelled Amoskeag Steamer that was helping deliver water to the fires and aiding in slowing the fire's progress.

Mr. Peters, Mr. Butler and her husband, along with his father were heading back to the south towards the waterfront where their stores were.
Due to the water pressure issues in the center of the fire, the fire department had to take some calculated risks with where to focus their efforts. Some had been saying these decisions were politically charged and the merchants were getting hit harder than others as it was evident where they had let the fire run while they tried to head off the fire raging up towards the old post office, Milk Street and Faneuil Hall.

By the time Mrs. Shroder was done, struggling as she was to deliver so much information in a foreign tongue, my Mum remembered her manners and invited her in for tea.

The day never brightened with the black smoke hanging low in the air. After Mrs. Shroder left, promising to bring me some sort of German treat when this was over, Mum started working on Dad's meal. She told me he would be hungry and since I was already hungry again after the porridge I was sure she was right. She packed the food and prepared to leave, now knowing where my dad would be." He paused again, looking around.

"Mason, you be a good boy and stay here until I return.
Do not leave unless someone official comes and tells you to. If they do, start walking to the store and I will find you as I am coming back."

"Yes, Mum," I said solemnly, looking at those green eyes and thinking of how badly I wanted her to stay here with me and then feeling badly for my hungry father.
She leaned in and hugged me tight, holding on longer than normal, her hair tickling my nose. I offered to go with her and she shook her head firmly. "Stay here."

Mason cleared his throat and opened his eyes, blinking a bit to focus.
He had no idea how long he had been talking and even wondered if he had spoken everything – his vision of the past being so strong in his mind it had been like watching a movie.

He turned his head to look directly at Sarah.
“That was the last time I ever saw Mum, and although I did find my dad, he was already dead.”

After a few quiet minutes, both deep in thought, Sarah picked up his coffee mug along with hers.
She stood above him, not having said a word about the incredible story, but instead asked if he wanted more coffee before he continued. Mason nodded and looked around the room. He was exhausted; although he wasn’t surprised between the lack of sleep and being emotionally drained from the memories. He knew as difficult as that had been, it was going to become even more so if Sarah let him continue. And at this point, he wasn’t sure what she thought of his tale.

She returned and set the coffee down.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I am
.thanks. I’m even hungry. I don’t have much here but can I make us a quick breakfast before you continue?”

“Please don’t bother on my account.”

“No bother, but it’s not going to be fancy. Plus, my mom and dad are probably up and I need to call them.”

Mason picked up his coffee staring ahead towards the closed sheers as Sarah returned to the kitchen.
A moment later he heard her speaking with her mom assuring her that she felt better but was snowbound. After some silence except the distinctive scrambling of eggs, Sarah answered her mother’s obvious question, letting her know she was not alone and that he was still at the building and keeping her company.

He wondered how he would sound to someone else.
He had not had a friend or ally in over fifty years and of all people to show up here at the brownstone, Sarah had walked in.

The conversation in the kitchen area sounded like it was coming to a close with assurances that she would call her mother back later.
The toaster popped and he heard the cabinet open and close but still he stared straight ahead, making critical decisions on what he would say next and how much she could take in one sitting.

“Do you take pepper and salt?”

“Yes, please.”

Sarah was back in front of him and set his plate down with a napkin and fork along with the salt and pepper shaker. She returned a moment later with her own plate and mug.
Mason took a bite of his toast and realized how hungry he was.

“Sarah, I . . .”

“No, Mason, please. I want to say something.” Looking into her coffee cup and then back up to him, she took a deep breath.

“I want you to know, as strange as this all
sounds; I am trying to keep an open mind about this. I am sorry about your parents.”

Mason nodded, watching her absentmindedly pull at her earlobe while she continued.
“And, although this all sounds a little crazy, I really want to hear the rest if you are able to continue. I can’t figure out why or how yet, but I have a feeling there is still a lot more to tell. Eat first.” Sarah motioned with her head towards the plate in front of him. “Before it gets cold.” She smiled sweetly and he did as he was instructed.

Finishing his breakfast, Mason put the plate down, taking along swallow of the rich coffee before getting comfortable in his seat and folding his hands over his full stomach.
He looked down at his hands, clasped together, and then held up his right hand. Sarah watched with a curious look as he examined the front and back of his hand.

