A BIRD NAMED ENZA
by
Joseph J Bakewell
SMASHWORDS EDITION
********
PUBLISHED BY
Joseph J Bakewell on Smashwords
Copyright © 2003 by Joseph J Bakewell
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CHAPTER ONE
September, 1917
They all sensed it, an air of excitement as the band played, and the room filled with new people pushing in, even as earlier arrivals finished their first beers.
Jack Sullivan set a trayload of clean beer glasses down behind the long tables serving as a bar. His older brother, Brian, was busy filling glasses and handing them to guests. Jack leaned against Brian’s shoulder. “Will Al Smith be here, do you think?”
Brian kept filling and handing out glasses, his head half-turned to Jack. “I doubt it. He could be anywhere in the state, you know.”
“Yeah. I guess everybody here is going to vote for him anyway.” Jack walked away. This was the first time he had been asked to work at Big Bill Valentine’s fall shindig—or “Ball,” as Big Bill liked to call it. Brian and their oldest brother, Tim, had worked the event a number of times, and now Jack was taking Tim’s place. For years, he’d listened to them brag about the famous people they had seen there, including Al Smith, currently running for governor.
The “Ball” took place in St. Michael’s Parish hall, located in the basement of the church on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The ceiling, finished with sheets of pressed tin, was too low for such a large room, and the shell-white paint peeled and flaked in several places. Two rows of support columns, wound with red ribbon—Valentine’s color, stood about ten feet out from the long side walls. Bare light bulbs, screwed into ceiling sockets, provided just enough light for a dance. The acoustics gave the band, which played at one end of the hall, a good excuse for sounding a bit off key. Beer flowed from the bar at the opposite end of the hall, and no one complained about the dim light or the band. The local, working-class people were having the best time. They danced, sat along the sides visiting, or milled about looking for friends.
Jack had never seen such a collection of characters in one place in his life. There were all the familiar political faces—ward heelers and hangers-on. The local men were familiar to him; they owned bars or stores, or were in the trades. If he didn’t know their names, he had at least seen them at work, at church, or around the neighborhood. Many wore jackets and ties, but few of the jackets fit well, and most of the ties were on crooked. They looked like schoolboys who had grudgingly allowed a maiden aunt to dress them. The jackets, ties and button-on collars disappeared as the evening wore on.
Their wives and girl friends wore simple long dresses, tied at the waist with a sash or cloth band. The dresses of the older women were dark, while the younger women favored light pinks and blues. They wore their hair in a bun at the back of their heads, or held up with ribbons and combs. Most of the women did not drink alcohol. Some of those who did appeared a bit flushed after one beer, and dancing added color to every face.
Jack’s boss, Frank Clancy, Tammany Hall’s ward heeler from the Pearl Street office, was there. He walked around in shirtsleeves but kept his trademark bowler perched on his head. He signaled Jack a few times to get beers for some newly arrived big shots. Jack was glad to pitch in—to help the man he had come to admire for his endless energy, the hours he worked, and for his genuine compassion toward anyone in need.
More significant was the presence of Charles Frances Murphy, “Silent Charlie,” the longtime boss of Tammany Hall. He wore no hat, and his suit fit. Jack noticed how all the upper-crust guests strived for his attention.
These and other politicians mixed in odd combinations with elegantly dressed uptown society folks, theater people and vaudeville stars. Some of these men wore evening clothes, and all the women appeared to own strings of pearls and large ostrich feathers for their hair.
There was a stir near the entrance, and Jack heard someone say, “Fanny Brice is here.” Someone else answered, “Yeah, and I saw Eddie Cantor.”
Big Bill, dressed in a tuxedo set off with a bright red bow tie, circulated holding the same glass of beer he started the evening with. As newcomers appeared, he welcomed them and tried to herd them into the room, well away from the door—an invitation to stay. He had only limited success with the uptown visitors.
Jack particularly wanted to see the theater and society guests. As he went about cleaning tables, he observed that only the men were eager to talk with the politicians. The women clustered together—near the door, and none of them mingled with the ordinary downtown Irish. That was just fine; the downtown folks were there for each other and to have a grand party.
Jack bent over a table and was putting empty glasses onto a tray when Murphy strode up, removing the cigar from his mouth and extending his hand. “You’re Jimmy Sullivan’s kid?”
Jack wiped his hand on his apron and took Murphy’s. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s Charlie.” Murphy bent forward as if he had asked a question and was waiting for an answer.
“Oh, I’m Jack.”
“Give my best to your father.” Murphy stabbed the cigar back into his mouth and walked off. Jack watched as some men in evening clothes trailed after him. Murphy ignored them.
He left the glasses in a side room to be washed, and as he came out, he was sure that he spotted George M. Cohan. He wanted a closer look, but some kid was pulling on his sleeve. “Brian wants you.” He made his way around the tables and dancers—some by now a bit tipsy.
Brian said, “Give us a hand will you? Curly had to go home.”
He filled beer glasses, and they disappeared as fast as he could fill them. Finally, there was a lull, and he leaned against the wall behind the bar and arched his back. That’s when she walked up, directly in front of him. He had been stealing sidelong glances at her all evening, and he thought she knew it. She walked with her head erect, looking poised compared to the few other girls who had come to the bar, usually with companions. She passed through some people standing near the bar.
He remained against the wall and had a good look at the blue eyes, the red-blond hair, and the smile that went with the figure in the blue dress. No freckles, her skin was clear. She was tall for a girl, and slender, but definitely not skinny. The only jewelry she wore was a simple gold cross that hung by a gold chain to sit on her dress just below the high collar. What was she doing here at the bar? There had to be ten guys who would leap at the chance to get her anything she wanted. As she approached, he pushed away from the wall, picked up a glass of beer and held it toward her.
