Men of No Property

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  Dennis started at the voice. A woman was standing near face to face with him when he turned, and the sick sweet smell of her wafted the rest of the distance.

  “Here, be off!” Mr. Finn cried, scurrying back and waving his hands up and down.

  “Call off yer dog or I’ll snitch his gigg,” the woman shrieked at Dennis, kicking out one foot and then the other at Mr. Finn. Then she called over her shoulder. “Hey, Jack! Here’s a pair!”

  “Come along,” Finn said. “We’ve to run for it now or have a muss here.”

  Dennis followed him toward the Square, the little man holding his hat on his head while his coat tails flapped out in the wind like a duck’s feathers.

  “There!” he said when they were settled in the cab and he had caught his breath. “That’s Daniel Mulrooney for you. A decent citizen can’t put his foot out the door after ten in the ward. He has a fortune to spend on elections, and where does he get it? Blackmailing blackmailers. He has a piece from every crib, fence and brothel and they are legion. Oh, I tell you, Mr. Lavery,” and his voice quivered with the words, “it’s a long tail he wags, but he’ll soon get it nipped down to a bloody stump.”

  “I’d like to make him eat it,” Dennis said.

  “Which, God bless you, is why I came to your rescue. What is your trade, Mr. Lavery?”

  “I’m a day laborer. I’ve no trade, Mr. Finn.”

  “You were a day laborer, let us say. I am not without connections of my own.”

  It was a dream after all, Dennis thought. Mulrooney’s thug had knocked him into it. “I’ve a fair power of words,” he said then, “though I couldn’t put one o’ them after the other if I’d to do it on paper.”

  “Mmm,” the man beside him said, meaning, Dennis thought, that he had expected no more. A strange sort, this one, with a nose long enough to be half his journey before he left the house. He might be forty or fifty, for Dennis could not guess the age of a man who had passed his youth but was still that side of old age.

  Mr. Finn leaned forward. “There on your right is City Hall park. A pretty place for a den of thieves. On your left is the motherhouse—that frame building there—Tammany Hall.”

  Dennis mulled the word “motherhouse.” “I’m a Roman Catholic, Mr. Finn,” he said.

  “I’ve never known an Irishman who wasn’t to start with,” Finn said.

  “I’ve started and I’ll end that way, and if yous don’t like it, you can put me down.”

  “Bless you, I shouldn’t care if you were a Shaker. Ah, here, my friend, is Broadway. You’ve not seen it at night, I dare say.”

  Nor was he going to see it that night, Dennis realized. It was a blur of color and a blare of sound and he was becoming sick with weariness. He heard music and hawking, and Mr. Finn’s voice as he pitched it high to celebrate wonders as they passed by. It was all a far sound wafting over the grind of the cab wheels and the wheels of multitudinous hacks and carriages debating the street with theirs. Dennis leaned back and closed his eyes. If he could but fall asleep for a minute, he thought, it would settle his stomach and keep him from disgracing himself.

  He came half-awake on his feet, the hack driver on one side of him and Mr. Finn on the other.

  “He’s not drunk. He’s exhausted.”

  “Small matter that, if we’ve to carry the size of him up the steps. Will you wake up, lad?”

  “I’m awake,” Dennis said although he wondered for the instant what world he had wakened into.

  Norah ran down the steps to them, her slippered feet making a patter like rain in the quiet.

  “He’s not drunk, Miss,” Finn said, trying to manage his hat without taking his support from Dennis.

  “Is he hurt, never mind is he drunk?”

  Dennis pushed the men from either side of him. “Let me get my bearin’s and I’ll stand on my own.”

  “There, you’re fine,” Mr. Finn said. “You’re jolly fine. Woops, catch the rail!”

  Dennis swayed as he might with the boat still under him.

  “Now, Miss,” Finn clapped his hat against his breast. “Jeremiah Finn at your service.” He poked a white card at Norah which she took at arm’s length and sensitive to her shyness, he retreated a step and raised his voice. “I should like Mr. Lavery to call on me at that address. It’s to his advantage, you might remind him.”

  With that, he hopped into the cab and signaled the driver to carry on.

