Of Irish Blood (57 page)

“And did you do it, Captain?” I ask. “Get them all home safely?”

“
They
did it, ma’am. No casualties. Fine men, every one of them,” he says.

“And this from a Mason,” Jim Pendergast says. “Who probably never met a Catholic before in his life.”

“Or a Jew,” another soldier puts in. “I’m Bernie Jacobson, miss. And how I got involved with this group of wild Irishmen, I’ll never know, but we stuck together and did some damage to the enemy.”

Jim Pendergast nods. “And we couldn’t go home, though, without saying hello to Peggy, all of us together at St. Patrick’s Church in St. Joe.” He turns to Margaret. Hard to think of my elegant friend as “Peggy.”

“My uncle Jim always had a great regard for your mother. ‘Plucky,’ he called her.”

Margaret nods. “This was the family I told you who helped us. Three Pendergast brothers—Jim, Tom, and Mike,” she says to me. “During our first winter in Kansas City, a fellow who worked for Big Jim in the bar dropped off a load of coal and a bushel of potatoes every week. We would’ve starved without him.”

“Plenty of others,” the tall fellow says, “have a lot to thank Big Jim Pendergast for.”

“And Tom too,” another soldier says. “Got me a job on the cops.”

“And thank him you do,” the captain says, “with your votes.”

“Well, hell, Harry, we would have voted for the Democrats anyway!”

“I suppose,” he said, “but…” He stops.

“You disapprove, Captain Truman?” I ask.

“Not really, but folks where I’m from, Independence, don’t like bosses and block voting and jobs given out because of political connections.”

Jim Pendergast laughs. “Unless they’re the ones calling the shots and getting the jobs.”

“You’re not,” I pause, “a Republican, are you, Captain Truman?”

“A Democrat born and bred, Miss Kelly, and my own father held a government job. In charge of fixing the roads in Jackson County but he was qualified and an honest man.”

“Then let’s drink to him,” Jim says. He takes a long swallow from the wine bottle and passes it on to O’Hara.

“Can’t let these boys start talking politics,” Margaret says. “There are rabbits among the goats. Could start throwing punches at each other.”

Jim wipes his mouth. “Don’t worry, Peggy,” he says. “We’ve been through the wars together. Aren’t going to fall out over old arguments.”

“Rabbits?” I say to him. “Goats?”

“You see,” Jim says, “we’re all Democrats, but the fellows loyal to the Pendergasts are called goats, and those following Jim Shannon are rabbits.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Something about us raising goats in the Bottoms and them having rabbits. Some people say those are Irish words that got twisted. But none of that matters. We’re in Paris and we’re taking you ladies to lunch at the best restaurant in town, whatever that is.”

“Maxim’s,” I say. “A meal to write home about.”

“Actually,” Captain Truman says, “I was thinking that if you had some paper and a pen I’d stay right here and get a letter off. Not much time to write in the last few weeks.”

“For God’s sake, Captain, give it a rest,” O’Hara says. He turns to me. “Never saw so much letter writing.”

“The captain’s in love,” Jim says.

“Nothing wrong with that,” I say to Truman.

“I’ve been in love with Bess since I met her at Sunday school when I was six years old and she was five. Cutest little thing I ever saw, with all golden ringlets. Been courting her ever since.”

“A long time,” I say.

“I vowed I wouldn’t marry Bess until I could support her in the way she deserves,” he says.

“Her family owns Queen of Pantry Flour,” Jim says.

“Never heard of it,” I say.

“They’re important in Independence and Kansas City, though her father…” He stops. “Sorry, Captain.” Jim stands up. “Come on, Captain. Write to her tonight. You’ll have something to say. Attention! March!” And the fellows begin moving.

“Aren’t you meant to be out in front?” I say to Captain Truman.

“Not with this bunch. Lucky to bring up the rear,” he says. “Youth!”

“And how old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“And your sweetheart?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Don’t wait too long, Captain. She’ll be so glad to have you home. She won’t be worrying about curtains and carpets. Marry her. Have babies. Time goes faster than you think for a woman.” I stop. What was I babbling on about, and to a complete stranger? The oldest of the bunch and younger than me.

“I know Jim said her father’s a difficulty but…” I say.

“You don’t understand,” Truman says to me, “Bess’s father is dead, took his own life. A family tragedy. Tough on her.”

“All the more reason,” I tell him. “That she’ll be happy that you are alive.”

