Heart of the Lonely Exile (8 page)

Aye, we are different, all right,
Daniel thought, resting his head against the wall. Tierney was a doer; Daniel himself was a dreamer. In truth, he had a softness in his nature that at times embarrassed him. It took little enough to bring tears to his eyes or a lump to his throat. Tierney, though, was entirely unpredictable. Moody, even sullen, one moment, he could turn the rogue in the blink of an eye. There was a darkness to the older boy's nature that Daniel found almost frightening. At times he glimpsed a hardness in his friend's soul, a ruthlessness he thought might quickly turn mean if provoked.

Uncle Mike saw it, too, he was sure. No doubt that's what accounted for his attempts to keep such a tight rein on Tierney.

Yet, Daniel wasn't so sure but what Uncle Mike's unyielding discipline didn't make Tierney more rebellious than ever. The two of them were forever at a standoff.

Most often, Uncle Mike was a kindhearted, good-natured man. But
when it came to his son, he could be awfully hard and unyielding. Daniel thought his mistake might be in trying to force Tierney into his own way of doing things, instead of being a bit more tolerant of their differences—which were considerable.

At times, he felt almost sorry for Uncle Mike. He was baffled by Tierney more often than not, and his confusion seemed to show itself in anger. But Daniel had seen the hurt in the man's eyes after a row with his son, and it grieved him.

He also knew that to broach the subject would only bring Tierney's wrath down on his head. So he kept his silence, aching for Uncle Mike, but understanding Tierney's frustration as well.

Giving a long sigh, he stretched, then got to his knees. For a moment, he watched a rib-thin spotted pup foraging among the garbage piled along the edge of the street. Then he turned and eased himself back through the window.

8

He with body waged a fight,
But body won; it walks upright.
Then he struggled with the heart;
Innocence and peace depart.
Then he struggled with the mind;
His proud heart he left behind.
Now his wars on God begin;
At stroke of midnight God shall win.

W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

P
atrick Walsh leaned back in his chair, contentedly watching the smoke from his pipe spiral toward the library ceiling. In truth he preferred a cigar to the pipe, but every red-faced Irish politician he knew smoked a cigar, and so as a matter of principle he did
not.

Walsh had made a career of escaping his undistinguished beginnings in Ireland. Without really denying his heritage, he retained the best parts of it, at the same time disavowing even the most trivial commonplace traits most often associated with the Irish.

His father, the owner of a failed pub, had died while still a young man, leaving his wife with three little girls and an only son. Out of sheer desperation, Patrick's mother had taken them all off to Cork, where she earned a meager living as a seamstress and laundress. There was never money for anything more than mere survival; luxuries such as education, nice clothing, or holidays were nonexistent.

Even as a child, Patrick had possessed an acute loathing for their poverty
and the ugliness associated with it. Being poor meant being wretched—dirty, ragged, and hungry. In the city, it also meant being despised.

When he was fifteen, with no more than a fleeting thought for his weary mother and young sisters, Patrick stole the passage money for America. On the day he sailed, he said a final goodbye to Ireland. He had no intention whatsoever of returning.

He entered Boston harbor with nothing but high hopes and grand expectations. It took only a week to confront the sobering reality that for the first time in his life, he would be forced to work if he were to eat.

He lasted only a few months on the Boston docks, loading cargo. He begrudged every moment he spent there, viewing the punishment of hitherto unused muscles as a kind of injustice wreaked upon him because he was poor and without connections. His resolve to escape the trap of poverty grew in proportion to his increasing aversion to hard work.

Patrick's education had been sparse and sporadic. With the help of one of his mother's clients, he had managed a few terms, but his formal schooling had taught him only the basics. His mind was quick and agile, however, and he learned much about politics, business, and society, relying on secondhand books and discarded newspapers. Although he hadn't a notion as to how he would one day attain financial success, he never doubted for a moment that he would.

Less than a year after arriving in the States, Patrick made his way to New York City. He already knew from his extensive reading that New York was no better than Boston when it came to prejudice and contempt for the Irish. Still, he felt that in New York he would find his luck, and he was impatient to make that discovery.

