“Actually,” our young star became loquacious, “poor Gena could play on the team if she lost some weight and practiced, but in her world it’s only influence that matters. If she had as much influence as I did she would be sinking those three pointers. I challenged her to a match but she wouldn’t play. Her poor father can’t control any of them . . . you see that man over there with the stooped shoulders and the long hair, trying to talk to the cops? He’s a hydrologist or something like that—he studies water levels. His big problem is that he’s not crazy. Will they put Mrs. Finnerty in jail?”
“Overnight maybe. They won’t bring her to trial this time.”
Poor Maureen Finnerty. She was Nuala’s age, maybe a little older. Too much food and too little impulse control. No matter how the contretemps at St. Joe’s ended, she would suffer.
“She looks so fragile, Dermot Michael.” My wife sighed as we were drifting into sleep.
“Maureen Finnerty?”
“Well, she too, but don’t I mean poor little Mary Anne? She’s just skin and bones and those bitches from St. Clement’s were fouling her all the time.”
“Whenever they could get close to her, which wasn’t very often, but you have the right of it, Nuala love. She’s graceful and lovely, but vulnerable.”
“I don’t want her to play professional basketball. Or even college.”
“That will be up to her.”
“I know.”
“And yourself all-Ireland a few years older waving that awful hockey stick.”
“Camogi, Dermot Michael.”
We would perhaps have that discussion many times in the future.
The next morning one of the Chicago papers carried an interview with Dr. Lorraine Fletcher, CEO of St. Joe’s school.
“We’re trying to create a Catholic school that will de-emphasize grades and athletics and instead emphasize the preferential option of the poor. This parish is the people of God in West Lincoln Park. Our reforms have the support of the majority of the people. We are absolutely firm in our convictions that we are doing God’s will. We are not afraid of Ryan. He is a nonentity. He is not the leader of the people of God. He was Cronin’s shoe-shine boy.”
The next day the other paper reported the CONTROVERSIAL PRINCIPAL’S DOCTORATE QUESTIONED. It seemed that the University of Illinois had no record of a Ph.D. being awarded to Dr. Lorraine Fletcher, the controversial Principal of St. Joe’s Catholic school in the West Lincoln Park area of Chicago. Sister Mary Theodolinda, superintendent of Catholic schools, dismissed the controversy: “Lorraine is finishing her dissertation while working at St. Joe’s. She will receive the degree in the spring.”
A spokesperson for the Archdiocese of Chicago dismissed Fletcher’s charge that John Cardinal Ryan had ever shined shoes, “for himself or anyone else.”
Asked to comment on Fletcher’s comment that he was a nonentity after a Confirmation service in River Forest, Cardinal Ryan replied, “Arguably that is true.”
Typical Blackie.
At breakfast on Monday morning, before crossing Southport in the first big autumnal deluge, Mary Anne announced a career decision.
“That was a fun game. I love basketball. I’ll play next year and at St. Ignatius College Prep if they let me, but no college or pro ball for me. That’s not fun.”
The decision would change many times. Mary Anne would often be in error but never in doubt.
“You mustn’t be too hasty,” her mother said, as any mother must, entering a qualification, a caveat, a hedge, “about turning down opportunities.”
“You didn’t play for Galway when you went to university.”
“I fell in love with a frigging rich Yank!”
Laughter around the breakfast table.
“And you’d already decided you would be an accountant.”
“But I really wanted to be an actress.”
“And ended up a singer,” Mary Anne ended her mother’s biography, “because that’s what the Yank wanted you to be.”
“So he wouldn’t have to work!”
The four kids and Julie and the hounds tumbled down the stairs, the kids struggling with rain capes and carrying their books. Mary Anne helped the always-flustered Socra Marie with her rain cape.
“Dermot Michael,” me wife asked, “what in the world use is that cupola above your office?”
“With a telescope I can see the scoreboard at Wrigley?”
“Would you ever think of putting a TV camera there to monitor the school yard, like every time the childer are over there, even if we are not around to turn it on?”
“Woman of the house, I will think very seriously about that.”
8
ANGELA DIDN’T want to open her eyes. The room was filled with light, the bed was soft, she had slept a long time, and a delightful aroma was all around her. She realized that the sweet perfume was herself. She had never smelled that way in all her life. It was a very pleasant dream. She didn’t want it to end. She could not understand what exactly had happened at the Central Depot. There had been a lot of tears. She didn’t think any of them were hers.
“I’m Angela,” she had said. “I’m your new serving girl. I’m skinny and dirty and smelly and tattered and weak from motion sickness. But I’m a hard worker and I promise you’ll be satisfied with me, if you’ll give me just a couple of days.”
A beautiful woman with a kind smile and a shapely body embraced her. Her dress was a kind of pale blue. Angela felt the corset stays under it.
“I’m Mae Gaughan, Angela. This is my husband, Doctor Paddy, and my daughter, Rosina, my older son, Timothy, and my younger son, Vinny. We welcome you to Chicago. We are happy you survived the trip. We don’t need a serving girl. We have a couple of Negro servants who are wonderful. We need a little sister. We want you to come live with us and be our little sister.”
