Murphy’s Law

by Rhys Bowen

“Well, I’m Irish, aren’t I? We’re the lucky ones. They know we’ve got good strong muscles and we know how to vote, too.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the power that runs this city is Irish, and if they want to count on our votes to stay in power, then they make sure we’re employed and happy. That new subway train I told you about—I’m digging that tunnel. They have plans to dig tunnels all over the city, so I reckon that should keep me nicely employed for quite a while—God willing and the roof don’t collapse, like the saying goes here.”

  We worked our way down the narrow cobbled streets between the pushcarts. It was quite dark by now and I just hoped that what I was treading on was squashed fruit and not something worse. The smell was none too savory, I can tell you that.

  The other thing I wasn’t used to was the noise level. Those pushcart men were calling out their wares, mostly in languages I didn’t know, but sometimes in broken English, too. People were standing in doorways or out on balconies, yelling across at other people, and children ran squealing, dodging in and out in street games. And to top it all there were barrel organs or hurdy-gurdies stationed on street corners, playing competing tunes. It was lively enough, that was for sure, but overwhelming to newcomers like ourselves. Some dark, ragged children ran up to young Seamus and gave him a push before his father boomed, “Go on, clear off before I belt you one.”

  Then they dodged away laughing and shouting out in a language that was probably Italian.

  “Daddy, I’m tired,” Bridie complained, and Seamus hoisted her to his shoulder again. “Not too long now. Hear that foghorn? That’s coming from the East River. That’s where we’re going. Number Twenty-eight Cherry Street—right in the middle of the Irish quarter. The Fourth Ward. Safe and sound.”

  We turned at last onto a street that was longer and straighter than most we had been through. Not so many pushcarts, either. There was noise spilling out of a saloon and someone started singing “Where the mountains of Morne come down to the sea.”

  A window above our heads opened and a woman’s voice shrieked, “You get in here this minute, Kevin O’Keefe, or you’ll get such a walloping, you’ll not be able to sit down for a month.”

  Suddenly I wanted to laugh. I’d come halfway around the world and here I was, back at home!

  Seamus came to a halt outside one of the tall brown buildings. “This is home, children. Now we just have to walk up the four flights of stairs and we’ll be there.” He pushed open the front door and stepped aside with a chivalrous bow. “After you, Miss Molly.”

  I nodded, thanked him, and stepped inside. The stairway was in pitch darkness and stank as if half the dogs in the world had peed on it. I was only halfway up the first flight when my foot touched something soft and warm. There was a scream and the object beneath my foot wriggled. I think I screamed, too, and only just stopped myself from plunging down the stairs.

  “I think I stepped on a baby!” I shouted into the darkness.

  “That will be the Donovans brat again. She’s got so many kids she can’t keep track of them. Now there’s a new baby and the one above it has learned to crawl, so it’s off and away with no one keeping an eye on it.”

  I reached around in the dark and picked up the squirming, bawling bundle.

  “Do they live on this floor?” I made it to the landing.

  “Door on the right,” Seamus said. He banged on it. It was opened a crack and several pairs of suspicious eyes peeked out.

  “Ma, I think it’s the health inspector, got Ginny,” a child’s voice screamed.

  I held out the child. “I’m not the health inspector. The little one was lying on the cold stairs in the dark. I stepped on her.”

  “Ma, Ginny was out on the stairs again. See I told you Freddy wasn’t watching her.”

  “Well bring her in and shut the bleedin door Yer lettin the cold air in.”

  The door opened more than a crack to reveal flickering candle light and a room that seemed to be full of moving shadows. A middle-sized girl, skinny and filthy, snatched the baby from my arms. “Thank you,” she said, and closed the door.

  I followed Seamus and the children up the dark stairwell, stunned. One more flight, then another. On this landing—it must have been the third floor by now—there was a big stone sink, full and spilling over onto the floor. I picked up my skirts and hurried past. One last flight and there we were. By the time I reached the landing the door was already open, but most of the light from it was blocked by an enormous form, almost filling the door frame.

