Maggie Now

by Betty Smith

  Staunchly, Patsy promised to pay the passage money

  back. That he would, the sport assured him. A man from

  the steamship branch in Brooklyn would come once a

  week and take two dollars from his wages until the ticket

  was paid up. Patsy agreed with the sport that the

  remaining three dollars was a "forchune" in America or

  anywhere else.

  Patsy put his name on a paper.

  "You'll be wanting some loose change for the trip,"

  suggested the sport.

  "Glory be," said Patsy. "Does the company give out

  spending money, too?"

  "Well, hardly. But your wheel. You'll have no use for it

  when you're gone. I'll take it olf your hands for two

  pounds. You ride over on it Tuesday when the coach

  leaves for Cobh Harbor and I'll take ownership then and

  give you the pound notes."

  [ AS]

 

  Big Red wasn't happy. His mother and sister forever

  found fault with him. Maggie Rose was not a bit grateful.

  She told her brother she hated him because he had

  thrashed her love and shamed him and herself in the

  village.

  "Now he'll go from me forever," she wept.

  "Over me dead body," vowed Big Red.

  "Why did you come a-tween us?" she sobbed. "I vitas

  vialling to wait till his mother died. Why did you make

  him the clown of the county?"

  "Anyone," he said bitterly, "who would marry a

  sharp-tongue girl like you his mother living or dead is

  a clown born and not made." He was instantly sorry.

  "forgive me wild talk, Maggie Rose, do," he said.

  There was that pain coming, in his left temple; a sure

  sign that he was thinking deep. God forgive me, he

  thought, if I did a wrong to this boy what never knew me, by

  giving him a licking and putting his name up to be read in

  church q~i,.b me sister's.

  His mother's reception of the wedding gift his Lottie

  had sent by him wasn't appreciated by Big Red. It was a

  pair of pillow shams with hand-crocheted edges. .7~1rs.

  Shawn claimed the linen was coarse and that Lottie had

  changed crochet patterns in the middle of an edging

  "'Tis not so," shouted Bh, Rcd. 'L ver! thins, ~i! Lottie

  does is beautiful."

  "Ah, the sloppy hous. she must be keeping for rile only

  son," sighed the Widow.

  "So help me, God, Mother . . ." he shouted.

  "Raise your voice to me again," she interrupted, and I'll

  give it to you. Big as you art!"

  Holy Mother, he praN+ed, let me not be losing me

  temper Old brie here for only a bit of a while with the

  mother caveat bore me arid me only baby sister.

  Slie kept him working. She had him wl-litewash the

  cottage and clean out the pig sty, mend the ruined stone

  wall and chop up a dead tree for firewood. Now, Big Red

  was an obliging man and he would have loved doing

  things for his mother except that she acted as though it

  were her due and his privilege to serve her. Why, when he

  did some little thing for Lottie, like lifting the vv-ashboiler

  up onto the stove or sawing off a broom handle, say!

  1 ';:1

 

  she kissed him and carried on as though he had given her

  a dozen American Beauty roses.

  Another thing irked hirn: a friend of his mother's. This

  friend was a dirty, old, one-eyed man with a goat and a

  zither, who kept showing up at the house nearly every day.

  Invariably, his mother brought a plate of food out to the

  man and Tim saw their heads together in low

  conversation.

  "What's he doing here all the time?" asked Tim.

  "Nothing," replied the mother. "He's making up a grand

  ballad and I'm helping him."

  All of a sudden he missed his Lottie so much!

  Back in Brooklyn, Lottic was putting the finishing

  touches to the midday snack of lamb stew, crusty, fresh

  Jewish rye bread, sweet butter, pound cake with ice cream

  on top, and coffee, that she was preparing for herself and

  son Widdy. As she worked, she sang her icernan song. She

  sang it in a sad cadence because her Timmy was away.

  And I found out once or twice, That all you can get

  from the iceman Is ice! Ice! Ice!

  Widdy, coming home from school for lunch, saw the

  letter in the mailbox ill the vestibule. Ele brought it up to

  his mother. It was from Timmy a short letter.

  Dear Lottie:

  Don't ou ever leave note.

