Of Irish Blood (3 page)

How I wish for a back door. None in Henricci’s. So the three of us have to walk right past Queen Dolly and her courtier to get out of the place.

He won’t see me, I think. Too dazzled. I have my hand on the first panel of the revolving door when his voice catches me.

“Well, if it isn’t the nearly late Miss Kelly.” Calling out to me while he lounges in his chair. Laughing. Making a show of me in front of everyone.

I turn—with Rose and Mame on each side of me—stand very straight, and nod. “Good afternoon, Mr. McShane, Mrs. McKee,” I say.

“Come over,” Tim says, waving his cigar.

Drinking, I think. The table full of beer steins and not two o’clock. I know I should leave. But don’t I walk right over with Rose and Mame following. Is this what happens to the women in Granny’s stories of enchantment? Do their minds melt away and their bodies pull them forward?

“Dolly, here’s the girl I told you about,” Tim McShane says.

“The damsel in distress,” Dolly says, nodding her head to me. “And Tim saved you.”

The feathers on her hat point straight at my heart. “Well,” I say, “I could have caught the next car.”

“What you should have done,” she says. “Long ago I stopped running. I stand still and draw good things to myself.”

“Fine for you,” I say, “but I’ll keep sprinting while I’m able.”

A snort from Mame—suppressing a laugh.

“These are my friends, Rose and Mame McCabe.”

“Ah, sisters,” Dolly says. “I was never blessed with sisters. Born in a trunk and raised on the Orpheum Circuit, me and Georgie Cohan growing up together.” Now she spreads her arms wide. “Warmhearted show people my only family! And you are unmarried women, earning your own way in the world, I understand.” She bows her head and sighs, and suddenly we three are characters drawn into a melodrama.

“I see someone’s been inquiring about us,” I say, looking at Tim McShane.

“City Hall is a great place for information,” he says. “And, of course, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing the McCabe sisters at Mass at St. Agnes in Brighton Park.” He inclines his head toward them.

Jesus, are we in some kind of play? The big phony. I’d say it’s far from Mass at St. Agnes Tim McShane is on a Sunday morning.

Rose, of course, takes him at his word and says, “Strange. I’ve never seen you.”

“Well, I stand at the back,” he says.

But Mame isn’t letting him get away with such palaver. “Very far in the back, I’d say. The street, even,” she says.

He laughs at that.

“Or, do you just tip your hat as you go by?” I ask.

“I do, indeed.”

Rose speaks up. “When I pass a church, I always make a visit so when they roll my body up the aisle the Lord won’t say, ‘Who is it?’”

I laugh, but Dolly McKee lifts up her eyes, aiming for heaven I suppose, but hitting Henricci’s ceiling. She touches some imagined moisture under her eyes. “Ah yes, that day will come for all of us. My late husband was a strapping, healthy young man one day and gone the next.”

Very quickly gone, I think. Most people assume Dolly’s “Mrs.” is a title she’s given herself as some women performers do. Lends a bit of respectability. Silly, I think. Sarah Bernhardt doesn’t hide behind an imagined husband, nor did Jenny Lind or Lillie Langtry, but Dolly’s dabbing away at the memory of great sorrow, her eyes closed.

How in the hell does Tim McShane put up with her? I wonder. But then Dolly opens her eyes and looks right at me.

Whoa. The mind behind her histrionics shows itself. Applaud and move on if you know what’s good for you, those dark eyes say.

Now she stares at Tim, who stands up immediately and says, “So nice to see you again, ladies,” and then to Dolly, “We must give these girls some tickets for your appearance at the Lyric Opera.”

She smiles. “Best if they wait until I’m in a vaudeville show at the McVicker’s again. I’ve agreed to appear with the Cohans next month. More pleasurable for you than my opera repertoire,” she says, still looking at me. “What’s your name again?”

“Kelly,” I say. And right there in front of God and man and the headwaiter I sing:

“Has anybody here seen Kelly?

K-E-double-L-Y?

Has anybody here seen Kelly?

Have you seen him smile?

Oh, his hair is red and his eyes are blue

And he’s Irish through and through

Has anybody here seen Kelly?

Kelly from the Emerald Isle?”

And don’t the fellows at the next table start clapping, Mame and Rose along with them.

Dolly doesn’t applaud. “I’ll remember the name,” she says.

Tim McShane says nothing as we leave.

