Ironweed

by William Kennedy

“Don’t holler at me,” Francis said. “I’ll crack your goddamn head and step on your brains. You’re a tough man, is that it?”

  “No,” said Moose. “I ain’t tough.”

  “Well I’m tough,” Francis said. “Screw around with me, you’ll die younger’n I will.”

  “Oh I’ll die all right. I’m just as busted as that ceiling. I got TB.”

  “Oh God bless you,” Francis said, sitting down. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s in the knee.”

  “I didn’t know you had it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry anybody’s got TB.”

  “It’s in the knee.”

  “Well cut your leg off.”

  “That’s what they wanted to do.”

  “So cut it off.”

  “No, I wouldn’t let them do that.”

  “I got a stomach cancer,” Rudy said.

  “Yeah,” said Moose. “Everybody’s got one of them.”

  “Anybody gonna come to my funeral?” Rudy asked.

  “Probably ain’t nothin’ wrong with you work won’t cure,” Moose said.

  “That’s right,” Francis said to Rudy. “Why don’t you go get a job?” He pointed out the window at the street. “Look at ‘em out there. Everybody out there’s workin’.”

  “You’re crazier than he is,” Moose said. “Ain’t no jobs anyplace. Where you been?”

  “There’s taxis. There goes a taxi.”

  “Yeah, there’s taxis,” Moose said. “So what?”

  “Can you drive?” Francis asked Rudy.

  “I drove my ex-wife crazy,” Rudy said.

  “Good. What you’re supposed to do. Drive ‘em nuts is right.”

  In the corner of the room Francis saw three long-skirted women who became four who became three and then four again. Their faces were familiar but he could call none of them by name. Their ages changed when their number changed: now twenty, now sixty, now thirty, now fifty, never childish, never aged. At the house Annie would now be trying to sleep, but probably no more prepared for it than Francis was, no more capable of closing the day than Francis was. Helen would be out of it, whipped all to hell by fatigue and worry. Damn worrywart is what she is. But not Annie. Annie, she don’t worry. Annie knows how to live. Peg, she’ll be awake too, why not? Why should she sleep when nobody else can? They’ll all be up, you bet. Francis give ‘em a show they ain’t gonna forget in a hurry.

  He showed ‘em what a man can do.

  A man ain’t afraid of goin’ back.

  Goddamn spooks, they follow you everywheres but they don’t matter. You stand up to ‘em is all. And you do what you gotta do.

  Sandra joined the women of three, the women of four, in the far corner. Francis gave me soup, she told them. He carried me out of the wind and put my shoe on me. They became the women of five.

  “Where the wind don’t blow,” Rudy sang. “I wanna go where the wind don’t blow, where there ain’t no snow.”

  Francis saw Katrina’s face among the five that became four that became three.

  o o o

  Finny and Little Red came into the flop, and just behind them a third figure Francis did not recognize immediately. Then he saw it was Old Shoes.

  “Hey, we got company, Moose,” Francis said.

  “Is that Finny?” Moose asked. “Looks like him.”

  “That’s the man,” Francis said. Finny stood by the foot of Francis’s cot, very drunk and wobbling, trying to see who was talking about him.

  “You son of a bitch,” Moose said, leaning on one elbow.

  “Which son of a bitch you talkin’ to?” Francis asked.

  “Finny. He used to work for Spanish George. Liked to use the blackjack on drunks when they got noisy.”

  “Is that true, Finny?” Francis asked. “You liked to sap the boys?”

  “Arrrggghhh,” said Finny, and he lurched off toward a cot down the row from Francis.

  “He was one mean bastard,” Moose said. “He hit me once.”

  “Hurt you?”

  “Hurt like hell. I had a headache three weeks.”

  “Somebody burned up Finny’s car,” Little Red announced. “He went out for somethin’ to eat, and he came back, it was on fire. He thinks the cops did it.”

  “Why are the cops burnin’ up cars?” Rudy asked.

  “Cops’re goin’ crazy,” Little Red said. “They’re pickin’ up everybody. American Legion’s behind it, that’s what I heard.”

  “Them lard-ass bastards,” Francis said. “They been after my ass all my life.”

  “Legionnaires and cops,” said Little Red. “That’s why we come in here.”

  “You think you’re safe here?” Francis asked.

  “Safer than on the street.”

  “Cops’d never come up here if they wanted to get you, right?” Francis said.

  “They wouldn’t know I was here,” Little Red said.

