Sully was silent, remembering.  Michaela watched the firelight play across his face, casting his features in alternating patterns of light and shadow.  She wondered what thoughts were going through his mind.

     Presently he said, "She was pretty.  She had hair maybe a little darker than mine—kinda curly—and blue eyes.  Her voice was low and soft and—“  he gave her a small grin, "she had a cultured way of talkin'—like you."  Michaela smiled back at him.  "'Cept she talked with an English accent," he added.

     He hesitated, looking down at his hands which were clasped loosely between his knees.  Finally he looked up at her and said, "Her name was Katharine."

     Michaela nodded slightly.  "Katie is named for her," she said.  It wasn't a question.

     "Yeah," Sully confirmed.  "I know you thought I was just fond of that name—but truth is, it was my way of honorin' my ma's memory."

     "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.  "I would have understood."

     "I know you would have Michaela," he said.  "That's the kind of person you are.  It wasn't about you—it was me.  I guess I was—ashamed."

     "Ashamed?" she repeated.  "Ashamed of what?"

     "Ashamed at bein' angry at her for so many years . . . for not understandin'.  And ashamed that
when I finally *did* understand, it was too late to say I was sorry."  He twisted his hands together and then restlessly stood up and paced around the room.  Running his hand distractedly through his hair he turned back to her and said, "I guess I ain't makin' much sense."

     "Maybe more than you know," Michaela answered softly.  After a moment she added, "Were you angry at her for leaving you, Sully?"

     He studied a wooden carving of an eagle he had sculpted which sat on the mantle of the fireplace.  The eagle's graceful wings were extended, as if it were about to take flight.  Michaela thought that maybe Sully wished he were that eagle right now, able to take wing and escape from the memories that haunted him.

     "That was a big part of it," he admitted.  "But I guess it really started before that."  He was quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath and began,  "You know my pa died when I was a baby?"

     Michaela nodded.

     "I don't have any recollection of him at all.  And Will—William, that was my brother—was barely three, so he didn't remember much either.

     "My ma had a picture of him—just a rough sketch really, that she said a friend of theirs had
drawn.   But lookin' at his face was like lookin' at a stranger—‘cept you could see that Will favored him a lot.  I looked more like my ma."

     Michaela felt a small shiver go through her, thinking of his mother's portrait, and the striking resemblance she'd seen between mother and son.  She mentally shook herself and refocused on what Sully was saying.

     "Apart from the picture, all Will an' me knew of our pa was the little our ma told us.  That he'd been a farmer, but couldn't make a livin' from the land.  An' that he tried minin' tin for a spell, in a place called Cornwall, but the tin dust got into his lungs, so he had to give it up."

     "Miners' consumption," Michaela said.

     "Yeah.   Anyway, my ma said it was then that he decided to try his luck in America, and that's how we come here.  I was born on the ship comin' over."

     "I remember you telling me," she said.

     He nodded, and after a pause he continued, "They'd heard there was a lotta opportunity here, and they had hopes that things would be different.  But it was no good.  My pa had trouble findin' steady work, and livin' in the city started makin' him sick again.  As the months went by, he got worse and worse, till he couldn't work at all.

     "My ma said the city finally ruined his health and broke his spirit.  After just a year, he upped and died."

     "That must have been so hard for your mother," Michaela said softly.

     Sully nodded again.  "Yeah, it musta been.   I mean, I know she musta grieved for him, and it had to be real hard, raisin' two kids all by herself.  But by the time Will an' me could understand or remember, he'd already been gone a long time, and she seemed to have got over it—or made her peace with it, anyway."

     "How did she manage to support you?" Michaela asked.

     "She was lucky," Sully replied.  "She got a good job with a rich family, lookin' after their kids.  When they was babies, she was a—I guess you'd call it a nursemaid.  But later, when they got older, she got a better-payin' job as their governess."

     "That's quite impressive," Michaela commented.

     "Yeah, I guess—but it was really just a fancy word for 'teacher,'" he replied.  "She never talked about it, but my ma had been educated when she was young.  Even before Will an' me started school, she taught us how to read an' write, an' how to do arithmetic.

     "I recall she had this book of poetry she was real partial to. She used to read from it to Will an' me every night before we went to sleep."  He looked a little sheepish.  "I guess that's how I come to like poetry so much, even though I wasn't too long on book-learnin' when I got older."

     Michaela smiled at him, remembering the many nights they had curled up together, sharing the erotic poetry of Walt Whitman.  She gave a nod of encouragement for him to continue.

     "So all in all, I guess, it wasn't too bad a life," Sully said.  "We didn't have a lot—certainly not as much as a lot of folks—but we was better off than some.  Mr. and Mrs. Edwards—the people my ma worked for—were real good to us.  They even let us come along when they went to the country each summer.  Things were good.  And then—Will died."

     Sully stopped speaking, and Michaela knew that he had reached the heart of his painful recollections.  Silently she willed him to go on, so that he could finally purge the anguish he had carried bottled up inside for so long.

     "What happened to Will, Sully?" she asked gently.  He had been staring down at the floor.  At the sound of her voice he raised his head to look at her and she saw a sheen of tears in his eyes.

     Sully swiped at his eyes and said roughly, "He got killed.  He was ridin' one of the Edwards' horses.  I was standin' there watchin'.  One moment he was laughing, sittin' up there on top of the world.  The next moment the horse shied and bolted, and Will was hangin' by one foot in the stirrup, bein' dragged and dragged . . . "  Sully buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders began to shake with silent sobs.  In a moment Michaela was by his side, her arms around him.  Blindly Sully reached out and wrapped his arms over hers.  He continued to weep helplessly, holding fast to her as she pressed against him in mute comfort.

     After a few minutes, the torrent of Sully's tears finally began to abate.  He took a few shuddering breaths, and scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

     "I'm sorry," he managed at last, his voice still choked with emotion.  "I don't know what come over me.  I ain't let myself think of that for a long time . . . I guess I didn't realize how much it still hurt."

     "Shh," Michaela hushed him softly, caressing his hot, flushed cheek and gently stroking the hair from his brow.  "Sully—please—don't apologize.  Seeing your brother die when you were just a child was a heart-breaking, terrible shock.  And you've carried that memory—that pain—with you all of your life.  You needed to cry, to release your grief."  She continued to stroke his hair, tears pricking her own eyes at the thought of the little boy he had been, enduring the first terrible loss of his life.

     "But it was years ago," he protested.  "I'm a grown man.  I should be over it by now."

     Michaela thought for a moment, and then said carefully, "Sully, I think it's because you were just a young child when it happened, that perhaps you weren't able to grieve properly.  The—magnitude—of the loss may have been too great for you to comprehend.  And then all these years you kept your feelings locked up inside, afraid to let them out.  Perhaps it's only now that you can understand the full reality of William's death, and allow yourself to mourn him."

     Sully was listening to her attentively, and she could see by his expression that her words had affected him.  "Maybe you're right," he said slowly.  "I mean—I know I was upset when he died—he was my brother!  I loved him—I missed him!"

     "Of course you did," she said soothingly.

     "But—the weeks an' months passed, an' I guess I got used to him bein' gone.  After a while, it was hard to remember what he looked like, how he sounded."

     "That was a perfectly natural response, Sully," Michaela assured him.  "You were only seven—you couldn't be expected to remain sad indefinitely.  William was gone, but you were still alive. Your life had to go forward.  Also, I believe there's a certain defensive mechanism that takes over to protect a child from a great shock or trauma.  I'm sure that's what happened to you."

     "I guess you're right," Sully conceded.  "I began to get over it—or at least I thought I did.  But—it wasn't that easy for my ma."