Heart of the Lonely Exile (20 page)

What, then, accounted for his own feelings of suspicion and annoyance? Why had he been so put off, even uncomfortable, with the man's questions?

Partially, Tierney supposed, it was because he did not trust Walsh's sincerity. His instincts told him that Patrick Walsh was interested in little other than himself and in making more money. Nor did he swallow that ridiculous tale about helping Ireland. Walsh was too eager to forget where he came from—and to have everyone else forget it, as well. That kind of Irishman didn't send money back.

But what bothered him most, Tierney realized, was the fact that the man had obviously been patronizing him. From the moment the conversation had shifted to Tierney's interest in Ireland, there had been a glint of contempt, a hint of mockery in Walsh's manner that even now set Tierney's teeth on edge.

Uneasily, he realized that his employer's actions had caused a seed of distrust to take root, a seed planted earlier by his father. Da continued to insist that Patrick Walsh's reputation was not what it might be, that a number of his “business interests” were suspect. He made no secret of the fact that he questioned the man's phenomenal rise to success, what with Walsh being an Irishman in a city where the Irish seldom rose above the police force or the fire department.

It was a rare thing, indeed, for Tierney to concede the possibility that his father might be right. They seemed to disagree on everything lately, from what to have for breakfast all the way to politics and religion.

But he resented Walsh's probing and his condescending manner. The look in his employer's eye when he referred to Da and the police force had been patent contempt.

Tightening his jaw, Tierney flung another scoop of snow into the yard, stepping up his pace to get the job done. He and Da might have their differences—and in truth, they seemed to have a growing number of them—but it was another thing entirely to think that an orange-blooded Irisher like Patrick Walsh might dare to mock them.

Tierney thought again of the envelope in his pocket and its enticing contents. Walsh had said to get his da a Christmas gift, and so he would. What with the sum he already had stashed in the sock under his pillow, this unexpected bonus should give him enough to buy gifts all round.

He already had a fine knife picked out for Da. And he'd get Daniel a gift, too.

The thought of Daniel made Tierney wince, remembering the terrible row they'd had the night Da had run into Nora and the Englishman at the Opera House.

It wasn't Daniel's fault, of course, but Tierney was still steamed with Nora. He'd lost his temper and said some pretty rough things to Daniel about his mother. But what Daniel didn't seem to realize, or refused to admit, was the hurt Nora had brought upon Da.

He wished now he hadn't blown up as he had, and he was eager to set things right between himself and Daniel before Christmas. Perhaps the right Christmas gift would help break the ice.

He'd get a present for a few others as well, like wee Tom Fitzgerald, the poor, long-faced little tyke. He was soft toward both those Fitzgerald kids, and that was the truth.

Especially Johanna—Johanna with the sad eyes and silent voice. Tierney could make her smile well enough, could sometimes evoke a strange, voiceless laugh from her. He liked that. Somehow, it made him feel a man.

Aye, for Johanna he would buy a silk scarf. Something bright that would make her sad eyes smile.

“Hello, Tierney.”

Tierney tightened his jaw and went on shoveling, digging at the walk a little more vigorously. He did not look up, but he was irritably aware of Isabel Walsh standing nearby, watching him.

He knew only too well that his employer's twelve-year-old daughter had a fierce crush on him. To date, Tierney had not worked a Saturday but what the lumpy Isabel, who seemed to have inherited all her mother's worst features, did not make a nuisance of herself at least once.

It was all Tierney could do not to be insulting. Something about the girl set his teeth to grinding. Indeed, all Isabel had to do was say his name, and he wanted to spit. He tried his best to avoid her whenever possible.

But here she was, decked out in one of those abominable fur-trimmed coats that made her look for all the world like a stuffed beaver. Balanced precariously on top of her fat sausage curls was one of those silly little plumed hats that reminded Tierney of a dead goose.

