28 years earlier
One muggy summer afternoon, she was trudging home from the market with a fussy Stephen on one arm and a tattered basket of groceries dangling from the other.
She was hot and sweaty, she knew she smelled bad, Stephen was bawling, and there was a huge blister on her heel that her shoe scraped painfully with every step.
Ida Macaulay, that little busybody who lived three doors down, had just thrown out a bucketful of dirty water and left a wet patch on the cobblestone. Trying to both keep Stephen's shrieks away from her ear and not to lose her basket, Maureen did not notice and slipped.
She managed just so to stay upright and not to drop the baby, but the rickety handle of her basket chose this very moment to finally break. The basket fell to the ground, some apples spilled out, a paper bag of potatoes, two onions and, of all things, the four precious eggs.
She saw them fall in slow motion and numbly watched as one after the other smashed and, as if that wasn't bad enough already, her little packet of sugar tumbled out as well and landed in the yellow puddle the eggs had made.
"Oh, flaming hell!" she cried out in frustration. She had been saving up for the eggs and the sugar for weeks so that Stevie would have a small cake for his first birthday, and now it all lay in a slushy mess at her feet.
She didn't make any effort to save the sodden package, only crouched down to pick up the apples and the potatoes and one onion. The other had rolled into the street and got crushed by a horse-drawn cart, but Maureen was past caring.
Stephen sat on the dirty ground beside her, silent now. He had stopped crying for some reason and was looking at her with earnest, big eyes, his thumb in his mouth, while she was trying to figure out how to get the boy and her remaining shopping home.
Something about that look shattered her completely. She let the ruined basket lie and hoisted Stephen up, pressed her nose into his fine fair hair and made no effort to pretend she wasn't crying.
"Can I help you, Miss?"
Maureen bit her lip and didn't look up. She did not want to see anyone, nor did she want anyone to see her in that state she was in.
Who was that anyway?
She was sure she didn't recognize the voice and the unfamiliar accent and hoped to God the stranger would go away.
"Miss? Are you alright?"
She nodded quickly, still not looking at the speaker, wishing he'd toddle off finally, but he didn't.
"Are you sure you don't need help with this?"
Shove off already, she thought, leave me alone!
"Let me carry this for you. Please."
She finally turned her head resignedly and saw a young man with dark curly hair and shining green eyes who had already picked up the broken basket, cradling it in his arms.
"Fine, if you won't have it any other way", she sighed, shushing Stephen who had begun to cry again. "It's just over there." She realized he was still looking at her and added by way of explanation, "Where we live. Down there, with the flower by the door." She pointed to where a single sad-looking sunflower was drooping in the heat.
Without another word, the stranger walked the short distance to her front door and waited there until she had caught up.
She pushed the door open with her elbow and nodded at him to follow through into the kitchen, indicating with another wordless nod that she wanted him to leave the basket on the table.
He set it down with slow, deliberate hands, all the while looking at her intently.
First, it annoyed her for no reason she could name, but she realized quickly that he was not in fact ogling her like some of those leery bastards in the neighbourhood often did. His gaze was soft and thoughtful, and she found herself saying, "Thanks for helping me. And sorry that I cried. It was just ..."
She suddenly found herself telling him all about Stevie's birthday and the cake she had wanted to make for him.
When she finally managed to stop babbling, she added sheepishly, "Oh well. You probably never wanted to hear all that. You must have other things to do. Sorry for keeping you …"
"No need to be sorry", he said in that foreign accent she still couldn't quite place. "I'm glad I was able to be of assistance."
With a little bow and a tip of his hat, he was gone.
Maureen shook her head about herself and the stranger and began to unpack her groceries.
She placed a tiny clay vase containing a spray of daisies in the center of the table, but it was too small and didn't do much to distract from the chipped plates and the threadbare tablecloth.
She snorted and turned away to put the kettle on.
Orla was due to arrive in a few minutes to celebrate Stevie's birthday, if you could call it a celebration when there was nothing to be served but bread and strawberry jam and the child's father was missing, too.
To Maureen's great disappointment, Raymond hadn't shown up in days.
She had all but stopped caring whether he came home at night or not, but she had dared to hope he'd want to be present for his son's first birthday, for Stevie's sake.
Sometimes she almost wished he'd never come back and she'd be free.
