Irish Above All

by Mary Pat Kelly

  “We parade,” he’d said. “Walk in time and in step because in combat every instinct says ‘Run.’ We press our uniforms. Spit polish our boots. Pretend that in combat they won’t be covered in blood and mud. Military rituals are designed to disguise the reality of war.”

  And are these boys being trained for war? I thought. But hasn’t “the war to end all wars” been fought already? Yet this school was getting these boys ready for something. Is that why they let Ed Junior lie in bed with that horrible pain in his ear? Toughening him up.

  Now the shortest of the toy soldiers moved into the pew in front of me. I heard the jerk in his breath. I lifted my hand to pat his arm, but stopped myself. He’d hate being comforted. Blinking now, and with a quick swipe of his gloved hand at his eyes, he sat down.

  Let yourself sob, I wanted to say to him. I wondered—I asked Martin Berndt in my head, because Martin was dead now too—if boys cried more, would there be less fighting?

  I remembered Carl Sandburg’s poem, “Sometime they’ll give a war and nobody will come.” I thought of Mother Ireland’s sons killing each other. Couldn’t men just stop showing up for the battles. Won’t someone say, “Enough is enough”?

  But Mass had begun. I translated the Latin words in my head. “Introibo ad altare Dei.” I will go to the altar of God.

  Another corps of young boys, dressed in white surplices with red capes, answered—“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” To God who gives joy to my youth.

  Dear God, why did you take him? Isn’t it enough that Ed’s first wife and the baby she carried died? How could you claim another child? Are you a monster, God? Is all this folderol of flowers, costumes, incense, and churches with stained glass windows, like the dress uniforms, shiny boots, and the military parade, a way to disguise that truth? That you are a monster, a heartless tyrant who enjoys watching us suffer?

  The music almost saved the ceremony for me. I knew the singer, Catherine O’Connell. Her voice had elevated many a dull wedding Mass or perfunctory funeral.

  “Ave Maria,” she sang. “Gratia plena.” Full of grace. And for the duration of the song, the image of Mary, Our Mother, comforted me. I remembered the statue of Our Lady of Paris in Notre Dame Cathedral. That young princess in stone who held her child on her hip. The Blessed Mother, at least, had compassion. Cared about us. Wonder what she’d say about a boy of twelve dead because some idiot doctor in Indiana did not treat him properly? A crime.

  Had that little boy in front of me heard an older boy tell Ed Junior to be tough? Said to him that it was only an earache. And what about the headmaster? There he was, the plump fellow in a version of a cadet’s uniform, sitting on the left. Had he said, “Kelly, you’re a malingerer?”

  A word I’d heard over and over at the American hospital in Paris. I wish more of my patients had malingered. Most were only too ready to go back to the front lines to their pals. Probably the same at this school, worried about the pals. Well, damn the pals, I thought. Take care of yourself.

  All those boys, but only one of you, Edward Joseph Kelly Junior. One.

  “Nunc et in hora mortis, In hora mortis nostrae”—Now and at the hour of our death, Catherine sang, repeating the phrase over and over, “In hora mortis, mortis nostrae, in hora mortis nostrae.” Her voice filled the Cathedral. I’ve prayed, “now and at the hour of our death” a hundred thousand times, sure that the hour of my death was far away. I’d be an old woman sleeping her way into Heaven. But for an earache to bring a young boy to the hour of his death … Horrible.

  Ed wouldn’t hear anything against the school or let Pat Nash send a police detective down to question the staff.

  “What good, Nonie?” he’d asked. “Nothing will bring him back.”

  The cardinal was talking, saying something about God’s will. Accepting God’s will. Is the Almighty a potentate on a throne, dictating rewards and punishment? His will. Never heard a priest say “Accept God’s will,” when good things came.

  Did Ed believe all this? He sat staring straight at the cardinal. Margaret beside him. She took Ed’s hand. I’m not sure what Margaret believed. Catholic, of course. But she never understood when I tried to explain that guilt kept me from even going into a church in Paris during my first six months there, until Father Kevin absolved me.

  That strange confession in the courtyard of the Irish College, when he told me loving the wrong man wasn’t the worst sin.

