Our Lady Of Greenwich Village

by Dermot McEvoy

  O’Rourke placed his hands on the Virgin’s clasped hands and made a simple prayer. “Please save my baby.”

  The Virgin and O’Rourke were surrounded by the sounds of the city—cars and horns and the laughter of kids returning from school with their mothers. He looked up behind the Virgin and saw the mitered edge of the huge former Federal Archives Building, now just known a little too grandly as The Archive. When he was a kid, he had played stickball off it. Now Monica Lewinsky lived there.

  He caught a whiff of the PATH across the way on Christopher Street. For some reason the PATH—O’Rourke still thought of them by their old name, the Hudson Tubes—still had that strange smell of its own. It didn’t smell like the subway or any other thing in New York. It smelled like a city full of moldy sweat socks. It was as if New Jersey was exporting an aroma on New York in revenge for some wrong.

  “Please save my baby,” he said again.

  The Virgin stood upright, as if she was noncommittal. O’Rourke wondered if the Virgin was listening to him. Then it came back to him from his childhood. His mother had taught him all his prayers in Irish, just as she had been taught her prayers in Irish by the nuns in the orphanage in Sandymount. O’Rourke knelt in front of the Protestant’s Mary on one knee and it flowed out of him, nearly fifty years after he had learnt it:

  Sé do beata Muire atá lán grásta

  Tá an tiarna leat,

  Is beannaigh tú tar na mná

  Agus is beannaighe toradh du broinn Iosa.

  O’Rourke stood up and clasped the Virgin’s hands with his. “Agus is beannaighe toradh du broinn Iosa,” he repeated. “And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

  He looked the Virgin in the eye. “Womb,” he repeated. “The fruit of Sam’s womb.” O’Rourke stood back and said, “You must save my child. For if you don’t, who will?”

  Still feeling deflated, O’Rourke exited St. Luke’s yard and walked to the corner of Christopher Street. He could see the twin spires of St. Veronica’s across the street, one of the old, dead Irish parishes that was established to care for the Irish who worked on the docks, now also dead. In its heyday it must have been one of the noisiest parishes in the city because it was stuck between the old 9th Avenue Elevated Line on Greenwich and the Highline running down Washington Street.

  A.D. 1890, the cornerstone read. A century and a decade ago. He entered through a side door and found himself beside a plaque for the Reverend Daniel J. McCormick, who had built “this beautiful temple.”

  The brass plaque said that “he was born in this city November 29, 1852.” O’Rourke smiled. No immigrant McCormick—he was proud to be a native New Yorker—but it was obvious that he was a famine baby. Did his parents meet on a coffin ship escaping Black ’47? The young Dan McCormick had been ordained a priest in St. Joseph’s Seminary, Troy, New York, on December 22, 1877. He died around the corner, in the parish rectory, now Mother Teresa’s AIDS Hospice, on January 23, 1903. An old fifty-one.

  Father McCormick had built a fine church. Now catering largely to the Ecuadorian community, there were still signs of the Irish it had originally been built for. In the back, left over from World War II, was a listing, by street, of all who had served in the armed forces. Of the nearly five hundred names, almost all were Irish. St. Veronica’s Parish, according to the list, ran all the way up to Abingdon Square, where St. Bernard’s took over. St. Veronica’s was the start of the Irish-Catholic West Side, which extended all the way up to Hell’s Kitchen in the West 50s, where many of the Irish had become Westies, like the fathers of Cyclops Reilly and Séan Pius Burke. O’Rourke remembered the last of the Village docks, before the container ships, from the early 1950s, but wondered what it was really like just before and just after World War II. Irish babies galore with Baptisms, First Holy Communions, and Confirmations by the truckload. It must have been something. O’Rourke thought of his own baby and envied the long departed St. Veronica Irish because he feared he might never see a child of his own receive the sacraments of the Church.