Only that she wouldn't. She'd still be a married woman. She would only be free if he …
No. She mustn't think such a wicked thing. It was a sin to wish death upon a person. She cringed at the thought of confessing it to Father Dearborne, imagined the wounded look and the gentle but firm reprimand he would have for her.
Stephen squealed gleefully behind her back and threw his shapeless rag doll at her, bringing her back to reality.
She picked it up and tossed it back at him with a little whoop, and he grabbed it and whacked the floor, giggling so loudly that Maureen almost missed the knock on the door.
"Listen, Stevie! That'll be Auntie Orla. On time as always", she said and, keeping an eye on the boy from the corner of her eye, walked to the front door to greet her friend.
Orla was grinning broadly and handed her a small covered bowl. "Here's a little treat for you and Stevie. Peaches and cream. Now where's my darling birthday boy?"
Stephen came toddling towards his auntie, beaming adorably. He had only just learned to walk and was still quite wobbly on his feet.
Orla swept him into her arms, cuddled, tickled and kissed him until he was squealing with delight and squirming happily. Over the joyful noise he was making, Maureen would have overheard the timid knock on the door if there had not been another, bolder one.
For a second, she wondered whether Raymond had made up his mind to come home for Stephen's birthday after all, but of course he wouldn't have bothered knocking.
"Come on in!" she cried.
Nothing stirred.
With a frown, she strode over and opened.
And froze with the doorknob in her hand, utterly perplexed.
"I thought I'd supply the cake for Stevie's birthday, after your little mishap yesterday."
She stared at the large wrapped package and was almost shocked to realize that the fine paper must be from Mulvanney's, the expensive bakery downtown. She had often admired the delicious-looking treats in their huge window and marveled, not entirely without a sting of bitterness, at the fact that some people actually could afford to spend such breathtaking amounts of money on things as frivolous as cakes and pastries.
The hands that held the package out to her were smooth and long-fingered, not the dirty, callused palms and cracked nails of those who worked in the factories and mills.
They belonged to the helpful stranger who had saved her the day before.
She stammered her thanks and realized what she had not noticed the last time: the good quality of the grey suit he wore and his spotless white shirt.
What was a man like him doing here, and what had brought him to this part of town in the first place yesterday?
She couldn't think of anything proper to say for a moment.
He was speaking, but the words didn't get through to her until he said, "I hope you'll have a nice afternoon with your little birthday boy. You have guests, I see."
He smiled – he had a beautiful smile, wide and sincere and very charming – and bowed a little stiffly from the hip, about to retreat from the doorstep.
Don't go, she found herself thinking.
Where had that come from?
She couldn't possibly ask a complete stranger in just because he had brought a cake for Stevie and she liked the way he smiled.
"Thank you so much again", she said. "That was the loveliest thing to do."
Words failed her once more, and she watched him step down to street level with another twinge in her heart.
"Wait!" she blurted out. "Do come in, please, and have a cup of tea. If you have the time, that is. I mean …"
She blushed, mortified about her mindless stammering, and broke off.
Had she made a complete fool of herself? He was surely used to much better food and drink than what she had on offer. And wasn't it totally inappropriate to invite a man, a perfect stranger in?
Certainly, he was bound to feel that way and find a polite excuse not to accept.
Instead, he looked at her freely with those warm, beautiful eyes and said, "With the greatest pleasure. Thank you."
He took his place at the modest table with the grace and dignity of a nobleman sitting down for a festive dinner at court. He didn't seem to mind at all how rickety everything was.
When he introduced himself to Orla, who had forgotten her usual equanimity and stared at the good-looking, well-dressed surprise guest with saucer-sized eyes, she finally heard his name for the first time.
Jean-Marie Montfort.
So the faint accent she had noticed was French.
He told them he had grown up in France the son of a French father and American mother and only been in the States for three years to attend medical school at Boston University.
In the course of their pleasant chat over tea and cake, he mentioned that he had been in the neighbourhood because he had promised to look in on a friend's elderly grandmother over in Grant Street who was suffering from a persistent weakness and couldn't afford the doctor.
She liked that.
He was almost too good to be true. Handsome, caring, smart, with not a grain of snobbishness or arrogance about him, although he was clearly a well-off, well-educated, well-travelled man and the way of life he was used to was as different from hers as it could possibly be.
When he took his leave and said he hoped their paths would cross again, she smiled, but she didn't think he meant it literally.