“Is something wrong?”

He clenched is hand into a fist and unclenched again, watching his fingers react properly. And at the purple marks that had plagued his hands and that now seemed to be disappearing. He shook his head wondering if his good eye was playing tricks on him, or maybe it’s all this talk of the past that was clouding his ability to see.
What strange magic is afoot
, he wondered.

“No, I’m fine.
So, yes the story.” He glanced down once more at his hand and knew for sure the marks were fading and he was almost certain the back of his hand looked smoother.

Once more, Mason clasped his hands and settled back into the chair.
He didn’t want to describe the sorrowful days after finding his father, a piece of stone from an exploding building having hit him square in the chest, crushing his ribs and no doubt suffocating him or causing heart failure. Or the long days wandering the streets and checking lists that were posted looking for his mother. Instead, he moved forward in time to the place he lived for the next few years and what brought him eventually to Catherine. And, Selena.

“After my parents were gone, I had no place to stay.
No money. There were many families either left homeless, or without financial support with twenty thousand unemployed as a result of the fire and so many small merchants losing their wares and businesses. So, at least I was not alone in that respect. Boston, however, started cleaning herself up and rebuilding immediately. There was so much activity in the city at that time . . .” He shook his head remembering the scramble to erect bigger and more beautiful fire safe buildings many still standing in Boston today.

Mason then thought back to the darker memories
– to the hunger, the clothes he was quickly outgrowing, and the holidays as an orphan and facing that first bitter cold winter. And he remembered the day he met O’Malley and Ben.

“I met Lieutenant Patrick O’Malley in March of the year 1873.
It was about five months after the fire and one year from when we landed on Boston’s shores. O’Malley had been in the Boston Common, speaking with another man leaning on a cane, and Black Ben was standing beside him. Black Ben was one of the fire station horses that had survived the equine flu. The horse was a magnificent creature with muscles like I had never seen on a steed. O’Malley, who was busy doing all the talking, was tall and shaped like a barrel. Not fat and soft, mind you, he looked like he was as strong and fearless as Black Ben. The two made a good team.

I walked up to Black Ben, just behind where O’Malley was standing wearing a warm pea coat over his uniform that I immediately coveted.
The two men didn’t notice me approach as they had been arguing about one of the buildings going up on Summer Street and the man’s distaste for the new flat style roofs. I listened to the discussion, rubbing Black Ben’s coat and looking into his large brown eyes. The horse seemed to be listening to the men, too, and didn’t care for the topic much either.

O’Malley’s jowly face was reddening as he tried to explain that the new buildings were following the latest in fire prevention.
Something Chief Damrell had asked for and warned about for years. O’Malley, along with his higher ups, had helped draft the new rebuilding ordinances for the fire commission’s report. The other gentleman argued that it was costing the land owners more money to re-build following all these newfangled guidelines and basically the French Mansard roofs were missed for their stylish nature.

Being it was a beautiful early spring day and I had nowhere in particular to go, I continued to pat the horse while listening to the men argue.
When I could see O’Malley’s raised voice was causing the poor horses ears to twitch I finally spoke up, addressing the wretchedly greedy man with the cane.

“If the landowners don’t like it and want to build in a way that they know will burn easily and cause another calamity, they should ask their neighbors permission to do so and see how far they get.
I would hope everyone should have learned a lesson or two from what we all lost. And shame on them if they didn’t.”

The other man started to turn purple in rage over a youngster not only listening but barging in on his conversation.
Starting from his half exposed neck all the way up to his balding hairline, his color flushed and he silently started to mouth several protests before being able to speak. He stomped his cane on the ground.

“Good day, O’Malley, I should be departing for my lunch.”
He tipped his hat and without another look in my direction, walked away at a brisk pace obviously not really needing the fashionable cane.

Once out of earshot, O’Malley said, “What a
Bolger,” and let out a laugh so infectious that after a few minutes we were struggling to catch our breath.

Once the laughter subsided he put out his hand which I immediately took as I was taught.
“Lieutenant Patrick O’Malley. My friends just call me O’Malley.”

I answered with my given name, Aiden Murphy, which I have had to change over time.

“It’s grand to meet you, Murphy.” He said shaking my hand vigorously and with a twinkle in his eye like he was really enjoying this encounter.