1929

by M. L. Gardner

  “My wife sends black bread,” he said and smiled ever so slightly.

  “Thank you,” Jonathan said, setting the wood by the hearth. “It’s good to see you both. How have you been?” Jonathan asked, shaking his hand and then removing his coat. Ava took it, and he grabbed her long enough to kiss her cheek before she went to put it away.

  “Good. I have new job. Large family. Lots of work, less pay. Good enough for times like these.” He glanced down at his palm, now covered in black smears from Jonathan’s soot-covered hand.

  “Oh, sorry about that.” He had forgotten that he was filthy. “I tried scrubbing it off at work, but it doesn’t come off easily.”

  “Lard. Rub lard on hands, then soap,” Sven informed.

  “Huh. I’ll try that,” he said, walking to the kitchen to look around for the bowl of lard.

  “I'll be damned, it worked.” he said, rejoining the others in the living room a few minutes later. Ava brought him a large piece of the bread that Sven’s wife sent, a hot cup of tea, then sat beside him in a chair pulled from the table.

  “Well, the reason for my visit, sir, is this. I have a proposition for you. My new employer is holding a holiday party, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and I could use a little extra help. I have permission to hire one more man as it will be a large party. I wondered if you might be interested. It would be extra money before the holidays. I’m sure I can arrange a spare black suit, should you need it,” Charles said and smiled hopefully.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Charles? What would I be helping you with?” Jonathan shifted uncomfortably and sipped his tea.

  “Well, you would be performing the duties of a butler for the evening. Serving guests, taking coats, providing drinks.”

  Jonathan cringed inside. “I’m not sure I would know what to do, Charles. I’ve never . . . .”

  “Well, it really isn’t hard, sir. It would be, how do they say? ‘Easy money’.” Jonathan felt all eyes on him as he tried to find a dignified way out of the offer. He struggled between the humiliation of becoming hired help and earning extra money. He thought about adding it to the savings jar for when Aryl found an idea that would actually work and finally nodded, conceding to the voice in his head that yelled at him to make and save as much as he could.

  “Sure, Charles. And I still have a black suit.” Charles handed him a piece of paper with an address written on it.

  “If you’ll be here at six o’clock, sir, I’ll meet you at the back of the house.” Jonathan glanced at the address, noting it was only a few blocks from where he used to live. He sighed heavily, already regretting his agreement. “Well, we don’t want to keep you from your dinner, so we’ll be on our way.”

  “So soon?” Jonathan asked, disappointed. “Maybe you could stay for dinner?”

  “My wife is waiting,” Sven stated. He reached out for Jonathan’s now clean hand.

  “I will see you in two weeks, sir,” Charles said to Jonathan. “And we’d like to plan an evening to get together. Maura wanted me to ask you if the Saturday after next would be a good night.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. Tell her yes,” Ava said.

  Ava went over to her homemade calendar and wrote down Maura’s visit eight days from then. With that and their dinner plans with Shannon, she had two things to look forward to.

  ∞∞∞

  Caleb walked in to the smell of burnt bread, a room full of billowing smoke and Arianna trying to clear the air at the window.

  “What happened?” he asked, helping her wave the smoke out.

  “I tried, Caleb, that’s what happened. I tried, and like I told you, I don’t know how to do this. All I did was waste flour,” she growled at him.

  “You tried. That’s what matters. It’ll get better. And easier.” He walked in the kitchen and saw the oven dial turned to the highest setting. “Here’s the problem, Ahna,” he said, pointing to the dial. She grabbed the sheet of paper that had Maura’s bread recipe, wrinkled and stained.

  “No, see right here.” She pointed to the temperature on the recipe. “Five hundred-seventy-five degrees. The dial didn’t go that high, so I just put it as high as I could.” Caleb started laughing.

  “No, Ahna. That’s a three. It got smudged.” She looked closer and threw the paper on the counter in frustration and crossed her arms to pout. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go get some dinner,” he said, and holding the back of her head, kissed her forehead. “Thank you for trying.”

