“No,” I said.
“No?” John Larney said. “You want a trial?”
“I mean, no, Spike’s not going to be killed. You’ll die in bed, Spike. I promise. What you’ve done for me will bless you. You’ll die an old man in bed.”
Which he did. Twelve attempts on his life, but Spike survived them all. Became an actor, if you can believe it. Usually played the bad guy.
4
“I’m perfectly capable of managing the house with Jesse’s help,” I said to Rose. “Go home to John.”
“He was willing to move in here—plenty of room. But police have to live within Chicago city limits, and even if John chanced ignoring the rule, some begrudger would report him, and—”
“Don’t worry. I spoke to Michael this morning.”
A month after Mame’s funeral. Mid-August. School starting soon. Rose and I were back on the porch. The little ones napping, the big kids out playing. Jesse on her afternoon off. I had the logistics all figured out. “Michael can drive Rosemary, Ann, and Mike to St. Blaise School in the morning on his way to his office, while I dress Marguerite and Baby Frances and give them breakfast. Jesse arrives at nine and stays until six, so I’ll walk over and pick up the older kids, help Jesse get dinner, and—”
“I thought you planned to return to Paris,” Rose said.
“I do eventually. But I can’t leave these kids now. Michael seems undone by grief, and well…” I stopped. “They’re lovely children. Ann has Mame’s smile, and sometimes Rosemary lifts her head in a way that’s my aunt Máire to a tee.”
“And I see my mother’s eyes in those big blue ones of Marguerite,” Rose said.
The McCabe girls’ home place was in County Cavan, near Mountain Lodge. Though only Rose had ever seen the family farm. Their father had died before Mame was even born. Rose and their mother, pregnant with Mame, were sent back to live with the Lynches, her mother’s people in Bailieborough, until Mame was born and was old enough to be left with the grandmother so Rose and her mother could set out across the sea. No place for them. It would be ten years before their mother earned enough money to send for Mame. A neighbor brought her on the ship, and sent her by train to Chicago.
A little girl with a note pinned to the front of her coat.
Mame told the story in the essay that won her the medal in the Sun-Times when she was in eighth grade. She’d written that she’d thought the Statue of Liberty was a very big Blessed Mother, welcoming her to America, and promising her that she would soon see her own mother. Which she did.
But the distance separating these little ones from their mother could never be crossed. Oh Mame, so much sadness in your life. She and Rose had never taken to the man their mother married to survive in Chicago. He’d lived on after their mother died too young. Which was why they moved into Aunt Kate Larney’s boarding house, and finally had a bit of luck.
Rose married John, Aunt Kate’s son, and she’d connected them both to all of us Kellys, because her sister was married to my uncle Steve, and Ed was their son. For a time it seemed Mame and Ed would marry, but it was my forty-five-year-old confirmed bachelor brother, Michael, with whom she fell in love and walked down the aisle of St. Elizabeth’s Church in Brighton Park.
“I keep thinking she’ll come down from the bedroom, ready to take the kids for a run in the car,” Rose said.
“I’ll take them on adventures, as she did. And, Rose, I have a bit of a secret plan. I mean, Argo’s nice enough. A feel of the prairie out here, even though we’re only five miles from Bridgeport.”
“A good place to raise children,” Rose said. “Lots of families are leaving the city for Riverside, and Beverly and Evanston.”
“Exactly. Families,” I said. “But how will Michael’s kids feel with all their friends cocooned with a father, and a mother, and a dog? I think he should move back into Chicago, where they won’t be slapped in the face with happiness every day.”
“I don’t know,” Rose said.
“Look at our block, Hillock, in Bridgeport. My unmarried brother and sister living together. Below us, the Widow Hannigan, with her three grown children, and one downstate in prison for armed robbery. And across the way, the Rooneys, whose youngest will, always as his mother says, ‘have the mind of a three-year-old.’ She worries about what will happen to him when she goes. Which may be soon, she says, because there are bad hearts on both sides of my family.”
