Page 6 of Maggie Now


  "Good day to you, officer," said Patsy ingratiatingly.

  "Son of a bitch!" said the street cleaner bitterly, as he

  started to clean Up.

  As Patsy led the horses away, he thought: He 7nea~zt

  the male for no man in the world could call me that and

  live to tell it.

  He had other duties. He had to sweep the sidewalk and

  stoop and rake the yard daily. He put the filled garbage

  can at the curb at night and impaled the filled trash bag

  on a spike of the railing around the house. He beat the

  rugs and washed the windows and stretched the lace

  curtains on the frames. In short he had to obey The

  Missus' bidding anal Biddy's Shims.

  Three times a week he took a wooden bucket and

  walked ten blocks to a slaughter house on North Street

  where he got kidneys or a liver or a couple of hearts or

  other variety meats which were given away free. Once a

  week, on slaughtering days, he brought home a bucket of

  fresh blood. Moriarity seasoned it with pepper and

  flavored it with lemon juice and drank half of it as a tonic.

  T he other half was mixed with various ingredients and

  made into a fearful thing called blood pudding. Patsy

  could hardly get it down. Biddy stood over him and made

  hhn eat it, assuring him that it would give him stren'tll.

  "I been eating it three years," she said' "and I can lick a

  ox."

  "I don't want to lick no ox," he said.

  Cohen he had an idle moment in the day, he sat on a

  three-legged stool in the stable with a coffee grinder

  between his knees and ground up some of the horses'

  oats. Biddy treated it like oatmeal and made it into a

  breakfast gruel. Patsy, as well as the other members of the

  household, had to eat a bowlful of it each morning

  because of Moriarity's theory. The Boss figured that if

  horses grew strong on oats, human beings could attain the

  strength of a horse by eating the same oats.

  "Is it a nation of giants," Yatsy asked Biddy, "he would

  have walking the streets of I.rook1N7t1 and all with the

  same braving horse laugh he does ONE'."

  The steamship man c ailed on Patsy each payday and

  Patsv gave him two dollars, which the man marked in a

  little black book.

  "Only fifty-eight dollars more," the collector had said

  after the first payment. "you'll be paid up in a vear."

  [421

 

  "I don't want to stay here a year," Patsy had told him. "I

  don't like it here. I want to go back to Ireland."

  "No reason why you shouldn't after two years."

  "Two . . . ? "

  "A year to pay off your passage here and a year to pay

  off your passage back."

  Two years before he could go back or two years before

  he could send his mother passage money. No. He couldn't

  wait. He'd save every penny.... To that end, he got an

  empty cigar box from Van Clees, a young Dutch cigar

  Walter from whom Patsy bought a Seamy clay pipe once

  in a while and a sack of tobacco. Patsy nailed the cover

  shut and cut a slit in the cover. He dropped his savings in

  the slit.

  The savings accumulated very slowly. Patsy was not

  extravagant and his needs were few enough, but there was

  always something to buy. Aside from fifteen cents a week

  for clay pipes and tobacco, he had to pay ten cents twice

  a week for a shave at the barber's. He couldn't afford to

  buy a straight razor and honing strap. A haircut once a

  month cost twenty cents. A nickel went into the collection

  plate at Mass each Sunday. Then he needed socks and a

  union suit and another shirt and a Sunday tie and pomade

  for his hair. There was a beer or two of a Saturday

  night not that he was a drinking man. But he liked the

  conviviality of the saloon where voices were raised in song

  and one could count on a grand fight starting up once in

  a while. But he did manage to save a dollar a week.

  Mary asked him kindly- had he heard from his mother.

  It was then he realized two months had gone by and he

  hadn't written. No, he said, he hadn't heard because he

  hadn't written. Yes, he could read and write but had never

  written a letter because at home everyone he knew was

  close by and letters weren't necessary. It was addressing

  tile envelope that bothered him and the proper stamp.

  That night she made him a present of a box of

  stationery and a penholder and a half-doztn penpoints and

  a bottle of ink. She had a stamped envelope addressed for

  him. He wrote that night.