  ∞∞∞

  “Good evening.” He walked into the shop where Mr. Goldberg greeted him happily. Caleb was his most regular customer since moving in, and the old man was always gracious.

  “What will you have today, Caleb?”

  “Oh, how about a loaf of that rye bread and a half-pound of salami. Maybe a quarter-pound of provolone, too.” They would have sandwiches again tonight. He was too hungry to wait for dinner to cook.

  “Coming right up,” he called as he set to work slicing and wrapping. “Not that I mind your business, but you know, if there was a Mrs. Caleb, you wouldn’t have to come here every night for your dinner. You should be thinking on finding a nice girl and getting married,” he said with a Jewish accent and waggled a crooked finger at him. Caleb simply looked down and laughed.

  November 9th 1929

  Jonathan knocked on Shannon’s door while Ava held a small cake.

  Shannon smiled when she opened it. “Welcome!”

  They stepped inside as Shannon’s husband came around the corner.

  “Babes are asleep,” he told Shannon.

  The table now set away from the wall. The two regular chairs were set on one side for Ava and Jonathan, and the luggage trunk was on the other for the hosts to sit on. Wonderful aromas filled the apartment.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Shannon said cheerfully. “Can I get ye anythin’ to drink?”

  “Thank you,” Ava said, unsure of what to ask for. Shannon had already prepared mugs of fresh coffee, to which she now added a generous helping of cream, sugar and Irish whiskey. She passed the mugs out, and the kick caught Ava off-guard.

  “Whew!” She laughed with watering eyes, took another sip, and gave Shannon a nod. “Delicious.”

  Patrick stuck out his work-weathered hand to Jonathan. “I’m Patrick. Me wife has no manners to introduce me proper.” He smirked at Shannon. He was a lanky man with sandy-blond hair grown out just over his ears. His brown eyes were deep set and kind.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Patrick, I’m just so excited to have company,” she said apologetically.

  “Don’t fret, woman,” he said and smiled, giving her a hard pat on the bottom.

  “Jonathan. My friends call me Jon. Nice to meet you, Patrick.”

  “Come sit. Shannon said you work at the docks. That’d be the shipping docks or the dry docks?” he asked, folding his long legs over the chest across from Jonathan.

  “Shipping–” Jonathan began.

  “Patrick, would you do me a favor an grab me some more butter?” Shannon interrupted. He twisted his legs from under the table, went to the living room window and opened it. Frigid air blew past him, and he worked quickly. He reached out to the fire escape, used a key to open a lock on a box chained to the bars and pulled out a round of butter wrapped in paper. He handed it to Shannon, who paid him for the favor with a quick kiss.

  “You like it there?” Patrick asked when he returned to the table.

  “Honestly, no,” Jonathan snorted.

  “What don’t you like about it?”

  “Too many things to mention. What about you? Where do you work?”

  “Dry-docks. I rivet mainly, but they often call me to do other things. Lately, I’ve been working on a section of wood deckin’ an’ week ‘fore that I was putting in pipes for the privies.” Patrick was proud of his versatility.

  “You like it down there,” Jonathan assumed.

  “Yes.” Patrick nodded. “I’ve had much worse. Good people I work with f
or the most part. Don’t catch too much trouble for bein' a mick.”

  “Patrick Michael Mulligan!” Shannon cried, her accent rolling as deep as her anger. Patrick jumped and mockingly cringed as if being scolded by an angry mother with a switch.

  “Don’t ye dare use that profanity in me house!” She was by his side and glaring at him.

  “T’isnt profanity, woman. Just slang,” he rebutted with a boyish grin.

  “Offensive slang at that. An insult to our Irish heritage. I know all too well what’s implied when it’s said and it’s only said out a’ meanness. I’ll not hear it in me own house. Not when I have to hear it on the streets in insult.”

  Patrick nodded. “Fine, fine. You’ll not hear it from me in our home.” He pulled her over and stretched up to kiss her cheek. “Now don’t go showin’ yer temper to our guests.”

