The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (5 page)

“Mr. O’Sullivan?”

I recognized the voice and let out a breath. My fear of both the IRA and the British had followed me all the way to New York. I opened the door to a short, thin woman, an apron poking out below the heavy black sweater she kept wrapped around herself to ward off the chill.

“Good evening, Mrs. Hirsch.” I did my best to smile. I had never seen her smile back, and tonight was no different.

I had met Mrs. Hirsch shortly after I moved into the apartment. I shivered involuntarily, but it wasn’t from the cold. Mrs. Hirsch’s cheeks were sunken and her eyes seemed almost too large for her face. Like many, she carried pains from the past, and her eyes betrayed the sorrow that had followed her. She reminded me of my mother.

“I found this in my box,” Mrs. Hirsch said, pulling an envelope from inside her sweater. I felt my heart skip a beat.

“A letter from home, it would seem,” she said as she handed it to me.

I resisted the urge to grab it and tear it open.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hirsch.” I smiled again then stared down at the letter in my hand. I ran my hand across the return address, touching Kathleen’s name, feeling her writing. I coughed and turned my head, not wanting Mrs. Hirsch to see the tear in my eye.

“The soup will be ready in thirty minutes,” she said, apparently oblivious to my reaction or more likely choosing to ignore it. She continued standing in my doorway and it took me a second or two to remember why.

“A moment, Mrs. Hirsch,” I said as I retrieved the package from the table.

Wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, the package would last her for several days.

She nodded once—silently—as she took the beef shank. She pulled the sweater around her once more and turned away.

We had an arrangement, Mrs. Hirsch and I. I brought her meat—stolen from the slaughter house—several times a week. In exchange she made me supper and washed my clothes and linens.

I closed the door and, forgetting about the chill and the bath water warming on the stove, carefully opened Kathleen’s letter. I unfolded the single page and held it to my nose, hoping to find something—the sweet scent of Kathleen, the earthy, damp smell of Ireland. Maybe it was the day’s soil still on my hands and in my clothes, but I found nothing, at least nothing that I had been hoping for. I stared at the pages. The curls and loops of Kathleen’s writing flowed across the paper, and I ran my fingers across the words. On the bottom, I saw where Kathleen had signed her name and sighed when I touched it. I pulled a chair over, sat by the fire and began reading.

From the very first line I could see that Kathleen had been cautious, careful with her words so as not to put either of us in jeopardy.

Dear Cousin,

I received your letter of 24 February and it gave me great pleasure to hear from you and learn that you are well. I thank God that you arrived safely and am pleased to hear that you have been getting on. America sounds like a dream, but sadly it’s one that I will have to content myself to experience only through your letters.

There has been much rain here but Mary and I have managed to survive. I left the Cavanagh’s and Mary and I are getting on, mending and doing laundry and with the little we manage to get from our farm, it’s enough.

I now understand why you had to leave. The troubles that you left behind continue and life in America is surely better for you than it would be here. There is no peace here and no hope in sight. But I am safe so please don’t worry about me. Most of the troubles are in Limerick and Cork and Dublin and in the North. In Kilcully Cross, Mary’s home, there is nothing worth fighting for anyway.

I’ve not heard from your friends since you left but I am sure they are fine. I wouldn’t trouble yourself writing to them directly as you know how they are. One day here, the next somewhere else. I will inquire for you and let you know in my next letter.

I long to see you but I know it is not meant to be. I’ll have to content myself with your letters. Please write again.

Mind yourself,

Your cousin, Kathleen.

I turned the page over, looking for more.
That’s all?
I stared at the words, each one carefully written below the light of the oil lamp in her sister’s cottage. They brought neither hope nor comfort. I told myself that she was only being careful, saying no more than she needed to let me know that she had received my letter and that she was well. I told myself that it was an intelligent thing to do. Still, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I read the last few lines again and sighed as the finality struck me. Her words were filled with a resignation, the same one that always found me in the darkness of my room when sleep wouldn’t come. Events beyond our control had cast us apart and there was nothing we could do to change that.

___

Despite my loneliness, New York was an adventure, as confusing as it was exciting and as frightening as it was grand. Each day brought something new. I soon learned which grocer to trust and which would sell you the vegetables too rotten for their own table. I learned how to avoid the gangs of young boys who would gladly stab you with their rusty knives for the few pennies you had in your pocket. And I learned that the past had a way of finding me, even thousands of miles and an ocean away, in the dirty streets of New York.

It was only one week earlier, on a Friday evening, and I had stopped in the public house, to have a pint with the lads after a long day’s work. Butchers all, we frequented a place owned by a man named Burns, popular with the Irish who worked in the slaughterhouses and produce markets nearby. It was always a quick pint at the end of the week before we each went our own ways.

I had given up the wire-rimmed glasses and dark hair that had been my disguise on the voyage over, but I was careful not to use my real name. As I had done in Cobh, I told people my name was Michael O’Sullivan.

I planned on only staying for a short while, knowing full well the dangers of staying too long. One pint too many and tongues loosened; stories would be told and the signing would start. Another pint would be poured, and the process would start all over. It was a mistake I had made once, several months after I’d arrived. The next day, not certain what I’d said or to who, I vowed not to make the same mistake again.

That night, after two pints, I made my farewells. Although it was a cold night, I welcomed the walk home. I made my way across town, from one river to another, from the Hudson to the East Side, but at First Avenue, I turned south. Several blocks before the Williamsburg Bridge was a bakery that I frequented. Although there were other bakeries closer, this one was owned by an old couple from Clare. The woman reminded me of Kathleen’s sister Mary, and I often found myself there, talking of home.

I had just stepped out of her store, a loaf of stale bread below my arm—I would crumble it later and boil it in milk—when I heard the voice.

