MY WRITERS SITE: 2020

Why would a 17th-century writer warn people that a chapel was only for "private or secret suffrages"? Because suffrage has been used since the 14th century to mean "prayer" (especially a prayer requesting divine help or intercession). So how did suffrage come to mean "a vote" or "the right to vote"? To answer that, we must look to the word's Medieval Latin ancestor, suffrāgium, which can be translated as meaning "vote," "support," or "prayer." That term produced descendants in a number of languages, and English picked up its senses of suffrage from two different places. We took the "prayer" sense from a Middle French suffrāgium offspring that emphasized the word's spiritual aspects, and we elected to adopt the "voting" senses directly from the original Latin.

Targeted killings of journalists surged in 2020, group says

PARIS (AP) — More journalists are being killed outside of war zones, and the overwhelming majority of this year's grim total of at least 50 dead were deliberately targeted, many of them murdered while investigating organized crime, corruption and environmental degradation, Reporters Without Borders said Tuesday.

Its tally of journalists and media workers killed in connection with their work by mid-December was just slightly lower than in 2019, when the press freedom group counted 53 dead, even though many journalists reported less from the field in 2020 because of the coronavirus pandemic.

The group said 68% were killed outside of war zones this year. That confirms a trend noted by the group since 2016, when only four out of 10 deaths were in countries not at war.

Targeted killings of journalists surged in 2020, accounting for 84% of deaths, sharply up from 63% in 2019, the group said.

It again listed Mexico as the deadliest country for media workers, counting at least eight journalists killed there in connection with their work in 2020. Among them was Julio Valdivia, a newspaper reporter whose decapitated body was found in September in an area ridden with organized crime.

Among six media deaths that the group counted in Iraq was the killing in July of Hisham al-Hashimi, a leading expert on the Islamic State and other armed groups, who was shot dead outside his Baghdad home.

Reporters Without Borders also noted an increase in the killings of investigative journalists, including four who were looking into organized crime groups, 10 who were reporting on corruption and the misuse of public funds and three who were working on environmental issues including illegal mining and land grabs.

Reporting on civil unrest also proved particularly deadly, the group said, with seven journalists killed while covering protests — four of them in Iraq, two in Nigeria and one in Colombia.

Reporters Without Borders report: https://rsf.org/sites/default/files/rsf_round-up_killed.pdf

be all you can be

God

Franchise

Franchise was voted into early 14th-century English as both a noun and verb. It is from the Anglo-French verb franchir, meaning "to free," itself from franc, "free." To be perfectly frank, the word franchise is most often encountered today with reference to restaurant chains or professional sports teams (e.g., "a franchise quarterback"), not to mention branded retail stores and sequel-driven movies and novels. These commercial meanings are far from the original meaning of the word in English: "freedom or immunity from some burden or restriction vested in a person or group." This meaning evolved into the "right to vote" sense of the word.

You showed tremendous discipline and focus

You showed tremendous discipline and focus to change bad habits. So be easy on yourself and recognize the efforts you’ve given so far. Be patient with yourself. The thing your attempting isn’t easy.

NYCPLAYWRIGHTS

*** NYCPLAYWRIGHTS 10 YEAR ANNIVERSARY ***

It's the 10 Year Anniversary of NYCPlaywrights and we asked readers to share their stories of productions, readings etc. they may have found through of our blog and weekly email.

Oswald in Mexico

Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant

Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant ( August 5 1850 – July 6 1893) was a 19th-century French author, remembered as a master of the short story form, and as a representative of the Naturalist school, who depicted human lives and destinies and social forces in disillusioned and often pessimistic terms.

Maupassant was a protégé of Gustave Flaubert and his stories are characterized by economy of style and efficient, seemingly effortless dénouements (outcomes). Many are set during the Franco-Prussian War of the 1870s, describing the futility of war and the innocent civilians who, caught up in events beyond their control, are permanently changed by their experiences.

He wrote 300 short stories, six novels, three travel books, and one volume of verse. His first published story, "Boule de Suif" ("The Dumpling", 1880), is often considered his masterpiece.

A Memoir of a Childhood

Angela's Ashes

A Memoir of a Childhood

By Frank McCourt

My father and mother should have stayed in New York where they met and

married and where I was born. Instead, they returned to Ireland when I

was four, my brother, Malachy, three, the twins, Oliver and Eugene,

barely one, and my sister, Margaret, dead and gone.

When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It

was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly

worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the

miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic

childhood.

People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early

years, but nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty; the

shiftless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother moaning

by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and the

terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years.

Above all-we were wet.

Out in the Atlantic Ocean great sheets of rain gathered to drift

slowly up the River Shannon and settle forever in Limerick. The rain

dampened the city from the Feast of the Circumcision to New Year's Eve.

It created a cacophony of hacking coughs, bronchial rattles, asthmatic

wheezes, consumptive croaks. It turned noses into fountains, lungs into

bacterial sponges. It provoked cures galore; to ease the catarrh you

boiled onions in milk blackened with pepper; for the congested passages

you made a paste of boiled flour and nettles, wrapped it in a rag, and

slapped it, sizzling, on the chest.

From October to April the walls of Limerick glistened with the

damp. Clothes never dried: tweed and woolen coats housed living things,

sometimes sprouted mysterious vegetations. In pubs, steam rose from damp

bodies and garments to be inhaled with cigarette and pipe smoke laced

with the stale fumes of spilled stout and whiskey and tinged with the

odor of piss wafting in from the outdoor jakes where many a man puked up

his week's wages.

The rain drove us into the church-our refuge, our strength, our

only dry place. At Mass, Benediction, novenas, we huddled in great damp

clumps, dozing through priest drone, while steam rose again from our

clothes to mingle with the sweetness of incense, flowers and candles.

Limerick gained a reputation for piety, but we knew it was only the

rain.

My father, Malachy McCourt, was born on a farm in Toome, County

Antrim. Like his father before, he grew up wild, in trouble with the

English, or the Irish, or both. He fought with the Old IRA and for some

desperate act he wound up a fugitive with a price on his head.

When I was a child I would look at my father, the thinning hair,

the collapsing teeth, and wonder why anyone would give money for a head

like that. When I was thirteen my father's mother told me a secret: as a

wee lad your poor father was dropped on his head. It was an accident, he

was never the same after, and you must remember that people dropped on

their heads can be a bit peculiar.

Because of the price on the head he had been dropped on, he had to

be spirited out of Ireland via cargo ship from Galway. In New York, with

Prohibition in full swing, he thought he had died and gone to hell for

his sins. Then he discovered speakeasies and he rejoiced.

After wandering and drinking in America and England he yearned for

peace in his declining years. He returned to Belfast, which erupted all

around him. He said, A pox on all their houses, and chatted with the

ladies of Andersontown. They tempted him with delicacies but he waved

them away and drank his tea. He no longer smoked or touched alcohol, so

what was the use? It was time to go and he died in the Royal Victoria

Hospital.

My mother, the former Angela Sheehan, grew up in a Limerick slum

with her mother, two brothers, Thomas and Patrick, and a sister, Agnes.

She never saw her father, who had run off to Australia weeks before her

birth.

After a night of drinking porter in the pubs of Limerick he

staggers down the lane singing his favorite song, Who threw the overalls

in Mrs. Murphy's chowder?

Nobody spoke so he said it all the louder It's a dirty Irish trick

and I can lick the Mick Who threw the overalls in Murphy's chowder.

He's in great form altogether and he thinks he'll play a while with

little Patrick, one year old. Lovely little fella. Loves his daddy.

Laughs when Daddy throws him up in the air. Upsy daisy, little Paddy,

upsy daisy, up in the air in the dark, so dark, oh, Jasus, you miss the

child on the way down and poor little Patrick lands on his head, gurgles

a bit, whimpers, goes quiet. Grandma heaves herself from the bed, heavy

with the child in her belly, my mother. She's barely able to lift little

Patrick from the floor. She moans a long moan over the child and turns on

Grandpa. Get out of it. Out. If you stay here a minute longer I'll take

the hatchet to you, you drunken lunatic. By Jesus, I'll swing at the end

of a rope for you. Get out.

Grandpa stands his ground like a man. I have a right, he says, to

stay in me own house.

She runs at him and he melts before this whirling dervish with a

damaged child in her arms and a healthy one stirring inside. He stumbles

from the house, up the lane, and doesn't stop till he reaches Melbourne

in Australia.

Little Pat, my uncle, was never the same after. He grew up soft in

the head with a left leg that went one way, his body the other. He never

learned to read or write but God blessed him in another way. When he

started to sell newspapers at the age of eight he could count money

better than the Chancellor of the Exchequer himself. No one knew why he

was called Ab Sheehan, The Abbot, but all Limerick loved him.

My mother's troubles began the night she was born. There is my

grandmother in the bed heaving and gasping with the labor pains, praying

to St. Gerard Majella, patron saint of expectant mothers. There is Nurse

O'Halloran, the midwife, all dressed up in her finery. It's New Year's

Eve and Mrs. O'Halloran is anxious for this child to be born so that she

can rush off to the parties and celebrations. She tells my grandmother:

Will you push, will you, push. Jesus, Mary and holy St. Joseph, if you

don't hurry with this child it won't be born till the New Year and what

good is that to me with me new dress? Never mind St. Gerard Majella. What

can a man do for a woman at a time like this even if he is a saint? St.

Gerard Majella my arse.

My grandmother switches her prayers to St. Ann, patron saint of

difficult labor. But the child won't come. Nurse O'Halloran tells my

grandmother, Pray to St. Jude, patron saint of desperate cases.

St. Jude, patron of desperate cases, help me. I'm desperate. She

grunts and pushes and the infant's head appears, only the head, my

mother, and it's the stroke of midnight, the New Year. Limerick City

erupts with whistles, horns, sirens, brass bands, people calling and

singing, Happy New Year. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and church

bells all over ring out the Angelus and Nurse O'Halloran weeps for the

waste of a dress, that child still in there and me in me finery. Will you

come out, child, will you? Grandma gives a great push and the child is in

the world, a lovely girl with black curly hair and sad blue eyes.

Ah, Lord above, says Nurse O'Halloran, this child is a time

straddler, born with her head in the New Year and her arse in the Old or

was it her head in the Old Year and her arse in the New. You'll have to

write to the Pope, missus, to find out what year this child was born in

and I'll save this dress for next year.

And the child was named Angela for the Angelus which rang the

midnight hour, the New Year, the minute of her coming and because she was

a little angel anyway.

Love her as in childhood

Though feeble, old and grey.

For you'll never miss a mother's love

Till she's buried beneath the clay.

At the St. Vincent de Paul School, Angela learned to read, write,

and calculate and by her ninth year her schooling was done. She tried her

hand at being a charwoman, a skivvy, a maid with a little white hat

opening doors, but she could not manage the little curtsy that is

required and her mother said, You don't have the knack of it. You're pure

useless. Why don't you go to America where there's room for all sorts of

uselessness? I'll give you the fare.

She arrived in New York just in time for the first Thanksgiving Day

of the Great Depression. She met Malachy at a party given by Dan

MacAdorey and his wife, Minnie, on Classon Avenue in Brooklyn. Malachy

liked Angela and she liked him. He had a hangdog look, which came from

the three months he had just spent in jail for hijacking a truck. He and

his friend John McErlaine believed what they were told in the speakeasy,

that the truck was packed to the roof with cases of canned pork and

beans. Neither knew how to drive and when the police saw the truck lurch

and jerk along Myrtle Avenue they pulled it over. The police searched the

truck and wondered why anyone would hijack a truck containing, not pork

and beans, but cases of buttons.

With Angela drawn to the hangdog look and Malachy lonely after

three months in jail, there was bound to be a knee-trembler.

A knee-trembler is the act itself done up against a wall, man and

woman up on their toes, straining so hard their knees tremble with the

excitement that's in it.

That knee-trembler put Angela in an interesting condition and, of

course, there was talk. Angela had cousins, the MacNamara sisters, Delia

and Philomena, married, respectively, to Jimmy Fortune of County Mayo,

and Tommy Flynn, of Brooklyn itself.

Delia and Philomena were large women, great-breasted and fierce.

When they sailed along the sidewalks of Brooklyn lesser creatures stepped

aside, respect was shown. The sisters knew what was right and they knew

what was wrong and any doubts could be resolved by the One, Holy, Roman,

Catholic and Apostolic Church. They knew that Angela, unmarried, had no

right to be in an interesting condition and they would take steps.

Steps they took. With Jimmy and Tommy in tow they marched to the

speakeasy on Atlantic Avenue where Malachy could be found on Friday,

payday when he had a job. The man in the speak, Joey Cacciamani, did not

want to admit the sisters but Philomena told him that if he wanted to

keep the nose on his face and that door on its hinges he'd better open up

for they were there on God's business. Joey said, Awright, awright, you

Irish. Jeezoz! Trouble, trouble.

Malachy, at the far end of the bar, turned pale, gave the great

breasted ones a sickly smile, offered them a drink. They resisted the

smile and spurned the offer. Delia said, We don't know what class of a

tribe you come from in the North of Ireland.

Philomena said, There is a suspicion you might have Presbyterians

in your family, which would explain what you did to our cousin.

Jimmy said, Ah, now, ah, now. 'Tisn't his fault if there's

Presbyterians in his family.

Delia said, You shuddup.

Tommy had to join in. What you did to that poor unfortunate girl is

a disgrace to the Irish race and you should be ashamed of yourself.

Och, I am, said Malachy. I am.

Nobody asked you to talk, said Philomena. You done enough damage

with your blather, so shut your yap.

And while your yap is shut, said Delia, we're here to see you do

the right thing by our poor cousin, Angela Sheehan.

Malachy said, Och, indeed, indeed. The right thing is the right

thing and I'd be glad to buy you all a drink while we have this little

talk.

Take the drink, said Tommy, and shove it up your ass.

Philomena said, Our little cousin no sooner gets off the boat than

you are at her. We have morals in Limerick, you know, morals. We're not

like jackrabbits from Antrim, a place crawling with Presbyterians.

Jimmy said, He don't look like a Presbyterian.

You shuddup, said Delia.

Another thing we noticed, said Philomena. You have a very odd

manner.

Malachy smiled. I do?

You do, says Delia. I think 'tis one of the first things we noticed

about you, that odd manner, and it gives us a very uneasy feeling.

'Tis that sneaky little Presbyterian smile, said Philomena.

Och, said Malachy, it's just the trouble I have with my teeth.

Teeth or no teeth, odd manner or no odd manner, you're gonna marry

that girl, said Tommy. Up the middle aisle you're going.

Och, said Malachy, I wasn't planning to get married, you know.

There's no work and I wouldn't be able to support...

Married is what you're going to be, said Delia.

Up the middle aisle, said Jimmy.

You shuddup, said Delia.

Malachy watched them leave. I'm in a desperate pickle, he told Joey

Cacciamani.

Bet your ass, said Joey. I see them babes comin' at me I jump inna

Hudson River.

Malachy considered the pickle he was in. He had a few dollars in

his pocket from the last job and he had an uncle in San Francisco or one

of the other California Sans. Wouldn't he be better off in California,

far from the great breasted MacNamara sisters and their grim husbands? He

would, indeed, and he'd have a drop of the Irish to celebrate his

decision and departure. Joey poured and the drink nearly took the lining

off Malachy's gullet. Irish, indeed! He told Joey it was a Prohibition

concoction from the devil's own still. Joey shrugged. I don't know

nothing. I only pour. Still, it was better than nothing and Malachy would

have another and one for yourself, Joey, and ask them two decent Italians

what they'd like and what are you talking about, of course, I have the

money to pay for it.

He awoke on a bench in the Long Island Railroad Station, a cop

rapping on his boots with a nightstick, his escape money gone, the

MacNamara sisters ready to eat him alive in Brooklyn.

On the feast of St. Joseph, a bitter day in March, four months

after the knee-trembler, Malachy married Angela and in August the child

was born. In November Malachy got drunk and decided it was time to

after himself, but his North of Ireland accent and the alcoholic mumble

confused the clerk so much he simply entered the name Male on the

certificate.

Not until late December did they take Male to St. Paul's Church to

be baptized and named Francis after his father's father and the lovely

saint of Assisi. Angela wanted to give him a middle name, Munchin, after

the patron saint of Limerick but Malachy said over his dead body. No son

of his would have a Limerick name. It's hard enough going through life

with one name. Sticking on middle names was an atrocious American habit

and there was no need for a second name when you're christened after the

man from Assisi.

