by Hubert Furey
“By the Christ, you won’t lay another hand on him. The next bastard that lifts a finger to him, I’ll break his bloody neck.”
To Levi, such language had always been coarse and crude. He had heard it before, and it had always shocked him. A true product of pious Jewish upbringing, he had been appalled at the ease with which some of these workmen had cursed and used violent language in their everyday conversations.
For some strange reason, that day it had not sounded either coarse or offensive. Perhaps it was the sight of little Simon, bruised and bleeding on the sidewalk; or perhaps it was the sight of her, tall and strong, courage and defiance in her every protective movement, that made the words of her mouth sound neither harsh nor grating nor repellent, but so human and caring.
No condemning thought entered his mind as he viewed her, her long, red hair flowing in the November wind, her strong body poised for attack, her weapon held aloft in readiness to strike. She could have been a Celtic warrior queen of her ancestors of long ago. He had read about these warrior women in a book of Irish folk tales little Simon had brought from the library. Yes, that is what she had reminded him of, a warrior queen: erect, defiant, her red hair swirling, her whole body a striking image of power and strength, her protective stance a shield before the helpless boy she was keeping from further harm.
A crowd had gathered around the scene, making it difficult for Levi to continue seeing clearly, but he could hear the comments of the bystanders around him who had stopped to watch the action across the street. The girl seemed to be known to them, and they were heartily supportive of her actions.
“The bastards, what!” The big railway worker was overcome at the sight of the bleeding boy.
“Poor little mortal!” sadly commented a middle-aged woman, her eyes fixed on the bloodied, pathetic figure on the sidewalk.
“I tell ya, Big Nora put the fear of Christ in them.” It was the railway worker again.
“Did she hit another one?” It was an eager, excited voice.
“Nah, they’ve given up,” came his disappointed companion.
“Hell! She could have flattened the works of them,” replied the first man.
“Big Nora can look after herself,” asserted the woman.
“She got to be tough,” snorted the railway worker. “Look at the trimmin’s that bastard of a father gave her when she was a youngster.”
The crowd thinned and the bystanders moved away as the confrontation ended, enabling Levi to again view the scene without difficulty. He could see the girl bending over his grandson, helping him to his feet. The toughs were moving down the street, shouting obscene threats to the girl, their courage increasing with distance. Nora was ignoring them, concentrating on dabbing Simon’s face with a wrinkled pocket handkerchief, the piece of board thrown carelessly to the side.
Still fascinated by the drama which he had just witnessed, Levi did not move to make his presence known, but remained where he was, feeling any such action to be superfluous and unnecessary. He watched her as she gathered up Simon’s books, then took the boy’s hand and walked in the direction of the school, every motion of her body projecting care and concern.
He followed them both with his eyes as they turned up the street by the station and finally disappeared from view, the big girl still holding Simon’s hand, her head turned in his direction, engaged in earnest conversation. The boy was gripping her hand tightly in return, walking with his head half-turned, looking into her face, absorbing every word.
Big Nora! The name, and the derisive tone denoting her physical stature, did not suit her. It did not suit a warrior queen, he thought, especially a warrior queen who had just saved his little Simon from these toughs. There was no understanding the Irish. He remembered only admiration and gratitude. He had stood there a long time reliving that scene. It was still fixed in his memory years after, and it came in his mind again, more pronounced than ever as he watched the woman bend over one showcase after another as she wended her way through the store.
Levi remembered how she had walked little Simon to school every day after that. He had wanted to walk his grandson to school the next day, but Simon had told him, his eyes sparkling, that Nora was waiting for him, that there was no need, that she would be taking him every day. Nobody ever taunted or harried his grandson again, so he had been able to stay in the shop and get the morning customers on their way to work.
Now as he studied her, he wondered why he had never bothered to inquire about her—who she really was, if she lived close, if she went to the same school. He had come to rely on her, reneged on his responsibility. Levi knew even then he was doing wrong. He had tried to convince himself that it was the demands of the business, but he knew now what it was, just as he secretly knew then.
Remorse overcame him. Perhaps it was because Simon was so captivated by his new friend. He talked incessantly of Nora, his voice infused with excitement as he recounted yet another of her exploits. The boys’ team had challenged her to hit the ball past second base, and she had driven it over the fence at the edge of the field through the window of an abandoned railway car. Billy McGuire, the weightlifter, had teased her into an arm wrestle, and she had thrown down his arm in five seconds flat. And her stories—how many stories—of little people and fairies and Irish princesses.
But the sickness, that strange sickness. Levi shook his head. It kept taking its toll. There were the days little Simon would just lie in bed, weak, not eating. How the little boy would brighten when he would think of Nora. Levi shuddered at his thoughtlessness. He had never let Nora know. He had never invited her to the house to visit sick little Simon. He never thought . . .
Then came that terrible morning. Miriam had gone into his room and he was lying so quietly, so peacefully. He had gone like an angel to God in the night. The funeral, the mourning period, the days that followed—there was no thought of anything else, just Simon. It was weeks after that it had struck him like a thunderbolt. Nora had not known. She had not come to the funeral; she must not have known. But then, how could she have known? He remembered being sick with despair. It was unforgivable.
