Of Irish Blood (10 page)

I am happy when I’m working in my studio, the “atelier,” I think, sketching dresses in that sunlit space, the sewing machines whirring. I find joy in my family, in the babies—a whole raft of new cousins: not only Ed’s redheaded two-year-old boy but his brother Evan’s little girl. My cousin Ella’s married to Joe O’Donnell. They have two children. Uncle Mike’s youngest, George, who looks so like Ed, has three little ones now. All of these new Kellys, the second generation born in America. I belong with them.

I look at Tim—getting fat now. His face red—drinking too much. Not much pleasure in our afternoons anymore. Habit more like it and to be honest, a bit of fear. Especially on that last afternoon before the wedding. He, well, had trouble and said it was me. Squeezed a roll of flesh above my waist. “Get rid of this,” he said. “It’s putting me off.”

“I wouldn’t talk, Tim,” I said, and he took me by the shoulders and shook me hard.

“Jesus, Tim,” I started—mad—but I don’t know, a look about him that made me go very quiet. “You’re right, Tim,” I said. “Best stop eating Aunt Kate’s cookies.” I forced myself to laugh. He let go.

“Look what you made me do with that smart mouth of yours,” he said.

I dressed fast that afternoon.

Now Tim looks up from the punch bowl, sees me staring at him and winks at me. What’s that about? Then says something to my brother Mart and Joe. They all laugh. What is he saying? He’s drunk. Can I slip away?

I see Ed introduce Dolly to Edward Dunne and his wife Elizabeth, who’s a Kelly. Probably some kin to us. Dunne was mayor and running for governor now. Not here at the wedding because of politics though or at least not Chicago politics. Dunne’s father P.J. was a Fenian friend of my uncle Patrick. The two of them plotting in our parlor. Pat Nash and his wife, also a Kelley but with an “e,” join the group. Dolly going on about something. Now’s my chance. Go.

But then Uncle Stephen leads Aunt Nelly onto the dance floor with Uncle Mike and his wife, Mary Chambers, following. Granny Honora’s sons, my father’s brothers, my da and Uncle James gone, but these aunts and uncles still connecting me to my father, to Mam and Granny Honora.

Tommy McGuire, the bandleader, says, “And now a reel!”

The whole crowd applauds and quickly lines up in pairs, shouting, “Good man, Tommy!”

“The Siege of Limerick!” he calls out.

The sets form: Mame and Mike; Rose and John; Ed and Mary take the lead. Annie out there too with some policeman friend of hers, and even Henrietta in the dance partnered by Toots. The Dunnes and Nashes part of the reel.

“Come on, Nonie,” my cousin Bill, Ed’s little brother, says to me.

But just then, Tim McShane comes up behind us with Dolly on his arm, both of them smiling.

“Good-bye, Nora,” Dolly is saying. “I have to leave. I’ve a show tonight.”

“Thank you for coming, for singing,” I say.

“My pleasure,” she says. She touches my shoulder with her finger and then points at the dancers. “And thank your cousin Ed,” she says. “Tell him I enjoyed meeting Pat Nash and the governor-to-be.”

“Dolly’s thinking of buying a chunk of land out south, going to build herself a castle,” Tim says.

“A quiet retreat,” Dolly says to me.

“But she wants to make sure the city will put in sewers and roads for her. Why she came today,” Tim adds.

“That’s not true,” she says.

“Be honest, Dolly, for once!” he says.

“Well, of course I’m interested in Chicago’s growth and whether my little plot of land will…”

“Shove it,” Tim says.

He is very drunk, I think, or he wouldn’t dare speak to Dolly like that.

“Oh, Mrs. McKee.” Henrietta’s left the dance to slip between Tim McShane and Dolly. “I just wanted to tell you how honored we Kellys are that you came!”

Babbling away as if she hadn’t tried her best to ruin the wedding, weeping even this morning, sitting at the kitchen table while the rest of us dressed, with Mike telling her he’d understand if she wanted to stay home, that Mame wouldn’t hold it against her. I said we’d be glad not to have her there, more peaceful. And now she’s making over Dolly McKee as if Henrietta herself were the bride’s mother.

“Such a lovely dress, Mrs. McKee, and that necklace—are those really diamonds?”

“Better be,” Tim says.

Henrietta looks up at him. “Good evening. I’m Mrs. Henrietta Kelly. Henrietta Kelly Kelly, really. Born a Kelly and married a Kelly!”

“Good for you,” Tim says.