  Yours truly, Timothy Shawn.

  She put the letter down her shirtwaist over her left

  breast where she judged her heart to be. It was the first

  letter he'd ever written her.

  Big Red did not feel well. He was thinking too deep.

  The conviction was growing in him that he had done

  wrong in forcing the marriage. But he wavered What was

  right, what was wrong? What was right for his sister might

  be wrong for Patrick Dennis. He couldn't figure it out. He

  hit on the idea of putting himself in Patsy's place.

  or 27 ]

  i1Iake believe, he started out, that I loved Lottie but ain't

  thinking of marrying at the tinge. So her old chro~no of a

  mother sends for Lottie's brother what lives far away maybe

  up in the Catskills. So he comes down and he pucks me in

  the nose, say, and tells me there's more where that comes

  from in front of people, if I don't marry his sister. So what

  would I do?

  He clenched his hands and his face got red and the

  cords stood out on his neck. Why . . . why I'd beat the

  be-Jesus OZlt of the bastid and the old chromo too and

  Lottie could go fish. That's just what I'd do.l

  Then he was sorry for the way he had treated Patsy.

  Why, he thought, I'm no better than that Catskill Mo?mtain

  bastid! (He forgot that Lottie had no brother.)

  He fell back in his chair and Wolfe out into a sweat. He

  had thought the whole thing through. I shouldn't-a butted

  in, he concluded. The wimmen folks could have handled it

  theirselves. Like they're doing anyways.

  He decided to see Lizzie Moore before he left. He

  would try to get her to remove all obstacles to her son

  marrying Maggie Rose. But Lizzie wouldn't let him in the

  house, even. She barred the doorway with folded arms

  and spread legs.

  "Missus," he said, "let there be peace amongst us and

  give up so's your son can marry me sister and we'll be

  relations and friends."

  "Friends?" she sneered. "The gall of the man!" she told

  an imaginary companion. "And friends in the bargain!

  Hah!"

  "Do not stand in the way. It is decent and good that a

  man marry a woman."

  "Why?'' she asked.

  "First off to sleep with." Although embarrassed, he

  looked her straight in the eye because he thought that was

  right that a man marry to sleep with his woman.

  "You durtee little man!" She spat in the direction of his

  shoe.

  "Do not hol
d him, Missus. Let him go from you."

  "He'll never go from me."

  "He will. Like the others. Where are your children?

  Where's Lenny and Shamus and Sean and Robbie and

  Neely what I played with as a boy? All are gone. Gone

  because you held them too hard. Hold your last one easy

  and he won't go far away."

  1 2s 1

 

  She thought of Patsy going to America and her face

  worked. He thought she grieved for her other children. He

  said: "Let your tears fall out, Missus. 'Twill bring you some

  peace."

  "Bad cess to you and to all of youse," she muttered. She

  went into the shanty and started to shut the door. He held

  it open with his foot.

  "Look, Missus," he said. He reached into his pocket and

  drew out a packet of new dollar bills. "I brought a dowry

  for me sister. One hundred new American dollars. A

  forchune in Ireland or anywhere else in the world." He

  fanned out the bills. He saw her eyes flicker with interest.

  Her thoughts tumbled `,ver each other like acrobats. 'Tis

  me boy's money if he marries her. If I let them live here, I

  could have the money f or meself. I could buy me a broody

  hen setting on a dozen eggs and a left-out weaner pig what

  wouldn't cost dear what I could feed up to be a grand sow.

  And a calf what would be a milking cow in time. And to

  think on it! All the money brought into the house from the

  eggs and crea,,mt and butter and from the selling of rashers

  of bacon and hams from me pigs always holding some back

  to breed the next year . . . But, she wavered, I'd have to have

  that one, his sister, in me house.

  Big Red knew her thoughts. "Think on it, Missus," he

  said. "A hen, a suckling pig and a weaned calf. And

  enough money over to build a room onto your shanty for

  me sister and your boy. And when yourself is old and

  helpless, Maggie Rose would wait on you and carry you in

  her hand. Ah, 'tis a grand picture."

