Men of No Property

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  “Will yer tie her up here?”

  “In the North River likely.”

  “That’s gallus,” Jamie said in honest admiration. “That’s punkins.”

  And at that moment Norah summoned them into the dining room. The room was aglare with candlelight as well as the camphene chandelier. The table gleamed with a white cloth the likes of which she had not hoped again to see after she and Peg sold their mother’s linens. There was a goblet at every place and a knife and fork. The children for their setting had spoons and a sprig of holly to match the spray of it ornamenting the big table. Mr. Hickey counted the places aloud while Norah seated her guests. “You married the one of them all,” he said and kissed her cheek while he winked at Vinnie. The eldest present, he said the blessing.

  Dennis honed his knife and Norah brought in the bird, crisp and spitting hot, surrounded by apples halved and baked with spice; mashed turnips there were and potatoes nesting an egg of butter; pickled oysters to prod and pacify appetites both at the same time while Dennis set to his carving. Oh, how he enjoyed the master’s role, Vinnie thought. It was manifest even in his pride of the sharpened blade. Norah brought then a dish of red cabbage neither sweet nor sour and compounded with chestnuts, and commenced the serving while Mary attended the children and Vinnie popped the corks on the wine. It was of his selection and Mr. Finn’s providence.

  Dennis, when all were served, lifted his glass. “I wish no less for any Irishman wherever he’s sittin’ down this hour.”

  “Since I am Irish only by association,” said Mr. Finn, “let us extend that wish to include all men of good will.”

  “Hear! Hear!” said Kevin.

  “Amen,” said the women.

  “Eat hearty,” said Norah.

  “Drink hearty,” said Vinnie.

  “And all in good health,” Mr. Finn added.

  Afterwards, when the dishes were stacked for Norah’s “sweep” who would come at six in the morning, and when the youngest children were tumbled into one bed for their naps, the whiskey bottle was set out with glasses for those who fancied a nip, and a crock of tobacco for any with pipes. They were a long time sighing and wheezing for conversation and the loudest talk in the room the cackle of the coals in the grate and the squeak of the old man’s rocker.

  “I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ of my daughter Margaret,” the old man said of a sudden. “I’m wonderin’ what she would say if she knew I was in the country leavin’ me home to pine after yous.”

  “Hush, Pa,” Norah said. “That was not her intention at all, no more was it mine, and us bringin’ you over to prove it.”

  “To give the devil his due,” said Dennis, “there’s none of you would’ve been here without her.”

  “’Tis true,” said Norah. “’Twas her gave me the courage.”

  “I’m not holdin’ a thing against her,” said the old man. “She squiggled out of my arms as a child and I never caught her again.”

  Dennis reached for the bottle and poured a small glass of whiskey. “Jeremiah Finn,” he said with determined heartiness, “have a drink for it’s Christmas.”

  Mr. Finn raised his hand. “No, Dennis, I think not. Thank God that has been the least of my temptations.”

  Mr. Hickey hopped out of the chair and took the glass from Dennis. He downed it at one toss. “Thank God,” he cried, looking from one to another and smacking his lips, “it’s been the worst of mine!”

  Dennis laughed and gave him the bottle. With another in him the old man lifted his voice in a song. Before the street lamps were lighted, Mary Lavery had tumbled her mountain of red hair doing a jig and with Norah’s father into it after her, nimble as a cat when he had a drop, as Dennis said, and stiff as a bedstead without it. Vinnie sang them a song he had learned from a beggar lady on the Liffey Bridge of Dublin, his tongue curling round the brogue he had all but banished from his speech. He was startled when his sister asked him if she had been there. It was long before she was born, he told her, feeling his age, but the startling thing to him was that she could not remember Ireland at all, nor the boat, so she said, but she seemed to remember her granny.

  One tune led to another and suddenly Mr. Finn, sitting forward in his chair, raised a quavering voice and sang a song in a language strange to them, and of a melody they had not heard before and yet could relate to childhood and home and a family’s separation perhaps, for the refrain was sad enough.

  “All of that,” said Mr. Finn when they told of what it reminded them. “It’s a lullaby, Russian likely, and therefore melancholy. I learned it from my grandmother.”

  “And are the words Russian?” said Norah.

