“Perhaps,” said Gretel, “we should take a bite.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
PRIESTS AND PIGEONS
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK—SEPTEMBER 1919
ELAINE
The Gossleys’ kitchen was the picnic command station. May directed operations like a general on the eve of battle.
“Why does there have to be so much fuss about an old man’s birthday?” Mr. Seward asked Elaine.
“I thought you wanted a picnic.”
“A picnic is the proper way of celebrating a birthday. Outside in the fresh air, with friends and family. But a picnic should be a simple thing, no fuss.”
“Mrs. Gossley’s trying to make sure you have the things you like,” Elaine said.
“Hmm . . . trying to show what a devoted daughter she is, more to the point. Not that she isn’t, but I don’t like being one more of her causes.”
Despite his gruffness, Elaine could tell he was pleased by the way he kept bringing the subject up.
“And you and that little brother of yours, Stanley—”
“Stephen, sir.”
“Stephen, he will be there?”
“He wouldn’t miss it. We’ve never been on a picnic before.”
Mr. Seward put down his teacup with a clatter. “Never been on a picnic? Well, this will have to be an exemplary picnic then. What’s your favorite sweet?”
“It’s your picnic, Mr. Seward.”
“Young lady, I asked you a question as your employer and I expect an answer. What’s your favorite sweet?”
On her tenth birthday, her mother had made a spicy gingerbread cake. They had eaten it warm with cream. The image of her mother’s hands working a wooden spoon in the chipped bowl arrived with sudden force. Her eyes watered.
“Gingerbread.” The word was a papery whisper.
“Gingerbread,” Mr. Seward repeated, leaning in to catch her answer. “I haven’t had decent gingerbread in years. May!” He tinkled the small silver bell that was always next to his chair. “May!”
But it was Mrs. Theilen who answered the summons.
“Tell my daughter that I want gingerbread for my birthday!”
She looked surprised. “But we’ve made your favorite, sir, apple pies.”
“I want gingerbread and apple pies. It’s my birthday, damn it!”
Mrs. Theilen rolled her eyes at Elaine. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell her straight away.”
“That’s settled; let’s get back to the paper. See what scandals are happening in the world today.” Mr. Seward leaned back and closed his eyes.
It was almost noon when Elaine heard the front door open and familiar whistling in the hall. When the whistling stopped right on the other side of the door, the words blurred on the page. There was something wrong with her breathing. She let the paper fall into her lap and then combed her fingers through her hair.
“What happened next?” Mr. Seward asked.
She didn’t answer. She had prepared for this moment. Respond coolly with polite interest to whatever Howard said. Don’t show enthusiasm. Don’t ask where he’d been, why he didn’t try to contact her.
The door pushed open and sucked all the air from the room. Howard paused on the threshold, his oversized grin flashing like lightning across his face.
“Beg your pardon, Grandfather, but can I borrow Elaine for a minute? I have something to show her.”
Mr. Seward lowered his brows. “Go ahead.” Then he closed his eyes again.
Elaine exhaled. This wasn’t how the scene had played out in her head. She stood stiffly. “Hello, Howard. It’s good to see you again.” Then she added, “It’s been a while.” Her palms began to sweat.
“Come on, this can’t wait.” His eyes danced.
He was ignoring or didn’t notice her reserve. Elaine couldn’t tell.
“I won’t be long,” she assured Mr. Seward, and followed Howard out the door.
As soon as she left the room, Howard grabbed her arm and whispered, “I’ve got a gift for Grandfather you won’t believe. Come in the kitchen.”
No mention of where he’d been the last few weeks. No questions about how she was. Elaine let him lead her into the steamy kitchen. The pressure of his hand on her arm confused her thoughts. In a corner, a caged black bird with an improbable yellow beak pecked at a nut.
“It’s a mynah bird!” Howie led her to the iron cage. “They can talk if you teach them. I got this fellow from a friend who’s already taught him to say five or six different things. I thought he could keep the old man company.”
Elaine eyed the bird. Its feathers were glossy black, the beak strong and hooked, and its eyes followed her every movement.
“Give me a kiss!”
Elaine jumped. Howie howled with laughter.
