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    Maggie Now

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    anyone and my few relatives are all in Boston...."

      "I know the very ones," he said. "Like your old man used

      to say, I know somebody what owes me a favor."

      He had decided to ask Big Red. Why? Who knows.

      Perhaps he thought Big Red would write Maggie Rose and

      tell her Patsy had named his first child after her and she'd

      be pleased and sad and know that he still thought of her

      even though she had married another after all her

      promises. Maybe, as he had told Mary. Big Red owed him

      something. And maybe it was because Patsy didn't have a

      friend in all the world that he could ask.

      He prepared for his visit to Big Red's house by going to

      C011fession. He had made a vow: Might he drop dead if

      he ever set foot in that house again. He was sure God

      hadn't taken that seriously but why take a chance on

      dropping dead?

      Father Flynn wasn't too easy on him. First, he gave hint

      penance for the sin itself; then more penance for waiting

      over three years to confess it. More penance for never

      coming to Mass except on Easter and Christmas. Added

      on was penance for over three years of routine sinning.

      Finally Father Flynn doubled the whole thing because he

      didn't like Patsy's arrogant attitude when 1 ''i', 1

      he, Father Flynn, told him that under no circumstance

      must he miss Mass, weekly confession and communion

      again. Patsy spent two hours on his knees doing the

      penance.

      He took communion next morning and, feeling brave

      and pure, he set out for East New York. Lottie and Tim

      were very glad to see him and, to Patsy's relief, no

      mention was made of their quarrel. Lottie wept with joy.

      "This is the first time anybody ever asked me to be

      godmother. I can hardly wait."

      " 'Tis a great honor," said Big Red, "the asking me to be

      godfather and the naming of the little one after me baby

      sister."

      (Baby sister, as proved by a picture Big Red had lately

      received from Ireland, had grown plump and matronly

      looking. The three small children clustered about her

      looked plump and matronly, too. But to Big Red she

      would always be Baby Sister.)

      Father Flynn christened the child. Lottie gave the baby

      the traditional christening gift: a little locket with a chip

      diamond in the middle of a little gold heart.

      "Diamonds is for April," said Lottie.

      "She looks just like me baby sister looked when she was

      born," said Big Red. Then he blushed. "That was the

      wrong thing to say," he apologised.

      "Oh, no," said Mary. "I'm pleased. I heard that your

      sister is very beautiful."

      "That she is."

      "The baby don't fool; like nobody," said Patsy coldly.

      "Just like her own sweet self," said Lottie tactfully.

      "That's right," said Big Red, ill at ease. "Well,

      sweetheart," he said to his wife, "I guess we gotta make a

      break."

      "He always calls me sweetheart," said Lottie to Mary.

      "That's nice," said llary. "And won't you come again to

      see us and the baby?"

      "I'd love to," said Lottie.

      "Sure," agreed Big Red.

      "Come often," urged Mary.

      The three looked to Patsy to second the invitation. Patsy

      stood mute.

      "Well, like I said," said Big Red uncomfortably, "we got to

      go."

      t841

     

      After they'd left, Mary said: "You never thanked him,

      Patrick."

      "Why should I? He owes me. I don't owe him. He owes

      me the way he can never make up to me for what he

      did to me."

      "Remember that," she said a little bitterly, "the next time

      you go to confession three years from now."

      He felt a pang because it was the first time she'd ever

      spoken unkindly to him. He knew that she loved him. He

      had never responded to her love, nor even acknowledged

      it. But he liked to have it around in escrows, as it were.

      She has her baby, Rev, he thought. And now she will take

      her love from me and give it all to the child.

      A few days after the baptism, a package for the baby

      arrived from The M[issus. It was llary's christening robe,

      slightly yellow with age. Attached to it was a five-dollar

      bill and a note. The Missus hoped the dress would get

      there in time for the christening, and she would have

      come to see her first grandchild, only Aunt Henrietta

      wasn't well and . . .

      "Some family," sneered Patsy. "Wouldn't take the trouble

      to come and see the only child of the only daughter."