There was that pesky little voice in her head again: Pity he doesn't.
Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and the sobbing didn't help matters.
"Easy does it, Maureen. Easy. Breathe. Slowly. In and out. In and out. Yes, that's fine." Orla gave her friend's arm a quick squeeze and whipped a clean handkerchief out of her apron pocket. "Here. Blow your nose and, in the name of the Holy Virgin, quit crying finally. He's not worth all those tears you're wasting. He got what he deserved, if you ask me."
"But it's my …"
"Lord, give me strength!" Orla cried out, theatrically rolling her eyes heavenward. "It is not your fault, Maureen, you silly girl. It isn't. How could it be your fault when that nincompoop goes to work drunk and gets himself killed? Every child knows that liquor and bandsaws don't mix."
"But I told you I once …"
"Maureen, anyone who never would have wished Raymond Cleary dead would be a sure candidate for sainthood. It's a fact that you married a useless, cheating drunkard, and it was a crying shame, the way he treated you, and how he never was a father for Stevie, and how he bonked that cheap little trollop instead of …"
"Orla!"
Orla allowed herself a quick grin, glad she had finally managed to startle Maureen out of her misery.
"I'm only telling the truth, and I don't want to hear you saying it's your fault ever again! You take good care of yourself now, and of little Stevie, that's all what's important. You know I'll be there for you any time you need me, and I'm sure one day you'll meet a man who truly deserves you. And don't go tellin' me I'm being tasteless. You were way too good for that waste of skin." When Maureen gave her another look of horror, she hastily added, "God rest his soul."
She proceeded to hug her friend closely to her chest and said, "I'll have to go now if you really don't want to come along, you know Shane wants his supper at seven. I'll be back tomorrow." She squeezed Maureen's arm affirmatively and, with a last encouraging smile, walked out the door, feeling a little guilty about leaving her friend alone with her sorrow.
She almost bumped into another visitor on the doorstep.
"Good evening, Mrs. Dolan!"
"Good evening, Mr. John Mary, or whatever you're called!"
He grinned wryly at the greeting that had become their little ritual whenever they met.
They had met a lot at Maureen's since Stevie's birthday in the summer.
The young French doctor-student had taken to dropping by regularly to inquire about young Stevie's fragile health and to bring food or medicine or the odd little treat. When Orla had once asked him why he was doing this, he had simply answered, "Because I want to."
Maureen herself had begun to call him Sean, as she could not pronounce his name properly and it was the closest she could get, and he had indulgently accepted it.
When he had said that he was Johnny to his fellow students, she had snorted through the nose and said, "You're not a Johnny to me. A Johnny's an American farm boy with hands the size of frying pans and yellow hair. Not a learned foreigner like you."
Orla really needed to hurry now, so she said a quick goodbye and went on her way, relieved that her friend had continued company on this hard day.
"I've got the cough syrup for Stevie. Is he a little better today?" she heard him ask before she was out of earshot.
"Not really", Maureen sighed, and she felt tears creeping into her eyes yet again.
"This will help him get better. With the syrup, I'm sure he'll be fine in no time", he said in his reassuring voice. "No need to cry, Maureen. He will be fine."
She didn't answer, she couldn't. Her throat was choked.
"Maureen! What is it? Is there something else wrong with little Steve?" He sounded genuinely worried, and it didn't take more than a look at her face to confirm the impression she was upset by more than just a toddler's cold. He had never seen her so beside herself.
"Raymond", she sobbed. "Raymond. My – my husband. He's – he's …" She took a deep, ragged breath, and he wondered what could have happened to her bastard of a husband that would throw her off balance like that.
"He's dead."
He couldn't think of anything appropriate to say, so he held his tongue and simply let her weep at his chest, realizing with a pang of guilt that they had never been so close to each other physically and that it felt wonderful to hold her, even if the occasion was grim.
Much later, when she seemed to have cried all the tears she'd had in her, he examined Stephen, who had slept through it all with bright pink cheeks and a sweaty brow, and Maureen fixed them a frugal supper.
It was very late when he finally said he must go now, but she clasped his arm with both hands and implored him not to.
"Can't you stay, Sean? Please don't leave me alone tonight. I can't stand that."
Taken aback, he argued that, much as he might want to, it was improper for him to stay the night, especially under these circumstances.