  O’Rourke remembered that his mother used to take him here when he was a child. At that time, the family had lived on Bethune Street, just three blocks away. He remembered one mass when he was being rambunctious. “Mammy, why is that man wearing a petticoat?” he asked loud enough so the whole church could hear. That man was the priest and the petticoat was his alb. She hushed him, and when that did not work, she said the magic words, “No Li-Lacs.” Young Tone got the message and shut his trap. Duly, he was delivered to the chocolate emporium for his lollypop. O’Rourke looked around St. Veronica’s and saw that they had not removed the confessionals like a lot of the Catholic Churches had. The four confessionals, two to a side, stood adamant. Thinking back nearly fifty years to the alb caper, he realized he had finally confessed one of his long lost sins.

  Above the left front altar O’Rourke saw the Virgin Mary. She was a giant version of Rosanna’s statue. He did not go to her, but stared at her from the back of the church. He had just had a long chat with her across the street. She knew what he wanted, but O’Rourke did not feel confident that she would respond.

  In the back, near Father McCormick’s plaque, was another Virgin, Nuestro Senora del Quinche—Our Lady of Quinche. Ecuadorians surrounded her glass case and it was easy to see that she was a people’s Madonna, an adored protector. Children were held up by their parents to touch the glass of the Madonna and her child. O’Rourke was proud of what was happening before him, as if the Irish had handed the church over to a new generation of immigrants, the new Americans. O’Rourke smiled because the politician in him was coming out. He wondered if the worshipers were citizens and registered Democrats.

  He started to leave, when he spied the statue of St. Patrick. O’Rourke was delighted. The Ecuadorians may have commandeered this parish, but Patrick would not leave. O’Rourke placed five bucks in the slot and lit an electric candle. There was a handwritten note by the coin slot that read “Pray for my son John” and O’Rourke did. There were a few old Irish left in the parish and O’Rourke wondered if John’s mother was one of them, perhaps living in a rent controlled apartment on Weehawken Street.

  O’Rourke got up to leave when he was overcome by it all. The 500 Irish World War II veterans, Father Dan McCormick, the Catholic Virgin up above, the Protestant Blessed Mother of Christ over at St. Luke’s, and now Nuestro Senora del Quinche. And, of course, St. Patrick. And John’s Irish mother, God bless her. For in this church of death for an Irish culture that no longer existed, O’Rourke suddenly felt hope because, for the first time, he knew what he had to do.

  “Go,” Father McCormick commanded.

  “Go,” said St. Patrick, the three Marys, and John’s Irish mother.

  “Go to Ireland,” they all said.

  And O’Rourke knew that the answer to the survival of his unborn baby awaited him in the land of his birth.

  46.

  Sam McGuire had always been proud of her breasts. She had gotten them early and by the time she was thirteen, she was already a B-cup. Even at that young age she loved to stand naked in front of the mirror, her hands interlocked behind her head and watch her young, taut boobs. They stood out as if defying gravity. As she had matured her breasts had changed. They were no longer pert. There was a majestic sag now and, unharnessed, they swayed provocatively. O’Rourke had watched her arouse him once by just standing there naked, her hands on her hips, her tits ripe, and all he could do was shake his head and say, “Shit.”

  “I wish I had bigger tits,” said McGuire.

  “Jesus,” said O’Rourke, “what are you talking about?”

  McGuire grabbed a breast with each hand and held them in front of O’Rourke’s face. “I want really big tits.”

  “You’re insane,” said O’Rourke laughing.

  She loved it when O’Rourke kneaded them and licked them and pulled on her nipples with his front teeth. “Jesus, Tone,” was all she could say.

  Now that she was pregnant, they had in
fact become bigger. Her aureoles were almost the size of pancakes. The House of Aureoles, she thought. As always, she liked to touch her breasts and rub them when no one was looking. Now she stood naked in front of a mirror in her bedroom in her mother’s house in Tortola and surveyed her rapidly changing body. At four months plus, she could see her stomach protruding, almost like a little old man’s potbelly. As she turned to the side, she could see her ass was getting thicker, sticking out back like a bay window. She knew she would have to decide soon.

  McGuire was desperate for a smoke.

  Her mother forbade her to smoke in the house. “Think of the baby,” her mother, Amanda McGuire, would say in her gentle West Indian accent. Amanda was divorced from McGuire’s father, who still lived in New York. Her parents had met when he was sent by his corporation to open an office in Tortola. McGuire was the first born and wondered if she wanted to be the conduit of another black child, parented by another black woman and Irish-Catholic father. It wouldn’t be fair, something in her psyche repeatedly warned.

