Chapter Four
I
I BOUGHT SARAH A wedding ring and had it engraved with our initials and the date. All that evening I wondered if we would ever be married in church, but I didn’t see how that could ever be unless we outlived our spouses, and although I could think with joy in my heart of de Salis in his coffin, I hated to picture Eileen in the grave. It was no use hoping divorce might lead to a proper wedding because God doesn’t recognize divorce, everyone knows that, but if Eileen chanced to die (which God forbid) and if de Salis drank himself to damnation … Sarah might turn to Rome—heretics often did—and then we could be married properly before a priest. I kept thinking what a relief it would be if I could go to Mass again with a clear conscience unburdened by that terrible worry about not being in a state of grace. I’d grown used to living outside the Church, but once in a while I’d wake up in the dark and break out in a sweat at the thought of purgatory.
Well, it was no use worrying about it, I told myself when I awoke that morning after a disturbed night. I’d rather burn forever than give up Sarah, so I’ve no choice but to live for the present and not dwell on the future.
Besides, it was easy to forget about purgatory once Sarah arrived at my apartment.
She brought with her two trunks, two bags and Ned. “I told my maid I would send for her later,” she said, “and I decided I didn’t need the other baggage I brought from Ireland.” She wore a blue walking costume with a lot of navy embroidery up and down the front seams and a big hat with flowers in it, and with her beside me I felt as smart and grand as any lord with a ten-thousand-acre estate.
“This is a great day,” I said. “Make yourself at home while I run out and buy some champagne.”
So I ran all the way to the liquor shop and back, and when I returned I found Sarah polishing some glasses for us while Ned sat quietly on the edge of the sofa.
“Take off your coat and roll up your sleeves!” I said to him, for he looked so uncomfortable in his tight reefer jacket, so he shed it obediently and went on sitting quiet as a mouse in his corner. I’d been afraid he might be sulky, but he was good as gold.
“You must have champagne with us!” I said to him with a smile, and when he said “Thank you, sir” I could hardly remember how rude he had been when we’d first met. I thought: We’re going to get on fine. We’ll be friends in two shakes of a lamb’s tail now.
“I saw my friend Liam Gallagher last night,” I said to Sarah, “and he says he’s sure his brother in Boston could find a job for me. He’s going to write to him and find out, but I hope he’s right, for I’m tired of New York and it would do us all good to start afresh somewhere else. Besides,” I added, thinking of my pardon, “maybe the Clan in Boston will be more willing to help me than the Clan here.”
“It’s years since I was in Boston,” said Sarah, “but I remember it as being a lovely old-fashioned city. I’d like to go there again.” And she started to talk to Ned about Beacon Hill and Paul Revere’s famous ride.
Ned nodded at intervals, and once or twice he said, “Yes, Mama,” as he watched his champagne. When she had finished he asked if he could go for a walk to explore the neighborhood, and in spite of Sarah’s doubtful expression I said why not, for he was old enough to look after himself and my street wasn’t disreputable.
“But don’t wander too far, Ned,” said Sarah anxiously as he left. She tended to protect him too much, and I could see I’d have to put a stop to that. A boy must have room to breathe when he’s growing up, as my father had always said to my mother when she had become overanxious with me, but the truth is that women aren’t meant to have only one child to look after, for it’s too hard for them to have all their eggs in one basket.
When Ned had gone I said to her, “This man Phineas Gallagher in Boston is rich—and influential too from all I hear—so if he takes up my case maybe the Clan will give me a decent hearing, and then by this time next year we’ll be back in Ireland and living as man and wife.” Then I gave her the wedding ring and filled up her glass and we were very happy.
Later she said, “I’ll try very hard not to be an expense to you, Maxwell. I have all the clothes I need, but I’m afraid my laundry bills might be expensive and I don’t know what we can do about meals. Do you suppose I might find someone who would teach me to cook?”
