you know a Moriarity?"
"Moriarit`,r? "
"Yeah. Moriarity."
The name was sounded back and forth and, for a
breath, Ilike Moriarity seemed to lee again.
"Naw," said Pop Pheid, and the breath was gone. "Sorry,"
he added.
"That's all right," she said. "We just want to look around."
He said what he had said many years ago to her mother:
"Help yourself." Pop and Son went back into the store.
"There used to be a hedge of snowball bushes, Mother
said, along here."
"Snowball. . . ?"
"Some people call them hydrangea, I guess. Mother loved
them
so."
Walking back home, she told him how her father had
lived in the stable loft when he first came from Ireland
and how he had hated the horses.
~ ~o-1
"The more I hear about your father," he said, "the more
I want to know him."
"You wouldn't like hi7n."
"I'm sure I would. If for no other reason than that you
like him."
"Oh, I don't like him.'
"You don't?" he asked, astonished.
"I suppose I love him, though."
"How can you love without liking?"
"I don't know. But he's my father and a child should
love its father."
"I see. You love him because he loved your n-~other."
"No. Because my mother loved him."
They said good night on her stoop. He turned his head
away to tell her he couldn't see her the next night; he'd be
busy. And she turned her head away to say that was all
right.
This is the end of it, she thought. I'll never see him again.
But, he told her, he might be able to make it Friday
night if that was all right with her. She told him that
would be fine. And she thought: He's trying to let me doyen
easy. I know I'll never see him again.
"Good night," he said.
"Good-by," she whispered. She turtled and w ent into the
house.
filer father Noms standing by the No. indov. He let the
curtain fall back into place when she came in.
lVlaggie-Now knew he'd seen them together and she was
dully surprised that he hadn't come out and made a fuss.
"I seen him! I seen hint," said Pat exultantly, "the little
bit of a man what you think is in love with you."
"Oh, Papa," she cried out, "he isn't, he isn't. No one is
in love with me."
He felt her despair and was jubilant, thinking it was all
over her friendship with the man. Perversely, however,
he was indignant that the man wasn't; in love with her.
"He's not worth your little finger," he said.
She 10017ed at him, waiting for the quick retort to
come into her mind. It didn't come. She said: "I'll get you
up early tomorrow so you can go to six o'clock Mass
before work."
~ ~o8 1
"What f or? "
"Because tomorrow's Holy Thursday."
"It's enough to go on Sunday," he mumbled. "Once in a
while," he added.
"I'll get you up early for Mass," she said. She went into
her room and he heard a sound he'd never heard before:
the key turning in the lock of her door.
Why alla' she go and do that for, he mused, just because
I didn't say right away I'd go to Mass? Just for that, I won't
go.
Sadly, Maggie-Now prepared for bed, convinced that
she'd never see Claude again. I should have been more
careful, she thought, watched myself more and not told him
everything about myself and I shouldn't have shower so plain
how much I liked him.
After all, what do I know about him? Nothing, come to
think of it. And the things I told him about me!
And all the wonderful things he said to me the first two
nights! And tonight, nothing. He never said a word about my
dress or noticed that I'd washed my hair or even, she
swallowed a sob, how I smelled! That's how I know it's all
over.
Ah, well, no use being a fool, she thought as she turned
out the light. Like Papa said, he's not the only pebble on the
beach. He's not the only man in the world. She sat up
suddenly in the dark. But he is! I'o me, he's the only man
in the world and I want him no matter what! If I can't have
him, I don't want anyone else.
She couldn't get Pat up the next morning to go to Mass.
He said his back hurt. She and Denny went to the eight
o'clock Mass. When Pat came home that night, he noticed
with relief that there were no wet towels, no steamy
bathroom or scent of soap and powder. And she had
cooked his favorite supper: breaded veal cutlets, mashed
potatoes, stewed tomatoes thickened with a slice of rye
bread, and an open-faced apple cake from the baker's.
Also the coffee was good and strong the way he liked it.
Ah, the good girl, thought Pat. She's making it up to me
the way she tormented me by going out with that feller. Sure
and she had a fight with the little man and sensible girl what
she is, she gave him the gate. Now she's glad she's got a
father to fall back on.
He had a feeling of well-being. It made him generous.
"Have another piece of cake, Denny," he said.
[ 209 ]
~ ou took the last piece already,!' said Delmy.
Pat shoved his piece of cake over to Denny. "Have it,
do,'' he said. "I ain't touched it yet." He turned to
Maggie-Now. "Girl. dear, being's tomorrow is Good
Friday, I'll go to Mass."
"I'll try to get you up early," she said without interest.
'~You don't need to. I'll go to the eight o'clock with
you and Denny."
"You'll be late for work."
"Half an hour. I'll make it up Saturday afternoon. The
way I look at it," he said, "a family should stick together;
go to church together."
"Ah, Papa! " she said, and gave him her wide smile.
~ CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE ~
GOOD FRIDAY was alway s a somber day, but the
Good Friday of April 6, 19~7, was more somber than
usual. The morning papers carried the news that the
House of Representatives had finished the ratification and
formal declaration of war with Germany was expected
hourly.
The church was crow deaf for the eight o'clock Mass.
Workingmen stood in the back: the letter carrier, bag
slung over shoulder, pausing in his rounds to attend Mass;
the uniformed cop deserting his beat for ten minutes; Pat
among them in his street cleaner's uniform, and others.
Few missed Mass that Good Friday.
After lunch, Maggie-Now took Denny shopping with her
to buy the fish and vegetables for supper and the
huckleberry pie; and dye and eggs for colored Easter eggs.
The streets seemed unusually crowded and people moved
about slowly or stood silently in groups as though waiting
for something to happen. She he
ard one man ask another
what had happened.
The man said: "They say we're in the war." He shrugged.
[ 210 ]
"But I don't know. You hear all kinds of things
nowadays."
Within the hour, the extras were on the streets. The
word "War" was in black letters six inches high.
"War!" read Denny, proud that that was another
three-letter word he could read.
There it was. President Wilson had signed the
declaration of war at 1:13 P.M., Good Friday, April 6,
1917. The President had made a statement: "America has
found herself."
The people of the neighborhood were one with each
other as they were always when there was a blizzard or a
great fire, a child raped and murdered by a fiend in the
neighborhood or some other great catastrophe. People
spoke to each other without formality or preamble.
"War is terrible," said a woman, a stranger to Maggie-Now.
"Yes," agreed Maggie-Now.
"But it's more terrible when it starts on our Lord's Day,
Good Friday. And the time one-thirteen. That's unlucky
and it makes it more terrible."
"War by itself," said another stranger, "is terrible, no
matter what."
Maggie-Now and the first woman agreed.
Later in the afternoon, there was proof positive that
America was at war. The kids in the street had already
invented a war game. Maggie-Now and Denny watched
from the front window. Three boys, about Denny's age,
had their sawed-off-broomstick shinny sticks aimed at the
enemy. They stood in a row. The "enemy" was a little kid
of three, his sodden, baby-wet diaper hanging out the legs
of his manly little pants. They had placed an upside-down
white enameled child's chamber pot on his head for a
Hun's helmet.
"Bang, bang, bang," they shouted. The little kid stood
there, bewildered.
"You're supposed to be dead," yelled a kid.
"Fall down, you Goddamn bologna," said another kid.
And the little kid stood there and cried and baby-wet his
diaper some more.
"Can I go out and play? " asked Dennis.
"No!" said Maggie-Now.
"Why? "
t211 ]
'Because I say so," she said sharply.
"Why do you say so?"
"Because," she said more gently, "this is the day our
Lord died and it's not right to play such games on this
day." She pulled down the shades.
Pat was relieved that night when he came home from
work (full of theories about the war which he was anxious
to give voice to) to smell fish frying. She wasn't going out,
then!
For no woman in her right mind, he thought, would K
oust to meet her sweetheart smelling of frying fish.
He also smelled the incense she had burning in a tin jar
lid on the stove. He assumed it was some religious
observance. (His wife used to burn incense on special
religious days.) He would have been upset had he known
she was burning it to take the fish smell out of her hair.
Maggie-Now was going out to meet Claude. Her strong
feeling that she'd never see him again had changed to a
stronger feeling that she would see him again. The
declaration of war had something to do with it. Also, the
candle she had burned in church that morning. She
dressed after supper.
"So you're going our again," he said.
"Yes.,'
"What about the boy?"
"He is your son, Papa. You should look after him once
in a while."
After she had left, Pat prepared to go out, too. He
wanted to talk about the war to somebody. Denny
followed him from the bathroom where he waslled, to the
bedroom where he changed his clothes.
"Why are you follying me around?" he asked.
"Because I don't want to be left," said Denny.
Standing before the mirror, struggling with his collar,
with L)enny standing next to him, Pat examined his son's
face in the mirror. Again, he wondered where the boy got
his red hair from. There had been no red heads in the
Moore or lloriarity family. Timothy Shawn had had red
hair. It occurred to Pat that maybe a hundred or so years
ago, back in Ireland, a Moore had married or mated with
a Shawn and the red hair had worked through to Denny.
Somehow, the thought pleased Pat.
[ 212 1
I'd be proud, he thought, if the boy grew up to be half the
man that Timmy Shawn, the bastid, God rest his soul, was.
He turned around and looked directly at the child. The
boy didn't have the light lashes that usually went with red
hair. He had dark lashes like his mother and he had his
mother's eyes, too.
He thought of Mary with the baby in her arms; how he
had said he'd always wanted a son to go hunting and
fishing with. He had a small moment of prescience.
When I'm a very old man, he thought, I'll remember how
the little boy wanted to be with me this night and I'll cry me
heart out and wish I was young again so I could stay with
the little boy. So I will grieve when I am old.
