Ashes of Fiery Weather (14 page)

Claire pressed her lips to the back of Flynn's hand. “See?” she said to him. “I told you.”

Flynn O'Hagan looked up at her, his hazel eyes expressionless, almost.

Claire was steadfast in her refusal to say what prompted her flight from her mother's house. She allowed only that it was worse than the usual. About her boyfriend, Ray Phelan, she said even less. In the first week at Delia's, he'd come by three times, and though Claire would not invite him in, she did consent to talk to him in front of the house. Delia watched from the front window. After Claire sent him away, he stayed on the sidewalk until she shut the front door.

Delia spoke of Flynn delicately, leaving openings for Claire to tell her the truth. Won't your mother come looking for him? Doesn't she want him with her? But Claire said no, her mother was sick to death of kids.

At the start of the second week, Claire went back to get the rest of their clothes when she knew her mother and the other kids were at ten o'clock Mass. Her father would probably be there, but too sick to get out of bed, if he'd made it to the bed.

Flynn stayed with Delia. After saying goodbye to Claire and watching her walk up the block, Delia closed the door and turned to see the boy sitting on the stairs. In the classroom, she had a script to follow. Outside it, she had nothing to say to a child.

Flynn surprised her by pointing at the pictures on the wall.

“Is that your father? Claire said he was a fireman.”

Delia moved closer and saw he meant the photograph of her grandfather with his fire company, taken in 1870. The rig was parked in front of the firehouse, the men posed on the horse-drawn fire wagon in their long coats with large buttons. Almost all of them had mustaches. Her grandfather's picture was in a circle in the upper right-hand corner because he was the officer. He must have been about sixty then, she supposed.

“My father
was
a fireman,” Delia said, “but that's my grandfather, my mother's father. He was from Ireland.” She pointed to her parents' wedding picture. “
That'
s my father there.”

Flynn asked, “What was his name?”

“My father was John Keegan. Jack. He once saved a woman from a fire over on State Street. She was already unconscious when he found her at the top of some stairs, and he carried her out. She was having a baby, so—” So she was heavy as hell, she'd been about to say, but cleared her throat. “He got the Bennett Medal for it. That's the highest honor a fireman can receive.”

Flynn regarded her shyly. “Did your grandfather save people too?”

Delia knew only one story about him.

“He fought the Brooklyn Theatre fire in 18-something. It started backstage from a lantern and spread very fast. The whole building burned and collapsed. After, some of the brass—the bosses—said that there wasn't anybody inside. My grandfather said that's impossible. Then they looked and found almost two hundred people.”

“He saved them
all?
” Flynn asked.

But Delia had meant the dead. The victims had mostly been seated in the balcony and were killed in the stampede for the exit. Burned beyond recognition, many had been buried together in Green-Wood Cemetery.

“Yes,” Delia said.  “All of them.”

“Holy Toledo,” Flynn said.

Delia hoped he never heard the truth. There was a good chance he wouldn't; it was one of those forgotten tragedies. She knew of it only because her father had told her the story about her grandfather, and how every year, on the anniversary, he would lay a wreath on the victims' grave.

“Sometimes your mother went with him,” Jack had said.

Delia recalled the affection in his voice when he spoke of Paddy, who'd died not long after she was born. As for her father's parents, she only knew that they'd both died when he was a child.

“My grandfather and my dad worked in the firehouse around the corner,” she told Flynn. “It was when Brooklyn had its own fire department. You can see above the door it still says BFD, Brooklyn Fire Department. All the fire companies have nicknames. This one is called the Glory Devlins, after my grandfather Patrick Devlin and this other fireman. His name was Jeremiah McGlory.”

“That's a funny name.”

“He was from Ireland too,” Delia said.

“Why's it named after them?”

“I think because they were the first two members of the company. We can go over to the firehouse if you want and take a look around.”

Flynn's mouth fell open. “They'd let us in?”

Delia wanted to laugh. Any kid who came to the door would be welcomed. The guys loved to show off the rigs. “Of course,” she said. “I know them.”