Kay scooted closer to the cage. “He’s cheeky. What do you feed him?”
“Fresh fruit, nuts, and these pellets.” Howie produced a bag from his pocket.
“Shut up!” the bird shrilled.
“They’re mimics,” Howie said. “He can meow like a cat when he wants.”
“I’m sure Mr. Seward will like him.” Elaine felt her words march out stiff as wood stakes. There was something wrong with her mouth when she tried to smile.
“I’ve got to get back to school. Feed it some pellets will you, princess? And keep my secret!” Howie winked at her, and then pecked Kay’s cheek, which made the cook giggle.
“Don’t you worry about it, Elaine. I’ll feed the nasty thing.” Kay shook her head.
“Give me a kiss! Give me a kiss!” the mynah shrieked at Howie’s retreating back.
Saturday morning, Stephen was up early, full of the promise of the market and pigeons. Pop was already up and out. So far, so good, Elaine thought. He’d come home Friday night tired but happy, with a chunk of pound cake and complaints that his arms ached from all the heavy lifting. The fine weather had held, and the world was gilded with autumn light. Elaine had put aside a little money to buy her own present for Mr. Seward, although she had no idea what it would be. On the way, she told Stephen about the mynah bird, imitating its voice when it asked for a kiss and yowled like a cat, while her mind reworked every word Howard said. It was no good trying to analyze them. There was nothing worth mining.
Stephen was intent on finding the pigeons right away. He grabbed Elaine’s arm and tugged.
“Hurry up. I’ve been waiting all week!”
They threaded their way between carts of apples and pumpkins. An Amish farmer was selling fresh cider. You could watch the apples sluice through the press and come out as a pulpy mass. While filling glass jars with the cloudy liquid, the farmer handed out samples. Elaine and Angus each took one.
When they got to Pete’s stall, he was engaged in conversation. Elaine pulled Stephen back.
“He’s trying to make a sale. You don’t want to interrupt.”
“But we could just look at the pigeons!’ He wrestled his arm free from her grip.
The pigeons cooed and shuffled in their crates. Pete carried Lucky on one thick shoulder. His flannel shirt and apron were as always streaked with pigeon droppings. The young fair-haired man had his own carrier by his side. He turned in their direction as Stephen approached the crates. Elaine was startled to see the white clerical collar of a priest.
“I was hoping you two would pay me a visit.” Pete beamed at them and turned to the priest. “These two youngsters have taken a fancy to the birds. Promised ’em we’d send off a pigeon post today.”
The priest looked pensive, taking them both in.
“I think I’ve seen you two before at Sacred Heart.”
Elaine blushed. “We don’t attend services very often, Father.”
“No, no, not at Mass. It was in the sanctuary, in front of the statue of Mary—several months back. I recognize you both by your hair.” He had a thin, rubbery smile under a long, bony nose. The smile split his face in half, making it look almost handsome. “I’m Father Kearny, Michael Kearny.”
Stephen looked up, right into the priest’s eyes. “Hello. Do you need an altar boy?”
Chapter Thirty
PIGEON POST
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK—SEPTEMBER 1919
ELAINE
Where did Stephen come up with these ideas?
“I’m sorry—he didn’t mean anything—”
Father Kearny ignored her and squatted down so that he and Stephen were eye to eye. “How could you know that? It just so happens that one of my altar boys has moved away. We like to have two for Sunday services, and I was looking for another to take his place. How old are you, Stephen?”
“I’m nine.”
“Altar boys have to receive some training first. It takes a while, and their families are expected to attend the parish where they’re serving.” Now he glanced up at Elaine.
“We haven’t got any family,” said Stephen, “except Pop, and he’s not home much.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“She’s dead.”
Elaine recovered enough to say, “We’ve been planning on coming. We used to go to Holy Family.”
Father Kearny straightened up, his thin smile disarming his face, but his eyes rested thoughtfully on Elaine. “Who looks after you then?”
“We live with our father.”
A look transferred between Father Kearny and Pete, and in that glance Elaine saw the thin gleam of a knife’s edge. Her future and Stephen’s poised on that edge the way Pop balanced an apple on the sharp kitchen blade. A swift flip of the wrist, a flash of silver, and the apple was sliced.