She looked at it as if surprised. “I’d like a root beer, please.”
Sensing her eyes on him, he scrambled and with some difficulty found a root beer. Then he over-filled the glass so that it foamed onto the bar top. He felt his neck redden as he lifted the glass and wiped it; it didn’t help—the rag was too wet. He felt beads of perspiration breaking out on his upper lip. He added a little more root beer and offered it to her. “Sorry,” he said.
She watched him the whole time, apparently more amused than bothered. “It’s perfectly all right,” she said, accepting the glass. “Thank you, very much.”
He stared after her. That’s when Brian grasped his elbow and leaned close, their heads almost touching. “A word in your ear, kid. That’s Valentine’s daughter. They say her mother’s got big plans for her that don’t include the likes of you. Stick with Molly, she’s more in your class.” Brian moved away. Jack called after him. “A cat can look at a king, you know.”
He wrung out the rag and began methodically to wipe the bar. That’s what an older brother does, I guess. Look after a younger brother; even when he’s grown to be the biggest.
He glanced up and saw her standing with a group of older women along one of the side walls. She turned her head and caught him again. He continued to look at her and to feel her eyes. What can she be thinking?
Someone called for more beers; he turned to set out glasses and pour.
Most of the uptown people, having made their obligatory appearances, had been gone for over an hour. Their beers were left untouched—but not for long; the Irish were not ones to let such things go to waste. Jack was back to cleaning up. He picked up glasses, set them aside and bent to wipe one of the tables.
“You’ll have to learn to be less shy, if you’re going to be in politics.” It was her, standing to one side, watching him.
He bent his neck to look at her. “I’m not planning on a political career.”
“Well then, Jack Sullivan, what are you going to be?”
She knew his name. Her father must have told her. What did she care, anyway?
He concentrated on the table. “I might become a lawyer.”
She strolled around to his side of the table. “And what do lawyers do besides become politicians?”
He stood up to face her—to stand his ground. “Lots of things, prepare wills, handle real estate transactions…” As he listened to his own words, his stomach tightened.
Keeping her eyes on him, she moved as if to pass in front of him. She stopped, her eyes now at an angle. “Sounds exciting.”
It sounded dull. She was slagging him and flirting, all in one. His eyes narrowed. “It can provide a good living, and there are more important things.”
She cocked her head. “Such as?”
“Such as getting married, raising a family. Such as being a good Catholic.” Why was he going on like this? What a time to be making an ass of himself.
She faced him. “I was only teasing.”
He glanced down at the rag in his hand and then looked at her. “Yes.” He gazed off into space. “I don’t normally talk like this.”
She reached out briefly to touch his bare forearm. He could not believe the sensation. It was like a chill—a delicious tingling chill. He looked into her eyes and tried to engrave the moment into his brain.
“You have convictions,” she said, “I admire that.”
A woman called. “Maureen.”
“That’s my mother.” She started off, and over her shoulder, said back to him, “I hope I’ll see you again.”
He watched her go and then turned to catch Brian’s eye and give him a big grin and a wink. Brian shook his head.
From that night, he was frantic to find some excuse to see her again. Perhaps he could work something through his job and the connections that Clancy had with Valentine’s office.
Jack was the only one in his family to finish high school. The family agreed he was the one with the brains, the one to push ahead. After graduation, he took whatever jobs were available to a young Irishman. For a time, like his brothers before him, he worked at the Fulton Street Fish Market. That’s when he decided to become a boxer. It seemed like it might be an easy way to get rich.
He had learned early. He came home from school one day with some bruises and a black eye. He was in the third grade, and a bully had worked him over. His brothers were not about to let it pass. They drilled him and practiced boxing with him every day. They told him he couldn’t stop until he beat the bully. Three beatings and a school year later, he came home wearing a big grin. After that, he held his own. In high school, he even fought and won a couple of amateur matches. The matches were fun, but he hated any other kind of fighting.
He thought that professional fighting would be like the amateur matches. He was wrong. What he found was a world of cigar smoke and dirty gyms filled with sweaty smelly people who would do anything for a buck. One night, he was set for a bout at Houlihan’s, a very large pub near the waterfront at the corner of South and Catherine Streets. His manager, Paddy Flood, a friend from grade school, came into the store room at the back of the pub, which served as a dressing room. Jack was already in his trunks and hanging his clothes on a nail. “Wish me luck, Paddy,” he said over his shoulder.
“Good luck,” Paddy said as he stood looking at the floor.
Jack turned around. “Cheer up, Paddy. I’m going to beat O’Rourke. I’ve seen him fight.”
Paddy’s head stayed down. He reached a hand holding some money toward Jack.
“What’s this?”
“Take it, Jack. I’ll hold it till after.”
Jack leaned back against a large beer barrel and folded his arms. “I’ve won my last three fights, Paddy. You take that back to Houlihann and tell him to shove it up his ass.”
Paddy looked at him now. “Jack, you don’t know. These people—they’re animals.”
“Right. And you shouldn’t have anything to do with them.” Jack picked up his gloves and strode toward the door.
“Jack, please.”
Jack kept moving. He put O’Rourke down in two rounds, had his gloves removed and raced into the store room for his clothes. They were gone. He ran to the door. Outside, he kept running, but they were on him with axe handles and clubs. He ran for his life and escaped with a few bad bruises and cuts. At a friend’s house, he cleaned himself up and borrowed some clothes. He sneaked into the house and stayed out of his mother’s way for several days. When she realized what he had been up to and put her foot down, he was all too ready to quit the world of boxing.
