the stairs. “He always went by his real name.”
The uncanny similarity occurred to Shan only now, of the pauper’s moniker being Tom in the story. It was a decidedly good omen. “And he’s a relation of yours?”
“He’s—was my brother.” There was no emotion in Nick’s face, but the soft catch in his voice betrayed him.
All at once, it made sense why Nick’s father had been reluctant to call a stranger his son, even for show. Worries over being caught had been merely part of the dilemma. Shan thought of Nick’s mother, what it must have taken for her to hand over that photograph.
At the bottom of the stairs, Shan turned to Nick. “I truly hope I’m not putting your family out.”
“Stop it, would ya? You’re comin’.” It was delivered as a command, but with deliberate lightness. “Besides, we’re brothers now, right?”
The truth was, as an only child, Shan had always longed for a sibling. Yet under the odd circumstances, he wasn’t sure how to reply. “I suppose …”
“Good. ’Cause I ain’t about to lug this dang trunk to Brooklyn by myself.”
When Nick smiled, Shan couldn’t help but do the same. Hopefully, before long he would find his American father and reclaim a family of his own.
Until then, there would be little harm in playing the role of a Capello.
9
A s it turned out, New York wasn’t paradise at all. In fact, even calling it a city was a stretch. It was a wide range of countries clustered on an island, almost as if a series of tornados had swooped from Europe to the Orient, picked up entire neighborhoods—a good many of them poor—and dropped them into the boroughs of New York.
There were no signs declaring Welcome to Ireland, or Entering Russia, or Leaving Poland, Come Back Soon. And yet, excluding some tenements, the borders indeed were there. It took but a few days of roaming for Shan to discover which streets bounded each territory. While many spent what money they could spare on typical American clothing, their efforts to blend appeared to stop there. Shan would cross a street and find himself in a different world. The language would change, both spoken and printed in newspapers, directly matching scents in the air. Chinese spices would give way to baking German dough, or fermenting wine from the basements of Italians.
Now, though, as he wove through Times Square, he smelled only the tang of gasoline from motorcars. Contrary to legend, American streets weren’t paved in gold, just rutted, grimy pavement. All around him people were walking and shouting; carts and delivery trucks rattled and veered. The city itself was a living creature that could swallow a person whole.
Shan glanced at the hulking buildings that for once didn’t make him feel small, not on this wondrous April morning. A day that could change everything.
In his coat pocket he fingered the blessed photograph, just to confirm it was there. Anticipation propelled him around the corner, past a paperboy touting headlines.
No different than in Ireland, here politics abounded from an excess of wants. Unions wanted better pay and conditions. Women wanted the vote. Protestants wanted alcohol banned from the country, of which they were making great strides. Given that reason alone, Uncle Will’s mortal end had come in a timely fashion.
Shan, on the other hand, had only a single desire: to find John Lewis. Yet in the two weeks since arriving, he had made little progress. “Might as well be John Doe,” scoffed a bartender in Manhattan. Shan had been lured into the club by a posted sign, a list of entertainers performing that week. But like in a dozen other places that featured musicians, no workers there were familiar with his father.
The reality that Shan could inquire at a thousand similar spots and still come up short had threatened to overwhelm him. Then last night, to salvage any resettlement funds, he’d emptied his uncle’s satchel. For many days prior, he had waffled over whether or not
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