“Frank Kelleher.”

I froze. It was so unexpected, hearing my name like that and after so long. The man stood two feet away and, although his hands were in his pockets, his eyes told me he would use them if he had to. I took a step back.

He nodded, apparently satisfied that his suspicions had been confirmed. He took a step toward me and, although he was much bigger, this time I held my ground. He had a scar on his chin, a straight purple line that curved up on one side. The color told me it was recent, maybe a year old, and although many things could have caused a scar like that, I suspected that it had come from a knife. His lilting voice told me he was from home, but by the sound of him, I knew he wasn’t from Limerick. I stared at him, at his eyes, at the scar, unable to shake the feeling that we had met somewhere in the past.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said with a sneer, “in America.”

“It seems you’re mistaken.” I responded calmly as I considered my options. The street was crowded, as it always was. Several people glanced our way, curious at the tension between us.

“Is that it then?” he asked as his eyes narrowed. “Have you’ve forgotten about Sean too?”

I flinched again at Sean’s name and the image flashed in my mind: Sean Murphy’s father laid out on the table, the women keening nearby. I stared for a moment as it came to me. His name was Jack, a cousin of Sean’s from Galway who had come for the waking. With Sean himself now dead, and by my own hand, I knew why he was here.

Several men paused, their entertainment often found in the day-to-day of the street. A fisticuff would be talked about for days to come. I glanced at them then back at Jack as I considered my options.

“It’s someone else you’re looking for,” I said, tensing, knowing now that there was no way to avoid the fight I didn’t want.

“You don’t remember me?” he asked, his glare and tone telling me he saw through my lie.

I shook my head anyway.

“Oh, but I remember you.” he said with a snarl. He must have seen the truth in my eyes. “You’re the fuckin’ traitor who killed Sean!”

And with that he lunged. The iron pipe came at me and I stepped forward, thrusting an arm up in defense, the bread forgotten now, soon to be crushed beneath our heels. I drove my other hand into his chin, hearing a crack as his head snapped back. A sharp pain shot through my other shoulder as the pipe connected. Ignoring it, I hit him again in the stomach and he let out a grunt. There was a clang behind me, and I knew he had dropped the pipe. I hit him once more, this time in the nose, and he fell backward. Grabbing the pipe off the cobblestones I stepped forward.

“The last thing I would ever do,” I hissed at him, shaking the pipe in his face, “is betray my friends.”

It was then I noticed the crowd, swelling now with men from a nearby pub, full of drink, excited to see a fight.

“The last thing I would ever do,” I said, “is betray the cause.”

The shouts and jeers from the crowd rose, and I knew Jack was sure to have friends nearby. It was time to leave. I shook the pipe again and he flinched.

“Stay away from me,” I warned. Then I pushed my way through the crowd and ran up the street, hoping and praying no one would follow.

___

I shivered in the darkness and knew I should get up and light the stove. There was a creak in the floor above me, then a door closing. As I listened to the footsteps—a neighbor going to the water closet—I rubbed my shoulder, still feeling the pain from last week’s scuffle with Jack. It was a strange thing, I thought as I took in the sounds and smells of the tenement slowly coming to life: the heavy foot, the hushed voices, a slammed door, eggs frying. A year ago, I was being chased, by the British and by my own men.
Surely if I could reach America
, I had thought at the time,
I would be safe
. But even so, someone from the IRA had found me and I wondered. With the Treaty that the papers said would soon be signed, was Ireland now safer than America? But that was dishonest I knew—even with the Treaty, would Ireland ever really be safe for someone like me?

I knew it wouldn’t be long before Jack found me again and, when he did, I was certain he wouldn’t give me a warning before his pipe found my head. I was considering leaving New York and finding work in Philadelphia or Kansas City, somewhere where my past wouldn’t follow me. As much as I wanted to go back to Ireland, staying in America made more sense. It was something I had been telling myself since I had arrived.

I climbed out of bed and lit the oil lamp—the single gas lamp on the wall hadn’t worked since the day I had let the room. Shivering, I opened the stove and stirred the ashes from yesterday’s fire. After I threw in a few small pieces of wood and a handful of coal, the fire began to smolder and I put the kettle on for tea. I picked up the newspaper, the one I had purchased the day before, and read the headline again.
King Calls Party To Ratify Irish Peace; Amnesty to Sínn Féiners
. The Treaty, if approved, would end centuries of British rule and oppression in Ireland, or at least in most of it. But it was a steep price that Britain demanded. They had laid claim to the six counties in the north, to most of Ulster. Like many Irish in New York, I was angry with that provision. I had hoped that the negotiators Eamon DeValera had sent to London would be able to secure more. But, if the Treaty was signed, the twenty-six counties of the south—including Limerick, Dublin, and Cork, and the cities I had known—would soon be free.

Since the truce in July, just five months earlier, I had learned what was happening back home from the newspapers and on the radio that Mrs. Hirsch played in the evenings while we ate. Daily, it was discussed and debated on the streets and in the saloons of the Lower East side. But to see it in black and white brought a finality to what I and so many of my Irish brothers had fought so hard and so long for.

As the room began to warm, I dressed for the day’s work. The kettle hissed and I poured myself a cup of tea. I took a sip. Distracted by the news and what it meant for Ireland, and more importantly what it might mean for me, I hadn’t let the tea cool long enough. Cursing, I put the tea down. As I ran my tongue over the burn on the roof of my mouth, I wondered if now was the time.

Ever since I had arrived, although I had made a new life in a new land, my old life was calling me home. The political tensions were easing and, although many were upset about the six counties in the north, most of Ireland, the papers seemed to say, was prepared to lay down their arms and begin anew.