There was a delay the day of the baptism when the chosen godfather,

John McErlaine, got drunk at the speakeasy and forgot his

responsibilities. Philomena told her husband, Tommy, he'd have to be

godfather. Child's soul is in danger, she said. Tommy put his head down

and grumbled. All right. I'll be godfather but I'm not goin' to be

responsible if he grows up like his father causin' trouble and goin'

through life with the odd manner for if he does he can go to John

McErlaine at the speakeasy. The priest said, True for you, Tom, decent

man that you are, fine man that never set foot inside a speakeasy.

Malachy, fresh from the speakeasy himself, felt insulted and wanted to

argue with the priest, one sacrilege on top of another. Take off that

collar and we'll see who's the man. He had to be held back by the great

breasted ones and their husbands grim. Angela, new mother, agitated,

forgot she was holding the child and let him slip into the baptismal

font, a total immersion of the Protestant type. The altar boy assisting

the priest plucked the infant from the font and restored him to Angela,

who sobbed and clutched him, dripping, to her bosom. The priest laughed,

said he had never seen the likes, that the child was a regular little

Baptist now and hardly needed a priest. This maddened Malachy again and

he wanted to jump at the priest for calling the child some class of a

Protestant. The priest said, Quiet, man, you're in God's house, and when

Malachy said, God's house, my arse, he was thrown out on Court Street

because you can't say arse in God's house.

After baptism Philomena said she had tea and ham and cakes in her

house around the corner. Malachy said, Tea? and she said, Yes, tea, or is

it whiskey you want? He said tea was grand but first he'd have to go and

deal with John McErlaine, who didn't have the decency to carry out his

duties as godfather. Angela said, You're only looking for an excuse to

run to the speakeasy, and he said, As God is my witness, the drink is the

last thing on my mind. Angela started to cry. Your son's christening day

and you have to go drinking. Delia told him he was a disgusting specimen

but what could you expect from the North of Ireland.

Malachy looked from one to the other, shifted on his feet, pulled

his cap down over his eyes, shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets,

said, Och, aye, the way they do in the far reaches of County Antrim,

turned, hurried up Court Street to the speakeasy on Atlantic Avenue where

he was sure they'd ply him with free drink in honor of his son's baptism.

At Philomena's house the sisters and their husbands ate and drank

while Angela sat in a corner nursing the baby and crying. Philomena

stuffed her mouth with bread and ham and rumbled at Angela, That's what

you get for being such a fool. Hardly off the boat and you fall for that

lunatic. You shoulda stayed single, put the child up for adoption, and

you'd be a free woman today. Angela cried harder and Delia took up the

attack, Oh, stop it, Angela, stop it. You have nobody to blame but

yourself for gettin' into trouble with a drunkard from the North, a man

that doesn't even look like a Catholic, him with his odd manner. I'd say

that... that... Malachy has a streak of the Presbyterian in him right

enough. You shuddup, Jimmy.

If I was you, said Philomena, I'd make sure there's no more

children. He don't have a job, so he don't, an' never will the way he

drinks. So... no more children, Angela. Are you listenin' to me?

I am, Philomena.

A year later another child was born. Angela called him Malachy

after his father and gave him a middle name, Gerard, after his father's

brother.

The MacNamara sisters said Angela was nothing but a rabbit and they

wanted nothing to do with her till she came to her senses.

Their husbands agreed.

I'm in a playground on Classon Avenue in Brooklyn with my brother,

Malachy. He's two, I'm three. We're on the seesaw.

Up, down, up, down.

Malachy goes up.

I get off.

Malachy goes down. Seesaw hits the ground. He screams. His hand is

on his mouth and there's blood.

Oh, God. Blood is bad. My mother will kill me.

And here she is, trying to run across the playground. Her big belly

slows her.

She says, What did you do? What did you do to the child?

I don't know what to say. I don't know what I did.

She pulls my ear. Go home. Go to bed. Bed?

In the middle of the day?

She pushes me toward the playground gate. Go.

She picks up Malachy and waddles off.

My father's friend, Mr. MacAdorey, is outside our building. He's

standing at the edge of the sidewalk with his wife, Minnie, looking at a

dog lying in the gutter. There is blood all around the dog's head. It's

the color of the blood from Malachy's mouth.

Malachy has dog blood and the dog has Malachy blood.

I pull Mr. MacAdorey's hand. I tell him Malachy has blood like the

dog.

Oh, he does, indeed, Francis. Cats have it, too. And Eskimos. All

the same blood.

Minnie says, Stop that, Dan. Stop confusing the wee fellow. She

tells me the poor wee dog was hit by a car and he crawled all the way

from the middle of the street before he died. Wanted to come home, the

poor wee creature.

Mr. MacAdorey says, You'd better go home, Francis. I don't know

what you did to your wee brother, but your mother took him off to the

hospital. Go home, child.

Will Malachy die like the dog, Mr. MacAdorey?

Minnie says, He bit his tongue. He won't die.

Why did the dog die?

It was his time, Francis.

The apartment is empty and I wander between the two rooms, the

bedroom and the kitchen. My father is out looking for a job and my mother

is at the hospital with Malachy. I wish I had something to eat but

there's nothing in the icebox but cabbage leaves floating in the melted

ice. My father said never eat anything floating in water for the rot that

might be in it. I fall asleep on my parents' bed and when my mother

shakes me it's nearly dark. Your little brother is going to sleep a

while. Nearly bit his tongue off. Stitches galore. Go into the other

room.

My father is in the kitchen sipping black tea from his big white

enamel mug. He lifts me to his lap.

Dad, will you tell me the story about Coo Coo?

Cuchulain. Say it after me, Coo-hoo-lin. I'll tell you the story

when you say the name right. Coo-hoo-lin.

I say it right and he tells me the story of Cuchulain, who had a

different name when he was a boy, Setanta. He grew up in Ireland where

Dad lived when he was a boy in County Antrim. Setanta had a stick and

ball and one day he hit the ball and it went into the mouth of a big dog

that belonged to Culain and choked him. Oh, Culain was angry and he said,

What am I to do now without my big dog to guard my house and my wife and

my ten small children as well as numerous pigs, hens, sheep?

Setanta said, I'm sorry. I'll guard your house with my stick and

ball and I'll change my name to Cuchulain, the Hound of Culain. He did.

He guarded the house and regions beyond and became a great hero, the

Hound of Ulster itself. Dad said he was a greater hero than Hercules or

Achilles that the Greeks were always bragging about and he could take on

King Arthur and all his knights in a fair fight which, of course, you

could never get with an Englishman anyway.

That's my story. Dad can't tell that story to Malachy or any other

children down the hall.

He finishes the story and lets me sip his tea. It's bitter, but I'm

happy there on his lap.

For days Malachy's tongue is swollen and he can hardly make a sound

never mind talk. But even if he could no one is paying any attention to

him because we have two new babies who were brought by an angel in the

middle of the night. The neighbors say, Ooh, Ah, they're lovely boys,

look at those big eyes.

Malachy stands in the middle of the room, looking up at everyone,

pointing to his tongue and saying, Uck, uck. When the neighbors say,

Can't you see we're looking at your little brothers? he cries, till Dad

pats him on the head. Put in your tongue, son, and go out and play with

Frankie. Go on.

In the playground I tell Malachy about the dog who died in the

street because someone drove a ball into his mouth. Malachy shakes his

head. No uck ball. Car uck kill dog. He cries because his tongue hurts

and he can hardly talk and it's terrible when you can't talk. He won't

let me push him on the swing. He says, You uck kill me uck on seesaw. He

gets Freddie Leibowitz to push him and he's happy, laughing when he

swings to the sky. Freddie is big, he's seven, and I ask him to push me.

He says, No, you tried to kill your brother.

I try to get the swing going myself but all I can do is move it

back and forth and I'm angry because Freddie and Malachy are laughing at

the way I can't swing. They're great pals now, Freddie, seven, Malachy,

two. They laugh every day and Malachy's tongue gets better with all the

laughing.

When he laughs you can see how white and small and pretty his teeth

are and you can see his eyes shine. He has blue eyes like my mother. He

has golden hair and pink cheeks. I have brown eyes like Dad. I have black

hair and my cheeks are white in the mirror. My mother tells Mrs.

Leibowitz down the hall that Malachy is the happiest child in the world.

She tells Mrs. Leibowitz down the hall, Frankie has the odd manner like

his father. I wonder what the odd manner is but I can't ask because I'm

not supposed to be listening.

I wish I could swing up into the sky, up into the clouds. I might

be able to fly around the whole world and not hear my brothers, Oliver

and Eugene, cry in the middle of the night anymore. My mother says

they're always hungry. She cries in the middle of the night, too. She

says she's worn out nursing and feeding and changing and four boys is too

much for her. She wishes she had one little girl all for herself. She'd

give anything for one little girl.

I'm in the playground with Malachy. I'm four, he's three. He lets

me push him on the swing because he's no good at swinging himself and

Freddie Leibowitz is in school. We have to stay in the playground because

the twins are sleeping and my mother says she's worn out. Go out and

play, she says, and give me some rest. Dad is out looking for a job again

and sometimes he comes home with the smell of whiskey, singing all the

songs about suffering Ireland. Mam gets angry and says Ireland can kiss

her arse. He says that's nice language to be using in front of the

children and she says never mind the language, food on the table is what

she wants, not suffering Ireland. She says it was a sad day Prohibition

ended because Dad gets the drink going around to saloons offering to

sweep out the bars and lift barrels for a whiskey or a beer. Sometimes he

brings home bits of the free lunch, rye bread, corned beef, pickles. He

puts the food on the table and drinks tea himself. He says food is a

shock to the system and he doesn't know where we get our appetites. Mam

says, They get their appetites because they're starving half the time.

When Dad gets a job Mam is cheerful and she sings,

Anyone can see why I wanted your kiss,

It had to be and the reason is this

Could it be true, someone like you

Could love me, love me?

When Dad brings home the first week's wages Mam is delighted she

can pay the lovely Italian man in the grocery shop and she can hold her

head up again because there's nothing worse in the world than to owe and

be beholden to anyone. She cleans the kitchen, washes the mugs and

plates, brushes crumbs and bits of food from the table, cleans out the

icebox and orders a fresh block of ice from another Italian. She buys

toilet paper that we can take down the hall to the lavatory and that, she

says, is better than having the headlines from the Daily News blackening

your arse. She boils water on the stove and spends a day at a great tin

tub washing our shirts and socks, diapers for the twins, our two sheets,

our three towels. She hangs everything out on the clotheslines behind the

apartment house and we can watch the clothes dance in wind and sun. She

says you wouldn't want the neighbors to know what you have in the way of

a wash but there's nothing like the sweetness of clothes dried by the

sun.

When Dad brings home the first week's wages on a Friday night we

know the weekend will be wonderful. On Saturday night Mam will boil water

on the stove and wash us in the great tin tub and Dad will dry us.

Malachy will turn around and show his behind. Dad will pretend to be

shocked and we'll all laugh. Mam will make hot cocoa and we'll be able to

stay up while Dad tells us a story out of his head. All we have to do is

say a name, Mr. MacAdorey or Mr. Leibowitz down the hall, and Dad will

have the two of them rowing up a river in Brazil chased by Indians with

green noses and puce shoulders. On nights like that we can drift off to

sleep knowing there will be a breakfast of eggs, fried tomatoes and fried

bread, tea with lashings of sugar and milk and, later in the day, a big

dinner of mashed potatoes, peas and ham, and a trifle Mam makes, layers

of fruit and warm delicious custard on a cake soaked in sherry.

When Dad brings home the first week's wages and the weather is fine

Mam takes us to the playground. She sits on a bench and talks to Minnie

MacAdorey. She tells Minnie stories about characters in Limerick and

Minnie tells her about characters in Belfast and they laugh because there

are funny people in Ireland, North and South. Then they teach each other

sad songs and Malachy and I leave the swings and see-saws to sit with

them on the bench and sing, A group of young soldiers one night in a camp

Were talking of sweethearts they had.

All seemed so merry except one young lad,

And he was downhearted and sad.

Come and join us, said one of the boys,

Surely there's someone for you.

But Ned shook his head and proudly he said I am in love with two,

Each like a mother to me,

From neither of them shall I part.

For one is my mother,

God bless her and love her,

The other is my sweetheart.

Malachy and I sing that song and Mam and Minnie laugh till they cry

at the way Malachy takes a deep bow and holds his arms out to Mam at the

end. Dan MacAdorey comes along on his way home from work and says Rudy

Vallee better start worrying about the competition.

When we go home Mam makes tea and bread and jam or mashed potatoes

with butter and salt. Dad drinks the tea and eats nothing. Mam says, God

above, How can you work all day and not eat? He says, The tea is enough.

She says, You'll ruin your health, and he tells her again that food is a

shock to the system. He drinks his tea and tells us stories and shows us

letters and words in the Daily News or he smokes a cigarette, stares at

the wall, runs his tongue over his lips.

When Dad's job goes into the third week he does not bring home the

wages. On Friday night we wait for him and Mam gives us bread and tea.

The darkness comes down and the lights come on along Classon Avenue.

Other men with jobs are home already and having eggs for dinner because

you can't have meat on a Friday. You can hear the families talking

upstairs and downstairs and down the hall and Bing Crosby is singing on

the radio, Brother, can you spare a dime?

Malachy and I play with the twins. We know Mam won't sing Anyone

can see why I wanted your kiss. She sits at the kitchen table talking to

herself, What am I going to do? till it's late and Dad rolls up the

stairs singing Roddy McCorley. He pushes in the door and calls for us,

Where are my troops? Where are my four warriors?

Mam says, Leave those boys alone. They're gone to bed half hungry

because you have to fill your belly with whiskey.

He comes to the bedroom door. Up, boys, up. A nickel for everyone

who promises to die for Ireland.

Deep in Canadian woods we met

From one bright island flown.

Great is the land we tread, but yet

Our hearts are with our own.

Up, boys, up. Francis, Malachy, Oliver, Eugene. The Red Branch

Knights, the Fenian Men, the IRA. Up, up.

Mam is at the kitchen table, shaking, her hair hanging damp, her

face wet. Can't you leave them alone? she says. Jesus, Mary and Joseph,

isn't it enough that you come home without a penny in your pocket without

making fools of the children on top of it?

She comes to us. Go back to bed, she says.

I want them up, he says. I want them ready for the day Ireland will

be free from the center to the sea.

Don't cross me, she says, for if you do it'll be a sorry day in

your mother's house.

He pulls his cap down over his face and cries, My poor mother. Poor

Ireland. Och, what are we going to do?

Mam says, You're pure stone mad, and she tells us again to go to

bed.

On the morning of the fourth Friday of Dad's job Mam asks him if

he'll be home tonight with his wages or will he drink everything again?

He looks at us and shakes his head at Mam as if to say, Och, you

shouldn't talk like that in front of the children.

Mam keeps at him. I'm asking you, Are you coming home so that we

can have a bit of supper or will it be midnight with no money in your

pocket and you singing Kevin Barry and the rest of the sad songs?

He puts on his cap, shoves his hands into his trouser pockets,

sighs and looks up at the ceiling. I told you before I'll be home, he

says.

Later in the day Mam dresses us. She puts the twins into the pram

and off we go through the long streets of Brooklyn. Sometimes she lets

Malachy sit in the pram when he's tired of trotting along beside her. She

tells me I'm too big for the pram. I could tell her I have pains in my

legs from trying to keep up with her but she's not singing and I know

this is not the day to be talking about my pains.

We come to a big gate where there's a man standing in a box with

windows all around. Mam talks to the man. She wants to know if she can go

inside to where the men are paid and maybe they'd give her some of Dad's

wages so he wouldn't spend it in the bars. The man shakes his head. I'm

sorry, lady, but if we did that we'd have half the wives in Brooklyn

storming the place. Lotta men have the drinking problem but there's

nothing we can do long as they show up sober and do their work.

We wait across the street. Mam lets me sit on the sidewalk with my

back against the wall. She gives the twins their bottles of water and

sugar but Malachy and I have to wait till she gets money from Dad and we

can go to the Italian for tea and bread and eggs.

When the whistle blows at half five men in caps and overalls swarm

through the gate, their faces and hands black from the work. Mam tells us

watch carefully for Dad because she can hardly see across the street

herself, her eyes are that bad. There are dozens of men, then a few, then

none. Mam is crying, Why couldn't ye see him? Are ye blind or what?

She goes back to the man in the box. Are you sure there wouldn't be

one man left inside?

No, lady, he says. They're out. I don't know how he got past you.

We go back through the long streets of Brooklyn. The twins hold up

their bottles and cry for more water and sugar. Malachy says he's hungry

and Mam tells him wait a little, we'll get money from Dad and we'll all

have a nice supper. We'll go to the Italian and get eggs and make toast

with the flames on the stove and we'll have jam on it. Oh, we will, and

we'll all be nice and warm.