On a Friday night, the last night of October, Ray Phelan came by for the first time in a week. Claire went out to talk to him. Flynn was in the backyard, hoping to find some of the firemen in their own yard. They called the boy Errol.

Flynn reported that “the guys” said he had a future with the Dodgers. He repeated some of the awful things the men said about the Yankees, who'd of course beaten the Dodgers in the “Subway Series” three weeks ago. Delia thought her father would have loved that phrase. Like the firemen, Flynn cursed Mickey Owen, who dropped the third strike that let the Yankees go on to win Game Four. Delia offered to ask the firemen to watch their language around him. Out of respect for Jack Keegan, they might try. But Claire said she didn't care. When he spoke of the firemen, Flynn put together the longest sentences of his life. She'd always worried about him being too quiet.

He knows, Delia thought, that something isn't right.

Delia had a house to herself; the O'Hagans' was overcrowded. Claire's moving in with her would not have raised an eyebrow if she'd come alone. But because of Flynn, Sister Francis had twice questioned Delia about their living arrangements. She wanted to know if Claire's mother had given her permission to take the boy. Delia said she had no idea and stared blankly at the nun. Claire either didn't realize or refused to see that she'd confirmed the rumors about her.

Claire and Ray stood close together as they talked. Or rather, Ray talked and Claire listened with her arms crossed over her chest. When Claire turned to come in, Delia rushed to the couch and sat down. Claire sat on the opposite end with a sigh.

“What'd he want?” Delia asked, though she'd vowed not to.

“He said you could watch Flynn and we could go out.”

“Oh,” Delia said. “You don't want to?”

Claire shrugged. “I don't feel like it.” She stood up and turned on the radio.

Delia was about to ask her what Ray thought of her living here when she was distracted by a commercial ending and a reporter coming on. The USS
Reuben James
had been torpedoed by the Germans early that morning. Most of the crew, over a hundred men, were presumed dead. Claire switched the radio off and sat back down.

“Turn that back on!” Delia said. “We could get in the war over that!”

“Who needs to hear that on Friday night? Anyway, we're not getting in the war.” Claire waved a dismissive hand.

“They said the Germans killed a
hundred
of our men, Claire.”

Claire chewed her lip. “Ray would have to go.”

“So? Is he even still your boyfriend?” Delia asked with more anger than she meant to show.

“Even if he isn't, I don't want him to be killed!” Claire said. “And there's my brothers.”

Claire had three brothers of draft age and another who would be soon. In the opinion of the whole parish, all of them were going nowhere fast.

“President Roosevelt might declare war tonight,” Delia said. Claire covered her ears with her hands and shook her head.

Delia crossed the room and pulled Claire's hands away from her ears, intending to say, Yes, they all will go, and there's no way all of them will come back.

But Claire's hands were warm and alive against her palms. Delia held them tightly, met Claire's wide eyes, and the words wouldn't come.

Then Flynn dashed in the room, out of breath, and announced that the firemen had gone out on a run, and Delia let go of his mother.

That night, as she did every now and again, Delia opened her nightstand drawer and took out the catalogs she'd been collecting from colleges and universities all over the country. Vermont, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Maine, Oregon, California. She would have to take classes at night and work during the day, but that was fine.

In eleven days she would be twenty-three, almost too old to be sitting in classes with eighteen-year-olds. Maybe already too old. What would she do, exactly, with a four-year degree besides what she was already doing? She could, she supposed, take classes here and there as she liked, but to spend the money on the course fees just because she wanted to?

She tossed the catalogs back in their drawer. It was almost midnight and she was tired. She and Claire had taken Flynn to a Halloween party, thrown by one of the firemen for his sons. Though pleased Flynn was included, Delia realized the real purpose of the invitation. Almost as soon as she, Claire and Flynn arrived, the fireman's wife pulled her younger brother—a fireman, of course—out of a conversation to introduce him to “Jack Keegan's daughter.” He was as embarrassed as Delia was and probably would have scuttled away as fast as good manners allowed had Claire not been friendly enough to put him at ease. As they were leaving, it was her number he asked for. Claire declined with a pretty smile.

