May 1890 Aboard the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific Railway from Chicago to Colorado

The whistle wakes her with a start. Mary Agnes glances out the smudged window to see acres of flat prairie spool out toward the horizon. It will be twenty-some hours before they reach Colorado Springs, her neck already kinked. Juddering to a halt at a short platform, the train’s brakes squeal. Mary Agnes squints to read the sign: Centerville. Rifling through her satchel, she pulls out the schedule for the Great Rock Island Route and runs her finger down the timetable. Within the hour, they’ll cross the Iowa-Missouri line.

Tom stirs and Mary Agnes pats his leg. “Did you sleep? A wink?”

Tom smiles, his eyes still closed. “Not a wink, but rested, all the same.”

At Altamount, the train takes on coal and water, a half-hour’s stop. Passengers debark in search of coffee or to stretch their legs. After a hasty cup of coffee in the depot’s cramped café, Mary Agnes and Tom walk the length of the platform twice before Tom’s coughing stops them. He reaches for a hanky and covers his mouth. The bleeding hasn’t stopped.

“All aboard!” the new conductor barks. Mary Agnes takes Tom’s elbow and sweeps up her traveling skirt with her other hand as they make their way to their coach, a “solid vestibule” car with plush maroon velvet seats, heavily polished paneled walls, and its own water closet. Oil lamps suspend from the ceiling down the center of the railcar and afford good light. Heavy, brocaded drapes with thick tassels frame large picture windows adorned with intricate molding. Small reading lamps affixed to the wall above each row of seats emit a soft glow.

Within minutes, Tom’s eyes close again. If she could read on a train, she’d have several days to settle in with her very own copy of Henry James’s The Bostonians, bought before they left Chicago. She won’t have to read it in bits and pieces like when she was at the Rutherford’s. She’s up to the part where Verena moves in with Olive, and wonders at Olive’s intentions. Does Olive have designs on the girl? Or are her motives laudatory? Mary Agnes doubts that. It’s Henry James, after all.

Mary Agnes clasps the book in her lap, rubbing the rich green leather cover. Oh, does it ever feel grand to have a few dollars to our name, she thinks, thanks to Tom’s father who, because of Tom’s condition, gifted his son his inheritance early. All at once, she regrets her initial glee at the bequest. What did Tom’s father know? That Tom isn’t long for this world?

Mary Agnes’s stomach heaves. It would anyway if she reads underway, so she leans back in the reclining seat and watches as Winston, Clarks, Cameron, Lathrop, Holt, Liberty pass by in a blur, every mile further away from Chicago and everything they know.

The train clacks along, Kansas City next with a full hour’s stop. Almost halfway. Colorado Springs will loom larger with every mile after this.

Will Colorado Springs live up to its reputation? Cure for the invalid? New lease on life? Please, Mary Agnes entreats Mary and all the saints for the hundredth—or is it the thousandth—time? Tom cannot die.

JUST BEFORE THE SUN RISES ON THE second day, Tom and Mary Agnes change trains in Limon just shy of Denver to take the spur line to Colorado Springs. Tom nods off but Mary Agnes stays wide awake. As they pass through Mattison and Ramah, Calhan and Peyton, she sighs. Only two more stops according to her now-worn schedule: Falcon. Roswell. She puts her head to the glass and watches as the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains comes clearer into view. They are by now a mile higher than sea level and she feels she could reach out beyond the glass to touch the mountains. What they called mountains in County Galway are mere hills compared to these.

She peruses a brochure she picked up in Limon when they changed trains.

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLO.

THE CITY OF SUNSHINE

IS THE IDEAL ALL-THE-YEAR-ROUND HEALTH AND PLEASURE RESORT

This unique City of Sunshine, nestled at the threshold of the Rocky Mountains, has the international reputation of being one of the greatest health and pleasure resorts in the world.

Why?

Mary Agnes looks at Tom, dozing beside her. Yes, why? She wants it proved now. Prayers alone are not guaranteeing Tom’s return to health. It’s up to Colorado Springs now.

The atmosphere is absolutely aseptic and free from all germ life.

Epidemics of such diseases as Scarlet Fever, Diptheria, Typhoid, etc. are unknown.

There have been more permanent recoveries from Pulmonary complaints than in any other climate in the world.

She scans the rest of the brochure, amazed by the benefits touted by the Chamber of Commerce.

All the year round one may indulge in such sports as golf (two courses), polo, cricket, tennis, hunt clubs, and riding.

Tom can’t walk more than twenty steps, she thinks. I don’t think he’ll be riding or playing at any games . . .

The next line catches her eye, in bold print and all capital letters:

THE AVERAGE DAYS OF SUNSHINE IN A YEAR ARE 310.

“That will be a wonder,” she says aloud.

Tom stirs. “What’s that, Mary A.? What’s a wonder? Other than you.”

“Always the rogue.” She bats at him good-naturedly. “Look,” she says as she waves the brochure, “Colorado Springs has sunshine every day. Or nearly every day.” She thinks back to the cottage in Dawrosbeg. Did it ever stop raining there?

“Let me see,” Tom says. He skims the brochure. “I feel better already.”

At 7:20 a.m., the Halligans step off the train at their destination, forty-eight hours and more than a thousand miles behind them. It has been eighty-eight whistle stops since Chicago. Their belongings fit in two bags, Mary Agnes’s satchel and a battered suitcase of Tom’s; in their pockets, $485 of the $500 they began their journey with.

