May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel Read online

  Copyright © 2012 by Peter Troy

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.doubleday.com

  DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Jacket design by Emily Mahon

  Jacket photograph © Grove Pashley/Photographer’s Choice/Getty Images

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Troy, Peter.

  May the road rise up to meet you / Peter Troy.

  p. cm.

  1. United States—History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3620.R685M39 2012

  813′.6—dc22 2011019543

  eISBN: 978-0-385-53449-9

  v3.1

  For my Mother and Father, with a lifetime of gratitude for Sunday drives to nowhere in particular, and bookshelves that formed a comfortable nook for exploration, and believing that normal is vastly overrated; for raising kids and not a lawn, and knowing the soul matters most of all, and going back to school when others your age were planning their retirements, showing us all that dreams are worth pursuing … however, whatever, whenever.

  PETER JAMES TROY

  1937–2010

  “… and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue: The Stitchin

  Part One: Exile

  Chapter 1: The Hunger

  Chapter 2: Odyssey

  Chapter 3: Inheritance

  Chapter 4: Ain’t I a Woman

  Part Two: Climbin’

  Chapter 5: The Road Not Taken

  Chapter 6: Should Have Been Born a Man

  Chapter 7: Oh to Live in Interesting Times

  Part Three: Tempests

  Chapter 8: Them Irish Devils

  Chapter 9: Islands

  Chapter 10: Wayfarers

  Chapter 11: The Dancing Lady

  Chapter 12: Dreams Within a Dream

  Part Four: Clarity

  Chapter 13: Emancipation Days

  Chapter 14: And Not to Yield

  Chapter 15: To the Shores of the Ever After

  Chapter 16: Frontsways

  Acknowledgments

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The historical events and characters depicted in this novel are presented with as much accuracy as possible. Inasmuch as the fictional characters that make up this story are placed within the context of non-fictional events, creative liberties have been taken.

  MARY WILKENS

  RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA

  SEPTEMBER 9, 1853

  Gertie’s settin in her chair, th’rickety one what makes more noise than a old sycamore tree tryin t’stay up in a storm, an she’s at her stitchin again, same as she is most nights, no matter how tired she get. An there’s you watchin her, same as always, only littler now, only ten years old or roundabout. Still you tired like you always is now that you gots t’work in th’fields all day long, steada th’part days you usedta work.

  Gertie works more’n anyone on th’place same as ever, at it ’fore sunup, cookin oatmeal or cornbread or th’sometimes bacon Massa Wilkens gives for th’field han’s breakfas’. She don’ make you get up wit her no mo’ t’help out, not since you started workin th’fields all day long, now that you ten. So Gertie gotta go to th’well an get th’water herself these days, then do th’cookin, then watch after th’littlest ones while she’s makin th’midday an evenin meals all th’while. An still, all that don’t matter none when it comes to her stitchin … they’s always time fo’ that.

  Ain’t but a trickle a’light comin from what’s left of th’fire, first real one of th’season now that it’s gettin on harves’ time. Still, she’s pullin that needle through, th’big needle wit th’eye fat enough so she can thread it now, now that her eyes ain’t what they was. An you lay on your bed, not so tired as usual since maybe it’s Sunday an there ain’t been any workin in th’fields today. So you lay there an watch Gertie insteada sleepin straight off, listnin to her hummin … doin her stitchin. She got her bad leg propped up on a pilla on toppa th’stool, got her bad arm, wit th’scars burnt wrist t’elbow, holdin th’circle frame of her stitchin. An you wonder ’bout how she do it, not th’stayin awake or sittin up when she’s tireder than a plowmule, or even how she do it wit one bad leg an one bad arm … cause you seen her do too much for too long t’even think on that anymore.

  No, you wonderin th’same thing you been wonderin for as long as you seen her stitchin, wonderin how she can tell what she makin outta all those little bitsa thread the Misses give her. The best of ’em ain’t nothin but scraps, an the whole thing ain’t nothin more’n a piece a’blank white cotton cloth gettin stitched all over wit them scrapsa thread. By a woman wit one good arm an one good leg, tired as a plowmule all th’time, stitchin wit a too big needle, ’side a fire mostly goin out. An still she pokes ’at needle through one side an out th’other, like she don’ even hafta look at what she doin pract’ly. An from roun’ dis side a’that circle frame, th’one the Misses give her, all you can see is a whole messa threads, wit all they diffren’ colors, hangin ever which way.