He took a job with Tammany Hall and started to study law. Without a degree, it would take years to pass the Bar, but he was determined. Tammany Hall, he learned as a child, was not a building but an organization within the Democratic Party in New York. Tammany, as it was known, was a political machine, but it had gained some respectability since the days when it was run by Boss Tweed.
His job paid eight dollars a week. He put a dollar in the bank and gave four dollars to Kitty. All the brothers contributed half of their pay; Annie, his sister and the youngest, was obliged to bring her pay envelope home unopened. All of this was in accord with tradition. His job had other compensations. He had ample time to study his law books, and Clancy saw that he received a share of the many things, which were “donated.” Every merchant in the ward sent things to Clancy for distribution to the poor, or just to curry favor. Jack had a good overcoat, warm gloves, shoes, and even a suit that didn't fit too badly.
Jack worked as the office manager in the office on Pearl Street, in the Lower East Side—Al Smith’s old territory. As “office manager,” he had no subordinates; he simply did whatever Clancy, his boss, had in mind.
Once or twice a week, Clancy sent some kind of notice or letter up to Valentine’s headquarters located near the Tammany main office on East Fourteenth Street. Valentine was independently wealthy—at least by the standards of the newly-arrived Irish. He held no appointive or elective offices himself, but raised funds in various ways and helped others to get elected or obtain a patronage job. In return, he received information, which he used to make money in real estate. He and “Silent Charlie” were reportedly very tight.
Jack volunteered to go whenever Clancy had a delivery for Valentine He enjoyed getting out of the office and taking the Third Avenue elevated train uptown. He left Clancy’s envelopes with Valentine’s secretary, Gracie Flaherty. She ignored him at first, but then they began to exchange a few words when he dropped by. Gracie was in her forties, and she enjoyed teasing him about the “downtown” Irish. He played along and tried to say something deliberately stupid. She laughed and then showed her warmer side. She asked about his family. If it was raining, she would ask if he’d like to borrow an umbrella. Gradually, a kind of friendship was established. If Big Bill passed through the office while Jack was there, he’d wave. “Hello, Jack. It’s nice to see you.”
On his first uptown trip after meeting Maureen, Jack asked Gracie, “Does Maureen ever stop in here?”
“Maureen Valentine?” She looked at him over her glasses.
He looked her in the eye but said nothing.
She said, “You know her?”
He nodded.
She looked away and put her knuckles up to her mouth, now in a broad grin. “Well,” she said, turning back. “She’s rarely here.”
“I wonder? If I left a note?”
She looked at him for a moment and then said, “I’ll see she gets it.”
He leaned forward and grinned. “I’ll remember you in my prayers.”
“Hmmm. I’m sure that will help with whatever ails me.”
Now, all he had to do was figure out what to write. None of his friends would know what to do with a girl like Maureen, and he did not want to consult his family. Brian could be such a pain in the ass sometimes. He decided it would be best to start with something simple, something neutral. She might barely remember who he was, and there had to be other men. This was starting to feel like going out onto a stage with no clothes on.
He sent her little clippings from papers he read. The subject was not important, just something that caught his eye, a book review—‘The Desert of Wheat’ by Zane Grey. He added a note saying how much he liked Zane Grey. The next time, he clipped together some articles on the World Series, which the Giants won over the White Sox, and added a comment indicating his preference for the Yankees. When John Mitchell, a reform mayor and the incumbent, was opposed by Tammany’s candidate, John Hylan, he wrote saying that he thought Mitchell had been an honorable man and a good mayor.
After sending three notes with no response, he began the inner process of talking himself down. He thought back to the Ball. Maybe she was just feeling a little flirtatious that night. Maybe she collected men, enjoyed the attention. He asked Gracie about the notes.
“Oh, they’re getting to her all right.” She did not elaborate. “You know, Jack Sullivan, not every girl is going to flop over even for a handsome brute like yourself.”
He wasn’t sure of how to take her meaning; he wasn’t looking for a flop, just an echo. He stared at her.
She leaned forward and spoke softly. “Give her a little more time. And then? Well there are other fish in the sea.”
He left and soon found himself back downtown with no awareness of how he got there. That night, Kitty, his mother, fished an envelope out of her apron and handed it to him without a word. He stuck it in his pocket—also without a word.
After supper, his father went to a meeting at the church; his brothers were going out to see their girls. Jack sat in the tiny living room with his newspaper. He took out the envelope and stared at the return address, “M. Valentine, 107 East 38th Street, New York, N. Y.” She probably won’t say much. He put it back into his pocket to wait until his brothers were gone.
He tried to read his paper, but his eyes wandered about the room. Annie and his mother’s voices came from the kitchen where they sat at the table. He was thirteen when Kitty took him and Annie, then eight, for a walk-through what seemed to them a palace. It was a third floor walk-up flat on Front Street not far from the Fulton Street Fish Market and the Brooklyn Bridge. They were moving there from a smaller place because Brian and Tim were both working, and things were easier. The kitchen, just off the entryway from the stairs, contained a large coal-fired cast-iron stove, a double sink and an overhead rack for drying clothes. There was still plenty of room for a table and chairs. The family ate there, and now Kitty and Annie were playing cards.
The most wonderful discovery that day was the bathroom, located to the rear of the kitchen along with a small room for Annie and a larger one for his mother and father. It contained a flush toilet, a sink and had room for a tub, which they acquired two years latter. He remembered that Kitty had let them both try the toilet.
