by Peter Troy
Ethan! he hears a vaguely familiar voice call out to him as he stands by the front entrance. There y’are. I been lookin’ all over th’bleedin’ place for ya!
The yelling draws attention from much of the well-dressed crowd still milling outside Cooper Union, and Ethan follows their stares as if down a funnel all the way to the imposing figure of Cormac Toomey, his brother’s Associate. In the Points, Cormac’s been known as a thug for going on twenty years, but five years ago Seanny dressed him up in an overgrown suit, tossed a derby hat on his head, and took him over to Tammany Hall where he became an Associate of great value. He was particularly effective at getting out the vote on Election Day, employing a political strategy that mostly consisted of free beer and physical threats, and generally produced anywhere from two to six votes from every man he’d persuaded, dead or alive. Tammany loved his effectiveness, and loved even more that Sean could keep him on a leash far away from Wall Street and City Hall.
Jaysus Ethan, whatta crowd here t’see da tall fella, eh? Cormac asks as he approaches Ethan, with the men around them still staring. Seanny said you was here, but I been standin’ by th’door fer da las’ five minutes an’ I ain’t seen ya.
Cormac had taken to him from the first day Sean introduced them, when Cormac shook Ethan’s hand and was impressed with his strong grip, then challenged him to some arm wrestles once they’d had a few pints. Ethan beat him once in five tries with his right hand, and two out of five with his left, and Cormac had liked him ever since. As Seanny always said, and Ethan agreed, it was nice to have a man like Cormac on your side. But he’s not the type to be here after such an important political speech as this, and Ethan’s more than a little ashamed of his affiliation with him just now.
Yeah, it was some crowd in there Cormac, Ethan replies, speaking softly now, trying to diminish the attention being paid to them. I didn’t know you’d be interested in the speech.
Oh, I ain’t interested in what da fella’s got t’say, Cormac answers. It’s jus’ dat Seanny sent me up dis way t’see if you was still here. He ahhh … requests your presence at the Astor House hotel … is what he told me t’tell ya, Cormac says, relaying the message from Sean by removing his hat and bowing slightly at the waist, the way Seanny must’ve told him to say it.
He what? Ethan asks.
He requests—
No, I know whacha said Cormac, Ethan interrupts. What I’m askin’ is … Cormac, y’can stand up straight there, I got th’message. Cormac’s still bowing, intent on fulfilling his mission as if he was Sir Galahad to Seanny’s King Arthur, but Ethan guides him back upright.
You an’ Seanny been at th’Rose all night Cormac, huh? Ethan asks.
See … now he figgered you was gonna say dat an’ he told me t’tell you dat he was … Cormac doffs his cap and bends at the waist again … somewhat more’n bit by a barn weasel, but not quite altogetherly.
Ethan can’t help but laughing, partly from the terminology his brother always has at his disposal, partly at seeing this ox of a man, in a suit bursting at the seams, holding his hat over his heart and remaining in a bowed position. And he knows there’ll be no dodging this invite.
All right, all right, Ethan says, lifting him again. Let’s get on wit’ it.
Alas, Squire, Cormac begins in a formal tone again, I am t’pass on th’invitation an’ find me way home … for I’m more’n bit by a barn weasel meself.
Ohhhhh no, Ethan insists. Yer just the man t’help me carry Squire Seanny back to his house. You owe me that much!
Ethan knows there’ll be no danger of his brother talking politics on this night. Seanny, as a Tammany man, is by definition a Democrat, while Ethan has taken to the Republican Party and their stand on halting the spread of slavery. Seanny’d always laughed at the pie-in-the-sky ideals of Ethan and now lumped men like Lincoln right in there with him. And their debates had grown more pointed, though as inconclusive as ever, over the years. But if Seanny’s in anything like the state Cormac is in, Ethan thinks, he’ll mop the floor with him in a debate now, and since his brother only enters the ring with victory almost assured, there’ll be no serious discussion on politics this evening. Along Broadway they pass Barclay Street and spot Seanny standing a good distance from the front entrance of the Astor and leaning up against a streetlamp.
Ahhhhh, here they are, Sean says as they approach. The Squire and his Associate.
Jaysus, Seanny, Ethan says, you leave any whiskey in th’Points?
Sean turns to Cormac, pretending to take offense at the insult.