  McGuire walked to the beach, just a few blocks from the house. As she lit up, she felt guilty because of the baby. “Fuck the baby,” she thought as she inhaled deeply and could feel a lovely faintness to her head. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep. Sleep for a long time. That was the toughest thing about the pregnancy, the immense feeling of exhaustion that would not leave her. It seemed all she did was sleep and pee, pee and sleep.

  She sucked the smoke into her lungs and watched the sea before her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tiny blue figure in the distance. It looked like a nun walking towards her. She was wearing a blue dress with blue stockings and blue shoes. She even had a blue floppy sun hat covering her very fair features. And as she got closer what stood out was how pink she was. Under the hat McGuire could see white-ish blonde hair. Maybe in her day she had been a blazing redhead, but that would have been a while ago because this woman must have been in her late sixties. She was getting closer, this blue nun of hers.

  “This heat will be the death of me yet,” she said to McGuire in a lilt, as if they were old friends. “Where I’m from, we don’t get heat like this.” McGuire looked at the woman like she might know her from New York. “Jesus,” said the woman, “I’d love a fag,” not really asking, but demanding a cigarette from McGuire. Without saying a word, McGuire, in a real New York gesticulation, banged the bottom of the pack of cigarettes on the top of her hand, and three popped up to surrender. “Ta,” said the woman, “give me a light.” Before McGuire could move, the woman gently pulled the cigarette out of McGuire’s mouth and put it to her unlit fag. A flame shot into the air, startling McGuire, who pulled away. “Ah ha,” said the woman, delighted. “I love the fire! Thank you.” She replaced the cigarette in McGuire’s mouth as nimbly as she had removed it.

  “You’re welcome,” said McGuire, still stunned. She didn’t know if she even wanted to have a conversation with this woman, but she couldn’t help but blurt out: “Where are you from? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I’m Brigid Dillon from the land of saints and scholars—although they sin there as much as anywhere else,” she said.

  “Ireland?”

  “Indeed, from Dundalk in the county of Louth, the Wee County.”

  “Simone McGuire,” Sam said, using her proper moniker. “I like your name. Brigid has a wonderful flow to it.”

  “I’m named after the saint, not that naked French movie star,” she said, laughing. “McGuire? Are you one of us?”

  “One of us?” asked a confused McGuire.

  “Irish.”

  “On my dad’s side,” replied McGuire. “My mother is from the island.”

  “Simone is a lovely name, too,” said Brigid.

  “But Brigid has panache,” countered McGuire, letting the word roll off her tongue. “We even have a St. Brigid’s cross in my mom’s house down the road here.”

  “St. Brigid is everything to everyone,” said the woman in blue. “It is said that if you put your Brigid’s cross outside the window at night, she will come and bless it herself.”

  “I’ll have to try that some time,” said McGuire, not sounding convinced.

  “You should,” Brigid Dillon said with conviction. “Would you like to see mine?” With that she rolled up the sleeve of her blue dress and pointed to the blue tattoo on her forearm. “If Brigid comes to bless this cross I’ll be able to say ‘how do you do!’”

  Both McGuire and Dillon broke out in laughter. The tattoo was a shock to McGuire. Women today were always decorating their bodies with piercings and tattoos, but Brigid Dillon did not fit the mold and Brigid noticed. “What’s the matter, my dear?”

  “Oh,” said McGuire, “I’m just surprised that a woman of . . .”

  “My age?” interrupted Brigid.

  McGuire blushed, giving her an imperial glow. “Yes, ” she continued, “your age would have a tattoo.”

  “Well,” said Brigid, “you should see the one on my bum!”

  McGuire didn’t know if she was joking or not, but could not help laughing and liking this unlikely tourist.

  “And it is said,” said Dillon as she pulled her sleeve back into place, “that if you carry St. Brigid’s Cross with you, you will never die in a violent accident.”

  “Really?” said McGuire, unconvinced.