  “Not loving is the crime, Nora.” And his matchmaking with Peter Keeley. Father Kevin helped Margaret too, I remembered. Got both of us back into the tribe of good women. Forgiven. But by whom? You up there who lets children die and dresses up their going in all this pomp and circumstance?

  The boy soldiers were moving out. And the little one who sat in front of me held his head up, standing straight now. Learning not to feel.

  * * *

  I understood why families invited people for a meal after the funeral. The rituals are over, and it’s time to visit and talk. Nothing wrong with that, and surely Ed and Margaret’s big house in Hyde Park had plenty of room so all the people who were pushing their way in could give their condolences.

  But usually there are lots of tried-and-true phrases—“He had a good long life,” or “His children and grandchildren will always remember him.” Phrases like that. But no one in this crowd could find anything to say to Ed.

  Pat Nash only shook his head as he took Ed’s hand and hugged Margaret. I heard “heartbreaking, just heartbreaking” as Margaret pointed at the big dining room where waiters stood ready, waiting to carve a whole turkey, a huge standing roast, and a baked ham.

  How did Margaret manage to assemble all this food? I wondered. A pile of Parker House rolls, bowls of potatoes, and a heaping dish of peas and carrots were piled up on the table.

  Margaret had even gotten flower arrangements, as well as a whole array of pies and cakes. A full bar, of course—Prohibition or no.

  Ed nodded his head toward the bar behind me. I knew he wanted a Jameson and water. I went behind the bar, poured two myself, which the bartender didn’t like, then carried the crystal glass over to Ed. I offered the second one to Pat. He shook his head and watched Ed drain the glass and reach out for the second.

  “Ed,” Pat started, but then stopped and touched Ed’s shoulder. A clutch of aldermen and their wives arrived and headed for Ed, but Pat stood with him so no one had a chance to say more than “Sorry for your troubles.”

  Margaret directed guests to the buffet. The voices in the dining room were getting louder and there was some laughter.

  Johnny Gilhooley lit up a cigar. Margaret didn’t allow smoking in the house, but she said nothing. Ed handed his glass to me. I took it back to the bar.

  “Two Jamesons straight,” I said, when the bartender finally turned toward me from the crush of men. All the whiskey was the real thing. In bonded bottles.

  Three wooden cases of illegally obtained liquor had been left on the front porch that morning. No fear of a raid, I thought, as a sergeant in full uniform handed a glass to the chief of police in his dress blues.

  I gave Ed his Jameson, and then drank mine.

  Pat was still running interference for Ed. Even the cardinal only got a few minutes. Pat sent him toward the dining room.

  I saw a young priest ignore the line at the bar and get His Eminence a drink.

  I heard my name and turned around to see Rose with my brother Michael and Ed’s mother, Aunt Nelly. I set my glass down on the windowsill behind me and moved through the crowd to them.

  “How is he doing?” Michael asked me.

  “Dazed,” I said. “Barbaric to put him through this.”

  “People want to pay their respects,” Michael said.

  “They had two nights of a wake and a funeral,” I said.

  “But the meal after is something special for the close friends,” Michael said.

  “That’s who this mob is? Looks more like a meeting of the South Park Board or a smoker at th
e Brighton Park Athletic Association,” I said.

  I reached back for my drink and took a sip.

  “Nonie,” Rose started.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not hooch. The real thing. Smuggled in for the occasion from the Emerald Isle itself I’d say. Three crates on the doorstep this morning and one of Harveys Bristol Cream sherry.”

  “Spike O’Donnell probably,” Michael said. “Can I get you ladies a sherry?” he asked. Rose and Aunt Nelly nodded, but I said “Jameson straight,” and handed Michael my glass. He went toward the bar. Aunt Nelly headed for the dining room. Looking for Margaret.

  “Don’t drink too much of that whiskey, Nonie,” Rose said.

  “Ed has the right idea. Dull the pain for a while,” I said.

  “And then what?” Rose asked.

  “A hangover, I suppose. But today will be over. How is John?” I asked.

  “The same,” she said. “Mrs. Devlin from next door is sitting with him,” she said.

  “I hope…,” I started, but what was there to say? Hope didn’t stop death.

  “Did you see the cadets?” I asked.

  “I did,” Rose said.

  “Pitiful. Why they ever sent Ed Junior to that boarding school…,” I said.