Sir Cormac, he says, with as much royal diction as he can muster, my young Squire brudder here has drawn into question th’sobriety of yours truly. An’ this after Oh’ve gone t’ahll the considerable trouble of discoverin’ th’location where a certain Mr. Ayyy Lincoln, Esquire, of Springfield, Ill-eee-noise, will be stayin’ for th’duration of his visit t’ahr fair city.
Ethan’s eyes light up as Sean waves his arm toward the entrance of the Astor Hotel and Cormac follows suit. They both bow slightly and move a step to the side to allow Ethan to pass.
Yer on the straight here? Ethan asks. How’d you find out?
My good sir, Sean says, perhaps you wishta withdraw th’insults previous?
I do, Ethan says with a smile, a little too giddy for a man of twenty-five.
They wait in the elegant lobby seated around a table beside the massive fireplace. Ethan’s in a chair facing out to the front entrance while Cormac and Sean each take up occupancy of separate couches facing the fire. A waiter from the restaurant comes out and Sean orders brandy for all of them before Ethan can send him away.
We’re not going up to a presidential candidate completely smashed, Ethan says to Sean.
Oh, there’s no we to this operation, Squire, Sean assures him.
No we, Cormac repeats, then grimaces slightly and adds, but I do koinda hafta wee.
And wee you shall, my good man, Seanny says with his customary formality when he’s in such a state. Sir Cormac here, who hasta wee, has completed th’task of uncoverin’ Mr. Lincoln’s temporary residence, and now it’s all up to you, Squire brudder of mine, to carry out actually shakin’ the tall man’s hand. In th’meantime, I believe I shall do some weein’ of me own.
They walk off to the necessary, and so it goes for the better part of an hour. Sean and Cormac, when they return, find considerable amusement in teasing Ethan while they drink their brandy. Just as the two of them are about to break into song, Ethan spots the unmistakable figure of Mr. Lincoln walking through the front entrance. He tips his stovepipe hat to the doorman as well as to the attendant behind the front desk, and walks toward the grand stairway. Ethan is up in a shot and Sean and Cormac stop their joking for a moment to turn around and see what’s caused the reaction.
Give’m a kiss for me, Squire, Sean jokes once he sees Lincoln, and he and Cormac laugh uncontrollably.
Ethan walks across the lobby and catches Mr. Lincoln on the landing between the first and second floors. He looks remarkably tired and his shoulders are slouched, making his arms appear even longer than before.
Mr. Lincoln, sir, Ethan calls out from a few steps behind him.
Lincoln takes the final step up to the landing and turns toward him. His fatigue is evident, and his face isn’t just gaunt like before, but appears sunken, like it’s frozen in the middle of drawing in a deep breath.
Yes, hello, he replies while removing his hat.
Sir … it is an honor to meet you, Ethan says, fumbling for words. I … I was at your speech this evenin’ at Cooper Union, and I must tell you that you have my full support for th’nomination … not that it’s of any importance, but … well, it was a fine speech, sir.
Well thank you, young man. You are? Lincoln asks, and extends his hand.
Ethan … Ethan McOwen, sir. Lincoln’s hand is bigger than Suah’s even.
It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McOwen. Irish, yes? I thought I detected a brogue.
Yes sir.
Though I’ve been here longer than I was in the Old Country, Ethan replies, dismayed just a little that he’s so easily identified, even now.
Compared to my voice, yours is quite presidential, Lincoln says, as if he can understand Ethan’s expression. Where are you from?
Outside of Enniskillen, County Fermanagh … in the north, Ethan says, and can see that Lincoln is not familiar with it. My family’s been here since The Hunger—the famine, that is, sir.
Oh yes—a terrible tragedy. What terrible suffering your people have faced. But you’re doing well now, it appears.
Yes, we are, Ethan replies. My brother’s in politics … well, he’s a Democrat.
Lincoln laughs. Even great men have their vices, he says.
Very true. Well, he does a great deal of work in the Five Points. He’s a supporter of many charities there.
Good, there’s plenty of work to be done there, he replies. Tell your brother for me that it’s important work he does. And tell him when he’s ready to come over to the Republican Party, we’ll forgive all his past transgressions. And what is it you do, Mr. McOwen?
I’m a photographer … portraits mostly, Ethan says.
I had mine taken just yesterday, Lincoln says.
Yes sir, at Mathew Brady’s. I read about it sir.