“Poor woman,” Rose said. “There’s hardship everywhere. My mother used to say if everyone stood in a circle and put their troubles in the center, you’d pick up your own.”
“True enough,” I said. “But in Bridgeport, you’d know everyone else’s trouble. Here, sadness is hidden by lawns and porches. Easier for Michael to meet a nice woman if he were going to Mass at St. Bridget’s, attending the Corned Beef and Cabbage Dinner on St. Patrick’s Day, and maybe calling the numbers at Bingo.”
Rose said nothing. Me and my big mouth. As if Michael would replace Mame.
“Of course, Michael will be in mourning for a long time,” I said. “I just meant that eventually…”
“And will eventually come for you, Nonie?” she asked me.
That’s Rose. A saint, even now thinking about me.
“I know you had a … a…,” she said.
“Husband, Rose. I had a husband.”
“Oh, Nonie, will you never stop lying? It’s like you have a disease.”
“What?”
Rose and I turned at the same moment to see Henrietta stand in the kitchen doorway.
I stood up so fast, I knocked over the wicker rocker I was sitting on.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“My brother asked me to come,” she answered. “He very kindly picked me up, along with my son who has offered to sacrifice himself to live here and help out. And none too soon. Next, you’ll be telling the girls stories about your so-called husband. Show me a marriage certificate if you can.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I said.
“Watch your language, Nonie. It’s behavior like that makes you such a bad influence.”
I didn’t bother to answer her but walked into the house and shouted, “Michael! Michael!”
He was coming in the front door, carrying what had to be Henrietta’s suitcases.
“What is going on?” I asked.
He set down the suitcases and stayed bent over for a moment, as if he couldn’t summon the effort to stand up straight.
“Nonie,” he said. “Let me be honest. I know you mean well, but taking care of a house and children just doesn’t suit you.”
How I hate when somebody says “let me be honest.” It always means “let me point out your faults … the ones you refuse to see.”
“That’s not fair. After all, I’ve fed and clothed myself for forty years, and I’d say I could do the same for you and your children.” Not the time to go on about how I’d nursed soldiers during the war, I supposed. Though I was ready to launch into some defense.
“Here’s the thing, Nonie. The girls are so young and impressionable. Easily influenced. And you…” He stopped.
“Are you getting ready to repeat some speech you learned from Henrietta?” I asked.
“She did mention a few things to me. I didn’t realize how people, especially women, judge a family. I mean, Nonie, you haven’t lived a conventional life. I would hate for the girls to find out about Tim McShane. Murdered at their own mother’s wake.”
“That’s not fair, Michael. And, besides, the Larneys hushed that up.”
“That’s only one thing, Nonie. I wouldn’t want your living with us to affect my girls’ chances to make the right kinds of friends.”
“You mean if you have a fallen woman living with you, your girls would be tarred with my brush. I’d be the rotten apple spoiling the barrel. The wolf decked out in sheep’s clothing.…” I was trying to make him laugh by imitating Henrietta, and the cliché-ridden arguments she must have made to him.
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I hoped he’d say, “Why the hell did I listen to her? We need you, Nonie. Stay.”
But now, Henrietta was in the hallway.
“You are a slut and always have been,” she said.
“For God’s sake, Henrietta, I’m forty years old.”
“You’re forty-four, and still don’t know how a decent woman behaves. And as for your so-called marriage—where’s the proof? As I said, show me your marriage certificate.”
“Now, Henrietta…,” Michael started.
“Michael, you can’t put this madwoman in charge of your children,” I shouted.
“Stop it. Both of you. Stop it,” said Rose in a louder voice than I’d ever heard her use.
“But, Rose. It’s not me. It’s Henrietta,” I said.
Then I heard crying from the nursery. We’d wakened Marguerite and Frances. Rose was shaking her head as she walked up the stairs.
If Rose turned on me, then I was done. “The children are in the backyard with Bobby and Stella Lambert listening to this—this unfair attack on me.” I was still ready to fight my corner, but if Henrietta had convinced Michael that I was a fallen woman, and a bad influence on his children, imagine what she’d gotten the neighbors to believe. No smoke without fire is one of Henrietta’s sayings, and I’m sure she has fanned every possible flame.