The girl was usually overdressed in heavy, ornate finery like some sort of European princess. Yet, like Mrs. Walsh, poor Isabel only managed to look squat and dull and frumpy in whatever she wore.

Tierney tried to be civil to both Walsh youngsters. Obviously, they were the darlings of their mother's heart, although he had observed Mr. Walsh's impatience with his children, especially with the fussy eight-year-old Henry.

He gave Isabel a cursory glance, pretending great interest in his work. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that she was holding a package, wrapped in shiny paper with bright ribbons tied around it. With dismay, Tierney knew at once it was for him.

“This is for you, Tierney,” said Isabel, thrusting the package at him. “It's a Christmas present.” She had a reedy, staccato way of speaking that always made her sound out of breath, as if she'd just run up an entire flight of stairs.

Reluctantly, Tierney straightened. Leaning on his shovel, he fixed his gaze on the mangy brown plumes adorning Isabel's hat.

“You oughtn't to be giving me a Christmas present,” he said uncharitably. “I didn't get you anything. Or Henry.”

Isabel stepped closer, extending her short arms straight out with the gift in front of her. “That doesn't matter, Tierney. Henry and me—Henry and I—will get a lot of Christmas presents. You probably won't, Mama says.”

“Indeed,” Tierney answered, straight-faced.

“Mama helped me pick it out,” Isabel droned on. “She knew I wanted to get you something special.”

“That was kind of her,” Tierney replied evenly, wondering what sort of contraption made those cigar-sized curls that stuck out all over her head. He reached for the gaily wrapped gift as if it were a toad. “Thank you and Merry Christmas to you,” he mumbled, immediately setting the gift down on the walk and hoisting his shovel. “I'd best get back to work now.”

Isabel stood staring at him a full five minutes more, indulging herself in a meaningless monologue as she watched him work. Tierney muttered in reply once or twice, paying no attention to her whatever. Finally, she went back inside.

Tierney drew a long sigh of relief. He could almost feel sorry for Patrick Walsh, although certainly his employer would not welcome his sympathy. Still, there was no getting around the fact that Walsh's family fell far short of the man himself. Mrs. Walsh did seem a very kind woman and entirely devoted to her husband and children, but she wasn't the least bit attractive. Walsh's son was prissy and dull at best. And his daughter—well, sure, and that one would try any man's good nature.

No wonder Walsh showed little enthusiasm for anything other than making money!

Well, and wasn't it a fine thing to have money in the pocket, after all? Tierney could certainly appreciate the feeling. And now he had hopes of a job making even more!

Hoisting another shovelful of snow, he began to whistle. Christmas was coming, he had money in his pocket, and school was dismissed for the holidays. Tierney felt so good he could even allow himself to speculate on the contents of Isabel Walsh's gift.

20

Have we not all one Father? Did not one God create us?

MALACHI 2:10

A
rthur Jackson was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in New York City who wasn't Irish.

He was staying in an Irish family's home. Oh, the preacher said he was born in America, but he was mostly Irish, all the same. The strikers who had ganged up on him and the other black boys—they had been Irish, too, including the one who shot Arthur. Even the policemen who had jumped into the riot had been Irish.

Now here came a doctor named Grafton with a boy—his assistant, they said—named Daniel Kavanagh. The doctor talked normal enough, but his boy didn't sound as if he was long off the boat.

His time in New York had taught Arthur that he should steer clear of the Irish, that they were the enemies and competitors of the blacks. But except for the strikers who had jumped him, all these strange Irishers were being so nice to him! It was hard to take, and pretty confusing to a black boy from Mississippi.

Never in his life had Arthur been touched by a doctor—until he got shot. And this one was a rich man's doctor, you could tell. He wore a fine suit and had a watch fob hanging from his waistcoat. And he had an
assistant
—the Irish boy.

Arthur wondered briefly if these two would still be so decent to him once Mrs. Dalton and Casey-Fitz were out of the bedroom.