“Certainly not!” I exclaimed. “The idea of it! We’ll eat out while we’re in New York, and as soon as we get to Boston we’ll take a bigger apartment with a kitchen, and you can have a maid who can come in every day to cook and clean for us.”
“But the expense … I don’t want to be a burden.”
“I’ll be making good money in Boston. Everything will go well once we leave this place, I know it. Once we get to Boston our luck will start to turn.”
We left New York a week later, much to our relief. The apartment was too small for the three of us, and although Ned was so quiet we hardly knew he was there, we were both uncomfortably aware of him on the sofa as we lay in bed in the other room.
“I’m sorry to lose you, Max,” said Jim O’Malley when the time came for me to say goodbye to all my friends, but when I tried to give him back his gun he laughed and told me to keep it for a while.
“Take it back to Ireland with you and shoot a Saxon with it,” he said, “and then send it back to me with Saxon blood on the barrel.”
His father had been evicted by Lord Lucan in County Mayo during the famine, and as a boy of six he had watched the English soldiers burn his home to the ground.
“I told my brother Phineas which day you’d be arriving,” said Liam Gallagher. “Are you taking the morning train?”
“Indeed we are,” I said. I was secretly a little afraid of trains. “To be sure it’ll be a terrible journey.”
“Better a train than a coffin ship,” said Liam, and I thought: Jesus, these Irish-Americans have memories like elephants. It’s true that all the Irish like to dwell upon the past, and I’ve sworn vengeance on Cromwell’s men myself often enough after a jug of poteen, but the Irish-Americans are more Irish than the Irish, as I’d noticed more than once since I’d set foot on American soil.
The train journey was just as bad as I’d thought it would be, though of course it wasn’t as bad as an immigrant ship, I admit that. But we’d picked a hot day to travel, and I missed getting us reserved seats in the best parlor car. Since I’d never been on a train before I didn’t know all the ins and outs of reservations and tickets and “checking” the baggage, as they call it. We did travel first-class, but since nearly all the rail travel in America is first-class that wasn’t saying much, and the truth of the situation was that we had to endure a six-hour journey crammed into a long, stuffy, crowded car no better than a giant cigar.
I tried to apologize to Sarah, but she said it didn’t matter a bit; she was just happy to be going away with me. I felt so proud when she said that and thought what a real lady she was, so strong and fine, always loyal and never uttering a word of complaint. Ned didn’t complain either. He sat in his corner with a storybook for boys in his hands, but the car swayed too much to make reading easy, so he spent most of his time looking out of the window.
I tried not to look out of the window too often. Personally I think it’s heathen as well as downright dangerous to go so fast, and if God had intended man to travel faster than the speed of a horse he would have created a nice decent animal to do the job. But a chain of cars running along little rails! It wasn’t natural somehow, and who the devil wants to be averaging forty miles an hour anyway?
However, before we were even halfway to Boston I not only knew the answer to that question but wished we were averaging eighty so that the abominable journey could be over sooner. I believe there was supposed to be some sort of air-cooling system, but it didn’t work, and by the time we arrived my clothes were soaked in sweat and I was sick to the stomach with all the swaying and rocking.
“We’ll find a hotel for the night,” I said to Sarah. “The ve
ry nearest hotel to the station.”
Sarah, who was too exhausted to speak, nodded thankfully.
We stumbled down the platform. It was so hot that I wondered if I’d died without knowing it and was already tasting hell-fire. People bumped into us and shouted in loud voices, and Sarah looked so ill I thought she’d faint.
“Ned,” I said, hardly able to speak myself, “take your mother to that bench over there and sit down while I find the baggage.”
“Maxwell …” Sarah clutched my arm and pointed down the platform. “Look!”
I stared, dazed. An enormous black man, immaculately dressed, was standing facing us some yards away. In his hands was a large board on which someone had printed boldly in charcoal MAXWELL DRUMMOND.