“Well, I see no reason why Stephen can’t come to the new training that starts next week. It’s Saturday afternoons at three. But I’d like to meet with your father first.”
“He works a lot.” Elaine studied a discarded tin on the ground. Champagne-flavored Piper Heidsieck Chewing Tobacco. She flipped it over with the scuffed toe of her shoe.
“Can I, Lainey?”
When she looked up she was trapped between Stephen’s hope and Father Kearny’s keen brown eyes. “We’ll have to talk it over with Pop. But you probably can.”
“Maybe I can meet your father at work?”
Stephen’s eyes sought out hers. It was as if he spoke the question out loud.
Elaine spoke for both of them. “We’ll talk to him when he gets home tonight.”
“He’d be a fine altar boy,” Pete put in. “Father Kearny’s got pigeons himself.” Pete nodded at the crate by the priest’s feet.
“A hobby I started as a boy, and I still love it. Pete got me started.”
Elaine hadn’t known that priests had hobbies.
“Would you like to see my birds?” Father Kearny managed to include them both in his glance. Opening the crate, he reached in and drew out a fat gray bird with green-tipped feathers. “This one’s Gabriel. Flies like an angel. Sometimes, Pete and I send messages back and forth from his house to the church for fun. I lived near Pete when I was a boy and made a few pennies cleaning his cages.”
“That’s right. Pigeons kept ‘im out of trouble. Otherwise, who knows what he would’ve been up to? My farm’s about twenty-five miles away. A good flight for pigeon post.”
“We’re sending a message today, right?” Stephen asked.
“Now I promised you, din’ I?” Pete walked over to a second crate.
“Why don’t we use mine?” Father Kearny suggested. “We’ll give Gabriel a chance to stretch his wings. He can fly back to the church. Stephen and Elaine can pick up the message there.”
“If you’ve got time, Michael.”
Elaine wondered why Pete didn’t call him Father.
Father Kearny opened a small metal tube attached to a band on the bird’s scaly leg.
“You use this paper, here.” Pete unrolled a small piece of cigarette paper and handed Stephen a stub of pencil. “You got to write small. Then stuff it back in the tube.”
“What are you going to write?” She itched to write something herself, but it was Stephen’s treat.
He screwed up his face and the tip of his pink tongue poked out between his lips. Hurriedly, he scrawled something on the tiny paper. When Elaine bent to read it, Stephen covered the paper with his hand and rolled it up quickly. “You’ll have to wait to read it.”
“Now why don’t you both let the bird go,” Father Kearny suggested. “You can each use one hand. Hold him gently. Then, you throw him up into the sky like this.” He demonstrated, flinging both hands up into the air.
A small crowd had gathered around the pigeon stall to watch. Elaine slipped one hand under Gabriel. The bird was surprisingly light and still. “How long does it take him to get there?” Elaine asked.
“Gabriel will get there before you do. He doesn’t have to obey any street signs or even follow the roads. Ready now?” Father Kearny counted to three. They swung their arms upward and opened their hands, releasing Gabriel toward the sun. The crowd clapped.
“I’m off to meet the bird.” Father Kearny shook both their hands solemnly. “We’ll be waiting when you get there. And I’ll expect to see you, Stephen, next Saturday at three.”
Two customers were already talking to Pete about his birds. Elaine grabbed Stephen by the sleeve. “Keep your mouth closed about our family. Do you want to end up in an institution? And what was that business about altar boys?”
“Jimmy Corbett in my class is one, and he tells me all about it. Besides, you remember, Lainey, Mom always promised me I could be one.”
She hadn’t remembered, not until he told her. When Mom was alive, they went to Mass each Sunday. Stephen had loved to watch the boys in their vestments light candles and assist the priests, so much so that Mom had promised Stephen that one day he could light the candles and help with Mass. He remembered things about their mother that she’d now forgotten. What else did he recall? It was a strange feeling knowing the past wasn’t the same for both of them.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Elaine whispered. “Of course he can go.”
The gold light that minutes before had gilded the landscape now looked tinny. For the first time that day, Elaine noticed that half the people at the market looked as poor as she felt.