It's dark on Atlantic Avenue and all the bars around the Long

Island Railroad Station are bright and noisy. We go from bar to bar

looking for Dad. Mam leaves us outside with the pram while she goes in or

she sends me. There are crowds of noisy men and stale smells that remind

me of Dad when he comes home with the smell of the whiskey on him.

The man behind the bar says, Yeah, sonny, whaddya want? You're not

supposeta be in here, y'know.

I'm looking for my father. Is my father here?

Naw, sonny, how'd I know dat? Who's your fawdah?

His name is Malachy and he sings Kevin Barry.

Malarkey?

No, Malachy.

Malachy? And he sings Kevin Barry?

He calls out to the men in the bar, Youse guys, youse know guy

Malachy what sings Kevin Barry?

Men shake their heads. One says he knew a guy Michael sang Kevin

Barry but he died of the drink which he had because of his war wounds.

The barman says, Jeez, Pete, I didn't ax ya to tell me history o'

da woild, did I? Naw, kid. We don't let people sing in here. Causes

trouble. Specially the Irish. Let 'em sing, next the fists are flying.

Besides, I never hoid a name like dat Malachy. Naw, kid, no Malachy here.

The man called Pete holds his glass toward me. Here, kid, have a

sip, but the barman says, Whaddya doin', Pete? Tryina get the kid drunk?

Do that again, Pete, an' I'll come out an' break y'ass.

Mam tries all the bars around the station before she gives up. She

leans against a wall and cries. Jesus, we still have to walk all the way

to Classon Avenue and I have four starving children. She sends me back

into the bar where Pete offered me the sip to see if the barman would

fill the twins' bottles with water and maybe a little sugar in each. The

men in the bar think it's very funny that the barman should be filling

baby bottles but he's big and he tells them shut their lip. He tells me

babies should be drinking milk not water and when I tell him Mam doesn't

have the money he empties the baby bottles and fills them with milk. He

says, Tell ya mom they need that for the teeth an' bones. Ya drink water

an' sugar an' all ya get is rickets. Tell ya Mom.

Mam is happy with the milk. She says she knows all about teeth and

bones and rickets but beggars can't be choosers.

When we reach Classon Avenue she goes straight to the Italian

grocery shop. She tells the man her husband is late tonight, that he's

probably working overtime, and would it be at all possible to get a few

things and she'll be sure to see him tomorrow?

The Italian says, Missus, you always pay your bill sooner or later

and you can have anything you like in this store.

Oh, she says, I don't want much.

Anything you like, missus, because I know you're an honest woman

and you got a bunch o' nice kids there.

We have eggs and toast and jam though we're so weary walking the

long streets of Brooklyn we can barely move our jaws to chew. The twins

fall asleep after eating and Mam lays them on the bed to change their

diapers. She sends me down the hall to rinse the dirty diapers in the

lavatory so that they can be hung up to dry and used the next day.

Malachy helps her wash the twins' bottoms though he's ready to fall

asleep himself.

I crawl into bed with Malachy and the twins. I look out at Mam at

the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, drinking tea, and crying. I want

to get up and tell her I'll be a man soon and I'll get a job in the place

with the big gate and I'll come home every Friday night with money for

eggs and toast and jam and she can sing again Anyone can see why I wanted

your kiss.

The next week Dad loses the job. He comes home that Friday night,

throws his wages on the table and says to Mam, Are you happy now? You

hang around the gate complaining and accusing and they sack me. They were

looking for an excuse and you gave it to them.

He takes a few dollars from his wages and goes out. He comes home

late roaring and singing. The twins cry and Mam shushes them and cries a

long time herself.

We spend hours in the playground when the twins are sleeping, when

Mam is tired, and when Dad comes home with the whiskey smell on him,

roaring about Kevin Barry getting hanged on a Monday morning or the Roddy

McCorley song, Up the narrow street he stepped Smiling and proud and

young About the hemp rope on his neck The golden ringlets clung, There's

never a tear in the blue eyes Both glad and bright are they, As Roddy

McCorley goes to die On the bridge of Toome today.

When he sings he marches around the table, Mam cries and the twins

howl with her. She says, Go out, Frankie, go out, Malachy. You shouldn't

see your father like this. Stay in the playground. We don't mind going to

the playground.

We can play with the leaves piling up on the ground and we can push

each other on the swings but then winter comes to Classon Avenue and the

swings are frozen and won't even move. Minnie MacAdorey says, God help

these poor wee boys.

They don't have a glove between them. That makes me laugh because I

know Malachy and I have four hands between us and one glove would be

silly. Malachy doesn't know what I'm laughing at: He won't know anything

till he's four going on five.

Minnie brings us in and gives us tea and porridge with jam in it.

Mr. MacAdorey sits in an armchair with their new baby, Maisie. He holds

her bottle and sings, Clap hands, clap hands, Till Daddy comes home, With

buns in his pocket For Maisie alone.

Clap hands, clap hands,

Till Daddy comes home,

For Daddy has money

And Mammy has none.

Malachy tries to sing that song but I tell him stop, it's Maisie's

song. He starts to cry and Minnie says, There, there. You can sing the

song. That's a song for all the children. Mr. MacAdorey smiles at Malachy

and I wonder what kind of world is it where anyone can sing anyone else's

song.

Minnie says, Don't frown, Frankie. It makes your face dark and God

knows it's dark enough. Some day you'll have a little sister and you can

sing that song to her. Och, aye. You'll have a little sister, surely.

Minnie is right and Mam gets her wish. There's a new baby soon, a

little girl, and they call her Margaret. We all love Margaret. She has

black curly hair and blue eyes like Mam and she waves her little hands

and chirps like any little bird in the trees along Classon Avenue. Minnie

says there was a holiday in heaven the day this child was made. Mrs.

Leibowitz says the world never saw such eyes, such a smile, such

happiness. She makes me dance, says Mrs. Leibowitz.

When Dad comes home from looking for a job he holds Margaret and

sings to her: In a shady nook one moonlit night A leprechaun I spied.

With scarlet cap and coat of green

A cruiskeen by his side.

'Twas tick tock tick his hammer went

Upon a tiny shoe.

Oh, I laugh to think he was caught at last,

But the fairy was laughing, too.

He walks around the kitchen with her and talks to her. He tells her

how lovely she is with her curly black hair and the blue eyes of her

mother. He tells her he'll take her to Ireland and they'll walk the Glens

of Antrim and swim in Lough Neagh. He'll get a job soon, so he will, and

she'll have dresses of silk and shoes with silver buckles.

The more Dad sings to Margaret the less she cries and as the days

pass she even begins to laugh. Mam says, Look at him trying to dance with

that child in his arms, him with his two left feet. She laughs and we all

laugh.

The twins cried when they were small and Dad and Mam would say

Whisht and Hush and feed them and they'd go back to sleep. But when

Margaret cries there's a high lonely feeling in the air and Dad is out of

bed in a second, holding her to him, doing a slow dance around the table,

singing to her, making sounds like a mother. When he passes the window

where the streetlight shines in you can see tears on his cheeks and

that's strange because he never cries for anyone unless he has the drink

taken and he sings the Kevin Barry song and the Roddy McCorley song. Now

he cries over Margaret and he has no smell of drink on him.

Mam tells Minnie MacAdorey, He's in heaven over that child. He

hasn't touched a drop since she was born. I should've had a little girl a

long time ago.

Och, they're lovely, aren't they? says Minnie. The little boys are

grand, too, but you need a little girl for yourself.

My mother laughs, For myself? Lord above, if I didn't nurse her I

wouldn't be able to get near her the way he wants to be holding her day

and night.

Minnie says it's lovely, all the same, to see a man so charmed with

his little girl for isn't everyone charmed with her?

Everyone.

The twins are able to stand and walk and they have accidents all

the time. Their bottoms are sore because they're always wet and shitty.

They put dirty things in their mouths, bits of paper, feathers,

shoelaces, and they get sick. Mam says we're all driving her crazy. She

dresses the twins, puts them in the pram, and Malachy and I take them to

the playground. The cold weather is gone and the trees have green leaves

up and down Classon Avenue.

We race the pram around the playground and the twins laugh and make

goo-goo sounds till they get hungry and start to cry. There are two

bottles in the pram filled with water and sugar and that keeps them quiet

for awhile till they're hungry again and they cry so hard I don't know

what to do because they're so small and I wish I could give them all

kinds of food so that they'd laugh and make the baby sounds. They love

the mushy food Mam makes in a pot, bread mashed up in milk and water and

sugar. Mam calls it bread and goody.

If I take the twins home now Mam will yell at me for giving her no

rest or for waking Margaret. We are to stay in the playground till she

sticks her head out the window and calls for us. I make funny faces for

the twins to stop their crying. I put a piece of paper on my head and let

it fall and they laugh and laugh. I push the pram over to Malachy playing

on the swings with Freddie Leibowitz. Malachy is trying to tell Freddie

all about the way Setanta became Cuchulain. I tell him stop telling that

story, it's my story. He won't stop. I push him and he cries, Waah, waah,

I'll tell Mam. Freddie pushes me and everything turns dark in my head and

I run at him with fists and knees and feet till he yells, Hey, stop,

stop, and I won't because I can't, I don't know how, and if I stop

Malachy will go on taking my story from me. Freddie pushes me away and

runs off, yelling, Frankie tried to kill me. Frankie tried to kill me. I

don't know what to do because I never tried to kill anyone before and now

Malachy, on the swing, cries, Don't kill me, Frankie, and he looks so

helpless I put my arms around him and help him off the swing. He hugs me.

I won't tell your story anymore. I won't tell Freddie about Coo, Coo. I

want to laugh but I can't because the twins are crying in the pram and

it's dark in the playground and what's the use of trying to make funny

faces and letting things fall off your head when they can't see you in

the dark?

The Italian grocery shop is across the street and I see bananas,

apples, oranges. I know the twins can eat bananas. Malachy loves bananas

and I like them myself. But you need money, Italians are not known for

giving away bananas especially to the McCourts who owe them money already

for groceries.

My mother tells me all the time, Never, never leave that playground

except to come home. But what am I to do with the twins bawling with the

hunger in the pram? I tell Malachy I'll be back in a minute. I make sure

no one is looking, grab a bunch of bananas outside the Italian grocery

shop and run down Myrtle Avenue, away from the playground, around the

block and back to the other end where there's a hole in the fence. We

push the pram to a dark corner and peel the bananas for the twins. There

are five bananas in the bunch and we feast on them in the dark corner.

The twins slobber and chew and spread banana over their faces, their

hair, their clothes. I realize then that questions will be asked. Mam

will want to know why the twins are smothered in bananas, where did you

get them? I can't tell her about the Italian shop on the corner. I will

have to say, A man.

That's what I'll say. A man.

Then the strange thing happens. There's a man at the gate of the

playground. He's calling me. Oh, God, it's the Italian. Hey, sonny, come

'ere. Hey, talkin' to ya. Come 'ere.

I go to him.

You the kid wid the little bruddas, right? Twins?

Yes, sir.

Heah. Gotta bag o' fruit. I don' give it to you I trow id out.

Right? So, heah, take the bag. Ya got apples, oranges, bananas. Ya like

bananas, right? I think ya like bananas, eh? Ha, ha. I know ya like the

bananas. Heah, take the bag. Ya gotta nice mother there. Ya father? Well,

ya know, he's got the problem, the Irish thing. Give them twins a banana.

Shud 'em up. I hear 'em all the way cross the street.

Thank you, sir.

Jeez. Polite kid, eh? Where ja loin dat?

My father told me to say thanks, sir.

Your father? Oh, well.

Dad sits at the table reading the paper. He says that President

Roosevelt is a good man and everyone in America will soon have a job. Mam

is on the other side of the table feeding Margaret with a bottle. She has

the hard look that frightens me.

Where did you get that fruit?

The man.

What man?

The Italian man gave it to me.

Did you steal that fruit?

Malachy says, The man. The man gave Frankie the bag.

And what did you do to Freddie Leibowitz? His mother was here.

Lovely woman. I don't know what we'd do without her and Minnie MacAdorey.

And you had to attack poor Freddie.

Malachy jumps up and down. He din't. He din't. Din't try to kill

Freddie. Din't try to kill me.

Dad says, Whisht, Malachy, whisht. Come over here. And he takes

Malachy on his lap.

My mother says, Go down the hall and tell Freddie you're sorry.

But Dad says, Do you want to tell Freddie you're sorry?

I don't.

My parents look at one another. Dad says, Freddie is a good boy. He

was only pushing your little brother on the swing. Isn't that right?

He was trying to steal my Cuchulain story.

Och, now. Freddie doesn't care about the Cuchulain story. He has

his own story. Hundreds of stories. He's Jewish.

What's Jewish?

Dad laughs. Jewish is, Jewish is people with their own stories.

They don't need Cuchulain. They have Moses. They have Samson.

What's Samson?

If you go down and talk to Freddie I'll tell you about Samson

later. You can tell Freddie you're sorry and you'll never do it again and

you can even ask him about Samson. Anything you like as long as you talk

to Freddie. Will you?

The baby gives a little cry in my mother's arms and Dad jumps up,

dropping Malachy to the floor. Is she all right? My mother says, Of

course she's all right. She's feeding. God above, you're a bundle of

nerves.

They're talking about Margaret now and I'm forgotten. I don't care.

I'm going down the hall to ask Freddie about Samson, to see if Samson is

as good as Cuchulain, to see if Freddie has his own story or if he still

wants to steal Cuchulain. Malachy wants to go with me now that my father

is standing and doesn't have a lap anymore.

Mrs. Leibowitz says, Oh, Frankie, Frankie, come in, come in. And

little Malachy. And tell me, Frankie, what did you do to Freddie? Tried

to kill him? Freddie is a good boy, Frankie. Reads his book. Listens to

radio with his papa. He swinks you brother on swink. And you try to kill

him. Oh, Frankie, Frankie. And you poor mother and her sick baby.

She's not sick, Mrs. Leibowitz.

Sick she is. Zat is one sick baby. I know from sick babies. I work

in hoztipal. Don't tell me, Frankie. Come in, come in. Freddie, Freddie,

Frankie is here. Come out. Frankie won't kill you no more. You and little

Malachy. Nice Chewish name, have piece cake, eh? Why they give you a

Chewish name, eh? So, glass milk, piece cake. You boys so thin, Irish

don't eat.

We sit at the table with Freddie, eating cake, drinking milk. Mr.

Leibowitz sits in an armchair reading the paper, listening to the radio.

Sometimes he speaks to Mrs. Leibowitz and I don't understand because

strange sounds come from his mouth. Freddie understands. When Mr.

Leibowitz makes the strange sounds Freddie gets up and takes him a piece

of cake. Mr. Leibowitz smiles at Freddie and pats his head and Freddie

smiles back and makes the strange sounds.

Mrs. Leibowitz shakes her head at Malachy and me. Oy, so thin. She

says Oy so much Malachy laughs and says Oy and the Leibowitzes laugh and

Mr. Leibowitz says words we can understand, When Irish oyes are smiling.

Mrs. Leibowitz laughs so hard her body shakes and she holds her stomach

and Malachy says Oy again because he knows that makes everyone laugh. I

say Oy but no one laughs and I know Oy belongs to Malachy the way

Cuchulain belongs to me and Malachy can have his Oy.

Mrs. Leibowitz, my father said Freddie has a favorite story.

Malachy says, Sam, Sam, Oy. Everyone laughs again but I don't

because I can't remember what comes after Sam. Freddie mumbles through

his cake, Samson, and Mrs. Leibowitz tells him, Don't talk wiz you mouse

full, and I laugh because she's grown-up and she says mouse instead of

mouth. Malachy laughs because I laugh and the Leibowitzes look at each

other and smile. Freddie says, Not Samson. My favorite story is David and

the giant, Goliath. David killed him dead with a slingshot, a stone in

his head. His brains was on the ground.

Were on the ground, says Mr. Leibowitz.

Yes, Papa. Papa.

That's what Freddie calls his father and Dad is what I call my

father.

My mother's whisper wakes me. What's up with the child? It's still

early and there isn't much morning in the room but you can see Dad over

by the window with Margaret in his arms. He's rocking her and sighing,

Och.

Mam says, Is she, is she sick?

Och, she's very quiet and she's a wee bit cold.

My mother is out of the bed, taking the child. Go for the doctor.

Go for God's sake, and my father is pulling on his trousers over his

shirt, no jacket, shoes, no socks on this bitter day.

We wait in the room, the twins asleep at the bottom of the bed,

Malachy stirring beside me. Frankie, I want a drink of water. Mam rocks

in her bed with the baby in her arms. Oh, Margaret, Margaret, my own

little love. Open your lovely blue eyes, my little leanv.