Tim passed through, and Jack pulled his feet in to let him by. Tim, being the oldest, had his own room at the front of the house, while he and Brian still shared the one behind that. They were both eager for Tim to get married so that Brian could move to the front room.
The living room occupied the space between the room he shared with Brian and the kitchen. He looked across the room at the two windows and the small couch. After that first exploration of their new home, Kitty confided to him and Annie. “We’ve bought a lovely couch for the living room. We’ll be paying fifty cents a week.”
The apartment was quiet. He opened the envelope.
There were two clippings: one about the coming elections that mentioned her father; and another about the war and American troops landing in France. He read the clippings first and then unfolded the note.
Dear Jack,
I appreciate your thinking of me. At first, I wasn’t sure whether you expected a reply, or not. After three communications, I thought a brief letter would be appropriate.
I know that you’re not planning to be a politician, but you are apparently interested in the election. I thought that the article mentioning my father might be of interest.
You haven’t said anything about the war. It’s such a horror. I don’t believe that we should be sending our men to die on foreign soil.
You mustn’t feel obliged to respond, but if you do write, it would be better to use the mail. My father sometimes forgets that he has one of your envelopes.
Sincerely,
Maureen
Jack waited a day, rereading the letter several times—especially the last paragraph. Did she want him to write, or not? A hint wouldn’t have hurt. Now, he had to agonize over exactly what to write. With her letter committed to memory, he wrote:
Dear Maureen,
I admire my boss, Frank Clancy. I don’t know of anyone who works harder and yet is always ready with a smile and a kind word. He works at all hours, attending weddings, wakes and funerals. He will get up at two in the morning to bail someone out of jail and still be at Mass at seven o’clock.
He’s a living example of why I don’t want to be a politician. I expect to work hard, but I’m sure that I would rather spend time with my wife and children than with all those people he seems to enjoy.
I don’t share your view of the war. Yes, it’s horrible, but we can’t let the Germans have their way when they get it by torpedoing ships which are carrying women and children. I’m sure that you’ve read about the other terrible things they do. Most of the fellows I know don’t like the idea of fighting alongside the English, but if it’s the war to end all wars it might be worth it.
I hope that you will write again, even if we don’t always agree on issues of importance to you.
Sincerely,
Jack
He mailed the letter in the morning, and that afternoon Clancy sent him uptown. He handed Clancy’s envelope to Gracie.
“That’s it?” she asked. She continued to look at him.
“She sent me a letter. I mailed one this morning.” He knew that the conversation was not over. He waited.
Gracie moved her lips without speaking, apparently chewing over her thoughts. She said, “She’s a beautiful girl, Jack. Very intelligent. But have you thought about the difficulties? Why you’re doing this?”
Jack put his palms on the edge of her desk and leaned forward. “She’s different, unlike anyone I know. Maybe I read too much. She’s like the women in those books. I’ve been thinking about someone like her for a long time. I guess I’m a little crazy.” He stood up.
“I’ll pray for you,” she said.
He laughed and turned to leave.
How long would it take for an answer? If she took a week, would that indicate that she really wasn’t that interested, or that she didn’t want to appear eager? She took four days.
Kitty offered the envelope but did not release it. “I didn’t want to leave this on your bed.” She let go. “Does anyone else know about this?”
He shook his head.
“Be careful, Jack. You don’t want to be hurt.”
“Mom, I’m twenty years old.”
She looked at him. “An advanced age to be sure.”
They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He shoved the envelope into his pocket. “I’ll be careful.”
Later, his brothers left the house seeming not to notice Jack reading his paper in the kitchen. He went into the living room; it was time to open the letter. There were no clippings this time, and the letter was three pages long. She started on a chatty note, telling him that she didn’t know much about baseball, but that she swam regularly and liked to play tennis. Then she turned more serious.
I think that it’s good not to agree on everything. What would we talk about? I do understand your feelings about the war, but I still think that it’s wrong to be in it. Last year, I participated with some women friends in a demonstration at Union Square. We knew that the police would take our signs away from us, so we painted our slogans onto our blouses. Fortunately. they didn’t take those
How do you feel about women getting the vote? This is a burning issue for me, and I get out to work with my friends on our newspaper The Suffragist whenever I can. Even though suffrage has passed in New York, there is still much to be done. My father supports me on this, but my mother has other ideas.
It’s frustrating to be at odds with my mother on almost every aspect of my life. But I won’t complain to you; I’m afraid that you might think less of me.
I find myself looking forward to your letters.
Sincerely,
Maureen
Jack decided not to press the war issue. In his next letter, he started by telling her about his family, about playing baseball on Sunday afternoons, and that he often went to church dances. Then he turned to suffrage.
Although most of our neighbors don’t seem to care, in our family the vote for women is sacrosanct. We’re delighted that New York has finally seen the light. I’m especially proud that Tammany Hall and our leader, Charles Murphy, played a big part in getting suffrage passed, but the law should be nationwide.
My mother’s sister—my godmother—was killed in the Triangle Shirtwaist fire in 1904. Thanks to Al Smith, the laws governing worker safety have improved since then, but we feel that the vote will give women the voice they need to keep things going. It’s ridiculous that women can’t vote everywhere.
Forgive me; you hit a soft spot.
I’m already looking forward to your next letter.
Sincerely,
Jack
Maureen’s next letter came within days, and Kitty handed it to him without any fuss.
Dear Jack,
I hope this is quick enough. I do have to think about it before I sit down to write.
It’s too bad that your aunt died in that awful fire. I have seen some of the pictures taken just after it happened. What a dreadful loss for your mother and all your family. At least some good came of it in the end.
