We all carry our own cross.Aye, Granny. And now, sure enough, I know the weight of mine.
“What now, Damien? What should I do?”
That night I empty the cash from the bag onto the cot and make piles ofit on the plaid blanket so I know the truth. Along with the coins tumbles the brass key that had come to our rescue back in the tunnel. I fold my fingers around it, fit to cry some more.When one door closes, another one opens.Not this one, Granny. But faith, I’m grateful to the thing. It let us run free. It let me see Damien’s face in the light once more before he was gone. Because of the key, I saw him waving, and I heard his voice one more time, calling me his love.
One day had stripped me of so much. I think of him, and I think of Bianca, then my thoughts show me my necklace, lying somewhere in the dirty tunnel. I touch the place on my chest where it had been, and knowing ’tis gone makes me feel lonelier than I could ever imagine being.
On a whim, I pull a loose string from the old blanket, and I thread it through a hole in the little brass key. Then I reach back and knot the string behind my neck, thinking of Damien the whole time. This had been our key to freedom. The string is long, so the key hangs low. No one will know it’s there but me. No one will ever ask about my plain, small, ugly brass key. It’s mine, and it comforts me. My locket is gone, and so is Damien. The key had done all it could to help us get away. It wasn’t the key’s fault that Damien died.
When I’m done counting the money, would you believe I’ve $248.75, including the hundred that Mr. Carboni paid Damien for his last delivery and the eleven that he gave me? A fortune, in my view, but sure, I know money. It slips through fingers like water. This bed already cost two dollars. I cannot afford to spend any more.
I must get a job. I could work here, at the Queen’s Hotel, if she’s hiring. Wouldn’t that be a gas? Me back at the Queen’s after all. Sure, and I’ll need a place to live as well. Perhaps there’s a room to let somewhere.
Now that my wits are coming back, I cannot wait any longer. My life is spinning in a whirlwind, and I must act quickly, for once folks see I am with child but without a husband, I will be shunned. No one will want me to work for them or live with them or anything. For just a blink, I think how much easier my life would be without a baby. It is not even born yet, and I already feel the weight of public shame.
But God meant me to be a mother, and Damien meant me to be his wife. ’Tis only a pity the two things didn’t happen in reverse order. If I’d a wedding ring on my finger, this would be simpler to explain by far. I run my fingers over my belly and sing quietly, a lullaby I remember from years ago. I can almost feel Damien’s eyes on me, hearing me sing. Did I ever sing for him? Faith, I’ve already forgotten so many things. The lullaby is for the baby, but really, ’tis for both of them.
In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.
She wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!”
I feel a quiver in my stomach. Quick as a whisper, then gone, but I know straightaway what it is. Or rather,whoit is. I carry on into the next verse, hoping to feel that flutter again. All the while, my fingers tickle around the curve of my hardening stomach.
She was a fishmonger, and sure ’twas no wonder
For so were her mother and father before
They wheeled their wheelbarrow through the streets broad and narrow
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!”
I wait, then I feel silly. My head, messing with me again. Maybe—
There it is again. A little flutter that says, “Hello, Mam. I’ll be there soon.”
My whole world changes, hearing that voice. I never want to live without it. “Hello there. I’ll take care of you,” I promise.
In the morning, I pause at the hotel’s front reception and give a smile to the woman there. She’s stout, with a constitution pale as mine. She gives me a tirednod and studies me. I know what ’tis she sees. I am clean, but I am wearing the same clothes I wore last night, and they are dirty. The most difficult part was scrubbing Damien’s blood off my cuffs. I did not want to wash it away.
“Sleep well?” she asks.
“I did. ’Tis a lovely room. I’m obliged to you. If I could, I’d like to book a room for tonight.” I think about the little piles of coins I counted last night and picture them dwindling away. “It need not have a bath, though.”
“You can have room 21,” she says. Her pudgy hand reaches across the counter and exchanges my dollar for the key. I take it, but I don’t move, for I’ve a question and am unsure how to ask it.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Is there something else?”
“Yes, ma’am, if you could spare a moment. I’ve only just arrived, and I must find work. Might you need help here, at the hotel? I’ve experience—” I catch myself. I was close to blurting out “at the Dominion Hotel,” but that would give me away. If this woman were to telephone them to ask about me, I’d be in trouble. “I have worked at two hotels in the past, both in the laundry and as a chambermaid. I am a fierce hard worker, ma’am.”
There is suspicion in her expression now. “You are here on your own?”
I already practiced my answer in front of the mirror, but it does not make the saying of it any easier. “Yes, ma’am. I’m a widow. I’m beginning a new life on my own.”
“I don’t see a wedding ring.”