“My poor husband Bill’s been dead these many years, but he gave me his name and three beautiful children. One is a holy sister now. A BVM.”

“A blessing, certainly,” Dolly says.

Dear God, I’ve complained about my sister Henrietta to Tim many times, told him things. He’s in such a strange mood … what if he repeats something now—insults her?

But he only says, “So long, Mrs. Kelly Kelly,” to Henrietta.

Good. Go!

But Henrietta’s still talking to Dolly, turning Dolly away from Tim and me.

Tim leans close and whispers, “I could ruin you now. A few words to this crowd and they’d turn on you fast.”

“Shut up,” I say. Thank God Dolly and Henrietta are paying no attention to us and the music is so loud no one else can hear Tim.

But he won’t stop.

“All of them, the aunts, uncles, that big brother of yours, the stuck-up Larneys, the politicians … Everyone in Bridgeport and Brighton Park will despise you. Father Sullivan will preach against your whoredom from the pulpit of St. Bridget’s Church.” He laughs. “This will be fun!” He waves his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice loud now and a few people turn around to look at him.

“Please, Tim. Please,” I say.

Tommy McGuire, at the bandstand, sees him. He smiles at Tim and holds up his hand, slowing the band, stopping the reel.

Tommy thinks Tim’s signaling that Dolly wants to sing again. Soon there’ll be silence and Tim will destroy me.

The dancers wait.

“An announcement!” Tim calls out.

Dolly looks at me, those eyes stare into mine.

She knows what he intends, I think. Here it is, her chance for revenge. Even Rose and Mame wouldn’t, couldn’t understand. Mike’s wedding destroyed. A bitter memory. No joy. Only their disappointment in me.

Henrietta’s still smiling like a fool.

Then Dolly speaks to Tim. “No.” Only that, “No,” thrusting the word at him. She takes Tim’s arm, gestures with her other hand to Tommy, tracing an explanation in the air: Time to go. Too tired. Good-bye. She throws Tommy a kiss.

Tommy nods, and directs the band to pick up the tempo and the reel begins again.

Dolly moves Tim to the door behind us and they leave.

My legs are trembling but somehow I walk to a chair and sit down. “Jesus H. Christ,” I say.

Aloud.

Henrietta hears me as she plops down next to me. “Nonie, really,” she says. “Taking our Lord’s name in vain. What would people think if they heard you!”

I start to laugh. If you only knew.

Thank you, Blessed Mother. Thank you, Mam. Thank you Holy Women, neither virgins nor martyrs. Thank you.

No more. I promise all of you. No more. Good-bye Tim McShane.

Freezing when we leave the hall. The temperature has dropped from 75 degrees to 13 degrees. Astounding even for Chicago. The “Blue Norther,” the Sunday papers call it. An omen, I think. Nature itself telling me to get away from Tim McShane.

4

Hard to leave the house that Monday morning, so sure am I that Tim McShane will bushwhack me before I get to work.

“I could ruin you.” His words in my head. But then Dolly would know. Still, she
must
know. She stopped him. “No.” The way he looked at her. He hates us both. Drink taken. The booze making him mean. Tim probably doctored the punch. Even Mart was full when we got home. Henrietta tipsy too, yakking away about Dolly and Tim until I wanted to scream the truth at her. “I could ruin you!” he said. I might blurt out my own destruction.

No Oldsmobile idles near Ward’s. A relief to get to the studio. My sanctuary. I take out a large sheet of paper and start sketching Dolly’s gown. What I remember. Never get all the pleats and tucks, but maybe I can suggest them … Done in satin perhaps, as a wedding dress. Our customers might buy a “Paris creation” for a very special occasion. Complicated though.

Since Rose left, Susie Hanrahan works out the patterns. A young one from Bridgeport, ambitious but courting, she probably won’t be working with me much longer. Though she told me she intends to keep on here even after she married, and said her mother could look after her babies. “My Frank will understand. He’d better!” Good luck to her.

Now Susie grabs the sketch and begins pulling out bolts of fabric. “Marshall Field sends buyers over to the Paris fashion shows,” she says. “They buy the real thing for their rich society lady customers. Why couldn’t we give our women a good copy?”

Mr. Bartlett is intrigued when we show him the sketches. “All right, Miss Kelly. A one-off for the spring catalog and we’ll see what response we get.”

Susie and I stay late wrapping each other in fabrics.

“I suppose Dolly would never lend us the dress itself,” Susie says as I pinch and pleat the swathes of satin I drape over her. “You being so friendly with her and her husband.”

“He’s not her husband,” I say. “Her manager.”