My family is somewhat smaller than yours. My mother is an only child. Her parents died four and five years ago. They had worked as servants for a family on Park Avenue. My mother seldom mentions this. They were hard working people and very sweet to me.
My father’s parents both died before I was born. My grandfather was a general in the Union Army. After the war, he was successful in business and real estate. He was born in Ireland, and my grandmother came from there to marry him after the war. I think they arranged the whole thing by mail. Can you imagine that?
I have an older sister, Claire. She has been in the convent for two years. I miss her terribly.
And, I must tell you about Bridey, our housekeeper. She also was born in Ireland and has worked for our family since before I was born. I love her, and I know that she loves me too. Although sometimes I feel as though I have two mothers. One would be quite sufficient.
I delight in your letters, and I’m glad that we agree on women voting.
Sincerely,
Maureen
He had to see her; his imagination was taking over his life. She seemed to fit perfectly into his dreams for a better future. Was it her beauty? He couldn’t even conjure up a good image of her. She was certainly more interesting than the other girls he knew. But perhaps he was reading too much into her letters, and it was only that she could take her time when writing them that made her appear so intelligent. And so what if she was the most beautiful intelligent girl he would ever meet? There had to be love. In his next letter, he would ask her to suggest a time and place to meet.
Late the next day, Clancy asked him to take a letter to Valentine’s home. He looked at the address.
Clancy said, “That’s in the Murray Hill district. Think you can find it?”
“I think so. Is after supper okay?”
Clancy nodded.
He tried to eat his supper as if he had nothing on his mind but he gobbled the last few bites, explaining that he had to make a delivery for Clancy. He got on the Third Avenue elevated, trying to think of a way to see Maureen. His stop came too soon.
A woman answered the door, and Jack handed her the letter. Before she could close the door, he asked for Maureen.
“And who is it that’s asking?” she said with a brogue that made Jack smile. He knew that she had to be Bridey, the Valentine’s housekeeper.
“Jack Sullivan, ma’am.”
“Hmmm. And your father’s from?”
“County Kerry, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed just the slightest, and she looked him over before telling him to wait.
Maureen came to the door and surprised him by reaching out to take his hand and pull him inside. She guided him into a small parlor, just off the entrance—a reception room for visitors. She pointed to a chair. “Can I get you anything?”
He stood in front of the chair, holding his cap and glancing at his surroundings. The room was oblong and elegantly furnished including a large maroon velvet couch with ball-and-claw legs and two armchairs all arranged on a Persian rug. A mirror with a gilded gold frame hung over a gas fireplace that glowed at the far end of the room.
“No thank you,” he said. “I can’t stay long.”
She sat down, and then he did. “I really enjoy your letters,” he said.
“And I yours,” she said. “I was hoping to see you again.”
“You were?”
“Yes. It’s not every day that I get to meet a future lawyer that doesn’t want to be a politician.”
He looked down and twirled his cap between his knees. “I might change my mind.”
“I’m sure you’ll be successful at whatever you decide.”
He thought about that for a moment and grasped his cap. “Yes, but it’s only a way to get what I really want.”
“And what might that be?” She sat, back straight, hands folded on her lap, perched on the front edge of her chair. Her smile could mean almost anything. Was she taunting him? Playing with him—trying to flush him out like a game bird?
“It takes time to develop that,” he said. God! He felt stupid. Why not just blurt it out—see what she does. “On second thought,” he said, “I might as well tell you; you’re what I really want.”
He watched her reaction—hesitation—one hand up to cover her mouth—a blush. She took her hand down, and he watched her try to get her hands to behave on her lap.
“As you can see,” he said, “I wouldn’t make a very good politician.”
Her natural smile returned. “As you said, some things take time. Some of us need more than others.”
“Can I—may I see you again?”
“You better.”
They arranged to meet the next evening.
CHAPTER TWO
She closed the door behind him. Slowly, she turned the latch and set the bolt. Something had just happened; what was not yet clear. She felt a kind of breathless anxiety, an excitement that was a little frightening. She wheeled and paced quickly down the hall. This was not a good time to deal with her mother, Fiona, who might pop out to see who had called and ask the inevitable questions: Who was that? What did he want? She imagined herself answering, “Me, mother. He wants me.”
She reached the back stairs and darted down without thinking. She slowed down as she entered the kitchen.
Bridey looked up from the counter top she had been wiping. “Is he gone then?”
Maureen nodded.
“Would you have a spot of tea? It’s just made.”
“That would be nice.” Maureen went to the cabinet and took out a bowl of sugar and two of the white clay mugs Bridey always used. She set them on the small wooden table in the middle of the room and pulled out one of the plain chairs with its chipped white paint.
Bridey stopped at the icebox for a pitcher of milk before lowering her heavy and aging body into the other chair. Nothing was said until the ritual of pouring and stirring was complete. Bridey asked, "Was there something you wanted to tell me?”
Maureen smiled and shrugged.
Bridey said, “I know the family—the Sullivans. Haven’t seen them in years, but I hear about them. They’re honest, hard working. Jimmy, the father, is known for reading all kinds of books. Jack was a skinny kid when I last saw him. Very bright. He’s grown to be quite something, hasn’t he?”
“I think so.”
“So you have feelings for him?”
“Yes, and they seem to be growing.” She felt a sudden rush, but it didn’t feel like she was blushing. She barely breathed waiting for Bridey’s reaction.
Bridey took her time, drinking some tea and gazing at the ceiling. Finally, she said, “You know that this is going to be a big problem. I don’t know how to advise you.”