“Holy Mother of God,” I said, so weak I hardly had the strength to be amazed. “To be sure it must be a message from the Almighty Himself.” I stumbled down the platform, half afraid the glorious vision would disappear, but the messenger remained firmly planted on his chosen spot and watched with interest as I staggered up to him.
“I’m Maxwell Drummond,” I gasped.
“Good afternoon, suh,” said the black man, raising his top hat and bowing respectfully. “Please come this way, suh.”
“Wait … my wife … son … the bags …”
The black man gently took the checks from my hand and said he would attend to the bags. I started to wave frenziedly at Sarah and Ned, and as they left their bench someone tapped me on the shoulder.
I spun around. Facing me was a stout man of about my own age. He wore the best-cut coat I’d seen in a month of Sundays and he carried a silver-topped cane and he was smiling an Irish smile.
“Welcome to Boston, Max,” he said brightly, his blue eyes the color of the lough at Cashelmara, and I thought: Dear God, is there ever a race that hangs together like the Irish? And the tears filled my eyes as I thought of us all, condemned to exile thousands of miles from home and yet rising from the ashes of pestilence and persecution to triumph over all our adversities. Yes, I know that was sentimental, but I’m an Irishman, and God knows I was never prouder of being Irish than when that stranger came forward in a city where I knew no one and offered me his hand to shake as he called me by my Christian name.
“My name is Phineas Gallagher,” he was saying, “and indeed any friend of my brother Liam’s is already a friend of mine. Come outside to my carriage and let me take you to my house on Beacon Hill.”
II
I knew Liam’s brother was successful enough to be well heeled, but it came as a surprise to me to find I hadn’t exaggerated to Sarah when I’d told her he was rich and influential. I knew that, like Jim O’Malley, he had his finger in the gambling pie, but Liam had never mentioned the real-estate deals, the companies and corporations. Perhaps he was a little jealous, for Phineas was his younger brother and they’d both started out in America with nothing but the rags on their backs.
But Phineas Gallagher had come a long way since he’d stepped off that coffin ship. His new house didn’t face the Common, for all the old gentry clung to those houses, and Boston was a snobbish place, worse than New York, but it faced a pretty square and he kept his wife and daughters in very refined style. His wife was a cheerful Irish girl not much older than Sarah, and she knew all about dainty manners and the latest smart charity to support. I thought Eileen would have liked her. The four daughters learned the piano and studied Italian and sewed samplers, just as she had when she was growing up, and I suppose that’s all very well, but personally, as I said to Eileen whenever she raised the subject, I think my own girls were just as happy learning how to milk the cows and bake good bread.
The Gallagher house wasn’t as big as the Marriott mansion, but it was much more fun to live in. The rooms were decorated with a magnificent slapdash gaiety. They had one parlor decorated entirely in emerald green with marble shamrocks on the mantel, and in every bedroom was a brightly colored plaster statue of the Virgin and Child. As for the dining room, it was a starving man’s dream. Great big steaks the size of platters, potatoes even more luscious than those Liam served at Ryan’s, black pudding, Irish sausage, cheese—soft cheese, mind you, Irish cheese, none of that hard stuff that looks like candle tallow—and buttermilk so rich a leprechaun could have danced on it. As for the whisky—“Jesus!” I exclaimed. “It’s got the kick of poteen!” And almost weeping with delight at finding myself in a true Irish home at last, I quite forgot all my two-edged opinions of the Irish-Americans.
“It’s a pity there’s no boy for you to play with, Ned,” said Sarah, but I was already thinking those four girls would do him the world of good. They were all plump—small wonder when you remember the food their mother served at table—and they all giggled a great deal, and they were all named for Irish places. It was hard to tell one girl from another, but in descending order of height their names were Clare, Kerry, Connemara and Donegal. The last two, known as Connie and Donagh, were still under ten, but Kerry was twelve and Clare two years older, so Ned did have company of his own age.
I was anxious to start work and not outstay our welcome, but Phineas Gallagher was hospitality itself and insisted we should take our time about finding an apartment. Meanwhile, he put me in charge of the gambling at his new concert saloon and promised me a salary that was nearly double what I’d been making with Jim O’Malley.
