The Walking People (25 page)

As the small boat drifted farther away, Lily could tell that Greta had already lost sight of her. She watched her youngest scan the crowd, the water, her face screwed up as if she'd tasted something sour. She and Johanna were pressed together on the narrow bench seat, Johanna with one hand holding tight to the leather strap of their shared case, the other hand squeezing Greta's, telling her it was fine, if she needed to lean over the side and vomit, then do it, the wake of the boat would carry it away, and no one knew them anyway. It's cruel to send that child, Lily thought. It's heartless of me to make her go. But then next to her guilt over making Greta go was the danger she felt at the idea of sending Johanna without her sister. She watched Greta clutch her stomach and heave and Johanna reach over to stop her from leaning too far over the side. It'll be just like that in New York, Lily thought. They'll be there to pull each other back, speak the language of home.

In their suitcase, thanks to Lily, they had each packed three clean skirts, three blouses, a sweater each, knitted by Lily, underwear, socks, toothbrushes, two clean cotton washcloths, a bar of soap, a single hairbrush to share, a new package of bobby pins. Johanna hadn't wanted to bring anything at all, claiming she'd wear the clothes on her back and start from scratch once she got to America. Greta, at the moment Lily intervened, was headed in the opposite direction and had every single thing she owned stacked in piles at the foot of the bed. Ready for transfer to the case were every old and yellowed gansy, every threadbare pair of underpants, even the old cardigan she wore for milking. After Lily decided on what they absolutely needed, she let them each bring something extra. Johanna's choice: a road map of the United States she'd bought in Galway. Greta: the contents of the old cookie tin she kept under her bed, dumped into an old pillowcase and tied off at the top.

As the packet reached the halfway point between the pier and the ship, Lily could just make out Greta's dark head bobbing with the
rhythm of the tide, Johanna moving slightly away on the bench and looking up at the sky. Through the crowd, she saw Little Tom shake his head and then look over at her.

An hour later Lily and Little Tom made their way through the narrow cobblestoned streets back to the bus station, Lily dreading their return to the silent cottage, recalling the chaos of a short time ago, the comings and goings of a full house and herself giving out about tracked mud, Little Tom wondering whether he'd like sleeping in his sisters' room and whether his own room could simply be hacked off from the rest of the cottage, broken up into pieces, and heaved into the ocean. The cottage was sinking in that corner, and maybe taking off that room would free the rest of the rooms from the deadweight.

They were on top of him before they noticed him, Lily's chest square against the pony's flank, the man making a wet, clicking sound with his mouth as he led the animal out of her way.

"Pardon, Missus," the man said, pulling his hat down over his face and plowing shoulders-first into the crowded byway, the pony walking behind him. From the window of the bus a short time later they saw him again, this time playing his fiddle down by the river, his hat turned skyward like a hand held out palm up. There were no tents down by the river, no wagons either, and Lily remembered that it was October and he should be at the horse fair in Ballinasloe.

"He didn't see us," Lily said to Tom, who was seated across the aisle. "He wouldn't know us, anyhow."

And down by the place where the fresh water of the river rushed up unseen against the salt water of the harbor, Dermot Ward leaned against a bench and ran through every song he could think of about the men of myths, the women who mourned them. Finally, his elbow screaming, his neck aching, his shoulder crying to be let loose, he exhausted himself enough to face the songs he'd gone down to the river to sing in the first place, the old, beaten ballads about leaving for America.

November 1, 1963

Mrs. Lily Cahill and Tom Cahill
Ballyroan
Conch
Co. Galway
Ireland

 

Dear Mammy and Tom,

Just a quick line to say we've landed, safe and sound. There was great fun on the ship though not for me as I was sick the whole time and after so many days we're delighted to be on firm ground. Shannon met us and took us for a sandwich and that's where I am right now—standing outside a place called Broadway Delicatessen. We've barely had a chance to look around and see are we really in New York City. You both should see the electricity here and this is only daytime. I haven't even seen it at night. And no wires in the air to carry the current so I don't know how they do it. When we got up to the street there were so many people and cars rushing I thought great, we're here in time to see the big emergency and Shannon said it was no emergency, just the way things always are here. We took a yellow taxicab because of the bags and Michael sat up front with the driver. We've still not seen the place where Shannon lives so that tells you how long we've been here. An American woman on the ship gave Johanna and me an airmail stamp each when she heard we were gone from home for the first time and told us to write our mother. We would have done anyway but I thought that was nice. Johanna was tempted to tell her we didn't have a mother just to give her something to chew on but in the end she took her stamp and said thank you. Saving Johanna's stamp for news once settled.