  “You should try it for the safety of your baby.”

  McGuire felt a chill and turned defensive. She thought her baggy clothes hid her secret. “How do you know?”

  “I had fourteen of the little ones myself. Sure there’s nothing like a bab-bee, is there?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Sure you will do well with your bab-bee,” Brigid continued, “and it will be a wonderful child who will bring great pride to both you and your husband.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “You will be,” said Brigid, laughing again.

  “I doubt it.”

  “But your husband loves you.”

  “He is not my husband,” replied McGuire tautly, “and I don’t know if he loves me or not.”

  “He has proven it already, hasn’t he?” McGuire shook her head. “By giving life to your child.”

  McGuire was getting exasperated. “How do you know all these things?” she snapped.

  “After fourteen, Simone, I know about these things. Now the best part,” said Brigid almost conspiratorially as she put a hand to McGuire’s arm, “is the breastfeeding. It’s like being close to God. Once you get over the pain, there’s a lot of pleasure, both psychic and physical, in nursing a baby, but also exhaustion if you have one who doesn’t sleep at night and wants to feed every couple of hours. Nursing also makes you incredibly thirsty. You get really hungry, but you can eat almost anything you want without getting fat.” With that she tapped McGuire on her ample bottom. “If you know what I mean.” McGuire smiled, totally disarmed. “And with those grand Picassos,” added Brigid, pointing to Sam’s breasts, “you’ll do well!”

  Brigid turned to the sea. “My God, what a beautiful little boat,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Right out there. Don’t you see?”

  “I’m not only pregnant, fat, and dowdy,” said McGuire, “but I can’t see a damn thing without my contact lenses. Where?”

  Brigid took her left hand, waved it in front of McGuire’s eyes, snapped her fingers, and pointed again, “There.”

  McGuire look out and saw the boat as clear as morning. “My God,” she said, “I can see it.”

  “Of course you can,” was all Brigid said. She took the last drag from her fag, declared it “heavenly,” and turned to leave. “You will be a wonderful mother and your husband will love this child more than anything else in the world.” She threw the cigarette to the ground and pivoted her foot on it, killing the fire. “I think I’ll take a stroll on the strand now. Take care, Sam, and may God be with you and your child.” Then without another word, she turned towards the beach
and headed straight for the water. Sam watched as Brigid plopped into the sand and removed her shoes and stockings. Then, oblivious to the tourists sunning themselves around here, she began to disrobe. The blue skirt dropped to the sand, followed by her bra and panties. She perfunctorily brushed a hand over her pubic hair, raised her arms in the air as if in triumph, and ran into the water. The last thing McGuire noticed was that there was, indeed, some kind of tattoo on Brigid’s left buttock.

  McGuire was still in awe at Brigid’s uninhibited performance, when it hit her hard. “She called me Sam,” she said aloud. “How did she know?” But when she turned back towards the beach, there was no sign of her benefactor. McGuire shook her head and punched another cigarette out of the pack. Her hands were shaking as she lit it. There was no burst of Brigid’s flame this time and she was relieved. She took a deep drag that she had first learned to do at The Mary Lewis Academy in Queens when she was fifteen. She looked out again at the sea, still hoping to see her new friend Brigid. Then she felt her shirt, which was wet. She looked down and there was a huge stain. She pulled the front of her T-shirt away from her and looked down at her pieced left nipple, where milk was dripping out of her steadily—like a stigmata—as if demanding an infant to nurture.

  For the rest of the day McGuire couldn’t get Brigid Dillon out of her head. She stood again in front of the mirror in her room and began undressing. Soon she was naked and she placed both hands on the side of her stomach and just stared at her reflection.

  “So I hear you’re going to make me and your daddy happy,” she said aloud to her belly. It was the first time she had used the word daddy, and it sounded very strange. She massaged her mass and thought for a second that she could feel a response. “My God,” she said, “how did I ever get myself into this mess?” Exhaustion overcame her. She went to turn off the light and noticed the Cross of St. Brigid. She took the cross off the wall and brought it to the window, leaving it on the sill, still without conviction. “Do your magic, Brigid,” she said, heading naked to her bed.