Patrick believed in luck, believed it was reserved for those with the wits to seize it when it beckoned. Already convinced that he was destined for good fortune, he deliberately ignored New York's docks and headed uptown.

By now he owned a decent pair of trousers and a clean shirt.

He had grown tall, maturing to good looks. When he presented himself to the desk clerk at the Braun Hotel, he made a neat, even pleasing appearance. The ferret-faced clerk informed him, however, that there were no openings. None at all.

Of course, even if there
had
been an opening, the clerk added with a spiteful curl of his lip, the hotel was not in the business of hiring the Irish. Nor, he added, were any of the other “decent” businesses in the city.

Patrick's first real stroke of luck occurred right there, in the hotel lobby, that Monday afternoon in early autumn. As it happened, John Braun, the hotel's middle-aged German owner, was there, nosing about the premises to see what sort of excesses he might discover on the part of his staff. Watching the German, Patrick sensed he was somebody of means. It took only a few minutes of keeping his ears open to discover Braun's identity.

At that point, Patrick slipped into one of his flash-fire changes that would stand him in good stead for years to come. The green Irish youth was transformed to an experienced, sharp-witted young man with the gift of the blarney and a ruthless penchant for seizing the advantage.

Near a small group of businessmen across the lobby, two aging bellmen were struggling with a hefty pyramid of luggage. Not wasting a moment, Patrick sprinted across the lobby to hoist a bulging valise under each arm. “I'll get the heavy ones, gents,” he said cheerfully, shooting the elderly porters an engaging smile as he started off toward the stairs. Nodding their approval, the businessmen followed.

In a short time, he returned to the lobby and boldly presented himself to John Braun. “Your desk clerk said you do not hire the Irish, sir, which is a mistake, as you can see. I'll work for less than any of your more experienced men, and you'll get twice the work for your money. Perhaps there's lighter work about the establishment that the elderly gents could manage.”

Taken with Patrick's audacity, Braun stood staring at him for only a moment before breaking into a horsey laugh and hiring him on the spot. It bothered Patrick not in the least that his boldness eventually cost the two old bellmen their jobs.

From that day on, he made it a point to ingratiate himself not only with John Braun, but with the desk clerk and even the kitchen help. In no time at all he was being described as “quick,” “industrious,” and “a good enough sort for an Irisher” by the entire staff.

With the patrons of the hotel, however, Patrick made his best mark. They took to his charm like fleas to a dog, easily impressed by this fine-looking, well-mannered youth who had an answer for every question, a solution for every problem. It was not long before Patrick Walsh was considered indispensable.

His charming usefulness did not escape the notice of John Braun. Within months Patrick was promoted to the desk, then to assistant manager. By the
age of eighteen he could do no wrong in the eyes of his German employer, who had no son on whom to lavish his paternal instincts.

Braun did, however, have a daughter. Alice Braun was twenty-three, short and squat like her mother. She was a good, dutiful daughter who seemed to accept her plainness and lack of appeal by devoting herself to her parents, her church, and her two cats.

When Braun invited Patrick home for dinner one night, the crafty young Irishman immediately saw how things were. Alice was the only daughter. Her parents both adored her. And, most importantly, she wasn't likely to find an acceptable suitor on her own.

By playing to Braun's personal liking for him and plying his considerable charm with Mrs. Braun, Patrick managed to turn his first dinner invitation into a weekly custom. During these occasions he was propriety itself, staring at Alice only a bit too intently, allowing his hand to linger on hers only an instant longer than might have been necessary.

Mostly, he concentrated on Alice's mother, sensing her to be the real force in the family. Within a short time, he had ingratiated himself with the formidable Ula Braun until she fairly simpered every time he stepped over the threshold.

Poor Alice still seemed incapable of anything more flirtatious than to peep at Patrick over the dumplings, her round cheeks flushed and damp. After a few weeks, Patrick took things a step further, requesting a private audience with John Braun.

During this meeting, he candidly admitted his affection for Miss Alice. Yes, he acknowledged, there were a few years between them—but Miss Alice seemed so young, so sheltered, that in truth he felt years
older
than she, rather than younger. Besides, it was a fact that the hardships he had endured in Ireland had matured him quickly. Oh, of
course,
he realized that Miss Alice was leagues above him in every way—he had not found so fine and pure a woman in all of Ireland, after all. But could he possibly dare to hope that the family would consider him an acceptable suitor?

