Shattered Lives (Flynn Family Saga Book 1) (11 page)

Maggie shook her head.

“Well, come on inside.  As soon as Mass is over,
Sister Ignatius will make us the best breakfast in Manhattan.”  Brother Joseph
held out his hand.

Maggie took it and let him lead her inside.  The
chapel smelled of incense and flowers.  Maggie knelt in a pew in the front row
and bowed her head.  She crossed herself and murmured the prayer her father had
taught her before he went away to war.

“Do you know what that prayer means?” Brother Joseph
asked in a whisper.

Maggie shook her head.

“After Mass, I’ll teach you.”  He bowed his head,
and his lips moved silently.

Maggie bowed her own head, and for the first time,
she wondered what the other strange words meant when the priest sang and held
up the strange, thin wafer.

The priest was tall and thin, and he sang in a nasal
voice.  Maggie tried to puzzle out the words, but they certainly weren’t
English.

After Mass, Brother Joseph took Maggie to the
refectory.  A woman in a dark black habit scowled.  “Brother Joseph!  Who is
this child?”

“A child of God, Sister Ignatius.  And surely we
have enough to share with a child of God.  Don’t we?”

Sister Ignatius sighed.  “I suppose we do.”  But her
eyes twinkled as she brought in a tray with ham and eggs and toast.

Maggie’s stomach rumbled.  She bowed her head and
crossed herself.  She waited for Brother Joseph to pray.

After a long silence, he said, “Lord, bless this
food, and bless this child who has come to brighten our lives.  Amen.”

Tears filled Maggie’s eyes.

Sister Ignatius laid a thin hand on her shoulder.  “What
is it, child?”

Maggie looked down at her hands.  “No one has ever
blessed me before.

Sister Ignatius sniffed.  “Then it’s high time
someone did.  What is your name?”

“Maggie.  I mean, Mary Margaret O’Brien.”

“Where do you live, Mary Margaret O’Brien?”  Brother
Joseph put down his fork.

“Down the street.”  Maggie took a bite of her eggs.

Sister Ignatius nodded.  “Where are your parents?”

Maggie swallowed her eggs.  “Well, my father is
probably in the saloon next door.  My mother is in the shack, crying.”

“Is she hurt?”  Sister Ignatius moved toward the
door.

Maggie shook her head.  “No, Sister.  She’s just
crying because Papa is in the saloon again.”

Sister Ignatius came around the table and laid her
thin hand on Maggie’s hair.  “Life can be hard sometimes, little one.  Now,
finish your breakfast.”

Maggie nodded and cleaned her plate.

Brother Joseph regarded her solemnly.  “Was your
father in the war?”

Maggie nodded.

He sighed.  “Is he all right?”

Maggie frowned.  “Well, he drinks.  He never did
before.”

Brother Joseph coughed.  “I mean, is he in one
piece?”

“Oh.”  Maggie blushed.  “You mean like the beggar on
the corner?”

“Mr. Johnson.  Yes.”

Maggie shook her head.  “He has both his arms and
his legs.”

“Then he is very fortunate.  Tell me, would you like
to help them?”

Maggie blinked.  “The men like Mr. Johnson?”

Brother Joseph nodded.

Maggie thought it over.  “I guess so.  How?”

Brother Joseph smiled.  “Come with me.”

Sister Ignatius ladled hot soup into a covered pail
and piled a basket high with fresh bread.  She handed the basket to Maggie. 
Brother Joseph picked up the heavy pail.  He held out his hand to Maggie. 
Maggie took it, and hand in hand, they left the refectory.

Brother Joseph led the way to Tenth Street.  A man
sat there on a cart made out of scraps of lumber and four small wheels.  His
legs were missing, cut off at the thigh.  Maggie swallowed hard and looked
away.

“Good morning, Malcolm.  This is Maggie O’Brien. 
She’s my new helper.”

Maggie forced herself to look back at him and smile.

Malcolm Johnson stared at Maggie with dead eyes.  “I
don’t want charity.”

“Then I’ll take one of your pencils in exchange,
Malcolm.”  Brother Joseph bent down and scooped up a pencil from the tin cup
next to Malcolm’s platform.

Malcolm nodded.  “That’s fair enough, I guess.”

Brother Joseph ladled the soup into a cup and Maggie
handed the man a chunk of bread.  “I’m sorry there isn’t any butter, Mr.
Johnson.”

Malcolm smiled at her, and his smile transformed his
face.  “That’s all right, Maggie.  Maybe tomorrow.”  He fished in the tin cup
and held up a pencil.  “Here.  Maybe Brother Joseph could spare a piece of
paper.  When I was your age, I used to like to draw.”

Maggie smiled back.  “Thank you.”