  “Nonie, please. People can hear you, and now’s not the time,” Rose said.

  “Look at the poor kid,” I said.

  I guided Rose over to the piano and pointed to a framed picture of Ed Junior with his platoon.

  Platoon. I ask you. Little boys dressed up and told they are a platoon. I’d taken the photograph when I had visited him on parents’ weekend. Margaret had one of her headaches, so I went with Ed. Brought my Seneca. Gorgeous day. That southern Indiana woodland touched with the gold of early spring. I wanted to pose Ed Junior alone under a redbud tree, but he’d asked that the whole platoon be in the shot.

  “Look at him,” I said to Rose. “Doesn’t even put himself in the first row. Hidden almost. Told me afterward that his father had said he shouldn’t brag about his dad. ‘I think he wants me to be humble,’ Ed Junior had said to me. ‘A lot of Republicans in this school,’ he told me.”

  “True enough,” Rose said.

  “He said that one fellow had asked him how did it feel to have a father who was a crooked Mick,” I told her, “I asked him what he said to the fellow. ‘I didn’t say anything,’ he told me. ‘I put my fists up, and he ran away. Didn’t even have to hit him. You have to stand up to bullies like my dad did when he punched the foreman who was trying to cheat him out of his job on the canal.’”

  “Ed’s famous punch,” Rose said.

  “Ed Junior told me that his dad thought he’d be fired. But the Big Boss said he respected a man who stood up for himself.”

  The Big Boss. Colonel Robert J. McCormick, head of the Sanitary District then. Publisher of the Tribune now. A member of what I supposed was the wealthiest family in Chicago—although the Potter Palmers could have given them a run for their money.

  “I wonder will McCormick come to the house?” I asked Rose.

  “I saw him in church. Very nice of him to attend Mass. Him being a Protestant and all,” Rose said.

  Then she pointed. “My goodness, Nonie. Look at that fellow. Going right to the head of the line and now he’s pulling Ed away from Judge Normyle. So rude. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Whoever he was, he’d certainly shut up the crowd. All Ed’s consolers were staring at this blob of a man, whose suit jacket hung open. He had dirty blond hair and a many-layered chin.

  “Wilcox! How does he dare?” Pat Nash was standing next to me, and grunted out the words.

  “So that’s the crazy reverend who writes all those terrible things about Ed!” I said. “Stop him. Throw him out!”

  But Pat shook his head. “Best not to rile him.”

  “Why not?”

  Pat said nothing. Dear God, I thought, he’s afraid of Wilcox. Doesn’t want to be attacked in that paper of his. Fearless Pat Nash was cowed.

  Well, I wasn’t. I crossed the room. “Excuse me,” I started, but Wilcox was holding Ed’s arm.

  “I have come to offer my condolences,” Wilcox said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. He knows that only a blow such as this would make you examine your ways and beg his forgiveness. He took your boy as a way to save your eternal soul.” Ed said nothing—only stared at him, and pulled away.

  I’d moved next to them, so I saw that Ed wasn’t taking in what Wilcox was saying. Didn’t understand Wilcox was telling him that God had killed the son as a way of getting back at the father. Then, suddenly Ed realized what Wilcox meant.

  “You’re saying it’s my fault that my boy died?” Ed said.

  “I am. A lesson from the Almighty for which you should be grateful,” Wilcox said.

  “Stop it!” I said. “This is a private reception. Get out.”

  “Paid for from the public purse I suppose,” Wilcox said. “All of you are the spawn of the Devil. God smote the firstborn of the Egyptians, and he will do the same to you. Papist idolaters. Blasphemers.”

  Ed brought up his fist, but Pat Nash stepped in front of him. “That’s what he wants Ed,” he said. “A Donnybrook. An Irish wake turned into a ruckus. Let him go.”

  I turned to Wilcox. “Have you no decency? Leave us alone,” I said.

  “I know who you are,” Wilcox said. “Another parasite.”

  The chief of police and two policemen were headed our way. Wilcox saw them.

  “Take off, buddy,” the chief said. The patrolmen drew their nightsticks.

  Wilcox turned away, walked through the silent crowd and stood at the front door. “The Lord will smite thee! My pen is His sword.”

  Then he was gone.

