Ellis Island: Three Novels

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  A short while later, when she arrived at the dry-goods store, Rose told Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney about Ma. In spite of her determination to remain calm, Rose’s eyes filled with tears, and she couldn’t hold them back.

  Mrs. Sweeney, cluck-clucking like a plump hen in a barnyard, patted and shepherded Rose into the stockroom, where she put her to work tagging a group of newly arrived skirts. “Work here until you feel up to waiting on customers,” she said. “I know how you feel, Rose. When my own mother died I felt as though I’d been abandoned. There’s no other pain quite like it.”

  As Mrs. Sweeney left her, Rose gave in to the tears, soaking her handkerchief before she leaned against the wall, exhausted. She splashed her face with cold water from the basin, tidied her hair, and began to work.

  She heard the store open and the chatter of customers, but she methodically wrote prices on tags and attached them to the skirts until the lot had been labeled. Then, hanging them on a wheeled rack, she rolled them into the ready-to-wear section of the store.

  “Could you help me, miss?”

  Rose turned with a smile toward the woman who had spoken. “Of course,” she said. “Would you like to see the very latest in skirts?”

  Before she lifted a skirt from the rack and displayed it before her customer, Rose caught Mrs. Sweeney’s eye and was gratified by her quick smile and nod of approval.

  There was a steady parade of customers during the morning, so Rose was glad when two o’clock came and Mrs. Sweeney suggested, “Why don’t you take your lunch break now?”

  Rose hurried to the storeroom, retrieved her package containing an apple, bread, and cheese, and sat next to Mr. Sweeney, who had just finished his lunch.

  There was a firm knock at the back door, and Mr. Sweeney slowly stood up, grunting and stretching. As he opened the door a thin young man stepped inside and said, “I’m from Alderman McMahan’s office. I’ll be taking Johnny Carney’s place until he gets back to Chicago.”

  He handed Mr. Sweeney a paper, which he read. “Wait here,” Mr. Sweeney said and drew back the curtain, letting it fall back into position as he entered the store.

  “Paddy Reilly here,” the man said as he grinned at Rose. “You’re a pretty one with that bright-red hair. Are you new to Chicago, girlie? Would you like to see some of the sights?”

  Rose didn’t smile. “I’m Johnny Carney’s sister,” she said. “My name isn’t girlie, and I’m not the least interested in the likes of you.”

  Paddy’s grin vanished. “Sorry,” he said.

  Rose twisted in her chair so that she could turn her back on him, but she had time to see Mr. Sweeney return and hand an envelope to Paddy.

  As the door closed, Rose stood and brushed a few bread crumbs from her skirt. “Johnny says I don’t understand politics,” she told Mr. Sweeney.

  “I’ve never met a woman who does,” he answered and smiled. “That’s why they’ll never have the vote.”

  Rose thought of what Kristin had just written. She wasn’t so worried about voting for herself, but she was curious about Chicago politics. “Mr. Sweeney, if you don’t mind my asking, do you contribute to Alderman McMahan because you want to or because you have to?”

  Mr. Sweeney’s eyes widened. “There’s not much difference, is there?”

  “I think so. If you pay because you have to then it’s like paying a bully not to beat you up.”

  “Ah, now you’re talking about the way it is in Little Italy. The Blackhands mail off letters to any of the Italians who are doing well, promising death for them and their families if they don’t deliver thousands of dollars.”

  It was Rose’s turn to be amazed. “Don’t the police stop the Blackhands?”

  “They haven’t seemed to be able to.”

  “Do the rich people really pay the Blackhands?”

  “Of course they pay.”

  “Have the Blackhands ever sent a note like that to you?”

  Mr. Sweeney shook his head vigorously. “No. The Blackhands deal only with their own. That’s the way it is in most of the Chicago neighborhoods. The criminals find that they can throw fear into their own countrymen more easily than they could into strangers who might fight back. Their own are afraid to call the police.”

  “From the names I’ve heard, it seems to me that many of the aldermen are Irish. Does that mean the Irish aldermen ask for contributions only from the Irish?”

