by Betty Smith
anyone and my few relatives are all in Boston...."
"I know the very ones," he said. "Like your old man used
to say, I know somebody what owes me a favor."
He had decided to ask Big Red. Why? Who knows.
Perhaps he thought Big Red would write Maggie Rose and
tell her Patsy had named his first child after her and she'd
be pleased and sad and know that he still thought of her
even though she had married another after all her
promises. Maybe, as he had told Mary. Big Red owed him
something. And maybe it was because Patsy didn't have a
friend in all the world that he could ask.
He prepared for his visit to Big Red's house by going to
C011fession. He had made a vow: Might he drop dead if
he ever set foot in that house again. He was sure God
hadn't taken that seriously but why take a chance on
dropping dead?
Father Flynn wasn't too easy on him. First, he gave hint
penance for the sin itself; then more penance for waiting
over three years to confess it. More penance for never
coming to Mass except on Easter and Christmas. Added
on was penance for over three years of routine sinning.
Finally Father Flynn doubled the whole thing because he
didn't like Patsy's arrogant attitude when 1 ''i', 1
he, Father Flynn, told him that under no circumstance
must he miss Mass, weekly confession and communion
again. Patsy spent two hours on his knees doing the
penance.
He took communion next morning and, feeling brave
and pure, he set out for East New York. Lottie and Tim
were very glad to see him and, to Patsy's relief, no
mention was made of their quarrel. Lottie wept with joy.
"This is the first time anybody ever asked me to be
godmother. I can hardly wait."
" 'Tis a great honor," said Big Red, "the asking me to be
godfather and the naming of the little one after me baby
sister."
(Baby sister, as proved by a picture Big Red had lately
received from Ireland, had grown plump and matronly
looking. The three small children clustered about her
looked plump and matronly, too. But to Big Red she
would always be Baby Sister.)
Father Flynn christened the child. Lottie gave the baby
the traditional christening gift: a little locket with a chip
diamond in the middle of a little gold heart.
"Diamonds is for April," said Lottie.
"She looks just like me baby sister looked when she was
born," said Big Red. Then he blushed. "That was the
wrong thing to say," he apologised.
"Oh, no," said Mary. "I'm pleased. I heard that your
sister is very beautiful."
"That she is."
"The baby don't fool; like nobody," said Patsy coldly.
"Just like her own sweet self," said Lottie tactfully.
"That's right," said Big Red, ill at ease. "Well,
sweetheart," he said to his wife, "I guess we gotta make a
break."
"He always calls me sweetheart," said Lottie to Mary.
"That's nice," said llary. "And won't you come again to
see us and the baby?"
"I'd love to," said Lottie.
"Sure," agreed Big Red.
"Come often," urged Mary.
The three looked to Patsy to second the invitation. Patsy
stood mute.
"Well, like I said," said Big Red uncomfortably, "we got to
go."
t841
After they'd left, Mary said: "You never thanked him,
Patrick."
"Why should I? He owes me. I don't owe him. He owes
me the way he can never make up to me for what he
did to me."
"Remember that," she said a little bitterly, "the next time
you go to confession three years from now."
He felt a pang because it was the first time she'd ever
spoken unkindly to him. He knew that she loved him. He
had never responded to her love, nor even acknowledged
it. But he liked to have it around in escrows, as it were.
She has her baby, Rev, he thought. And now she will take
her love from me and give it all to the child.
A few days after the baptism, a package for the baby
arrived from The M[issus. It was llary's christening robe,
slightly yellow with age. Attached to it was a five-dollar
bill and a note. The Missus hoped the dress would get
there in time for the christening, and she would have
come to see her first grandchild, only Aunt Henrietta
wasn't well and . . .
"Some family," sneered Patsy. "Wouldn't take the trouble
to come and see the only child of the only daughter."
"Now, Patrick," said Mary patiently. She knew Patsy was
terribly disappointed that her mother hadn't come for a
visit. She knew that he was very fond of The Missus.
For the first year of its life, the baby ` as called and
referred to as "Baby." Mary waited for a nickname to
evolve. Would it he "Maggie Rose" or "Pegeen" or
"Maggie"?
In that neighborhood, few children were called by their
baptismal names. The formal name appeared or was used
only for diplomas and registration and things like that.
Sometimes foreignborn parents had trouble pronouncing
a name; sometimes the child nicknamed itself. A
"Catherine" would be pronounced, "Cat-rip," shortened to
"Cat," then expanded to "Catty" and finally translated to
"Pussy." "Elizaberh" went into "Lizziebet," to "Lizzie," to
"Litty" (because the child couldn't pronounce the z's), and
ended up "Lit." Long na mes were shortened and short
names were lengtl-~ened. For instance, many an "Anna"
ended up "Anna-la."
It was Patsy who accidentally gave the baby the name she d
i b'5 1
always be known by. One night as he and Mary were
preparing for bed, he looked at the big one-year-old baby
who was sleeping sprawled sidewise across the bed.
"I don't get me sleep nights, no more," he said. "This
bed ain't big enough for the three of us. This baby now .