  “Send that man to Bughouse Square!” someone shouted, and the crowd laughed.

  I made my way to the bar. “Two more Jamesons,” I said to the bartender.

  * * *

  The Irish phrase “Uisce beatha”—which means water of life, became, in English, “whiskey,” but as often as not, the bottle can bring death, or at least oblivion. And it seemed as if Ed would succumb in the days after Ed Junior’s funeral. He was drinking alone, locked in his study, which frightened Margaret and brought me to the Hyde Park house at midnight.

  I found Ed, collapsed in his big leather chair next to a sputtering fire. He didn’t seem surprised to see me.

  “Do you think Wilcox is right? Did I kill Ed Junior? Did Mary and our little one die because of me? Is God punishing me? Is He, Nonie…?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Ed. Wilcox is a bigoted bastard. What would he know about God except using His name to fatten his collection?”

  Ed picked up a big photo album from the floor. Opened it up. Passed it to me. A page of Ed Junior’s baby pictures. In his mother’s arms.

  “Such a sweet boy. After Mary died, he said, ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be good. The way Mom would want me to be.’ Were they too good for me? Is God teaching me a lesson, Nonie? Is He?”

  “Oh, Ed,” I said. “Ed.”

  Margaret was at the door of the study with a tray, a silver coffeepot, and china cups.

  “Ed, please,” Margaret said. “Pull yourself together.” She looked at me. “Such good news. The sister from St. Vincent de Paul called. A young girl is having twins. She can’t keep them. She asked Sister to find them a good home. Ed, they could be our babies.”

  But Ed didn’t seem to hear her. He took the album from me, pointed to a picture. “Here’s my baby. My little son. He’s dead. Nothing can bring him back. Nothing.”

  “Give me the tray, Margaret,” I said.

  “You have to stop this, Ed,” Margaret said. “If Sister thinks you’re a drunk, she’ll never let us adopt the twins.”

  I put the tray down on the desk, poured Ed some coffee.

  “You have to get him away,” Margaret said to me.

  I noticed papers spread out on top of the desk. Blueprints. “What are these?” I asked.
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  Ed stood up from the chair and came over. “The plans for the house in the Northwoods that Ed Junior was helping me design. He was going to be an engineer like me.”

  He crumbled up the plans. “I’m going to burn them. Throw them in the fire.”

  “No. No. Don’t do that. This is Ed Junior’s legacy. You have to build the house in his memory, Ed,” I said. “This is your most important project.” I took the blueprints and smoothed them out on the desk in front of him. “Tell me, Ed. Tell me what you and Ed Junior planned. Shall we drive up to Eagle River and see the site?”

  Ed was running his finger along the front of the blueprints. “It was Ed Junior’s idea to have a wall of windows facing Catfish Lake. ‘We can’t have that much exposed glass,’ I told him. ‘Why not try, Dad?’ he said. ‘Let’s try.’ Always ready to try, that kid.”

  “Let’s go, Ed. For your son,” I said.

  He looked down at the blueprints, picked up the plans, and then looked at me and nodded. We gave Ed no time to think. Margaret and I each took an arm and walked him right out to the car.

  They rented a small cabin every summer on the grounds of Everett Resort near where the new house would stand. “There are clothes up there,” Margaret said as we eased Ed into the passenger seat.

  “Can you drive the whole way?” Margaret asked.

  “I can,” I said.

  Twelve hours. I hope I can make it, I thought. Can’t imagine stopping anywhere. Thank God Ed was asleep by the time we got on Lake Shore Drive.

  9

  Now the house in Eagle River would become Ed’s Tír na nÓg—a place of rest and renewal where the family could come together, away from Chicago and politics, apart from the world. I was there the time a few years later when a telegram arrived from President Roosevelt, inviting Ed to a meeting at the White House the next day. Ed wired back that he couldn’t get there from here—enclosed by the Northwoods—a state of mind as much as a location. But that was still in the future. Now as we pulled up to the cottage at Everett Resort, which Ed rented every summer, I only hoped this bender would end. I’ll say this for him—he was a quiet drunk. He sat in his room, downing Jameson after Jameson, for the next few days. Not like some of the fellows in Bridgeport who go on the batter and become a danger to themselves and others.