I staggered up the steps to my bedroom and locked both doors. I wanted to curl up in a corner of my closet and weep in terror, but there was no time. Karl would probably go downtown to open the pharmacy at nine o’clock and let his employees inside, then return home to finish with me. The next train to the city left at 9:10 this morning. I had to be on it. I dumped my knitting out of a carpetbag and began stuffing it with clothes and toiletries. There was no time to change into another dress. I peeled off my ruined hose and pulled on ankle socks and an old pair of shoes. I quickly counted the money in my purse, then added the few dollars I’d hidden in my jewelry box. If I had pawned all the necklaces and rings Karl had given me, they would have been worth a tidy sum, but I slammed the lid shut again, refusing the temptation to steal from him.
My bedroom overlooked the street in front of the house. I watched through the curtain until I saw Karl drive away. I was about to unlock my door when Katie knocked on it, startling me.
“I brought you some tea, Miss Emma,” she called from the other side. “Mr. Bauer said you weren’t feeling well. . . .” I jerked open the door. Katie saw my wild eyes and disheveled hair and backed up a step. “Oh, Miss Emma!”
“Please help me, Katie. Karl is coming back in a few minutes, isn’t he?”
“Y . . . yes, he said he was going to open the store and fetch some medicine for you. He asked me to watch over you until he got back.”
“There’s no time to explain, but I need to get out of Bremenville before he comes back.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. I’ll disappear in the city somewhere.”
“My brother Ian lives there. You can tell him I sent you and that you need a job and a place to stay.” She set down the tea tray and scribbled his address on a scrap of paper. I saw the words St. Michael’s Parish—Patrick’s parish—and felt rescued already. I grabbed an old coat from the closet and hugged Katie good-bye. I didn’t feel safe until the train had chugged out of town and was steaming away from Bremenville at full speed.
On the long train ride to the city I made plans. I would find Patrick and tell him about our baby. I needed his help. I had no place to live, no money, no job skills, and a baby coming in seven months. Patrick was unhappy with the priesthood and had probably resigned already by now. I remembered how he’d said he would never be able to partake of the body and blood of Christ again. We would run away together as we’d planned to do a long time ago. When my divorce from Karl was final, Patrick and I would be married.
My biggest fear was that Karl would outrace the train in his car and would be waiting on the platform for me when I arrived. I tied a kerchief over my hair and offered to help a harried mother in the third-class coach with her brood of children. Clutching one child by the hand and another one in my arms, I hid in the crush of passengers as we disembarked. I saw no sign of Karl. When I was sure the coast was clear, I hired a cab to take me to St. Michael’s church. The new priest could probably tell me where Patrick had gone after he had resigned.
The taxi dropped me off in front of the gray stone building. I gave the driver the last of my dollar bills. I had only a handful of coins left to my name. I climbed the church steps on shaking legs, tying the kerchief over my head again, as I’d seen Catholic women do. I had never walked through the doors of a Catholic church before.
Inside, the sanctuary was shadowy and serene. I slipped into a pew and allowed the peaceful atmosphere to calm me. There was a mass in progress, and the sound of somber chanting echoed off the wood-panelled walls like a voice from heaven. The priest wore a long black robe with purple vestments and stood with his back to the church, reciting the mass in Latin. Even though I sat in the last row, I knew by the broad sweep of his back and shoulders and the way his golden hair glinted in the candlelight that it was Patrick.
When he turned, holding a chalice in his hands, I saw a look of quiet reverence on his face. I heard the brokenness and humility in his voice, even though I couldn’t understand his words. Papa’s voice had sounded the same way after the war, after Eva’s death, after he had finally accepted all that the hand of God had dealt him. Patrick lifted the bread, the body of Christ, as an offering to God. He had told me he would never be able to partake of it again, but I watched him do it. Somehow, Patrick had made peace with God.
I had heard Papa recite the communion service hundreds of times, and I knew by heart the words Patrick was chanting in Latin: Take, eat; this is my body, broken for you . . . This is my blood, which is shed for the complete for giveness of all your sins. . . .