  “There you have a different matter. The power of Chicago’s aldermen extends over the whole city. Someone had to take charge, so the Irish stepped in. Although some of the aldermen have other nationalities in their backgrounds, you might say that the Irish have always taken a strong hand in Chicago politics.”

  “Then they should run the city honestly.”

  With a slow shake of his head Mr. Sweeney said, “Look at it this way. There’s many who think it’s better to have the Irish where they are than if some other group controlled the city, like those Blackhand Italians.”

  Rose thought of Kristin’s hopes. “If women could vote,” she said, “maybe they’d elect honest politicians.”

  Mr. Sweeney smiled and looked at his pocket watch. “There’s no time to continue this lesson in politics, Rose, and it’s easy to see you don’t understand the political system. Your brother was right. Politics is not for women.”

  Tim was waiting on the front steps for Rose when she arrived home. He held out a small bouquet of flowers, their stems wrapped in paper. While Rose unlocked the front door and they stepped inside, he said, “I stopped by your parish church and arranged to have Masses said for your mother.”

  “Oh, Tim! How kind you are!” Gratefully Rose threw her arms around his neck, the gold locket swinging against his chest. As he lifted her chin for his kiss she responded. Life in the United States was different. This wasn’t Ireland, where women, with nothing but poverty in their futures, chose to wait many years until they could marry a man with his own land. She was falling in love with Tim, and with all her heart she knew he loved her, too. In a year or two, give or take, Da would surely agree to the marriage.

  “Thank you for thinking of my mother,” she murmured.

  “I was thinking of you,” Tim said. He took Rose’s free hand and pulled her toward the sofa, but she tugged away.

  “No,” she insisted. “I need to put the flowers in water before they begin to wilt and, besides that, it’s time to start supper. Come into the kitchen with me.”

  Rose soon had coals burning in the stove and water boiling in the kettle. She dumped potatoes into the sink and began to scrub and peel them, working fast, trying to keep herself from being so aware of Tim and her longing to return to his arms.

  As she settled the heavy pot of potatoes on the back of the stove, Tim stepped up and took her shoulders, spinning her around to face him. “Rosie,” he said, “what are you doing?”

  Rose sighed and looked directly into Tim’s eyes. “I am trying to keep myself from thinking that more than anything else I would like to be kissed by you.”

  “Is being kissed so bad?” Tim’s eyes twinkled.

  “Tim,” Rose said, mustering all her courage, “I’m falling in love with you.” She thought she noticed him suck in his breath, but she hurried on before he could speak. “I’m too young for marriage. Maybe when I’m eighteen Da will agree, but surely no sooner.”

  “That’s no problem,” Tim said softly. “We can wait.” His smile was slow and warm as he added, “Oh, Rosie, I love you, too.”

  Rose eagerly walked into his arms, but at that moment the front door opened and Michael called out, “Rosie? Are you home?”

  She pulled away from Tim, nervously smoothing her hair and her apron, afraid that Michael would be able to see the blush that warmed her face.

  Michael, however, came into the kitchen intent only on the basin and pitcher in the corner. He noisily splashed water on his face and lower arms, puffing and snorting until he grabbed the towel hanging on a nail next to the basin and rubbed his
face dry.

  It was only then that he gave Rose a searching look. Patting her shoulder tenderly he said, “I see you made it through the day, Rosie girl.”

  “Yes,” Rose answered. “The Sweeneys were very kind, and Tim … Tim arranged to have Masses said for Ma.”

  Michael shook Tim’s hand, grasping it with both of his. “That’s good of you,” he said. He sprawled into the nearest chair with a sigh. “These are not only sorrowful times. We’ll none of us be able to relax until we get word that Johnny got through safely and is ready to bring Bridget and Meggie home.”

  Rose caught the sharp look that Tim gave Michael. “Would you like to tell me what you mean about Johnny getting through safely?” she asked.

