Chapter Three
The journey to the train depot had played out as it always did. The men enjoyed their time together, worked hard once they reached their destination, rejoiced at getting their grain sold. Through it all, Finbarr did his best to stay out of the way.
He wasn’t really needed for any of it. Even the one task the town had assigned him during the yearly trek—sending the braille books to the school in Missouri—could have been accomplished by Aidan. He had to help as it was.
Finbarr made his way through the post office of the train depot with his cane and Madra at his side helping him navigate the space.
He didn’t have to tell Aidan to put the trunk of books on the table where the postmaster would be.
They’d done this for three years now. In fact, when Aidan’s footsteps indicated he was leaving, Finbarr knew exactly where he was going and why.
“Finbarr O’Connor,” the postmaster said. “Good to see you again.”
One thing that could be said for being ginger-haired and blind, with a face scarred and twisted by burns, was that he made an impression. The postmaster might not have remembered him from year to year otherwise.
It simplified things, that was for sure and certain.
“The usual trunk of books for the Missouri School for the Blind in St. Louis,” Finbarr said.
He pulled from his coat pocket the folded piece of paper with Cecily’s instructions on it.
Running his fingers over the raised dots, he read out loud the address to which it would be sent and the person whose name should be on the package.
He could hear the scratch of pencil lead on paper and knew the postmaster was writing everything down.
Footsteps approached. Aidan, most likely.
Finbarr wasn’t certain he would ever not be frustrated that he couldn’t identify who was nearby at any given time.
There were some clues—rustling skirts sounded different than heavy boots; some people wore perfume or used scented soap—but until people actually said something, he could do little more than hazard often poor guesses.
The clunk of what sounded like wood on the table was clue enough. Aidan had fetched a crate, as he always did during this transaction, and returned with it.
“This should be the right size,” Aidan said. “The trunk was entirely full this time.”
The postmaster quoted a price for shipping the books.
The town not only helped to make the books but contributed their hard-earned pennies to paying for the shipping once a year.
Using those funds, Finbarr was able to pay for it all with just a little bit remaining.
That would be returned to the jar on the mantle in Tavish and Cecily’s home.
It would be added to over the year to come until it was time for Finbarr to make this journey again.
Each week, month, year was like that. The same thing over and over again. Going through the motions of a life.
“I’d intended to put this on the stagecoach for you,” the postmaster said, “but since you’re here yourself…”
What felt like an envelope was put in Finbarr’s hand.
“A letter,” Aidan said. “The return address is in St. Louis.”
Finbarr exchanged letters now and then with some of those connected to the Missouri School for the Blind.
“Thank you,” he said to the postmaster as he put the letter in his pocket. There wasn’t room in his haversack for it.
“You’re welcome. These books will go on the next train heading east.”
Finbarr dipped his head. “We’ll come back for the trunk before leaving town.” He turned and made his way back out of the post office.
It was a sunny day, bright enough that he could make out a little more detail than usual of the people milling about.
None were near enough for him to see much beyond vague blurs, but he had a better than usual idea of how many there were.
Turning his head he was able to find Aidan.
Even if he hadn’t already known his nephew was nearby, he would have known that was who he was seeing.
He’d learned to recognize undetailed silhouettes over the years, provided he was doing so in excessively bright light or at an extremely close distance.
“Remind me,” Finbarr said. “The mercantile’s to the right?” He was almost certain he remembered that correctly, but he didn’t spend enough time at the train depot for the town to be effortlessly familiar.
“It is. Do you need to go there?”
Finbarr nodded.
“So do I.”
“Convenient.”
Finbarr began walking in that direction. Madra pushed against Finbarr’s leg, a signal that he needed to veer further to the right. The boardwalk was a little raised, increasing the chances he would fall off the edge if he wandered too close to it.
“Dr. Jones asked me to purchase all the medical supplies he needs,” Aidan said. “He hasn’t trusted me with that before.”
“It’s a good plan,” Finbarr said. “He doesn’t have to make the trip. You know enough about his practice to decide on replacements if some things aren’t available.”
“That’s what Dr. Jones said.”