I fill a cup of water for Malachy and me and my mother wails, Water

for you and your brother. Oh, indeed, Water, is it? And nothing for your

sister. Your poor little sister. Did you ask if she had a mouth in her

head? Did you ask if she'd like a drop of water? Oh, no. Go on and drink

your water, you and your brother, as if nothing happened. A regular day

for the two of you, isn't it? And the twins sleeping away as if they

didn't have a care and their poor little sister sick here in my arms.

Sick in my arms. Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven.

Why is she talking like this? She's not talking like my mother

today. I want my father. Where is my father?

I get back into bed and start to cry. Malachy says, Why you cry?

Why you cry? till Mam is at me again. Your sister is sick in my arms and

you're there whining and whinging. If I go over to that bed I'll give you

something to whinge about.

Dad is back with the doctor. Dad has the whiskey smell. The doctor

examines the baby, prods her, raises her eyelids, feels her neck, arms,

legs. He straightens up and shakes his head. She's gone. Mam reaches for

the baby, hugs her, turns to the wall. The doctor wants to know, Was

there any kind of accident? Did anyone drop the baby? Did the boys play

too hard with her? Anything?

My father shakes his head. Doctor says he'll have to take her to

examine her and Dad signs a paper. My mother begs for another few minutes

with her baby but the doctor says he doesn't have all day. When Dad

reaches for Margaret my mother pulls away against the wall. She has the

wild look, her black curly hair is damp on her forehead and there is

sweat all over her face, her eyes are wide open and her face is shiny

with tears, she keeps shaking her head and moaning, Ah, no, ah, no, till

Dad eases the baby from her arms. The doctor wraps Margaret completely in

a blanket and my mother cries, Oh, Jesus, you'll smother her. Jesus, Mary

and Joseph, help me. The doctor leaves. My mother turns to the wall and

doesn't make a move or sound. The twins are awake, crying with the

hunger, but Dad stands in the middle of the room, staring at the ceiling.

His face is white and he beats on his thighs with his fists. He comes to

the bed, puts his hand on my head. His hand is shaking. Francis, I'm

going out for cigarettes.

Mam stays in the bed all day, hardly moving. Malachy and I fill the

twins' bottles with water and sugar. In the kitchen we find a half loaf

of stale bread and two cold sausages. We can't have tea because the milk

is sour in the icebox where the ice is melted again and everyone knows

you can't drink tea without milk unless your father gives it to you out

of his mug while he's telling you about Cuchulain.

The twins are hungry again but I know I can't give them water and

sugar all day and night. I boil sour milk in a pot, mash in some of the

stale bread, and try to feed them from a cup, bread and goody. They make

faces and run to Mam's bed, crying. She keeps her face to the wall and

they run back to me, still crying. They won't eat the bread and goody

till I kill the taste of the sour milk with sugar. Now they eat and smile

and rub the goody over their faces. Malachy wants some and if he can eat

it, so can I. We all sit on the floor eating the goody and chewing on the

cold sausage and drinking water my mother keeps in a milk bottle in the

icebox.

After we eat and drink we have to go to the lavatory down the hall

but we can't get in because Mrs. Leibowitz is inside, humming and

singing. She says, Wait, chiltren, wait, darlinks. Won't be two seconds.

Malachy claps his hands and dances around, singing, Wait, chiltren, wait,

darlinks. Mrs. Leibowitz opens the lavatory door. Look at him. Little

actor awready. So, chiltren, how's you mother?

She's in bed, Mrs. Leibowitz. The doctor took Margaret and my

father went for cigarettes.

Oh, Frankie, Frankie. I said that was one sick child.

Malachy is clutching himself. Have to pee. Have to pee.

So, pee awready. You boys pee and we see you mother.

After we pee Mrs. Leibowitz comes to see Mam. Oh, Mrs. McCourt. Oy

vey, darlink. Look at this. Look at these twins. Naked. Mrs. McCourt,

what is mazzer, eh? The baby she is sick? So talk to me. Poor woman. Here

turn around, missus. Talk to me. Oy, this is one mess. Talk to me, Mrs.

McCourt.

She helps my mother sit up against the wall. Mam seems smaller.

Mrs. Leibowitz says she'll bring some soup and tells me get some water to

wash my mother's face. I dip a towel in cold water and pat her forehead.

She presses my hand against her cheeks. Oh, Jesus, Frankie. Oh, Jesus.

She won't let my hand go and I'm frightened because I've never seen her

like this before. She's saying Frankie only because it's my hand she's

holding and it's Margaret she's thinking about, not me. Your lovely

little sister is dead, Frankie. Dead. And where is your father? She lets

my hand drop. I said where is your father? Drinking. That's where he is.

There isn't a penny in the house. He can't get a job but he finds money

for the drink, money for the drink, money for the drink, money for the

drink. She rears back, knocks her head on the wall and screams, Where is

she? Where is she? Where is my little girl? Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,

help me this night. I'll go mad, so I will, I'll go pure mad.

Mrs. Leibowitz rushes in. Missus, missus, what is it? The little

girl. Where is she?

My mother screams again, Dead, Mrs. Leibowitz. Dead. Her head drops

and she rocks back and forth. Middle of the night, Mrs. Leibowitz. In her

pram. I should have been watching her. Seven weeks she had in this world

and died in the middle of the night, alone, Mrs. Leibowitz, all alone in

that pram.

Mrs. Leibowitz holds my mother in her arms. Shush, now, shush.

Babies go like that. It happens, missus. God takes them.

In the pram, Mrs. Leibowitz. Near my bed. I could have picked her

up and she didn't have to die, did she? God doesn't want little babies.

What is God going to do with little babies?

I don't know, missus. I don't know from God. Have soup. Good soup.

Make you strong. You boys. Get bowls. I give you soup.

What's bowls, Mrs. Leibowitz?

Oh, Frankie. You don't know bowl? For the soup, darlink. You don'

have a bowl? So get cups for the soup. I mix pea soup and lentil soup. No

ham. Irish like the ham. No ham, Frankie. Drink, missus. Drink you soup.

She spoons the soup into my mother's mouth, wipes the dribble from

her chin. Malachy and I sit on the floor drinking from mugs. We spoon the

soup into the twins' mouths. It is lovely and hot and tasty. My mother

never makes soup like this and I wonder if there's any chance Mrs.

Leibowitz could ever be my mother. Freddie could be me and have my mother

and my father, too, and he could have Malachy and the twins for brothers.

He can't have Margaret anymore because she's like the dog in the street

that was taken away. I don't know why she was taken away. My mother said

she died in her pram and that must be like getting hit by a car because

they take you away.

I wish little Margaret could be here for the soup. I could give it

to her with a spoon the way Mrs. Leibowitz is giving it to my mother and

she'd gurgle and laugh the way she did with Dad. She wouldn't cry anymore

and my mother wouldn't be in the bed day and night and Dad would be

telling me Cuchulain stories and I wouldn't want Mrs. Leibowitz to be my

mother anymore. Mrs. Leibowitz is nice but I'd rather have my father

telling me Cuchulain stories and Margaret chirping and Mam laughing when

Dad dances with two left feet.

Minnie MacAdorey comes in to help. Mother o' God, Mrs. Leibowitz,

these twins smell to the high heavens.

I don't know about Mother o' God, Minnie, but these twins need a

wash. They need clean diapers. Frankie, where are the clean diapers?

I don't know.

Minnie says, They're just wearing rags for diapers. I'll get some

of Maisie's. Frankie, you take off those rags and throw them out.

Malachy removes Oliver's rag and I struggle with Eugene. The safety

pin is stuck and when he wriggles it comes loose, sticks him in the hip,

and starts him screaming for Mam. But Minnie is back with a towel and

soap and hot water. I help her wash away the caked shit and she lets me

shake talcum powder on the twins' raw sore skin. She says they're good

little boys and she has a big surprise for them. She goes down the hall

and brings back a pot of mashed potatoes for all of us. There is plenty

of salt and butter in the potatoes and I wonder if there's any chance

Minnie could be my mother so that I could eat like this all the time. If

I could have Mrs. Leibowitz and Minnie for mothers at the same time I'd

have no end of soup and mashed potatoes.

Minnie and Mrs. Leibowitz sit at the table. Mrs. Leibowitz says

something has to be done. These children are running wild and where is

the father? I hear Minnie whisper he's out for the drink. Mrs. Leibowitz

says terrible, terrible, the way the Irish drink. Minnie says her Dan

doesn't drink. Never touches the stuff and Dan told her that when the

baby died that poor man, Malachy McCourt, went mad all over Flatbush

Avenue and Atlantic Avenue, that he was thrown out of all the bars around

the Long Island Railroad Station, that the cops would have thrown him in

jail if it was anything else but the death of that lovely little baby.

Here he has four lovely little boys, says Minnie, but it's no

comfort to him. That little girl brought out something in him. You know

he didn't even drink after she was born and that was a miracle.

Mrs. Leibowitz wants to know where Mam's cousins are, the big women

with the quiet husbands. Minnie will find them and tell them the children

are neglected, running wild, sore arses and everything.

Two days later Dad returns from his cigarette hunt. It's the middle

of the night but he gets Malachy and me out of the bed. He has the smell

of the drink on him. He has us stand at attention in the kitchen. We are

soldiers. He tells us we must promise to die for Ireland.

We will, Dad, we will.

All together we sing Kevin Barry,

On Mountjoy one Monday morning,

High upon the gallows tree,

Kevin Barry gave his young life

For the cause of liberty.

Just a lad of eighteen summers

Sure there's no one can deny

As he marched to death that morning

How he held his head on high.

There's a knock at the door, Mr. MacAdorey. Och, Malachy, for God's

sake, it's three in the morning. You have the whole house woke with the

singing.

Och, Dan, I'm only teaching the boys to die for Ireland.

You can teach them to die for Ireland in the daytime, Malachy.

'Tis urgent, Dan, 'tis urgent.

I know, Malachy, but they're only children. Babies. You go to bed

now like a dacent man.

Bed, Dan! What am I to do in bed? Her little face is there day and

night, her curly black hair and her lovely blue eyes. Oh, Jesus, Dan,

what will I do? Was it the hunger that killed her, Dan?

Of course not. Your missus was nursing her. God took her. He has

his reasons.

One more song, Dan, before we go to bed.

Good night, Malachy.

Come on, boys. Sing.

Because he loved the motherland,

Because he loved the green

He goes to meet a martyr's fate

With proud and joyous mien;

True to the last, oh! true to the last

He treads the upward way;

Young Roddy McCorley goes to die

On the bridge at Toome today.

You'll die for Ireland, won't you, boys?

We will, Dad.

And we'll all meet your little sister in heaven, won't we, boys?

We will, Dad.

My brother is standing with his face pressed against a leg of the

table and he's asleep. Dad lifts him, staggers across the room, places

him in the bed by my mother. I climb into bed and my father, still in his

clothes, lies beside me. I'm hoping he'll put his arms around me but he

goes on singing about Roddy McCorley and talking to Margaret, Oh, my

little curly-haired, blue-eyed love, I would dress you in silks and take

you to Lough Neagh, till day is at the window and I fall asleep.

That night Cuchulain comes to me. There's a big green bird on his

shoulder that keeps singing about Kevin Barry and Roddy McCorley and I

don't like that bird because there's blood dripping from his mouth when

he sings. In one hand Cuchulain carries the gae bolga, the spear that is

so mighty only he can throw it. In the other hand he carries a banana,

which he keeps offering to the bird, who just squawks and spits blood at

him. You'd wonder why Cuchulain puts up with a bird like that. If the

twins ever spat blood at me when I offered them a banana I think I'd hit

them on the head with it.

In the morning my father is at the kitchen table and I tell him my

dream. He says there were no bananas in Ireland in the old times and even

if there were Cuchulain would never offer one to that bird because that

was the one that came over from England for the summer and perched on his

shoulder when he was dying and propped up against a stone and when the

men of Erin which is Ireland wanted to kill him they were afraid till

they saw the bird drinking Cuchulain's blood and then they knew it was

safe to attack him, the dirty bloody cowards. So you have to be wary of

birds, Francis, birds and Englishmen.

Most of the day Mam lies in bed with her face to the wall. If she

drinks tea or eats anything she throws up in the bucket under the bed and

I have to empty it and rinse it in the lavatory down the hall. Mrs.

Leibowitz brings her soup and funny bread that is twisted. Mam tries to

slice it but Mrs. Leibowitz laughs and tells her just pull. Malachy calls

it pull bread but Mrs. Leibowitz says, No, it's challah, and teaches us

how to say it. She shakes her head. Oy, you Irish. You'll live forever

but you'll never say challah like a Chew.

Minnie MacAdorey brings potatoes and cabbage and sometimes a piece

of meat. Och, times are hard, Angela, but that lovely man, Mr. Roosevelt,

will find a job for everyone and your husband will have work. Poor man,

it's not his fault there's a Depression. He looks for work day and night.

My Dan is lucky, four years with the city and he don't drink. He grew up

in Toome with your husband. Some drink. Some don't. Curse of the Irish.

Now eat, Angela. Build yourself up after your loss.

Mr. MacAdorey tells Dad there's work with the WPA and when he gets

the work there's money for food and Mam leaves the bed to clean the twins

and to feed us. When Dad comes home with the drink smell there's no money

and Mam screams at him till the twins cry, and Malachy and I run out to

the playground. On those nights Mam crawls back into bed and Dad sings

the sad songs about Ireland. Why doesn't he hold her and help her sleep

the way he did with my little sister who died? Why doesn't he sing a

Margaret song or a song that will dry Mam's tears? He still gets Malachy

and me out of bed to stand in our shirts promising to die for Ireland.

One night he wanted to make the twins promise to die for Ireland but they

can't even talk and Mam screamed at him, You mad oul' bastard, can't you

leave the children alone?

He'll give us a nickel for ice cream if we promise to die for

Ireland and we promise but we never get the nickel.

We get soup from Mrs. Leibowitz and mashed potatoes from Minnie

MacAdorey and they show us how to take care of the twins, how to wash

their bottoms and how to wash diaper rags after they get them all shitty.

Mrs. Leibowitz calls them diapers and Minnie calls them nappies but it

doesn't matter what they call them because the twins get them shitty

anyway. If Mam stays in the bed and Dad goes out looking for a job we can

do what we like all day. We can put the twins in the small swings in the

park and swing them till they get hungry and cry. The Italian man calls

to me from across the street, Hey, Frankie, c'mere. Watch out crossing da

street. Dem twins hungry again? He gives us bits of cheese and ham and

bananas but I can't eat bananas anymore after the way the bird spat blood

at Cuchulain.

The man says his name is Mr. Dimino and that's his wife, Angela,

behind the counter. I tell him that's my mother's name. No kiddin', kid.

Your mother is Angela? I didn't know the Irish had any Angelas. Hey,

Angela, his mother's name is Angela. She smiles. She says, Thatsa nice.

Mr. Dimino asks me about Mam and Dad and who cooks for us. I tell

him we get food from Mrs. Leibowitz and Minnie MacAdorey. I tell him all

about the diapers and the nappies and how they get shitty anyway and he

laughs. Angela, you listenin' to this? Thank God you're Italian, Angela.

He says, Kid, I gotta talk to Mrs. Leibowitz. Ya gotta have relations can

take care of you. Ya see Minnie MacAdorey, tell her come in see me. You

kids runnin' wild.

Two big women are at the door. They say, Who are you?

I'm Frank. Frank! How old are you?

I'm four going on five.

You're not very big for your age, are you?

I don't know.

Is your mother here?

She's in the bed.

What is she doing in the bed on a fine day in the middle of the

day?

She's sleeping. Well, we'll come in. We have to talk to your

mother.

They brush past me into the room. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the smell

of this place. And who are these children?

Malachy runs smiling to the big women. When he smiles you can see

how white and straight and pretty his teeth are and you can see the shiny

blue of his eyes, the pink of his cheeks. All that makes the big women

smile and I wonder why they didn't smile when they talked to me.

Malachy says, I'm Malachy and this is Oliver and this is Eugene,

they're twins, and that's Frankie over there.

The big woman with the brown hair says, Well, you're not a bit shy,

are you? I'm your mother's cousin, Philomena, and this is your mother's

cousin, Delia. I'm Mrs. Flynn and she's Mrs. Fortune and that's what you

call us.

Good God, says Philomena. Those twins are naked. Don't you have

clothes for them?

Malachy says, They're all shitty.

Delia barks. See. That's what happens. A mouth like a sewer, and no

wonder with a father from the North. Don't use that word. That's a bad

word, a curse word. You could go to hell using a word like that.

What's hell? says Malachy. You'll know soon enough, says Delia.

The big women sit at the table with Mrs. Leibowitz and Minnie

MacAdorey. Philomena says it's terrible what happened to Angela's little

baby. They heard all about it and you'd wonder, wouldn't you, what they

did with the little body. You might wonder and I might wonder but Tommy

Flynn didn't wonder. Tommy said that Malachy from the North got money for

that baby. Money? says Mrs. Leibowitz. That's right, says Philomena.

