“He doesn’t always …” Michael began, but Johnny interrupted him again.
“Rosie said to wash up, so let’s be at it,” he ordered, and the two men walked through the parlor toward the kitchen, where towels were hung next to the sink.
As the doorknob rattled, Rosie hurried toward it. She grasped the knob and swung the door inward. Her father, still bent with his key in hand, looked up in surprise. His mouth dropped open and he gasped. “Maura!”
“No, Da. It’s me … Rosie.”
Peter Carney straightened, and Rose smiled. His dear, familiar face. How could she have forgotten it? There were wrinkles around his eyes, and the skin drooped around his chin and jowls, but the hair that escaped from under his cap was still thick and black.
His eyes brightened with recognition and he beamed. “Rosie! You’re the image of your mother many years ago! For a moment I thought …”
“Oh, Da,” Rose murmured and ran into his arms.
Tenderly he held her, his tears wetting her own cheek.
“Don’t cry, Da,” Rose whispered. “You know Johnny found me a job, and I’ll work hard. We’ll be able to bring Ma and the girls over in no time at all.”
Her father released her and mopped at his face with a large cotton handkerchief, stained—as were his hands, his overalls, and his denim jacket—with brick and mortar dust. “In no time at all,” he repeated. “That’s right, Rosie.”
Rose could smell the whiskey on her father’s breath. It puzzled her. Aside from a nip or two on special holidays, Da had never been a drinking man. Da was probably as nervous about seeing me again as I was about seeing him, Rose told herself, and put it out of her mind.
With a contrite smile he reached over and wiped her cheek with his handkerchief, showing her a smudge of black.
Rose clapped a hand to the spot he had rubbed.
“It’s not you, Rosie girl. It’s the boot black I put around the temples each day to cover the gray. Because work on some of the taller buildings is dangerous, the contractors don’t like to give jobs to the older men.”
Rose felt a sudden jolt of fear. “If the work’s dangerous, then maybe you shouldn’t be doing it.”
His voice took on a teasing tone as he said, “Everything in life has its dangers. Crossing a street with a trolley coming could be dangerous. Leaning out an open window to talk to a neighbor could be dangerous. Don’t fret yourself about it, Rosie. Promise me you won’t.”
“All right, Da,” she answered.
During supper the men ate with such eager concentration that Rose did all the talking. She told them about her shopping trip with Kate. “Our last stop was at the Maxwell Street market, out of doors. All those carts and vendors! I’ve never seen such food! It looked like enough to feed all of Ireland!”
Johnny laughed. “It’s not enough to feed even a portion of Chicago. You’ll find other markets like that which are just as busy.”
Rose reached into her pocket, pulled out a small handful of pennies, and placed them on the table. “After having to buy work clothes and a few things that were needed in the larder, this is all I have left of my traveling money—seven cents. Where do you keep the money you’re saving for Ma’s passage?”
Michael spoke up. “We take a portion from each of our paychecks—whatever we can spare after putting aside money for our living expenses and for Ma’s—and put it into a quart canning jar at the back of the pantry.”
“It’s not a set amount?”
“Sometimes we have more to spare than other times,” Johnny explained. “Occasionally, there’s a need to spend money for a new pair of shoes or a bit of socializing. I heard that Michael’s courting a girl, although he hasn’t told us about her yet.”
A dark red swept over Michael’s face. “There’s been no need to say anything about her. She’s a fine young woman, and she understands that there will be no ring and no nuptial Mass at the church until all the family’s been brought over. A walk in the park on Sunday is not costly.”
Rose reached across the table and covered Michael’s hand with her own. Smiling, she said, “I’d like to meet her, Michael. What’s her name?”
His voice was so low Rose could hardly hear the words. “Ellen Derry,” he mumbled.
Da nodded with satisfaction. “A good Irish girl then,” he said. “Catholic, as well?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “And she’s kind and beautiful and wonderful.”
“Why haven’t we met this kind, beautiful, wonderful girl?” Johnny teased.
Michael stood. His ears no longer looked as though they were on fire, but his voice was deep and tight as he scowled at his brother. “There will be no more talk about Ellen, not until we are ready to make arrangements for our wedding.” He gulped painfully. “And because of the circumstances, that will not be for at least two years.”
Eager to change the subject for Michael’s sake, Rose asked, “Where in the pantry do you keep the jar of money?”
Michael strode to the pantry, stretched to reach behind the parcels and containers of food, and pulled out a fat glass canning jar. A few bills and a small pile of coins lay in the bottom of the jar.
As he placed it on the table he examined it. “I thought there was more in the jar than this.”
“We took what we needed for Rosie’s passage, her train travel, and the twenty-five dollars she needed to enter the United States,” Da said.
Michael frowned. “I know, but after we bought Rosie’s passage we began contributing again.”
Johnny held out his hands and smiled. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t help myself to any of that. I even put in an extra dollar.”
“Wait a minute,” Rosie said. “Don’t you keep a record of what goes in here?”
“No,” Michael answered. “We just put in what we can.”
“Then no wonder there’s so much confusion.” Rose swept her hands down over her apron in a smoothing motion—realizing with a pang that it was a decisive gesture she’d often seen her mother make—and said, “I’ll put a piece of paper and a pencil in the pantry, along with the jar. Before the next weekly paychecks, we’ll have a talk and decide what each of us can contribute. Then, as we add it we’ll write it down.”
“Now, Rosie,” her father said good-naturedly. “You just arrived here and aren’t used to our ways as yet. We have a system, and it worked to get you and your brothers here.”
Johnny grinned. “That’s the way of all women,” he said. “Always wanting to take charge. Just wait until Michael and Ellen …”
As Michael took a quick step toward him, Johnny jumped from his chair to place the table between them. “I remember, no more talk about the kind, beautiful, and wonderful Ellen Derry.” He made a dash from the room.
Rose looked up at Michael, expecting to see an angry frown, but Michael was smiling. “Ellen is kind and beautiful and wonderful,” he said.
As Da got to his feet Michael clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I think Rosie is right about deciding on the amount of contributions and keeping a record,” he said. “The sooner we get Ma and the girls here, the better it will be for all of us.
Again he blushed, and Rose laughed.
“We’ll see, we’ll see,” her father said as he walked from the room, Michael following.
Rose surveyed the stacks of dirty dishes and pans and rolled up her sleeves, eager to finish the job. She was exhausted.
Tomorrow would be Sunday, and Rose was grateful for that one day during which she could catch her breath and prepare to begin a job for which—as far as she knew—she’d be totally unsuited.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE next morning Rose ignored her new clothes, even though her father and brothers wore dark suits and derby hats, and wore her homespun dress, shawl, and kerchief to Sunday Mass. Along the long walk to St. Columbanus many of the women Rose saw were also dressed in the clothes from their mother countries.
Although the Carneys arrived ten minutes before Mass was to begin, the c
hurch was nearly filled. Rose knelt to say a prayer before the tabernacle, then climbed over Michael into the aisle and made her way to the statue of Mary, the mother of Jesus. The statue, with welcoming arms outstretched to each side, was banked with flowers, and candlelight flickered in the small red glass votive cups in the stand directly behind the padded kneeler.
Rose knelt, made the Sign of the Cross, and gazed up at the statue, so much like the one in the convent in Drogheda that she allowed the warm familiarity to soothe away much of the trepidation she felt about what was expected of her in this new country.
The bells in the church tower began to ring, signifying that Mass was soon to begin, so Rose quickly got to her feet. She returned to the pew as the priest and altar boys entered the sanctuary and began the opening prayers of the Mass at the foot of the altar. Rose was familiar with the prayers said in Latin—thanks primarily to Sister Rita—and mentally recited the Confiteor, the Kyrie, and the Gloria along with the priest.
But after the readings of the Epistle and Gospel, while the tall, elderly priest—with a brogue straight from home—delivered his sermon, Rose’s mind began to wander. She couldn’t keep from thinking about the job she would begin the following day. Would the shop owner be understanding if she didn’t learn quickly? What if she made mistakes in giving change while getting used to the currency of this country? And how could she possibly survive an entire day inside that waist-squeezing metal-boned corset?
Rose gave a start of surprise as those around her suddenly stood for the Creed. The sermon was over, and for the life of her Rose couldn’t remember what Father had been talking about. During the rest of the Mass she tried her best to concentrate on her prayers, but there was so much on her mind it was hard to do.
After Mass Rose met their upstairs neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien. They were only three months here from Ireland, and Mrs. O’Brien, about the age of Kate, was obviously in a family way.
The Horbowys were sitting on the steps of the house, enjoying the sunshine, when the Carneys returned. They were an older couple with two nearly grown boys, and their English was understandable, for the most part. They asked Rose about her journey and related the horrors of their own trip across the ocean.
For the Carneys’ main meal there was a large pot of soup, which Rose had put on the stove to simmer before they left for Mass, and freshly baked soda bread, which disappeared all of five minutes after Da had said the grace before the meal. Feeding her father and two brothers was going to be a demanding job.
Da patted his full stomach and said, “I think I’ll take a little walk down to Casey’s.”
“Who is Casey?” Rose asked. “One of the neighbors?”
“Casey’s is a pub,” Michael said, and he frowned as he glanced at their father.
“Call it what you will, it’s nothing more than a comfortable place for friends to get together,” Da said and smiled, ignoring the look Michael was giving him. “It’s where some of the boys go to relax and talk over old times.”
Rose thought about her Sunday noon meals at home when she was a child and they were all together. Sometimes they had enough to eat, sometimes the meals were meager, but in any case her father would always pat his stomach and say, “There never was a cook as good as Maura Carney.” Then he’d pull on his jacket and go outside to tend to the animals.
Later, Rose would often see him leaning on the rock wall that separated the Carneys’ small plot of farm from their neighbor’s. Her father and a neighbor or two would be deep in conversation, “solving the problems of the world,” as her father liked to put it.
But here they were surrounded by crowded houses, cramped together block after block. It must not be easy for neighbors to find a relaxing spot where they could talk to one another. Rose realized that her father missed those visits with friends.
“Da,” Michael said, “why don’t you take Rosie to Jackson Park? She hasn’t seen some of the good-looking parts of Chicago.”
Johnny pushed back his chair and stood. “That’s a fine idea, Da. I’d like to go with you, but I’m meeting with the Clan na Gaelers.”
“The Clan na Gaelers?” Rose cried. “They were the ones responsible for the bombings in England!”
“Don’t fret about the past, Rosie,” Michael answered. “The Clan na Gael has new leaders, and there’s been no talk of violence.”
“Not with the Clan na Gael itself,” Da broke in with a wink. “But I have my doubts about that splinter group Johnny meets with. How about it, Johnny? What do those lads have up their sleeves?”
“Something for the good of Ireland,” Johnny said. “That’s all I’ll tell you.”
“Johnny!” Rose cried, fearful of what Johnny was hiding. “You know what Ma has always said about working out our problems with peaceful discussions.”
“So far peaceful discussions have led nowhere.”
“It takes time.”
Johnny’s easy manner disappeared. Angrily he asked, “What is it going to take to rightfully return our country to the Irish? The injustice of it all is why so many of us had to leave Ireland and come here.”
“I don’t have an easy answer for you,” Rose said. “But hotheaded actions without any thought behind them don’t solve anything.”
“Sitting around waiting like a bump on a log for something to happen doesn’t solve anything either,” Johnny snapped.
Da sighed. “It’s hard to forget the great famine with starving people dying in roadside ditches while British gentry rode past unheeding and uncaring.”
“Don’t encourage him, Da!” Rose warned.
For an instant Johnny’s eyes darkened, but Rose saw composure slip over him like a cloak, and when he smiled he was the same teasing, mischief-loving brother she knew. Jauntily, he strode from the kitchen, Michael and Da following.
Rose filled the teakettle and set it on the stove to heat water for washing the dishes. The sooner she finished cleaning up, the sooner she and her father could leave for the park. Michael had been right about one thing. She would love seeing something more of Chicago than crowded, soot-stained buildings.
“Rosie girl.”
She turned to see that her father was already dressed for outside in his suit coat and derby. “Oh, Da, I won’t be ready for a little while, but I’ll hurry,” Rose said.
“Take your time,” he answered. “I’ll just run down to Casey’s for a few moments with the boys while you’re putting the kitchen in order.”
“It won’t take much time. Just fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be back by then,” he insisted, and before she could say another word he had left the room.
There was nothing else to do but take him at his word, so Rose scraped plates, washed them in the hot suds, and scrubbed the table.
By the time she finished, her father hadn’t returned, so she peeled potatoes for the evening meal, covering them with water and setting the pot on the back of the stove. She washed and chopped a head of cabbage, also covering it with water. If they lingered at the park until it was late, then there would be little left to do for the meal than light the stove and fry a pound of bacon to go with the vegetables.
Rose walked to the front window to look out at the street. Where was Da? How much longer would he be?
Michael came into the room, stopped when he saw Rose, and shook his head. “I’m afraid that Da won’t be home for a good long while,” he told her.
“He promised he would.”
“He doesn’t remember his promises when he’s drinking.”
“When did he start with the drinking?” Rose took a deep breath and steadied herself for Michael’s answer.
“He’s lonely, Rosie. He misses Ma something terrible.”
“That’s no reason to …”
“He’s a farmer, good at working the land, but there are no farm jobs available here, so he works as an unskilled laborer in a job he hates. He tries to make the best of it, but the whole thing is too much for him. His o
nly consolation is meeting with his friends who are all in the same boat. They talk about the old days, and maybe they make them seem a little better than they were.”
Rose was shocked. “Are you saying it’s all right?”
Michael shook his head. “No. We agree it’s not all right. I’m saying we have to understand his problem. Then it will be easier to help him.”
“Whiskey costs money. That money could be better spent toward Ma’s and the little girls’ passage.” Rose thought about the money in the canning jar, shivering as she asked, “It was Da who helped himself to money from the jar, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t be hard on him, Rosie,” Michael said. “He’s working as hard as he can to bring Ma here.”
“I’ve a lot to think about,” she answered, “and much of it hurts. I just wish Ma was here to make things right.”
Michael rested a hand on Rose’s shoulder and smiled. “It’s a fine spring day with the sun bright and warm, not a day for staying indoors. Come with me. Ellen and I will take you to Jackson Park.” His voice dropped shyly as he said, “I’d like you and Ellen to meet each other.”
Rose took a step backward. “Not now. I’m still upset. Ellen and I should meet when …”
“You and Ellen should meet now,” Michael said firmly. “Wash your face. You’re going to enjoy a day in the park.”
“How should I dress? What will Ellen be wearing?”
“What difference does it make? The dress you have on is fine. Hurry, Rosie! Now! We don’t want to keep Ellen waiting.”
Dutifully, Rose scrubbed her face and brushed her hair before tying on her kerchief and swinging her shawl over her shoulders. She tried to push her father’s problem out of her mind, but she was still badly shaken by the news. Attempting to help, Michael kept up a steady one-sided conversation as they walked the long blocks to the house where Ellen lived.
Rose couldn’t help noticing that the neighborhood was changing for the better. Houses were larger and set farther apart on their lots. Many of the homes had been built of brick or stone and had rounded tower rooms, cupolas, and sheltered wraparound porches. There were lawn swings and large trees with widespread branches and women sitting on the porches in soft white dresses.
Ellis Island: Three Novels Page 17