  “No. Jewish. In Yiddish.”

  “Where were you then, when you learned it, Mr. Finn?” Vinnie ventured, for he had often been curious but thought the better of asking.

  “Here, in New York. My grandmother reared me. I was abandoned to her by my parents when they despaired of my growing to manhood.”

  “Were they pioneers, Mr. Finn?” said Norah, for only to such surely would a puny child be a burden beyond endurance.

  “Oh, I should think the opposite. They were Tories by sympathy, I understand, and ran to England when Mr. Jefferson became president.”

  Everyone found this a shocking turn. “My grandfather, now, was a different matter,” Mr. Finn added. “He was a Polish Jew and he fought in the American Revolution with considerable distinction.”

  “It takes all kinds,” said Mary piously.

  “It does indeed,” said Finn, “and in the end I was apprenticed to a locksmith who gave me more of an inheritance than those who bore me.” He looked at Vinnie then and Vinnie cast his own eyes down. He had been as puny a child surely as ever Mr. Finn was, and he was already as richly blessed.

  “I do believe,” said Norah, “the heart is stronger than the blood runnin’ through it.”

  “Where did you meet this fella Valor?” Dennis said, “if you don’t mind me askin’ it?”

  “Oh, some twelve or fifteen years ago. He had known my parents in England. They were players, you see, as he was some years ago.”

  “I don’t take to him much,” said Dennis, who had met Valois first at the party given by Mr. Finn after Peg’s opening as Mag. He knew him now by reputation as a Native.

  “I should not expect you to,” said Mr. Finn, “but he will take to some other cause presently. He must have them, you see—his causes—in the absence…of other things which warm most men’s lives.”

  “It’s a queer man,” said Dennis bluntly, “that takes to hate when he can’t manage the love of a woman.”

  “You’ve things to learn of the world yet,” Kevin said to his brother. “Haven’t you another song like that you can give us, Mr. Finn?”

  “I’ve forgotten them all as I have my prayers,” Mr. Finn said, spreading his hands. “My grandmother was overly religious and as soon as I could I turned my back on it.”

  “Ah,” Norah said, “it’ll all come back to you when you need it. Many a man has turned his back on God, but God never turns His back on any man.” She put her hand in Dennis’. “Will you sing the hymn now, love?”

  No one there, not even Mr. Finn, needed an explanation as Dennis lifted his voice:

  “Holy Mother, heav’nly queen, list while thy children pray thee:

  Guide us through the shoals of life and o’er its storm-tossed sea.”

  It was the song he had sung while The Valiant put to sea, and on every Christmas Norah cherished the recollection of when first she had loved her husband.

  4

  VINNIE HAD MADE GREAT plans for his fortnight home, looking to the fellowship of his school friends away from the strictures of school. Mr. Finn’s allowance was generous and he attended theatre, opera and a symphony concert. He saw the foreign exhibits at the Crystal Palace and American painting at the Institute. There he bought a landscape for Mr. Finn and struck up an acquaintance with the artist, Jabez Reed. They had coffee together at Windust�
�s and Vinnie found the man exciting. It was the one incident of his first week home not tinged with disappointment. In the company of young ladies he was shy of addressing himself to those he admired and fearful of those who addressed themselves to him. Not till a costume ball did he find himself at last at ease in the presence of feminine company—and then with an older woman, thirty or so, he supposed, whose husband was in Nebraska. She prated a good deal on Pater, as he later described to his friends, and finding his ear, sought his hand. By this she conducted him into the shadows and confided her wish to be kissed. But there she confided also her despisal of all things Irish. Vinnie smiled and confessed his contamination and wished his tongue as quick as his temper, and her blood as cold as her heart.

  And the best of a fancy dress ball was boredom which he shared with two other Yale men; it affected the illness of one and the others must needs see him home. Their clownish farce ended once on the street, and arms linked they marched to Delmonico’s where they drank till their courage sufficed to carry them on to a Venus tableau. The sight of the women close up and the boys would have no other table, all but turned Vinnie’s stomach: their flesh like paste, all bubbles and curdles; and to see the men watching was worse: they wore respectability like a disguise, but their lust rolled out of their eyes. Vinnie departed, a late engagement his pretense, and cheered on by his chums who imagined him bound to a tryst with the spouse of the man in Nebraska. But where to go truly? To be troubled in the groin and the stomach and the soul all at once was an agony beyond any he had known.

