Occasionally, the two women had chatted about Canne’s obvious fondness for Mary, who’d made it clear that she had no interest in “that little man.” Watching him try to win Mary’s heart had pained Cora. For his sake, she was glad Mary had left. Over time, Canne would forget her, whereas Cora still saw Linnaeus Jones seven days a week. A year ago, he’d married nurse Carlton at St. John-by-the-Sea. From the lawn, Cora had listened to the ceremony. She wished she hadn’t.
Afterward, whenever she saw his sleek, black hair and broad shoulders from afar, she ducked her head to hide her eyes—the only outward evidence that she was as human as the rest of them.
Also, she’d given up on the possibility that Dr. Gettler’s humanity would return with the curative passage of time. No longer did he attend the church services, despite now being on the island every Sunday. And he limited his interaction with the staff and patients to the bare minimum required to maintain his position. Not even for his son could he rouse the compassion that had once made the nurses and patients adore him. As far as Cora could tell, he rarely visited the now nine-year-old boy, still living with a nanny in Kleindeutschland.
O’Toole had become her only friend.
Now he jerked the pole twice. “Feck. It got away.” With a groan, he heaved his body to a standing position and reeled in the line.
Whatever he caught today, nurse O’Toole would fry in the cafeteria kitchen for their children. In two hours they would return on the same ferry that delivered them each morning to the Lower East Side, where they attended Public School 188. According to O’Toole, it was the largest in the world, occupying an entire block of Houston Street. To spend just one day as a student there, Cora would give up her golden guinea.
An empty hook rose from the river.
“Bad cess, that’s all I’ve caught today,” O’Toole muttered, moving to the end of the pier, where the wind carried away the stench of the small fish he’d sliced as bait.
Bad luck is right, Cora thought. Her gaze fell from the Queens shoreline to the whitecaps of the river, and she shivered. “Maybe the sharks have eaten all the striped bass.” She bit her lip. Not once since her battle with the currents had she mentioned those beasts.
He laughed and rubbed his ruddy nose with the side of his fish-juiced hand. “Sharks? The ship traffic chased all those away a century ago.”
Would he think I’m mad? She inhaled the salty air and raised her cheeks to the sharp wind. Here on the southeastern dock, the farthest accessible point from the hospital, she could safely remove the wrap that shielded her breath. As the days had carried her farther from that encounter, she’d begun second-guessing the creatures’ existence. Maybe she was insane. O’Toole would tell her the truth.
She waited for him to cast his line and sit back down.
The reek of his sweat permeated the air once again. Cora didn’t mind; she cherished being this close to another human.
“O’Toole?”
“Yes, my sweet lass?”
“That day I almost drowned. If I were to tell you that a pair of sharks . . . saved me. Would you . . . Am I crazy?”
O’Toole bellowed, the deep sound reverberating across the water.
Humiliated, she reached for her hood.
He quieted and gripped her arm. “Hold on, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
“I must have imagined it. I must have been delirious from the fever.”
O’Toole stuffed his fishing pole under his armpit and twisted his massive torso to face her. “People say I laugh too much for an orderly at a contagion hospital, but laughter—and me family—are the only things that get me through each day on this godforsaken rock. The idea of guardian angel sharks: it’s thrilling.” He put his paw on her glove. “I hope they weren’t an illusion. You need a few angels on your side.”
She peered at him through her lashes. “Why would they help me?” she asked despite having her own idea. In her satchel she carried the pastor’s note with the Bible verse about Jesus cleansing the leper. Although time and wear had faded the ink, and she was no leper, its potential application to her had been gathering strength deep within her.
O’Toole motioned to the campus behind them. “I’ve always thought there’s something mystical going on with you and this place.”
Reflexively, she touched the wool covering her chest, beneath which lay her crucifix pendant. “Mystical?”
“I don’t mean no disrespect to the Good Lord,” he said, crossing himself, “but I don’t think He’s all that exists. The Indians, who used this island as fishing grounds, they have their own set of spirits. Maybe those sharks were making sure you stay put on what may very well be sacred land.”
She clutched her bag and thought of the bird stone within it. “Why me?”
“Who’s ta know?” He raised his line and cursed the empty hook. “Though ‘chosen’ you clearly are.”
“I don’t want to be,” she snapped, standing and turning inland. She’d seen more than enough of the river to last a lifetime, however long that might be. “I’d rather be dead than live like this,” she said, sweeping her hand across her cloak.
Her cheeks felt hot, and she realized she was crying. “I should jump in now and let the current carry me out to sea. Then we’ll know for sure about those sharks.”
O’Toole glanced toward the outbuildings, presumably to ensure that no one was watching, and grabbed her shoulders. “You can’t