  Lizzie Moore saw a different picture. She saw Maggie

  Rose in her son's arms, right before her eyes always in

  his arms, day and night. She heard the girl say: "Your

  mother's in the way." There'd be friction. She could hear

  her son say: "Me wife is right, Mother. 'Tis you at fault."

  She was honest enough to know she'd die of jealousy and

  wise enough to know she couldn't change her ways.

  "And think of the grandchilthren," said Big Red, "follying

  you around and swinging on your skirts."

  The mention of grandchildren did it!

  "I'll have none of your sister and her whelps in me house."

  She slammed the door and he heard the bolt shoot home.

  ~ 29]

 

  By agreement, Patsy and his mother pretended to be all

  for the marriage the following Sunday. When the priest

  read the banns for a second time and the congregation

  turned around to gloat, Mrs. Moore smiled and bowed

  graciously and Patsy smiled tenderly at the Shawn family.

  This threw the villagers into confusion. After Mass, they

  gathered in groups outside the church and held worried,

  whispered consultations. Had something gone wrong, they

  asked each other. Would he marry the girl after all? It

  was a big letdown. Big Red relaxed and was happy. He

  felt he had done the right thing after all.

  Two days later, Patrick Dennis strapped a homemade

  knapsack, made of coarse linen, on his back. It held all he

  owned: six colored handkerchiefs, his other shirt and a

  pair of woolen socks knitted by his loving mother.

  "And you will send for me before the year is out?" she

  asked for the tenth time.

  "That I will, Mother dear."

  "Swear! "

  He swore on the little black leather prayer book she

  had given him when he made his First Communion.

  "May I drop dead," he swore, "if I don't send for ,N70U

  V-ithin the year. As God is my witness."

  "Amen,~' she said, as she nicked the book in his

  knapsack.

  He looked around once more before he mounted his

  bicycle. The soft, green, rolling hills . . . the blue sky and

  tender white clouds and the pink, wild roses tangled on

  the tumble-down, grad, rock wall around the cottage.

  And he didn't want to go he didn't want to go. But he

  was caught up in the momentum of all the events and the

  arrangements were made and it was easier to go than to

  stay.

  Way down the road, he saw a filthy figure coming along

  and leading a goat and carrying a zither. A whine came

  on the wind. Henny, the Hermit, was singing as he

  walked.

  Oh, I'll sing you the story Of Patsy Dee NIoore.

  Patsy jigged with impatience while his mother sprinkled

  the bicycle and himself with holy water and ceremoniously

  pinned

  ~ 3 ]

 

  a St. Christopher's medal to his undershirt. When that was

  done, he got onto his bike in one frenzied leap. His

  mother's parting words were:

  "God grant, me son, that her basrid of a brother don't

  ketch you sneaking out of Ireland."

  He turned to wave and w heeled out of his mother's life,

  and out of Ireland forever.

 
  PAIRICK DENNIS MOORE stood on American soil

  once removed by the slate pavement. His first impression

  of America was that half the people in the new world were

  riding bicycles.

  Sure, he thought, here they Must give them away with a

  pound of tea for where would all these people be getting the

  naor~ey to buy them?

  He stood on the curb, knapsack on back and card with

  Moriarity's address clutched in his hand. "Ask a cop," a

  man in the steerage had instructed him. "Be sure to call

  him 'officer' and he'll tell you how to get the ferry to

  Brooklyn." Patsy saw a cop across the street but the traffic

  confused him so he didn't know how to cross.

  Great beer trucks, some drawn by six Percherons,

  pounded by; horse-drawn cars clanged along on iron

  tracks. A funeral procession, composed of a hearse, an

  open carriage full of floral pieces and ten coaches of

  mourners, crawled along. The dead man, likely as not

  ineffectual in life, was important enough in death to hold

  up traffic for ten minutes.

  Two-wheeled carts, some loaded with fruit, others with

  junk, were pushed along by men with long, patriarchal

  beards. The junk carts had cowbells on a leather strap

  across the top. The bells made an unholy, discordant

  jangle in the jungle of noises. A lot of cursing, most of it

  directed at the bearded men, seemed necessary to keep all

  the vehicles moving.