Money. They take bodies any age and do experiments on them and there's

not much left to give back nor would you want back bits of baby when they

can't be buried in consecrated ground in that condition.

That's terrible, says Mrs. Leibowitz. A father or mother would

never give the baby for something like that.

They would, says Delia, when they have the craving for the drink.

They'd give their own mothers when they have the craving so what's a baby

that's dead and gone in the first place?

Mrs. Leibowitz shakes her head and rocks in her chair. Oy, she

says, oy, oy, oy. The poor baby. The poor mother. I thank God my husband

don'have no what you call it? Craving? Right, craving. It's the Irish

have the craving.

Not my husband, says Philomena. I'd break his face if he came home

with the craving. Of course, Delia's Jimmy has the craving. Every Friday

night you see him slipping into the saloon.

You needn't start insulting my Jimmy, says Delia. He works. He

brings home his wages.

You'd want to keep an eye on him, says Philomena. The craving could

get the better of him and you'd have another Malachy from the North on

your hands.

Mind your own bloody business, says Delia. At least Jimmy is Irish,

not born in Brooklyn like your Tommy.

And Philomena has no answer for that.

Minnie is holding her baby and the big women say she's a lovely

baby, clean, not like this pack of Angela's running around this place.

Philomena says she doesn't know where Angela got her dirty habits because

Angela's mother was spotless, so clean you could eat your dinner off her

floor.

I wonder why you'd want to eat your dinner off the floor when you

had a table and a chair.

Delia says something has to be done about Angela and these children

for they are a disgrace, so they are, enough to make you ashamed to be

related. A letter has to be written to Angela's mother. Philomena will

write it because a teacher in Limerick told her once she had a fine fist.

Delia has to tell Mrs. Leibowitz that a fine fist means good handwriting.

Mrs. Leibowitz goes down the hall to borrow her husband's fountain

pen, paper and an envelope. The four women sit at the table and make up a

letter to send to my mother's mother: Dear Aunt Margaret, I take pen in

hand to write you this letter and hope this finds you as it leaves us in

the best of health. My husband Tommy is in fine form working away and

Delia's husband Jimmy is in fine form working away and we hope this finds

you in fine form. I am very sorry to tell you that Angela is not in fine

form as the baby died, the little girl that was called Margaret after

yourself, and Angela has not been the same since lying in the bed with

her face to the wall. To make matters worser we think she's expecting

again and that's too much altogether. The minute she losses one child

there is another one on the way. We don't know how she does it. She's

married four years, five children and another on the way. That shows you

what can happen when you marry someone from the North for they have no

control over themselves up there a bunch of Protestands that they are. He

goes out for work every day but we know he spends all his time in the

saloons and gets a few dollars for sweeping floors and lifting barrels

and spends the money right back on the drink. It's terrible, Aunt

Margaret, and we all think Angela and the children would be better off in

her native land. We don't have the money to buy the tickets ourselves for

times is hard but you might be able to see your way. Hopping this finds

you in fine form as it leaves us thank God and His Blessed Mother.

I remain your loving neice

Philomena Flynn (what was MacNamara) and last but not least your

neice Delia Fortune (what was MacNamara, too, ha ha ha)

Grandma Sheehan sent money to Philomena and Delia. They bought the

tickets, found a steamer trunk at the St. Vincent de Paul Society, hired

a van to take us to the pier in Manhattan, put us on the ship, said Goodbye and good riddance, and went away.

The ship pulled away from the dock. Mam said, That's the Statue of

Liberty and that's Ellis Island where all the immigrants came in. Then

she leaned over the side and vomited and the wind from the Atlantic blew

it all over us and other happy people admiring the view. Passengers

cursed and ran, seagulls came from all over the harbor and Mam hung limp

and pale on the ship's rail.

In a week we arrived at Moville, County Donegal, where we took a bus to

Belfast and from there another bus to Toome in County Antrim. We left the

trunk in a shop and set out to walk the two miles up the road to Grandpa

McCourt's house. It was dark on the road, the dawn barely stirring on the

hills beyond.

Dad carried the twins in his arms and they took turns crying with

the hunger. Mam stopped every few minutes to sit and rest on the stone

wall along the road. We sat with her and watched the sky turn red and

then blue. Birds started to chirp and sing in the trees and as the dawn

came up we saw strange creatures in the fields, standing, looking at us.

Malachy said, What are they, Dad?

Cows, son.

What are cows, Dad?

Cows are cows, son.

We walked farther along the brightening road and there were other

creatures in the fields, white furry creatures.

Malachy said, What are they, Dad?

Sheep, son.

What are sheep, Dad?

My father barked at him, Is there any end to your questions? Sheep

are sheep, cows are cows, and that over there is a goat. A goat is a

goat. The goat gives milk, the sheep gives wool, the cow gives

everything. What else in God's name do you want to know?

And Malachy yelped with fright because Dad never talked like that,

never spoke sharply to us. He might get us up in the middle of the night

and make us promise to die for Ireland but he never barked like this.

Malachy ran to Mam and she said, There, there, love, don't cry. Your

father is just worn out carrying the twins and 'tis hard answering all

those questions when you're carting twins through the world.

Dad set the twins on the road and held out his arms to Malachy. Now

the twins started to cry and Malachy clung to Mam, sobbing. The cows

mooed, the sheep maaed, the goat ehehed, the birds twittered in the

trees, and the beep beep of a motor car cut through everything. A man

called from the motor car, Good Lord, what are you people doing on this

road at this hour of an Easter Sunday morning?

Dad said, Good morning, Father.

Father? I said. Dad, is that your father?

Mam said, Don't ask him any questions.

Dad said, No, no, this is a priest.

Malachy said, What's a-? but Mam put her hand over his mouth.

The priest had white hair and a white collar. He said, Where are

you going?

Dad said, Up the road to McCourts of Moneyglass, and the priest

took us in his motor car. He said he knew the McCourts, a fine family,

good Catholics, some daily communicants, and he hoped he'd see us all at

Mass, especially the little Yankees who didn't know what a priest was,

God help us.

At the house my mother reaches for the gate latch. Dad says, No,

no, not that way. Not the front gate. They use the front door only for

visits from the priest or funerals.

We make our way around the house to the kitchen door. Dad pushes in

the door and there's Grandpa McCourt drinking tea from a big mug and

Grandma McCourt frying something.

Och, says Grandpa, you're here.

Och, we are, says Dad. He points to my mother. This is Angela, he

says. Grandpa says, Och, you must be worn out, Angela. Grandma says

nothing, she turns back to the frying pan. Grandpa leads us through the

kitchen to a large room with a long table and chairs. He says, Sit down

and have some tea. Would you like boxty?

Malachy says, What's boxty?

Dad laughs. Pancakes, son. Pancakes made with potatoes.

Grandpa says, We have eggs. It's Easter Sunday and you can have all

the eggs you can hold.

We have tea and boxty and boiled eggs and we all fall asleep. I

wake up in a bed with Malachy and the twins. My parents are in another

bed over by the window. Where am I? It's getting dark. This is not the

ship. Mam snores hink, Dad snores honk. I get up and poke at Dad. I have

to pee. He says, Use the chamber pot.

What?

Under the bed, son. The chamber pot. It has roses on it and maidens

cavorting in the glen. Pee in that, son.

I want to ask him what he's talking about for even if I'm bursting

I feel strange peeing into a pot with roses and maidens cavorting,

whatever they are. We had nothing like this in Classon Avenue where Mrs.

Leibowitz sang in the lavatory while we clutched ourselves in the hall.

Now Malachy has to use the chamber pot but he wants to sit on it.

Dad says, No, you can't do that, son. You have to go outside. When he

says that I have to go, too, to sit. He leads us downstairs and through

the big room where Grandpa is sitting reading by the fire and Grandma is

dozing in her chair. It's dark outside, though the moon is bright enough

for us to see where we're going. Dad opens the door of a little house

that has a seat with a hole in it. He shows Malachy and me how to sit on

the hole and how to wipe ourselves with squares of newspaper stuck on a

nail. Then he tells us wait while he goes inside, closes the door and

grunts. The moon is so bright I can look down the field and see the

things called cows and sheep and I wonder why they don't go home.

In the house there are other people in the room with my

grandparents. Dad says, These are your aunts: Emily, Nora, Maggie, Vera.

Your aunt Eva is in Ballymena with children like you. My aunts are not

like Mrs. Leibowitz and Minnie MacAdorey, they nod their heads but they

don't hug us or smile. Mam comes into the room with the twins and when

Dad tells his sisters, This is Angela and these are the twins, they just

nod again.

Grandma goes to the kitchen and soon we have bread and sausages and

tea. The only one who speaks at the table is Malachy. He points his spoon

at the aunts and asks their names again. When Mam tells him eat his

sausage and be quiet his eyes fill with tears and Aunt Nora reaches over

to comfort him. She says, There, there, and I wonder why everyone says

there there when Malachy cries. I wonder what there there means.

It's quiet at the table till Dad says, Things are terrible in

America. Grandma says, Och, aye. I read it in the paper. But they say Mr.

Roosevelt is a good man and if you stayed you might have work by now.

Dad shakes his head and Grandma says, I don't know what you're

going to do, Malachy. Things are worse here than they are in America. No

work here and, God knows, we don't have room in this house for six more

people.

Dad says, I thought I might get work on some of the farms. We could

get a small place.

Where would you stay in the meantime? says Grandma. And how would

you support yourself and your family?

Och, I could go on the dole, I suppose.

You can't get off a ship from America and go on the dole, says

Grandpa. They make you wait a while and what would you do while you're

waiting?

Dad says nothing and Mam looks straight ahead at the wall.

You'd be better off in the Free State, says Grandma. Dublin is big

and surely there's work there or in the farms around.

You're entitled to money from the IRA, too, says Grandpa. You did

your bit and they've been handing out money to men all over the Free

State. You could go to Dublin and ask for help. We can loan you the bus

fare to Dublin. The twins can sit on your lap and you won't have to pay

for them.

Dad says, Och, aye, and Mam stares at the wall with tears in her

eyes.

After we ate we went back to bed and next morning, all the grownups sat around looking sad. Soon a man came in a motor car and took us

back down the road to the shop which had our trunk. They lifted the trunk

up on the roof of a bus and we got into the bus. Dad said we were going

to Dublin. Malachy said, What's Dublin? but no one answered him. Dad held

Eugene on his lap and Mam held Oliver. Dad looked out at the fields and

told me this is where Cuchulain liked to go for a walk. I asked him where

Cuchulain hit the ball into the dog's mouth and he said a few miles away.

Malachy said, Look, look, and we looked. It was a great silvery

sheet of water and Dad said it was Lough Neagh, the largest lake in

Ireland, the lake where Cuchulain used to swim after his great battles.

Cuchulain would get so hot that when he jumped into Lough Neagh it boiled

over and warmed the surrounding countryside for days. Some day we'd all

come back and go swimming like Cuchulain himself. We'd fish for eels and

fry them in a pan not like Cuchulain, who would pluck them from the lough

and swallow them, wriggling, because there's great power in an eel.

Is that right, Dad?

'Tis.

Mam didn't look out the window at Lough Neagh. Her cheek rested on

top of Oliver's head and she stared at the floor of the bus.

Soon the bus is rolling into a place where there are big houses,

motor cars, horses pulling carts, people on bicycles and hundreds

walking. Malachy is excited. Dad, Dad, where's the playground, the

swings? I want to see Freddie Leibowitz.

Och, son, you're in Dublin now, far from Classon Avenue. You're in

Ireland, a long way from New York.

When the bus stops the trunk is lifted down and set on the floor of

the bus station. Dad tells Mam she can sit on a bench in the station

while he goes to see the IRA man in a place called Terenure. He says

there are lavatories in the station for the boys, he won't be long, he'll

have money when he returns and we'll all have food. He tells me go with

him and Mam says, No, I need him to help. But when Dad says, I'll need

help carrying all that money, she laughs and says, All right, go with

your Pop.

Your Pop. That means she's in a good mood. If she says your father

it means she's in a bad mood.

Dad holds my hand as I trot along beside him. He's a fast walker,

it's a long way to Terenure and I'm hoping he'll stop and carry me the

way he did with the twins in Toome. But he lopes along and says nothing

except to ask people where Terenure is. In awhile he says we're in

Terenure and now we have to find Mr. Charles Heggarty of the IRA. A man

with a pink patch on his eye tells us we're on the right street, Charlie

Heggarty lives at number fourteen, God blast him. The man tells Dad, I

can see you're a man that did his bit. Dad says, Och, I did my bit, and

the man says, I did me bit, too, and what did it get me but one eye less

and a pension that wouldn't feed a canary.

But Ireland is free, says Dad, and that's a grand thing.

Free, my arse, the man says. I think we were better off under the

English. Good luck to you anyway, mister, for I think I know what you're

here for.

A woman opens the door at number fourteen. I'm afraid, she says,

that Mr. Heggarty is busy. Dad tells her he just walked all the way from

the middle of Dublin with his small son, that he left wife and three

children waiting for him at the bus place, and if Mr. Heggarty is that

busy then we'll wait for him on the doorstep.

The woman is back in a minute to say Mr. Heggarty has a little time

to spare and would you come this way. Mr. Heggarty is sitting at a desk

near a glowing fire. He says, What can I do for you? Dad stands before

the desk and says, I have just returned from America with wife and four

children. We have nothing. I fought with a Flying Column during the

Troubles and I'm hoping you can help me now in the time of need.

Mr. Heggarty takes Dad's name and turns the pages of a big book on

his desk. He shakes his head, No, no record of your service here. Dad

makes a long speech. He tells Mr. Heggarty how he fought, where, when,

how he had to be smuggled out of Ireland because of the price on his

head, how he was raising his sons to love Ireland.

Mr. Heggarty says he's sorry but he can't be handing out money to

every man who wanders in claiming he did his bit. Dad says to me,

Remember this, Francis. This is the new Ireland. Little men in little

chairs with little bits of paper. This is the Ireland men died for. Mr.

Heggarty says he'll look into Dad's claim and he'll be sure to let him

know what turns up. He'll let us have money to take the bus back into the

city. Dad looks at the coins in Mr. Heggarty's hand and says, You could

add to that and make the price of a pint.

Oh, it's the drink you want, is it?

One pint is hardly drink.

You'd walk the miles back and make the boy walk because you want a

pint, wouldn't you?

Walking never killed anyone.

I want you to leave this house, says Mr. Heggarty, or I'll call a

guard, and you can be sure you'll never hear from me again. We're not

handing out money to support the Guinness family.

Night falls along the streets of Dublin. Children laugh and play

under streetlights, mothers call from doorways, smells of cooking come at

us all the way, through windows we see people around tables, eating. I'm

tired and hungry and I want Dad to carry me but I know there's no use

asking him now the way his face is tight and set. I let him hold my hand

and I run to keep up with him till we reach the bus place where Mam is

waiting with my brothers.

They're all asleep on the bench, my mother and three brothers. When

Dad tells Mam there's no money she shakes her head and sobs, Oh, Jesus,

what are we going to do? A man in a blue uniform comes over and asks her,

What's up, missus? Dad tells him we're stranded there at the bus station,

we have no money and no place to stay and the children are hungry. The

man says he's going off duty now, he'll take us to the police barracks

where he has to report anyway, and they'll see what can be done.

The man in uniform tells us we can call him guard. That's what you

call policemen in Ireland. He asks us what you call policemen in America

and Malachy says, cop. The guard pats him on the head and tells him he's

a clever little Yankee.

At the police barracks the sergeant tells us we can spend the

night. He's sorry but all he can offer is the floor. It's Thursday and

the cells are filled with men who drank their dole money and wouldn't

leave the pubs.

The guards give us hot sweet tea and thick slices of bread

slathered with butter and jam and we're so happy we run around the

barracks, playing. The guards say we're a great bunch of little Yanks and

they'd like to take us home but I say, No, Malachy says, No, the twins

say, No, No, and all the guards laugh. Men in cells reach out and pat our

heads, they smell like Dad when he comes home singing about Kevin Barry

and Roddy McCorley going to die. The men say, Jasus, will ye listen to

them. They sound like bloody fillum stars. Did yez fall outa the sky or

what? Women in cells at the other end tell Malachy he's gorgeous and the

twins are dotes. One woman talks to me. C'mere, love, would you like a

sweet? I nod, and she says, All right, put your hand out. She takes

something sticky from her mouth and puts it on my hand. There you are

now, she says, a nice bit of butterscotch. Put that in your mouth. I

don't want to put it in my mouth because it's sticky and wet from her

mouth but I don't know what you're supposed to do when a woman in a cell

offers you sticky butterscotch and I'm about to put it in my mouth when a

guard comes, takes the butterscotch and throws it back at the woman. You

drunken hoor, he says, leave the child alone, and all the women laugh.