He had gone to the docks, inquiring. Yes, they had known a Nora Fennessey. She went to Holy Rosary School on Cairo Street. He found his way to the school run by the Holy Rosary sisters, happy at last that he would see her, confess his ingratitude and thoughtlessness. He would tell her about Simon’s death. He would talk about that, too, and he would reward her. He would give her something expensive. That way he would say thank you for Simon, and for himself. Yes, he would repent. He would say he was sorry. He would repay her for all she had done for his grandson, for all the happiness she had brought them.
He relived again the sick, empty feeling he had that day in Sr. Luke’s office. He had been so full of hope, of eagerness, of anticipation. He was going to really meet Nora for the first time, denounce his wicked selfishness, and put things right with the gift he had chosen: the card with the crisp new bills.
Sr. Luke had sighed helplessly. “I really don’t know where she went.” Levi was numb.
“You don’t hear much about the poorer girls after they leave,” she continued, adding a tinge of irony. “They don’t leave forwarding addresses.” Then she turned and looked toward a group of class pictures on the wall. Levi tried to pick out Nora, but from that distance it was impossible. Sr. Luke was speaking in a respectful tone.
“She was an unusual girl, a wonderful girl, a tower of strength to the other girls. I can see her now, getting all those little ones ready behind the stage when we would have our annual concert. Twenty of them babbling at the one time, and she getting them ready one by one. She always wanted to be a nurse, but she didn’t have a chance.”
“When did she leave?” Levi hadn’t intended to be so abrupt. He had been so intent on hearing every word.
Sr. Luke had seemed unperturbed, repeating t
he question in a thoughtful manner. “When did she leave?” She thumbed through a tightly packed box of index cards, extracting one and holding it up for closer view. “Here we are. According to this, her last day of school was March 5.”
Levi was stunned. It had been too coincidental. That was the day little Simon was buried. Was it possible?
Sr. Luke returned the index card to the file and continued speaking, as if she were meditating. Her voice had assumed a questioning air. “I never could understand what was keeping her here. It was a very abusive situation. Her father was a very violent man when he got drunk, and he got drunk pretty often. Nora used to get beat up protecting her mother. She could have escaped lots of times, but she stayed, to protect her mother. When her mother went to the mental institute, we all expected her to move out, but she stayed—even after her mother died—and nobody understood why. Then, just like that, the evening of March 5, she was gone, just as mysteriously.”
Levi remembered standing for a long time on the little bridge outside the school, trying to make sense of this latest revelation. No matter how he examined it, there was only one explanation: she had stayed for Simon.
She had continued to endure abuse and beatings . . . . What kind of a beast was he? Her people had beasts, too! His people were no strangers to beasts—all but his little Simon. He remembered thinking about his prayer. God had protected him, God had truly protected him. And a Catholic. Catholics he had known over there had taunted and tormented him, but then there were those other Catholics, the ones who tried to help. Then there was Nelly Brannigan, and Nora. It was so difficult to understand.
He remembered taking the bus back to his home, to the little rooms behind his store, vowing to find her and repay her. Miriam said, “You should pray, Levi, pray to find her.” Wise, wise Miriam. And he had prayed that God would send her back, somehow, sometime.
Now God had answered his prayers. Here she was, in his shop, before his very eyes. But where was the warrior queen? Where was the fierce Irish pride, the indomitable courage?
She was still a relatively young woman. Why was she so lonely, so dejected, so sad? Why had she stayed poor? She was intelligent, obviously a strong worker. And why was she standing so long before that particular showcase? The other women had come and gone, and she still had not moved from that same spot.
He knew she couldn’t afford to buy anything in it; they were all very expensive rings, some of them thousands of dollars. If she were just browsing, as he had known the poorer people to do over the years, why wasn’t she standing before the other showcase, the one under the clocks with the cheaper jewellery?
“You’re wondering about that big lady over there, Uncle Levi? Do you want to go through the ritual today?”
Levi bristled. He didn’t like the tone in his nephew’s voice. “Big lady” seemed hurtful, like “Big Nora.”
“Ritual!” Levi responded, frowning. He would never understand this younger generation. The word only meant something religious to Levi. He continued to look in Nora’s direction while the younger nephew continued.
“She’s been coming in here almost every day for two weeks now. Pretends she’s interested in that blue sapphire ring—you know the one—with the diamond in the centre surrounded by three blue sapphires, and the ring of smaller diamonds around the sapphires, the one Mrs. Melansky returned. I don’t know why she’s so obsessed with it. Anybody can see she can’t afford it. I don’t see why she bothers to come in.”
“You said ‘ritual.’” Levi’s tone was almost curt, and it made the nephew uncomfortable.
“Well, sort of,” the nephew replied, anxious to get the explanation over with and away from his uncle, who seemed displeased. “I’ll go over there and say ‘Good evening’—it’s always in the evening—‘May I help you?’ and she’ll respond, ‘No, thank you, I’m just looking at this ring, the one right there, with the sapphires,’ and then she’ll point and look apologetic and say, ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ and I’ll say, ‘Of course not,’ and move away. Then she’ll stay about five minutes just staring at the ring, like she’s in a dream.” The nephew shrugged. “Then she’ll leave and come back the next day and repeat the whole thing, like a ritual.”