  “Whataya think this is, the Waldorf-Astoria? You think that old bitch downstairs don’t tell the cops who’s here and who ain’t when they want to know?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the cops burned up the car,” Moose said. “Finny’s got plenty of enemies. If I knew he owned one, I’da burned it up myself The son of a bitch beat up on us all, but now he’s on the street. Now we got him in the alley.”

  “You hear that, Finny?” Francis called out. “They gonna get your ass good. They got you in the alley with all the other bums.”

  “Nggggghhhh,” said Finny.

  “Finny’s all right,” Little Red said. “Leave him alone.”

  “You givin’ orders here at the Waldorf-Astoria, is that it?” Francis asked.

  “Who the hell are you?” Little Red asked.

  “I’m a fella ready to stomp all over your head and squish it like a grape, you try to tell me what to do.”

  “Yeah,” said Little Red, and he moved toward the cot beside Finny.

  “I knew it was you soon as I come in,” Old Shoes said, coming over to the foot of Francis’s cot. “I could tell that foghorn voice of yours anyplace.”

  “Old Shoes,” Francis said. “Old Shoes Gilligan.”

  “That’s right. You got a pretty good memory. The wine ain’t got you yet.”

  “Old Shoes Gilligan, a grand old soul, got a cast-iron belly and a brass asshole.”

  “Not cast-iron anymore,” Old Shoes said. “I got an ulcer. I quit drinkin’ two years ago.”

  “Then what the hell you doin’ here?”

  “Just came by to see the boys, see what was happenin’.”

  “You hangin’ out with Finny and that redheaded wiseass?”

  “Who you callin’ a wiseass?” Little Red said.

  “I’m callin’ you wiseass, wiseass,” Francis said.

  “You got a big mouth,” Little Red said.

  “I got a foot’s even bigger and I’m gonna shove it right up your nose, you keep bein’ nasty to me when I’m tryna be polite.”

  “Cool off, Francis,” Old Shoes said. “What’s your story? You’re lookin’ pretty good.”

  “I’m gettin’ rich,” Francis said. “Got me a gang of new clothes, couple of jugs, money in the pocket.”

  “You’re gettin’ up in the world,” Old Shoes said.

  “Yeah, but what the hell you doin’ here if you ain’t drinkin’ is what I don’t figure.”

  “I just told you. I’m passin’ through and got curious about the old joints.”

  “You workin’?”

  “Got a steady job down in Jersey. Even got an apartment and a car. A car, Francis. You believe that? Me with a car? Not a new car, but a good car. A Hudson two-door. You want a ride?”

  “A ride? Me?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Now?”

  “Don’t matter to me. I’m just sightseein’. I’m not sleepin’ up here. Wouldn’t sleep here anyway. Bedbugs’d follow me all the way back to Jersey.”

  “This bum here,” Francis explained to Rudy, “I saved from dyin’ in the street. Used
to fall down drunk three, four times a night, like he was top-heavy.”

  “That’s right,” Old Shoes said. “Broke my face five or six times, just like his.” And he gestured at Moose. “But I don’t do that no more. I hit three nuthouses and then I quit. I been off the bum three years and dry for two. You wanna go for that ride, Francis? Only thing is, no bottle. The wife’d smell it and I’d catch hell.”

  “You got a wife too?” Francis said.

  “You got a car and a wife and a house and a job?” Rudy asked. He sat up on his cot and studied this interloper.

  “That’s Rudy,” Francis said. “Rudy Tooty. He’s thinkin’ about killin’ himself.”

  “I know the feelin’,” Old Shoes said. “Me and Francis we needed a drink somethin’ awful one mornin’. We walked all over town but we couldn’t score, snow comin’ through our shoes, and it’s four below zero. Finally we sold our blood and drank the money. I passed out and woke up still needin’ a drink awful bad, and not a penny and no chance for one, couldn’t even sell any more blood, and I wanted to die and I mean die. Die.”

  “Where there ain’t no snow,” Rudy sang. “Where the handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night.”

  “You wanna go for a ride?” Old Shoes asked Rudy.

  “Oh the buzzin’ of the bees in the cigarette trees, by the soda water fountains,” Rudy sang. Then he smiled at Old Shoes, took a swallow of wine, and fell back on his cot.

  “Man wants to go for a ride and can’t get no takers,” Francis said. “Might as well call it a day, Shoes, stretch out and rest them bones.”