  The Misses give her some a’that fine silk thread what th’white folks use fo’ they clothes, an Gertie mixin it in right along wit th’cotton an even bitsa th’gray wool thread what she use to mend th’sacks for th’sweet taters. Don’ matter none to Gertie whatever she stitchin wit, she jus keep on stitchin.

  An then, when she get done wit one a’them threads – which is plennya times, cause they ain’ nothin but scraps from th’start – well, she turn th’frame ’round th’other way, sets it on her lap an ties it off best she can wit th’one good hand an th’one what’s always givin her a hard time. Then she’s back at it again, fiddlin a new bitta thread through that big-eyed needle, then tyin it off best she can, an pushin it through th’one side an out th’other.

  You seen what her stichins end up lookin like. You seen th’three of ’em what ended up in the Misses’ own dressin room in The Big House. An seen th’ones what Miss Frances an Miss Carlotta got in they rooms. Not that you seen ’em there in The Big House ’course, cause you ain’t never been inside it, but you seen ’em ’fore even Miss Carlotta an Miss Frances an even the Misses got t’see ’em. Cause you seen ’em when Gertie firs’ said they was done. Like you was one a’them poor ol’ shepherds ’round Bethleehem ’at got to see th’Baby Jesus soon as he was born. ’Fore th’Three Wise Men even showed up. An they was th’same ’zact pictures as what ended up in The Big House, ’cept for th’fancy frame an how the Misses calls ’em embroideries when they in The Big House. But Gertie say they jus’ stitchins when they out here wit you an her.

  You got plennya questions ’bout this partic’lar stitchin, an they burstin out from inside, same as always. Cause, from ’round where you layin down on yo’ bed, all you can see is th’messa threads hangin loose, a bitta red tied off wit a bitta blue, a bitta yellow findin its way … somehow … to a bitta green, an on an on … th’fine silk from th’white folks’ mendin tied off wit a bitta cotton, or wool even. Like as if the Misses’ dress was bein patched up wit a piece a’them sweet tater sacks. An it don’ make no sense. None. Justa messa bits goin ever which way. So you ask her, interruptin her hummin, fiddlin yo’sef onta one side an proppin yo’ head up wit an elbow planted inta th’pilla.

  How you know whachu doin Gertie? you ask.

  Been
at dis fo’ a looong time she says, an starts a’hummin again.

  Naw, you say, I mean … how you know whachu stitchin when it don’ look like nothin but a buncha threads ain’ got nothin t’do wit each otha? All I can see is a whole buncha scraps, red an green an black an yella an blue an all. Little bits. Silk an cotton an wool an such. An justa whole messa knots an tangles all along th’back. It don’ look like nothin from over here!

  An den she stops hummin an stitchin altogetha. Looks at you like she does when you ask her th’kindsa silly questions you do … like why th’water in th’stream out back always run in th’same direction … or why some clouds drop all kindsa rain an some don’. She shakes her head side t’side an smiles a little. Starts hummin again, an pushin that needle through a few mo’ times. An you figure you ain’ gonna get a answer to this here question, th’way you sometimes don’ when she know you gonna unnerstan soon enough … once you get growed up some mo’.

  So you flop offa that elbow an onto yo’ back again, listnin to her hummin. It’s anotha minute or two, or maybe mo’, you can’t tell when it comes to layin there listnin to her hummin, peaceful as it is. Then she stops, an you look over sideways seein her tyin off anotha thread.

  You cain’t tell nothin ’bout whachu seein when you layin over there, she says.

  Cain’t tell nothin ’bout nothin in dis worl’ when all you seein is th’knots an tangles an ever’thin’ goin ever which way, lookin like a buncha mess. How you gonna unnerstan’ when you layin’ dere seein jus’ th’messa it all, when th’mess only one parta it, no matta how it seem sometime? Cain’t see how all dese little bitsa thread be connected togetha, jus’ like all th’bitsa yo’ life gonna be, cause you ain’ lookin at it the way it meant t’be seen.

