Brian and his brothers called them various names—kikes and sheenies—but there seemed nothing malicious about it for they called everyone by various names, the niggers and the Polacks and the hunkies and the guineas and wops.
About the Italians, it was a very odd thing that Brian and his brothers called them so many names and made their jokes, for didn’t their own wild little sister, Maureen, settle down and marry John Kinelli, even though they’d one and all vowed it would be over their dead bodies. But Maureen married John Kinelli in church with all of them present and not one of them dead.
All of them were settled and growing families of their own, fine large families of boys and girls. The Reillys, with their five redheaded sons, all with their dad’s pleasant, mild face; and the Kinellis, with their brood of dark-eyed children, looking more like their dad but acting more like their wild-tempered mother and she getting mad at them and telling them they’d better watch it or they’d turn into a passel of damn guineas. And all the O’Malleys, nearly taking over the block, ranging from fine grown boys like Margaret’s Brian and Ellen’s Billy to toddlers like Gene’s twin baby girls.
It was an odd thing, the way she’d think of that other place as home every now and then, when she’d buried her tiny infants here and raised her children here. And buried her husband; didn’t that make this place truly her home? And yet, the pull and tug were there, and sometimes, in thought, she’d wander back and dwell there again.
Margaret O’Malley gathered her handwork and put it out of the way, where no one would sit on a needle or a pin. It was foolish to stay up, waiting for Brian to come home. It wasn’t all that late and he’d be annoyed at the sight of her, as though he was some little boy. She walked quietly into the girls’ room and put Kit’s mended socks on her dresser.
The light from the hallway caught Roseanne’s sleeping face and Margaret had to admit to herself, though it might seem sinful pride, that this girl had a special rare beauty which sometimes nearly took her breath away. She had fine fragile bones and flawless white skin and dark brows and heavy lashes, surprising with her light hair.
If she could have one wish for the girl now, at this time in her life, it would be that she could have the sense to get some understanding of life; that all was not of the moment; that it went by you so fast you’ve got to learn to pick and choose and savor. That Billy Delaney was not the world.
Margaret O’Malley bit her lip and turned abruptly from the room. She thought she heard Brian at the door and she’d best go and put some tea to boil.
ELEVEN
A RAW BLAST OF wind penetrated his jacket and Brian felt a chill mingle with the sweat that ran down his back. He clicked his tongue against his front teeth three times and moved toward the milk wagon.
“Come on, move, you damn bag of bones.” He spoke without any real rancor; it was just a natural impatience toward the slow-moving horse as well as toward his slow-moving uncle. They were perfectly teamed and tuned to each other, and in some funny way, Brian thought, they resembled each other: Matt O’Malley and the horse, Cutter.
Each seemed to be constantly speaking to himself. Matt went on with a soft stream of words which contained portions of songs, complaints against the weather, his aching cold fingers, the company; he mused over orders, commented on the disrespect of young people, how everything was going to the dogs anyway. Everything, pleasant, unpleasant, said in the same monotone.
The horse, an unevenly gaited fat nag, lurched in sudden starts and fits which suited itself and never in response to the clicking and whistling signals to which it was supposed to respond. A deep rumbling sound constantly emanated from the horse’s throat, and every now and then, it would toss its head wildly from side to side, as though commenting on its own discourse.
“Oh, takes me for a damn fool, does she? Well, we’ll just see, then, we’ll just see,” Matt whispered to himself as he scowled over a note scrawled on a piece of brown wrapping paper. “Hey, Brian, take a look here. What do you think?”
Brian hopped onto the wagon easily. “About what, Uncle Matt?”
“Well, here, take a look at this note from Mrs. Flynn back at 2280. Thinks I’m a damned fool. Well, we’ll see about it.”
The note was concise and to the point. “No cream delivered on Tuesday. No money for no cream!!!”
