Читать книгу Every Man for Himself - Mark J. Hannon - Страница 9

CHAPTER 5

THE WEST SIDE, 1912

From the stable where Cooper’s Dairy kept the horses, Joe liked to look out the back door at the canals and the river at the end of the day. He loved the way the mighty Niagara flowed— strong, swift, and ceaseless as it rushed northward from Lake Erie to the Falls, uncontrolled by any man. In contrast, the new Barge Canal seemed almost sedentary, protected from the River with a break wall. Tugs pulled barges there, steaming up and down carrying coal, hay, and ore. Further inland, parallel to the Barge Canal and forgotten by modern commerce, the original canal was green with algae in parts, but perfect for fishermen and boaters, who built shacks along the towpath. On the land farther in still, just off Niagara Street, the modern age took hold once again, as locomotives’ whistles screamed and their stacks spewed black smoke along the tracks of the New York Central, occasionally stopping at Ferry Street to drop off passengers for the boats going over to Fort Erie in Canada.

Joe noticed that, in the last hours of sunlight, a group of young guys had been gathering on Bird Island between the canals and were building a house there made of old lumber hauled to the site by the wagonload. By the middle of the summer, the “clubhouse,” as they called it, was built, and the same men were showing up with skinny boats with long oars attached, pulling up and down the canal. The clubhouse had a fancy gray and maroon sign advertising it as “The West Side Rowing Club.”

On a Saturday afternoon in August, Joe stopped by to see if the horses were fed and watered properly, and noticed a crowd of people gathering by the clubhouse: girls in white dresses with parasols; and boisterous young men, some in colorful tank suits and others in white shirts, wearing bowler and straw hats. The athletes were carrying boats and oars to the canal, and the men in street clothes were drinking beer and shouting encouragement to the rowers in green, blue, and maroon uniforms as they prepared for their races.

His stable inspection completed, Joe walked over to the footbridge to Bird Island and watched. The rowers were getting into their boats, and some of them were pulling short distances up and down the canal.

“They’re still warming up, we’re not too late,” Joe heard from behind, as a group of people hustled over the bridge to the Island, festooned with blankets and baskets. One of them, a girl wearing a white dress with a big black belt, was holding the dress up at her wide hips, showing thick white ankles, hurrying along. A breeze caught her purple hat, and as she turned to catch it, Joe recognized the Worth’s maid, Eileen. She cried out “Oh!” as she snatched it, and smiled as he said, “Hello,” and touched the brim of his cloth cap. She nodded, then turned and hurried to catch up with her friends.

Joe walked the rest of the way across the bridge and stood at the edge of the crowd. The men were gallused and cigar chomping, talking of the several clubs’ prospects in what they called the “regatta,” just like the rich men’s sail boat races on the lake. They also spoke of their prospects with the women, who gathered on the blankets with the picnic baskets nearer to the water. In the crowd, Joe spotted Pete Gilhooly, a plumber, who had a shop with Joe’s brother, Mike, on Niagara.

“Hello, Pete, what kind of show are you putting on here?”

“Why, Joe, how are you lad?” he said, pumping his hand. “We finally got the club together enough for some racing on the canal, boyo. Crews from the Celtic and Mutual from the First Ward are here to see if we can keep up with them. Say,” he said, tapping the back of his hand against Joe’s chest, “you’re in right good condition. You ought to think about joining.”

“I dunno, Pete, awful busy with work these days. I’m foreman over at the dairy, y’know.”

“Aw, c’mon. I know you boys at the dairy start early and you lay off work about midday. It’d be perfect for you, lad.”

“Well, I got to think on it, Pete. Are those your boys in the dark red there?”

“It is. The Celtic lads are in green, and the Mutuals—you don’t have to be Irish with them, but it helps,” he winked, “are in green and black. They’ve been at this a lot longer than us,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his suspenders and nodding, “but I think our boys will give them a good showing today, I do.”

“So,” Joe smiled, “how is it you’re not out there this fine day, Peter?”

Leaning slightly forward at the waist, Pete answered, “Didn’t make Crew Number One this time. Some Dago named Torreo Monteduro beat me out, gimp and all. C’mon, I’ll get you a beer,” he finished, leading Joe over to the clubhouse.

Huh, Joe thought, could it be the same kid? Looking over to where the West Side crew was assembling, he spotted a youth with dark curly hair, a powerful upper body, and one emaciated leg from the knee down among them. Damned if it isn’t, he thought. The kid made it.

He walked into the clubhouse with Pete, who brought him a beer from the long table that was a makeshift bar. The windows were all open, and the light streamed in onto the mostly bare, dark wood walls. On one side, there were a number of long oars hanging on the wall, and on the other, a lone boat.

“Like I said, we’re just getting started, so we don’t have much in here in the way of furniture and trophies and the like.”

“I was gonna say, it looks like you’ve got a good start, Pete. Where’d you get all this nice wood?” Joe asked, running his palm over the stained oak wall.

“Ahh, that. You know All Saints Church over on Henrietta? Well, when they built the new one, they tore down the old one and donated the lumber to us to build this place. It seems Mitch Peterson’s da is big over there, and his company got the contract for the demolition of the old building. Mitch is captain of our eight-man crew and quite the sculler, ya see. We all pitched in to help tear it down after work in the evening. That brought the price down to Mitch’s da, who discounted the job to the church, and we get the wood—one hand-washing the other, as it were.”