  “I’ll be damned,” Dennis said, as the sound of the horse’s hoofs faded. “It’s been the queerest night.”

  “It has that,” Norah said. She ran out to the middle of the street.

  He looked after her and saw that she was out without cloak or shawl, a frail thing, looking up and down the street as though she had no home. Nor had she, he thought. Yet her chin was as high as her courage, and there was from her chin down her throat to her breast such a clean white line in the night’s murk, that something inside him broke as he observed it—an ache: loneliness, hunger, a yearning after purity in a dirty world. He took off his coat, carried it open to her and hung it gently about her shoulders. Never, he thought, had he been wider awake.

  To match his tender impulse hers was as quick. She turned and thrust her head against his breast, her arms strong around him. The need they told drained his strength and then returned it of a rush so that he wanted to near crush her for the moment and then lift her as high as the stars, for there surely she belonged. The brief time she clung to him, he patted her clumsily that his strength might not betray him into bruising or breaking something precious.

  She pushed away from him then and wiped her eyes. If he wasn’t an ox, he thought, with hoofs for hands, he might have done that for her.

  “There,” she said, “I’m all right now. It was a minute’s weakness.”

  “An hour of it would’ve been as short to me,” he said.

  She smiled, her teeth gleaming. The smile, too, was brief. “Dennis, Vinnie and Peg are gone.”

  “Gone?” he said. “Where could they go at this time of night?”

  “They’ve been gone since after you and your brother. They went out with Kevin’s boy, and then sent him home by himself.”

  “The schemin’ pair of them,” Dennis said. “Let’s go in. They’ll come back when they’re hungry.”

  “Jamie was loath to leave them, he told us and I believe him. They were terrible rude to him. Vinnie said to him, ‘Me father’s dead, and there’s nobody goin’ to tell me what to do now.’”

  Dennis shivered, more from the thought than the want of his coat. “So he guessed it,” he said.

  “Is it the truth?”

  “Aye. The priest told us tonight. He was killed afore they ever left Ireland. He died afore his mother.”

  “God have mercy on us,” Norah said. “I could tell from the way the wind was blowin’ tonight, it blowed no good. It was like it was tryin’ to push us back to the sea.”

  “We’ll not be pushed back, Norah,” he said, “when we were all but pushed out. We’re not Jews to be wanderin’ the face of the earth.”

  “We’re not,” she said fervently. “We’d better go up now, you standin’ out in your shirt.”

  “I wonder is Mr. Finn a Jew,” he said on the steps. “He’s the queerest man I ever met.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “Ah, that’s a story. Is Kevin home yet?”

  “He’s not, and Mary was noddin’ in the chair so’s I made her go to bed.”

  The oil lamp on the table, a yellow frame shielding its glare, and the candles sputtering down and then up with the opening and closing of the door, cast a warm light over the room. There was a nest of coals in the grate. Dennis gave it a kick and started the glow in them. Chairs with cushions, a rug on the floor, a sailing ship framed on the wall and a row of plates catching the glow of the fire; papers on the table, and a row of books on a window seat: Dennis took them all in for the first time as he turned the quilt over the pillow on the sofa where
it was made up to bed whichever of them was last in, and sat down. He took off his brogues and stretched his feet to the grate while Norah hung the tea kettle over the coals.

  “I’ll warm my feet now,” he said, “in case Kevin sends me out on them when he comes in. The nights are cold here.”

  “Did you fall out with him?” Norah said, turning her face round to him without her straightening up. Her hair had strayed in the wind and the color had come into her cheeks.

  “Well, you might say I didn’t fall in with his plans for me. You know they’ve politicians here, you’d swear was carryin’ the queen’s own brochure?”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said. “I was never one to let the promise of America blind me to human nature.”

  “Did you have a home like this in Ireland, Norah?”

  “Once there was a likeness,” she said.

  “I’ll never rest till I match it, piece for piece,” he said, “and read every word in them books.” He raised his voice: “And know what I’m readin’.”

  “Hush. You’ll wake the house,” she said. “Are you hungry? Will I find some bread?”