Matt shook his head morosely, bent, sorted his orders. “I’m wise to her, lad. She had her cream, all right, delivered it myself. What she does is gets a bit short of the cash, you see, and instead of mentioning it, she pretends the cream got stolen, or not delivered at all. Too proud to admit being a bit short, but not too proud to drink the damn stuff down.” A smile pulled across his creased, weathered face. “I’m going to ring her bell next Tuesday morning, her regular day for a pint of cream. At five-thirty I’ll ring her damn bell and present the damn bottle right into her hands.” He laughed at his own cleverness, then noticed where the horse was pulling them. “Ho, you stubborn damn fool, get yourself off the sidewalk now. You’ve no brains at all in your great empty head.”
The horse came to a halt, stood, implacable, front hooves on the sidewalk, head lowered: unmoving and immovable.
“I’ll take 2308, Uncle Matt.” Brian leaped from the wagon, hoisted the heavy wooden crate to his shoulder. He entered the darkened silent apartment house and moved rapidly to the fifth floor. He didn’t mind the weight on his shoulder at all anymore. At first he’d had a shocking ache down his arms and legs and back but now he took pleasure in the awareness of his growing strength. He moved swiftly, distributed the orders, placed the bottles outside the apartment doors in the dimly lit hallway. He liked the way the bottles sounded when they tapped together lightly; it was a special early-morning sound that probably annoyed hell out of the people who were still trying to sleep. It was a reminder to them that their day was about to begin.
Brian’s day began at three-thirty in the morning and he was surprised at how quickly he had become used to it. By six, he felt glowingly alive and strong; by eight, his first job of the day was over.
There was something special, mysterious, exotic about working when everyone else was still asleep, though he could not have explained what it was. It was a vague sense of owning some secret portion of the world, of being alive when everyone else was dead.
It would be like that when he was on the job. Someday. The next examination for patrolman wasn’t scheduled for three years and that worked out exactly right because in three years Brian would be twenty-one. That gave him three years to study all the manuals, to enroll in Delehanty’s and to build up a good work record on the milk truck with his uncle and at his job ushering in the Loew’s Paradise. He knew that every aspect of his life had to be accounted for; the year and a half he’d been on his own could be discounted. His family would close ranks and the Civil Service people would never know he’d bummed around the country.
He stood for a moment in the doorway of the apartment building, surveyed the empty, barely light street. Christ, he wished time away, wished all the obstacles away, wished he could be part of the Department now, start proving himself now. It was funny about the Department. He’d never discussed it with anyone, never made any kind of decision, yet Brian always knew that someday he’d become a policeman, in the same way he knew, someday, he’d become a man. Maybe they were one and the same thing. Maybe the time he’d spent, alone and cut off and hungry, away from his family, the terrible unconnected time, maybe that made him realize what it was that he wanted to do with his life. He knew that the Department was more than a job; it was like being part of a strong, untouchable family. He’d heard his father say it, and his uncles: “We take care of our own.”
He was taking care of his own now, of his mother and grandmother and sisters and brothers, but on nickels and dimes. When he was on the job, when he was in the Department, he’d make good money and it would be steady and regular and he would be a part of that vast mysterious masculine world where no one, not ever again, could ever c
onsider him a boy. He visualized himself, dressed smartly in a blue uniform, the visor of his hat tilted just slightly over one eye; the gun heavy against his thigh, the way he’d seen it on his father’s thigh. His hand slid around his narrow leather belt and he imagined it wider, with a little attachment containing six bullets which he might need, Christ, you might have to reload at any time; and the heavy gleaming handcuffs would be clipped to the left side of his belt.
Brian heard his uncle’s voice, softly chiding to himself, and it brought him back to reality. Shit, three more years of lugging milk bottles and flashing a beam of light over worn carpeting down the long aisle of the movie theater. For one terrible, unbearable moment, the thought occurred to Brian: What if he didn’t make it? What if he didn’t pass the examination, or if he did pass, what if he didn’t come out high enough on the list to get appointed during the life of the list? Or what if he came out high enough but didn’t get appointed for three years or more? Each list lasted for four years. Just because the exam was timed exactly right for him, exactly timed to his twenty-first birthday, that didn’t mean anything.
