May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (20 page)

Give’m a kiss for me, Squire, Sean jokes once he sees Lincoln, and he and Cormac laugh uncontrollably.

Ethan walks across the lobby and catches Mr. Lincoln on the landing between the first and second floors. He looks remarkably tired and his shoulders are slouched, making his arms appear even longer than before.

Mr. Lincoln, sir, Ethan calls out from a few steps behind him.

Lincoln takes the final step up to the landing and turns toward him. His fatigue is evident, and his face isn’t just gaunt like before, but appears sunken, like it’s frozen in the middle of drawing in a deep breath.

Yes, hello, he replies while removing his hat.

Sir … it is an honor to meet you, Ethan says, fumbling for words. I … I was at your speech this evenin’ at Cooper Union, and I must tell you that you have my full support for th’nomination … not that it’s of any importance, but … well, it was a fine speech, sir.

Well thank you, young man. You are? Lincoln asks, and extends his hand.

Ethan … Ethan McOwen, sir. Lincoln’s hand is bigger than Suah’s even.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McOwen. Irish, yes? I thought I detected a brogue.

Yes sir. Though I’ve been here longer than I was in the Old Country, Ethan replies, dismayed just a little that he’s so easily identified, even now.

Compared to my voice, yours is quite presidential, Lincoln says, as if he can understand Ethan’s expression. Where are you from?

Outside of Enniskillen, County Fermanagh … in the north, Ethan says, and can see that Lincoln is not familiar with it. My family’s been here since The Hunger—the famine, that is, sir.

Oh yes—a terrible tragedy. What terrible suffering your people have faced. But you’re doing well now, it appears.

Yes, we are, Ethan replies. My brother’s in politics … well, he’s a Democrat.

Lincoln laughs. Even great men have their vices, he says.

Very true. Well, he does a great deal of work in the Five Points. He’s a supporter of many charities there.

Good, there’s plenty of work to be done there, he replies. Tell your brother for me that it’s important work he does. And tell him when he’s ready to come over to the Republican Party, we’ll forgive all his past transgressions. And what is it
you
do, Mr. McOwen?

I’m a photographer … portraits mostly, Ethan says.

I had mine taken just yesterday, Lincoln says.

Yes sir, at Mathew Brady’s. I read about it sir.

Well if I had known, I would have come by your studio as well, Mr. McOwen.

And with that Mr. Lincoln tips his hat and bows slightly. Ethan wants to press on with the conversation, but can see that the politician is tired of politicking, and just plain tired in general.

Thank you sir, he says, and I do hope you’ll receive the nomination of the party.

Most
days I do too, Mr. McOwen, and they shake hands again before Lincoln ascends the steps before him.

As Ethan walks back across the lobby he can’t help but think of being back in Ireland, stealing handfuls of oats from the Brodericks’ horses and feeling his family didn’t deserve as much, what with how the Brodericks’ were a proper rich family and all. Thoughts of Seanny and
Cormac and Harry and his Da run through his head, as if each of their paths was one he might’ve followed. But instead here he is, a struggling photographer with potential, a would-be scholar without a degree, and now, being called
Mr. McOwen
by a man who just delivered the kind of speech that might soon have him running for President of the United States.

Did ya get a locka his hair, Squire? Sean asks as Ethan returns to them.

I gotta tell ya Ethan, Cormac adds, dat’s one
homely
-lookin’ lass ya got dere.

But it doesn’t matter, none of it, not when he’s come this far. He looks at the empty brandy bottle on the table, then sees that the bar is still open across the Great Hall.

I could use a pint, Ethan says. I’m buyin’.

Oh good god, this
is
a day to remember, Seanny says, and he and Cormac are soon following behind.

“Three cards for Miss Marcella?” Witt asks, with every ounce of genteel condescension he seemingly can muster.

“Three … oh … yes please, Mr. Witt,” she replies, placing the cards nervously down in front of her. “Oh, wait a moment,” she quickly adds, then looks at the two cards in her hand, exchanging one of them for one she has just discarded.