  “Don’t give me cause to,” she chided back, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. Her face was hard, but her eyes teasing.

  “The way I see it, people are too damned sensitive.” He looked at Shannon but was speaking to Jonathan. “I once seen a fight break out between two fellas at work, Jewish and Italian, I think, or maybe Jew and German. Anyhow, they started with talkin’ and callin’ each other names like feckin’ schoolgirls then started boxin’. Both their daft arses lost their jobs. Now what’s the sense in that? Losin’ a job over words,” he said, shaking his head.

  “It’s the meanin’ behind tha’ words, Patrick,” Shannon called from the kitchen.

  “Aye, but they’re still just words. An’ if people stopped takin’ offense, the words would have no power a’tall.”

  “Where you work, are they hiring?” Jonathan asked casually. Ava eyed him from the kitchen.

  “Nah. There’s rumors of layoffs because of what happened last month. Got everyone on edge.”

  Patrick and Jonathan continued talk of work while Ava offered to help Shannon, who stirred a pot of ham and pea soup and pulled a sizzling, cast-iron skillet out of the oven filled with small cakes.

  “What are those?” Ava asked. “It smells wonderful.”

  “Boxty. Potato cakes of a sort. I’ll teach you how to make 'em, if you and Jonathan like ‘em,” she said and smiled while slicing a heavy loaf of soda bread. Both Shannon and Patrick crossed themselves and mumbled a prayer, and then Shannon lifted the ladle to serve soup to her guests.

  “How long have you been in America?” Jonathan asked.

  “Near five years. Me n’ Shannon here came over together. Married the day ‘fore the boat pushed off,” Patrick said, smiling.

  “Honeymoon trip,” Jonathan commented.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it was a honeymoon,” Patrick said, laughing. “The first days were exciting with the prospects of coming to America and all. But tis hard to find a bit o’ privacy when yer crammed in with a couple hundred other emigrants in steerage day after day.” Jonathan shook his head, unable to imagine.

  “Is it all you thought it would be? America, I mean?” It wasn’t Jonathan’s words, but his tone that caused Ava to give him a hard look and poke him in the thigh. Patrick laughed.

  “Yes and no. Everything always looks better from far away. Take Shannon, for example.” He recoiled before she could even raise her hand to slap his shoulder. Her green eyes flashed, and she hit him twice in the arm, hard. “Now, now, woman,” he howled. “Shannon here was the most beautiful lass in all of Enniskerry.” He pulled her close to his side and kissed her on the top of her head. She pinched him for good measure. “There was talk back home o’ opportunities that any man willin’ to work hard would have his own land in no time. Dint turn out to be that easy. But I’ll get it. One day,” he said contentedly.

  “That’s what you want? To own land?” Jonathan asked.

  “Aye. Tis what every Irishman wants,” he said quietly.

  “Where?” Jonathan asked, having stopped eating, watching Patrick intently. He shrugged.

  “Maybe upstate, maybe out west. Not sure just yet.”

  “How will you go about that? Obtaining land, I mean?” Jonathan asked, curious at what strategy he had in mind.

  “Work hard, save, and it’ll come. Maybe before lil' Roan is old enough for schooling.”

  “How can you be so sure you’ll get it?”

  Patrick raised his head and looked Jonathan straight in the eyes. “Because I want it bad enough.”

  Toward the end of the dinner visit, Patrick arranged a night to get together with the other men to show them how to build the hanging shelves, and Shannon promised to come over to teach Ava how to make boxty.

  November 13th1929

  The days passed without much else to break the monotony until mid-week when Caleb came home to a quiet apartment that distinctly lacked the smell of food, burnt or otherwise. Arianna sat on the couch in the dark, staring at a dying fire. She remained motionless as he walked through the door and greeted her. Sitting carefully on the couch beside her, she held something against her chest with folded arms.

  “Ahna, what’s wrong?” he asked gently, reaching for her hand. She jerked it away. “Did you have a hard day, my love?” He tried again for her hand. She pulled away again, her gaze remained on the fire.