Levi was absorbing every word his nephew was saying, but he said nothing. His nephew felt compelled to continue. “I even bet with Ephrem,” he said, indicating his cousin, “that she would repeat the whole thing word for word, motion for motion, and she did.” He shrugged again before changing his tone completely, becoming more sympathetic.
“Funny thing, though—and Ephrem says the same thing—when she is gazing at that ring, I swear she becomes a different person. Like she lights up.”
“A different person, you say.” Levi was hardly hearing his nephew. He was seeing the look of rapture on the woman’s face, which slowly faded as she straightened her body to move away. The germ of an idea had begun to take shape in the recesses of his mind, and his eyes interlocked with Miriam’s for an instant, exchanging thoughts. God had given him another chance to make amends. She had given so much joy to Simon. She must be rewarded. The time for rituals was past. He was not worried about what he would say. That would take care of itself.
He slowly moved around his nephew, his eyes on the woman. Miriam followed him, shaking her head in apprehension, recalling the embarrassment of that last experience. With the store almost empty, the two nephews were standing at a distance, awaiting the inevitable scenario to unfold. Levi had moved quietly, not wishing to attract the woman’s attention until he came directly in her presence. He spoke soothingly, looking alternately from the ring to the woman.
“Would you like to try it on?” His voice startled her, and she stepped back quickly from the showcase, an embarrassed expression on her face.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. It’s much too expensive. I might break it or something. No, no, I was just looking.” The two nephews exchanged smiles, confident of their predictions. Levi was insistent, the smooth approach of his old skills returning, the approach that had sold so much jewellery over the years.
“Nonsense! How can you break a ring? Besides, how will you know it will fit if you don’t try it on? You should always try on merchandise before you buy it.” He had never been mischievous, and he delighted in the new sensation. The nephews looked at him curiously. The woman recoiled.
“Buy it?” The words were accompanied by surprised laughter that quickly turned to bitterness. “Welfare cheques don’t buy sapphires.” The tone was flat, dispirited. She was turning to leave, but her eyes were still held by the ring, as if she were contemplating Levi’s words. Levi continued in the same tone, his excitement barely suppressed, his voice alluring.
“It would not hurt to try it on. Please, I am an old man now and my nephews won’t let me sell anything, but I can pretend I am selling it to you, like the old days.” Miriam had come to stand beside him and was nodding her head affectionately toward the woman in front of the showcase. She looked from one to the other before replying, an amused smile forming on her lips. Levi had never seen her smile before, and he was enchanted. She seemed so childlike.
“Okay! Let’s pretend. What the heck? I’ve never had a ring like that on my finger before. It will be fun.” She laughed again, but her eyes were sad, a sadness that perplexed Levi. He wanted to say something but was distracted by Miriam, impatiently prodding.
“Levi, get the ring.”
In an act of instant obedience, he reached inside the showcase and carefully lifted out the tiny purple box in which the ring lay resting on an embroidered cushion of the same colour. The woman’s eyes followed his every movement, her eyes fixated on the ring as Levi carefully laid the box on the counter. As if entranced, she extended her arm as he reached for her hand and placed the ring on her finger, holding her hand motionless in mid-air.
Her face glowed as she slowly rotated her hand in the refl
ection of the light, making the sapphires and diamonds sparkle and dance. For Levi, it was a dazzling ballet, and he could imagine the brilliance of the gems pirouetting across the woman’s face, merging with the light from the chandeliers and from the myriad of multicoloured gems in the showcases, all blending in a lustrous incandescent sea. For a moment, time was suspended; the woman’s face seemed so enraptured with happiness.
Levi was overcome. He had never experienced anything like this before. He had seen very wealthy women purchase more expensive rings than this—although this one was very expensive—and show no more than a glimmer of excitement. They were just adding one more expensive piece of jewellery to an already exhaustively boring collection.
He had sold wedding rings and engagement rings to young couples, and there had been excitement, but the excitement had been so normal, so expected. He had never seen a person so suffused with such adoration, as if the ring held some transcendent mystery known to her and her alone.
“It’s just so beautiful, isn’t it?” Her eyes had never left the ring, engrossed as she was by its attraction.
“Yes, so beautiful,” he murmured, but he was not only meaning the ring.
She remained standing for several more moments, transfixed by the array of gems, before speaking again. When she did, her tone was abrupt, in stark contrast to the softness and warmth of just moments before. She hastily tore the ring from her finger and thrust it into Levi’s outstretched hand. Levi was astounded, and the two nephews exchanged confused glances. The woman had changed completely, and her manner became detached and distant, as if the previous scene had never taken place. She was speaking sharply, the anger and bitterness in her voice easily discernible.
“I’m sorry I’ve been wasting your time. I know that you have just been tolerating me.” She turned abruptly and walked quickly toward the door, pausing only to look back one last time before grasping the knob. Her voice sounded tired, resigned. “I won’t bother you anymore.” Her glance toward the nephews was understanding, not condemning.