  He wrote his mother that it might be two years before

  he could send for her. He suggested she get in touch with

  the Liverpool sport and get passage and a job. He wrote:

  . . . I have a fine

  [ 43 ]

 

  apartment here . . . He looked around his barren room.

  God forgive me fur Iying, he prayed. (He often took a

  short cut like that to get rid of minor venial sins. It saved

  time at confession.)

  He wrote that he was sending her an American dollar

  in the letter and . . . The young lady of the house is stuck

  on me . . . She gave me a grand present . . .

  It was a fine present, the stationery. He didn't believe,

  really, that Mary was stuck on him. He wrote it knowing

  his mother's tongue was tied in the middle and wagged at

  both ends and she'd be sure to tell Maggie Rose and the

  girl would be jealous and would write to him. A half page

  more of boasting, and the letter was finished.

  He waited every day for a letter. Two months passed

  and he had given up hope of hearing from home, when

  one night Mary came down to the kitchen where he was

  eating supper with Biddy, and smilingly put a letter next

  his plate. He finished his supper in a hurry and went up

  to his room to read the letter. It was written by Bertie, the

  Broommaker.

  Esteemed Son: Yours at hand and contents noted. Your

  one dollar received. I trust more to follow. I informed

  Miss Shawn of your new attachment. Miss Shawn requests

  that I tender you her congratulations. Miss Shawn

  requests me to inform you that she, also, has formed a

  new attachment.

  I must decline with thanks your kind invitation to join

  you in America under the conditions you set forth. I have

  no wish to become a domestic for no gentlewoman of our

  family has ever gone into service. It is my desire to remain

  here in order to die where I was born and to sleep the

  eternal sleep at the side of my dear, departed husband,

  your father.

  Pray extend my cordial greetings to your guide and

  mentor, M. Moriarity, Esquire. T remain your devoted

  mother, Elizabeth A. Moore. (Mrs.)

  So she took it serious, thought Patsy, and she thinks I

  have a girl and after I gave me promise . . . and now she

  won't come to me a-tall. He put his head down on his

&nbsp
; arms and cried a little. He knew that the last link

  between him and Ireland had been broken. Ale mother

  don't want me now, he wept, but she wouldn't let .llaggie

  Rose have me. And now me girl went and got another f

  eller....

  [44~1

 

  After a while, he wiped }liS eyes, busted open his bank

  and took out a half dollar. He went down to the saloon,

  had ten five-cent beers, two fights and ate most of the free

  lunch left over from noon. He felt much better afterward.

  Mary, returning from the druggist's where she'd gone to

  buy a cake of castile soap with which to wash her hair, saw

  him go into the saloon. She surmised that the letter from

  home had not been a happy one. ';he decided to have a

  talk with him in the morning.

  "Patrick," she said the next morning after the exchange

  of greetings, "you must be lonesome a strange country,

  no relatives and you don't go out enough to make friends."

  Then, a little breathlessly, she made her suggestion. "Did

  you know there are places in Rockawav where Irish

  people go to dance? And many of the counties have their

  own dance hall. I know there's one for Galway and

  Donega] and I(:erry. Perhaps there's one for Kilkenny.

  Why don't you go this Saturdav, Patrick? You might meet

  somebody from home."

  "I would, Miss Mary, but . . ."

  "And get yourself some nice clothes."

  "I would. Only . . ."

  "Go to Batterman's or Gorman's. You can get clothes

  on time. Most working people do. So much down, so

  much a week. Give our name as reference."

  "I will do so, Miss Marv, and I do be thanking you...."

  "Not at all, Patrick. You're too young to spend your

  evenings sitting in that little room."

  He did as she suggested He bought a straw hat for a

  dollar and bulldog-tip shoes that cost a cool two dollars,

  a candy-striped shirt and two celluloid collars and a

  made-up, snap-on polka-dot bow tie. His suit was dear:

  eight dollars. He got it just in time. The pants he'd worn

  steadily since leaving Ireland were almost transparent

  from wear.

  "Them pants don't owe you nothing, Mister," said the

  salesman feelingly.