  “Ahna, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  After a long moment, she turned her head slowly toward him and silently stared at him with vacant eyes. The dying light intensified the dark hollows under her eyes, sunken cheeks and the drawn lines of her mouth. The focus of her lifeless eyes locked onto his, and her stock-still posture caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He remained trapped in her startling gaze until she glanced down at what she held to her chest. Uncrossing her arms, and turning Caleb’s hardbound notebook over, she opened it slowly.

  “You lied,” she whispered. She flipped the sheets, exposing page after page of meaningless doodling, drawings of his childhood home, ocean beaches and an entire page crowded with her name, written in every size and script, surrounding a poem. He looked with dread from the notebook to Arianna’s face and back to the book. “First of all,” she spoke slowly in a too-calm voice, “You said you had ideas, plans. You said you were writing those ideas down, working on them until one of them would work. And you said we would be out of here by the first of the year.” She stared at him again with frighteningly empty eyes, waiting for an answer. Caleb took a moment, rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. He stared at the floor while he spoke.

  “Ahna, I,” he paused to take a deep breath, “I had to tell you all that. I needed you to hold on, to make the best of things until I was able to figure something out. To be completely honest, Aryl has been the only one with an idea and, well, that one didn’t turn out to be practical. For us anyway,” he said dejectedly. “I do know something will work out. I just need more time.”

  “You thought I’d run again,” she assumed.

  He nodded. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have? If I had brought you here and told you, right then and there, that I had no idea how we were going to get out of this place? If I had told you just how hard life would be for us? You wouldn’t have run the first chance you got?” He turned toward her on the couch. “Ahna, I told you that I would find a way out for us, and I will. But I can’t work miracles. I just need more time. It’s not even been a month,” he said, pleading. She turned her head toward him in disbelief.

  “It feels so much longer than that, Caleb.”

  “I know. It does to me, too. This life is exhausting.” He searched for something to say and remained quiet for a long time.

  “Don’t ever lie to me again, Caleb,” she finally said firmly. “Every day for two years, my father came home and reassured us all that everything was fine. Right up to the day when the bank showed up to take our things and give us notice to leave. Do you remember what you said when you came home that day, almost a month ago?” He shook his head, too tired to remember. “You said everything would be fine. It would all work out. But I alr
eady knew the truth. The neighbor’s wife had come over, crying. Her husband invested everything with Jonathan. He got home before you did and broke the news to her. And when you got home, all I heard was my father’s voice. It’s fine, it’ll all be okay, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s the other reason I ran. Not because we were suddenly penniless, not because I don’t love you. I just couldn’t be blindsided like that again.”

  He nodded, his eyes acknowledging. “All right. From now on, no sugarcoating. I promise.” He took her hand, and she didn’t pull away this time. She leaned over slowly and laid her head in his lap, watching the last of the burning embers in the fireplace. He stroked her hair, trying to smooth her wild, raven tufts. “You look like hell,” he said with a smile. She whipped her head around, mouth open in shock. “Hey, I thought we were going for honesty.”

  November 23rd 1929

  “Now it’s a party!” Maura cried as Arianna and Caleb walked through Ava’s door the following Saturday night. “How’ve you been, love?” Maura asked as she hugged her.

  “All right,” Arianna said, smiling.

  “Yer losin’ weight, ye sure yer feelin’ a'right?” Maura asked, concerned, feeling her forehead and touching her gaunt cheeks. Arianna nodded.

  “My stomach is upset, but I’m fine.” Arianna handed Ava a plate of biscuits and a small jar of honey. She had managed to master biscuits well enough to be edible as long as she sat in front of the oven the entire twenty minutes. Ava added the plate to the table of food. Everyone had brought a dish, so there would be plenty to go around. The room was fairly bursting and it quickly grew stuffy with so many bodies in the small space. Aryl shared his last bottle of brandy, and after a while, Maura grew frustrated with the occasional loud outbursts from the men gathered on one side of the small room.