The sergeant gives my mother a blanket and she sleeps stretched out

on a bench. The rest of us lie on the floor. Dad sits with his back to

the wall, his eyes open under the peak of his cap, and he smokes when the

guards give him cigarettes. The guard who threw the butterscotch at the

woman says he's from Ballymena in the north and he talks with Dad about

people they know there and in other places like Cushendall and Toome. The

guard says he'll have a pension some day and he'll live on the shores of

Lough Neagh and fish his days away. Eels, he says, eels galore. Jasus, I

love a fried eel. I ask Dad, Is this Cuchulain? and the guard laughs till

his face turns red. Ah, Mother o' God, did yez hear this? The lad wants

to know if I'm Cuchulain. A little Yank and he knows all about Cuchulain.

Dad says, No, he's not Cuchulain but he's a fine man who will live

on the shores of Lough Neagh and fish his days away.

* * * *

Dad is shaking me. Up, Francis, up. It is noisy in the barracks. A

boy mopping the floor is singing, Anyone can see why I wanted your kiss,

It had to be and the reason is this, Could it be true, someone like you

Could love me, love me?

I tell him that's my mother's song and he's to stop singing it but

he just puffs on his cigarette and walks away and I wonder why people

have to sing other people's songs. Men and women coming out of the cells

are yawning and grunting. The woman who offered me the butterscotch stops

and says, I had a drop taken, child. I'm sorry I made a fool of you, but

the guard from Ballymena tells her, Move on, you oul' hoor, before I lock

you up again.

Oh, lock me up, she says. In, out. What does it matter, you blue

arsed bastard.

Mam is sitting up on the bench, the blanket wrapped around her. A

woman with gray hair brings her a mug of tea and tells her, Sure, I'm the

sergeant's wife and he said you might need help. Would you like a nice

soft-boiled egg, missus?

Mam shakes her head, no.

Ah, now, missus, surely you should have a nice egg in your

condition.

But Mam shakes her head and I wonder how she can say no to a softboiled egg when there's nothing in the world like it.

All right, ma'am, says the sergeant's wife, a bit of toast, then,

and something for the children and your poor husband.

She goes back to another room and soon there's tea and bread. Dad

drinks his tea but gives us his bread and Mam says, Will you eat your

bread, for God's sake. You won't be much use to us falling down with the

hunger. He shakes his head and asks the sergeant's wife is there any

chance of a cigarette. She brings him the cigarette and tells Mam the

guards in the barracks have taken up a collection to pay our train fares

to Limerick. There will be a motor car to pick up our trunk and leave us

at Kingsbridge Railway Station and, You'll be in Limerick in three or

four hours.

Mam puts up her arms and hugs the sergeant's wife. God bless you

and your husband and all the guards, Mam says. I don't know what we'd do

without you. God knows 'tis a lovely thing to be back among our own.

'Tis the least we could do, says the sergeant's wife. These are

lovely children you have and I'm from Cork meself and I know what 'tis to

be in Dublin without two pennies to rub together.

Dad sits at the other end of the bench, smoking his cigarette,

drinking his tea. He stays that way till the motor car comes to take us

through the streets of Dublin. Dad asks the driver if he'd mind going by

way of the G. P. O. and the driver says, Is it a stamp you want or what?

No, says Dad. I hear they put up a new statue of Cuchulain to honor the

men who died in 1916 and I'd like to show it to my son here who has a

great admiration for Cuchulain.

The driver says he has no notion of who this Cuchulain was but he

wouldn't mind stopping one bit. He might come in himself and see what the

commotion is all about for he hasn't been in the G. P. O. since he was a

boy and the English nearly wrecked it with their big guns firing up from

the Liffey River. He says you'll see the bullet holes all over the front

and they should be left there to remind the Irish of English perfidy. I

ask the man what's perfidy and he says ask your father and I would but

we're stopping outside a big building with columns and that's the G. P.

Mam stays in the motor car while we follow the driver into the G.

P. O. There he is, he says, there's your man Cuchulain.

And I feel tears coming because I'm looking at him at last,

Cuchulain, there on his pedestal in the G. P. O. He's golden and he has

long hair, his head is hanging and there's a big bird perched on his

shoulder.

The driver says, Now what in God's name is this all about? What's

this fellow doin' with the long hair and the bird on his shoulder? And

will you kindly tell me, mister, what this has to do with the men of

1916?

Dad says, Cuchulain fought to the end like the men of Easter Week.

His enemies were afraid to go near him till they were sure he was dead

and when the bird landed on him and drank his blood they knew.

Well, says the driver, 'tis a sad day for the men of Ireland when

they need a bird to tell them a man is dead. I think we better go now or

we'll be missing that train to Limerick.

The sergeant's wife said she'd send a telegram to Grandma to meet

us in Limerick and there she was on the platform, Grandma, with white

hair, sour eyes, a black shawl, and no smile for my mother or any of us,

even my brother, Malachy, who had the big smile and the sweet white

teeth. Mam pointed to Dad. This is Malachy, she said, and Grandma nodded

and looked away. She called two boys who were hanging around the railway

station and paid them to carry the trunk. The boys had shaved heads,

snotty noses, and no shoes and we followed them through the streets of

Limerick. I asked Mam why they had no hair and she said their heads were

shaved so that the lice would have no place to hide. Malachy said, What's

a lice? and Mam said, Not lice. One of them is a louse. Grandma said,

Will ye stop it! What kind o' talk is this? The boys whistled and laughed

and trotted along as if they had shoes and Grandma told them, Stop that

laughin' or 'tis droppin' an' breakin' that trunk ye'll be. They stopped

the whistling and laughing and we followed them into a park with a tall

pillar and a statue in the middle and grass so green it dazzled you.

Dad carried the twins, Mam carried a bag in one hand and held

Malachy's hand with the other. When she stopped every few minutes to

catch her breath, Grandma said, Are you still smokin' them fags? Them

fags will be the death of you. There's enough consumption in Limerick

without people smokin' fags on top of it an'

'tis a rich man's foolishness.

Along the path through the park there were hundreds of flowers of

different colors that excited the twins. They pointed and made squeaky

noises and we laughed, everyone except Grandma, who pulled her shawl over

her head. Dad stopped and put the twins down so that they could be closer

to the flowers. He said, Flowers, and they ran back and forth, pointing,

trying to say Flowers. One of the boys with the trunk said, God, are they

Americans? and Mam said, They are. They were born in New York. All the

boys were born in New York. The boy said to the other boy, God, they're

Americans. They put the trunk down and stared at us and we stared back at

them till Grandma said, Are ye goin' to stand here all day lookin' at

flowers an' gawkin' at each other? And we all moved on again, out of the

park, down a narrow lane and into another lane to Grandma's house.

There is a row of small houses on each side of the lane and Grandma

lives in one of the small houses. Her kitchen has a shiny polished black

iron range with a fire glowing in the grate. There is a table along the

wall under the window and a press opposite with cups and saucers and

vases. This press is always locked and she keeps the key in her purse

because you're not supposed to use anything in there unless someone dies

or returns from foreign parts or there's a visit by a priest.

There is a picture on the wall by the range of a man with long

brown hair and sad eyes. He is pointing to his chest where there is a big

heart with flames coming out of it. Mam tells us, That's the Sacred Heart

of Jesus, and I want to know why the man's heart is on fire and why

doesn't He throw water on it? Grandma says, Don't these children know

anything about their religion? and Mam tells her it's different in

America. Grandma says the Sacred Heart is everywhere and there's no

excuse for that kind of ignorance.

Under the picture of the man with the burning heart there is a

shelf with a red glass holding a flickering candle and next to it a small

statue. Mam tells us, That's the Baby Jesus, the Infant of Prague, and if

ye ever need anything pray to Him.

Malachy says, Mam, could I tell Him I'm hungry, and Mam puts her

finger to her lips.

Grandma grumbles around the kitchen making tea and telling Mam to

cut the loaf of bread and don't make the cuts too thick. Mam sits by the

table with her breath coming hard and says she'll cut the bread in a

minute. Dad takes the knife and starts slicing the bread and you can see

Grandma doesn't like that. She frowns at him but says nothing even though

he makes thick slices.

There aren't enough chairs for everyone so I sit on the stairs with

my brothers to have bread and tea. Dad and Mam sit at the table and

Grandma sits under the Sacred Heart with her mug of tea. She says, I

don't know under God what I'm goin' to do with ye. There is no room in

this house. There isn't room for even one of ye.

Malachy says, Ye, ye, and starts to giggle and I say, Ye, ye, and

the twins say, Ye, ye, and we're laughing so hard we can hardly eat our

bread.

Grandma glares at us. What are ye laughin' at? There's nothin' to

laugh at in this house. Ye better behave yeerselves before I go over to

ye.

She won't stop saying Ye, and now Malachy is helpless with

laughter, spewing out his bread and tea, his face turning red.

Dad says, Malachy and the rest of you, stop it. But Malachy can't,

he goes on laughing till Dad says, Come over here. He rolls up Malachy's

sleeve and raises his hand to slap his arm.

Are you going to behave yourself?

Malachy's eyes fill with tears and he nods, I will, because Dad

never raised his hand like that before. Dad says, Be a good boy and go

sit with your brothers, and he pulls down the sleeve and pats Malachy on

the head.

That night Mam's sister, Aunt Aggie, came home from her job in the

clothing factory. She was big like the MacNamara sisters, and she had

flaming red hair. She wheeled a large bicycle into the little room behind

the kitchen and came out to her supper. She was living in Grandma's

because she had a fight with her husband, Pa Keating, who told her, when

he had drink taken, You're a great fat cow, go home to your mother.

That's what Grandma told Mam and that's why there was no room for us in

Grandma's house. She had herself, Aunt Aggie, and her son Pat, who was my

uncle and who was out selling newspapers.

Aunt Aggie complained when Grandma told her Mam would have to sleep

with her that night. Grandma said, Oh, will you shut your gob. 'Tis only

for one night an' that won't kill you an' if you don't like it you can go

back to your husband where you belong anyway instead of runnin' home to

me. Jesus, Mary an' Holy St. Joseph, look at this house- you an' Pat an'

Angela and her clatther of Americans. Will I have any peace in the latter

end of my life?

She spread coats and rags on the floor of the little back room and

we slept there with the bicycle. Dad stayed on a chair in the kitchen,

took us to the lavatory in the backyard when we needed it, and in the

night hushed the twins when they cried from the cold.

In the morning, Aunt Aggie came for her bicycle telling us, Will ye

mind yeerselves, will ye? Will ye get out of my way?

When she left, Malachy kept saying, Will ye mind yeerselves, will

ye? Will ye get out of the way, will ye? and I could hear Dad laughing

out in the kitchen till Grandma came down the stairs and he had to tell

Malachy be quiet.

That day Grandma and Mam went out and found a furnished room on

Windmill Street where Aunt Aggie had a flat with her husband, Pa Keating.

Grandma paid the rent, ten shillings for two weeks. She gave Mam money

for food, loaned us a kettle, a pot, a frying pan, knives and spoons, jam

jars to be used for mugs, a blanket and a pillow. She said that was all

she could afford anymore, that Dad would have to get up off his arse, get

a job, go on the dole, go for the charity at the St. Vincent de Paul

Society or go on the relief.

The room had a fireplace where we could boil water for our tea or

an egg in case we ever came into money. We had a table and three chairs

and a bed, which Mam said was the biggest she had ever seen. We were glad

of the bed that night, worn out after nights on floors in Dublin and in

Grandma's. It didn't matter that there were six of us in the bed, we were

together, away from grandmothers and guards, Malachy could say ye ye ye

and we could laugh as much as we liked.

Dad and Mam lay at the head of the bed, Malachy and I at the

bottom, the twins wherever they could find comfort. Malachy made us laugh

again. Ye, ye, ye, he said, and oy oy oy, and then fell asleep. Mam made

the little hink hink snore sound that told us she was sleeping. In the

moonlight I could look up the length of the bed and see Dad still awake

and when Oliver cried in his sleep Dad reached for him and held him.

Whisht, he said. Whisht.

Then Eugene sat up, screaming, tearing at himself. Ah, ah, Mommy,

Mommy. Dad sat up. What? What's up, son? Eugene went on crying and when

Dad leaped from the bed and turned on the gaslight we saw the fleas,

leaping, jumping, fastened to our flesh. We slapped at them and slapped

but they hopped from body to body, hopping, biting. We tore at the bites

till they bled. We jumped from the bed, the twins crying, Mam moaning,

Oh, Jesus, will we have no rest! Dad poured water and salt into a jam jar

and dabbed at our bites. The salt burned but he said we'd feel better

soon.

Mam sat by the fireplace with the twins on her lap. Dad pulled on

his trousers and dragged the mattress off the bed and out to the street.

He filled the kettle and the pot with water, stood the mattress against

the wall, pounded it with a shoe, told me to keep pouring water on the

ground to drown the fleas dropping there. The Limerick moon was so bright

I could see bits of it shimmering in the water and I wanted to scoop up

moon bits but how could I with the fleas leaping on my legs. Dad kept

pounding with the shoe and I had to run back through the house to the

backyard tap for more water in the kettle and the pot. Mam said, Look at

you. Your shoes are drenched and you'll catch your death and your father

will surely get the pneumonia without a shoe to his foot.

A man on a bicycle stopped and wanted to know why Dad was beating

that mattress. Mother o' God, he said, I never heard such a cure for

fleas. Do you know that if a man could jump like a flea one lep would

take him halfway to the moon? The thing to do is this, when you go back

inside with that mattress stick it on the bed upside down and that will

confuse the little buggers. They won't know where they are and they'll be

biting the mattress or each other, which is the best cure of all. After

they bite the human being they have the frenzy, you know, for there are

other fleas around them that also bit the human being and the smell of

the blood is too much for them and they go out of their minds. They're a

right bloody torment an' I should know for didn't I grow up in Limerick,

down in the Irishtown, an' the fleas there were so plentiful an' forward

they'd sit on the toe of your boot an' discuss Ireland's woeful history

with you. It is said there were no fleas in ancient Ireland, that they

were brought in be the English to drive us out of our wits entirely, an'I

wouldn't put it past the English. An'isn't it a very curious thing that

St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland an' the English brought in

the fleas. For centuries Ireland was a lovely peaceful place, snakes

gone, not a flea to be found. You could stroll the four green fields of

Ireland without fear of snakes an' have a good night's sleep with no

fleas to bother you. Them snakes were doin' no harm, they wouldn't bother

you unless you cornered them an' they lived off other creatures that move

under bushes an'such places, whereas the flea sucks the blood from you

mornin' noon an' night for that's his nature an' he can't help himself. I

hear for a fact that places that have snakes galore have no fleas.

Arizona, for instance. You're forever hearing about the snakes of Arizona

but when did you ever hear of fleas in Arizona? Good luck to you. I have

to be careful standin' here for if one of them gets on my clothes I might

as well invite his whole family home. They multiply faster than Hindus.

Dad said, You wouldn't by any chance have a cigarette, would you?

A cigarette? Oh, sure, of course. Here you are. Aren't I nearly

destroyed from the fags myself. The oul' hacking cough, you know. So

powerful it nearly knocks me off the bicycle. I can feel that cough

stirring in me solar plexus an' workin' its way up through me entrails

till the next thing it takes off the top o' me head.

He struck a match on a box, lit a cigarette for himself and held

out the match for Dad. Of course, he said, you're bound to have the cough

when you live in Limerick because this is the capital city of the weak

chest and the weak chest leads to the consumption. If all the people that

has consumption in Limerick were to die this would be a ghost town,

though I don't have consumption meself. No, this cough was a present from

the Germans. He paused, puffed on his cigarette, and struggled with a

cough. Bejesus, excuse the language, but the fags'll get me in the end.

Well, I'll leave you now to the mattress an' remember what I told you,

confuse the little buggers.

He wobbled away on his bicycle, the cigarette dangling from his

mouth, the cough racking his body. Dad said, Limerickmen talk too much.

Come on, we'll put this mattress back and see if there's any sleep in

this night.

Mam sat by the fireplace with the twins asleep on her lap, and

Malachy lay curled up on the floor by her feet. She said, Who was that

you were talking to? It sounded very like Pa Keating, Aggie's husband. I

could tell by the cough. He got that cough in France in the war when he

swallowed the gas.

We slept the rest of that night, and in the morning we saw where

the fleas had feasted, our flesh pink with flea welts and bright with the

blood of our scratches.