That night, in the little shack, Maggie took out the
paper Brother Joseph had given her and started to draw a picture of Malcolm
Johnson.  She hesitated, and then she drew him smiling as he handed her the
pencil.

*  *  *

Maggie and her parents lived in the tin shack on Eleventh
Street for nearly a year.  Every day, Maggie went to the little chapel of
Saint Francis.  She went to Mass, and then she had breakfast with Brother
Joseph and Sister Ignatius.  After breakfast, they traveled up and down Eleventh
Street.  On almost every corner was a veteran.  Some pretended to sell
pencils.  Some merely begged.  Every man was missing at least one limb: an arm,
a leg, sometimes two, like Malcolm Johnson.

Then, one evening, Michael came home early.  He
started to cough.  As Maggie stared in horror, blood poured from his mouth,
staining his shirt.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In the morning, Maggie woke to a pounding on the
door of the shack.  She opened it cautiously.

Outside, two burly men in uniforms stood scowling.  “Is
your father at home?”

“Yes.”

They pushed past her.

Lucy stood up, pinning her hair into place.  “What
has he done this time?”

“Nothing,” said the one with black hair.  “We’re not
the police.”

“We’re from the health department,” said the one
with brown hair.

Maggie watched helplessly as the two men lifted her
father’s unconscious body and carried it out of the apartment.  She ran after
them.

“Maggie!  Come back here!”

Maggie ignored her mother’s cries.  She followed the
men to the docks.  She watched as they dumped her father’s body onto the deck
of a dilapidated ferry.  The whistle blew, and the ferry backed away from the
dock.  Tears filled Maggie’s eyes.  She heard footsteps and turned.  Her mother
stood behind her.  Tears shone in her eyes, too.

Maggie ran to her mother.  She threw her arms around
her mother’s waist.  Lucy pushed her away.  Maggie swallowed hard.  “Mama? 
Will we ever see him again?”

Lucy shook her head.  “I don’t know.”  She turned
and walked back to the shack, too fast for Maggie to catch up.

*  *  *

A week later, a wagon pulled up outside of the shack
as Maggie walked back from Mass.  A tall, thin man with gray hair and blue eyes
sat in the seat.  He smiled down at her.  “You must be Maggie.  I’m your
grandfather.”

Maggie blinked.  “I have a grandfather?”

The old man laughed.  “Of course you do, child. 
Where is your mother?”

“Inside.  Sleeping.”

The tall man sighed and climbed out of the wagon. 
He walked into the shack.  “Get up, Lucy.”

Lucy rolled over.  Slowly, her eyes focused on her
father.  She stood up and ran to him, sobbing.  “Oh, Father!  It has been so
dreadful!”

Gently, the old man placed his hands on Lucy’s
shoulders.  “Pack your things, child.”

Lucy nodded.  She moved about the room slowly,
picking things up and putting them down again.  Maggie bit her lip.  She picked
up her old, battered carpetbag and packed their things, just as she had so many
times before.  The old man led the way outside.  He helped Lucy into the back
of the wagon first.  Then, he boosted Maggie onto the wagon seat.  He climbed into
the wagon and slapped the reins on the backs of the horses.

The wagon lurched forward.

The old man guided his team expertly through the
heavy city traffic to the docks.  The horses seemed afraid of the foul smelling
river water.  The old man climbed down from the wagon.  He grasped the bridle
of the lead horse and spoke softly to him.  Maggie jumped down from the wagon
and stood beside him, listening intently.

“Easy now.  It’s just water.  You know water.  I put
it in your trough every morning.  Of course, the water I use is a lot cleaner,
but it’s the same thing.  It won’t hurt you, now.”  He tugged on the bridle,
and the lead horse followed him onto the deck of the ferryboat.

So did Maggie.  “What’s her name?”

“
His
name is Caesar.”  The old man smiled.  “I
have a passion for the writings of Mr. William Shakespeare.”

“Who’s he?”

The old man sighed.  “I see we have our work cut out
for us this summer, Maggie.  Don’t worry.  You’ll have so much fun, you won’t
even notice that you’re learning.”

Maggie eyed him skeptically.  The whistle blew, and
Maggie jumped.

So did Caesar.

Maggie reached up and petted his nose.  “It’s all
right, boy.  It’s just a whistle.  It won’t hurt you.”  His nose was soft and
warm.  He lipped her fingers.

The old man laughed.  He reached into his pocket and
fished out a sugar lump.  “Hold out your hand, flat.”

Maggie held out her hand, palm up.  Her grandfather
placed the sugar lump on her hand.  Caesar took the sugar as daintily as the
ladies who used to come over for tea with her mother.

Before they moved to the rooms over the saloon.

Maggie tried not to think about that.