Susie says nothing. Does she know? Does everyone? Over. It’s over.

*   *   *

Tim is stretched out on the bed naked when I let myself in the next day, Tuesday. Late. Six o’clock and the Angelus ringing at Holy Name. No sheets. Only the dirty mattress.

I have my speech all ready. We had a good run of it, I’ll say. We’ll part as friends, and on and on. But under all the calm words I’m frightened. I think of how he took me by the shoulders, shook me. So ugly when he said, “I could ruin you.” Careful. I’ll be careful.

I’ve always welcomed the isolation of this dim room. The courtyard-facing window lets only the barest bit of light in through its grimy cover. A space apart, the Fairy Woman’s cave.

But now I feel trapped. No big speeches, Nonie, I say to myself. A few words and skedaddle.

Tim’s half asleep, the heft of him like some reclining giant. Balor of the One-Eye, the villain in so many of Granny’s stories. And I can’t let the sleeping giant lie. No, I start talking, trying to make him understand, to justify the last eight years to him and to me. I sit on a chair next to the bed and go on about our great passionate love that just couldn’t be. “Apologize for your behavior at the wedding, and then I’ll go.”

“Shut your gob,” he says.

“What?”

“Dolly’s going to Paris. Leaving on the train for New York tomorrow morning,” he says. “I’m staying. She’ll be gone a month. You’ll move in here. Time I started getting more out of you. Sick of your high-hatting family. You’ll come with me to the casino at night.”

“No. No, I won’t. Didn’t you hear me? It’s over between us.” How could he think I would want to be seen with him?

“Take your clothes off. Hurry up. I’m meeting a fellow at the casino at seven.”

I stand up. A dignified good-bye and I’ll be gone.

“I’m leaving, and won’t be back,” I say.

He grabs my skirt, jerks me back down onto the chair, clamps one big hand on my arm and holds me still as he sits up and leans toward me.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said strip.”

“If you think I’m going to…”

“You want me to smack you right in the puss?”

“Are you drunk?”

He gets out of the bed, picks me up, and flings me down onto the mattress. When I try to sit up he shoves me back down.

“God, Nora, the way you cover everything with palaver. A woman’s a place to park my pod. I’ve taken more trouble with you than any man should have to. At first I liked making you holler. The little virgin begging for more. But now…” He holds my chin and turns my face toward him. “Lines around your eyes, Nora. Getting old. Be glad I still want you. Start unbuttoning.”

“Tim, I’m not, I…”

And he slaps my face. Hits me with his open hand, a hard blow.

I scream and turn away from him. “Stop!” I say.

“Shut up,” he says, and hits me again, using the back of his hand this time.

I kick up at him and he laughs. Oh dear God he’s enjoying this. He’s going to beat me and be glad. Help me! Help me, God. Please!

“Not so stuck up now, are you? Where’s that fine family of yours now? No Kellys. Only you and me. Whore. Dolly said a girl like you’d be perfect. No trouble. Dying for it. But Jesus, I’m fed up to the teeth with you and your yammering. Take off your clothes or I’ll tear them off.”

In terror now, my heart racing. He’s on the bed, kneeling over me. He slides his hand up my breasts to my throat, mocking the touches I’d responded to so many times.

“How easy to squeeze the life out of you,” he says. “Leave your body out in the gangway. Another prossie done in, the police would think. Might never identify you. Or maybe Detective John Larney, that pompous ass, would be strolling through the morgue and see you naked on a slab—‘No-nee, No-nee.’”

Mad. Mad altogether. His fingers tighten around my throat. A voice in my head tells me, Don’t whimper, don’t scream … smile. I do. Somehow I do. Then wink at him, which startles him. He lets go.

“Jesus, Tim, you would do well writing penny dreadful novels,” I say. “I didn’t know you had such an imagination.” Got to make him laugh.

But he slaps me again, harder.

“Will you never learn to shut up?”

He starts to pull at the neck of my blouse but the tip of a whalebone stay cuts his finger.

“Blood,” he says, lifts his finger to his lips and rolls onto his back.

“My best blouse, Tim,” I say. “Let me take it off.” Somehow I’m able to unfasten the top button. I sit up.

“Let me go to the bathroom to get myself ready for you. All that”—how I hate saying the words—“masculine force is very exciting altogether, Tim.”

He looks from me to his bleeding finger, and I ease myself off the bed. The toilet is in the hall. If I …

“Take off your shoes,” he says. “Leave them here.”

“Yes, Tim,” and I unfasten them.