We wait until we get around the corner to State Street, and then slip into the doorway of Marshall Field’s and kill ourselves laughing.

“Oh, Nonie!” Rose says. “Singing like that right in the restaurant!”

“I just couldn’t take another minute of her looking down her nose at us,” I say.

“She is beautiful,” Mame says. “Maybe theater people are just different from regular people.”

“You mean members of the great family of show business?”

“Nice to see the Cohans,” Rose says. “Do you think she’ll really give us tickets?”

“Now Rose, you’re the one warning me off Tim McShane, and you’d take tickets from him?”

“No, I guess we can’t,” she says.

“Well, that was a waste of a dollar,” I say.

“Why?” Rose says. “It was a lovely lunch, and we met Dolly McKee!”

“And you did see Tim McShane, Nonie,” Mame says.

“Oh.” Rose catching on. “So that’s why we went.”

“Pathetic to see a grown man at that woman’s beck and call,” I say.

“Maybe he loves her,” Mame says.

“I’m sure he loves training her horses,” I say. “Do they live together?”

“Nonie,” Mame says, “they’re not married. Even Dolly McKee wouldn’t dare.”

“No decent person would ever attend another one of her shows,” Rose says.

“Whatever their relationship is, it’s no concern of ours, is it, Nonie?” Mame says to me.

“None at all,” I say.

*   *   *

We have to run the last three blocks to Ward’s, keeping our eyes on that golden angel on the top of the building. He’s blowing his horn right at us. “Late again,” he trumpets.

Miss Allen leads the three of us right up to Mr. Bartlett’s office.

“Miss Allen tells me you three girls have had quite a day,” he says—new to Ward’s, a short, plumpish man with black hair, the color of his very serious suit. “You’ve disobeyed every one of Miss Allen’s rules, and are one hour late coming from lunch.” He opens a file folder.

“I have quite a number of complaints from Miss Allen.” But then he smiles. Strange.

Now, any other two girls working there would’ve put blame right on me, wouldn’t have been able to help themselves, but the McCabes are two of the best, and say nothing. Not a word from any of the three of us.

Fire us, fire us, get it over with, I think.

“Miss Allen says you three are insubordinate and undisciplined,” Mr. Bartlett says, paging through the folder.

“Irish,” Miss Allen says.

“That’s it,” I say. “I quit!”

“Now, just a minute,” Mr. Bartlett says. “I believe in listening to my employees.”

All right … What did I have to lose? So I start. “First of all, don’t blame Rose and Mame for being late. It was my fault.”

Mame interrupts. “We went to lunch because Miss Allen was cross with
me
. And Dolly McKee was in the restaurant and she spoke to us. So how could we rush out? That would be very rude.”

“Dolly McKee?” Mr. Bartlett says. “Yes, she would be hard to break away from.”

Miss Allen holds up her hand. “You see what I mean, Mr. Bartlett? These girls are always full of some story or another. Distracting, that’s what they are, and this one,” she points at Mame, “goes on and on to the customers and promises to send them recipes and all kinds of folderol.”

“What about the Polish farmers and the harvester, Miss Allen?” I say.

“What harvester?” he asks.

So I tell Mr. Bartlett about Mame making friends with the farmer, and how he joined together with his friends to buy a harvester from us instead of at Sears or John Deere, and Mr. Bartlett nods so I go on. “You don’t understand. Mame is not just a good talker, she’s a great writer and understands people.”

“I hardly think…” Miss Allen starts but now she is the one gestured into silence by Mr. Bartlett’s hand.

“Go on,” he says to me.

“Well, you know how the
Tribune
has an essay contest every year for students, ‘Why I’m a Patriot’?”

“I do. A good promotion,” he says.

“Well, Mame won it when she was thirteen. First prize! And she didn’t write it about the Founding Fathers or wars or the Constitution. She wrote about coming to America. Her mother and sister—Rose here—had gone ahead, so Mame was a ten-year-old girl traveling alone with only a neighbor to watch her on that ship during the long, long voyage. What was the name of the ship, Mame?” I ask her.

“The
Compania
,” she says.

“Oh, Nonie, Mr. Bartlett isn’t interested,” Rose says.

“No, go on,” he says.

“Well, when the ship sailed into New York Harbor and Mame saw the Statue of Liberty, she thought it was a giant statue of Our Lady, the mother of Jesus, holding up a light and showing Mame the way to America and her own mother. Isn’t that right, Mame?”