  An then she smiles. Not th’big kinda smile what comes wit laughin, but th’happy, looka what I did, sorta smile you give her first evenin you worked in th’fields all day by yo’sef. An then she turns ’round that stitchin she been workin on so you can see it straight off. An it’s pretty as a picture ever was. Dey’s a green field wit’ flowa beds an some trees that look like they jus’ wakin up at th’starta spring, an off inna distance is a nice big house, one you ain’t never seen befo’ like Gertie jus’ made it all up in her ’magination. It’s got a big ol’ porch ’cross the front an looks like they’s folks on it, colored an white folks it seems, some settin in chairs an some standin up too, only it’s so far off ’at they’s no faces on the folks a’tall, jus’ they tiny little bodies like they was ants or somethin’. An ’cross th’toppa it is a sky all th’colors a rainbow eva was … an you smile, seein sucha pretty picture as this.

  Gertie’s smilin too … bigger now than befo’. Dis here, she says, what aaaall dat mess look like … when you gets t’seein it frontsways.

  ETHAN MCOWEN

  COUNTY FERMANAGH, IRELAND

  APRIL 25, 1847

  Th’LahrdismyshepherdIshallnotwant … His Da had loved Father Laughton for the way he got through the Sunday Mass like a Protestant wit’ an overflowin’ bladder. That was always the kind of thing Da would have to say about the Father, even when his Mam’d go on about something the Father said in one of his three-minute sermons in the weekday Mass, Da would always say t’ank th’Lahrd we’ve got de only priest in Oireland that doesn’t run at th’mouth, or something like that. Seanny and Aislinn and Ethan’d laugh, and Mam’d slap Da’s shoulder and tell him, In fronta th’children? And he’d say, Sure they’re waitin’ t’get outta there as much as meself, and they’d laugh some more and Mam’d hit him again, only this time pressin’ back a smile of her own, tough as it was for her to stay mad when her family was laughin’ so.

  But this service was a different matter and Ethan knew his Da wouldn’t be happy about the Father’s bladder today. Fer Chroist sakes Fadder, dat’s my little girl in dere, he’d say, wouldja slow it down a little? Or maybe Aislinn’d say, All due respect Fadder Laughton, but would ya please read wit’ some inflection, an’ make th’words come aloive? That’s what she was always tellin’ Ethan to do, and she’d say it to the Father in such a way that it wouldn’t be a mortal sin, and the Father’d laugh and say, Yer right, Aislinn dear, lemme give it anudder go, and he’d smile and pat her on the head and go back to readin’, slower this time, and with more meaning. Ethan wished he could say something in his sister’s place, but he’d just sound like an insolent little boy, and he didn’t want to go sinning like that, placin’ his immortal soul in jeopardy and givin’ his Mam something else to worry about. So he stood quietly, thinkin’ of what a shame it was that the last words spoken for Aislinn’d be like this.

  He stared down at the hole in the ground and admired the precision of its edges, cut perfectly straight and square to one another, with the displaced earth stacked in two neat pyramids at either end of it. He knew that had his and Aislinn’s places been switched, and the fever’d overtaken him instead of her, she would’ve appreciated the craftsmanship, too. But it was his sister’s undersize coffin layin’ comfortably inside the hole, not his, and he tried not to think about how they’d had to bend her legs at the knees, then fold them back behind her, so she’d fit in the four-foot-long box made for a child half her age. At least it’d keep the dogs off her better than one of those government-issue wool sacks, the ones the poorest families were left with, the ones they’d later have to see torn from the ground and ripped to shreds as the dogs and rats got at what was left of their loved one. There’d be none of that for Aislinn, because the eight and sixpence his Da and Seanny had sent from America, the money that was to go for food until the new potatoes in July, bought the coffin and the slate and the Mass to be said in her name, instead.