“It’s a good thing, being useful,” Finbarr said.
“It is.”
Aidan was one of the easiest members of his family to talk with. He hadn’t known Finbarr before the fire. And, being five years younger than Finbarr, Aidan didn’t think of him as the baby of the family. Aidan also wasn’t overly talkative, which helped in a lot of ways.
The bell above the mercantile door rang as Finbarr, Madra, and Aidan stepped inside. The dimmer interior tossed Finbarr back into darkness. He adjusted his haversack so it hung in front of him. He didn’t want it to knock into anything.
The very next instant, Tavish spoke from directly beside him. “Have you finished at the post office, then?”
Finbarr nodded. Then he leaned a little in the direction Aidan was, or at least had been, and asked, “How many O’Connors are in the mercantile?”
“Looks to me like all of them.”
Lovely.
“We’ve a competition to win,” Tavish said. He’d apparently walked alongside them. “Not one of us is taking this lightly.”
There were voices all around the mercantile. And, at least as far as he could make out, they all sounded Irish. It was possible the O’Connors were the only people inside. There were enough of them to sound like a crowd. Not just like a crowd; they were a crowd.
“I hope you haven’t wandered in because you’ve decided to join the competition after all.” Ian was nearby.
Finbarr shook his head. “Is it that you’re worried I’ll best everyone or have you all finally realized that just because Ma wants to do a bit of matchmaking doesn’t mean the rest of us have to fall in line?”
“Oh, we never disagree with Ma.” Patrick. But he was moving. Finbarr couldn’t be certain where he’d be in another few seconds.
Finbarr was pretty sure the counter was directly in front of him. There was too much else pulling his attention for him to listen and feel for clues.
“You can stick with judging the competition.” That was Ryan. “The teacher you were meant to be picking a bauble for didn’t arrive on the train.”
“Joseph Archer was over at the telegraph office,” Ian said. “A telegram had come in yesterday evening from the schoolteacher saying she’d changed her mind about taking the position.”
The town had a very difficult time keeping the schoolteacher position filled. The preacher’s wife would have to continue overseeing the school a little longer.
“How can I help you men?” Not an Irish voice, or a very familiar one. It was likely Mr. Thompson, who owned the mercantile.
“I have a list of items to purchase for the infirmary in Hope Springs.” There was an added measure of confidence in Aidan’s voice.
“Matthew, help him gather the things on his list.”
Matthew. The Thompsons’ son. Finbarr hadn’t even realized he was there.
“Now, Finbarr.” Mr. Thompson remembered his name. “The usual business?”
Finbarr nodded. “But the mercantile is . . . busier than usual.”
“You don’t want us around?” Tavish was, apparently, standing directly beside him. In overly somber tones, he asked, “Are you purchasing powders for your spasmodic bowels?”
“Can he get those powders before the drive back to Hope Springs?” Ian joined in the teasing. “For all our sakes.”
“I was hoping for a pair of earmuffs,” Finbarr said. “For my sake.”
Laughter echoed from all directions. He was still surrounded, apparently, and his brothers and brothers-in-law were being as nosey as ever.
Fortunately, Mrs. Thompson intervened—another person Finbarr had no idea was present. “Come with me into the storeroom, Finbarr. We can fetch your ‘earmuffs.’” She managed to repeat his request with enough mysterious humor that his brothers laughed again.
A hand on his arm nudged him to the left. Then a little bit to the right. A few corrections and forward movement, and a door was closed behind him.
And it was quiet. At last.
“I have to ask because I have to be certain,” Finbarr said. “Are any of my brothers in here?”
“No,” she said. “I remembered that this enterprise of yours is a secret from them.”
Finbarr opened his haversack. “I’m not ashamed of my carvings.”
“You shouldn’t be. Your work is beautiful, and it’s sold well.”
He was glad to hear it. The Thompsons had taken a risk buying his work two years before in the hope that it would sell.
“We’ve been putting things out a few at a time throughout the year,” Mrs. Thompson said. “There are only a couple left. One of them just sold, in fact. One of the little hearts.”
