“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.
“Excuse me,” said the doctor, as he ducked out the door, “but the boy should be sure to sit on the right side.” He nodded apologetically at Roland’s lap. “For now.”
Roland looked after him blankly. A warm breeze swept through the room, throwing the wiggling, waving light against the walls. The door closed. It was dark in the house. Joshua asked, his mouth full of cookie, “When is Daddy’s leg coming back?”
“Hush,” Emma said. She went to lift the boy, but Roland held tight. Emma could not remember ever seeing him with any of his children on his lap.
“It’s not coming back,” he told Joshua. To Emma, he added, “I’m not getting a fake one.”
“You don’t have to decide now,” she said.
“I’m decided.”
“We’ll see. You’ll have to work again.”
“We could live a full year off people’s pity.”
“Rolly!”