When the train pulls out of Colorado Springs, they breathe in brisk mountain air, puckeringly dry. A gnawing in Mary Agnes’s stomach reminds her they haven’t yet had breakfast. She thought she’d never be hungry again after last night’s meal in the sumptuous dining car: Pork loin with roasted potatoes, julienned carrots, and applesauce, and finished off with coffee and chocolate torte. But, fickle is life, and she’s hungry again.

She touches Tom’s arm. “Shall we hire a rig?”

“Let’s walk.”

“Is it wise?”

Tom consults a ticket agent.

“Nevada and St. Vrain?” the agent says. “A short walk, unless—”

“We could use a walk,” Tom says matter-of-factly. “If it’s not too far, as you say.”

The ticket agent points northeast from the station and tips his hat to Mary Agnes. His mouth is set in a fine line as he nods to her. Mary Agnes wonders how many people have come through this station, exactly like Tom. And how many never leave to go home again, wherever it is they come from? She pulls her hat down low on her brow to avoid intense sun. Her skirt, crinkled after two days on the train, falls to her ankles. She can’t wait to settle into their new lodgings and draw a bath.

“Come now,” she says to Tom, flashing a winning smile. I have to be strong for him. For me. They walk up East Platte two blocks in bright sunshine to North Nevada and stand at the corner for Tom to catch his breath. There they turn north two more blocks until they reach a handsome boardinghouse on the corner of Nevada and St. Vrain. “We’d be here,” Mary Agnes says. A freshly painted sign hangs above the door: Colorado Springs Inn. She raps on the door.

A tall, buxom woman with long, light-colored hair swept up into a bun answers the door. She wears a blue dress and an apron. “Ah, you must be the Chicagoans. I’m Tilly VanRy, owner. Come in, come in.” She opens the screen door. “Here, put your bags down. You haven’t eaten, no? You must be starving, come, come.” She leads the way through a large parlor to a kitchen in the rear of the house. “Sit, sit. We are like family here,” she says, the “w” sounding like a “v”.

Several minutes later, Tilly serves up two plates heaped with thick bread, butter and jam, and a cup of coffee each. As Mary Agnes and Tom eat, Tilly finishes with washing up.

“Come now,” the landlady says, when both Mary Agnes and Tom have drained their cups. “Your rooms are ready. Six dollars per week, paid in advance.” She hefts their bags and leads up the carpeted stairs. So strong she is, Mary Agnes thinks, she could carry four bags or more, and I’m grateful for the help. She doesn’t want to embarrass Tom trying to lug bags up the stairs himself, which he would do, ever the gentleman despite his infirmity.

At the second-floor landing, Tilly points two doors down to the left. “The washroom is at the end of the hall,” she says. “You’ll share with Mr. French”—she motions to the first door to the left—“and the Smith sisters.”

A stout, well-dressed gentleman of about forty or forty-five opens the first door. “What have we here? The Chicagoans? I’m from Chicago myself, via—”

Tom sticks out his hand. “Tom Halligan.” He nods to Mary Agnes. “And my wife, Mrs. Halligan.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Halligan.” The man bows and holds her gaze longer than fitting upon a first meeting. His accent is clearly German, not French.

The door at the far end of the hall on the right opens a crack.

“There will be time to make your acquaintances at dinner, Miss Smith.” Tilly turns to Tom and Mary Agnes. “Breakfast at seven, dinner at twelve sharp, supper at six, except on Sundays. That’s my evening off. But for now, it looks as if you two are in need of a bath and a rest. Would you excuse us, Mr. French, Miss Smith?”

Tilly opens the door to their lodgings and steps inside. Their “rooms” are one room, separated by a folding screen between the “bedroom” and the “sitting room” by the window. The yellow and cream striped wallpapered room is furnished with a bedstead, bedside tables and lamps, a small writing desk, and a large heavy wooden armoire on the far wall. Beyond the screen, two comfortable red damask chairs face a bay window with a view of the Rocky Mountains. Other than a small looking glass next to the armoire, there is no other artwork in the room. Not even a crucifix. Except for the time she worked at the Rutherford house, never has Mary Agnes slept in a bed without a crucifix hanging above it. Not in Ireland or New York or Chicago.

“It’s lovely,” Mary Agnes says. “Isn’t it, Tom?” Where to find a crucifix? In Colorado Springs?

Tom coughs into his hanky and quickly puts it back in his trouser pocket. Mary Agnes hopes the landlady hasn’t noticed. She extracts six dollars from her purse and hands it to Tilly.

Tilly hauls the bags into the room. “Please to excuse Mr. French. He is a meddler, alvays in your business. As for the misses Smith, they keep to themselves. Ve haff another boarder across the hall, a teacher at the normal school. You von’t meet her until supper, along vit the others. But here I am, going on and on and you needing to settle in. Until dinner, then.” She turns to leave.

“Thank you, Mrs. VanRy.”

Tilly laughs. “Just Tilly.”

Mary Agnes closes the door. Thoughts flood her mind, and she tries to still them. She must be strong for Tom’s sake, that’s what Helen said. She hugs Tom and lingers in the embrace. Then she takes his hand as they dance a few steps around the small room. She looks up at the face she has grown to love more than any other.

“Welcome home, my love.” She pronounces “love” like Seamus Bourke instructed her, not like a girl from a Connemara farm but like a girl from America, no hint of brogue. She knows this is not home, just a stopping off place, but home, nonetheless, while it lasts. Will she ever have a home of her own? One that she lives in for more than a few months at a stretch? She’s not past dreaming of it, the way the curtains will hang just so. And a bed-sized quilt. A kitchen filled with crockery and glassware. And out the back kitchen door, a riot of flowers . . .