  On New Year’s Eve he called on Norah and Dennis to see them off in their finery to the Tammany Ball. He was close to admitting his envy when Jamie Lavery arrived with a tin box under his arm: the market receipts of the day. As they saw the celebrants off and bade goodnight to the sitting-in widow, Jamie suggested a sup o’dew at Delaney’s.

  At Delaney’s, the nearest ale house, Vinnie put two quick whiskeys between him and his lonesomeness. Jamie, he noticed, was frocked and studded and his soaplocks shone like wet fish. “I’m delaying you,” he said.

  “She’ll wait me no fear.” Jamie winked and motioned the barkeep for another whiskey. “Are yer banked in for the night?”

  “Nowhere I’ll be missed,” Vinnie said, and brought from his pocket the invitation. He drew it near his nose and then trailed it beneath Jamie’s.

  “Phew,” Jamie said. “It stinks sweet as a whorehouse.”

  “Oh, and with reason. Many a whorehouse is sweeter.”

  “Jesus,” Jamie exclaimed, but not without reverence for he had taken the note from Vinnie’s hand and read the name by the bar lamp. “Is that the shipbuilder?”

  “The very same. The topperest of properest society.” He took back the note and held it over the lamp.

  “None o’ that,” said the barkeep. “I wanna start the new year with a roof over my head.”

  Vinnie tore it up and dropped the pieces into the spittoon. He put a hand on Jamie’s arm. “D’you know how they measure their wealth? By the number of eligibles they can provide for every girl invited.”

  “Yer mean they don’t have a gal apiece for yers?” Vinnie shook his head. “Why that ain’t decent!” Jamie pulled a gold watch from his pocket. “Look. I’m to pick up Sally at ten. Yer can come along wi’us if yer like. Odds on one o’ the boys’ll knock out early and yer can take over. What d’yer say?”

  “Gallus,” said Vinnie, a little drunk from the third quick drink. He took out his pocketbook and drew a note from it.

  Jamie waited for the barman to make change. “How much money yer got there?” He motioned to the wallet.

  Vinnie handed it to him and watched his face while he counted the bank notes. Jamie gave no sign of surprise or disgust. He took out five dollars. “This’ll see yer home, but yer’ll buy yer drinks.”

  “Right,” said Vinnie, pocketing his wallet.

  “Hold on a minute.” Jamie caught him by the lapel. “Don’t be tryin’ yer nobby ways on my Sally or I’ll lam yer.”

  Vinnie shook him off. “That’s an insult.”

  “Better I insult yer now than have to muss yer later,” Jamie said, and to the barman: “Happy New Year, Jeff!”

  “And to you, Mr. Lavery, and you, sir.”

  Jamie set his bowler carefully upon his head, and by his gait as he strode to the door Vinnie thought he considered himself the best man present. Perhaps he was, this night surely, Vinnie decided, content in his tow. To his surprise they went uptown instead of down and in good time he learned the reason. They were calling for Jamie’s girl where she worked at Washington Square. Waiting before the kitchen hearth, Vinnie found himself quite as pleased to be there as in the ballroom of such a house. The madame herself came downstairs with Jamie’s Sally, and Jamie gave him a kick which Vinnie supposed an alarm.

  “Which of you is Mr. Lavery?” said the lady of the house.

  “Me, mum,” said Jamie, rolling his hat in his hands.

  There was distress in Sally’s pert face.

  “And tell me again where you’re taking Sally?”

  Sally opened her mouth but said nothing as her mistress’ hand closed on hers.

  “To my father’s house,” said Jamie solemnly, “who’s her uncle, mum. We’re cousins and this here’s our gentleman cousin.”

  Vinnie stood as though he were in armor while the woman appraised him. “And are you a gentleman?”

  “Aye, mum,” Vinnie said in as thick a brogue as he could muster. “I fancy meself somit o’ the same.”

  The woman dismissed them with a smile and the admonition to have Sally in by one o’clock.

  “One o’clock she says,” Sally said under her breath when they were out the door, “and keepin’ me scourin’ till ten.”

  “Never mind, love,” said Jamie. “I’ll soon unscour yer.” And there before Vinnie’s and any other eyes wandering from business of their own, he gathered the willing girl into his arms and kissed her.

  What happened to Vinnie inside made him turn away.

  “Now who are you in truth?” said the girl when she could spare him a thought.

  “More a cousin to you, I promise, than Jamie.”

  “You talk like an Englishman!” cried Sally.

  “Would you damn me entirely? I was born in Dublin.”

  “Were you indeed? I’m from Galway.” And he could see her smile by the lamplight. Since Jamie could not manage to be on both sides of her at once, she hooked one arm through his and one through Vinnie’s, and as they walked to the railway Vinnie sometimes got a squeeze that distressed him. They were by no means alone on the street or waiting for the railway car, for as the people of property gathered their kind in one house, the servants of another escaped downtown to crowds of their own fellowship. Some whom they met in the car were destined, Vinnie learned, to spend the evening with them and they made a ring about the little stove in the car’s middle and sang their way to the City Hall station. There they tumbled out, girls into the arms of the fellows, and skipped and sang all on their way to Chrystie Street.

  “Here’s Maggie Shins’, let’s give her a round,” Jamie cried, leading the way to a cellar.

  A dozen or so of the company fell in with them. Maggie herself was behind the bar and her lone customer beat a retreat. Maggie was knotted as the cane she shook after him. “See the jar on the backboard?” said Jamie to Vinnie, and Vinnie squinted to see where he pointed. “Pickled ears—hooman,” Jamie confided.

  “What?”

  Jamie nodded earnestly. “Battle trophies. She’ll show yer them if yer ask her.”

  Vinnie shuddered.

  “Hot or cold?” said Maggie, taking a stub of pipe from her mouth.

  “Hot,” said Vinnie.

  Maggie laid aside her pipe and ladled him a cup of grog from the steaming kettle. For them who took it cold she used the same ladle, but dipped it into another crock. On the wall behind the bar hung a picture of George Washington, his face grimed nearly black with soot
. On one side of him hung a small dusty flag of America and on the other the faded emblem of Ireland. A shelf beneath him supported a row of cracked mugs and cups. Round half the room were benches at the wall and in the corners above them you couldn’t tell shadow from cobweb. At the stove opposite the bar an old black man sat, his feet on the fender, and a fiddle hanging on the wall between the poker and tongs beside him.

  While Maggie served the company around she contemplated the girls in it, her eyes measuring one and then the other and approving none, Vinnie thought. More particular than he was Maggie. He would have settled for the company of any one of them. Not more than twenty, the oldest, and the youngest a chit of a thing whose giggle was like the mew of a kitten. All of them were likely in service and their gowns faded charity, seeming paler in color for the bloom of the wearers. The boys were a hearty lot, and darlings of Maggie. The only one considering himself Jamie’s equal was likely a butcher and Vinnie thought his own welcome came of keeping his mouth shut.

  Maggie cracked the knob of her cane on the bar. “Hey, you bloody old crow!” she cried at the man before the stove, “get off yer perch and warm the fiddle.”

  The man, whose hair was white, sighed, got up slowly and straightened a drooping candle where it sat on the shelf above his fiddle. He tightened the bow, took down the fiddle and sawed a few strings.

  Jamie leaned near Vinnie’s ear. “They’re common-law man and wife.”

  The fiddle tuned, the fiddler closed his eyes and struck up a jig as lively as any ever coaxed a dancing foot.

  “Black and white,” Vinnie said, and put his arm across Jamie’s shoulder. Suddenly he felt the world and its wisdom to be his. “Top and bottom, the Irish are democrats, and to hell with the in-betweens! Maggie Shins, will you pour us another round of ammunition?”

  Maggie grinned at him, her teeth as yellow as the pipe between them and marked the pocketbook from which he paid her. They were off in pairs then, boys and girls, into the dance, whispering slippers and clattering boots. Vinnie clapped time with his hands and the crockery rocked on the shelf. George Washington dropped to one side and Maggie straightened him with her cane when she turned. Did ever the father of his country expect to look down on such children? And could he in life have stood the fumes of the grog now wafting up past his beak of a nose? By the look of that nose, Vinnie thought, it had thrived on more than fumes.