  Bicycles skimmed in and out, confounding all traffic. The

  [32 1

 

  riders irritated everyone by their nervous tinkling of the

  bicycle bells. The men rode lo
oking constantly over a

  shoulder, which made the bicycles swerve from here to

  there.

  A bell-clanging fire engine thundered by and the horses!

  hoofs drew sparks from the cobblestones. Patsy stared in

  amazement at a spotted dog that ran along under the fire

  truck, avoiding, by some miracle, being ground to death

  by the fast-turning wheels.

  There -were hansom cabs and lacquered traps and

  varnished carriages drawn by nervous, shining horses and

  with elegantly dressed dandies and ladies lolling back on

  the cushions.

  A two-horse ambulance whizzed by. The driver kept

  kicking the gong, which gave out a noise like a great

  alarm. A whitesuited intern swayed on the back step,

  holding on to a strap and reading the morning paper

  while the ambulance rushed him to some place of sudden

  accident and probably death.

  An uncovered wagon, loaded with fish and flies and

  drawn by a starveling horse whose uncertain gait made the

  weighing scales jangle, came along. The fishmonger blew

  rusty toots on a tin horn and hoarsely called out Fish! at

  intervals.

  The cop across the street was moving away. Patsy was

  afraid he'd lose him so he made an attempt at crossing

  the street. Bedlam! Whistles blew, bells tinkled, gongs

  clanged, drivers cursed, horses reared and a man fell off

  a high-wheeled bicycle. People yelled at Patsy:

  "Get out-a the gutter, yer Goddamned greenhorn!" This

  was Patsy's first greeting in the new world.

  "Wipe-a behin' ears, dotty mick," yelled an Italian fish

  peddler. This was the first instruction Patsy received.

  And, "Go back where you come from, why doncha,"

  from one of Horatio Alger's newsboys, was the first piece

  of disinterested advice Patsy received in America.

  Patsy scuttled back to the sidewalk, thinking: I'll get to

  know the language in time, for 'tis almost like English.

  A hansom cab worked its way over to the curb where

  Patsy was standing. The driver sat high up on the back of

  the cab. Of course he had a red nose and a battered top

  hat.

  "Cab, sir?"

  1~32:1

 

  Eagerly, gratefully, Patsy held up the card which had

  Moriarity's Brooklyn address. "Would you IIOW, old Da',

  take me to this place?" he said.

  "Not all the way, me boy, sir. Horse can't swim. But I'll

  take you to the dock and you take the ferry from there."

  "How do I get in your wagon, then?" asked Patsy. "Or

  do you be having room up there with you where I can see

  the sights of the town? "

  "Let's see the color of your money first," said the driver.

  Patsy showed him a pound note. "Counterfeit! " gasped

  the cabbie. Then he said: "Oh, no, you don't, sport. Lucky

  I don't turn you over to the cops." He flicked the horse

  with his whip and worked his way back into the stream of

  traffic.

  A businesslike young man, with a sheaf of papers in his

  hand, who had been watching Patsy for some time, now

  approached him.

  "Name, please!" he said briskly, giving Patsy a keen look.

  "Patrick Dennis Moore," said Patsy obediently. The

  young man riffled through his papers.

  "And you are going . . . i" Patsy gave him the card. The

  young man read the name and address. "Ah, yes," he said.

  He pulled a paper out of the sheaf. "I-lere it is. Phew!" He

  wiped his face with his hand. "I thought I lost you. I've

  been looking all over for you since the ship docked."

  "You know me, then?" Isked Patsy, astonished.

  "I know who you are. I work for Mr. Moriarity, too." He

  extended the hand of friendship. Deliriously happy, Patsy

  wrung it. "Gee, Mr. Moore," said the young man

  appealingly, "please don't tell Or. Moriarity that I Nsas

  late meeting you. He'll sack me."

  "Things have been said of me," said Patsy grandly, "but

  never that I was an informer."

  "When I first spotted lT by, said the young man, "I could

  tell you vvas true bye. Now," lie said briskly, "where's your

  luggage?"

  "All I own in the world is strapped to me back."