Well if I had known, I would have come by your studio as well, Mr. McOwen.
And with that Mr. Lincoln tips his hat and bows slightly. Ethan wants to press on with the conversation, but can see that the politician is tired of politicking, and just plain tired in general.
Thank you sir, he says, and I do hope you’ll receive the nomination of the party.
Most days I do too, Mr. McOwen, and they shake hands again before Lincoln ascends the steps before him.
As Ethan walks back across the lobby he can’t help but think of being back in Ireland, stealing handfuls of oats from the Brodericks’ horses and feeling his family didn’t deserve as much, what with how the Brodericks’ were a proper rich family and all. Thoughts of Seanny and Cormac and Harry and his Da run through his head, as if each of their paths was one he might’ve followed. But instead here he is, a struggling photographer with potential, a would-be scholar without a degree, and now, being called Mr. McOwen by a man who just delivered the kind of speech that might soon have him running for President of the United States.
Did ya get a locka his hair, Squire? Sean asks as Ethan returns to them.
I gotta tell ya Ethan, Cormac adds, dat’s one homely-lookin’ lass ya got dere.
But it doesn’t matter, none of it, not when he’s come this far. He looks at the empty brandy bottle on the table, then sees that the bar is still open across the Great Hall.
I could use a pint, Ethan says. I’m buyin’.
Oh good god, this is a day to remember, Seanny says, and he and Cormac are soon following behind.
MARCELLA ARROYO
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
AUGUST 18, 1860
“Three cards for Miss Marcella?” Witt asks, with every ounce of genteel condescension he seemingly can muster.
“Three … oh … yes please, Mr. Witt,” she replies, placing the cards nervously down in front of her. “Oh, wait a moment,” she quickly adds, then looks at the two cards in her hand, exchanging one of them for one she has just discarded.
The men laugh, looking around at each other and back at her, acknowledging that she is charmingly out of place. Marcella giggles with embarrassment, looks at her cards again, and nods before placing them down on the table.
“I believe I’d give you four cards, Miss Marcella,” Witt says with a giant half-moon smile beneath his finely groomed mustache. “If I wasn’t afraid you’d take all my money from me, hahahahaha …”
Marcella smiles and bats her eyelashes some. “Well I do thank you, Mr. Witt. And what a charming, thoughtful man you are,” she says. Jackass, she thinks.
The new cards are dealt, and she’s wide-eyed and appearing gullible as a child as she studies each man’s reactions to his new cards.
“Well … I’ll bet ten dollars,” van Nils announces, his voice cracking just a bit. Bluffing again, she thinks.
“Make it twenny!” Starling exclaims. And thank you, Mr. Starling, for always raising so emphatically when you have the weakest hand.
Jordan is next and he only calls. Didn’t make his straight or flush, she thinks. Two pair, perhaps. And all eyes turn back to her.
“Why Miss Marcella, here I give you three brand-new cards an’ you haven’t even looked at ’em yet,” Witt says. “Now why would you go and hurt my feelin’s like that?”
“Oh dear, I was so caught up in all the excitement,” she says. Oh dear, it’ll be a particular pleasure to take your money, Mr. Witt.
Marcella pretends to be horribly embarrassed, smiles apologetically, and picks up the three new cards. While the men continue laughing, she puts them down and looks at the original two again.
“You’re allowed to look at ’em all at once,” Starling jokes.
“An’ even if it was against the rules, Miss Marcella,” Jordan adds, “why, I believe we’d make’n exception for such a charmin’ young lady as yourself.”
“Well I sure do thank you all,” Marcella replies. “Ha, ‘you all,’ I believe I’m becomin’ more Southern ever’ day we’re here.” Try not to shudder now, she reminds herself.
“Well we’re happy t’have such a pretty lady decoratin’ the room like this, Miss Marcella,” Witt says. Steady.
“A reg’lar Spanish Southern belle, an’ pretty as the moonlight,” van Nils adds. Steady.
“An’ we don’ wanna see you lose any money, so …” Witt adds, getting to the point.
“Oh my, is it my turn to bet?” she asks.
“Well, Mr. van Nils already bet ten dollars, an’ Mr. Starling made it twenty,” he replies, as if telling a child about ghosts in the attic. Goodness me! she orders her face to express.
“Oh my. So twenty dollars? Two red ones?” she asks.