  Michael’s face grew red, and he picked at the edge of the cotton tablecloth. “Ah, Rosie, you know … what with storms at sea and all that …”

  “That’s not what you were talking about,” Rose insisted as she turned toward Tim. “Part of love is truth,” she said. “Tell me the truth.”

  “The truth,” Tim said, “must not go out of this room. The more people who know about it, the more danger is involved.”

  Rose leaned against the sink for support, scarcely able to breathe as Tim continued. “Johnny is serving as a courier, delivering to the Irish Republican Brotherhood the money raised to help the cause.”

  Rose’s voice came out raspy and dry. “Smuggling money! Johnny could be caught by the British and sent to prison.” She closed her eyes. “He could even be killed.”

  “Don’t take on so, Rosie,” Michael said. “Nothing bad is going to happen to Johnny.”

  “Who else knows about this?” Rose demanded.

  “Only the lads who helped arrange it,” Tim answered.

  “And maybe a few of those close to them.” Michael’s voice was low and apologetic. “Like Ellen.”

  Tim lowered himself into a chair. “You weren’t to tell anyone.”

  Indignantly, Michael raised his head. “You told Rosie.”

  “That was different.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Rosie’s Johnny’s sister. She was the only one in his family who didn’t know. She had the right.”

  “You mean Da knew, too?” Rose asked. “And he let Johnny go?”

  Tim got to his feet and gripped Rose’s shoulders. “Listen to me,” he insisted. “You don’t understand the whole picture. We have to think of Ireland first and put our own concerns last.”

  Rose jerked from his grasp. “The money will be used to buy bombs and guns, isn’t that right?”

  “Of course,” Michael began. “That’s what …”

  Rose ignored him, never taking her eyes from Tim’s as her anger grew, swelling inside her chest and throat until she was choked with its heat. “You would willingly kill innocent people and say you’re helping Ireland? What fools you are!”

  There was anger in Tim’s voice, too. “And what about the deaths the British have caused? You and those like you who keep saying that things will work out, that peaceful solutions will be reached—have you no love of your home country? Can you simply close your eyes to the crimes the British have committed against it? Do you want those crimes to go on forever?”

  Rose slammed the palms of her hands against the table and shouted, “Killing people is not the answer!”

  “It is if they’re British!”

  Furiously grabbing the front of Tim’s coat Rose cried out, “You, Tim! You’re Johnny’s friend! How could you put your own friend in danger?”

  “No one forced him. It was Johnny’s own choice.”

  “What if he’s caught and arrested?”

  “He’d be a hero.”

  “A hero?” With all her strength Rose gave Tim a shove. “You send him into danger and call him a hero? No! He’s a hothead without a brain—just like you and Da and Michael and all the rest who planned this terrible thing!”

  “Calm down, Rosie,” Michael said. “Don’t blame Da. He had nothing to do with the planning. Everything was set by the time he found out about it.”

  Rose turned to her brother. “How about you, Michael? Did you help plan it?”

  “Well … not exactly.”

  “I did,” Tim said quietly. “When I first met you I told you I’d soon be returning to Ireland. Remember? I had planned to be the courier, but when we saw that someone from your family would have to go back to Ireland to get your little sisters, Johnny volunteered. It made sense. It gave him a good reason for returning.”

  Rose was furious … she had trusted Tim. Bursting into tears she shouted at him, “Get out of here! I never want to see you again, Tim Ryan! I hate you! I hate you!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WITHOUT a word, Tim left. Rose flung herself into a chair, burying her head in her arms as she cried for Ma, for Johnny, and for Tim.

  Rose wanted to run after Tim, to tell him she didn’t mean the angry words she’d shouted, to tell him that she loved him, but she couldn’t. Tim had been responsible for sending Johnny on a dangerous mission, and Rose couldn’t forgive him for that.

  Michael tried to comfort her, clumsily smoothing her hair back from her forehead. “Rosie,” he said, “I know how Ma always talked about peaceful solutions, but you’re the only one who took what she said to heart. The rest of us know what needs to be done.”

  Rose didn’t lift her head. She squirmed away from his touch and mumbled, “Go away, Michael!”