We follow the men down the stairs and out into the street. Cold enough. The bells of Sainte-Clothilde ring the Angelus. Noon. Maxim’s will be open.

We catch up with Margaret and Jim. “Imagine strolling the streets of Paris with a girl from Summit Avenue,” he says. “My mother always said you had the prettiest wedding. Only a young girl, really, marching down that long aisle in the cathedral with that fellow with the funny name.”

“You think Kirk’s a funny name, Jim?” I say.

“Oh, this was the one before Kirk…” He caught himself. “Damn it to hell. Wasn’t going to say a word about that. Ancient history.”

“Obviously not in Kansas City,” Margaret says.

“Which way?” the soldiers yell back to us as they came to the corner.

“Left,” I say “La Gauche.”

Marcel, the headwaiter, is only too delighted to lead us to the best table as the Parisians applaud
les Américains
and call out, “
Merci!
”

A lovely lunch, lots of wine and Captain Truman taking over the piano. He plays Chopin, yes, but when the boys gather around they sing “Over There,” slamming out some new words,

“And
we’re
going home,

’Cause it’s over, over there!”

Followed by “Give My Regards to Broadway.” George M. Cohan—I remember those shows at McVicker’s Theatre with Mam and the family.

Being with these fellows makes me so homesick for Chicago. I’ll never see it again.

*   *   *

“Let’s go to the café on Saint-Michel that looks across at Notre-Dame,” Margaret says to me.

“All right.” I say.

A week after our day with the Kansas City soldiers, Paris is getting ready to celebrate its first peacetime Christmas. I wonder, will the woman from Alsace have a booth at the market on the Champs-Élysées?

The waiter brings over a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket. Vintage. He sets flutes before us, pours each of us a glass of the sparkling wine.

“But we didn’t order that,” I say.

“I did,” Margaret says. “I’m the hostess for the Women’s Christmas this year, Nora. A little early and it’s only you and me.”

“But Maud is with us in spirit. At least she’s out of that awful Holloway Prison,” I say.

The British had finally found a reason to arrest Maud.

“Will she come back to Paris?” Margaret asks me.

“Not to live,” I say, “she won’t desert Ireland.” Maud had said as much in a short note to Father Kevin.

Yeats, Quinn, all her friends had petitioned the British government for her release because of her health.

“Not good for them to have me die in prison,” she’d written to him. “I had to make promises but…”

“She’s in London now. She had to agree not to return to Ireland. But I’m sure Maud will sneak back as soon as she’s at all recovered,” I say.

“Nothing stops her,” Margaret says.

“A rock,” I say, “though a frail one. I wonder if ‘too long a sacrifice’ does make a stone of the heart.”

“Very poetic,” Margaret says.

“Yeats,” I say.

“I wish I could find some lofty words for what I’m about to say,” Margaret tells me.

“Oh, oh,” I say.

“I’m going home, Nora,” she says. “Being with those fellows made me realize I’m an Irish girl from Kansas City. I want to be where I belong. I should be with my mother mourning Johnny. What the neighbors think doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”

“Well,” I start, “I’m not sure anyone belongs in any one place.” I stop. She’s made up her mind. “I’ll miss you,” I say.

She says, “Never had such a good friend. That first Christmas at Maud’s, when you pointed me toward Father Kevin and forgiveness, you gave me a great gift.”

Late afternoon, and a small musical group has assembled for the usual polite French dance music, and indeed a few couples get up and begin to waltz sedately.

“Thank you for saying that,” I tell Margaret, “and for all we shared at the hospital.” She lifts her flute of champagne, I raise mine, and we touch glasses.

The door opens. A blast of cold air comes in and with it four American soldiers—all Negroes—laughing and talking to each other. The maître d’ rushes up to them.

“Welcome, messieurs,” he says.

“I wish some of the leftover Confederates in Kansas City could understand how grateful the French are to Negro soldiers,” Margaret says.

The group sits next to us.

“Hello,” I say. “Where are you from?”

“Chicago,” the tall dark-skinned fellow in sergeant’s stripes says to me.

“Me too,” I say. “Where?”

“South Side,” he says.

“So am I. Bridgeport,” I say.

He smiles. “We’re neighbors. I’m from Twenty-second and Wabash, St. James Parish.” He turns to the other fellows. “That’s how folks in Chicago talk about their neighborhood.”

“You’re Catholic?” Margaret blurts out.