“I’ll work very hard,” Angela insisted, “just give me some time. You’ll see how hard I work.”
“Please be my little sister.” Rosina, a lovely young woman in a fawn-colored dress embraced her. “I’ve always wanted a little sister. We have a wonderful little brother. Don’t leave us . . .”
She was wearing corset stays too. Why had they dressed up for her, a worthless, dirty little servant girl?
“Give over, ya eejit, can’t you see that they’ve fallen in love with you and they want to adopt you into their family! You’ll have to love them just the way you loved all of us. Mae will be a better mother than I could be . . .”
“Don’t leave me, Ma!”
“I’ll never leave you, dear one. Won’t you have two mothers to love?”
Vinny, the little brother, grabbed her hand.
“Please stay with us. You’re so pretty. We’ll always love you!”
Tears, love . . . These people were mad! She’d better get on the train to New York.
Timothy, and himself with dancing blue eyes that took her breath away, tried to remove her battered old tweed blanket. She pulled it away from him.
“Just wanted to carry your luggage,” he said, his face turning red. “I’m glad my new little sister is part Viking . . .”
“I’m not Viking. I’m a pre-Celtic aborigine. We’ve been trying to civilize the Celts since they invaded our nice little island. Their menfolk are as bad as ever.”
She laughed when she said it, and they all laughed too. She handed her tweed bag to Timothy, who blushed again.
“You have a tongue in your mouth, little one.” Dr. Gaughan shook hands with her. “And wit in your head. You’ll fit in fine with the rest of the family. You’re most welcome. Now we have our carriage out here and we’ll take you home and get you a bite to eat.” He glanced at her eyes. “And clear eyes and no hint of fever in your forehead.”
“I’ll work hard . . .”
“I’m sure you will, little one, I’m sure you will.”
So it was concluded that she was a member of the family, the warm mother, the genial father, the sensitive sister, the ador
able little boy—and Timmy with the blue eyes and the winning smile. She belonged to them and they all belonged to her. It would be a big responsibility. She would not let them down. And she would work hard.
The big Negro gentleman who drove the carriage bowed politely to her and welcomed her. His name was James Marshal, he said. Most folks just called him Mr. Marshal. His wife, who was the cook in the house, was Mrs. Marshal.
Angela would learn much later that polite speech to Negro servants was not typical. Also to Irish servants. Even by the Irish people for whom they worked.
She slept during the carriage ride and woke confused and uncertain, clinging to her rosary.
“You have a lot of sleep to catch up on, don’t you, dear?” Mae Gaughan said soothingly. “Take your time, you have nothing but time.”
Later, much later, Angela began to question the generosity and kindness of her new family. Weren’t they just a little strange, morbid perhaps, about their new child? Then she came to understand that generosity and kindness are a little strange, and that she should strive to imitate her adopted family.
The Gaughans lived in a big stone house on the edge of a park they called Union Square. They had a large garden of roses in the backyard, which the women in the family carefully tended. She would see that later.
Mrs Marshal fed her a “collation” of roast beef, warm bread, mashed potatoes, and steaming hot chocolate. She did her best with it, but she was almost too tired to eat.
“Timmy,” she said to that young man who stared at her as one dazzled, “my, uh, Irish tweed luggage . . . There is nothing in it of any great value, except to me . . .”
“We’ll take care of it, little sister!” he said, enveloping her in a big smile. Timmy was a nice, polite young man, but he could become a problem, especially because he made her heart leap a little. He was a man, and in general men were not to be trusted. But he was a nice man . . .
She was installed in the guest room which was big with windows that opened on the park and a big fireplace. The bathroom had not only “facilities” but a large tub filled with steaming water. Mae and Rosina helped her out of her clothes, wrapped her in towels, and led her to the tub. At first the water was too hot, then she reveled in it as someone might who was planning to rise from a tomb. This was all half-dream, half-vision by now. They washed her hair and then brushed it. Then they gave her a gown and a robe which must have been Rosina’s, put her to bed and said the last decade of the rosary with her. She was sound asleep after the third Ave.
Finally, she opened her eyes. The Doctor, Mae, and Rosina hovered over her like three protective angels.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Twelve hours or so,” the Doctor said, glancing at his watch.
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Do you mind if I listen to your lungs?”
“That’s what doctors do.”
They all laughed again.
He listened very carefully.
“Breathe deeply.”
She did.
“Strong heart and strong lungs . . . no flow of blood for a while?’
“Over a year.”
“It will start again soon, and you’ll grow a bit and put on some weight and catch up. You’ve been through a rough time, and we’ll keep an eye on you.”
“I’ll try not to be a bother.”
“When can she begin to go to school?” Rosina asked.
“Perhaps when the second semester starts. Mom can take you over to St. Mary’s Academy during the Christmas vacation. I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”
Rosina was in her second year at St. Mary’s. She would go on for the full four years, though most of her classmates would leave in the spring to begin their careers as stenographers and machine operators. Timmy was in fourth year at St. Ignatius College and would graduate in two years and then go on to Rush Medical college.