  “Where are they? Where are those precious little ones?” a voice boomed out.

  “Children, this is Auntie Nuala,” Seamus said. “Give your auntie a kiss.”

  Bridie was swept up, protesting, into a very large bosom.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” the voice boomed again. “Come along inside with you. I’ve made a good warming stew. No doubt you’ll be starving after what you’ve been through and . . . ,” her voice broke off. Seamus and the children had gone into the room. I hesitated in the doorway. The large woman’s gaze had fastened on me.

  “Holy Mother of Godl” she exclaimed. “Where is Kathleen and who, in God’s name, is this?”

  Eleven

  My later impressions of Nuala O’Connor were no great improvement on the first one. Seamus had taken Nuala aside and filled her in on the situation, while she eyed me critically all the time he was talking. “But she could be anybody,” I heard her say. “She could have murdered Kathleen in her bed, thrown her over the side of the ship. Who knows?”

  “Hush. Don’t let the children hear you.” Seamus covered his mouth with his hand and gave us a sideways glance. “They seem very fond of her. And young Seamus himself told me how his mother came to the docks with them and how he wanted to wave to her.”

  “But she’s not thinking of staying here?” If she thought her voice didn’t carry, she was misjudging the volume of her whisper. And even though I heard every word, those suspicious looks were expressive enough.

  “I asked her to, at least until the children were used to me,” Seamus said.

  “And where’s she going to sleep, I’d like to know.”

  I was longing to tell her what she could do with her apartment and her beds, too, but I didn’t want to walk out and leave the two little ones tonight. That would be one shock too many for them. Besides, I reminded myself, I had nowhere else to go. So I bit my tongue and stood there, pretending I hadn’t heard. I had time to take in my surroundings and I wasn’t too thrilled with what I saw. Our chickens at home had a better-kept place to roost than this. There was one old armchair losing its stuffing, a rickety table, and the rest of the furniture looked as if it was made from old boxes and packing cases. Pots and pans were stacked on a shelf along with bread, sugar, and other supplies. There had been rose-patterned wallpaper on the wall but it had peeled away in great strips, revealing holes in the lath and plaster beneath it. The whole thing was lit with one anemic oil lamp. I tried not to shudder.

  “Well, it’s catch as catch can around here,” Nuala said, in a louder voice, now seeing my dismayed look. “You have to take us as you find us.”

  “Don’t worry, Nuala. I’ll be looking for my own place now that the children are here,” Seamus said. “It won’t be for long that you’re packed in like sardines.”

  “When Mother comes, eh, Daddy? We’ll get a place of our own then?” Young Seamus said, giving the room the same critical appraisal as I had.

  “When your mother comes, that’s right.” Seamus found it hard to get the words out.

  “You should tell them,” Nuala said.

  “When the time is right. Not now.” I stepped between her and the two children.

  The large woman came across the room to face me. “And what might your name be, miss?”

  I held out my hand and forced a smile. “It’s Molly Murphy, from Ballykillin, near Westport.”

  “Seaumus has no doubt told you
, I’m Nuala O’Connor. I’m married to that useless body of a cousin of his. Finbar! Wake up! We’ve got company.”

  A figure roused itself from the darkness in the far corner and staggered to its feet. Finbar was in direct contrast to his wife—Jack Sprat and his wife from the nursery rhyme books. He was small and thin and bony, with a drooping mustache that seemed too big for his face and a worried look. Mind you, I’d have been worried at the thought of coming home to that dragon every day. He embraced Seamus, patted the children, and then looked at me enquiringly.

  “This is Miss Murphy, who kindly escorted the children over on the boat,” Seamus said before Nuala could say anything. “Kathleen was unavoidably detained.”

  Finbar smoothed down his rumpled clothes. “Excuse the way I look, miss. Just taking a little nap before work, you know.”

  “Little nap before work!” Nuala sniffed. “You drink more than you earn at that godforsaken saloon. And those children of yours are growing up idle and useless just like their father.”

  “Where are the children, Nuala?” Seamus asked.

