A Bird Named Enza

By Joseph Bakewell

Jack Sullivan is willing to work hard for a better life than typically afforded to an Irish-American in 1917. He meets Maureen Valentine from uptown at a party. Against the advice of his family, he pursues her. They fall in love and secretly plan to marry, but Fiona, Maureen’s mother, sees Jack as an interloper, a crude intrusion on her plans for Maureen to marry into a higher class.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Bakewell
• Release date: Dec 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452405308

Joseph Bakewell

I have been writing for more years than I care to admit to. I've attended workshops and conferences almost every year including the Stone Coast Conference in Maine, Poets' and Writers' Conference at Vermont College, and the Colgate Writers' Conference in Hamilton, NY. I'm a member of the New Hampshire Writers' Project.I've self-published six novels, the latest,Class Rules tells the story of a writer, working at a prep school where he encounters a gang rape, scandal and corruption while working to save his marriage at home. My current work, untitled, is about n old man and a young woman thrown together in extraordinary, life-threatening, circumstances.Born in New York City, and raised in that area, I'm married, have four adult children, and live in Boxford, MA. My sports include skiing, snow shoeing, cycling, and hiking. All of which take an occasional back seat to snow removal or house repair.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

September, 1917

They all sensed it, an air of excitement as the band played, and the room filled with new people pushing in, even as earlier arrivals finished their first beers.

Jack Sullivan set a trayload of clean beer glasses down behind the long tables serving as a bar. His older brother, Brian, was busy filling glasses and handing them to guests. Jack leaned against Brian’s shoulder. Will Al Smith be here, do you think?

Brian kept filling and handing out glasses, his head half-turned to Jack. I doubt it. He could be anywhere in the state, you know.

Yeah. I guess everybody here is going to vote for him anyway. Jack walked away. This was the first time he had been asked to work at Big Bill Valentine’s fall shindig—or Ball, as Big Bill liked to call it. Brian and their oldest brother, Tim, had worked the event a number of times, and now Jack was taking Tim’s place. For years, he’d listened to them brag about the famous people they had seen there, including Al Smith, currently running for governor.

The Ball took place in St. Michael’s Parish hall, located in the basement of the church on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The ceiling, finished with sheets of pressed tin, was too low for such a large room, and the shell-white paint peeled and flaked in several places. Two rows of support columns, wound with red ribbon—Valentine’s color, stood about ten feet out from the long side walls. Bare light bulbs, screwed into ceiling sockets, provided just enough light for a dance. The acoustics gave the band, which played at one end of the hall, a good excuse for sounding a bit off key. Beer flowed from the bar at the opposite end of the hall, and no one complained about the dim light or the band. The local, working-class people were having the best time. They danced, sat along the sides visiting, or milled about looking for friends.

Jack had never seen such a collection of characters in one place in his life. There were all the familiar political faces—ward heelers and hangers-on. The local men were familiar to him; they owned bars or stores, or were in the trades. If he didn’t know their names, he had at least seen them at work, at church, or around the neighborhood. Many wore jackets and ties, but few of the jackets fit well, and most of the ties were on crooked. They looked like schoolboys who had grudgingly allowed a maiden aunt to dress them. The jackets, ties and button-on collars disappeared as the evening wore on.

Their wives and girl friends wore simple long dresses, tied at the waist with a sash or cloth band. The dresses of the older women were dark, while the younger women favored light pinks and blues. They wore their hair in a bun at the back of their heads, or held up with ribbons and combs. Most of the women did not drink alcohol. Some of those who did appeared a bit flushed after one beer, and dancing added color to every face.

Jack’s boss, Frank Clancy, Tammany Hall’s ward heeler from the Pearl Street office, was there. He walked around in shirtsleeves but kept his trademark bowler perched on his head. He signaled Jack a few times to get beers for some newly arrived big shots. Jack was glad to pitch in—to help the man he had come to admire for his endless energy, the hours he worked, and for his genuine compassion toward anyone in need.

More significant was the presence of Charles Frances Murphy, Silent Charlie, the longtime boss of Tammany Hall. He wore no hat, and his suit fit. Jack noticed how all the upper-crust guests strived for his attention.

These and other politicians mixed in odd combinations with elegantly dressed uptown society folks, theater people and vaudeville stars. Some of these men wore evening clothes, and all the women appeared to own strings of pearls and large ostrich feathers for their hair.

There was a stir near the entrance, and Jack heard someone say, Fanny Brice is here. Someone else answered, Yeah, and I saw Eddie Cantor.

Big Bill, dressed in a tuxedo set off with a bright red bow tie, circulated holding the same glass of beer he started the evening with. As newcomers appeared, he welcomed them and tried to herd them into the room, well away from the door—an invitation to stay. He had only limited success with the uptown visitors.

Jack particularly wanted to see the theater and society guests. As he went about cleaning tables, he observed that only the men were eager to talk with the politicians. The women clustered together—near the door, and none of them mingled with the ordinary downtown Irish. That was just fine; the downtown folks were there for each other and to have a grand party.

Jack bent over a table and was putting empty glasses onto a tray when Murphy strode up, removing the cigar from his mouth and extending his hand. You’re Jimmy Sullivan’s kid?

Jack wiped his hand on his apron and took Murphy’s. