Divide the Dawn- Fight

by Eamon Loingsigh

  Dance looks round at all the eyes on him as Freddie comes to stand at his side, “We are friends. An’ fightin’ is how I got where I am. Ya want me to stop now that I’m a righthand? Nah, I’ll fight to my last breath.”

  He turns to little Whyo Mullen and hands him the wad, then reaches up to me with four blood-soaked bills, “I’m sorry for ya loss.”

  I don’t want that, I think. Acceptance is defeat.

  The slew of shadowy faces that await my decision look on with interest. From behind The Swede gives me a slight nudge and when I turn back to him, he nods ahead.

  begrudgingly I accept the cash. I have no choice, and immediately the faces turn back to the Mullen tenement. Embarrassment burns through me like fire and I can feel the blood rise to my head.

  “Don’ let it stick to ya,” The Swede leans down to me. “What’s right is right. Don’ matter who or where it comes from.”

  “I didn’t ask what you think.”

  His long face turns down to my direction, but quickly his eyes move to something behind me, “There they are.”

  A young woman in a shapely, low-waistline dress walks toward us with a child at her hand. A small brooch shines in the lamplight on her upper bosom; gold branches that open into four petals with a mat-white pearl in the center to match the thick hair that rolls over her marble shoulders. The shadow of trees along Hudson Avenue seem to herald her arrival and tents of yellow gaslight frames her approach as a nervous smile forms on her face.

  I grab Vincent’s arm, “My god, she is beautiful. Who is she?”

  “That’s Helen. Helen Finnigan.”

  The Swede runs to greet her. He touches her shoulder and looks back proudly. He then leans his lengthy body down like a giant giraffe going to its knees, and picks up the child with one arm. But the smile on his face turns bitter when the crowd sees them.

  “It’s not right,” a voice calls out from somewhere.

  “Go ‘way with yerself, ye mongrel!” A woman announces.

  “Ye Finnigans are not above the teachin’s in Leviticus!”

  The Swede stands in front of the young mother, but his voice is drowned out by the heckling. Slowly she wheels round in the sight of all and with disdain showering over her by insult, she goes up on her toes to whisper in the little boy’s ear held by The Swede.

  “No!” the child protests. “I want to stay. I want to play!”

  She touches the child’s chin in its father’s arms, but he kicks and screams. Back up the hill of Hudson Avenue they go, his cries banking off the tenement walls.

  Vincent leans in to me for a whisper, “Thos Carmody’s back at the Dock Loaders’ Club wit’ Dinny right now.”

  “It’s about time he come see us. He hasn’t been here since before he left for the war. We need allies. We can’t hold the line alone.”

  “He’s a good man, ya can trust ol’ Quick Thos. But I feel bad for him. What he’s been through? He almost died over there an’ I think it turned him—”

  “Turned him?”

  “I don’ know, he’s different now. I went wit’ him on his first hunt when we got Silverman, remember Silverman? Now though, he’s a killer.”

  “Is he backing us, or Bill?”

  “He says it’s us but wanted a word alone wit’ Din.”

  “I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anybody anymore.”

  “Listen, I know what’ll help ya through this grief o’ losin’ ya dad. Come wit’ me to the Adonis t’night.”

  Can you bring Emma McGowan back to life? Because that would be the only way I will ever have sex. If it’s not Emma, I don’t want anyone.

  Vincent continues, “Some o’ the guys are comin’ too, but don’ tell Dinny.”

  “Do you really think Dinny doesn’t know everything we do?”

  Vincent straightens out a thin, brown piece of paper and drops tobacco flakes in it, “Sure he knows, we just don’ make a big production about it, right? Come wit’. I know ya still ain’t never rode a female yet. We can cure ya o’ that t’night, I’m payin’. We’ll put ya up in a room wit’ Grace White an’ those big soft diddies. She’ll be gentle wit’ ya. She knows where the cock goes,” he snickers at his own rhyme.

  “No thanks—”

  “More o’ a ass man? I’ll have Kit Carroll drop to her elbows for ya. Her hips are like the fookin’ cradle o’ civilization, them yokes. Some people say Egypt is the cradle o’ civilization. Nah, that’s a lie. Cradle o’ civilization is a woman’s hips. Think about it for a second, it makes sense. Ya wanna go then? We’re takin’ the train.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Oh did ya hear?” He interrupts and points out into the crowd, “They’re callin’ me Queensolver now. it’s one word. Queensolver.”

  “Who calls you that?”

  “Everyone, c’mon,” the hand-rolled cigarette is now amidst his teasing grin.

  “No one has said it round me.”

  “It’s true though,” Vincent elbows my ribs too hard.

  “I’ve heard people call you Masher.”

  “That’s a old word. I’m thinkin’ o’ the future now. Lemme tell ya somethin’ a smart fella once said to me, ‘Vincent, ya’re a murderer o’ men, an’ a killer o’ virgins.’ But I don’t like that, understand? I don’ kill females, uhright? I solve them like. From their virginity. An’ their own feelin’s. All they want is love, an’ in this world love is hard to come by, the poor creatures. Ya ever watch a female cry? Like really watch it? It’s a amazin’ thing. Pure emotion that bubbles up from within her. It draws me closer like a moth to light, ya know? Some fellas hate when a female cries. I love it. There’s nothin’ in this world can compare to the purity in her heart. They’re all queens, every last one o’ them. An’ I’m the Queensolver, don’ forget. An’ tell people to call me it too.”

  “I’m not doing that,” I say.

  But he ends the conversation by thanking me as he has become entranced in eye contact with a girl in a heavy dress and hair pinned in an onion bun atop her head, “I gotta go. There’s tomatoes need pickin’.”

  Up ahead the crowd parts in half as Dinny Meehan walks through with a man by his side. Children pace ahead of them, others sprint excitedly behind like pups nipping at the pack leader’s heels. A few men reach out for a handshake, though the women regard his advance breathlessly. When he stops it is to gently hold the back of an elder’s hand and to smile with lowered eyes that could be judged as fealty.

  The man behind him has a collar or lapel covering part of his face with one eye that stares out and reads his surroundings like a big cat cases unknown territory. He has thick hair; wavy at the hairline and bunches a bit in the back, brown and somewhat oily. The copper-colored stubble on his chin and cheeks highlight the judging eye.

  Dinny approaches us on the sidewalk, “Liam, ya remember the ILA’s Treasurer o’ New York, Thos Carmody?”

  Thos and I shake hands, but he keeps one side of his face hidden. He mumbles something vaguely respectful, but keeps close attention to the movements in his peripherals.

  Behind me The Lark barks out a laughs and Thos moves to meet the sound. That is when I see the rest of his face. I know that scar pattern. Like stars in the night sky. The man who attacked me, was it him? Thos Carmody?

  “I know you,” says I.

  Thos’s leopard eye finds me, “Excuse me?”

  “You attacked me on the pier. You were wearing a mask.”

  Thos looks at Dinny, “What’s he talkin’ about?”

  “Liam.”

  “He had those same grapeshot scars but. . . but he had another scar. Others.”

  “Don’ listen to him, he’s been actin’ up all day,” Vincent grabs my arm. “Liam, this is Thos. He’s on our side.”

  “He’s not on our side. He’s on the fence, hedging his bets,” I move closer to him. “I always hear how smart you are, Carmody. Well you must be smarter than I am because I could never keep up with all the lies you tally. The thing is,
if you lie all the time you wouldn’t know the truth if it was pissing in your ear. You haven’t committed to us, have you? Why not do it now? On your word, go ahead.”

  Dinny cuts in, “Listen Liam, we just struck an agreement t’day.”

  “What agreement?”

  “I can’t tell ya right off, uhright? We gotta keep things low.”

  I don’t like him. I don’t like the cunning look in that eye.

  Vincent pulls me aside, “Just calm down, uhright? Ya know ya really should consider comin’ wit’ t’night. Ya’re all backed up. Ya need to release some o’ them seeds or else ya might turn blue. Thos is a good guy.”

  “It’s alright, Vin,” Thos says with cool caution. “I see he’s got the balls for brawls. We all know a hard man’s good to find.”

  When Henry Browne comes to shake hands with Thos, he mumbles something to Dinny and skulks alone through the darkness, hands deep in coat pockets.

  “He doesn’t look like a prodigy to me,” says I.

  “I told ya he’s changed since the war,” Vincent tilts in my direction.

  “What kind of deal did we make with him?”

  Dinny looks at me, then the tenement across the street, “Any word on Mrs. Mullen an’ the baby?”

  Just then Whyo peeks his head out from the crowd to stare up at us on the sidewalk and seconds later his buddy Will comes out too. But it’s Whyo who speaks, “My Ma just asked to see Vincent upstairs.”

  Dinny and I turn to him as he rolls his eyes, “Why me?”

  Whyo comes forward a step, “She says she wants to see ya hold. . . the boy.”

  “It’s a boy?” Vincent yanks out the paper cigarette from his mouth and flicks it behind him.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a boy!” Vincent yells out into the street.

  “Hurrah, a boy!” Some in the back of the crowd overhear him.

  “It’s a boy?” The news starts to spread as he runs through the slew of people.

  “A soldier!”

  “A soldier o’ the dawn,” another yells. “A good omen!”

  As Vincent is ascending the steps, a Model-T motorcar approaches the crowd with the driver leaning on the horn, Ooo-wa, ooo-wa. The red cross from its service in the Great War had been painted over, though you can still see the outline of it on the ambulance car.

  Whyo comes to Dinny’s side and pulls on his coat, “They gotta take the baby to the hospital.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Dinny says.

  Though Whyo’s disagreement is plain to see, he chokes back a response.

  “Dinny,” I whisper.

  Mrs. Lonergan is howling as she storms through the crowd, “They want to take the baby to the hospital! The hospital. It’s there they’ll give the child the black bottle, they will!”

  “No hospitals,” Dinny confirms.

  “Dinny, it’s not like it was in the old times round here.”

  Whyo Mullen swallows and looks up with big eyes, “The doctor said if they don’t bring little Vincent to the hospital, he’ll die ‘cause he came too early. He’s not, umm, developed all the way yet.”

  “No hospitals!” Mrs. Lonergan screeches and stands in front of the boy as all in the street turn to us again. “They don’ want Catholics, never have. If they need the bed for a Protestant, they’ll give the poor dote a remedy. Then ya will feel twice as bad, won’t ya?”

  Dinny comes down to one knee, “Whyo, what do ya wanna do?”

  Whyo straightens up and licks his lips, “I don’ want him to die. I’ll stay wit’ him an’ protect him. I’ll stay up all night. . . in the hospital.”

  Dinny pats him on the shoulder, “Ya’re good to ya fam’ly.”

  “What if Vincent don’ wanna take him to the hospital?” He asks.

  “Tell Vincent ya’re the man o’ the fam’ly until someone else steps up. If he don’ like it, have him speak wit’ me.”

  The boy runs off and pushes through the crowd with Will Sutton close behind.

  Chisel McGuire slaps me on the back, “Let’s celebrate! This one’s for the Mullen boyo. . . an’ ya dead Da, Liam.”

  Chisel’s coat is stiff with dirt from sleeping in empty lots. And even though he is dressed like some flimflam man of the last century in black tails, a broken chain to a broken pocket-watch hanging from his moth-eaten waistcoat and a dusty top hat under his arm, Chisel has a strong and pleasing voice.

  High upon the gallows tree

  swung the noble hearted three,

  By the vengeful tyrant stricken in their bloom,

  But they met him face to face,

  With the courage of the race,

  And they went with souls undaunted to their doom. . .

  “Talk to me,” Dinny touches my arm and waves the others to stay back. “Poetic words, yeah? That ol’ song?”

  “They are, but not for a newborn.”

  A laugh rumbles deep in his chest, “Didn’t ya father take part in the risin’ in Ireland?”

  “No way to know for sure. Da never spoke unnecessary words. But I heard out in Clare they were told to stand down.”

  Dinny’s head turns as he looks closer into my face, “Ya’re angry wit’ him? Even now.”

  “He had a plan for me all along. Like he thought he was some kind of god or something. Except he didn’t realize—”

  “That ya’d have ya own struggles?” He nods and purses his lips in wonder. “What makes ya think ya brother don’ have his own problems on the farm? I never met ya father, but I’m willin’ to bet he did all he could to help ya both prepare for the troubles o’ ya own day the best he knew how.”

  I stare off into the middle distance, then turn back to Dinny, “The British government claimed he was involved in raids since January when the Irish Dáil declared independence. I believe it. He came from a long line of men who fought the English in West Ireland. His father was a Moonlighter. And back further there were wood-kernes in our line.”

  God save Ireland, said the heroes

  God save Ireland, said they all

  Whether on the scaffold high

  Or the battlefield we die

  Oh what matter when for Erin dear we fall?

  “He was a warrior. An’ still t’day his line continues. Ya’re no different, only time has changed. People like ya father, an’ people like us? We don’ want for power over others, we only want to be ourselves. There’s honor in ya father’s death. Great honor. He went to his doom wit’ an undaunted soul. My father would thank yours. My father died o’ some sickness after we came to Brooklyn. He was a pious man. A quiet man. Wordless but for prayer. Ya father fought to right the wrongs done to mine. For retribution an’ for freedom. An’ for that I’m thankful.”

  I look off again. The anger that had bunched up in my shoulders begins to ease, until I think again of what happened to me on the pier. No one can know what I saw. No one understands. I don’t even understand.

  “I worry for my mother, is all. And for my sisters. Look what happened to Brosnan. And to Mickey. Anybody can die at any time and you just don’t know until it’s too late.”

  “Do ya believe in signs?”

  “Like from god?”

  “Nah. . . maybe. There’s so much out there we don’ understand. Ya can call it god. Destiny. Fate. Belief. Hope. Even fear, but when it’s boiled down to the bone, we don’ know if things actually happen for a reason. But sometimes a sign appears. When McGowan died I lost someone I could trust. Then, at his wake,” Dinny reaches over and touches my arm. “You appeared.”

  “Seems like a lifetime ago.”

  “It was a sign. From where or what, I don’ know. The world needs honorable people to fight against the things we’ll never be able to conquer, like death. But we’re not defined by death. We’re defined by what we fight for. Not what we lose to.”

  I blink through my thoughts, but I don’t know how to respond.

  “How is ya mother doin’?” He speaks to me without looking and I can feel he i
s not happy that I have never introduced him.

  “I. . . I don’t know. How do ya tell a woman she’s a widow?”

  “Gently,” Dinny nods, then glances in my direction. “Just keep her away from Vincent.”

  We share a smile as the shadows in the street begin to disburse and mumble off into the night while Dinny and I stand together on the sidewalk.

  I swallow hard, “On the pier at the Atlantic Terminal after we fought the Russians. I saw. . . I thought it was Garry Barry. Then I thought I saw the same scars Thos Carmody has. And it even had Bill Lovett’s bullet through the scalp, but he was wearing a mask. A black mask with a long nose, like one of those old Italian theatre masks.” He nods knowingly as I ramble on, “But what does all of it mean? That’s what has me undone. I can fight, I know that. I understand that I have to do all I can to hold the line and make sure you stay in power. But it’s what I don’t understand what drives me mad.”

  “The Bard says we live in a ghost story,” his voice is gravelly. “An’ we are the ghosts.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Maybe it means we’re not supposed to know everythin’.”

  “That doesn’t help me.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “What else does he say, this so-called bard?”

  “He says the physical world is but a troupe o’ actors recitin’ a script. But soldiers rage in war under the surface,” His eyes find mine. “In the Otherworld. There, the dead are animate, like in dream, the risen people. Grotesque monsters an’ warrior heroes battle in an eternal struggle for the right to claim the souls o’ the livin’. An’ only a great spectacle determines the victor who takes the right to rule over dawn.”

  “Ghosts,” my voice is seasoned heavily with doubt.

  “Pookas,” Dinny laughs. “Whisperin’ in our ears.”

  “But that’s just—”

  “Turf fire gossip.”

  “Soup stories, we called them. I’ve always wondered who wrote them. I mean like originally?”

  Dinny smiles, “We did. You did.”

  My stomach turns, “When would I have written them?”