Speak Through the Wind (20 page)

“I cannot … cannot face him,” Kassandra said once she had sufficient voice to speak.

“I tell him, Miss Kassandra. I tell him everything.”

ew people were able to mourn with the extravagance of Ben Connor. Even before the sun was up he had ordered a small, white, silk-lined coffin to be delivered to the little apartment, and trays of food to be laid out on the bar downstairs. All of the windows on all three floors were covered in black crape, clocks were stopped, and predawn revelers were unceremoniously ushered into the streets at the insistent of strong-armed, silent Branagans.

These same men returned later in the morning, this time to escort a few of the old women from the neighborhood who walked into Kassandra and Ben’s apartment bowed with ceremonial grief and crossing themselves in nearly perfect synchrony Under Ben’s steely gaze, they took the baby from Kassandra’s arms, unwrapped his tiny body, and began to wash it.

Kassandra managed to rouse herself from her numbed state, wanting to protest that he had been cleaned already, but Ben cut off any comment with a raised hand and soft thanks offered to the women. Kassandra watched silently from her bed as her son was washed, dried, and dressed in a beautiful gown of white cotton and lace and laid reverently on the kitchen table until the little coffin would arrive.

Kassandra spent the next few hours in fitful sleep. When she dozed, she entertained dreams of her son, floating just beyond her reach, resplendent in his white gown, its lace creating a cloud around his tiny body, wafting him further and further from her grasp. At the edge of this sleep, she heard conversations in the room around her. This is how she knew that her son would be buried behind St. Mark’s, that the doors of Mott Street Tavern would open for the wake that afternoon, that the boy would be named Daniel after Ben’s father.

When she came full awake, she wanted to ask Ben about all these things, but she found her voice stopped somewhere near the top of her throat, unable to call his attention away from the soft white bundle on the table.

He sat with his back fully to her, his head resting on his clasped hands. On either side of him stood an elderly woman, each with a gnarled hand resting on his shoulder. Even if Kassandra had been able to emit a sound, she doubted she would be heard over the deep, mournful sounds of these women—half crying, half singing Gaelic verse punctuated by wailing “Och,
airiu …”

Kassandra watched, envious of their open grief. She hadn’t shed a single tear since Ben’s first arrival into that silent room, his face already ravaged with the pain of the news Imogene delivered to him. At the first sight of him, she had burst into sobs, crying, “I am so sorry, Ben,” only to have him reach across the precious bundle in her arms and deliver a sound slap across her face.

“No sense weepin’ over what you’ve killed,” he’d said.

After that, every part of Kassandra—body, soul, and spirit—grew numb.

She was awake at noon when there came a knock on the door. Ben managed to tear himself away from the vigil he’d been keeping to open it and usher in two women Kassandra recognized from the second floor. Bridget had fiery red hair and a generous smattering of freckles across her nose, cheeks, and shoulders left bare by the flimsy chemise she wore tucked into a bright red skirt; Fiona wore a rich patterned wrapper cinched around her waist and loose black hair tumbled down her back. Both women smelled of sour alcohol and cigar smoke, and the stench of it awakened Kassandra’s senses as the two women hooked Kassandra’s arms over their shoulders and helped her out of her bed.

“Come along,” Bridget said. “Time to get you up.”

“What are you doing?” Kassandra said, finding her voice and the strength to struggle.

Bridget and Fiona loosened their grip on Kassandra’s arms and looked questioningly over at Ben.

“Get her out,” he said, and with new resolve, the women went back to their task.

“C’mon now, girlie,” Fiona whispered into Kassandra’s ear, her sturdy arm around her waist. “It’ll be all right.”

“I … I cannot leave him.”

“We’ll bring you back after a time,” Fiona said, leading Kassandra in the first few tentative steps toward the door.

She was greeted on the second floor landing by a group of women—all vaguely familiar, though she would be hard-pressed to call most of them by name—in all sorts of ages, sizes, and stages of dress. They clucked and cooed as Fiona led her through them, doling small pats on her head and shoulders and muttered sympathies. Kassandra had been so accustomed to shunning their company that she could do little more than lean more heavily on the sturdy Fiona as she was conducted to the first open door.

A galvanized tub stood in the middle of the room, and one of the younger girls—probably close to Kassandra’s age—was pouring a steaming kettle full of water into it.

“That’ll do,” Fiona said, and the girl offered Kassandra a tortured smile before scuttling out of the room.

Kassandra’s nightgown was dropped to a puddle around her feet and, with the support of Fiona, she stepped out of its center and into the tub. Kassandra brought her hands to her empty stomach, and felt a new sense of mourning surge through her.

“Gone,” Kassandra said. “He is gone.”

“Yeah, it’s always sad when a little one dies,” Fiona said.

But Kassandra didn’t detect any hint of sadness in her voice. The woman was all business, moving Kassandra’s hands off her stomach so that she herself could press her hands against it.

“Miss Imogene told me to check your belly. Be sure it’s flattened out. Soft.”

“Where is Imogene?” Kassandra asked. “I would like to see her.”

But before Fiona could answer, the door opened to let in Bridget bearing an armful of dark cloth and an equally dark expression.

“What’s he got up there now?” Fiona asked, speaking over Kassandra’s head after settling her down into the water.

“Two priests, would you believe it?” Bridget dumped her bundle on the neatly made bed and sat in a chair next to a tidy dressing table. “The man’s heart is as black as sin, but he snaps his fingers and the clergy just flock to his door.”