At first, Braun was stunned, then overwhelmed to the point of tears. He assured his young employee that social station had never been of major concern to
him
, although of course it had to be considered in relation to Alice, since she deserved only the best. Still, he thought himself a good judge of character, and as far as he could tell, Patrick's was exemplary. There was no substitute for sobriety, integrity, and hard work, now was there?

There
was
one matter which
did
concern him, however, that being Patrick's Roman faith. His church was his own business, of course, and Braun had never been much bothered by the Catholics. Still, with Alice being a devout Lutheran, it was a subject of some concern to her mother and father.

Sober-faced, Patrick expressed his understanding and stated that he quite understood such parental concern. He would, he offered, give the matter serious consideration.

In the meantime, could he call?

He found it incredibly easy to woo Alice. She was already wild about him, he knew; the only thing left was to break her out of her shell and convince her that
he
was wild about her as well.

They went for long walks, during which he coaxed her to talk about herself, sensing that nobody aside from her parents had ever shown her the slightest interest until now. He made it a habit to compliment her, paying her the kind of attention that would have turned the head of even a more worldly, confident young woman.

The first time he kissed her hand, the poor thing almost fainted. The first time he kissed her lips, he thought she would weep.

They were married six months later. Having given serious consideration to his Roman faith and deciding it could present a hindrance in attaining his goals, Patrick cheerfully rejected it and became a Lutheran.

John Braun presented the newlyweds with a home on Staten Island and a fine new carriage. In addition, he handed over to Patrick full ownership of the hotel where he had first employed him.

In Alice, Patrick gained a slavishly devoted wife who asked no more from her existence than to make him happy. To be fair, she
did
make him happy. Patrick liked his comforts, and Alice saw to it that he lacked for none. Their home was tasteful and bright, peaceful and snug. His children were well-behaved, albeit rather dull, and Alice did her best to keep her weight from getting out of control. She was affectionate, supportive, and fiercely protective of her husband and family.

In return, Patrick played the fond, if somewhat distracted, husband. Although he might lose patience with her from time to time and grow snappish, he always stopped short of hurting her. He found himself unwilling to deliberately wound the spirit behind those adoring round eyes.

His affection for Alice was quite genuine—the kind of emotion a man
might hold for his favorite house dog. Although he found his wife rather pathetic, he had an undeniable soft spot for her. But if the truth be known, his deepest motivation for marital harmony was the maintaining of his own comfort. He avoided situations that would cause Alice pain more out of the desire to keep his well-ordered life intact than out of any consideration for her feelings.

Thus he kept his infidelities few and discreet, usually indulging in an occasional assignation when out of the city on business. He was wise enough to know the adoring Alice was no fool. More to the point, he knew John Braun would never forgive a man who humiliated his daughter. Patrick was therefore exceedingly careful to ensure that Alice never had reason to doubt his affection.

It bothered him not in the least that his feelings for his wife ran scarcely deeper than those he might have lavished on a pet. The truth was that Patrick was not capable of caring deeply for another human being, could not really attach himself to anyone or anything for more than a token relationship.

He was utterly self-centered and totally without conscience. His ambition, his desires, and his comfort mattered far more to him than did his wife and children. Alice had been a means to an end, and he was not without gratitude. But he could not help it if, most of the time, he simply tolerated her.

As for their children, Isabel, the oldest at twelve, was a ringer for her mother. Plain and plump, as heavy in mind as in body, she was not the little girl Patrick might have chosen. Even less to his liking was the eight-year-old Henry, whom Patrick thought to be incredibly fussy for a small boy. Patrick more often than not avoided both his children, for they bored him.

Somehow, he could not envision either of the two inheriting the varied Walsh enterprises, which were by now considerable. In addition to the hotel where he had gotten his start, Patrick now owned another pretentious uptown establishment, plus half a dozen moderately priced boardinghouses in lower Manhattan. Using his managers as a front, he also held the deed on three grog shops and a number of dockside taverns.