The ferry moved smoothly away from the docks and
into the river.  The water swished along the sides.  By the time they were
halfway across, the water smelled clean and fresh.  Maggie took a deep breath.

Beside her, her grandfather nodded.  “I feel the
same way every time I leave the city.  I feel like I can breathe again.”

Maggie smiled at him.  “I like you.”

The old man laughed and hugged her.  “I like you,
too, Maggie-my-girl.”

*  *  *

It was a long drive from the dock at Hoboken to the
farm near Princeton.  Night had fallen, and Maggie dozed, leaning against her
grandfather.  Finally, the wagon stopped.  Maggie blinked sleepily as the old
man carried her into the house.  A woman sat in the kitchen.  Her face was as
round and wrinkled as a winter apple.  She smiled warmly.  “Lucy!  And Mary!” 
She hugged Lucy, and then she hugged Maggie.  “You must be hungry.”

Maggie opened her mouth to say no, but her stomach
betrayed her by growling loudly.

Laughing, her grandmother sliced warm bread.  A
large mound of butter sat in the center of the table.  Maggie watched in horror
as her grandmother slathered it on the bread.

“Oh no!  That’s too much!  We can’t afford it!”

Her grandmother regarded her solemnly.  “This butter
came from our own cow.  You can eat all you want, Mary.”

“Everyone calls me Maggie,” she said shyly.

Her grandmother smiled.  “All right, Maggie.”  She
cut slices of ham and cheese.  She handed Maggie the sandwich.

Maggie took a bite and shut her eyes in pure
pleasure.  “Grandmother, this is delicious.  Thank you!”

Her grandmother hugged her.  “You’re welcome,
Maggie.”

Maggie ate quickly.  When she was finished, she
yawned.  She started to nod sitting up.

Her grandfather picked her up and carried up the
stairs to a room with a small bed.  A patchwork quilt covered the soft
mattress.  There was a washstand with a china pitcher and bowl, painted with
pink roses.  Her grandfather set her down.  “Can you undress yourself, or do
you need your mother’s help?”

“I can do it, thank you, Grandfather.  Grandfather?”

“Yes, Maggie?”

“Can we stay here forever?”

Her grandfather’s smile faded.  “We’d like that,
Maggie, but we’ll have to wait and see.”  He bent kissed her forehead.  He
started to blow out the lamp and hesitated.  “Do you want me to leave it lit?”

“Yes, please.”

Her grandfather nodded and left the room, closing
the door quietly.

Maggie undressed quickly and got into bed.  She took
out her book of fairy tales and read for a little while.  Then, she blew out
the lamp.  Within moments, she was asleep.

*  *  *

Morning dawned bright and sunny.  Maggie stared out
of the window in awe.  Green pastureland swept away from the house to a small
brook.  She sniffed.  “Bacon!”  She dressed quickly and ran down the stairs.

Her grandmother stood at the stove tending the
contents of a large, black iron frying pan.  A basket of eggs stood on the
table.  Her grandmother cracked them expertly with one hand and spilled the
contents into the frying pan.

“Mind the toast, Maggie.  On the fire.”

Maggie turned to the fireplace.  A rack of bread
rested against the hob.  “What do I do with it?”

“Turn it when it starts to smell like...well, toast.”

Maggie laughed.  She heard the sound of horses and
ran to the window.  A chestnut filly ran with her tail and mane flying in the
wind.  Maggie’s heart stopped at the beauty of it.

“Maggie, the toast is burning.”

“Oh!”  Maggie ran to the fire.  The bread had turned
black.  Tears filled her eyes.  “I’m sorry, Grandmother.”

Tess touched her cheek gently.  “No harm done,
child.”  She showed Maggie how to scrape the toast.  Then, she carried the
platter of bacon and eggs to the table.  “Lucy!  Breakfast is ready, child.”

Maggie’s mother came down the stairs slowly.  Her
face was pale, and her eyes were red.  Maggie ran to her and hugged her.  “Oh,
Mother, this is heaven!  There are eggs and bacon and all the butter I can eat!”

Lucy smiled faintly.  She touched Maggie’s hair and
then pushed her away.  She sat down at the table.

Maggie’s grandmother frowned, but she said nothing.

Her grandfather came in, smelling of sweet grass and
fresh air.  He grinned at his wife.  “You made a feast, Tess.”

“I did no such thing, James.”  But she smiled with
pleasure all the same.

Maggie stared at them.  She had never seen two
people treat each other that way, and it stirred a longing in her that she had
buried deep inside, a longing to love and be loved.

Her grandfather picked up his fork.

Maggie blinked.  “Aren’t you going to say grace?”

James and Tess exchanged a look.  James cleared his
throat.  “Why don’t you do it, Maggie?”

Maggie nodded solemnly.  “Lord, bless this food, and
thank you for my grandmother and grandfather.  And please make my father well
again.  Amen.”