  “God only knows. Out to all hours they are. Running around like heathen savages. Now young Malachy is talking nonsense about joining a gang. A gang, I ask you.”

  Almost on cue there was a clatter of feet on the stairs and the door burst open.

  “And what sort of a time do you call this?” Nuala demanded, facing three scruffy boys with her hands on her hips. “Did I or did I not tell you that I want you home before it’s dark?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m not hearing any excuses. Malachy, go and get the wooden spoon.”

  “But Ma, there was a fight.”

  “Holy Mother—you weren’t in another fight after what I told you?”

  “Not us, Ma. Guys. Grown-up guys bashing away at each other!” the smallest boy exclaimed, his face alight with excitement. “Down on the dock—that icehouse near the bridge.”

  Nuala turned to her husband. “See, I told you he was asking for it, didn’t I? Trying to get the ice contract with the fish market from under the noses of Tammany.”

  “You reckon it was the Tammany thugs teaching him a little lesson?” Seamus asked.

  “Sure as hell it was.” Finbar nodded. “Everyone knows Tammany has the monopoly on ice. You don’t go against Tammany, not if you want to live long.”

  “Who is Tammany?” I asked. There was that name again. “Not who, what,” Nuala said. “Tammany Hall. They run the city. When there are elections, the Tammany ward bosses come around and tell you who to vote for.”

  “But that’s terrible,” I exclaimed.

  “Not if you’re Irish, it’s not,” Nuala said confidently. “Tammany is Irish to the core and if they put someone in power, then he better be good to the Irish, or Tammany will choose another candidate next time.”

  “Anyway, Ma, that guy won’t be going against Tammany for a while,” the oldest boy said. “You should have seen his head—all bloody and his eye hanging out and—”

  “Were the police not called?” Seamus asked.

  The boys grinned. “The police were there, all right. They were watching and cheering. I think one of them even used his nightstick!”

  “The police wouldn’t go against Tammany,” Finbar muttered. “They know which side their bread is buttered on.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Nuala said. “Where are your manners? Say hello to your cousins, just arrived from the old country.”

  Seamus put his hands on his children’s shoulders. “Boys—this is young Seamus and this is Bridie. These are your cousins, children. Malachy, Thomas, and James. Go on. Shake hands.”

  Seamus held out his hand but Bridie hung back, not eager to say hello to three tough, scruffy boys.

  “And who’s that?” the oldest was staring at me.

  “I came over on the boat with them. Your auntie Kathleen wasn’t able to travel at the last minute,” I said. “My name’s Molly. You’re Malachy, are you? I’ve a little brother called Malachy myself.”

  He gave me a half grin.

  “Right. Let’s get down to eating now we’re all here. James, set the table.”

  “What are we having?” James asked as he cleaned off a table surface of various objects.

  “Fish stew.”

  “Not fish again!” Malachy complained.

  “If you’re lucky enough to have a mother that works at the fish market, you take what the good God provides,” Nuala said. “And if he provides fish heads, you get fish stew.”

  I’d been wondering about the pervading smell in the apartment. Now I realized—it was fish.

  But as it turned out, the stew wasn’t too bad, and the long walk had certainly given me an appetite.

  “So you’ll be trying to find yourself a job in New York will you?” Nuala asked me, her gaze hinting that I’d be an added expense to feed. “Or will you be heading out of town to your relatives?”

  “I’ve no relatives over here,” I said. “I’ll be looking for a job right away.”

  “Because food isn’t cheap, you know. Neither is gas. Which reminds me . . . ,” she looked up at Seamus. “You’ve not got a dime on you for the meter, have you, Seamus? The gas ran out before I’d finished cooking and there’s no sense in asking this good-for-nothing—”

  “Don’t worry, Nuala. I’ve got a dime.” Seamus reached into his pocket.

  I squeezed myself onto a bench made of a wooden board across two packing cases, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Bridie sat close beside me, her little hand clutching at my skirt.

  “I’ll help you wash up,” I said as soon as dinner was over.