Love you both, miss you, God Bless.
Greta

 

November 7, 1963

Mrs. Lily Cahill
Ballyroan
Conch
Co. Galway
Ireland

 

Mammy,

I hope you are well and not missing us too much. Hello Tom! Shannon is a pure saint. We've been here six nights, myself and Johanna on a bed that folds out of a sofa, and Michael on the floor of another small room she uses for pressing and to hang up some of her clothes. She seems happy to have us though three is a lot and her flat is about the size of our kitchen at home with your bedroom attached. We try to make ourselves scarce and clear out sometimes to give Shannon room, but we don't want to wander too far yet. I never knew places could be this busy and I'm amazed at how everyone knows exactly where they're going and how to get there but that's very stupid of me I suppose. I mentioned the electricity in my first but now I've seen it at night and I think they must have to replace bulbs every day with the brightness all night long. The streets are lit, the shops, the windows of the buildings, and everything is packed in so close together that it makes it so it's bright out all the time. There's even doors that swing open by electricity when they feel you standing there which takes a while to get used to. Michael already found work moving furniture for people switching flats and needing their things carried downstairs and into a lorry. He starts on Monday and found it thanks to a man on the ship whose friend runs the business. Guess where the man's friend is from? Roundstone. He was surprised we don't have much Irish, and we explained a bit about Ballyroan. Michael was smart and said he was from Cork where the man had never been. Shannon wasn't telling tales when she said there's Irish everywhere and every other kind of a person you could think of as well. The moving will earn Michael good wages and he says he will give half to Shannon. Johanna and I will do the same when we find something. First thing we'll do is cook
her up a nice supper to have waiting when she comes home. It'll take a while to get used to the shops here though Shannon says they try to be like the Irish shops because that's where everyone is from who lives in Queens. Or lives in Woodside. I keep forgetting if Woodside is inside Queens, or Queens inside Woodside. I don't think they're a bit like Irish shops, though I suppose I only ever shopped in Conch and maybe that's different. I forgot to say last time that within an hour of getting here we saw people who were dark like that man we saw in Galway once, but not the same type of dark. These were Indian. They are lovely looking people and reminded me a bit of home the way the women had their babies in a sling that went over their shoulder and around their backs. Shannon says there's sections of the city all Indian like Woodside (that's Queens) is all Irish. We met two girls in Shannon's building yesterday from Limerick who said they can't go home because they were only supposed to be here thirty days and now it's gone over a year and if they go home they won't be let come back. They said we're lucky we got a sponsor and the right paperwork because that means we can work here without going off the books which means our employer can pay us with a check and nothing is in secret. They had another friend who was illegal and got a job making up the rooms in a hotel. They paid her for a few weeks and then stopped and told her the wages would be delayed. Long story short she worked for six weeks without wages and can't do a thing about it because she's not supposed to be here working in the first place. There are a lot of rules about it and Johanna is already studying them. Send the news from home whenever you have the time.

Love,
Greta

 

P.S. Some of the
gardai
in America—police, they say, or cops—are on horseback and trot up and down among the cars. I wonder do they ever do a full gallop. They have horse and buggies for hire as well. Johanna says to write horse and carriage and its very dear and she thinks they only do it for a laugh, not really to get place to place. But she is writing you her own letter and should stop butting into mine.