But the doctor's hands were gentle as he examined Arthur's wound,
then pressed the tender places around his back and ribs. He smiled a lot as he worked over him, as if he knew Arthur was skittish and wanted to reassure him.

The Irish boy also grinned at him now and then. Arthur wondered how a Paddy, and such a young one, managed to land a job with a gentleman doctor. This Daniel Kavanagh might be a little older than Arthur, but not by much, he'd judge. Still, he seemed to know what he was doing. He had all the tools and stuff ready and waiting, almost before the doctor told him what he wanted.

He must be awful smart, but where did an Irish boy get all that learning?

“Deep breath, Arthur. Again. Does that hurt?”

It hurt plenty, but Arthur just shrugged. His daddy had taught him not to whine about pain.

They had him sitting up in bed, which made his sides and chest hurt even more. The doctor pressed on a tender spot, and in spite of himself, Arthur yelped.

“Mm-hm,” was all the doctor said.

That must have meant something to the Kavanagh boy, too, because he frowned, just like the doctor. When he looked at Arthur again, though, he smiled.

Arthur let out a long breath of relief when the doctor finally helped him lie down.

“Your lung still has a ways to go before it's all healed,” said the doctor. “I'm afraid you're going to have to stay in bed a while longer.”

“How come if I was shot in the back I hurt so bad in my chest, too?”

Smiling, the doctor closed up his black case. “Because part of your rib punched a hole in your lung. You're very lucky that bullet didn't go on through your heart.”

Arthur swallowed. He didn't want to think about that.

There was a long, awkward pause between Arthur and the Irish boy after the doctor went downstairs to talk with Mrs. Dalton.

Finally the Irish boy broke the silence. “Do you go to school?” he asked.

Arthur shook his head.

“So you work, then?” the boy asked, tidying the night table the doctor had used during the examination.

“When there's work to be had, I do,” said Arthur. Deciding the other boy seemed friendly enough, he asked, “How'd you get a job like this, with a doctor? You go to school for it?”

Daniel Kavanagh shook his head and came over to the bed again. “No. I mean, I do go to school, but just regular school. I got the job because Dr. Grafton happened to be needing an assistant at the same time I was looking for work.”

Arthur looked at him curiously. “Can't see wantin' to spend so much time around sick folks. You like it?”

“Aye, I do. I want to be a doctor, you see, so this is a fine job for me to have.”

Arthur nodded as if he understood, but he still reckoned this Irish boy might be kinda peculiar. Spending all that time with a doctor and sick people—it must get awful discouraging.

“Where do you live?” asked Daniel Kavanagh, putting both hands in his pockets.

Arthur shrugged. “Got a room in Five Points with some other fellows I know.”

The other boy's expression changed.

“It's not so bad,” Arthur muttered resentfully. He didn't want no Paddy feeling sorry for
him.

Daniel Kavanagh nodded agreeably. For a minute Arthur felt as if he were looking right
through
him. But at least he didn't say anything else about Five Points.

“Ain't lived there long,” Arthur said, yawning. “I come from Mis'sippi.”

Daniel Kavanagh nodded. “Mr. Dalton told us. He said you ran away. That must have taken a lot of courage.”

Embarrassed, Arthur kicked at the blankets with his feet. “Naw, just took a lot of runnin', that's all.”

Daniel smiled, and silence descended between them again. This time Arthur yielded. “I can play the harmonica,” he offered. As soon as the words were out, he was sorry he'd said it. Some fellows thought it was sissy to play a musical instrument.

But Daniel Kavanagh's face lit up. “Truly? That's grand. I play the harp.”

Now
that
was a sissy instrument, Arthur thought. But the boy didn't seem embarrassed. He sure wasn't like any of the Paddies Arthur had met in Five Points!

“Maybe I'll bring my harp over sometime after you're feeling stronger. We could play some songs together. If you'd like to, that is.”

Arthur's eyes bugged. Wouldn't that be a sight, though? A colored boy playing music with a Paddy!