“I did,” she says. “You see, Mr. Bartlett, I was very young and I’d been so lonely, knowing my mother and sister only through letters, and here was the biggest Blessed Mother I’ve ever seen saying ‘All will be well.’”

“Tell him about the train trip, Mame,” I say.

“Well, our neighbor from Cavan, Mary Clarke, took care of me on the ship then traveled with me to Chicago. Loads of people on that train, sharing all kinds of different food with each other—German sausage, Polish pierogies, mozzarella on Italian bread—things I’d never tasted. As I ate, I stared out the window. So many trees! In Ireland only the rich have trees but in America trees cover the place and anybody can stretch out under their shade. We came to Union Station and then my mother and Rose were rushing up to me, hugging me close. So I wrote that America was a generous mother sharing her love with the whole world, taking you into the family, setting out a picnic under shady trees, serving food from all over the world and saying, ‘Eat. You’re home,’ and that’s why I’m a patriot.”

“And won first prize,” I finish for her.

“Interesting,” he says. And then to me, “And you, Miss Kelly, are you a writer too?”

I shake my head, no, but Rose speaks up. “Nora’s an artist. She can draw anything and anybody. See the dress she’s wearing? She designed it.”

“And Rose made the pattern and sewed it for me,” I say. “Not easy to get a hobble skirt right and…”

“Really, girls,” Miss Allen says. “I apologize, Mr. Bartlett. I didn’t intend to waste your time this way. I just can’t have such flibbertigibbets among my operators. They are a bad influence. And this one,” she points at me, “is always talking to the girls about how women should vote, and all kinds of socialist nonsense.”

“Yes, these three are a challenge,” Mr. Bartlett says. “I see your problem and agree with you, these girls are not suited to be order takers. Would you three wait in the outer office please.”

I hear Miss Allen let out a breath and say, “Thank you, sir, thank you. Two weeks’ pay in lieu of notice would be fine,” as we leave the office.

“Why is he making us wait,” I say. “Fire us and be done with it.”

But a few minutes later Mr. Bartlett calls us back in. Miss Allen’s slumped down in her chair, silent.

“Miss Allen and I agree that her department is not the right place for you three,” Mr. Bartlett says, “but Montgomery Ward doesn’t want to lose such talented young women. Miss McCabe, I could use a good writer to answer the questions and suggestions customers send me. Do you think you could handle such correspondence?”

At first I don’t take in what he’s saying. But then I blurt out, “Mame has lovely handwriting.”

“Montgomery Ward just has purchased typewriters, Miss Kelly,” he says. “We feel women with their smaller fingers and ability to endure repetitive motion might be well suited to the typewriter. Miss McCabe, do you mind being part of such an experiment?”

“Not at all, Mr. Bartlett,” Mame says.

“And you two,” he says, “might collaborate on women’s fashions. Montgomery Ward has wanted to add such a section to our catalog. But our customers would not be interested in European styles or even New York imports. We want nice dresses with easy-to-follow patterns. Turn around, Miss Kelly … Yes, plain but fashionable garments like your dress will do very nicely. Don’t you agree, Miss Allen?”

She barely lifts her head. “I suppose so,” she says.

“I’m thinking of setting up Miss Kelly and Miss Rose McCabe as our new Ladies’ Fashion Department. We’ll try, say, seven different pieces illustrated by Miss Kelly’s design sketches in the catalog, then duplicate and sell Miss McCabe’s patterns. We’ll raise your salaries by one dollar a week.”

This shocks Miss Allen. “But,” she says, “they’ll be making five dollars a week, and that’s what I’m paid!”

“And you’re worth every penny.”

Then Mr. Bartlett says to me, “Montgomery Ward will own the designs and patterns outright, you understand that Miss Kelly?”

Wow. Is he really offering to pay me to make sketches of clothes when every teacher I’ve ever had has reprimanded me for doodling? And isn’t my sister Henrietta death on me for “littering the house with useless scraps of paper”? Mr. Bartlett will put my sketches in the catalog with Rose’s patterns for women to buy? I can do seven sketches in a day, so many ideas rattling around inside my head. Let Montgomery Ward own them. What am I going to do with them? Not likely Rose and I would ever set up as dressmakers. I can’t see myself passing a tape measure around some lady’s hips with my mouth full of pins. If I’d imagined a perfect job, drawing would be it, and for five dollars a week! Wait until Henrietta hears about this.