“I want to go there too,” Angela told herself, but kept the thought in her own head. “Not because Tim will be there—because I want to be a doctor.”
And that was that.
The next day Mae and Rosina took her downtown to Marshall Field’s to buy her some clothes of her own.
It was too much for poor Angela. She was overwhelmed by the size and the variety and quite incapable of making choices for herself. Moreover, her new family was far too lavish in its plans for outfitting her. She would absolutely not wear a corset, not with her skinny little body. It would be an affectation.
“I can’t make these decisions,” she said finally. “I don’t know what I need or what I like. I’m sure I’ll love your choices.”
They were delighted at the proposal. Now they could have all their fun clothing this cute little doll that had washed up on the edge of Union Park. The doll didn’t mind. They wanted to make her happy. She would make them happy.
She didn’t even protest the second corset and the corset covers for her scarcely existing breasts. Later, of course, she would change her mind when she discovered that, suddenly, she had a figure that some men liked and some young women envied.
“I’m sure you’re tired of hearing me say thank you,” she whispered at the end of the day. “I am very grateful to you for making me part of your family. I’ll never say thank you enough. Please imagine me saying it all the time.”
Both the other women wept. So did Angela.
Later Angela would say that the Gaughans had given her a new life and she would always be grateful. Still later, when tensions arose, she wasn’t so sure. And still later, fortunately when her foster parents were still alive and the final family ties were shaped, Angela realized that she had made a big contribution to her new family simply by being herself. That insight scared her for awhile. That she was capable of filling vacuums in the lives of others simply did not seem possible.
On Sunday night, when the Marshals enjoyed a day off, Mae cooked her famous pot roast dinner for the family and invited guests. Among the regulars were Peter Muldoon, the handsome young parish priest at St. Charles Borromeo, where Vinny went to school, and Dr. Calvin Crawford, the Dean of Rush Medical College. Angela resolved that she would keep her big Irish mouth shut tight, lest she embarrass her new family. Father Muldoon was a charmer, Dr. Crawford a pompous fool—and his wife Minerva a perfect match for him.
“So you came here expecting to be a serving girl,” Father Muldoon began their conversation, “and find yourself a member of the family . . . Do you find this a welcome change?”
“A great surprise, Father. They must have been desperate for a new sister if they would settle for someone like me. They’ve been very kind and good. I am afraid that I’ll say or do something stupid and they won’t want me anymore.”
“I doubt that, Angela. They seem to be very proud of you, as well they might be.”
More compliments, and this one from a priest.
“They love me, Father, each of them in their own way. I cannot account for it, but I am very grateful.”
He nodded wisely and smiled, a warm and gentle smile that set her at ease.
“Is it not the way God is with us. He does not consult with us but takes us unasked into his family and showers his exuberant love on us because of his generous spirit.”
Angela thought very carefully about that.
“I suppose you are correct, Father Muldoon, the Gaughans are like God. That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
“They are indeed extraordinary people. You will attend St. Mary’s Academy?”
“After Christmas, I will meet with the nuns to learn whether they want me. I hope they do, because Rosina will be there too, and that will be a help to me.”
“I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. Mae Gaughan tells me that you play the piano and speak French.”
“A little bit of both, and neither very well.”
He smiled again. “And after St. Mary’s?”
“I will try to enroll in Rush Medical College. I want to be a doctor. I don’
t imagine Dr. Crawford would think that a good idea . . .”
“He and our host are arguing about the theory that disease is spread by miasmas, swamp-like areas which are thick with disease. We know, don’t we, that inoculation prevents smallpox?”
“We do indeed.”
“You have been inoculated, Angela?”
“By my doctor in Ireland.”
“And as a doctor, you would not be afraid to be assigned to a pest-house of smallpox victims?”
“Sure I’d be afraid, but I’d do it because it was my duty and I wouldn’t get sick.”
“Because of God or your inoculation?”
Trick question.
“Is there a difference?”
He chuckled.
“You are a very interesting young woman, Angela Tierney. If I can assist you in your education, don’t hesitate to call upon me. I do have a little influence in certain quarters.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Angela was not prepared to admit that she was an interesting young woman, not even on the testimony of a nice young priest. He had not, however, dismissed her plan to study to be a doctor. She shifted her attention to the discussion between Dr. Gaughan and Dr. Crawford.
“We have five major plagues here, Calvin: smallpox, diphtheria, malaria, cholera, and typhoid fever. The first two we can route with more inoculations; malaria for some reason seems to be ebbing, and we have medications which seem to control it. Cholera is a matter of impurities in drinking water. If we should reverse the flow of the river, the water in the lake should be free of cholera. Only typhoid would remain.”
“So you would advocate mass inoculations and the sanitary canal. And who, Patrick, would pay for these vast expenditures?”
“The same government which found a way to pay for the horrors of the recent war between North and South. The saving of so much human life would be well worth the cost.”
“Would it, Patrick? How many of these immigrants who become sick so easily would ever become useful citizens? Are we not really better off without them?”
Irish Tweed Page 9