      "Now, Patrick," said Mary patiently. She knew Patsy was

      terribly disappointed that her mother hadn't come for a

      visit. She knew that he was very fond of The Missus.

      For the first year of its life, the baby ` as called and

      referred to as "Baby." Mary waited for a nickname to

      evolve. Would it he "Maggie Rose" or "Pegeen" or

      "Maggie"?

      In that neighborhood, few children were called by their

      baptismal names. The formal name appeared or was used

      only for diplomas and registration and things like that.

      Sometimes foreignborn parents had trouble pronouncing

      a name; sometimes the child nicknamed itself. A

      "Catherine" would be pronounced, "Cat-rip," shortened to

      "Cat," then expanded to "Catty" and finally translated to

      "Pussy." "Elizaberh" went into "Lizziebet," to "Lizzie," to

      "Litty" (because the child couldn't pronounce the z's), and

      ended up "Lit." Long na mes were shortened and short

      names were lengtl-~ened. For instance, many an "Anna"

      ended up "Anna-la."

      It was Patsy who accidentally gave the baby the name she d

      i b'5 1

      always be known by. One night as he and Mary were

      preparing for bed, he looked at the big one-year-old baby

      who was sleeping sprawled sidewise across the bed.

      "I don't get me sleep nights, no more," he said. "This

      bed ain't big enough for the three of us. This baby now .

      . ." He paused, and then he gave her her name. ". . . This

      here Maggie, now, is big enough to have a bed of her

      own."

      They got a crib for her. She cried the first night she

      slept away from her mother. Mary soothed her.

      "There, baby, there!" The child bawled harder. "Hush,"

      said Mary. "Hush, Maggie. Hush, Maggie, now." The child

      stopped crying, smiled blissfully put her thumb into her

      mouth and went off to sleep.

      She grew up healthy, happy and loving. She was full of

      mischief and cheerfully disobedient. The day long

      throughout the house it was:

      "Maggie, now give me those scissors before you stab

      yourself."

      "Maggie, now mind your father when he speaks to you."

      "Maggie, now . . ."

      And so she became known as Maggie-Now.

      ~ CHAPTER FOURTEEN ~

      MARY, never having hall younger sisters or brothers, had

      no experience in bringing up a child. Her natural maternal

      feelings had been used in an o
    rganised way to handle

      thirty-odd children a day as a schoolteacher. She had a

      tendency, tempered by indulgent love, to regiment

      Maggie-Now. Mentally, she reached for a bell each

      morning to get the child started. She organized the child's

      day and was apt to give instructions as a schoolteacher

      would.

      "We will take our little walk now."

      "Eat your nice lunch, dear."

      "What story shall we read tonight?" [861

      "It's time for a certain good little girl to go to bed."

      When Maggie-Now was three, Mary tried to teach her

      to read. Maggie-Now squirmed, itched, scratched, rolled

      her eyes and made spit bubbles. Mary had to give it up.

      "She's intelligent," Mary told her husband, "but she won't

      sit still long enough to learn."

      "She'll be on her behind long enough when she starts

      regular school," said Patsy. "Besides, why does she have to

      learn everything so quick? Why, she ain't housebroken yet

      and you expect her to read!"

      "Don't you believe in education, Patrick?"

      "No," he said. "I went as far as what amounts to the sixth

      grade in America. And where did it get me? Cleaning

      streets."

      But Maggie-Now was very precocious in practical

      things like work. Even as a toddler, she dusted while her

      mother swept, insisted on drying the dishes when her chin

      was but an inch above the sink drainboard, tried to make

      up a bed, and asked constantly when she could cook. Her

      reward for being good was permission to grind up left-over

      meat in the food chopper. Her punishment when naughty

      was the withdrawal of the privilege of grinding the

      morning coffee beans.

      One day each summer, as she was growing up, her

      parents took her to the beach. Maggie-Now dearly loved

      the ocean. The ride in the open trolley was grand and the

      boarding of the Long Island train at Brooklyn Manor

      Station was a thrill. The high point of the journey was

      when the train went over water on a wooden trestle. Mary

      held the girl's arm tightly, admonishing her not to fall out,

      now.