But tonight I am young and I don't want to stay with the
little boy. I want to talk to men about the war.
He compromised. "You can come along when I go out," he
said.
The boy :looked up at him and put his hands together
in ecstasy and smiled the way Mary used to smile at Pat
when he said or did something nice. Pat's heart turned
over a little.
Walking down the street, the boy slipped his hand into
his father's and said: "I like to go out with you."
The man felt a drop of moisture in the corner of one
eye and felt a second of anguish. Why does he always give
in? If he'd only tell me to go to hell! Then I'd know what to
do. First I'd beat the be-Jesus out of him for talking that way
to his father. Then I'd be proud of him for standing up to his
old man and not taking no guff from me or nobody.
They came to a candy store. Pat said: "Here's five
pennies. You go in and buy whatever you want. And look
around. See if there's anything you want for Easter. Not
more than a quarter, hear? And maybe I'll buy it for you."
The boy gave him what Pat called 'that llary look" a look
of gratitude and happiness combined. "And wait for me
here."
Pat asked for a short beer. The bartender said maybe
he'd like to think it over. A small beer now cost a dime
and would cost fifteen next week. On account of the war,
explained the bartender.
The saloon was crowded. There was a lot of loud talk;
they talked loudly about the war and much louder about
beer going up a nickel a glass. The little fellow that Pat
was sure he had seen someplace was in the center of a
group of men, waving his glass
[ 715 1
of beer and giving his version of the outbreak of war. Pat
made his way over to the man.
"I thought you'd be in uniform by now," he sneered. To
Pat's surprise, the little man shook his hand.
"The honoryou did me," said the stranger, "yourself
saying I should enlist and me wllat'll never see fifty again.
You gave me me youth back. Do you not remember me,
Pathrick, your old friend from night-school days>"
Pat knew it was Mick Mack, Jor, he thought, Ho else in
all the world would take an insult for a complir~ie~t.
"Ah, you've changed,' said Mick Mack.
"Not as much as you," said Pat, "the bad way you look,
I didn't recognise you."
"And I didn't recognise you, Pathrick, the grand w ay
you look after all these years."
Mick M[ack's story was soon told. He had sustained a
bacl; injury when a big treacle had run into his trolley car
and, after years of litigation, the truck company had
settled fifteen dollars a week on him for life. His wife was
dead and his children all married. He didn't see much of
them. In his own words, they had no room for the old
man. But he was happy, he insisted, with his fifteen
dollars a week and the room and board he got at the
home of a grand widder woman for ten dollars a week.
"She owns her own house," he said, "on Schaeffer Street,
just off Bushwick Avenue. She runs a hat store for ladies
in the basement and upstairs is the boarders. And, oh, the
grand table she sets! Her husband," he continued, "rest his
soul, even though I never laid eyes on him, deft the
widder well fixed with the house in her name, and, I
wouldn't be surprised, a bit of money to go with it, and
she with a darlen shape in the bargain."
"And I wouldn't put it past the likes of yourself," said
Pat, "to look at her darlen shape and get idears."
"Ah, no. 'Tis her cooking has won me heart. Do you
come and eat Easter Day dinner with me, Pathrick. Only
thirty-fi~-e cents for outsiders."
"No," said Pat. "Home I eat for nothing. And eat good,
too.
"I'll treat," said Mick Mack. "Friendship, to me, is more
than money "
[ 2~4 ]
"I'll eat with you then," said Pat. "Not that I want to, but
because I'm sorry for a miserable little man, the likes of
you, having to pay to have someone eat with him."
"Ah, you talk so mean," said the beaming Mick Mack,
"because you don't want me to find out the goodness what
is in
you.',
"Miss me"' asked Claude.
"Yes."
"That's the way it should be," he said, tucking her arm
into his. "I am taking you to dinner tonight."
"That's nice." She was pleased. He didn't ask and she
didn't tell him she'd already had her evening meal.
He took her to an upstairs chop suey restaurant on the
corner of Broadway and Flushing Avenue. After they were
seated, they made an agreement not to discuss the war.
"Let us talk only of ourselves," he said. "Our time
together may be shorter than we know. Now: Will you
have beef or pork chop suey?"
"Could I have something else?" she asked. "You see, I've
never eaten Chinese food before and . . ."
"Start on something familiar, then. You like eggs?"
"Oh, yes."
The Chinese waiter was at their table. He had come
silently. 'iYiss?" he inquired.
"Shrimp eggs foo yung for the lady and pork chop suey
for me.
"Yiss."
The waiter brought a pot of tea and two little bowls.
"Oh, how beautiful," she exclaimed, admiring the
bone-white china with its larkspur-blue Chinese markings.
"And this!" She ran her hand over the raffia-wrapped
handle of the teapot and smiled across the table at him.
He picked up one of the little bowls and looked at the
bottom. "Yes. Made in China. The Orient." He smiled
back at her and her smile widened. "~411 the Orient is in