  “No, I’m not hungry.” He thought about it, and about her and the books on the shelf and Jeremiah Finn. But I am hungry, he thought: not for bread, nor for meat; for something to fill the growth of a man and blunt the knife-sharp edges of it. He got up and stood beside her where she waited the kettle’s reaching a boil. “Norah, what’s to become of Emma?”

  She bit her lip and took the poker to the coals. “If a woman had the rights and privileges of a man in this world,” she said, jabbing the fire, “I could tell you what’d become of her, and see to it it did. I don’t know what’s to become of her, Dennis. I’ve thought and thought about it, for I’d a premonition on the boat as sure as Vinnie himself this was comin’.”

  He clung in his mind to the first words she poured out in the torrent. When she was done, he said quietly: “Would you take a man and get his rights and privileges into the bargain?”

  She looked at him, her eyes wide and her lips parted and then flung away in tears. “Don’t torture me, Dennis.”

  “Is it torture when I’m askin’ you to marry me?”

  She could control neither tears nor sobbing then, and he had to take the poker from her where it was streaking her arm black and her dress. He turned her to him and held her. “Norah, Norah,” he said, and brushed her forehead with his lips.

  When the sobs eased, she managed: “It’s everything in the one day.”

  He cursed to himself for not having a bit of clean rag to offer her. He pulled out the long tail of his shirt. “Here.”

  That made her laugh. She pulled away from him and started from the room. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t let the kettle put out the fire.”

  “There’s nothin’ll put out the fire,” he called after her.

  He listened for the sound of her blowing her nose, and then heard her pour water into a basin. There was a great rhythm pounding through it, and after a moment’s wonder, he realized it was the beating of his own heart. He wet the tea while he waited and thought of his mother. The first money to spare he’d have a daguerreotype made of Norah and send it, and one of himself beside her maybe in the same pose, would she have him.

  Norah returned, the moisture still in her eyes, but her cheeks rubbed dry.

  “I’ve the tea ready,” he said, “and I’ll pour it to show you my civilization.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She sat on the sofa’s edge and said not another word until he put the cup in her hand.

  “You’re wise to sit quiet through this,” he said. “I’m a dangerous man with a teapot.”

  She took a few sips, and he scalded his lips on the first try. “What are we drinkin’ tea for,” he said, “and my heart scaldin’ me as it is?” He put the cup on the mantel.

  She put hers on the table and folded her hands. “’Tis wonderful kind of you, Dennis,” she started, and waved down his attempted protest. “For all our wish to do so, we must not think of Emma now.”

  “Oh, damn Emma,” he blurted out, “bless her sweet soul. She’s nothin’ to do with it but gettin’ me over the hump.”

  She looked at him and he could see in her eyes the wish that it were so. A great fear clutched at him that he might not convince her. A fool he was not to have thought it out before broaching the matter. But how could he have thought it out when it came into his mind but a few minutes before?

  “What do I know of the child,” he said, “save she wets my shirt when I hold her and my knees when I settle her?”

  “Don’t make a joke of it, Dennis.”

  “I’m a clown when my heart’s dancin’,” he said. “It’s only to cover my ignorance. And I won’t always be ignorant, Norah. I’ve the vision of a job now from Mr. Finn. Whatever he’s in he’s a locksmith.” He slumped down on the floor beside her, laying his arm on the sofa to where his hand was near her should she wish to touch it. “He’s fashioned a key for us, darlin’ girl, and I’m darin’ to bring it to you. Give it a twist, Norah, and I promise you all the wonders of a lovin’ heart.”

  “Do you love me, Dennis?” she asked, her eyes almost terrible upon him as she searched his for the truth.

  “As God gave me the power and the tongue to tell it, I do love you, Norah.”

  She laid her hand over his, but looked into the fire while she spoke. “I loved you, Dennis, from that first day: you comin’ amongst us and singin’ when our hearts were burstin’ with fear.”

  “Will you look at me, Norah, and say it?”

  She looked at him. “I thought it was Peg all the time,” she said.

  “I thought it myself,” he said, “but I was ever a fool about my own fortune. ’Tis you and only you.”

  “I love you, Dennis. My heart’s achin’ with it.”