Dear God, I can hear her. Disappeared for ten years. Reported dead. Does Nora Kelly really think she can pick up where she left off? Become a member in good standing of this parish or any other, after doing things a respectable woman can’t even put words on over there in Paris, France?
Now I could try to circulate another story. I was the widow of a fighter for Irish freedom, a hero. And why shouldn’t I? It was true. I suppose I hesitated because Peter Keeley belonged to me alone, and I didn’t want to trade information about him for a good reputation. I didn’t have a marriage certificate. No civil ceremony, only that three-minute ritual in the chapel of the Irish College.
Worse for her to then spread the news that her poor sister, Nora, had stooped to lying about her past, which, of course, would confirm me in a shame I did not feel.
Get out, I told myself. Ed will lend you the money. You’ll never fit in again. Stop pretending. It’s not working anyway. Go back to Paris.
But then Mike and the two older girls swarmed around me. Ann and Rosemary each took a hand, and Mike wrapped his arms around my legs.
“Don’t leave, Aunt Nonie,” Ann said.
“Please, Henrietta, Nonie. Please.” Rose had come down the stairs carrying Frances and holding Marguerite’s hand.
I took a breath.
“Your aunt Henrietta and I both love you,” I told the children. “And if she and I … Well, you know sisters, even grown-up ones, sometimes argue.”
“Rosemary and I fight like cats and dogs,” Ann said.
So. When John came to pick up Rose, I went with them. I’d go back to Ed’s, for the time being anyway. I wasn’t going to leave the Kelly kids, at least not now.
Stella Lambert told me I could call her anytime. “And when you come to Argo, knock on my door,” she’d said.
Jesse had agreed to stay on, and I knew she was well able for Henrietta. Even she had said that with school starting, the children needed a regular schedule and Henrietta was a good organizer, if nothing else.
Mike was mad at me for leaving. He disappeared when it was time to say goodbye to me. I knew where he was. I’d found him before, in his mother’s closet on the floor, her dresses a curtain to hide behind.
I took his hand, brought him out. “I’ll visit you all the time,” I promised. “Take you for treats and grand adventures. Your aunt Henrietta needs a place to live, and you wouldn’t want her wandering the streets without a home. Imagine her and Toots sleeping on a bench somewhere,” I said. “Not a pretty sight, Mike. Because you know she snores and snorts something awful. A public nuisance.” And I pretended to be Henrietta—dropping my mouth open, and sending odd sounds through my nose.
He giggled. And then laughed. “You don’t want the neighbors talking about that crazy Kelly woman. No, Mike, I’m afraid you have to be good to Henrietta. And I swear if she’s not good to you, I’ll, I’ll…”
“Beat her up?” he asked.
“Yes, I will. Until her nose bleeds. I’ll knock out her front teeth.”
“And twist her wrist like she twists mine?”
“Absolutely,” I said—and then I knew. I would guard these children no matter what. Henrietta was not going to destroy their spirits.
I’ll stay in Chicago until I know they are safe, I thought. Please, God, sooner rather than later.
I couldn’t go on hating Henrietta like this. Only one thing to do, go see Agnella.
* * *
I shouldn’t have been shocked. After all, nuns had always been a part of my life and I had seen plenty of different habits with their pinched and pleated white head gear. But it was hard to believe that this was Agnella’s face squeezed into this birdcage. But then she smiled and there she was; the little girl that Henrietta had brought to live with us all those years ago; those same blue eyes. Yes, this tall nun, Sister Mary Erigina, BVM was still Ag. I hadn’t seen her in nearly fifteen years. How old is she now? Ten years younger than I was. So thirty-three—thirty-four, but ageless in the habit. We were in the parlor of Holy Family School in Mason City, Iowa, where she taught first grade.
“I would have come sooner, Ag, err, Sister. But your mother told me only immediate family was allowed to visit. And aunts didn’t count.”