Bridey was talking about Fiona. Maureen was disappointed. Of course her mother was going to be difficult; Jack was a far cry from the approved, society-type suitor. But wasn’t Bridey interested in helping?
Maureen asked, “How do you think my father will feel?”
“I doubt he’ll cross your mother.”
Bridey seemed detached. Maybe she was just tired. Maureen drank some tea and switched subjects to ask about Orla, the new girl hired to help Bridey during the day. After a decent interval, she excused herself and went up to her room on the second floor without encountering her mother. She loved her room; it was almost always quiet, and it calmed her to enter. She closed the drapes in front of the French windows that overlooked an alley at the rear of the house. It was still too early to go to bed; she went to her dresser at the far end of the room and picked up her book, Ethan Frome. She tried to absorb herself in what had seemed so interesting the previous night. It didn’t work; her mind refused to leave Jack. How could she be in love? It was impossible; she hardly know him.
She leaned back and stared at the high ceiling, covered with tin forming a floral pattern and painted white. She thought of the other men she had known—none of them outstanding. Their names would be hard to recall, but that was all right; she wasn’t looking for anything serious, and she enjoyed the parties, the dancing, the shows. When the time came, Mister Wonderful would show up. Or would he? Jack was different; she sensed it that first night. He had some kind of inner strength, conviction, something almost animal-like that she had never encountered before. She had met no one who seemed even close to him, and something inside said that she never would.
A gentle knock on the door, and her mother entered. “It’s getting late, dear. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I let myself get carried away by this book.” She set it aside and went over to her dresser. “I am a little tired.” Looking in the mirror, she noticed her mother sit on the edge of her bed.
“Who was it who called earlier, dear?” Fiona asked.
“It was someone with a letter for Daddy. I wasn’t sure if Bridey heard the bell.”
“You invited him in?”
“Yes, I’ve seen him before, and he looked cold.”
Fiona got up and stood behind her. Their eyes met in the mirror. Fiona said, “We don’t want to encourage attentions from the wrong people.”
Maureen fought back the impulse to challenge “wrong people.” There was no point in starting an argument. She would go ahead and see Jack—let her mother pick a fight.
CHAPTER THREE
Jack could barely wait for dinner; he bolted his food, put on a clean shirt and raced to catch the Third Avenue elevated uptown. He did not go up the nine steps to call at the front door as he had the previous evening but instead down three steps to the basement door, located under the front-door landing. He knocked, and she slipped out. Nothing was said until they gained the sidewalk.
“Let’s go this way,” she said, pointing east toward Third Avenue. “I don’t want to bump into one of my mother’s friends.”
“All right. We can see how things are on the other side of Third.”
She turned her head. “I’m not a snob.”
He looked directly at her. “I know that.”
They walked past a series of two to three story town houses, all similar to the Valentine’s with front steps and a landing forming a portico over a basement entrance. Each house differed in color and design details such as windows, doors and rooflines. The street was empty except for a few passing cars and one horse-drawn cab.
“I can’t stay out for very long,” she said.
“I feel lucky just to be seeing you.” He noted her hat, a gray felt with a brim and dark cloth band, which draped over the brim at the back. She wore a trim gray woolen jacket, which ended just short of her waist. But what caught Jack’s eye was her skirt; it was tailored to fit tightly from her waist to her hips, and even though she walked with virtually no hip movement, he had to work at not looking. She glanced at him, and he felt slightly embarrassed He turned to look straight ahead.
They reached the corner, and she took his arm—just lightly with her gloved hand, not like Molly who tended to hug and hang on. He hoped that she would keep holding it when they got to the other side of the Avenue; he could stop worrying about what to do with his hands. The traffic was heavy, lots of pushcarts and horse-drawn delivery wagons competing with taxis and motorized trucks as they all contended with the massive steel columns that supported the elevated train tracks overhead.
They crossed. Jack felt responsible for guiding her over a manure-free path and seeing that she did not have to dodge out of the way of oncoming traffic. She kept her hand on his arm as they reached the far sidewalk and continued toward Second Avenue. They entered another world; tenement houses lined the street. Five or six steps led directly to front doors, and basements contained apartments. The air carried a smell that was not strong enough to be offensive, but there was clearly more garbage and horse manure in the street. It was too cold for open windows, and no one was sitting out on the front steps. They passed other couples out for a stroll, and small groups of men were gathered around the steps of a few houses, talking and smoking. The voices were predominantly Irish. Jack looked directly back at them as they tipped their hats and took the opportunity to admire Maureen.
She asked, “Do you ever have time off in the afternoon?”.
“Sometimes. Clancy is pretty generous that way. Of course, I have to be ready to do a favor on weekends and some evenings. Why?”
She looked at her feet stepping along before continuing. “I attend the Barnard School on West 79th Street.” She turned to him. “I study household arts. I wanted to go to Hunter College, but my mother felt that a college education might interfere with making a good catch. I agreed to postpone Hunter.” She kept looking at him.
He looked ahead and walked more slowly. They were at the heart of it now—just what Gracie, Brian and his mother were hinting at. “I guess I’m not much of a catch,” he said.
With both hands, she clasped his arm to her. “I’m not looking for a so-called ‘good catch.’ I don’t agree with my mother on any of this. I told you about my school because I get off at three o’clock.”
She was beautiful, holding his arm like that. She had never been so close. “I’ll be there. I don’t know what day, but I’ll be there.”
She moved back, keeping one hand on his arm. “We should start back.”
They turned, and she took his other arm.
When they arrived at her basement door, they paused, she holding the doorknob. He did not want to leave; he said, “I was lucky; my brothers were working so I was allowed to finish high school. Now, of course, I’m studying Law.”