  He dressed up the following Saturday evening and made

  a little sensation in the household. The Boss said: "When

  me stable boy dresses better than meself, one of us is got

  to go." Iloriarity's idea of a joke.

  Mary thought: How very yoYIng he is! How good looking!

  1 4~]

 

  The Missus said: "I wish 1 had a son.' 1 hen threw her

  hands over her head and ran upstairs.

  Biddy said: "The likes of hhn putting on airs and him

  looking like a monkey on a stick!"

  He found his way to Rockavay. Fhere were dance halls

  with doors wide as barndoors standing open and banners

  above them with names of the counties: Kerry, Sligo,

  Donegal, Cork, Tipperary and others. Inside, the pipes

  snarled and hefty, flushed servant girls danced with

  barrel-cheated truck drivers and theN danced pounding

  their feet as though they would make holes in the floor.

  The noise drowned out the gentle swish of the ocean

  nearby.

  Patsy could find no lLilkelloy banner 50 he went into

  COuntN Sligo. A girl with a wild-rose flush in her cheeks

  that reminded him a little bit of Maggie Rose was sitting

  alone with a schooner of beer before her. He went to her

  intending to ask for a dance, hut before he could form

  the words a burly bruiser appeared out of nowhere and

  sat dot n next the girl.

  "Yes?" asked the bruiser. The word was a challenge.

  "Nothing," answered Patsv. The vord was a withdrawal.

  He went into County Derry and sav two girls dancing

  together. Ele walked out on the floor, touched the

  shoulder of one of them and said: "Breaks" The girls w

  ere delighted one of them, anyway. When that dance

  was done, he danced with the other girl. Between dances,

  they sat down and Patsy treated them to beer. He

  alternated dancing with the two all evening. From time to

  tingle they sat down and had another schooner. As the

  evening w ore on, the girls quarreled with each other as

  to which one he'd e scort home. Pats settled it by

  promisirla to take both home. Then he excuse,! hilllsclf to

  go to the men's room. He sneaked out the side door and

  took the train for horlle, letting the girls sit there.

  Going over the trestle, he counted the money in his

  pocket. Only sixty cents left! And he had Connie out with

  two dollars! Sweat broke out on his sorehead. I can't do

  this again, he thought, spending me money like a

  dr~`iZkc7` sailor. I'll never save me prst n~illio7z spending

  it before I save it.

  That was the end of ]'atsv's social life.

  14ri 1

 

  ~ CHIN PTER SIX ~

  WHEN September came, Moriarity told Patsy he'd have

  to go to night school.

  "But I know me reading Jnd writing," protested Patsv.

  "And do I not speak English?"

  "You have to take lessons," said The Boss, "so's you can

  learn to be a citizen and vote the Democratic ticket."

  "'Tis of no interest to me."

  "The party needs your vote."

  "It can't get it till I'm lining five years in Broo'Klyn."

  "Who said so?"

  "Mary. I mean, Miss Mary. Three years if you marry an

  American woman, she said."

  "Are you figuring on petting married?"

  "I got no intentions."

  "Miss Mary," said The Boss carefully, "is kind to dogs

  and old people and servants. 'Tis her nature. So don't get

  idears."

  He saw Patsy's eyes flicker. Hit the bull's eye that time,

  thought Moriarity. Got to watch him fron,' now on.

  Patsy refused to go to night school. He said: "Me days

  belong to you but me nights belong to me." (He'd been in

  America long enough now to know his rights.)

  Moriarity was in a fix. The boss over him had created a

  job: a night class in civics and current events to give

  employment to a spinster relative of a boss two bosses

  higher than Moriarity. To make it legitimate with the

  school board, the class had to have an enrollment of

  thirty. Orders had gone out from the top to fill the class.

  "Tell you what, Pathrick," said Moriarity. "You go to

  night school and I'll raise your pay fifty cents a week

  more."

  "And what is fifty cents?" shrugged Patsy.