Brian O’Malley dug in his pocket, found half a stick of Juicy Fruit gum, unwrapped it and chewed it slowly between his back teeth and decided that there would be no goddamn “what ifs” in his life. He would do whatever the hell he had to do, study whatever the hell he had to study, learn whatever the hell he had to learn, and when he took that damn Police Department examination, he would come out so goddamn high on the list that he’d be appointed with the first group of recruits.
As suddenly as the unexpected terror came over him, it was gone and he felt strong and sure of himself. Hell, he was no snot-nosed kid; he’d survived on his own and he was taking care of his own. He flexed his shoulders slightly, felt the strength of his arms and legs, and on a sudden impulse, he spit the gum in a high arcing circle into the middle of the sidewalk.
Brian grinned at the sight in the middle of the street. The horse stood stubbornly in the center of the sidewalk and his Uncle Matt stood in the gutter, fists clenched and waving at the animal’s nose. “Get your stupid damned gray arse off the sidewalk because I’ve had enough of your nonsense. You’ll end up in the meat factory and the glue factory and be damned to you this time.” In final exasperation, Matt thrust his face at the horse and said, “You’re just making a damned fool of yourself, and that’s the truth of the matter.”
He turned to Brian and sought an ally against the animal. “Would you just look at this fool? Well, the Borden’s people will be putting out more trucks before you know it, and this time I’m going to sign up for one. I’ve had it with this great nut all these years past.”
The gray morning light hit Mart’s hair and the horse’s rump at uneven angles and it seemed odd and interesting to Brian. The two, man and horse, seemed the same color in this light—old musty gray.
Matt said, “Ah, to hell with you then, go off your own way if you’ve a mind to. I certainly don’t care.” Matt turned, winked at Brian and with feigned indifference he walked straight down the center of the street. The animal stood for a moment or two, shifted weight from one leg to the other, bobbed its head up and down, then plunged along after Matt, slowly at first, then it picked up its pace until its muzzle pushed and prodded against Mart’s shoulder.
“Ah, begone with you, you stubborn old fool, you. I want nothing more to do with you. Now come on, who wants your ugly old face under his arm?”
It was a conversation between them and Brian watched each morning as they fussed and argued as they had for more than twelve years. There was a deep and mysterious bond which drew man and animal together. It was at once something very simple and something very complicated and at times Brian felt, seeing them, that he had come upon something private and personal.
The sounds they made, the men, the horse, the wagon, the bottles and wooden crates, were part of the early-morning-world sounds. Iron wheels were hard and nearly silent on smoothly paved tar, but there were wide streets still cobbled and the wagon rattled and groaned on those streets. The tentative beginning songs of early-rising, tough, ruffled little Bronx sparrows were interrupted by the sudden eruptions of clanging alarm clocks and the scrape of windows being raised or lowered and the far-off sound of trolley cars and the less frequent sound of car engines being turned over. Arriving shopkeepers invariably spoke louder in the silent morning streets, exchanging complaints with each other, comparing aches, predicting weather.
Brian caught up to the wagon and trotted beside the horse. He smacked his hand flatly, resoundingly on the animal’s rump and it turned to stare at him, sad and offended. A sudden gust of cold air filled Brian with an almost unbearable sense of strength and happiness. He ran backwards before the horse, jutted his face up tauntingly.
“Hey, come on, you old nag, you. I could outrun you backwards, you horse meat!”
His uncle, at the rear among his bottles, felt the lurch and was thrown forward as the animal picked up speed. “What are you doing, Bri? For the love of God, lad, stop teasing the poor beast. Here, now, you Cutter, stop playing the fool and just ignore him or you’re dumb as he is.”
As soon as he tried to turn the doorknob, he knew there was something wrong. The door was locked and he’d left it on the latch as always. Only his grandmother ever locked the door and it was his grandmother who opened it even before he rang the bell.
Her eyes leaped wildly over his face. “Ah, Brian, thank God you’ve come home, thank God.”