“I’m Lorenzo Dufau. Came to Chicago from Baton Rouge. Catholic back generations. Lieutenant Dawson, there, he’s from Chicago too, but a Baptist.”

The lieutenant nods at us.

“I’m Nora Kelly,” I say.

“Bill Dawson,” the lieutenant says. “And this is Private Ben Garrison and Sergeant Jim Graham—both from South Carolina.”

The waiter takes their orders. The lieutenant asks for
boeuf bourguignonne
in very good French. Lorenzo Dufau holds up three fingers—“Steak and
frites
,” he says distinctly, “well done.” He turns to me. “Learned our lesson.”

The maître d’ comes over and starts speaking to Lieutenant Dawson in rapid French.

“Lentement,”
Dawson says.
“Je ne comprend français vite.”
And then to me, “Say a few words and they think you’re an expert. You speak it?”

“Been here six years. I’d better.
Monsieur,
” I say to the maître d’,
“voulez vous mon assistance?”

“I understand that,” Dawson says.

The maître d’ lets loose with a stream of words, shrugs, and gestures until I say,
“D’accord.”
I turn to the soldiers. “He wants to know if any of you are musicians and can play ‘le jazz hot.’”

“I wish I could,” Dufau says. “If I played the trumpet I’d never have to buy a drink in Paris for the rest of my life. A musician friend of mine from New Orleans named Baneris, who lives here, thinks he’s gone to heaven without even having to die. Tell the manager we’re no musicians but we’ve got a decent singer.” He turns to the fellow who’s said nothing at all. “Come on, Ben, get up.”

Well, it takes a lot of coaxing but finally Private Ben Garrison, the youngest of the four, goes to the bandstand. He says something to the bandleader.

“Okay, folks, this is a hit in America.” He begins to sing without accompaniment: “‘How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree?’”

The crowd understood only “Paris,” but the band picks up the rhythm and Ben begins to throw random syllables in.

“Scatting,” Lorenzo Dufau says to me as the crowd applauds.

I lean over to Lieutenant Dawson. “That song asks a good question,” I say.

He nods. “Won’t just be farm boys,” he said. “Hard to keep anybody down after this.” He gestures toward Private Garrison, who’s shaking hands with the patrons as he comes back to our table. “Treat a man like a man and he’s not likely to forget it.”

“You got that right, Lieutenant,” Jim Graham says.

“Lieutenant,” Margaret repeats.

“And a good one too,” Graham says. “Better than … Well, we could do with a few more of our own in charge.”

“I was just with a pack of Irish soldiers with the same complaint. Took them three tries to get an officer who didn’t see them as rowdy Micks,” I say.

“Our men did all right fighting under the French, but serving under white Americans … My God, those were some prejudiced folks,” Sergeant Dufau says.

“My dad was with the Irish Legion in the Civil War,” I say. “They had Irish officers but other Irish units commanded by Yankees caught hell.”

“My father fought in the Civil War too,” Dufau said. “Supposed to get a medal. Never did.”

“The French gave us Buffalo Soldiers the Croix de Guerre,” Ben Garrison says.

“Wonderful. Congratulations,” I say.

“Army gave me all I want,” Lieutenant Dawson says. “A discharge and a ticket home.”

The other men nod.

“Not tempted to stay in Paris?” I ask.

“This is a beautiful city,” Dufau says. “The people are real human beings, kind. And the food is great. But Chicago’s home and I miss it. My folks are counting the days.”

“Mine too,” Graham says. “Though I may not stay in South Carolina. Never liked big cities, but after this Paris I might try New York.”

“Harlem, USA,” Garrison says. “Lots of fellows in our outfit from there. Might give it a look-see.”

“Not me,” Lieutenant Dawson says. “New York’s too big. Can’t beat the South Side of Chicago.” He points at the French musicians. “We’ve got the real ‘le jazz hot’ all right, and the blues.”

“You like the blues?” Dufau asks. “A college man like you?”

“I wasn’t born in college. My grandfather played blues guitar.”

“But could he sing? Growl and howl and make the juke joint jump?” Dufau says.

“I’d say he could but then he married my grandmother, a preacher’s daughter, and came to Chicago and we became respectable church people,” Lieutenant Dawson says.

“Lace curtain,” I put in.

“Oh, yes,” Lieutenant Dawson says, “the curtains and a piano in the parlor, and me at Fisk, then law school.”