Mam made tea and fried bread, and once more Dad dabbed at our bites

with the salty water. He hauled the mattress outside again to the

backyard. On a cold day like this the fleas would surely freeze to death

and we'd all have a good night's sleep.

A few days later when we're settled into the room Dad is shaking me

out of my dreams. Up, Francis, up. Put on your clothes and run over for

your aunt Aggie. Your mother needs her. Hurry.

Mam is moaning in the bed, her face pure white. Dad has Malachy and

the twins out of the bed and sitting on the floor by the dead fire. I run

across the street and knock on Aunt Aggie's door till Uncle Pat Keating

comes coughing and grumbling, What's up? What's up?

My mother is moaning in the bed. I think she's sick.

Now Aunt Aggie comes grumbling. Ye are nothing but trouble since ye

came from America.

Leave him alone, Aggie, he's only a child that's doing what he's

told.

She tells Uncle Pa go back to bed, that he has to go to work in the

morning not like some from the North that she won't mention. He says, No,

no, I'm coming. There's something wrong with Angela.

Dad tells me sit over there with my brothers. I don't know what's

up with Mam because everyone is whispering and I can barely hear Aunt

Aggie telling Uncle Pa the child is lost run for the ambulance and Uncle

Pa is out the door, Aunt Aggie telling Mam you can say what you like

about Limerick but the ambulance is fast. She doesn't talk to my father,

never looks at him.

Malachy says, Dad, is Mammy sick?

Och, she'll be all right, son. She has to see the doctor.

I wonder what child is lost because we're all here, one two three

four of us, not a lost child anywhere and why can't they tell me what's

wrong with my mother. Uncle Pa comes back and the ambulance is right

behind him. A man comes in with a stretcher and after they carry Mam away

there are blood spots on the floor by the bed. Malachy bit his tongue and

there was blood and the dog on the street had blood and he died. I want

to ask Dad to tell me if Mam will be gone forever like my sister Margaret

but he's going with Mam and there's no use asking Aunt Aggie anything for

fear she'd bite your head off. She wipes away the blood spots and tells

us get back into bed and stay there till Dad comes home.

It's the middle of the night and the four of us are warm in the bed

and we fall asleep till Dad comes home and tells us Mam is nice and

comfortable in the hospital and she'll be home in no time.

Later, Dad goes to the Labour Exchange for the dole. There is no

hope of a laboring man with a North of Ireland accent getting a job in

Limerick.

When he returns, he tells Mam we'll be getting nineteen shillings a

week. She says that's just enough for all of us to starve on. Nineteen

shillings for six of us? That's less than four dollars in American money

and how are we supposed to live on that? What are we to do when we have

to pay rent in a fortnight? If the rent for this room is five shillings a

week we'll have fourteen shillings for food and clothes and coal to boil

the water for the tea.

Dad shakes his head, sips his tea from a jam jar, stares out the

window and whistles "The Boys of Wexford. " Malachy and Oliver clap their

hands and dance around the room and Dad doesn't know whether to whistle

or smile because you can't do both and he can't help himself. He has to

stop and smile and pat Oliver's head and then go back to the whistling.

Mam smiles, too, but it's a very quick smile and when she looks into the

ashes you can see the worry where the corners of her mouth turn down.

Next day she tells Dad to mind the twins and takes Malachy and me

with her to the St. Vincent de Paul Society. We stand in a queue with

women wearing black shawls. They ask our names and smile when we talk.

They say, Lord above, would you listen to the little Yankees, and they

wonder why Mam in her American coat would be looking for charity since

there's hardly enough for the poor people of Limerick without Yanks

coming over and taking the bread out of their mouths.

Mam tells them a cousin gave her that coat in Brooklyn, that her

husband has no work, that she has other children at home, twin boys. The

women sniff and pull their shawls about them, they have their own

troubles. Mam tells them she had to leave America because she couldn't

stand it after her baby girl died. The women sniff again but now it's

because Mam is crying. Some say they lost little ones, too, and there's

nothing worse in the world, you could live as long as Methuselem's wife

but you never get over it. No man can ever know what it is to be a mother

that has lost a child, not if the man lived longer than two Methuselems.

They all have a good cry till a red-haired woman passes a little

box around. The women pick something from the box between their fingers

and stuff it up their noses. A young woman sneezes and the red-haired

woman laughs. Ah, sure, Biddy, you're not able for that snuff. Come here,

little Yankee boys, have a pinch. She plants the brown stuff in our

nostrils and we sneeze so hard the women stop crying and laugh till they

have to wipe their eyes with their shawls. Mam tells us, That's good for

ye, 'twill clear yeer heads.

The young woman, Biddy, tells Mam we're two lovely boys. She points

at Malachy. That little fella with the goldy ringlet, isn't he gorgeous?

He could be a film star with Shirley Temple. And Malachy smiles and warms

up the queue.

The woman with the snuff says to Mam, Missus, I don't want to be

forward but I think you should be sitting down for we heard about your

loss.

Another woman worries, Ah, no, they don't like that.

Who don't like what?

Ah, sure, Nora Molloy, the Society don't like us sittin' on the

steps. They want us to be standin' respectful against the wall.

They can kiss my arse, says Nora, the red-haired woman. Sit down

there, missus, on that step an' I'll sit next to you an' if there's one

word out of the St. Vincent de Paul Society I'll take the face off 'em,

so I will. Do you smoke, missus?

I do, says Mam, but I don't have them.

Nora takes a cigarette from a pocket in her apron, breaks it, and

offers half to Mam.

The worried woman says, They don't like that either. They say every

fag you smoke is taking food from the mouth of your child. Mr. Quinlivan

inside is dead against it. He says if you have money for the fags you

have money for food.

Quinlivan can kiss my arse, too, the grinny oul' bastard. Is he

going to begrudge us a puff of a fag, the only comfort we have in the

world?

A door opens at the end of the hall and a man appears. Are any of

ye waiting for children's boots?

Women raise their hands, I am. I am.

Well, the boots are all gone. Ye'll have to come back next month.

But my Mikey needs boots for school.

They're all gone, I told you.

But 'tis freezin' abroad, Mr. Quinlivan.

The boots are all gone. Nothing I can do. What's this? Who's

smoking?

Nora waves her cigarette. I am, she says, and enjoying it down to

the last ash.

Every puff you take, he starts.

I know, she says, I'm taking food out of the mouths of my children.

You're insolent, woman. You'll get no charity here.

Is that a fact? Well, Mr. Quinlivan, if I don't get it here I know

where I will.

What are you talking about?

I'll go to the Quakers. They'll give me the charity.

Mr. Quinlivan steps toward Nora and points a finger. Do you know

what we have here? We have a souper in our midst. We had the soupers in

the Famine. The Protestants went round telling good Catholics that if

they gave up their faith and turned Protestant they'd get more soup than

their bellies could hold and, God help us, some Catholics took the soup,

and were ever after known as soupers and lost their immortal souls doomed

to the deepest part of hell. And you, woman, if you go to the Quakers

you'll lose your immortal soul and the souls of your children.

Then, Mr. Quinlivan, you'll have to save us, won't you?

He stares at her and she stares back at him. His eyes wander to the

other women. One puts her hand to her mouth to smother a laugh.

What are you tittering about? he barks.

Oh, nothing, Mr. Quinlivan. Honest to God.

I'm telling ye once more, no boots. And he slams the door behind

him.

One by one the women are called into the room. When Nora comes out

she's smiling and waving a piece of paper. Boots, she says. Three pairs

I'm gettin' for my children. Threaten the men in there with the Quakers

and they'll give you the drawers off their arses.

When Mam is called she brings Malachy and me in with her. We stand

before a table where three men are sitting asking questions. Mr.

Quinlivan starts to say something but the man in the middle says, Enough

out of you, Quinlivan. If we left it up to you we'd have the poor people

of Limerick jumping into the arms of the Protestants.

He turns to Mam, he wants to know where she got that fine red coat.

She tells him what she told the women outside and when she comes to the

death of Margaret she shakes and sobs. She tells the men she's very sorry

for crying like that but it was only a few months ago and she's not over

it yet, not even knowing where her baby was buried if she was buried at

all, not knowing even if she was baptized itself because she was so weak

from having the four boys she didn't have the energy to be going to the

church for the baptism and it's a heart scald to think Margaret might be

in Limbo forever with no hope of her ever seeing the rest of us whether

we're in heaven, hell, or Purgatory itself.

Mr. Quinlivan brings her his chair. Ah, now, missus. Ah, now. Sit

down, will you. Ah, now.

The other men look at the table, the ceiling. The man in the middle

says he's giving Mam a docket to get a week's groceries at McGrath's shop

on Parnell Street. There will be tea, sugar, flour, milk, butter and a

separate docket for a bag of coal from Sutton's coal yard on the Dock

Road.

The third man says, Of course you won't be getting this every week,

missus. We will be visiting your house to see if there's a real need. We

have to do that, missus, so we can review your claim.

Mam wipes her face on the back of her sleeve and takes the docket.

She tells the men, God bless you for your kindness. They nod and look at

the table, the ceiling, the walls and tell her send in the next woman.

The women outside tell Mam, When you go to McGrath's, keep an eye

on the oul' bitch for she'll cheat you on the weight. She'll put stuff on

a paper on the scale with the paper hanging down on her side behind the

counter where she thinks you can't see it. She'll pull on that paper so

that you're lucky if you get half of what you're supposed to get. And she

has pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus all over

the shop, and she's forever on her knees abroad in St. Joseph's chapel

clackin' her rosary beads an' breathing like a virgin martyr, the oul'

bitch.

Nora says, I'll go with you, missus. I'm on to the same Mrs.

McGrath and I'll know if she's cheating you.

She leads the way to the shop in Parnell Street. The woman behind

the counter is pleasant to Mam in her American coat till Mam shows the

St. Vincent de Paul docket. The woman says, I don't know what you're

doing here at this hour of the day. I never serve the charity cases

before six in the evening. But this is your first time and I'll make an

exception.

She says to Nora, Do you have a docket, too?

No. I'm a friend helping this poor family with their first docket

from the St. Vincent de Paul.

The woman lays a sheet of newspaper on the scale and pours on flour

from a large bag. When she finishes pouring, she says, There's a pound of

flour.

I don't think so, says Nora. That's a very small pound of flour.

The woman flushes and glares, Are you accusin' me?

Ah, no, Mrs. McGrath, says Nora. I think there was a little

accident there the way your hip was pressed against that paper and you

didn't even know the paper was pulled down a bit. Oh, God, no. A woman

like you that's forever on her knees before the Virgin Mary is an

inspiration to us all and is that your money I see on the floor there?

Mrs. McGrath steps back quickly and the needle on the scale jumps

and quivers. What money? she says, till she looks at Nora, and knows.

Nora smiles. Must be a trick of the shadows, she says, and smiles at the

scale. There was a mistake right enough for that shows barely half a

pound of flour.

That scale gives me more trouble, says Mrs. McGrath.

I'm sure it does, says Nora.

But my conscience is clear before God, says Mrs. McGrath.

I'm sure it is, says Nora, and you're admired by one and all at the

St. Vincent de Paul Society and the Legion of Mary.

I try to be a good Catholic.

Try? God knows 'tis little trying you'd have for you're well known

for having a kind heart and I was wondering if you could spare a couple

of sweets for the little boys here.

Well, now, I'm not a millionaire, but here...

God bless you, Mrs. McGrath, and I know it's asking a lot but could

you possibly lend me a couple of cigarettes?

Well, now, they're not on the docket. I'm not here to supply

luxuries.

If you could see your way, missus, I'd be sure to mention your

kindness to the St. Vincent de Paul.

All right, all right, says Mrs. McGrath. Here. One time for the

cigarettes and one time only.

God bless you, says Nora, and I'm sorry you had so much trouble

with that scale.

On the way home we stopped in the People's Park and sat on a bench

while Malachy and I sucked on our sweets and Mam and Nora smoked their

cigarettes. The smoking brought on Nora's cough and she told Mam the fags

would kill her in the end, that there was a touch of consumption in her

family and no one lived to a ripe old age, though who would want to in

Limerick, a place where you could look around and the first thing you

noticed was a scarcity of gray hairs, all the gray hairs either in the

graveyard or across the Atlantic working on railroads or sauntering

around in police uniforms.

You're lucky, missus, that you saw a bit of the world. Oh, God, I'd

give anything to see New York, people dancing up and down Broadway

without a care. No, I had to go and fall for a boozer with the charm,

Peter Molloy, a champion pint drinker that had me up the pole and up the

aisle when I was barely seventeen. I was ignorant, missus. We grew up

ignorant in Limerick, so we did, knowing feck all about anything and

signs on, we're mothers before we're women. And there's nothing here but

rain and oul' biddies saying the rosary. I'd give me teeth to get out, go

to America or even England itself. The champion pint drinker is always on

the dole and sometimes he even drinks that and drives me so demented I

wind up in the lunatic asylum.

She drew on her cigarette and gagged, coughing till her body rocked

back and forth, and in between the coughs she whimpered, Jesus, Jesus.

When the cough died away she said she had to go home and take her

medicine. She said, I'll see you next week, missus, at the St. Vincent de

Paul. If you're stuck for anything send a message to me at Vize's Field.

Ask anyone for the wife of Peter Molloy, champion pint drinker.

Eugene is sleeping under a coat on the bed. Dad sits by the

fireplace with Oliver on his lap. I wonder why Dad is telling Oliver a

Cuchulain story. He knows the Cuchulain stories are mine, but when I look

at Oliver I don't mind. His cheeks are bright red, he's staring into the

dead fire, and you can see he has no interest in Cuchulain. Mam puts her

hand on his forehead. I think he has a fever, she says. I wish I had an

onion and I'd boil it in milk and pepper. That's good for the fever. But

even if I had what would I boil the milk on? We need coal for that fire.

She gives Dad the docket for the coal down the Dock Road. He takes

me with him but it's dark and all the coal yards are closed.

What are we going to do now, Dad?

I don't know, son.

Ahead of us women in shawls and small children are picking up coal

along the road.

There, Dad, there's coal.

Och, no, son. We won't pick coal off the road. We're not beggars.

He tells Mam the coal yards are closed and we'll have to drink milk

and eat bread tonight, but when I tell her about the women on the road

she passes Eugene to him.

If you're too grand to pick coal off the road I'll put on my coat

and go down the Dock Road.

She gets a bag and takes Malachy and me with her. Beyond the Dock

Road there is something wide and dark with lights glinting in it. Mam

says that's the River Shannon. She says that's what she missed most of

all in America, the River Shannon. The Hudson was lovely but the Shannon

sings. I can't hear the song but my mother does and that makes her happy.

The other women are gone from the Dock Road and we search for the bits of

coal that drop from lorries. Mam tells us gather anything that burns,

coal, wood, cardboard, paper. She says, There are them that burn the

horse droppings but we're not gone that low yet. When her bag is nearly

full she says, Now we have to find an onion for Oliver. Malachy says

he'll find one but she tells him, No, you don't find onions on the road,

you get them in shops.

The minute he sees a shop he cries out, There's a shop, and runs

in.

Oonyen, he says. Oonyen for Oliver.

Mam runs into the shop and tells the women behind the counter, I'm

sorry. The woman says, Lord, he's a dote. Is he an American or what?

Mam says he is. The woman smiles and shows two teeth, one on each

side of her upper gum. A dote, she says, and look at them gorgeous goldy

curls. And what is it he wants now? A sweet?

Ah, no, says Mam. An onion.

The woman laughs, An onion? I never heard a child wanting an onion

before. Is that what they like in America?

Mam says, I just mentioned I wanted to get an onion for my other

child that's sick. Boil the onion in milk, you know.

True for you, missus. You can't beat the onion boiled in milk. And

look, little boy, here's a sweet for yourself and one for the other

little boy, the brother, I suppose.

Mam says, Ah, sure, you shouldn't. Say thank you, boys.

The woman says, Here's a nice onion for the sick child, missus.

Mam says, Oh, I can't buy the onion now, missus. I don't have a

penny on me.

I'm giving you the onion, missus. Let it never be said a child went

sick in Limerick for want of an onion. And don't forget to sprinkle in a

little pepper. Do you have pepper, missus?

Ah, no, I don't but I should be getting it any day now.

Well, here, missus. Pepper and a little salt. Do the child all the

good in the world.

Mam says, God bless you, ma'am, and her eyes are watery.

Dad is walking back and forth with Oliver in his arms and Eugene is

playing on the floor with a pot and a spoon. Dad says, Did you get the

onion?

I did, says Mam, and more. I got coal and the way of lighting it. I

knew you would. I said a prayer to St. Jude. He's my favorite saint,

patron of desperate cases.

I got the coal. I got the onion, no help from St. Jude.

Dad says, You shouldn't be picking up coal off the road like a

common beggar. It isn't right. Bad example for the boys.