I remembered the look of shame and horror on Patrick’s face when he’d realized his sin, and I knew I couldn’t take his peace away from him a second time. I loved him too much. As the handful of congregants filed forward to receive the symbol of Christ’s sacrifice from Patrick’s hand, I quietly left the church. Patrick would never know that he’d fathered a child.
I stood outside on the steps of St. Michael’s, wondering what to do next. If I was going to begin my life over again without him, I would have to find a way to support our baby on my own. As people began to emerge through the church’s doors after mass, I remembered the scrap of paper Katie had given me. I pulled her brother’s name and address from my pocket and showed it to an old woman. “Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to King Street?”
“Why, that’s King Street right there, at that intersection.” I found the store around the corner, about a half a block down.
That’s how I met Booty Higgins, Katie’s brother. I walked into his dusty, jumbled store for the first time that day, and he greeted me with a warm smile. “Afternoon, ma’am. May I help you?” All of a sudden the shock of seeing Patrick as a priest for the first time hit me like a tidal wave. I broke down in tears. “Hey, now . . . it surely can’t be as bad as all that, can it?” Booty laid his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and patted my back awkwardly. I struggled to pull myself together.
“I’m sorry . . . .”
“That’s okay, ma’am. I’m sure there’s a good reason for . . .”
I thrust the piece of paper Katie had given me into his hands. “I’m looking for Ian Higgins,” I said.
“You’ve found him. That’s me.”
“I’m a friend of your sister Katie. She said you could help me.” He stared from the paper to me and back again, blinking in confusion. “I came down on the train from Bremenville this morning. I need a place to stay.”
“Well, I . . . I don’t know what to say. . . .”
“Please, Mr. Higgins.”
He smiled kindly. “Call me Booty. Everybody does. And your name is . . .”
“Emma. Emma Bauer.”
I saw by the change in his expression that he recognized the name of his sister’s employer. “Well, Mrs. Bauer, it so happens that I do know of a little place where you can stay. Why don’t you . . . uh . . . go on out front there and wait for me while I get my wife to mind the store for a while. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He led me toward the door as he spoke and held it open for me. I watched through the dusty window as he disappeared into his apartment behind the store. A moment later he hurried outside to join me, lighting another cigarette.
“About time for a little break, anyhow,” he said as we walked to the corner. “Can I carry your bag for you?”
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
“I . . . uh . . . I need to tell you about the room,” he explained as we walked. “Maybe you’ll want to stay, maybe you won’t.” He drew a long final drag from his cigarette and threw it onto the ground. “I’m operating a still over there, you see. My wife doesn’t even know.”
That explained the source of his nickname—Booty. He was a bootlegger, making bathtub gin during Prohibition. He led me to a cramped basement room he’d rented in a tenement several blocks away. It was smaller than Papa’s tool shed and not half as clean, but it was comfortably warm, thanks to the stove that needed to run nonstop to power the still. “I’ll be h
appy to let you live here, rent-free,” he said as he poured coal into the belly of the stove. “My . . . uh . . . my activities will be less suspicious if the cops see a respectable woman such as yourself coming in and out. You can help me keep the stove going too.” I wanted to hug him in gratitude.
“How can I ever thank you?”
“No need,” he said shyly. “No need.”
I scrubbed the room until my hands were raw, then furnished it with a bed, a hot plate to cook my meals, a washbasin, and a dresser with one drawer missing that I’d salvaged from the trash. Booty gave me some dishes and pots, and a mirror that was so wavy I felt like I’d been sipping his moonshine every time I combed my hair. The stove that powered his gin mill kept the room tropical, even in winter.
Booty came once or twice a day to check on the still; his friends Black Jack and O’Brien, who lived in one of the apartments upstairs, picked up the hooch and delivered it to their customers. Eventually Booty helped me find a job as a waitress in a nearby diner. Both the apartment and the diner were far enough away from Patrick’s church and the rectory that I didn’t need to worry about accidentally bumping into him.