James smiled and patted her hand.  “That was
beautiful, Maggie.”

Maggie ducked her head.

After breakfast, Maggie helped with the washing up. 
Then, she watched as her grandfather worked with a young colt.  James worked
slowly.  At first, he used a simple halter, but even the soft rope frightened
the colt.  He bucked and reared and pawed, trying to free himself of the
strange device.

“I read in a book that out west they break horses.” 
Maggie rested her crossed arms on the top rail of the corral fence.  “They just
throw a saddle over them and ride them until they’re broke in.”

“Broken in, Maggie,” James corrected gently.  He
turned back to the colt.  “If you break a horse, you break his spirit.  Ho,
there!  Ho, Orlando.”  He tugged gently on the rope.  Orlando reared again.  He
dropped the rope, which seemed to puzzle Orlando.  James walked over to him and
stroked his neck.  “Easy, boy.  Easy.  I’m not going to hurt you.  Let’s try
this again.”

Quietly, patiently, James worked with Orlando until
the horse got used to the rope halter and trotted obediently in a circle around
him.

Maggie watched in fascination.  Orlando’s head was
high as he pranced in a circle.  “He looks proud of himself, Grandfather.”

James nodded.  “He should be.  He took to that real
quick.”

“Quickly,” Maggie corrected.  Then, her face
reddened, and she covered her mouth with both hands.

James just laughed, and Maggie relaxed.  He tousled
her hair.  “You’re right, Maggie-my-girl.”  He patted Orlando’s neck.  He held
out a sugar lump in his hand, and the horse took it.

Then, James led the chestnut filly into the corral. 
Maggie’s breath caught.  “Oh, Grandfather.  Can I try to train her?”

James hesitated.  Then, he nodded.  “All right,
Maggie."  He handed her the lead.  “Her name is Rosalind.”

Rosalind reared.

Maggie yanked on the lead.

“Horses know when you’re scared, Maggie,” James said
quietly.

Maggie blushed.  “I just want to do it right!”

James smiled at her.  “I know, Maggie.”  He
hesitated.  “Think of the horse.  Think how scared
she
is.”

Maggie shut her eyes and tried to imagine running as
free as the horses.  Her heart almost burst with happiness at the thought. 
Then, she thought of someone coming and putting a rope around her neck.  Her
heart sank.  She opened her eyes.  “It’s all right, Rosie.  I’m not going to
hurt you.  See?”  She let go of the rope.  Rosalind took a few cautious steps
away.  She tossed her head and snorted.  Maggie laughed.  She picked up the
rope again.  Again, Rosalind reared and tried to pull the rope out of Maggie’s
hand.  The rope slid a few inches, and Maggie was grateful for the thick
leather gloves James had given her.  She tightened her grip, always speaking
softly.  “It’s all right, Rosalind.  It’s just a rope.  It won’t hurt you.”

Slowly, Rosalind calmed down.

Maggie worked with her all afternoon, but Rosalind
was stubborn.  Finally, near suppertime, Maggie turned to her grandfather.  “What
am I doing wrong?”

James shook his head.  “Nothing, Maggie.  Each horse
is different.  Rosalind is unusual for a filly, but not unique.  She wants to
be boss.”

“How do I gentle her without breaking her spirit,
then?”

James squeezed her shoulder.  “Give her time,
Maggie.  Give her time.”

*  *  *

Days turned into weeks, and still Rosalind fought
Maggie.

August came, hot and humid.  One still afternoon,
Maggie wiped the sweat from her eyes.  Rosalind yanked the rope out of her
hand.  Anger filled her, as hot as molten lead.  Maggie grabbed the rope and
wrapped it around her clenched fist.

And then she remembered the fury in her father’s
eyes when he struck her mother.

Maggie bowed her head. 
Think of the horse. 
Think how scared she is
.  Her grandfather’s words came back to her as if he
stood behind her.  She raised her head.  “Easy, Rosalind.  Easy, girl.” 
Slowly, she walked up to the horse.  Carefully, she removed the halter.

Rosalind tossed her head experimentally.  Her eyes
widened as she realized that she was free.  She galloped around the corral: 
once, twice, three times.  Then, slowly, she trotted back to Maggie.

Smiling, Maggie scratched the little filly between
her ears.  She held out a sugar lump.  Rosalind sniffed it.  Then, she took it
from Maggie’s palm.  Slowly, cautiously, Maggie slipped the halter back on. 
Rosalind lifted her head.  Her ears flicked backward and forward.  Maggie
clicked her tongue.

Rosalind trotted around her in a neat circle.

Grinning, Maggie watched as the horse trotted around
and around.  Joy filled her, like clear water bubbling up from a spring.