  "Fifty cents!" Moriarity grew Iyrical. "Fifty cents is fifty

  clay pipes. It's ten beers a week in a grand saloon with the

  boys

  1 4-'1

 

  ch~sterin' around and laughing and singing and yourself

  amongst them. It's five Saturday nights at the Gat-tee

  Bur-less show and yourself high in the gallery where you

  can see all.
"

  "No!" Patsy was adamant.

  Mary spoke to him the next morning. "It would be nice

  if you v. ent to night school, Patrick. You could dress up

  nights in your nice suit, get out among people, perhaps

  make a friend or two...."

  He didn't want to go but he wanted to please her. She'd

  been SO kind; treated him as a friend, not a servant. Only

  last week, she'd given him a beautiful plate hand-painted

  china, painted by herself to put his pipes on. Her gift of

  stationery, ink and pen and the pretty plate standing on

  his little table made his room seem more cheerful and

  warm.

  "I will go," he said. "1~ or you."

  A delicate pink color flowed into her cheeks. She said,

  "Thank you, Patrick."

  Patsy sat in a seat built for a ten-year-old child. His legs

  were jammed under the little desk. He looked around the

  classroom trying to find someone to hate. He'd about

  decided that there was no one in the room worth hating

  when he saw a banty Irishman slip into the seat across the

  aisle.

  He'll never make pa' feet standing up, thought Patsy

  scornfully. And he's got no teeth, the way his Oath is folded

  into his face.

  The little fellow wore a broken-visored cap pulled down

  over one eye. There were a couple of pearl buttons sewed

  on the visor and loose, dirty threads where other buttons

  had been.

  So, deduced Patsv. '4 fishmonger, come from the slops of

  Dublin where all the black Prattisstants come frown.

  The little man, feeling that Patsy was sizing him up,

  turned to grin at him. Patsy scowled in return. Patsy was

  about to start an argument by asking the man who did he

  think he was looking at when the teacher came in.

  She was a buxom, micldle-aged woman. There was a

  black button on her dress from which hung a pair of

  pince-nez eyeglasses. She rapped the edge of her desk

  with a brass-edged ruler. She pulled on lier glasses and an

  attached chain came out of the button. She pinched the

  glasses onto the bridge of her nose.

  'This is a class in civics, current events and American

  citizen

  [ 4y 1

 

  ship," she announced. "The class meets five nights a week.

  Mv name is McCarthy. Miss," she emphasized. "Now I will

  take your names, gentlemen."

  The little banty Irishman tittered at the word

  ''Gentlemen.'' Miss McCarthy pointed her ruler at him.

  "You!" she said. "Stand up!" He did so. The little fellow

  was under five feet tall. She removed her glasses from her

  nose and held them daintily, shoulder high, between her

  thumb and forefinger. "Remove your hat"' He obeyed.

  "What's your name?"

  "MacCart'y," he said. "A~lick."

  She thought he was mimicking her. She came from

  behind her desk. "What did you say>" she said

  menacingly, spacing each word.

  His eyes rolled in terror. He gasped "Mick Mack . . ."

  He was so scared he couldn't get the "Carthy" out. "click

  Mack," he repeated.

  "Mick Mack?" she asked with a puzzled frown.

  The class howled with laughter. She gave her glasses a

  jerk and they crawled up on her bosom, following the

  chain which disappeared in the button. She opened her

  desk drawer and took out an Indian chlb. She hefted it by

  the neck.

  "Attention! " she said. She waited for silence. "I don't

  like teaching you any more than you like being taught. I

  do not want any trouble. But if anyone of you is looking

  for trouble, I'll be glad to accommodate him. Any

  questions?" She tightened her grip on the Indian club.

  There were no questions.

  Patsy was filled with admiration of the woman. My God,

  he thought, you can't love her but you sure as hell got to

  respect her.'

  She went through the class and got the names. Some

  were hard to get. A person could tell his name but he

  couldn't spell it. A Pole, whose name sounded like

  Powllowski, she announced would be set down as Powers.

  When it came to a Schwarzkopf, she stated that, from that

  time on, it would be Blackhead. The poor man begged to

  be permitted to keep his name but Miss McCarthy was