I worked in that greasy-spoon cafe as many hours as they were willing to give me, then came home to my tiny room and collapsed. I knew that I could be arrested and thrown into jail if the police raided the apartment, but I felt safe from Karl and that was all that mattered. I’d found refuge on my tiny island, surrounded by a sea of Irish-Catholics.
My sense of security was short-lived. I had just returned to my apartment after working the breakfast and lunch shift one bitterly cold afternoon in November when there was a knock on the door. Always wary of a police raid, I took a minute to hide the still behind the screen Booty had made from an old packing crate. Then I stood on the bed and peered through the basement window.
Karl Bauer stood in the stairwell outside. Papa was with him.
The combination of shock and exhaustion from the long working day turned my knees to water. I collapsed onto the bed, weeping uncontrollably.
“Emma?” Papa called. “Emma, please open the door.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to do. There was no other way out of the apartment.
“We know you are in there,” Karl said. “We saw you come home.”
“Go away, Karl! I never want to see you again!” I was terrified of him. I hugged my body to protect the tiny new life it sheltered.
I heard the low mumble of voices as they talked, then Papa said, “May I come in alone, Liebchen?” The sound of Papa’s gentle voice addressing me as his beloved child tore my heart in two. I was ashamed to face him. But he had traveled so far to see me.
“Send Karl away first,” I finally said.
I stood on the bed again and watched until Karl climbed from the stairwell. I heard an engine start, then a spurt of gravel as the heavy car drove away. I opened the door to let my father in.
Papa wrapped me in his arms and held me tightly. “Liebchen . . .” he said in a hoarse voice. “Thank God we found you.” I felt sheltered, safe—a little child in her beloved papa’s arms. I savored the familiar scent of his after shave, the damp wool of his overcoat. My papa. But in my heart I knew that after today, he would never love me again as he did at that moment.
“How are you, Liebchen? Are you all right?” He held me away from himself and studied my face. His own face was creased with worry, his shoulders bent with weariness.
“Yes, Papa. I’m fine. Here, have a seat on the bed. Let me take your coat.” He glanced briefly around the tiny room, then sagged onto the bed, still wearing his overcoat. He never asked about the sound of the dripping still or the sweet smell of Booty’s moonshine that wafted from the corner. I sat beside him, numb with dread, and waited for him to speak first.
“Emma . . .” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Emma, I will come straight to the point. Karl says you are expecting a child—and that the child is not his. Is this true?”
“Yes. It’s true,” I whispered.
“Oh, Liebchen . . .” He closed his eyes. Causing Papa so much pain was one of the worst moments of my life. How could I have hurt this gentle man whom I loved so much? When he lifted his head again he said, “I’ve come to bring you home. Karl is a good Christian man. He’s willing to forgive you for the sake of your marriage vows.”
I shuddered at Karl’s deception. How could Papa believe he was a good Christian man? “Did he tell you that he tried to force me to abort the baby?”
“Karl said nothing about an abortion.”
“No, of course he wouldn’t tell you. But that’s what he tried to do. That’s why I ran away. And that’s why I won’t let him near me.” Sorrow and confusion clouded Papa’s gentle blue eyes. And I saw something else there—doubt. “You don’t believe me, Papa?”
“I don’t know who to believe,” he said quietly. He spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “How can I know the truth?”
“Because I’m your daughter! I wouldn’t lie to you!” Papa didn’t reply. “See? I knew you and Mama would take Karl’s side. That’s why I left Bremenville.” I started to rise, but he seized my hand and pulled me down beside him again. His hand was as cold as stone.
“Emma, I didn’t come here to talk about what has already happened. I’m trying to find a way for you to be reconciled. Karl wants you to come home. He’s willing to forgive you.”
“Under what conditions?” I knew Karl. I knew there would be a price to pay.
Papa sighed. “He’ll arrange for you to have the child in secret, then put it up for adoption.”