 

November 8, 1963

Mrs. Lily Cahill
Ballyroan
Conch
Co. Galway
Ireland

 

Dear Mrs. Cahill,

I asked the girls to hold their letters for one day so I could stick mine in with it. I should have written earlier, but I think Greta already sent a note to let you know they'd arrived. They were selling postcards on the pier on the day the ship came in, and she was determined to pick one out to send to you, never mind how exhausted she was or that the man was barking at her for exact change. All three of them were wobbly from ten days at sea, and Greta took the longest to adjust to walking on land. She was doing zigzags down the pier and we had to catch her by the elbow. Of course the four of us were dying laughing, and it came to me that anyone else might be sensitive. Not Greta. They're two great girls, and Michael Ward is a very nice kid, and I doubt it will take much time for them to learn the ropes. Poor things are crammed into the pullout together, and Michael sleeping in a closet, but they don't have a word of complaint. This is what my mother must have meant when she always told me to be more like the kids from Ireland. Oh, and one day while I was at work they scraped together ingredients from my pathetic cupboards to make a brown bread. I could get used to that kind of treatment!

The girls do a little walking around the neighborhood each day just to get their bearings (not too far, don't worry), but they are more interested in Manhattan—taller buildings, brighter lights. Johanna especially, and I don't blame her. As soon as I get a free day, I'm going to take them in to see the Empire State Building. Michael has more courage and I get the sense he's traveled quite a bit. Except for that first day when the ship came in, he hasn't been to Manhattan yet either, but he's explored Woodside in and out, and on my way home from work the other evening I ran into him studying the bus and subway map. He asked me to point out where we were, and once I told him, it all made
sense. He has it memorized by color and number and has already figured out north, south, east, west. Instead of doing it by the streets, he does it by the river, which is genius if you ask me. He says he can smell which direction the river is, and I can't tell if he's having me on. I don't worry about him getting lost, and some mornings he strikes out on his own even before I've left for work. I don't think he likes being stuck in my tiny apartment all day. He starts a job the day after tomorrow.

Anyway, I just wanted to assure you that your girls are safe and happy, which I'm sure they've told you themselves. They mention you and Tom a lot, different things they wish you could see, and of the three of them I'd say Greta misses home the most. She'll be fine though. Half of New York is from somewhere else and everyone is fine after a while. I hope you and Tom are getting along okay in Ballyroan.

Best,
Shannon O'Clery

 

November 20, 1963

Mrs. Lily Cahill
Ballyroan
Conch
Co. Galway
Ireland

 

Mammy,

Thanks for your letter and tell Tom not to get too cozy in our room as he'll only have to move his things again when we come back. Mammy, we had no clue you sent Shannon money in advance and have been sick wondering where you got it as there was only one bull sold as far as we know. How did you swing it? But you're right, we'll give her a quarter of what we earn and we can save up the rest so we can get out of her hair—which she'd probably like better than the extra few dollars anyway. Johanna overheard her telling the girls from Limerick that we'd only be with her a few weeks, which is true, I hope, but gave us a feeling like we should hurry. Speaking of Tom, next time he
passes the main post office in Oughterard could he leave in a note for Dermot Ward with our address in America? Michael forgot to put it in the letter we did up for him before leaving and thinks his father might check in at Oughterard before Christmas.

Sorry I didn't write sooner, but Johanna has been sick with the flu for the last week. We didn't want to bother Shannon with it but she noticed herself and has brought Johanna to the doctor's office where she works. I'd say just a piece of bad meat that stayed with her. The noise and action here is enough to throw a person into a tizzy. I'm the expert at being sick as I spent the first 24 hours of the Atlantic journey on the floor of the ladies loo. You know Johanna doesn't like being down so you can imagine the mood she's been in. All day and all night there's cars and sirens and people walking on the sidewalk outside. Even at three o'clock in the morning we hear them talking as they pass by under the window. We've been on the subway at least a dozen times now, and it's easy enough as long as you pay very close mind to how many stops you've gone and the name of the place where you have to get out. We only take the one from Woodside, where Shannon lives, and haven't moved on to any others. Sometimes two subways go to the same stop and people race from one train to another even though they're going in the same direction. There are some trains that skip stops and go faster but we decided slow and steady is the way and we've nowhere to be in a hurry anyhow. The first time we went without Shannon there was a woman with the biggest diddies you ever saw and just half a little gansy on her. She had a giant bare belly as well, twice Mr. Carmel's who we've long said will need a double-wide coffin when he goes. She was shouting about something and making a spectacle and next thing Johanna looked up and we were gone two stops too many. Then the lights in the trains went out for fifteen minutes so I guess there's a few kinks in the electricity even in America. When the lights came back on a policeman helped us get back. And guess where the policeman's mother is from. Clifden.