  “Right you are.” Nuala jerked her head. “The sink’s down one flight. Mind you don’t trip in the darkness and fall and break your neck.”

  Surely that overflowing cesspit wasn’t the only sink in the place? I gritted my teeth and went down to wash the dishes in the cold, dirty water. Afterward Nuala dried them on a towel so caked with grime that they ended up dirtier than they started.

  By this time the children were ready for bed. Those same planks and packing cases were now lain on the floor with blankets on them.

  “Do you want to sleep on there with your cousins?” Nuala asked young Seamus, “or will you be sharing your Daddy’s bed tonight?”

  Seamus looked unsure as to which was the safer choice.

  “They can both share my bed, if you like,” I said. “They’re used to sleeping like that from the ship.”

  “There’s no bed in the house for you,” Nuala said. “You can choose between that chair or the floor.” She turned to her sons who were now settling themselves on the makeshift bed of planks. “You three move over and make room for your cousins. You can sleep head to toe, like sardines, for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll have to work something out.”

  “No, I think I’ll take the little ones in with me,” Seamus said. “It’s mighty cold in here tonight. I don’t want them catching a chill on their first evening in New York.”

  I ended up in the chair. At least it was out of the draft that now swept in under the door. There was one kerosene stove, placed between the bedroom and the living room, but it did little to keep out the bitter cold. I wrapped myself in my shawl and hugged my knees to my chest, trying to stay warm. The sooner I got out of this place, the better, I decided. In the morning I’d look for a job and then . . .

  Then, just as I was dozing off to sleep, I felt a small hand brush against me.

  “I’m scared,” Bridie whispered. “I want to sleep with you.” And she climbed up onto my lap. I held her close to me, and stroked her hair. Obviously I wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

  I was awakened by the clatter of pots and pans. I opened my eyes but it wasn’t yet light. I could just make out the large shape of Nuala, bustling around in the darkness. Finally I had to answer the call of nature. I had avoided the bucket in the corner that everyone else had used during the night and I asked, tactfully, where the lavatory might
be.

  “Down in the yard at the back. But there’s still the bucket in the corner. Fin hasn’t thrown it out yet.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll go down.”

  I held onto the wall as I went down. It felt damp and icy to the touch. Behind the stairs a back door swung open to the narrowest courtyard you could imagine. It was actually a well in the middle of a tall building. If you stood in the middle, you could almost touch both walls. I looked up and saw line after line of laundry, all stiff with frost, hanging in the dark like so many ghosts. I shivered. This was a terrible place. I just hoped that Seamus would get the children out of here in a hurry.

  There were two outhouses on one side, both filthy and smelly. We had an outhouse at home, but my father always made sure it stayed clean. I used it, and hurried back inside. I paused at the sink in the hallway to wash my face and hands. By the time I reached the apartment again, the children were up and Nuala had put doorstops of bread and mugs of tea on the table. Seamus appeared with his son in tow, both looking bleary eyed and tousle haired.

  “Sorry I have to leave you today, son,” Seamus said, “but I can’t take another day off or the foreman will fire me. Your auntie Nuala has to be at the fish market at six but Miss Molly and your cousins will keep an eye on you, I expect.”

  “Shouldn’t we enroll Seamus at a school?” I asked. “You boys go to school, don’t you?”

  “They’re supposed to,” Nuala said, glaring at them, “At least until Malachy can get a job as a delivery boy at the fish market next year.”

  “Oh, Ma, school is for sissies,” Malachy said. He turned to me. “The only school around here is full of Jews.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” I asked. “Do they beat you up?”

  “Jewish kids beat us up?” Malachy grinned at Thomas. “Nah, they don’t go in for fighting, but they don’t like us. They don’t want us there. The teacher is Jewish, too—she’s always saying we make trouble.”

  “Well, I expect she’s not wrong,” Nuala said.

  “And they’re always speaking Yiddish to each other so we can’t understand them,” Thomas said. “Even the teacher speaks Yiddish sometimes. And you know what? They like reading and writing. They take books home with them and all.”