"I don't care if it is proper. Raymond didn't care what was proper either."
She had a point there, he thought, and so he stayed.
She gave him an old nightshirt of her husband's, which hung about his slender figure sack-like, and, for lack of an alternative, they crawled into bed together, Maureen's marital bed of cheap rough wood and a fusty-smelling straw mattress.
He lay stiff and motionless at first, afraid to touch her, as far away from her as the narrow bedstead would allow, firmly wrapped in his threadbare blanket, certain he would not be able to sleep.
He awoke in the dead of the night with her slight body snug against his. She was fast asleep, one arm flung across his stomach, her breasts against his side, an innocent yet disturbing sensation.
Oh God, he thought when he felt a familiar stirring and hardening farther down. How utterly inappropriate.
He did not want to be indecent, not in this situation, he had no wish to take advantage of the poor girl's misery.
But, lying very still in the black winter night, Jean-Marie Montfort admitted to himself what he had known deep down all the time but never dared to admit because he knew she was married.
He was very much in love with Maureen Cleary.
The first feeble wintry light of dawn had just begun to lift the darkness when he felt her tugging at his blanket and shifting to move beneath it, until she was right there in his arm, with only the thin cotton of their nightdress to separate them.
When she pressed her nose into the crook of his neck, it felt perfectly natural to respond by laying the softest kiss on her cheek, and it felt just as natural to embrace her, to watch her peel off her nightshirt in the half-light and slip right back under the blanket because the room was cold, to warm her with his body and, eventually, to give himself to her as completely as she gave herself to him.
They both knew what people would say if they heard what they had just done, but neither regretted anything. Not Jean-Marie, because his biggest secret wish had been granted at long last, and not Maureen, because for the first time in her life, she had felt entirely safe and secure and truly loved in a man's arms.
He sneaked away in the early morning hours, trying not to smile too brightly when he nodded to Ida Macaulay in passing. Better that she should think he had sat watch by sick Stephen's bedside all through the night than to have her guess the truth.
Six weeks later, a faint suspicion arose within Maureen after she had awoken queasy and slightly nauseated for eight days in a row.
Another two weeks later, she was quite certain that a new life had sprung from their clandestine encounter on the night after Raymond had died.
She knew she ought to feel ultimately ashamed, but what she really felt was cautious joy tinged with worry how she would manage to get by with two little children and no husband.
Sean did not appear too surprised when she told him, and he dispelled her fear of an uncertain future with the simple promise to marry her.
"I wanted to ask you anyway, once the period of mourning was over", he said. "And don't you worry what people will say if we do it earlier. We'll find a place to live in a nicer part of town, so you won't have to face all those old gossips from the neighbourhood."
"I don't mind those old gossips all that much, but a nicer part of town would sure be lovely", she had replied, and he had continued, "May is a good month to marry, I think. Father Lewis at St. Vincent's won't mind that you're with child already. He'll assume it is your first husband's."
Everything taken care of so easily was a novel experience for Maureen, whose life had been so much hardship and sorrow and want until now, but she certainly wouldn't complain.
She gladly agreed to all he suggested and began looking forward to her new life as Mrs. Montfort, with a modest but comfortable home and a loving husband and a pair of sweet kids. Hopefully, Stephen would thrive in his new environment and outgrow his frequent illnesses, and the new baby would never cry himself to sleep with hunger, as Stephen had sometimes done at the worst of times.
And maybe she would even get to go to France one day to meet her in-laws. She, who had never travelled any farther than the city center!
Sean arranged for the wedding to be held the first week of May, a small ceremony at St. Vincent's, his neighbourhood church, with only a couple of his best friends and Shane and Orla to attend.
Orla was over the moon and busily made plans for Maureen's dress, which her mother was going to sew, and for the wedding cake, a homemade affair to rival Mulvanney's best which would be her own gift to the newlyweds.
For the first time in her life, Maureen had a serene and happy view of her own future.
Her waist had thickened considerably, and she even thought she had sensed the first flutter of movement inside her. They were already thinking about the baby's name, arguing whether this one was too Irish or that one sounded too French, and Sean was about to rent an affordable, pretty little house not too far from the university.
Maureen had said an apartment would be more than fine, but he had insisted that they should have a house, small as it might be, with a strip of lawn the children could play on and a tree to hang a swing from.