Then you should have sent St. Jude down the Dock Road.

Malachy says, I'm hungry, and I'm hungry, too, but Mam says, Ye'll

wait till Oliver has his onion boiled in milk.

She gets the fire going, cuts the onion in half, drops it in the

boiling milk with a little butter and sprinkles the milk with pepper. She

takes Oliver on her lap and tries to feed him but he turns away and looks

into the fire.

Ah, come on, love, she says. Good for you. Make you big and strong.

He tightens his mouth against the spoon. She puts the pot down,

rocks him till he's asleep, lays him on the bed and tells the rest of us

be quiet or she'll demolish us. She slices the other half of the onion

and fries it in butter with slices of bread. She lets us sit on the floor

around the fire where we eat the fried bread and sip at the scalding

sweet tea in jam jars. She says, That fire is good and bright so we can

turn off that gaslight till we get money for the meter.

The fire makes the room warm and with the flames dancing in the

coal you can see faces and mountains and valleys and animals leaping.

Eugene falls asleep on the floor and Dad lifts him to the bed beside

Oliver. Mam puts the boiled onion pot up on the mantelpiece for fear a

mouse or rat might be at it. She says she's tired out from the day, the

Vincent de Paul Society, Mrs. McGrath's shop, the search for coal down

the Dock Road, the worry over Oliver not wanting the boiled onion, and if

he's like this tomorrow she's taking him to the doctor, and now she's

going to bed.

Soon we're all in bed and if there's the odd flea I don't mind

because it's warm in the bed with the six of us and I love the glow of

the fire the way it dances on the walls and ceiling and makes the room go

red and black, red and black, till it dims to white and black and all you

can hear is a little cry from Oliver turning in my mother's arms.

In the morning Dad is lighting the fire, making tea, cutting the

bread. He's already dressed and he's telling Mam hurry up and get

dressed. He says to me, Francis, your little brother Oliver is sick and

we're taking him to the hospital. You are to be a good boy and take care

of your two brothers. We'll be back soon.

Mam says, When we're out go easy with that sugar. We're not

millionaires.

When Mam picks up Oliver and wraps him in a coat Eugene stands on

the bed. I want Ollie, he says. Ollie play.

Ollie will be back soon, she says, and you can play with him. Now

you can play with Malachy and Frank.

Ollie, Ollie, I want Ollie.

He follows Oliver with his eyes and when they're gone he sits on

the bed looking out the window. Malachy says, Genie, Genie, we have

bread, we have tea. Sugar on your bread, Genie. He shakes his head and

pushes away the bread Malachy is offering. He crawls to the place where

Oliver slept with Mam, puts his head down and stares out the window.

Grandma is at the door. I heard your father and mother were running

down Henry Street with the child in their arms. Now where are they gone

to?

Oliver is sick, I said. He wouldn't eat the boiled onion in milk.

What are you blatherin' about?

Wouldn't eat the boiled onion and got sick.

And who's minding ye?

I am.

And what's up with the child in the bed? What's his name?

That's Eugene. He misses Oliver. They're twins.

I know they're twins. That child looks starved. Have ye any

porridge here?

What's porridge? says Malachy.

Jesus, Mary and Holy St. Joseph! What's porridge! Porridge is

porridge. That's what porridge is. Ye are the most ignorant bunch o'

Yanks I ever seen. Come on, put on yeer clothes and we'll go across the

street to your aunt Aggie. She's there with the husband, Pa Keating, and

she'll give ye some porridge.

She picks up Eugene, wraps him in her shawl and we cross the street

to Aunt Aggie's. She's living with Uncle Pa again because he said she

wasn't a fat cow after all.

Do you have any porridge? Grandma says to Aunt Aggie.

Porridge? Am I supposed to be feeding porridge to a crowd of Yanks?

Pity about you, says Grandma. It won't kill you to give them a

little porridge.

And I suppose they'll be wanting sugar and milk on top of

everything or they might be banging on my door looking for an egg if you

don't mind. I don't know why we have to pay for Angela's mistakes.

Jesus, says Grandma, 'tis a good thing you didn't own that stable

in Bethlehem or the Holy Family would still be wanderin' the world

crumblin' with the hunger.

Grandma pushes her way past Aunt Aggie, puts Eugene on a chair near

the fire and makes the porridge. A man comes in from another room. He has

black curly hair and his skin is black and I like his eyes because

they're very blue and ready to smile. He's Aunt Aggie's husband, the man

who stopped the night we were attacking the fleas and told us all about

fleas and snakes, the man with the cough he got from swallowing gas in

the war.

Malachy says, Why are you all black? and Uncle Pa Keating laughs

and coughs so hard he has to ease himself with a cigarette. Oh, the

little Yanks, he says. They're not a bit shy. I'm black because I work at

the Limerick Gas Works shoveling coal and coke into the furnaces. Gassed

in France and back to Limerick to work in the gas works. When you grow up

you'll laugh.

Malachy and I have to leave the table so the big people can sit and

have tea. They have their tea but Uncle Pa Keating, who is my uncle

because he's married to my aunt Aggie, picks up Eugene and takes him on

his lap. He says, This is a sad little fella, and makes funny faces and

silly sounds. Malachy and I laugh but Eugene only reaches up to touch the

blackness of Pa Keating's skin, and then when Pa pretends to bite his

little hand, Eugene laughs and everyone in the room laughs. Malachy goes

to Eugene and tries to make him laugh even more but Eugene turns away and

hides his face in Pa Keating's shirt.

I think he likes me, says Pa, and that's when Aunt Aggie puts down

her teacup and starts to bawl, Waah, waah, waah, big teardrops tumbling

down her fat red face.

Aw, Jesus, says Grandma, there she is again. What's up with you

this time?

And Aunt Aggie blubbers, To see Pa there with a child on his lap

an' me with no hope of having my own.

Grandma barks at her, Stop talkin' like that in front of the

children. Have you no shame? When God is good and ready He'll send you

your family.

Aunt Aggie sobs, Angela with five born an' one just gone an' her so

useless she couldn't scrub a floor an' me with none an' I can scrub an'

clean with the best and make any class of a stew or a fry.

Pa Keating laughs, I think I'll keep this little fella.

Malachy runs to him. No, no, no. That's my brother, that's Eugene.

And I say, No, no, no, that's our brother. Aunt Aggie pats the tears on

her cheeks. She says, I don't want nothing of Angela's. I don't want

nothing that's half Limerick and half North of Ireland, so I don't, so ye

can take him home. I'll have me own someday if I have to do a hundred

novenas to the Virgin Mary and her mother, St. Ann, or if I have to crawl

from here to Lourdes on me two bended knees.

Grandma says, That's enough. Ye have had yeer porridge and 'tis

time to go home and see if yeer father and mother are back from the

hospital.

She puts on her shawl and goes to pick up Eugene but he clutches so

hard at Pa Keating's shirt she has to pull him away though he keeps

looking back at Pa till we're out the door.

* * *

We followed Grandma back to our room. She put Eugene in the bed and

gave him a drink of water. She told him to be a good boy and go to sleep

for his little brother, Oliver, would be home soon and they'd be playing

again there on the floor.

But he kept looking out the window.

She told Malachy and me we could sit on the floor and play but to

be quiet because she was going to say her prayers. Malachy went to the

bed and sat by Eugene and I sat on a chair at the table making out words

on the newspaper that was our tablecloth. All you could hear in the room

was Malachy whispering to make Eugene happy and Grandma mumbling to the

click of her rosary beads. It was so quiet I put my head on the table and

fell asleep.

Dad is touching my shoulder. Come on, Francis, you have to take

care of your little brothers.

Mam is slumped on the edge of the bed, making small crying sounds

like a bird. Grandma is pulling on her shawl. She says, I'll go down to

Thompson the undertaker about the coffin and the carriage. The St.

Vincent de Paul Society will surely pay for that, God knows.

She goes out the door. Dad stands facing the wall over the fire,

beating on his thighs with his fists, sighing, Och, och, och.

Dad frightens me with his och, och, och, and Mam frightens me with

her small bird sounds and I don't know what to do though I wonder if

anyone will light the fire in the grate so that we can have tea and bread

because it's a long time since we had the porridge. If Dad would move

away from the fireplace I could light the fire myself. All you need is

paper, a few bits of coal or turf, and a match. He won't move so I try to

go around his legs while he's beating on his thighs but he notices me and

wants to know why I'm trying to light the fire. I tell him we're all

hungry and he lets out a crazy laugh. Hungry? he says. Och, Francis, your

wee brother Oliver is dead. Your wee sister is dead and your wee brother

is dead.

He picks me up and hugs me so hard I cry out. Then Malachy cries,

my mother cries, Dad cries, I cry, but Eugene stays quiet. Then Dad

sniffles, We'll have a feast. Come on, Francis.

He tells my mother we'll be back in awhile but she has Malachy and

Eugene on her lap in the bed and she doesn't look up. He carries me

through the streets of Limerick and we go from shop to shop with him

asking for food or anything they can give to a family that has two

children dead in a year, one in America, one in Limerick, and in danger

of losing three more for the want of food and drink. Most shopkeepers

shake their heads. Sorry for your troubles but you could go to the St.

Vincent de Paul Society or get the public assistance.

Dad says he's glad to see the spirit of Christ alive in Limerick

and they tell him they don't need the likes of him with his northern

accent to be telling them about Christ and he should be ashamed of

himself dragging a child around like that like a common beggar, a tinker,

a knacker.

A few shopkeepers give bread, potatoes, tins of beans and Dad says,

We'll go home now and you boys can eat something, but we meet Uncle Pa

Keating and he tells Dad he's very sorry for his troubles and would Dad

like to have a pint in this pub here?

There are men sitting in this pub with great glasses of black stuff

before them. Uncle Pa Keating and Dad have the black stuff, too. They

lift their glasses carefully and slowly drink. There is creamy white

stuff on their lips, which they lick with little sighs. Uncle Pa gets me

a bottle of lemonade and Dad gives me a piece of bread and I don't feel

hungry anymore. Still, I wonder how long we'll sit here with Malachy and

Eugene hungry at home, hours from the porridge, which Eugene didn't eat

anyway.

Dad and Uncle Pa drink their glass of black stuff and have another.

Uncle Pa says, Frankie, this is the pint. This is the staff of life. This

is the best thing for nursing mothers and for those who are long weaned.

He laughs and Dad smiles and I laugh because I think that's what

you're supposed to do when Uncle Pa says something. He doesn't laugh when

he tells the other men about Oliver dying. The other men tip their hats

to Dad. Sorry for your troubles, mister, and surely you'll have a pint.

Dad says yes to the pints and soon he's singing Roddy McCorley and

Kevin Barry and song after song I never heard before and crying over his

lovely little girl, Margaret, that died in America and his little boy,

Oliver, dead beyond in the City Home Hospital. It frightens me the way he

yells and cries and sings and I wish I could be at home with my three

brothers, no, my two brothers, and my mother.

The man behind the bar says to Dad, I think now, mister, you've had

enough. We're sorry for your troubles but you have to take that child

home to his mother that must be heartbroken by the fire.

Dad says, One, one more pint, just one, eh? and the man says no.

Dad shakes his fist. I did me bit for Ireland, and when the man comes out

and takes Dad's arm, Dad tries to push him away.

Uncle Pa says, Come on now, Malachy, stop the blaguarding. You have

to go home to Angela. You have a funeral tomorrow and the lovely children

waiting for you.

But Dad struggles till a few men push him out into the darkness.

Uncle Pa stumbles out with the bag of food. Come on, he says. We'll go

back to your room.

Dad wants to go to another place for a pint but Uncle Pa says he

has no more money. Dad says he'll tell everyone his sorrows and they'll

give him pints. Uncle Pa says that's a disgraceful thing to do and Dad

cries on his shoulder. You're a good friend, he tells Uncle Pa. He cries

again till Uncle Pa pats him on the back. It's terrible, terrible, says

Uncle Pa, but you'll get over this in time.

Dad straightens up and looks at him. Never, he says. Never.

Next day we rode to the hospital in a carriage with a horse. They

put Oliver in a white box that came with us in the carriage and we took

him to the graveyard. They put the white box into a hole in the ground

and covered it with earth. My mother and Aunt Aggie cried, Grandma looked

angry, Dad, Uncle Pa Keating, and Uncle Pat Sheehan looked sad but did

not cry and I thought that if you're a man you can cry only when you have

the black stuff that is called the pint.

I did not like the jackdaws that perched on trees and gravestones

and I did not want to leave Oliver with them. I threw a rock at a jackdaw

that waddled over toward Oliver's grave. Dad said I shouldn't throw rocks

at jackdaws, they might be somebody's soul. I didn't know what a soul was

but I didn't ask him because I didn't care. Oliver was dead and I hated

jackdaws. I'd be a man someday and I'd come back with a bag of rocks and

I'd leave the graveyard littered with dead jackdaws.

The morning after Oliver's burial Dad went to the Labour Exchange

to sign and collect the week's dole, nineteen shillings and sixpence. He

said he'd be home by noon, that he'd get coal and make a fire, that we'd

have rashers and eggs and tea in honor of Oliver, that we might even have

a sweet or two.

He wasn't home by noon, or one, or two, and we boiled and ate the

few potatoes the shopkeepers had given the day before. He wasn't home

anytime before the sun went down that day in May. There was no sign of

him till we heard him, long after the pubs closed, rolling along Windmill

Street, singing, When all around a vigil keep, The West's asleep, the

West's asleep- Alas, and well may Erin weep When Connacht lies in slumber

deep.

There lake and plain smile fair and free, 'Mid rocks their guardian

chivalry.

Sing, Oh, let man learn liberty

From crashing wind and lashing sea.

He stumbled into the room, hanging on to the wall. A snot oozed

from his nose and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He tried to

speak. Zeeze shildren should be in bed. Lishen to me. Shildren go to bed.

Mam faced him. These children are hungry. Where's the dole money?

We'll get fish and chips so they'll have something in their bellies when

they go to sleep.

She tried to stick her hands into his pockets but he pushed her

away. Have respheck, he said. Reshpeck in front of shildren.

She struggled to get at his pockets. Where's the money? The

children are hungry. You mad oul' bastard, did you drink all the money

again? Just what you did in Brooklyn.

He blubbered, Och, poor Angela. And poor wee Margaret and poor wee

Oliver.

He staggered to me and hugged me and I smelled the drink I used to

smell in America. My face was wet from his tears and his spit and his

snot and I was hungry and I didn't know what to say when he cried all

over my head.

Then he let me go and hugged Malachy, still going on about the wee

sister and the wee brother cold in the ground, and how we all have to

pray and be good, how we have to be obedient and do what our mother tells

us. He said we have our troubles but it's time for Malachy and me to

start school because there's nothing like an education, it will stand to

you in the end, and you have to get ready to do your bit for Ireland.

To my friends....

A referral point for my friends (personnel friends, meaning people I know in my personnel life) who want me to “Take a look at my stuff.” For years I’ve said sure, I’ll look at it, meaning edit it. But I have always forewarned them that I take the processes seriously and I won’t pull any punches and not to get angry with me. They always, always, always assure me that they want to a professional edit and that I shouldn’t pull any punches just because we’re friends. Then I edit their work and they get angry at me. So here’s what we’re going to do. If you want me to give my opinion on your writing or edit your work, the charge is $50.00 an hour with a four hour minimum. That should stop most of you from asking me to look at your work and while preserving our friendship.

Why this blog is here.

I am largely self-educated, and this blog is continuation of that education. I have an MFA, but that doesn’t have much to do with an education, not the kind I’m talking about. An advanced degree means I am able to follow instruction.

Never ending self-education means I adore knowledge and enlightenment of both the ordinary and the odd and that’s what this blog is about. It is by me, written for my benefit. You are more than welcomed to drop by as often and for as long as your heart desires.

John William Tuohy

I was born and raised in Connecticut and now live in rural West Virginia with my wife, Mary, and my dog Eli.

I hold an AA and MA in literature and an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University. I spent most of my career as a political consultant and hated every living second of it.

I am produced and award-winning playwright. (Cyberdate, The Hannigans of Beverly, etc.)

I am the author of 12 books on traditional organized crime, an autobiography (No Time to Say Goodbye) two books of short stories (Short Stories from a Small Town, Washington Behind the Monuments) a novella (Imago Summer, 1971) and several books on Connecticut history. I proud to be the historian of Ansonia Connecticut. I sit on the board of Mt. St. John's School.

I occasionally and reluctantly work as an editor but only when I need money to travel.

I am an accomplished amateur photographer, a frustrated painter and not a half-bad gardener and I cook. I collect coins, stamps and political memorabilia. I love film so much that I built a large theater in my home. (I also wrote "On the Waterfront: the Making of a Great Amercian film")

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