Free Land of Dreams: A Novel by Kate Kerrigan

owed me, but she was the only person from whom I would take advice.
    She squeezed both my hands in hers and said, “At least you know where he is now, Ellie. Leo is a sensible boy. He’ll be fine. Now, you call me—as soon as you get there.”
    I nodded, at a loss for words. Then she hugged me and, taking my shoulder, said, “Have you everything you need—enough money? Do you need to get a cardigan out of your bag for the journey?”
    “Stop,” I said.
    “I will telegram Patrick’s cousin Anne, in Chicago, and have her collect you from LaSalle Station. She lives nearby.”
    “There’s no need, Maureen, please . . .”
    I did not need, or want, the company of some strange woman.
    “Rubbish,” she said insistently. “It’s a long journey, Ellie, and there is a full day to kill before your train leaves for Los Angeles. You’ll be glad of some interesting company once you get there and, believe me, Anne will provide quite a distraction.”
    “Really, there’s no need.”
    “It’s done,” she said as if doing me a huge favor, and I could not disabuse her of the notion that she was helping.
    “Besides, Anne lords it over me something terrible—I swear that is the only reason she is friendly with me, because she can brag about her big life in Chicago. I want you to tell me what you think of her house; whether it’s as magnificent as she says it is. For me, Ellie? Meet her for me?”
    She was pretending to ask me a favor. It was our currency, our secret Irish way of doing things—the way we looked after each other.
    “Oh! I wish I was coming with you,” she suddenly said.
    In that moment, so did I. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” she asked finally.
    No, I was not sure. I dreaded having to endure this long journey to find Leo, and was terrified he might be gone when I got there. He was out of my sight, outside of my jurisdiction. I felt completely powerless and out of control.
    “Of course,” I said smiling, “I’ll be grand.”
    The Broadway Limited had been sitting like a giant metal slug next to the platform. It was reassuringly large and solid, more like a boat than a train.
    Its engines suddenly screamed into life and both Maureen and I jumped, each letting out a half-laugh that ended with a smile. It felt like a relief.
    “I’ll be fine, Maureen—really. I’ll call as soon as I get to Los Angeles.”
    I had booked a single sleeper car. Sleeping was unlikely, but I wanted to travel alone. I could not bear the idea of attracting company, no matter how convivial, but the moment I was settled in my seat and the train started moving, I regretted the decision.
    The light was gone from the day, but New York City was never dark and, as the train thundered along the tracks above the streets and shops, the sky above me glowed a dull, misty orange. I closed my eyes and finally allowed myself to sink into my thoughts.
    Although I had never sought Charles’s advice when he was there to give it, now I had an urgent longing for my second husband. He was Leo’s father, after all—he would have known what to do. In those early New York days Charles’s friendship had given me confidence and comfort. Later, when I started the community in Yonkers, he had protected us from the interests of gangs and criminals. Charles was a man’s man, a union man—handsome, self-assured and principled. Most men were happy to let him into their midst and negotiate with their bosses; most women would happily have allowed him to sweep them completely off their feet. Perhaps, if I had been a different sort of woman—the sort of woman who could give herself over entirely to the better capabilities of a man—I would not be alone here in this situation. Perhaps if I had not been so selfish in pursuing my own needs as an artist, perhaps if I had been less pigheaded in my everyday dealings with Charles, if I had been more respectful of his household foibles, had bowed to his wishes more—perhaps if I had been less