“But it’s my child too, Papa! My flesh and blood! How can I give it away to strangers?”
“We can find a good Christian family who will—” “Papa, no! I can’t believe you would agree to this! We’re talking about your own grandchild!”
“My grandchild deserves to grow up with parents who love him. Karl may never love your baby as a father should. Can you understand why it might be difficult for him to raise another man’s child?”
“Yes. But can you understand why it’s impossible for me to give away my baby?”
“Karl is meeting you more than halfway, Emma. He is willing to forgive you if . . .”
“What about you, Papa? Are you willing to forgive me—even if I don’t go back to Karl?”
“Repentance precedes forgiveness, Liebchen. It means being sorry for what you’ve done. I pray that you have confessed your sin to God and have asked His forgiveness. Then of course I will forgive—”
“But I’m not sorry!”
“Oh, Emma.” My words stabbed Papa so painfully, I might have shoved a knife into his heart.
“It’s the truth, Papa. I love Patrick. I’ve never loved Karl.”
“So,” he said, swallowing. “So Patrick O’Duggan is the child’s father?”
“Yes. And I’m not sorry we spent that night together. I only wish it could have been a lifetime.”
“You’re not sorry for the sin of adultery?” Papa asked in a horrified whisper. My words had twisted the knife deeper.
“The only regret I have is that I didn’t marry Patrick to begin with. I’m sorry I married Karl. My marriage vows were a sin because I vowed to love Karl and it was a lie. I couldn’t love him because I still loved Patrick.”
“Emma, your child has been conceived in adultery and—”
“This child I’m carrying is innocent of any wrongdoing. I won’t treat it like a dirty little secret that must be hidden under the rug. I won’t give Patrick’s baby away. It’s all I have left of him!”
“If you love your child, then I beg you to repent . . . for the child’s sake. The Scriptures say that the sins of the fathers are visited on the children to the third and fourth generation. Is that what you want? Do you want your children and grandchildren to be separated from God as well?”
“How can I say I’m sorry for what I did, when I’m not?”
“Emma, God can’t forgiv
e you unless you confess and repent!”
I let the awful truth sink into my heart, then said, “I guess I’ll never be forgiven for what I’ve done.”
Papa lowered his head and covered his eyes with one hand. He was silent for a long time. We sat mere inches away from each other, but I knew that the rift that had widened between us was unbridgeable. “That’s your choice, not God’s,” he said at last. “And not mine. Do you remember the story of the Prodigal Son from Sunday school? God will always be waiting for you to return to Him. Waiting to forgive you.”
He rose from the bed as if every joint in his body ached and walked to the door. After he opened it, he turned and said, “And I’ll be waiting for you too, Emma. With open arms. Every day of my life.”
* * *
Sunday, the Lord’s Day, was the hardest day of the week for me, reminding me painfully of both Patrick and Papa. I wouldn’t go to church. The diner where I worked was closed, so I often spent the day exploring the city—though I was always careful to avoid the area around St. Michael’s. Booty’s store was also closed, and he sometimes spent the afternoon in my apartment while I was out, tinkering with his still.
One Sunday in December I decided that the weather was too cold for my usual walk. It had begun to sleet. I lay on my bed resting, while Booty lay on the floor beneath the still, trying to unclog a hose. We had been talking quietly, when I suddenly felt the baby stir inside me for the first time. “Oh!” I gasped and sat up.
I startled Booty, who must have thought the cops had arrived. He tried to sit up, too, and banged his head on the leg of the stove. “Ow! Wha . . . what’s going on?”
“Oh, that’s so . . . incredible! I just felt my baby move, I felt it! It was like . . . like a butterfly’s wing or . . . or the fingers of a tiny little hand brushing against me!” Booty wiped his hands on a rag and came over to sit on the other end of my bed. He was dewey-eyed, his voice soft.
“Ah, so that’s why you’ve been hiding out here . . . it’s a wee baby, is it?”