. ." He paused, and then he gave her her name. ". . . This
here Maggie, now, is big enough to have a bed of her
own."
They got a crib for her. She cried the first night she
slept away from her mother. Mary soothed her.
"There, baby, there!" The child bawled harder. "Hush,"
said Mary. "Hush, Maggie. Hush, Maggie, now." The child
stopped crying, smiled blissfully put her thumb into her
mouth and went off to sleep.
She grew up healthy, happy and loving. She was full of
mischief and cheerfully disobedient. The day long
throughout the house it was:
"Maggie, now give me those scissors before you stab
yourself."
"Maggie, now mind your father when he speaks to you."
"Maggie, now . . ."
And so she became known as Maggie-Now.
~ CHAPTER FOURTEEN ~
MARY, never having hall younger sisters or brothers, had
no experience in bringing up a child. Her natural maternal
feelings had been used in an o
rganised way to handle
thirty-odd children a day as a schoolteacher. She had a
tendency, tempered by indulgent love, to regiment
Maggie-Now. Mentally, she reached for a bell each
morning to get the child started. She organized the child's
day and was apt to give instructions as a schoolteacher
would.
"We will take our little walk now."
"Eat your nice lunch, dear."
"What story shall we read tonight?" [861
"It's time for a certain good little girl to go to bed."
When Maggie-Now was three, Mary tried to teach her
to read. Maggie-Now squirmed, itched, scratched, rolled
her eyes and made spit bubbles. Mary had to give it up.
"She's intelligent," Mary told her husband, "but she won't
sit still long enough to learn."
"She'll be on her behind long enough when she starts
regular school," said Patsy. "Besides, why does she have to
learn everything so quick? Why, she ain't housebroken yet
and you expect her to read!"
"Don't you believe in education, Patrick?"
"No," he said. "I went as far as what amounts to the sixth
grade in America. And where did it get me? Cleaning
streets."
But Maggie-Now was very precocious in practical
things like work. Even as a toddler, she dusted while her
mother swept, insisted on drying the dishes when her chin
was but an inch above the sink drainboard, tried to make
up a bed, and asked constantly when she could cook. Her
reward for being good was permission to grind up left-over
meat in the food chopper. Her punishment when naughty
was the withdrawal of the privilege of grinding the
morning coffee beans.
One day each summer, as she was growing up, her
parents took her to the beach. Maggie-Now dearly loved
the ocean. The ride in the open trolley was grand and the
boarding of the Long Island train at Brooklyn Manor
Station was a thrill. The high point of the journey was
when the train went over water on a wooden trestle. Mary
held the girl's arm tightly, admonishing her not to fall out,
now.
"Maybe the trestle will break this time," said
Maggie-Nou hopefully, "and we'll all fall in the water."
"By God," said Patsy, "she wants it to break! She lDants
the train to fall in the water!'
"Sh!" said Mary.
Maggie-Now had no bathing suit. She grew so fast from
year to year that it would have been a waste of money to
buy one each year for just one day at the beach. Trying to
follow her mother's admonition not to be ashamed
because nobody was looking Ilaggie-Novv, undressed
behind a big towel that her mother held around her like
a limp barrel. She changed into a
1 'S'- ~
pair of out-grown pants and a worn-out dress in lieu of a
bathing SUit.
She ran whooping into the ocean and plunged into the
first wave with a scream of delight. She held onto the rope
and leaped and ducked and squatted to let the waves
break over her head and howled in pretended terror
(though flattered by the attention) when a big boy dived
and grabbed her ankles and tried to duck her.
Mary and Patsy sat on the towel: she in her Sunday
dress and hat, sitting primly with her gloved hands in her
lap, and Patsy lolling on an elbow and, as was traditional
with men, eying the women in their bathing suits, their
legs in long, black lisle stockings and the ruffles of
bloomers showing beneath knee-length skirts.
After an hour, Pats' went to the water's edge and
induced Maggie-Now to come out. She changed back to
her dry clothes inside the towel. Then they had their lunch
which Mary had brought from home in a shoebox: ham
bologna sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, sweet buns and
drinks, now warm, which Patsy had bought when they got
off the train. There was a bottle of beer for Patsy, a celery
tonic for Mary, and a bottle of cream soda for
Maggie-Now.
After the lunch, Patsy announced that he would take a
half hour's nap and then they would make a break for
home to avoid the rush. Maggie-Now was given permission
to walk up the beach and given strict orders not to take
candy from anyone.
She ran up the beach, leaping over outstretched and
sometimes intertwined legs. She stopped to stare frankly
at a couple lying on the sand on their sides and looking
into each other's eyes. Their faces were hardly an inch
apart. The young man, discomfited by her staring, lifted
his head.
"Get a gait on, kid," he said.
"What gate?" asked Maggie-Nov.
"She don't get your drift," said the young woman languidly.
"Twenty-three, skidoo," said the young man.
"I gotcha," said Maggie-Now, pleased that she could
speak their lingo. "I'll beat it.'
Going home on the I.ong Island, she sat between her
parents and raved her hands in a paper bag of Rockaway
sand.