She smiled and held out her other hand. He took it. She said, “Good night.” and went inside. She peeked at him through the glass before disappearing.
Two days later, Clancy asked Jack to help distribute some donated clothing on the following Saturday morning. “And be sure it’s all marked with Tammany’s eagle,” Clancy said. “We want there to be no forgetting on election day.” Jack agreed and immediately asked for permission to leave early on Friday.
He took the El uptown to 74th Street and walked north on Third Avenue. It was as busy there as downtown, with horses, wagons and trucks making deliveries while housewives weaved in and out, each with a basket on one arm. He turned left on 79th Street and watched the transition from apartment houses to mansions as he crossed avenues and approached Central Park West. A block from Central Park, he found the school, housed in what had obviously been a small mansion. He waited across the street and watched as young women emerged and disappeared into waiting cars. Maureen came out with several friends and he dashed across, dodging cars to reach her. Her friends looked him over and moved away. “Let’s ride the trolley,” he said.
They walked east. “I thought that you might be having second thoughts,” she said.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said, reaching across to take her book bag.
She took his arm, and they continued to the Lexington Avenue trolley. He held her hand and looked away as she stepped up, revealing the calf of her trailing leg. She took a seat by the window, and he moved in beside her with her book bag between his knees. He told her his weekend plans, about the clothes distribution on Saturday and about Sunday. “It looks as though it will be warm enough for baseball,” he said.
“And what do you do with your weekend evenings?” she asked.
“I, uh, usually go to dances, but I don’t think I will go this weekend.”
“Are you a good dancer?”
He grinned.
“You don’t want to get out of practice,” she said.
He tried to think of what to say next. He spotted something through a window and leaned across her to point it out. “Isn’t that Hunter College?”
“Yes, it is,” she said, looking at him instead of out the window.
Later, she said, “Oh look, there’s a cart that has lost a wheel. There are boxes all over the street.”
He leaned to look, and she seemed to deliberately place her head against his. He closed his eyes and gently rubbed his head against hers until she pulled back. It was so short, just seconds. Could he remember it? Hold onto the feeling?
CHAPTER FOUR
She had been seeing Jack almost every night for two weeks; her “open secret” could not last much longer. Bridey gave the first indication. “Your mother knows that you’ve been going out. She’s been asking me questions.”
Maureen had just come home from school by herself and gone down to the kitchen for a snack. “What have you told her?” she asked, setting a glass of milk on the small table.
“As little as I thought I could get by with,” Bridey said. “I told her that I knew that you had been walking out with someone, but that I was trying to make it none of my business.”
“What did she say?”
“She said it was very wise of me—meaning that it is not my business.”
Bridey put a large cookie on a saucer and placed it next to the milk. Maureen sat down and asked, “Is that all she said?”
“Indeed it was; she turned on her heel and left.”
Maureen nibbled the cookie and drank some milk. “Bridey, you like Jack don’t you?”
Bridey lowered herself into the other chair and leaned toward Maureen. “I only know that he comes from a fine family, and we both know that I have no influence with your mother in something like this. It’s best I stay out of it.”
Maureen sighed, finished the rest of her snack and got up to leave. “I’m meeting some friends at the YWCA for a swim,” she said. She used the back stairs to get to her room. She did not expect Bridey to fight her battles, but a little encouragement would be nice; then she would have someone to talk to—someone to tell about Jack and the feelings that were taking possession of her soul.
She dumped her books on the bed and retrieved a small satchel from the closet. With her swimming things in the satchel she quick-stepped down the front stairs—but not quick enough. Fiona stepped into the hallway just as she passed. “Maureen, why such a rush?”
Maureen stopped and turned to face her. “It’s Thursday, mother; I’m going to the Y.”
“Oh yes. Do you have everything?”
Maureen held up her satchel.
Fiona said, “Try to keep your hair dry, dear. It’s getting chilly. And don’t be late for dinner.”
At the Y, she met her friends, who all, at this point, knew about Jack. She was late so she dove right in and expended as much energy as she could doing laps before they quit. When they left the building, she walked in the same direction as her friend, Joan Whitaker. “Why are you going to so much trouble over this one guy?” Joan asked.
Maureen grinned and exaggerated the swing of her satchel. “Because I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s open, unpretentious and honest about himself. He’s ambitious, and he has the discipline and strength to go with it. He’ll be a husband and a father like…like...”
“My God!” Joan said. “You’ll have me wishing I was a Catholic.”
They laughed, drawing stares from passersby.
Maureen made it home just in time for dinner. She dropped her things in her room and went straight to the dining room. As was often the case, Big Bill was not home. Fiona chose to keep conversation to small talk and an update on the church bazaar. She expected Maureen’s help.
Later, Maureen went up to straighten out her room. She was not surprised when her mother knocked and entered. Fiona sat in the upholstered chair nearest the door. “I notice that your hair got a little wet after all.”
“I wrapped it in a scarf for the walk home. I’m sure that I’ll survive.” She sat in the other chair next to her bed and faced her mother.
Fiona smiled. Maureen waited, having no doubt that her hair was not the subject of her mother’s visit.
Fiona said, “Yes, I’m sure you will. But that’s not what I came up to talk about.” She paused; putting one hand to her mouth, she crossed her lips with her index finger while she seemingly studied Maureen. She put her hand down. “Maureen, you have been seeing someone. Am I correct?”
“Yes, I have been.”
“Don’t you feel that I should be informed?”
“I think that I’m old enough to see men of my own choosing. It’s not as if we were thinking of getting engaged.”
