Leaving Lucy Pear(54)

He cleared his throat, took up the telephone, and asked the operator to put him through to his brother.





Twenty-two




The first days went by in a green, quivering haze. The fog had left in its wake a cloudless sky and a gusting wind that threw the leaves into perpetual frenzy. Emma tripped through the clean air, winding from house to hospital and back, fighting an almost constant urge to cover her eyes, retreat back into fog, see nothing clearly. She succeeded mostly, a walking, winding body, tending, going, feeding, nodding, until nine days and nights had passed and Roland was brought home. She woke up then. She saw Roland sitting in the old nursing chair without most of his left leg, and the doctor kneeling before him, showing Emma how to clean and wrap the stump. She saw herself in the kitchen doorway, Joshua in her arms, her face worked into the easiest expression she could manage, though she was close to vomiting with what was in front of her: black stitching holding together a nearly unrecognizable, swollen, shining, ham-pink remainder of a leg.

“Like this,” said the doctor. “Then this.” He was done with the alcohol—he was drawing small circles on the flesh with a wad of linen. “Sometimes this helps with the pain. Mrs. Murphy?”

She nodded. “I see,” she said, but she was looking at the side of Joshua’s face, the curled scruff of his sideburn, the intricate, perfect tunneling of his ear. He was pointing behind her, into the kitchen, his hips rocking against her, There, go. “You want a cookie?” she asked him quietly.

“A nurse can help,” said the doctor.

“We won’t need a nurse,” Emma said quickly, before Roland could say it. But looking at him, she saw he was far from taking offense. It had been the same in the hospital: while Emma flinched at the facts, the clacking floors, the words themselves—crushed, amputate, stump, stump, stump, stump—Roland appeared to float in a distant, empty state. She thought it must be disbelief, but even here, in his own house, he seemed a punched-out version of his previous self, a balloon everyone had always feared would pop but that instead had quietly diminished. Maybe he was still in shock, and would return. Emma had often longed for Roland to be less irascible, but the reality of it, his peaceful bagginess, filled her with grief.

“If there’s any redness . . .”

It’s all red! Emma wanted to shout. How do I distinguish between one red and another? How am I supposed to know what I’m doing? She had managed well enough with Mr. Hirsch—she had bathed and inspected him, she had treated the spots gone sore from too much sitting, she had acted, despite her lack of experience, as his nurse. But she hadn’t known him when he’d been another way.

“We’ll keep a careful eye on it,” she told the doctor. “Thank you.”

Roland reached his arms out for Joshua. “Bring him here,” he said quietly.

“He wants a cookie,” Emma said.

“So bring him a cookie,” Roland said, his arms still out. Emma placed the boy in his lap and went. It was Roland’s rule that the Murphy children did not eat outside the kitchen. When they did, he shouted and swore as if they’d set the house on fire. Emma made the children follow the rule when Roland was home and when he wasn’t, to keep herself in the habit of enforcing it and to keep all of them in the habit of Roland. This summer, she had been especially strict about it, to compensate, she supposed, for her other, more significant rebellions. Walking out of the kitchen now with the cookie in her hand—its butter and sugar bought, like so much else, with funds from Josiah Story—she felt a mix of bewilderment and fear, as if Roland might turn on her at any moment and say, Got you!

“You know,” the doctor was saying, “in a few months, you might be able to fit a prosthetic. Once the stump is healed. It takes strength, but you’ve got that.”

“I’m not going to pretend I’ve got a leg,” Roland said quietly.

The doctor looked to Emma. “There’s time,” she said, handing the cookie to Joshua and a five-dollar bill to the doctor.

He waved the money away. “It’s the least I can do, Mrs. Murphy.”

“Please.”

“Thank you, but no. Here.” He drew a vial out of his pocket and handed it to Emma. “For night. For the pain.”

Emma bowed her head. Her neck knew the stretch now and went easily—it was all she could think to do when people insisted she take things, which they did almost constantly since Roland’s accident or, as the papers had taken to calling it, his “tragic mishap.” Strangers delivered cakes and flowers, friends came with toys for the children, neighbors brought more food than Emma could fit in the new refrigerator, a General Electric Monitor Top that the women from Sacred Heart had brought. Another parish brought Roland a crystal radio set, another a gramophone, and another a corner table on which to set them. They were competing to outgift Roland, who, along with the other maimed crewmate, Luis Pereira—whose face had been burned when the engine blew—had been turned into unwitting heroes after the cause of the Mendosa’s wreck became known. The Boston Herald had been the first to break the news: “The tragically absent whistle buoy had been removed on account of temperance leader Beatrice Haven Cohn, who suffers, it has become apparent, from a nervous disorder.” Mrs. Cohn’s mother, according to the paper, had previously boasted to a friend about her sway with the U.S. Navy, and this friend, seeing news of the wreck, had gone to the Herald. The next day, the story filled the front page of the Gloucester Daily Times, catapulting Roland into sainthood and—because the local press, more outraged about a wealthy outsider’s ability to influence the navy than about whether the navy gave a damn about fishermen’s lives, spared Admiral Seagrave—instantly transforming Beatrice Cohn into the pariah the natives had been hungering for for years. She was a perfect symbol of wealth and recklessness, proof that those who summered on Cape Ann would also ruin the place. One cartoonist reimagined the Lady of Good Voyage, who stood atop the Portuguese church cradling her fishing boat, as a hawk-nosed woman cradling a bag of money. It was assumed that Emma felt the same as everyone else—more vehemently, if anything—but Roland’s leg wasn’t the only loss she had suffered. A few days after the wreck, a driver had arrived bearing a basket of bread baked by Susannah Story along with a cordial letter, on official campaign letterhead, from Mr. Josiah Story for Mayor, welcoming Mr. Murphy home and wishing him a quick and full recovery. Emma guessed that Story had written it himself, for the squat, scratchy hand, and the stupidity of his word choice—what was a “full recovery” when you’d lost a leg? She missed him. She dreamed perverted dreams about him. In an entirely different way, she missed Mr. Hirsch, too. She could not go back to work for him—locals were picketing outside the mansion, apparently, demanding the whistle buoy’s immediate return; his niece had caused (however indirectly) Roland’s maiming—but neither could she have predicted how much she would miss the rhythm of her days there, the old man’s curmudgeonly kindness, the seemingly simple act of going out into the world, working in it, returning from it, Emma, alone. And Mrs. Cohn, who to Emma’s surprise had not absconded to Boston. Emma had been angry at Mrs. Cohn for so long that she wasn’t particularly moved by her role in the wreck. Instead, now that Mrs. Cohn’s undoing was complete to a degree Emma had not imagined, Emma found herself hoping she was all right. She was Lucy’s mother, after all. And she was frail. But then Emma would think the same thought upside down: She was Lucy’s mother, after all! Mrs. Cohn had left Lucy for Emma to raise. Mrs. Cohn flipped in Emma’s mind like a playing card: heartless queen, sniveling girl. She had sent a check for one thousand dollars and Emma wanted to tear it up, eat it, and take it to the bank all at once. For now, she had put it in the box under her bed.