Song of the Silent Harp by BJ Hoff Page A

cluster of Italian women with brightly colored shawls and heavy skirts. Mixed in among them were Irish newsboys, Negro laborers, Germans and Spaniards and Orientals—they were all here in the streets, making their fortunes, chasing their dreams, loving and marrying, robbing their countrymen, even killing their neighbors. What was to become of them all, he couldn’t imagine.
    He was nearing Krueger’s bakery now, and he managed a pallid smile for Margaret O’Handley, who worked for the German. As was often the case lately, the woman appeared to be waiting for him, giving him one of her long-toothed grins and a coquettish wave as she watched his approach. Michael instinctively quickened his step as he passed by the storefront, anxious to avoid an encounter.
    He was hungry and could smell the bakery’s delights, but his step didn’t falter as he hurried on. The widow O’Handley had taken to pushing small packages on him once a week or more, insisting they were the leavings from the day and that he “might just as well take them home to the boyo.” The leftover pastries were always grand, but Michael was determined to avoid any further kindnesses from the woman.
    Some had hinted that he could do worse than consider Margaret O’Handley as a wife. But it was impossible for him to think of the stout, eager-eyed woman as a replacement for his Eileen. Not only did he suspect the widow O’Handley to be considerably older than himself, but he saw a certain meanness in her nature that made him wary of her outward geniality. In short, he simply did not trust the woman.
    Aside from his mother, Michael had loved only two women in his thirty-sixyears, and he wasn’t at all convinced he had it in him to attempt a relationship with another. Perhaps his Eileen had been no beauty, but she’d been fair enough in her way, small and sweet-natured, with a quiet voice that gentled his world and an adoring smile that never failed to make his heart leap. He had loved his wife, truly loved her. Her death from the stillbirth of their second child would have crushed him had it not been for the need to go on and look after their son, Tierney. Gone ten years this winter, Eileen still warmed his memories like the tender touch of sunlight on a bitter day.
    Before Eileen there had been only Nora Doyle—Nora Kavanagh —but they had been little more than children when he’d fancied her.
    Besides, she had never been able to see him; Morgan Fitzgerald stood ever in the way. Except for those times when a brief letter from Morgan would send his thoughts straying back to Killala, he had given Nora little thought over the years.
    From time to time he considered marrying, but mostly out of concern for Tierney. His son wasn’t a bad boy, just motherless since he was four. Growing up as he had, in a city that viewed all things Irish with contempt and in a neighborhood that keened with the endless sorrows of its people, it was small wonder that the lad inclined toward rebellion. A woman’s touch might just be the thing to bring some gentling to Tierney’s fiery spirit and volatile temper, but only the right woman could ever hope to—
    A cry from the midst of the dense crowd just ahead brought Michael to a dead stop. It took him only an instant to spot the trouble and take off running, shouting as he went.
    A sandwich-board man—one of the numerous fellows who walked about with two advertising signs slung over his shoulders—was down in the street, shrieking at the top of his lungs. A row of young toughs had formed a menacing circle around the poor man, who lay on his back, a virtual prisoner of his signboards. The thugs—four of them, Michael noted as he ran—were kicking the man and brandishing knives as they taunted him and jeered at his terror.
    â€œHere, you!” Michael shouted. Twirling his stick from under his arm, he blew his whistle and took off running, pushing