“Very nice. You lads are here every evening, then?”

“During the week, after work. Saturday mornings at dawn.” Pete added, “Only one dollar for initiation fees, then fifty cents a year dues. Meetings second Friday night of the month, and we

usually get a barrel of beer and some food.”

“Lemme think about it, Pete,” he said as they went back outside into the blazing sunshine. Walking towards the old canal, Pete spotted another prospect and hailed him, and Joe ambled over towards the blanket where Eileen and her friends sat. Spotting him approach, she nodded her brown curly head to him and continued talking to her friends. Walking to about a yard away on her right, Joe crouched down to watch the race just beginning. Looking out at the boats, he commented, “I hear all these lads on the other teams are from the First Ward.”

“Yes, that’s them,” said the friend to Eileen’s left, “and every one of them on the Celtics an Irishman.”

XYZ

“The Mutuals have many Irish, too, Bridy. Their captain, Bob

XYZ

Cotter, for one.”

“So where are you girls from?”

The two girls looked at each other then took up the challenge.

“Over here or back home?” Bridy answered. “Well, both, if it’s your pleasure to tell me.”

“She,” indicating Eileen with her parasol, “is from Crusheen in Clare. I’m from Limerick City,” she said, tossing back her blonde hair. “Now, we both live in St. Brigid Parish here in Buffalo.”

“Ah, I see,” he replied. “I’m from Cork City, myself.”

The girls both looked at each other again, and then Bridy pulled her head and neck backwards like a swan and said, “No, it couldn’t be. You talk like an American, sure.”

“No, it’s true,” Joe said smiling. “I was born in Cork. I came over when I was nine, so everyone thinks I’m from here.”

“Ohh, I see,” continued Bridy. “Many’s the one sailed out from Cork, or just heard of the place, and said it was their home.”

“No, it’s true. We lived in the Commons Road in Cork City. The da worked there, doing stonework. When he had the readies saved, he booked us passage here. We sailed on the Majestic out of Cobh Harbor, an iron ship with great canvas sails . . .” he hesitated, remembering bad food and sickness.

“Well, where do you live now, great sailor that you are?”

“Oh, over here,” he said, indicating with a stick the neighborhood beyond Niagara Street, “on the West Side. In Holy Angels Parish.”

The girls’ friends were now passing out sandwiches among the picnickers, and Eileen finally looked up and said, “Would you care to have one, Joe?” which caused Bridy to look at her in amazement.

“Joe, is it?”

“Yes,” he answered, touching his cap. “Joe Brogan. And I’d love one, thank you, Eileen,” at which Bridy sat back on her haunches, looked at one, then the other, and wondered what else she had missed.

XYZ

The bills to Cooper’s Dairy had been promptly paid by the Worths since Joe’s confrontation with the Mistress (as Eileen called her) years before, and Joe tried to run that route as often as possible in addition to his foreman duties. He frequently saw Eileen, who made sure she snatched the pitcher from the kitchen to get the household’s milk. They didn’t talk much, almost all business during the transactions (especially if some busybody like the boy Harold should be listening), but Joe finally figured out that she took the Elmwood streetcar to get home, and she left work around seven at night.

Rushing away from dinner several nights, he made it a point to be walking along Elmwood where she’d have to pass to catch the car at Bidwell a few minutes after seven, until one night he saw her rushing up the street to catch the car. She had just missed the clanging streetcar as it made its way south, and he walked up and said, “Heading south?”

Startled, she answered, “Oh, it’s you. You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry, Eileen. If it’s okay, I’ll wait here with you until the next one comes.”

“Yes, well, that would be all right I suppose. It’s starting to get dark earlier.”

“Yes, it is,” he answered, and both of them looked around.

“Does it take a long time to get home from here?” he finally asked.

“Oh, no, you’d be amazed at how soon I get downtown and change to the Elk and South Park car at Washington and Seneca, and then it’s a hop, skip, and a jump home. If I catch the streetcars right, you see.”

“Oh.”

“Some nights, though, I stay at the Worths’, if they have a late affair with guests and all. They put us up in the maids’ quarters in the attic. You’ve seen her then. Anna? The Polish girl?”

“Yes, yes, I have. She is very . . . tall.”

“She is. And fine blonde hair, like my friend Bridy.”

“Uh, yes, she does.” After a moment, he said, “Do you like working for the Worths?”

“It’s a good position. The Mistress likes to act very high and mighty, but you get used to that in service. There’s many a girl who’s done worse, I can tell you that.”

Hearing the clanging of a streetcar, Joe looked up the street as her car approached.

“Well, I walk this way quite often in the evening about this time. Do you suppose we might walk a block or two to the next stop some time?”

As she climbed aboard, Eileen answered, “Yes, but don’t come by the house anymore if you can. The old lady hates you and gets in a lather every time she sees you. Goodbye, Joe!”

“Goodbye, Eileen,” he waved, “I’ll be back here again tomorrow night.” The other passengers looked at them and smiled.