  “I don’t like to see you so miserable. I want to help you.”

  “I don’t want your help! Go away!”

  There was silence for a moment, then Michael said, “Listen. Da will be home in a few minutes. He’s had it hard with losing Ma and being turned down for one job after another. You won’t be rough on him, will you?”

  Rose sat up and wiped at her eyes. She gave a long, shuddering sigh and answered, “No, I won’t.”

  Encouraged, Michael said, “You know, there’s no need to say anything to Da about any of this.”

  “I know. What good would it do?”

  Michael backed a step away from the table. “So you’re going to be all right now?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t move, and he cleared his throat twice as though he wanted to say something and couldn’t. Rose sighed again and asked, “All right, Michael. What is it?”

  “I was just wondering,” he said. “You are going to cook supper for us, aren’t you?”

  Rose jumped to her feet and leaned across the table toward him. “Out!” she shouted.

  Michael turned and stumbled from the room.

  After Rose had finished the preparations for supper, she set places for two at the table, then took off her apron. As she put on her jacket and hat she called to Michael, “Supper is ready whenever Da gets home. I’m going out.”

  Michael appeared in the doorway. “Where are you going this time of evening?”

  “Not far,” Rose said. “I’m going to Kate’s.”

  As she opened the door Kate held a finger to her lips and led Rose back to the kitchen where she’d been washing the supper dishes. “Pull up a chair,” she said. “I’ll have tea ready in a minute.”

  But Rose couldn’t sit still. She picked up a towel and began to dry the clean dishes on the drain board.

  “I’m glad you came by,” Kate said. She slid a quick, concerned glance at Rose, and Rose realized how swollen and blotchy her face must look. “Sometimes, when problems get to be too much to handle, it helps to talk to a friend. I found that out when my father died.”

  “I didn’t come to talk about Ma, may she rest in peace,” Rose said. She twisted the towel between her hands. “Well, I suppose what I want to talk about does concern Ma in a way.”

  Kate took the top from the china teapot and peered inside. “The tea’s a little strong, but it’s still good and hot,” she said.

  “I like it strong,” Rose told her. She waited until Kate had seated herself across the table before she said, “Ma used
to say, over and over, that no good would ever come of sneak attacks against the British. She’d say that talking out the problem, that peaceful solutions were the only answer. I believed it then, and I believe it now … at least, I think I still believe it, even though I may be the only one in the world who does.”

  Rose slumped back against the chair. If only she could completely unburden herself to Kate … but she couldn’t. Even though Rose trusted Kate, Tim had said that for Johnny’s safety, as few people as possible should know what he was up to.

  Kate smiled. “From what you just told me I’m guessing that you had an argument with Tim. I know how persuasive he can be.”

  Rose stared down into the silky darkness inside her cup. It took a moment before she found the right words. “It’s not just Tim. Da, Michael, Ellen … Johnny … they all feel the same way.”

  Kate reached across the table and patted Rose’s hand. “There are that many and more who’d agree with you.”

  “Are you one of them?” Rose met Kate’s glance.

  “Of course I am.” Kate reached for the pitcher and added milk to her cup, stirring the tea vigorously. “Tim, now … he looks at life a little differently than you and I do. He was seventeen when our father died and quite a young rebel even at that age. More often than not he was in trouble with the British law—nothing serious, praise be. Ma moved to London to live with our elder sister, Jenny, but Tim—who wanted nothing at all to do with the British—came to Chicago to live near me. Unfortunately, he found plenty of transplanted Irish in Chicago who share his views about how to regain independence for Ireland.”

  “I wish I could change his mind,” Rose blurted out. She gripped the locket, which felt warm in her hand.

  “Wishing will never make it so,” Kate answered, “and neither will arguing. I know. I’ve tried.”

  Rose put down her cup, the tea untasted. “He thinks I have no love of Ireland! He thinks I don’t care what the British do! But I do care! I want Ireland to be free as much as Tim does!”

  Kate sighed. “The Irish and the British hate each other. The Serbians hate the Prussians, and the Greeks hate the Turks.”