Those had been almost an afterthought. He’d had small bits of wood left and wanted to do something with them. “I’d hoped they’d prove tempting little baubles for—” Oh. “Did one of my brothers buy the little heart?”
“Your father, actually.”
Da had bought one of Finbarr’s carvings with no idea who’d made it. There was something very fitting about that. He hovered on the edges of the family. While they nosed in on him a lot, there was still so much about him they didn’t know or understand.
“Allow me to look through what you’ve brought,” Mrs. Thompson said.
She identified each thing as she pulled it from his large haversack—everything from more of the little hearts to carved dogs and horses and birds.
“Serving bowls.” To Finbarr’s relief, Mrs. Thompson sounded genuinely excited.
“Haven’t tried those before.”
“They’re lovely.”
It was nice to have confirmation that he’d done good work. Finbarr ran his fingers over every inch of his carvings while he worked, over and over, until he was as certain as he could be that everything was the way he wanted it. But he was still never sure.
He and Mrs. Thompson worked out an agreed upon price for all the items.
“Please keep bringing these each year,” she said. “People like them, which helps us keep coins coming into the shop.”
The enterprise gave him a bit of extra money as well.
He meant to keep at it for more reasons than that, though.
So much of the rest of what he did depended on other people helping him.
This, though, was an entire business enterprise he’d created, carried out, and made successful on his own.
It wasn’t true independence, and it hadn’t brought the elusive happiness that seemed forever out of reach.
But it was reason to feel a little proud of himself.
The day was still bright when he stepped out of the mercantile. The sunlight helped him navigate to a bench not far distant. He wasn’t particularly tired; he just wanted to read the letter the postmaster had given him.
He sat and Madra took up her usual position, laying on his feet. He opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of very thick parchment. They were punched with the familiar raised braille dots. He rested the sheets on his lap, grateful it wasn’t an overly windy day.
Which of his correspondents had written this time?
He’d wondered what Mrs. Carter’s cat had been doing to cause mischief the last few months.
He’d hoped that the teachers had managed to get through to little Sadie, who was frustrated by her lessons.
And he was curious if Marcel had ever sorted out how to play stickball again now that he couldn’t see the stick or the ball.
But the letter wasn’t from any of his usual correspondents. It was from Mr. Spitz, who ran the school where Cecily had been educated, and to whom their books were always sent.
Finbarr had not ever received a letter from him. He was surprised the man even knew of his existence.
The letter began with pleasantries and expressions of gratitude for his help in building up the collection at their circulating library.
He further spoke of how pleased they were at the solution Finbarr had offered to a difficulty faced by a student of one of the school’s traveling teachers.
For someone who had failed far too many times attempting to do simple things, there was something very pleasing in knowing he’d been of help.
But it was the next paragraphs that made him stop short.
Our collection of Braille books has grown and interest in them has continued to spread beyond our local area. We find ourselves in need of assistance in overseeing the effort. We have caught the attention of many philanthropic-minded people who are willing to fund further efforts in this area.
As such, I am creating a new position at the school, that of a librarian, for lack of a better term.
This librarian would oversee the books, both their storage here at the school and the lending out of them.
We also would wish for the librarian to keep track of those that have been sent out elsewhere, if they have been returned, and where they need to go next.
Coordinating that is proving quite an undertaking, but we don’t wish to abandon the program.
It is my hope that you would be interested in accepting the position, and, as such, I am offering the job to you.
Finbarr’s fingers froze in place.
He was being offered a job. A job.
I realize this would require you to uproot yourself and move away from your family and home, and I do not take that lightly. The position includes a small apartment adjacent to the school as well as a salary. And you would be part of the family we have created here among ourselves.
As this is a new position and one we have created in anticipation of an increasing need, there is time for you to think about it.
While our correspondence is done through the mail so that we can do so in Braille, you are welcome to send your response, once you know how you wish to proceed, via telegram if that is simpler. Take your time.
Regards,
F. Spitz, headmaster MSB
A job.
In St. Louis.
More surprising even than the fact that the offer was made at all was that he didn’t immediately reject the possibility.
More than merely not rejecting it, he was . . . intrigued.