“I don't know anybody else who plays music,” Daniel Kavanagh said quietly. “Except for Morgan Fitzgerald, that is, and he's in Ireland. He taught me the harp, you see, and we used to play songs together sometimes.”

Arthur had never expected to
like
a Paddy. Yet, something in the Irish boy's eyes tugged at him, and he found himself responding to what seemed like an offer of friendship on Daniel Kavanagh's part.

“Guess that'd be okay,” Arthur said. “But I dunno how long it'll be before I got enough wind to play. I'm awful short of breath yet.”

“Oh, don't worry! With Dr. Grafton taking care of you, you'll be feeling as good as new in no time at all! And I'll pray for you!”

Arthur stared at him, stuck for a reply.

Then the door opened, and Mrs. Dalton and Casey-Fitz came in with the doctor. Everybody seemed to be talking at once, and the noise made Arthur's head spin.

These had to be the strangest folks he'd ever met. They treated one another like family, and they treated him almost as nice. Even if they were always talking about the
Lord
and
praying,
none of it seemed put-on.

Some of their talk and proper ways made him uncomfortable, but he knew they didn't do it on purpose. And not a one of them seemed to pay any attention that he was black.

These were strange folks, all right. And now he'd met a boy who played a harp, just like an angel!

Peculiar as they were, he guessed he liked them well enough. They seemed good people, especially Casey-Fitz and Daniel Kavanagh.

Even if they were Irish.

That night, up to his elbows in dishwater, Daniel told Tierney about his talk with Arthur Jackson. “He's on his own keeping entirely. Just think of being on your own in Five Points!”

Tierney grunted, obviously unimpressed.

“He was hurt, but he's getting better, thanks to Dr. Grafton.” Daniel frowned as he scrubbed a grease-caked frying pan. “He's the same boy Uncle Mike helped to save from the strikers, you know.”

Tierney lifted an eyebrow. “The black kid that got shot? The one the Daltons took in?”

Daniel nodded. “Arthur Jackson is his name. He plays the harmonica.”

Tierney's indifference turned to scorn. “They
all
play the harmonica.”

Daniel shot a look at Tierney. “What do you mean?”

Tierney shrugged and went on swiping the dish towel over a plate. “Colored boys. They all seem to play some kind of music. Jungle drums, mostly.” He grinned, but there was no humor in it, only contempt.

Daniel swallowed down his anger. “That's an ignorant thing to say, it seems to me.”

Tierney looked at him, a threatening glint in his eyes. “You're saying I'm ignorant because I don't like Negroes?”

“No, I'm simply saying it
sounds
ignorant when you talk so. Especially when I don't think you even mean what you say.”

Tierney's eyes narrowed, but Daniel pretended not to notice. Turning back to the sink, he attacked the frying pan with a vengeance. Tierney was forever making cutting remarks about the Negroes or the Germans or the Poles—about anybody who wasn't Irish. Yet Daniel did not believe Tierney was as prejudiced as he let on. He half-suspected Tierney said some of the things he did because he thought it was
expected
of
him.

In New York City, the Irish hated the Negroes, and the Negroes hated the Irish. And Tierney would be the last to go against the mold. He fancied himself as the tough man, one who would brook no questioning of his being thoroughly, unmistakably
Irish.

Daniel could not help wondering if Tierney might not be more intent on convincing
himself
than
anyone else. This was only one of the traits in his friend that had begun to worry Daniel lately. He was changing, Tierney was, becoming harder, more impatient—sometimes even unkind. But Daniel had been unable to determine just how much of this hardness was authentic, and how much was sham—a mask Tierney had chosen to wear, for whatever his reasons.

Uneasily, he sensed a wall going up around his friend—a self-erected wall—that was slowly shutting out everyone around him, including
Daniel and Uncle Mike. Tierney was building a fortress around himself—whether for protection or isolation, Daniel could not say. He only knew that he was beginning to feel left out, separated from his friend. It made him feel unhappy and increasingly troubled.