“Well yes,” Witt says, “but you don’t hafta play, Miss Marcella …”
But before he can complete his sentence, Marcella throws in her twenty dollars.
“Now hold on just a second,” he says. “I was gonna say you could fold, Miss Marcella, an’ save th’twenny dollars. Now you didn’t know that, so I’m sure the gentlemen won’t mind if you take ’em back.” He looks around at them and they’re all quick to agree.
“Oh, I see …” she says. “But that wouldn’t be very much fun. No—this is fine.”
Witt shakes his head as if what he is about to do will wound him greatly, but it’s out of his hands. Barely even looked at his two new cards, Marcella observes. So three of a kind. They’d better be aces, Mr. Witt. Now, at least.
“I’m sorry, but … well … I’ll make it thirty, gentlemen,” Witt finally says, looking over at Marcella as if his heart were breaking to take her money like this.
“I’m out,” van Nils says, throwing his cards away with disgust.
“Forty!” Starling exclaims with a greater edge this time. Too quick again, Mr. Starling.
“Call!” Jordan says. Ahhh, Mr. Jordan, she thinks, you’d be a very good player if you just didn’t so hate the idea of losing to Mr. Starling.
They all look condescendingly at her again.
“Now Miss Marcella,” Witt cautions. “This hand’s gotten richer’n we usually—”
“How much is it, fawty dollars?” she interrupts. “Fawty dollars, hee-hee. I’m ’bout ready to move down here with y’all.” Forgive me Mrs. Carlisle, she jokes to herself.
“Well, only twenny more to you,” Witt says, “but now you don’ hafta … that is …”
“You can fold like I did,” van Nils says. “Just smart poker’s all that is, Miss Marcella.”
“Oh—but I’d like to see this through to the end, I think. So yes, I believe I’ll give it a go. There—two more red ones,” she says, tossing the chips into the middle and then looking around at t
he pained faces of her opponents. “Oh, don’t worry so much, y’all,” she laughs. “It’s only money.”
Her smile seems to ease some of their suffering.
“Well, might as well see it through,” Witt says, and tosses his money into the pot.
They all look to Starling, who places his pair of jacks down in front of him, announcing them with far more glee than they merit.
“Nines over fours,” Jordan counters, happy just to beat Starling no matter what it cost.
“Well … I’ve been very lucky indeed.” Marcella says, cautiously, so as not to offend. “Three kings,” she says with just enough glee to make the men actually feel happy for her.
“That beats my three tens,” Witt says, sounding almost relieved.
“Well, lookit that!” van Nils adds, and the men laugh as Marcella rakes in the pot of nearly two hundred dollars.
“That’ll buy a new dress or two, Miss Marcella.”
“Charmin’, witty, and a card shark.” “Don’t forget pretty as a daisy.” “A daisy? Pretty as a rose.” “A Savannah rose.”
Steady, she urges herself.
The men fall all over themselves complimenting her, and she takes it all in with blushing amusement. I didn’t think it would be this easy.
“Well … y’all are fahhr too generous in your praise,” she says. “I’m just glad I had some better luck than my poor brothers did. They’re the ones who taught me howta play, after all.”
The men look at each other and laugh some more.
“Yes, well,” Witt says, as if speaking for the entire table, “Miss Marcella, I believe it’s safe to say that you’re the best card player in your esteemed family.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Witt,” she responds. I know just how small a compliment that is.
For two hours that evening, she’d sat in one of the parlor room armchairs beside the poker table, pretending to read while she watched her brothers stumble through playing with as much subtlety as they employed in their daily lives, sons of their father that they were. They bet with the kind of bravado that was as clear a tell as Starling’s exclamations or van Nils’s cracking voice, but with even less sense. And then, before her brothers were completely out of money, Marcella slipped upstairs and waited in the parlor between their rooms. Bartolomé and Miguel strolled in a short while later, looking to have a few more brandies and commiserate over what bad luck they’d had, and Marcella quickly found out that they’d lost five hundred dollars between them. A half hour later she managed to charm her way into the game, declaring to the young gentlemen, “Daddy gave me two hundred dollars for new dresses, but I already have more dresses than I could possibly ever wear as it is, and—my brothers taught me all about the game—and in Europe the ladies play cards with the men all the time, for money even, and … well—I’m just so terribly bored.” And the men finally, laughingly, relented.