  “Naaah, I guess I’ll be movin’ on.”

  “One evenin’ as the sun went down, and the jungle fires were burnin’,” Rudy sang, “Down the track came a hobo hikin’, and said, Boys, I am not turnin’.”

  “Shut up that singin’,” Little Red said. “I’m tryna sleep.”

  “I’m gonna mess up his face,” Francis said and stood up.

  “No fights,” Moose said. “She’ll kick us the hell out or call the cops on us.”

  “That’ll be the day I get kicked out of a joint like this,” Francis said. “This is pigswill. I lived in better pigswill than this goddamn pigswill.”

  “Where I come from—” Old Shoes began.

  “I don’t give a goddamn where you come from.” Francis said.

  “Goddamn you, I come from Texas.”

  “Name a city, then.”

  “Galveston.”

  “Behave yourself,” Francis said, “or I’ll knock you down. I’m a tough son of a bitch. Tougher than that bum Finny. Licked twelve men at once.”

  “You’re drunk,” Old Shoes said.

  “Yeah,” said Francis. “My mind’s goin’.”

  “It went there. Rattlesnake got you.”

  “Rattlesnake, my ass. Rattlesnake is nothin’.”

  “Cottonmouth?”

  “Oh, cottonmouth rattler. Yeah. That’s somethin’. Jesus, this is a nice subject. Who wants to talk about snakes? Talk about bums is more like it. A bum is a bum. Helen’s got me on the bum. Son of a bitch, she won’t go home, won’t straighten up.”

  “Helen did the hula down in Hon-oh-loo-loo,” Rudy sang.

  “Shut your stupid mouth,” Francis said to Rudy.

  “People don’t like me,” Rudy said.

  “Singin’ there, wavin’ your arms, talkin’ about Helen.”

  “I can’t escape myself.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Francis said.

  “I tried it before.”

  “I know, but you can’t do it, so you might as well live with it.”

  “I like to be condemned,” Rudy said.

  “No, don’t be condemned,” Francis told him.

  “I like to be condemned.”

  “Never be condemned.”

  “I like to be condemned because I know I done wrong in my life.”

  “You never done wrong,” Francis said.

  “All you screwballs down there, shut up,” yelled Little Red, sitting up on his cot. Francis instantly stood up and ran down the aisle. He was running when he lunged and grazed Little Red’s lips with his knuckles.

  “I’m gonna mess you up,” Francis said.

  Little Red rolled with the blow and fell off the cot. Francis ran around the cot and kicked him in the stomach. Little Red groaned and rolled and Francis kicked him in the side. Little Red rolled under Finny’s cot, away from Francis’s feet. Francis followed him and was ready to drive a black laceless oxford deep into his face, but then he stopped. Rudy, Moose, and Old Shoes were all standing up, watching.

  “When I knew Francis he was strong as a bull,” Old Shoes said.

  “Knocked a house down by myself,” Francis said, walking back to his cot. “Didn’t need no wreckin’ ball.” He picked up the quart of wine and gestured with it. Moose lay back down on his cot and Rudy on his. Old Shoes sat on the cot next to Francis. Little Red licked his bleeding lip and lay quietly on the floor under the cot where Finny was supine and snoring. The faces of all the women Francis had ever known changed with kaleidoscopic swiftness from one to the other to the other on the three female figures in the far corner. The trio sat on straight-backed chairs, witnesses all to the whole fabric of Francis’s life. His mother was crocheting a Home Sweet Home sampler while Katrina measured off a bolt of new cloth and Helen snipped the ragged threads. Then they all became Annie.

  “When they throw dirt in my face, nobody can walk up and sell me short, that’s what I worry about,” Francis said. “I’ll suffer in hell, if they ever got such a place, but I still got muscles and blood and I’m gonna live it out. I never saw a bum yet said anything against Francis. They better not, goddamn ‘em. All them sufferin’ bastards, all them poor souls waitin’ for heaven, walkin’ around with the snow flyin’, stayin’ in empty houses, pants fallin’ off ‘em. When I leave this earth I wanna leave it with a blessing to everybody. Francis never hurt nobody.”

  “The mockin’birds’ll sing when you die,” Old Shoes said.

  “Let ‘em. Let ‘em sing. People tell me: Get off the bum. And I had a chance. I had a good mind but now it’s all flaked out, like a heavin’ line on a canal boat, back and forth, back and forth. You get whipped around so much, everything comes to a standstill, even a nail. You drive it so far and it comes to a stop. Keep hittin’ it and the head’ll break off.”