The men laugh, looking around at each other and back at her, acknowledging that she is charmingly out of place. Marcella giggles with embarrassment, looks at her cards again, and nods before placing them down on the table.

“I believe I’d give you
four
cards, Miss Marcella,” Witt says with a giant half-moon smile beneath his finely groomed mustache. “If I wasn’t afraid you’d take all my money from me, hahahahaha …”

Marcella smiles and bats her eyelashes some. “Well I
do
thank you, Mr. Witt. And what a charming, thoughtful man you are,” she says.
Jackass
, she thinks.

The new cards are dealt, and she’s wide-eyed and appearing gullible as a child as she studies each man’s reactions to his new cards.

“Well … I’ll bet
ten
dollars,” van Nils announces, his voice cracking just a bit.
Bluffing again
, she thinks.

“Make it twenny!” Starling exclaims.
And thank you, Mr. Starling, for always raising so emphatically when you have the weakest hand
.

Jordan is next and he only calls.
Didn’t make his straight or flush
, she thinks.
Two pair, perhaps
. And all eyes turn back to her.

“Why Miss Marcella, here I give you three brand-new cards an’ you haven’t even
looked
at ’em yet,” Witt says. “Now why would you go and hurt my feelin’s like that?”

“Oh dear, I was so caught up in all the excitement,” she says.
Oh dear, it’ll be a
particular
pleasure to take your money, Mr. Witt
.

Marcella pretends to be horribly embarrassed, smiles apologetically, and picks up the three new cards. While the men continue laughing, she puts them down and looks at the original two again.

“You’re
allowed
to look at ’em all at once,” Starling jokes.

“An’ even if it
was
against the rules, Miss Marcella,” Jordan adds, “why, I believe we’d make’n exception for such a charmin’ young lady as yourself.”

“Well I sure do thank you all,” Marcella replies. “Ha,
‘you all,’
I believe I’m becomin’ more Southern ever’ day we’re here.”
Try not to shudder now
, she reminds herself.

“Well we’re happy t’have such a pretty lady decoratin’ the room like this, Miss Marcella,” Witt says.
Steady
.

“A reg’lar Spanish Southern belle, an’ pretty as the moonlight,” van Nils adds.
Steady
.

“An’ we don’ wanna see you lose any money, so …” Witt adds, getting to the point.

“Oh my, is it
my
turn to bet?” she asks.

“Well, Mr. van Nils already bet ten dollars, an’ Mr. Starling made it
twenty
,” he replies, as if telling a child about ghosts in the attic.
Goodness me!
she orders her face to express.

“Oh my. So twenty dollars? Two red ones?” she asks.

“Well yes,” Witt says, “but you don’t
hafta
play, Miss Marcella …”

But before he can complete his sentence, Marcella throws in her twenty dollars.

“Now hold on just a second,” he says. “I was gonna say you could
fold
, Miss Marcella, an’ save th’twenny dollars. Now you didn’t know that, so I’m sure the gentlemen won’t mind if you take ’em back.” He looks around at them and they’re all quick to agree.

“Oh, I
see
 …” she says. “But
that
wouldn’t be very much
fun
. No—this is fine.”

Witt shakes his head as if what he is about to do will wound him greatly, but it’s out of his hands.
Barely even looked at his two new cards
, Marcella observes.
So three of a kind. They’d better be aces, Mr. Witt. Now, at least
.

“I’m sorry, but … well … I’ll make it thirty, gentlemen,” Witt finally says, looking over at Marcella as if his heart were breaking to take her money like this.

“I’m out,” van Nils says, throwing his cards away with disgust.

“Forty!” Starling exclaims with a greater edge this time.
Too quick again, Mr. Starling
.

“Call!” Jordan says.
Ahhh, Mr. Jordan
, she thinks,
you’d be a very good player if you just didn’t so hate the idea of losing to Mr. Starling
.

They all look condescendingly at her again.