      "Maybe the trestle will break this time," said

      Maggie-Nou hopefully, "and we'll all fall in the water."

      "By God," said Patsy, "she wants it to break! She lDants

      the train to fall in the water!'

      "Sh!" said Mary.

      Maggie-Now had no bathing suit. She grew so fast from

      year to year that it would have been a waste of money to

      buy one each year for just one day at the beach. Trying to

      follow her mother's admonition not to be ashamed

      because nobody was looking Ilaggie-Novv, undressed

      behind a big towel that her mother held around her like

      a limp barrel. She changed into a

      1 'S'- ~

     

      pair of out-grown pants and a worn-out dress in lieu of a

      bathing SUit.

      She ran whooping into the ocean and plunged into the

      first wave with a scream of delight. She held onto the rope

      and leaped and ducked and squatted to let the waves

      break over her head and howled in pretended terror

      (though flattered by the attention) when a big boy dived

      and grabbed her ankles and tried to duck her.

      Mary and Patsy sat on the towel: she in her Sunday

      dress and hat, sitting primly with her gloved hands in her

      lap, and Patsy lolling on an elbow and, as was traditional

      with men, eying the women in their bathing suits, their

      legs in long, black lisle stockings and the ruffles of

      bloomers showing beneath knee-length skirts.

      After an hour, Pats' went to the water's edge and

      induced Maggie-Now to come out. She changed back to

      her dry clothes inside the towel. Then they had their lunch

      which Mary had brought from home in a shoebox: ham

      bologna sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, sweet buns and

      drinks, now warm, which Patsy had bought when they got

      off the train. There was a bottle of beer for Patsy, a celery

      tonic for Mary, and a bottle of cream soda for

      Maggie-Now.

      After the lunch, Patsy announced that he would take a

      half hour's nap and then they would make a break for

      home to avoid the rush. Maggie-Now was given permission

      to walk up the beach and given strict orders not to take

      candy from anyone.

      She ran up the beach, leaping over outstretched and

      sometimes intertwined legs. She stopped to stare frankly

      at a couple lying on the sand on their sides and looking

      into each other's eyes. Their faces were hardly an inch

      apart. The young man, discomfited by her staring, lifted

      his head.

      "Get a gait on, kid," he said.

      "What gate?" asked Maggie-Nov.

      "She don't get your drift," said the young woman languidly.

      "Twenty-three, skidoo," said the young man.

      "I gotcha," said Maggie-Now, pleased that she could

      speak their lingo. "I'll beat it.'

      Going home on the I.ong Island, she sat between her

      parents and raved her hands in a paper bag of Rockaway

      sand.

      ~ ss 1

      "You know what?" she said. "I'm going to make a wish

      on the first star tonight. I'm going to wish that when I get

      big I'll have a house right by the water and listen to the

      waves when I'm in bed nights. And in the daytime, I'll

      jump in any time I feel like it."

      "I'll make a wish, too," said Mary. "I wish that all your

      wishes come true." Maggie-Now hugged her mother's arm.

      Obscurely, Patsy felt left out. If he couldn't be in on

      their emotional closeness, the next best thing was to

      destroy it.

      "People what lives by the water," he said, "always get

      rheumatism and their teeth fall out because they got to

      eat fish all the time."

      "Oh, you gloomy Gus,' said Maggie-Now.

      "We do not use slang," said Mary.

      "And we do not," said Patsy with bitter mimicry, "talk to

      our father that way, in the bargain."

      Mary knew how he felt. She reached across and took the

      shoebox from his knees. It had lIaggie-Now's wet bathing

      clothes in it.

      "I'll hold it," said Mary. "It's leaking through on your

      good pants."

      Not long after this, Mary told Pat that she was going to

      start Maggie-Now in parochial school in the fall.

      "She ain't going to no C atholic school and that's

      settled," said Patsy.

      "I've already enrolled hi r," said Marv.

      "Unroll her, then."

      "Now, Patrick . . ."