~ ss 1
"You know what?" she said. "I'm going to make a wish
on the first star tonight. I'm going to wish that when I get
big I'll have a house right by the water and listen to the
waves when I'm in bed nights. And in the daytime, I'll
jump in any time I feel like it."
"I'll make a wish, too," said Mary. "I wish that all your
wishes come true." Maggie-Now hugged her mother's arm.
Obscurely, Patsy felt left out. If he couldn't be in on
their emotional closeness, the next best thing was to
destroy it.
"People what lives by the water," he said, "always get
rheumatism and their teeth fall out because they got to
eat fish all the time."
"Oh, you gloomy Gus,' said Maggie-Now.
"We do not use slang," said Mary.
"And we do not," said Patsy with bitter mimicry, "talk to
our father that way, in the bargain."
Mary knew how he felt. She reached across and took the
shoebox from his knees. It had lIaggie-Now's wet bathing
clothes in it.
"I'll hold it," said Mary. "It's leaking through on your
good pants."
Not long after this, Mary told Pat that she was going to
start Maggie-Now in parochial school in the fall.
"She ain't going to no C atholic school and that's
settled," said Patsy.
"I've already enrolled hi r," said Marv.
"Unroll her, then."
"Now, Patrick . . ."
"That's me last word on the subject. She goes to public
school.' He had nothing against the parochial school. He
just liked to argue. He sat down to read the evening
paper. Suddenly he jumped up with a great oath.
"I won't stand for it! By God! l won't stand for it!"
Mary thought he was referring to the school. "It's
settled," she said firmly.
"What about Brooklyn?' he shouted.
"The school's in Brooklyn," she said, bewildered. "You
know that."
1 9~1
"What the hell's the school got to do with it? Brooklyn
ain't no longer a city. It says so in the paper. Now it's only
a borough of New York City."
"Think how the people in New York feel. That used to
be New York City. Now it's only the Borough of
Manhattan. Anyhow, Patrick, you can't do a thing about
it."
"Oh, no? I can take the kid out of parochial school."
"What good would that do?"
"It would let me have me own way for once." He got up,
grabbed his hat and threw himself out of the house.
The saloon was so crowded Patsy could hardly get in. It
was full of Irishmen bitterly cursing the annexation of
Brooklyn by New York. They blamed it all on the British.
"And is it not the fault of England," shouted a burly
man in a square-topped derby, "and she bragging how
London is the biggest city in the world and that making
New York jealous? And what does New York turn around
and do? She steals Brooklyn and hitches it- on to make
New York the biggest city in the world."
"But there'll always he a Brooklyn!" rang out a voice in
the crowd. This sentiment was loudly applauded and wildly
cheered.
"Let's all drink to that!" yelled another man. They
crowded up to the bar.
"What's yours?" the bartender asked Patsy.
"I ain't drinking to that darrm foolishness," said Patsy.
"On the house," said the bartender.
"I'll have a double rye. With water on the side," added
Patsy. The bartender gave him a beer.
All held their glasses aloft. "To Brooklyn!" said the
bartender.
Before they could drink, another voice rang out.
"Brooklyn go bragh!"
"Brooklyn go bragh! ' shouted all the men in the saloon.
And a couple of men passing on the street stopped to
holler: "Brooklyn go bragh!"
Maggie-Now attended parochial school. T o Mary's
distress, her daughter was not the brightest one in the
class. To Patsy's relief, she was not the dumbest one. She
vvas down near the bottom of the average kids But the
teaching nuns liked her.
~ 9 1
She got to school early and stayed late. She washed the
blackboards and clapped the chalk dust out of the erasers
and filled the inkwells. On Mondays, when the children
had to bring pieces of broken glass to school to scrape ink
spots off the floor, MaggieNow showed up with a bagful of
glass to supply the kids who had forgotten to bring their
own. She spent her Saturdays collecting bottles and
smashing them for that purpose.
Sometimes; her mother let her take her lunch to school.
Usually it was two bologna sandwiches. She always traded
them for the three slices of dry bread a wispy girl brought
for lunch, insisting that she hated meat and liked plain
bread better. It wasn't that she was sorry for the girl or
overly generous; she just liked to give things.
"She is a giver," sighed Sister Veronica to Sister Mary
Joseph.
"She'll have a busy life, then," said Sister Mary Joseph
dryly. "There are ten takers for fine giver."
Regularly, each morning at ten and each afternoon at
two, Maggie-Now's hand shot up in the air for permission
to leave the room. This regularity irritated Sister Veronica.
Once she frowned and said: "We had recess h If an hour
ago. Why didn't you attend to your needs then?"
"I did," said Maggie-Now frankly. "Now I got to 'tend to
my horse." The class tittered.
"Watch your language, Margaret," said Sister Veronica
sharply.
Out in the yard, Maggie--Now with many a "Whoa
there," and a "Hold still, boy," untied an imaginary horse
from an imaginary stake. Then she became the horse. She
ran about the yard, galloping and prancing and snorting.
Then she was a steeplechase horse taking imaginary
hurdles. And lastly, not to neglect the humbler species, she
was a junk-wagon horse in harness, straining to pull a load