She had never imagined it was possible to be so happy.
She was humming to herself as she boiled the potatoes and prepared the vegetables for their Saturday dinner.
Once again, Sean had charmed the grumpy butcher's wife into setting two beautiful pork chops aside for him to pick up at the back door after hours. He should be back with the meat any minute now, and they'd have another little feast.
Oh, how she loved this man, bless his kind and generous heart.
Stephen loved him, too, he always scampered towards him as fast as his little legs would carry him and squeaked with glee when Sean spun him round in a dizzying circle. In those past months, Sean had acted more like a father towards the boy than Raymond ever had.
Now, Stephen was playing on the kitchen floor beside her and kept looking at the front door as if to ask when his big friend was finally going to arrive.
"Sean will be here soon, Stevie. Very soon!" She smiled at him, and he grinned back and banged the floor loudly with the old wooden spoon she'd given him to play with.
But there was still no trace of him when the clock of St. Clement's struck seven, or half past.
Stephen started getting cranky, so she fed him quickly and put him into bed, absent-minded and anxious.
This was not like him at all.
If something had kept him from coming, he would have found a way to give her a message, as he had done before, sending one of his friends or the daughter of his landlady.
At a quarter past eight, there was a rap on the door at long last.
She jumped up from her chair and opened hastily, ready to scold and kiss and hug all at once.
She was so sure it would be him that she had already flung out her arms by the time she realized it was Shane on her doorstep. His face was even whiter than usual, and his voice was trembling when he spoke the words that shattered it all in a brief flash of shock.
"I don't know how to tell you, Maureen … your Sean … he was attacked by a gang of thugs when he tried to help a woman they were harassing. Old Sal, you know, her who's not quite right in the head. Old Sal jumped and bit one of them and Sean tried to fight off the others. The butcher's neighbor saw it all and ran to help him, but by the time he'd caught up, they'd shaken her off and scarpered, and Sean …" He paused and swallowed.
"Shane? What about Sean?" Maureen urged, although deep down she already knew the answer.
The butcher's neighbor had arrived too late.
Something died within her that night.
She thought she was going to be consumed with the pain when she saw him for the very last time, lying on her knees in the street dust beside him, staring in grief and horror at the slumped figure of the man she loved. His fine face was unblemished but for a thin thread of blood at the corner of his mouth, but there was more blood matting the curls above his collar and staining his shirt and not a spark of life left within him.
Something more died when Stephen succumbed to the measles. With nobody regularly checking on his health, he had once again become susceptible to any bug that was rampant and an easy prey for the disease when it ravaged the neighbourhood in the next winter.
She went on somehow, but there was no joy in what she did, except when she was tending her youngest and now only son.
That the baby had not come to any harm with all that had happened was a small miracle to her.
He had not only survived it all, but he was a strapping little chap with a healthy appetite and a sunny temper.
Sometimes her heart almost burst with love for the small chubby creature when he grinned at her toothlessly, and sometimes she could hardly bear looking at his shock of fine dark hair and his huge hazel eyes because they reminded him so much of his father and made her want to cry yet again for the future that would not be.
When she said her prayers in the morning and at night, all she asked for was that he should grow up in good health to be a vital, handsome man like his father had been, while she half feared that even those fervent, faithful pleas might not be heard.
She had all but given up expecting anything from life and from God.
She had been aiming too high and thus been brought back down to earth with a crash.
Happiness was not for her, it was a luxury for those who could afford it. All there was to life for women like her was working hard and praying and raising their children as best they could.
It was more out of reason than anything else that she agreed to marry Luke Reilly about a year later.
Luke was a young widower with a small son who lived just on the other side of St. Clement's. His wife had died giving birth to baby Niall, and he had managed to make do all right with the help of his sister until she got married and moved to another town. Left to his own devices, he was quite desperate.
Maureen knew and liked him well enough to say yes when he asked her out.
She was disappointed by their outing. They went no farther than Rory Cavanagh's run-down pub and had a rather frugal meal of mash and greasy sausage, a far cry from the simple but fine dinners she had enjoyed so much with Sean.
But she knew this was probably as good as it could get for her now, and in the end, it just seemed the logical thing that she and Luke would tie the knot, for the sake of their sons if nothing else.
So they went to St. Clement's and solemnly swore to love and honour each other and to accept the children that God might send them.