Read Maggie's Door for Free Online Page B

port.
    She reached for the plank and left the shed. The rain was ending, and a faint hint of light came across the edge of the field to the east.
    There it was, that crying again.
    It came from the cart in the center of the field. Hearing Anna’s voice in her mind,
Keep going, keep going,
she turned her back and started for the boreen.
    The woman was crying, she told herself, because the wheel of the cart had come off. There was nothing she could do to help.
    Celia would have helped. Maggie would have helped. Granda . . .
    She turned as the woman came around the side of the cart. A big woman, rough-looking.
    She drew in her breath.
    It was Sean Mallon’s mam. Sean’s cart then?
    And another breath.
    Patch must be nearby.
    She hobbled toward the cart, the plank digging into her arm, but she had no time to think about that. She went faster, stumbling; it was hard to breathe.
    “Nora?” the woman was saying. “Nora?”
    She found him lying on the edge of the cart, his legs drawn up, his arms covering his head. Small puddles of rain had gathered in his clothes.
    She dropped the stick and pulled herself up on the cart to kneel awkwardly beside him, reaching out to touch that bony back, the bitten nails, the freckles on the side of his face.
    He never woke but he moved closer to her. She gathered him up, feeling how cold he was, and sat there rocking back and forth, holding him against the dampness and the wind that was sweeping across the field.
    And the woman’s voice again. “Nora. How can it be?”
    Patch stirred in Nory’s arms. “We’ll see 416 Smith Street,” she whispered. “And we’ll knock on the door, all of us holding hands. And when Maggie opens it . . .”
    She spoke calmly, but her heart was beating so fast in her throat she could hardly swallow. She had to get him warm.
    She looked up at Mrs. Mallon. Here was someone to take care of Patch, to take care of her. Not to be alone. How strange. Wanting Mrs. Mallon to take care of them, Mrs. Mallon who was rough and often unfriendly. Nory remembered her chasing the pig in the field, yelling at her sons, never laughing. But now for the first time she thought of her as a mother. Sean’s mother.
    Nory looked around, rubbing Patch’s arms, his legs. “Where is Sean then? What has happened?”
    Mrs. Mallon shook her head. Once she had been stout with plump cheeks, but now her skin sagged and was the color of old milk.
    “Where is Sean?” Nory asked again.
    Mrs. Mallon shook her head slowly. “He was to go for food, but he never came back that night. I tried to pull the cart away, tried to hide it. I dragged it all the way up here, but you can see what has happened to it.” She looked over her shoulder at it. “I have been down at the edge of the sea all night trying to find something for us to eat.” She stopped to run her hand over her face, and when she spoke again Nory could hardly hear her. “Sean is dead,” she said. “He must be dead.”
    Nory could feel the strength go out of her own legs, out of her hands and her fingers. “How long ago?”
    “Days. And I will not go to America without him.”
    Mrs. Mallon’s eyes were so sad Nory could hardly look at her.
    Sean, who had danced with her at Maggie’s wedding. Sean, who had promised to take care of Patch. Sean, who would be there if he could. Sean, who someday might have been her husband. She tried to swallow.
    “What will we do?” Nory asked.
    “I don’t know.” Mrs. Mallon shook her head slowly.
    “Please . . . ,” Nory began, then took a breath. In her arms Patch was the size of a child half his age. She reached into the bag for the piece of brack and held it up to him. “Open your mouth,” she said.
    She fed it to him, a few crumbs small enough for the sparrows that nested in the hedges at home, and he never once opened his eyes. She saw Mrs. Mallon bite her lip and look away.
    Anna had given Patch milk once, and stared her down, knowing she wanted milk too. “You are strong,”