“Now Miss Marcella,” Witt cautions. “This hand’s gotten richer’n we usually—”

“How much is it, fawty dollars?” she interrupts. “
Fawty
dollars, hee-hee. I’m ’bout ready to move down here with y’all.”
Forgive me Mrs. Carlisle
, she jokes to herself.

“Well, only
twenny
more to you,” Witt says, “but now you don’ hafta … that is …”

“You can
fold
like I did,” van Nils says. “Just smart poker’s all that is, Miss Marcella.”

“Oh—but I’d like to see this through to the end, I think. So yes, I believe I’ll give it a go. There—two more red ones,” she says, tossing the chips into the middle and then looking around at the pained faces of her opponents. “Oh, don’t worry so much,
y’all
,” she laughs. “It’s only
money
.”

Her smile seems to ease some of their suffering.

“Well, might as well see it through,” Witt says, and tosses his money into the pot.

They all look to Starling, who places his pair of jacks down in front of him, announcing them with far more glee than they merit.

“Nines over fours,” Jordan counters, happy just to beat Starling no matter what it cost.

“Well … I’ve been very lucky
indeed
.” Marcella says, cautiously, so as not to offend. “Three
kings
,” she says with just enough glee to make the men actually feel happy for her.

“That beats my three tens,” Witt says, sounding almost relieved.

“Well, lookit that!” van Nils adds, and the men laugh as Marcella rakes in the pot of nearly two hundred dollars.

“
That’ll
buy a new dress or two, Miss Marcella.”

“Charmin’, witty,
and
a card shark.” “Don’t forget pretty as a daisy.” “A daisy? Pretty as a
rose
.” “A
Savannah
rose.”

Steady
, she urges herself.

The men fall all over themselves complimenting her, and she takes it all in with blushing amusement.
I didn’t think it would be
this
easy
.

“Well … y’all are
fahhr
too generous in your praise,” she says. “I’m just glad I had some better luck than my poor brothers did. They’re the ones who taught me howta
play
, after all.”

The men look at each other and laugh some more.

“Yes, well,” Witt says, as if speaking for the entire table, “Miss Marcella, I believe it’s safe to say that
you’re
the best card player in your
esteemed
family.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Witt,” she responds.
I know just how small a compliment that is
.

For two hours that evening, she’d sat in one of the parlor room armchairs beside the poker table, pretending to read while she watched her brothers stumble through playing with as much subtlety as they employed in their daily lives, sons of their father that they were. They bet with the kind of bravado that was as clear a tell as Starling’s exclamations or van Nils’s cracking voice, but with even less sense. And then, before her brothers were completely out of money, Marcella slipped upstairs and waited in the parlor between their rooms. Bartolomé and Miguel strolled in a short while later, looking to have a few more brandies and commiserate over what bad luck they’d had, and Marcella quickly found out that they’d lost five hundred dollars between them. A half hour later she managed to charm her way into the game, declaring to the young gentlemen, “Daddy gave me two hundred dollars for new dresses, but I already have more dresses than I could possibly ever wear as it is, and—my brothers taught me all about the game—and in Europe the ladies play cards with the men all the time, for money even, and … well—I’m just so terribly
bored
.” And the men finally,
laughingly
, relented.

What’s most difficult for Marcella is that she has to play at a level
beneath these men for most of the evening, selecting only the best opportunities to win a pot. But by the time midnight rolls around, she is up five hundred dollars. It’s astounding the run of
luck
she’s had, and that recognition, combined with her flattery and batting eyelashes, keep the gentlemen as cordial as ever. She’s only won back what her brothers had lost, after all. But she knows that things will change if she lets that
luck
continue to roll. So she bides her time, waiting for one more big splash before she’ll suddenly become shocked at how late it is and excuse herself from the game. But when an hour more passes and the cards don’t provide such a prospect, she begins to think of settling for what she’s already won. And then the swirling tornado of a healthy dose of male vanity, mixed with a double measure of brandy, provides her with a chance.