  “And mine’s crawlin’ up in my throat.” On his knees, he pulled her close to him, and while their lips met, he lifted her up as he rose to his feet. Her toes scarcely brushed the floor as he held her, putting himself, he thought, between her and the world, and herself in a way between him and his fear of it.

  They were sitting hand in hand before the fire when Kevin returned, his heavy step a forecast of his mood.

  “So you’re home,” he said, throwing off his coat. “I’ve been scouring the streets for you.”

  “Where would a man come but home after that?” Dennis said.

  “If he knew his way and was able. You could’ve been crippled for a thing like that.”

  “But I’m here and whole,” Dennis said, getting up. “And more than whole, I’m doubled. Kevin, put down your anger at me a minute. I’m sorry for provokin’ you trouble but I was fresh from abuse on the boat and spoilin’ to dump the gall out of me. I’m empty of it now and full of honey.”

  “Full as a bee’s balls,” Kevin said vulgarly. He jerked his head around to where Norah sat, having forgot for the moment her presence. “I’m sorry, Miss, but do you know what he did tonight?”

  Norah lifted her chin. “He asked me to marry him,” she said, “and I consented.”

  Kevin stood a moment and then walked across the room to her. It occurred to Dennis that his brother wanted to be sure which of the sisters it was. Kevin went on then to the fireplace and warmed his hands, still without speaking. Finally, he said: “I’ll never forget when he was a lad home. If he threw a stone at a window, he’d break his finger doing it. He threw the cat in the river once, and then damn near drowned himself getting it out.” He turned around and rubbed his hands together. “Well, God bless you both.”

  He smiled then, and Norah would no more forget it than she would his first welcome to them on the dock. He went over to her and kissed her cheek. “I’ll be proud to have you for a sister, Norah Hickey. He’s less the fool than I thought.” He swung around to Dennis and thrust his hand at him. Dennis pulled him into a hug.

  “There’s somethin’ I’m dyin’ to ask you,” Dennis said, pushing him awa
y. “Who’s Jeremiah Finn?”

  “O-oh?” Kevin said in surprise. “It was him got you out?”

  “It was, and he’s give me a card to come round and see him.”

  “He’s got a fine shop on Chambers Street and money in the bank by all telling.”

  “But where does he stand in your politics?”

  “As long as I’ve known of him,” Kevin said, “he’s been standing on the outside throwing bricks at them on the throne, but he’s a Democrat.”

  “There was nothin’ exact that he said,” Dennis went on, “but he gave me the notion he’d find me a job.”

  “Then to hell with Mulrooney,” Kevin said. “He can carpenter his own house or pay for it.”

  “Is that the price he was askin’?”

  “He wasn’t asking. He was telling.” Kevin shook off his thoughts of Mulrooney. “Are you sitting here in the dark on the night of your betrothal with nothing between you but a cup of cold tea?”

  The candles had burned out, and only the oil lamp lighted the room.

  “Wake Mary while I break out a bottle,” Kevin cried. “I never knew the likes of her for falling asleep before the crux of a celebration. There’s candles in the kitchen. Light us up, Norah!” He paused a moment, passing her, and put his finger under her chin. “The light in your eyes’ll shine your way to the kitchen.”

  “Ho,” Norah said. “You’re brothers truly!”

  “The boy, Vinnie, and her sister is gone off in the night,” Dennis said.

  Kevin scowled and then banished the scowl. “It’ll be the less strain on the bottle,” he said. “I can’t laugh and cry at the same time, and as long as I’m given a choice in this world, I’ll take the laughing.”

  “And so will I,” Norah said. “Peg’s life is her own, and mine…” she paused and whispered to Dennis, passing him, “…is yours.”

  Kevin might not have heard the words, but he sensed them. He leaped to the hall door and shouted, “Mary, come out, love, till I give you a whirl! I feel as though my own wedding night was before me!”

  Dennis, alone the moment in the parlor, heard footsteps on the outside stairs. He signaled Norah to be still when she returned, and then Kevin. They waited, listening. Just as the footsteps reached the top, there was a bump, bump, bump down the stairs as though someone had dropped a ball.