“Come on. We have to go to church to find Gabriel.” Stephen nudged her.
She elbowed him back.
Forgetting all about Mr. Seward’s present, they hurried toward Sacred Heart.
When they reached the church, Elaine puzzled over where to find Father Kearny. Where would a priest keep pigeons? There was the church itself, banded brick and stone arches, with its deeply sloping roof and corner tower; the school, Sacred Heart Institute; then the rectory and convent.
“Up here!” Father Kearny’s voice came from above. He waved at them like a gargoyle from the roof of the gymnasium. “Take the fire escape up. Lucky for me, gymnasiums have flat roofs!”
Elaine paused at the bottom of the metal fire escape. “Should we climb up?” she whispered to Stephen.
“Come on!” Stephen was already a few steps ahead of her, head cocked up to smile at Father Kearny, but Elaine looked down at the open space between the steps.
From the roof, all of Wallabout glowed red. Light reflected off the brick buildings and danced off the leaves of the maples. The roof of the gymnasium was flat as Father had said, and was bordered on each side by a short brick wall. A door opened from inside the building onto the roof. There was a clothesline for laundry and four wooden pigeon coops.
“This is my favorite place. The world looks glorious even when you know it isn’t so pretty face-to-face.” Father Kearny stood by her side. “Come see my pigeons.”
Stephen was already over at the low wooden coops. They were tidily constructed with perches for roosting, screened fronts, and dishes to hold water and seed. Several fat birds cooed from inside, but Gabriel perched on a rail on top of a coop.
“This is my landing st
ation for pigeon post. Let’s see what we have.” He picked the bird up gently and flipped him on his side to reach the leg. Gabriel didn’t seem to mind the handling. “Would you like to do the honors?” He looked at Elaine.
Elaine glanced at Stephen. “No, let my brother do it.”
“Careful, now,” Father Kearny coaxed, as Stephen, his hands trembling, opened the small cap that pulled straight off the end of the tiny cylinder. Father Kearny handed Stephen a pair of tweezers. “Remove it with these.”
Carefully, he pulled out the small roll of paper. “Read it, Lainey.”
Elaine smoothed out the roll and read her brother’s cramped hand. “Happy birthday, Mr. Seward.”
Stephen looked at Elaine expectantly. “Do you think he’ll like it? A birthday card carried by a pigeon?”
Chapter Thirty-One
THE PICNIC
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK—SEPTEMBER 1919
ELAINE
On the Sunday afternoon of the picnic, white clouds like a small fleet sailed the sky. Elaine was up early to heat water for baths. Pop had gone out around seven with Mr. Meeks and never returned, but she was used to his ways.
She’d grown enough that the hem of her dress was now a fashionable three inches above her ankles. She’d spent much of last week adding a cape of fabric to the bodice of her best dress. It covered the way the fabric now pulled tight across her chest and mimicked the style she had seen in dress shops on Myrtle Avenue. She added a sea green ribbon to her hair that matched the dress. If Mr. Seward didn’t regularly rail about short hair on women, she’d have cut it into one of the new short bobs.
There was no hope of Stephen looking fashionable. As long as he and his clothes were clean, it would be enough. She’d spent two dollars of the rent money to buy him new shoes last month. His feet grew faster than the rest of him, and they’d been covered with blisters where they rubbed against the tight leather.
With hauling water and washing, there was no time for Mass. She hoped Father Kearny wouldn’t hold it against them. And there had been the problem of Mr. Seward’s gift. It was fine for Stephen to give him a rolled-up piece of pigeon paper, but she wanted a special gift that was only from her. So, late the previous night, after Stephen had gone to bed, she’d sat down with one of his pencils and a notebook. Stephen’s schoolbook was an anthology of poems, stories, and essays. She poured over each poem until she found one by a poet named Walter de la Mare that wasn’t too long, or too complex to understand. Then, after attempts that kept her up half the night, she’d written the best poem she could based on the model. When her head became too fuzzy to think clearly, she folded the paper and put it in the pocket of her picnic dress. She’d find a time when she could read it to Mr. Seward privately. It was the best she could do.
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