Ag said, “I’d say you were immediate enough, Nonie.” She smiled.
“You really are in there,” I said.
“I am,” she said, “and ready to listen.”
“How did you know I…”
“No letter, no telephone call. Sister Portress came up to me during vespers just now. Touched my shoulder. Told me it was an emergency.”
“I didn’t mean to get you out of chapel. I can wait or come back tomorrow.” I stood up.
“No, no, Nonie, sit down, tell me.”
Oh dear God what do I say? How can I tell her that I hate her mother with every cell in my body? That she is making my life miserable. Tearing the family apart.
Agnella was so calm. I couldn’t believe it. But I could see traces of Henrietta in her face. She must have known I needed some time to think because she started talking.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come for Mame’s funeral,” Agnella said. “But my mother is right. There are rules. It was hard for me to explain to Mother Superior how close an aunt by marriage can be. Two years ago Uncle Michael brought my mother and Toots along with his two oldest girls, Rosemary and Ann, down to visit me. I am so grateful to him for being so kind to my mother.”
“Yes,” I said.
He hadn’t much choice, I thought to myself.
“And you, Nonie. What a wonderful surprise to have you alive. A real Easter miracle. I am so sorry you were so angry with the family that you pretended to be dead.”
“That’s not exactly what happened,” I said.
“My mother wrote me and said that you didn’t want to bother with us. But that she was very happy that you were alive.”
I couldn’t let that pass.
“Oh dear God, Ag. Your mother engineered the whole plan. She wanted me to pretend to be dead so Tim McShane would stop bothering her. I admit I went along. I was terrified of him. But she knew I was alive all along and didn’t tell anyone.”
Agnella paused and said, “I suppose she thought she was helping you in some way. My mother said McShane was murdered, found in an alley.”
“She keeps you informed doesn’t she? But believe me, Ag, I never wanted to be separated from you. All the time I was in Paris, I thought of you and the family.”
“Paris,” Agnella said, “was it very beautiful?”
“It was.”
I found myself telling her things I hadn’t mentioned to anyone else. Afraid they’d th
ink I was bragging, having notions.
But Ag asked me question after question. “What was Notre Dame like? Did you walk along the Seine?”
I told her about my life there and the people I had met. “So many women, Ag, living lives that didn’t depend on men.” I described Madame Simone and Coco Chanel, who had created their own very successful fashion businesses. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, who’d nurtured artists and writers. Natalie Barney, who’d constructed her own world and, of course, Maud Gonne, who had mixed revolution and poetry. “I suppose it’s hard to imagine so much female power.”
Agnella started laughing. She threw her head back. Her veil whipped behind her. The starched linen of her headdress seemed to stretch. “For heaven’s sakes, Nonie. What do you think we sisters are? Thousands of us joined together, running schools and hospitals. Hundreds of orders of women throughout the world.… That’s power!”
“Well yes,” I said. “But nuns, Ag? They’re bossed by bishops and priests and…”
More habit-shaking laughter from Agnella. “We bob and weave, Nonie. The men can be annoying, no question. You know our foundress, Mary Frances Clarke, never intended our community to be under the jurisdiction of the Church.”
“She didn’t?”
“She and four friends in Dublin simply wanted to get together and open a school for girls. A most unusual notion in the 1830s when women were not educated, especially poor women. But this action threatened the powers that be. Had to draw lines around them, call them religious women. Make them conform. Mary Frances had no choice, really, but to go along. There was so much need in Ireland and among the Irish over here! Sometimes I think Mary Frances and her friends decided to come to the American frontier to get away from the Irish hierarchy. The Presentation Sisters down the road have the same story, and so do the Sisters of Mercy. All founded by extraordinary Irish women who had to figure out a way to placate the hierarchy so they could follow their vocations. Oh yes, we wash and iron Father’s surplice and serve him bacon at his after-Mass breakfast, but we do it so we can have the Order’s bank account in our name and own our own property. We open schools and hospitals where there are none and give a leg up to the poor.”
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