“Well, I should hope not. And you know perfectly well that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I’m only trying to say that you don’t have much to worry about.”
Fiona stared at Maureen for a second and then turned her head and put her hand up to her eyes. She drew her hand down slowly. “I know who it is, and I hope that you’re saying that it is not serious.”
Maureen did not move. She gazed at her mother and said nothing.
Fiona said, “I’m concerned because you have not been seeing anyone else. Several young men have been to call.”
“I’m sorry, mother; I don’t feel that I should be obliged to see someone just because he shows up at the front door and presents a card.”
Fiona leaned forward and spoke through her teeth. “It’s common courtesy. I think that I have the right to demand that this house does not acquire the wrong kind of reputation.”
Maureen fidgeted with her hands, sighed and said, “You’re right. I apologize and I’ll make an effort.”
“A sincere effort is what’s required.”
Maureen nodded.
“And this other matter needs to come to an end.”
Maureen fixed her eyes on her mother’s face. She felt her heart pounding. “I’m not prepared to do that.”
Fiona stared back and then tapped her hand on the arm of the chair before pushing herself up. “I suppose it’s something that you have to get out of your system. I’m glad that we have an understanding?”
“I think that we do, mother.”
Her mother left, and Maureen took a deep breath, sighed and sank back into her chair.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jack lived in a world divided in two. In one part, he was with Maureen. In the other part, he lived the rest of his life, all the while longing to be with Maureen. He grew increasingly frustrated with the brevity of his times with her. He could manage no more than one trip a week uptown to see her home from school, and she felt constrained to three weekday evenings; each lasting less than two hours. She said it was in order to give her mother no excuse to object.
Each evening out, they returned to the basement door under the front steps. And each evening it took a little longer to part. He held her and she did not resist. He kissed her, and she returned his kisses with a passion that surprised him. There seemed to be nothing he could do, or say that she did not respond to in a way that left him floating in a dream world.
They usually walked on their evenings together, but if the weather was bad, they went around the corner and downstairs to the Third Avenue Cafeteria. They got a pot of tea, sometimes with pastry and sought a secluded table. Most of the other patrons were poor people, or winos sitting alone nursing a cup of coffee, grateful to be inside. Their privacy was undisturbed, and they could look into each other’s eyes as they shared their stories, their hopes, dreams and frustrations.
On an evening in late October, they sat in the cafeteria. “I’m going crazy,” he said. “Weekends are like being in prison. I used to look forward to them.”
Her eyes twinkled at him over the thick white mug she had in front of her face. “Why don’t you come on Sunday?”
He was surprised. “Won’t that be some kind of big problem?”
“Yes,” she said, putting down her mug. “But, if you meet me after Mass right outside of church, what can she do? My father will be there; we all go to the nine o’clock together.”
On the following Sunday, Kitty got up early. She planned to go to Mass with Annie and then return to fix breakfast and prepare the dinner. She seemed surprised to find Jack up and dressed in his suit. There was the hint of a smile in her eyes when she asked him, “Are you going to Mass with me, Jack?”
He shook his head. “I’m going uptown.”
“Ah,” she said, looking him over. “Just wait the minute.” She went into the back and returned with a silk handkerchief. She placed it like a flower in his breast pocket and straightened his tie. “Be off with you now.”
He kissed her forehead and turned to go. She was such a mind reader and so protective. He noticed that his brothers were not allowed to slag him about his “uptown fancy lady”—at least not while Kitty was around.
He slipped into one of the back pews at Saint Margaret’s, which was located on 37th Street between Second and Third Avenues. He was early; he watched as many of the children from the parish elementary school filed in wearing their school uniforms to attend Mass with their teacher. The nuns waited next to their designated pews at the front of the church. He remembered the routine: The nuns saw that certain boys did not sit together; the boys and girls were separated, and some boys were required to sit close to “Sister.” All of the children sat directly in front of her and were under surveillance throughout the Mass.
He sat straight up and strained his neck but failed to spot Maureen. Later, she got up to take Communion; his heart jumped to see her. By the time Mass was over, and he waited outside, his palms were sweating and his mouth was dry.
The Valentines came out and stood momentarily on the landing in front of the large oak doors. Jack fought the impulse to run up the steps. He waited until they were on the sidewalk. Fiona spotted him first as he came forward and said, “Good morning.” Her face held a look of surprise and hostility. She barely answered him through tightly drawn lips and then moved away to talk to another parishioner. He felt like some kind of street urchin. Big Bill held out a hand. “Good to see you, Jack. How’s your father?”
Jack took his hand. “Thank you. He’s grand.”
Maureen slipped her arm around Jack’s “We’re going for a walk, daddy—a long walk.”
Big Bill gave Jack another serious look and spoke to Maureen. “Be on time for dinner.”
They strolled off, wending their way through groups of churchgoers. Some greeted Maureen, and the girls and women let their eyes flic from her to Jack. He stared back at them, and they quickly averted their eyes. He knew the game: They all liked to look, and they loved it if you were too bashful to look back.
“Why don’t we walk down to Bellevue?” she said. “I do some volunteer work there. I know that it will be all right to walk around the grounds.”
“Can we watch the boats from there?”
“I think so.”
They started down Second Avenue.
Jack said, “Your mother wasn’t very happy to see me. I’m glad she doesn’t carry a gun. Do you think that she will order you not to go out with me?”
Maureen laughed. “She thinks that you’re some kind of passing fancy, and she would not dare forbid me to see you. Besides, my father likes you. I can tell. I think he gets some kind of secret enjoyment out of my mother’s discomfort.”