Her fingers dug into his arm, pulled at him. She studied his face intently, shook her head sharply as some sensible part took hold of her and dissipated her confusion. It was a mistake she’d made several times in the months since his father’s death and it never failed to unnerve him when she thought him to be his father.
“What is it, Nana? What’s wrong?”
“It’s your mother, Brian. She’s off to the hospital. Shell be all right. You hear, she’ll be all right. Come and have some hot breakfast.”
Roseanne looked up at him, her face taut, her hands busy portioning out breakfast. “Go ahead now, Kit. And you too, Kevin. Stop making faces at me.”
“It’s lumpy,” Kevin protested, sullen as always.
“Your head’ll be lumpy if I hear another sound out of you,” she warned. She signaled Brian to wait, poured coffee for the two of them and led him to the living room. She put her own cup on top of the radio and handed him his.
He felt cold and numb as he watched her. “Well?” he asked finally, not wanting to ask, not wanting to be told.
Roseanne sipped from her cup, put it down again, wiped her mouth with her fingertips. “She’s in Morrisania Hospital, Brian. About four-thirty this morning I guess it was. I heard Ma making strange sounds out in the kitchen, like she was crying or like she was sick, you know, vomiting or gagging. She was trying not to make a sound. You know her, never a word when she’s not feeling well.”
Roseanne had deep black rings under her eyes and her face looked pale and sick and drawn.
Brian put his cup down on the radio, next to hers. He kept his back to his sister and in an empty, hollow, reconciled terror he asked, “Is she dead, Roseanne? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
He heard her gasp. She pulled him around to face her. “Oh, my God, Brian. No. No, don’t even say...” She clamped her hand over her mouth for a moment, closed her eyes and shook her head. Then she breathed deeply and, not meeting his eyes, she spoke quickly and quietly. “She’s had a miscarriage, Bri. We called Aunt Ellen and she and I took Mom by cab to the hospital. Aunt Ellen stayed and I came home to take care of the kids. Aunt Ellen’s home now; she stopped by a few minutes ago to say it’s over and Ma is resting.”
“A miscarriage?” he asked incredulously. “Mom?”
Roseanne studied the coffee in her cup; she tilted the cup from side to side and watched the dark liquid as though fascinated by it. “She was four months pregnant. She had a miscarriage last year, just about this ti
me.”
Dumbly, he said, “I didn’t know...she was pregnant.”
“It was none of your business,” his sister flashed at him. There was something angry and hostile, something he had never seen before. Confronting him, she seemed to be daring him to make any kind of comment, to say anything at all about their mother. There was something overwhelmingly female about her; the way she held herself, one hand clutched at the collar of her wrapper, the other arm across her body protectively. Her eyes, tired and troubled, watched him intently. She touched at the flat bobby-pinned circles still wound around her head and she looked older than she was.
“You go and see her this afternoon,” Roseanne said.
He turned away. “I’ve got to go to work this afternoon.”
“Brian, go and see her.”
It was an odd, undeniable demand such as she’d never spoken to him before. There were deep, unmentionable things surrounding them all now, and in order to make it tolerable, for whatever reason, he knew he had to take that step: visit his mother, act natural, not let his mind wander on dangerous thoughts. Brian shrugged and returned to the kitchen.
Kit spooned at her cereal; it was a sugar-encrusted mess. Her large deep-blue eyes, replicas of his, of Roseanne’s, of their father’s, searched his face. She stopped the spoon midway to her mouth, let it drop with a splash into her plate. In a low voice, she asked him, “Brian, is Mom really gonna die?”
Brian twisted around to Roseanne. “For God’s sake, didn’t you tell them Mom’ll only be gone a few days?”
“Of course I told her.” Roseanne’s fingers pinched Kit’s shoulder. “I told you Ma had an attack of her gallstones again and that she’d be home in a day or two. I told you.”
There was a sudden, explosive commotion as Kit O’Malley recklessly flung her small wiry body against Kevin. She knocked him backwards out of his chair and sent him sprawling across the kitchen floor in a clatter of broken dishes, spilled cereal and coffee.
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