“Ben’s?” Kassandra said.

“Never you mind,” Bridget said, then immediately softened her look. “I mean, don’t worry about nothin’ right now. Poor thing. You have enough of your own grief.”

Kassandra closed her eyes, leaned back against the raised side of the tub, and surrendered herself to Fiona’s ministrations. Each limb was lifted out of the water and washed with a sweet floral soap before cascades of cleansing water—either from Fiona’s own hands or the wringing of a soft cloth—rinsed her skin clean. For a brief moment, Kassandra was a child again—mute with shock, exhausted and alone, perched on the edge of a new life.

“You gonna wash her hair?” Bridget asked at the edge of Kassandra’s darkness.

“Won’t be dry before the wake,” Fiona answered.

Then she felt her hair being lifted from her, and for a split second she feared that it would be shaved again. Instead, she felt the tug of a thousand bristles as knots and gnarls were smoothed against Fiona’s palm. She felt her hair being plaited into two thick braids, then wound around the top of her head.

“Anything to pin it up with?” Fiona asked.

Kassandra willed her mouth to respond, but before she could, Bridget was saying, “I brought this from the top of her dresser.” Soon Kassandra felt the familiar scrape of Ben’s comb against her scalp.

“All right, now, girlie,” Fiona said. “Let’s stand you up.”

Once again strong arms lifted Kassandra, and she stepped out of the tub into a large, luxurious towel that wrapped around her body. She obeyed Fiona’s commands, arms up, now down, as she dried, the chill in the room turning her skin into goose-flesh.

“And this thing?” Fiona asked.

“Don’t ask me,” Bridget answered. “I never had no call to be a midwife.”

The fog that had seemed so permanently settled around Kassandra’s head lifted a little as she looked over at the bundle in Fiona’s hand.

“Did Imogene send that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Fiona said.

“Have you boiled it? Steeped it?”

“Yeah. Just like she said.”

“Then wring it out and bring it to me once it has cooled a bit.”

Fiona and Bridget looked at each other and shrugged, then Bridget followed Kassandra’s instructions while Fiona continued to rub the soft towel over Kassandra’s warming skin.

“Where is Imogene?” Kassandra asked again. “I want to see her.”

“Never mind that now,” Fiona said. “Let’s get you dressed.”

She spread the damp towel over the bed to protect the flower-sprigged coverlet and eased Kassandra to a sitting position upon it. Bridget brought the compress over and handed it to Kassandra, who took it and applied it directly where her body needed it. Soon, she knew, the lavender and comfrey leaves would bring some relief.

Next Bridget handed her a bundle of soft white cloth, folded into several layers, which Kassandra placed over the compress and held in place with a belt tied around her waist. Then, a pair of soft flannel pantalets and stockings, which were pulled on and tied by the much more willing Fiona.

“Don’t think you need to bother with shoes,” Fiona said. “Not like you’ll be goin’ out any time soon.”

“I don’t think you could get them on them feet anyway,” Bridget said. “Be like puttin’ slippers on a tree trunk way them feet are swoll.”

Fiona sent Bridget a withering glance, but Kassandra found herself smiling for the first time in days.

“And apparently we’re supposed to whip up a bunch of sauerkraut for the finishing touch,” Bridget said, reaching into the bag she’d carried in and producing a head of cabbage.

“Now I know I heard you talkin’ some of that kraut talk,” Fiona added, “but I don’t see how this is going to help.”

Kassandra was amazed to find herself not only smiling but laughing, just a little. But her laughter soon died when she came to grips with what the cabbage was for.

“Tear off the leaves,” Kassandra said, “the big ones. And wash them.”

“I know, sweetie,” Bridget said, sobering at the task. “Imogene told me everything.”

Kassandra sat on the edge of the bed, Fiona at her side gently patting her leg as Bridget tore the outer leaves off the cabbage and dipped them in the same water the compress had soaked in. Once they were patted dry, she brought them over to Kassandra, who pressed them against her breasts. The pregnancy had made them full and round, and the impending milk for her stillborn child made them unbearably heavy She stood then, holding the leaves in place, while Bridget and Fiona bound them in layer upon layer of a heavy cotton fabric, wrapping it tight until Kassandra’s figure was completely disguised beneath it.

“Now the dress,” Fiona said.

Bridget picked up the pile of dark fabric she had dumped on the dressing table when she walked into the room. It was a beautiful black silk, with a high collar and sleeves trimmed with matching lace. Once it was dropped over her head, Kassandra realized that even were her breasts not bound, her figure would be completely concealed in its shapeless cut as it fell in a straight line from her shoulders to the floor.

“And the picture of the grieving mother is complete,” Bridget said with a sidelong glance to Fiona.

An unsettling silence fell between the three women, but it didn’t last long as a wailing screech from upstairs cut through. Kassandra had never heard anything like it, and she started from where she sat on the bed.

“The baby!” she cried.

There was a split second when she feared her legs would give way, but she managed to take a few steps toward the door before Fiona caught her arm.

“Come, now,” she said gently, leading Kassandra back to sit down.

But the wailing commenced again, a sound so sad it seemed to capture every one of Kassandra’s unshed tears. Soon a soft vocalization of her own emerged to echo what she heard upstairs. The notes served as witness to her ravaged, unexpressed pain, and they were drawn from her, tugged hand over invisible hand, until she lacked the strength even to sit, and collapsed to her knees, her face to the floor.

“Now there’s a keening true,” Bridget said, her voice full of disgust.