      "That's me last word on the subject. She goes to public

      school.' He had nothing against the parochial school. He

      just liked to argue. He sat down to read the evening

      paper. Suddenly he jumped up with a great oath.

      "I won't stand for it! By God! l won't stand for it!"

      Mary thought he was referring to the school. "It's

      settled," she said firmly.

      "What about Brooklyn?' he shouted.

      "The school's in Brooklyn," she said, bewildered. "You

      know that."

     
    1 9~1

     

      "What the hell's the school got to do with it? Brooklyn

      ain't no longer a city. It says so in the paper. Now it's only

      a borough of New York City."

      "Think how the people in New York feel. That used to

      be New York City. Now it's only the Borough of

      Manhattan. Anyhow, Patrick, you can't do a thing about

      it."

      "Oh, no? I can take the kid out of parochial school."

      "What good would that do?"

      "It would let me have me own way for once." He got up,

      grabbed his hat and threw himself out of the house.

      The saloon was so crowded Patsy could hardly get in. It

      was full of Irishmen bitterly cursing the annexation of

      Brooklyn by New York. They blamed it all on the British.

      "And is it not the fault of England," shouted a burly

      man in a square-topped derby, "and she bragging how

      London is the biggest city in the world and that making

      New York jealous? And what does New York turn around

      and do? She steals Brooklyn and hitches it- on to make

      New York the biggest city in the world."

      "But there'll always he a Brooklyn!" rang out a voice in

      the crowd. This sentiment was loudly applauded and wildly

      cheered.

      "Let's all drink to that!" yelled another man. They

      crowded up to the bar.

      "What's yours?" the bartender asked Patsy.

      "I ain't drinking to that darrm foolishness," said Patsy.

      "On the house," said the bartender.

      "I'll have a double rye. With water on the side," added

      Patsy. The bartender gave him a beer.

      All held their glasses aloft. "To Brooklyn!" said the

      bartender.

      Before they could drink, another voice rang out.

      "Brooklyn go bragh!"

      "Brooklyn go bragh! ' shouted all the men in the saloon.

      And a couple of men passing on the street stopped to

      holler: "Brooklyn go bragh!"

      Maggie-Now attended parochial school. T o Mary's

      distress, her daughter was not the brightest one in the

      class. To Patsy's relief, she was not the dumbest one. She

      vvas down near the bottom of the average kids But the

      teaching nuns liked her.

      ~ 9 1

     

      She got to school early and stayed late. She washed the

      blackboards and clapped the chalk dust out of the erasers

      and filled the inkwells. On Mondays, when the children

      had to bring pieces of broken glass to school to scrape ink

      spots off the floor, MaggieNow showed up with a bagful of

      glass to supply the kids who had forgotten to bring their

      own. She spent her Saturdays collecting bottles and

      smashing them for that purpose.

      Sometimes; her mother let her take her lunch to school.

      Usually it was two bologna sandwiches. She always traded

      them for the three slices of dry bread a wispy girl brought

      for lunch, insisting that she hated meat and liked plain

      bread better. It wasn't that she was sorry for the girl or

      overly generous; she just liked to give things.

      "She is a giver," sighed Sister Veronica to Sister Mary

      Joseph.

      "She'll have a busy life, then," said Sister Mary Joseph

      dryly. "There are ten takers for fine giver."

      Regularly, each morning at ten and each afternoon at

      two, Maggie-Now's hand shot up in the air for permission

      to leave the room. This regularity irritated Sister Veronica.

      Once she frowned and said: "We had recess h If an hour

      ago. Why didn't you attend to your needs then?"

      "I did," said Maggie-Now frankly. "Now I got to 'tend to

      my horse." The class tittered.

      "Watch your language, Margaret," said Sister Veronica

      sharply.

      Out in the yard, Maggie--Now with many a "Whoa

      there," and a "Hold still, boy," untied an imaginary horse

      from an imaginary stake. Then she became the horse. She

      ran about the yard, galloping and prancing and snorting.

      Then she was a steeplechase horse taking imaginary

      hurdles. And lastly, not to neglect the humbler species, she

      was a junk-wagon horse in harness, straining to pull a load

     
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