It did occur to me to wonder what he was after, but since I couldn’t see I had anything he wanted I decided to accept his generosity at face value. Anyway I was sure he liked me as much as I liked him, and I thought we all got along very well together. To be sure there was a little awkwardness when it came to Sunday Mass, but he said quick as a flash as soon as he saw I was embarrassed, “I’m not a priest, Max, and I’ll not be sitting in judgment on you,” and that was a great relief to me, for he could easily have had strong views on adultery. Phineas had heard through Liam that Sarah and I weren’t married, but his wife didn’t know and neither did the girls. Our absence from Mass was taken to be because we were Protestants, so every Sunday morning I escorted Sarah and Ned to Trinity Church on Copley Square. I never went inside, of course. I might have been a bad Catholic, but I still had my principles, and no one was going to see me crossing the threshold of a Black Protestant church.
In the middle of August Phineas invited us to join him while he and his family spent a month at his villa at Newport.
“Of course we can’t go,” said Sarah at once when I told her about the invitation. “It really would be abusing their hospitality, Maxwell. Don’t you think we might look for an apartment now?”
“What’s wrong with a month by the sea?” I said. “I thought you’d like that.”
“I’d rather be by ourselves,” she said, “in a home of our own.” And there was something about the way she glanced around our bedroom that told me the whole story.
“You don’t like them, do you?” I said suddenly. “You don’t like Phineas and you don’t like Maura. Why?”
She was silent.
“Sarah?”
“Oh …” She made a small graceful gesture with her hands and turned away. “They’re very kind, of course,” I heard her say, “and very hospitable, but … Well, they’re so shoddy, Maxwell! I mean shoddy in the New York sense of nouveau riche—”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I’ve lived long enough in New York to know the meaning of the word ‘shoddy-rich.’”
“I mean … well, look at this house! The ghastly taste in furnishings, the dreadful wallpaper, all those cheap, vulgar religious statues! And I find Maura Gallagher’s attempts at social climbing pathetic to say the least. Just because she can afford to send a thousand dollars every now and then to her favorite charity and give those girls of hers ideas far above their station, she thinks …”
She saw my face and stopped. There was a silence.
“I don’t mean to be unkind,” she said in a rush. “I didn’t mean …”
She stopped again. She was twisting the
wedding ring around and around on her finger. “I’m sorry,” she said rapidly at last. “Of course we can go to Newport if you like. I’m sorry, Maxwell. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Oh yes you did!” I said. “You meant every goddamned word, you snobbish little bitch!”
She began to cry, saying over and over again that she was sorry.
“Listen to me,” I said, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her into silence. “What’s good enough for me is good enough for you, and if you don’t see that you can go back to your blue-blooded sot of a husband and good riddance. I can always find another woman to sleep with me.”
It was a terrible thing to say. I knew it was terrible, but I couldn’t stop myself. I looked at her and suddenly I was looking beyond her into the past and listening to Eileen calling my fine farm a hovel, saying she’d always wished she’d never married beneath her. I felt as if someone had plunged a knife into my guts and was wrenching the blade around and around in the torn flesh.
Sarah was sobbing. Her face was twisted with grief and she was tearing her clothes, offering herself to me, saying she’d do anything, anything at all so long as I’d promise not to leave.
Sanity returned to me like a wet slap across the face. I groped for her, pulling her torn bodice back over her breasts and stroking her hair as I held her close to me. After a long while I said I was sorry. I was still holding her close, and when she stopped crying I said, “Of course I’ll never leave you. Why do you think I gave you a wedding ring? It’s the finest woman in all the world you are and me the luckiest man alive.”
“If only we could be married,” she said. She was trying to dry her eyes. “If only …” And she started to weep again.
I knew at once what she was thinking because she had often spoken of it before. “Sweetheart, I thought we’d agreed long ago that it’s best there can be no baby.”
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