Tomorrow was November 1, All Saints' Day, and she wanted to go to Mass.

Claire insisted that it wasn't right to be angry at Annie-Rose for devoting the rest of her life to God. The sincerity of Claire's faith surprised Delia. Still, Delia began accompanying her and Flynn to the eleven o'clock Mass at Holy Rosary, the one the O'Hagans didn't go to. After church, the three of them would go to Agnello's, where they'd buy rolls and a sugar doughnut for Flynn, and then walk through Prospect Park, often going to the lake in spite of the cold. Soon the water would freeze over. Delia planned to get Flynn ice skates for Christmas, and she'd say they were from her, not Santa Claus.

Her bedroom door opened with its two-note creak. She sat up.

“Delia, can I sleep here tonight?” Claire hugged the doorframe.

“Why? What's the matter?”

“I had a bad dream . . . It's a little cold in my room. I'm not used to sleeping alone yet. I share with my sisters, and now with Flynn in his own room . . .”

Flynn had been moved to the second bedroom three days ago. Claire and Delia agreed that there was no reason he shouldn't.

Claire half laughed. “Now you know all my secrets. I'm afraid of the dark.”

Delia said, “You can sleep here.”

For a moment, Delia thought Claire might climb over her, but she walked around the bed, got in and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. Delia lay on her side, her back to Claire. They remained that way for some time. Delia almost convinced herself that Claire had fallen asleep, though there was no change in her breathing, and she seemed too still.

The sheets rustled as Claire slid closer. Her fingertips stroked Delia's hair.

Delia whispered, “What?”

Claire fit her knees into the backs of Delia's knees.

Delia straightened her legs and then quickly curled them again.

“I'll tell you something I never told anybody.” Claire's lips moved lightly against Delia's hair.

“Okay.” Delia turned over onto her back, so she could look at Claire.

“I forgot what I was going to say.”

Delia laughed, and Claire did too. Then Claire kissed her, and Delia kissed her back. They kissed again, and then for the third time. She put her hand on Delia's stomach.

“Okay,” Delia whispered.

At the dinner table, Claire and Delia didn't even let their hands brush each other's when passing the salt or the milk. But Delia asked for things more often than she needed to, for the chance of an accident. The pepper, the butter, the bread. Claire waited almost an hour after their bedtime, which came about three hours after Flynn's, before she went across the hall, always so silently that Delia never heard a single footstep.

Sometimes, in the dark, she touched the scar that bisected Claire's belly, but it made Claire tense up as if it still hurt, and she didn't relax until Delia moved her hand away. Flynn wouldn't turn, so finally they cut her to get him out. Weeks after he was born, her mother made her start school so nobody would suspect. Claire was still walking hunched over, and she had to wear a sweater all day for a couple of weeks in case she started leaking milk. All her classmates wanted to talk about was boys and movie stars.

Flynn's father was a friend of her brothers', two years older than she was. One night he had a party, and she got her brothers to let her go with them. He'd given her beer with whiskey in it. She could tell after she tasted it. She could hardly believe he liked her. They drank the same thing again the afternoon he invited her to his apartment (his father was long gone, and his mother was a nurse who worked the night shift at Kings County). After the first time, Claire figured it hardly mattered if she did it again.

When she told him, he said they'd get married, but a couple of days later, he was gone. His mother said he joined the navy, and it was probably true. He'd been afraid of what her brothers would do to him, and he should have been.

“You never did it with anyone?” Claire asked one night.

“Me?” Delia said, surprised. “No. Only you.”

Claire laughed. “But I don't count.”

Delia stroked Claire's foot with her foot. She felt Claire smile against her shoulder.

Every day, she and Claire walked home from work together, with Flynn. He was in the first grade, and after the last bell, he joined Delia in her empty classroom until four o'clock. She helped him with his homework and let him write on the blackboard with the colored chalk she saved for holidays. When the three of them turned down her block, Delia found herself looking at each of the houses and saw with relief that hers was no different from any other. Nobody could look at it and say that Delia Keegan had fallen in love with a girl instead of a boy like she was supposed to.