  “That’s a true thing,” Moose said.

  “On the Big Rock Candy Mountain,” Rudy sang, “the cops got wooden legs.” He stood up and waved his wine in a gesture imitative of Francis; then he rocked back and forth as he sang, strongly and on key: “The bulldogs all got rubber teeth, and the hens lay soft-boiled eggs. The boxcars all are empty and the sun shines every day. I wanna go where there ain’t no snow, where the sleet don’t fall and the wind don’t blow, on the Big Rock Candy Mountain.”

  Old Shoes stood up and made ready to leave. “Nobody wants a ride?” he said.

  “All right, goddamn it,” Francis said. “Whataya say, Rudy? Let’s get outa this pigswill. Get outa this stink and go where I can breathe. The weeds is better than this pigswill.”

  “So long, friend,” Moose said. “Thanks for the wine.”

  “You bet, pal, and God bless your knee. Tough as nails, that’s what Francis is.”

  “I believe that,” Moose said.

  “Where we goin’?” Rudy asked.

  “Go up to the jungle and see a friend of mine. You wanna give us a lift to the jungle?” Francis asked Old Shoes. “Up in the North End. You know where that is?”

  “No, but you do.”

  “Gonna be cold,” Rudy said.

  “They got a fire,” Francis said. “Cold’s better than this bughouse.”

  “By the lemonade springs, where the bluebird sings,” Rudy sang.

  “That’s the place,” Francis said.

  o o o

  As Old Shoes’ car moved north on Erie Boulevard, where the Erie Canal used to f
low, Francis remembered Emmett Daugherty’s face: rugged and flushed beneath wavy gray hair, a strong, pointed nose truly giving him the look of the Divine Warrior, which is how Francis would always remember him, an Irishman who never drank more than enough, a serious and witty man of control and high purpose, and with an unkillable faith in God and the laboring man. Francis had sat with him on the slate step in front of Iron Joe’s Wheelbarrow and listened to his endless talk of the days when he and the country were young, when the riverboats brought the greenhorns up the Hudson from the Irish ships. When the cholera was in the air, the greenhorns would be taken off the steamboats at Albany and sent west on canal boats, for the city’s elders had charged the government with keeping the pestilential foreigners out of the city.

  Emmett rode up from New York after he got off the death ship from Cork, and at the Albany basin he saw his brother Owen waving frantically to him. Owen followed the boat to the North Albany lock, ran along the towpath yelling advice to Emmett, giving him family news, telling him to get off the boat as soon as they’d let him, then to write saying where he was so Owen could send him money to come back to Albany by stagecoach. But it was days before Emmett got off that particular packet boat, got off in a place whose name he never learned, and the authorities there too kept the newcomers westering, under duress.

  By the time Emmett reached Buffalo he had decided not to return to such an inhospitable city as Albany, and he moved on to Ohio, where he found work building streets, and then with the railroads, and in time went all the way west on the rails and became a labor organizer, and eventually a leader of the Clann na Gael, and lived to see the Irish in control of Albany, and to tell his stories and inspire Francis Phelan to throw the stone that changed the course of life, even for people not yet born.

  That vision of the packet moving up the canal and Owen running alongside it telling Emmett about his children was as real to Francis, though it happened four decades before he was born, as was Old Shoes’ car, in which he was now bouncing ever northward toward the precise place where the separation took place. He all but cried at the way the Daugherty brothers were being separated by the goddamned government, just as he was now being separated from Billy and the others. And by what? What and who were again separating Francis from those people after he’d found them? It was a force whose name did not matter, if it had a name, but whose effect was devastating. Emmett Daugherty had placed blame on no man, not on the cholera inspectors or even the city’s elders. He knew a larger fate had moved him westward and shaped in him all that he was to become; and that moving and shaping was what Francis now understood, for he perceived the fugitive thrust that had come to be so much a part of his own spirit. And so he found it entirely reasonable that he and Emmett should be fused in a single person: the character of the hero of the play written by Emmett’s son, Edward Daugherty the playwright: Edward (husband of Katrina, father of Martin), who wrote The Car Barns, the tale of how Emmett radicalized Francis by telling his own story of separation and growth, by inspiring Francis to identify the enemy and target him with a stone. And just as Emmett truly did return home from the west as a labor hero, so also did the playright conjure an image of Francis returning home as underground hero for what that stone of his had done.