  When The Hunger claimed the first of its victims, most of the village turned out for the services after the Sunday Mass, but now it’d just be family members and perhaps a few friends. Still, Ethan counted forty-one, not includin’ Aislinn, here this mornin’, a testament to his sister’s gentle and encouraging nature and the dozen or so children along the Lane she’d taught to read in the past few years. Even Old Mr. Hanratty was here, standin’ alone, perhaps fifteen feet behind the Bresnihans. Ethan knew this was as close as he’d been to the inside of a church in thirty years, so he nodded his head to him in confused gratitude, and Mr. Hanratty, tight-lipped, nodded back.

  Aislinn’s service was done in ten minutes and the two gravediggers began to spill the neatly piled dirt on top of her coffin as his Mam and Aunt Emily wept. Ethan looked away after just a moment, not wantin’ the water to get in his eyes the way it was in his Mam’s and Aunt Em’s. He noticed how most of the older graves had tombstones that stood upright while the newer ones were marked with about what Aislinn’d have, a one-inch-thick slate, fourteen by ten inches, lyin’ flat on the ground. That was all there’d be to tell anyone who might be interested that she’d been here for almost sixteen years, and that she wanted to be a teacher, and how, for the last two years, since it was just her and him and Mam livin’ at Aunt Em’s, she and he would put on shows every Saturday night, and oh were they gettin’ so good at it. No, none of that at all. Instead all it read was …

  AISLINN McOWEN

  1831–1847

  … as if a few numbers said anything about her, like it was some sort of achievement how long a person lived, and when they’d died young, like Aislinn, people fifty years from now could look at the numbers and say, Oh poor lass, just sixteen what a pity, what a tragedy, musta been The Hunger. Most of the stones that were laid flat across the graveyard were covered over with grass and weeds, and Ethan vowed that he wouldn’t let the same thing happen to her. He wouldn’t let her fade away like that.

  The crowd quickly dispersed, with only a few people comin’ by and nodding their sorrow or placin’ a hand briefly on his Mam’s shoulder. Father Laughton was one of the last to approach. He may not have read with much inflection, Ethan thought, but the Father’s pain was written on his face in deep creases that led to sunken eyes, and Ethan realized then that
the Father’d seen more death than any of them.

  Mayth’Lahrdcomfortyou, he said to the three of them, and waved his hand in a downward line and then across.

  He was gone before any of them could say a word, though both his Mam and Aunt Em blessed themselves and curtseyed. And then it was just the three of them standin’ beside the gravesite, with a few stragglers a little farther away.

  Jaysus, me hands’re just about tahrn up from all dis rocky soil, one of the gravediggers said. It’s loike shovelin’ bricks.

  Ahh yer always complainin’, the other replied. Yer hands can’t be bad as me back.

  They were strangers to Ethan, men who traveled constantly, earning a shilling here and there, plyin’ their morbid trade like vultures in the Irish countryside. He could hear every word they said, and regardless of what a fine job they’d done diggin’ the grave, he wanted to take the shovels from them and cover his sister’s body himself. If his Da and Seanny were here, they’d probably want to take the shovels and bash the gravediggers over the head, he figured, so he felt a little ashamed, less of a man, for not wantin’ to do so as well.

  Mam and Aunt Em closed their eyes as the coffin disappeared beneath the dirt, them without an extra penny for the gravediggers and so forced to hear more about various aches and pains as the men carried out their work. Ethan felt the anger grow within him until Mr. Hanratty walked up to each of the men and handed them a coin and whispered something to them while noddin’ toward Ethan’s Mam. The men continued on with their work in silence, and Mr. Hanratty glanced over at Ethan and his Mam and Aunt, placin’ his gray woolen cap against his heart and nodding his head slightly. Then, without a word, he was off.

  When the coffin was completely covered and the tombstone set in place on the fresh dirt, the three of them walked quietly home. To Ethan, the lustrous green fields were now gray as a winter sky, and their cottage seemed as vast and hollow inside as a fourteen-by-sixteen-foot space could ever seem. There’d be no grand funeral dinner, as was the custom in the Old Days. There’d be no reveling, no cousins runnin’ about in the fields as the men and women sat inside by the fire and drank a few pints Old Man McGeary’d supplied from his pub down the Lane. There’d be no stories told of the person who’d passed, no fiddle, or singing. No laughter.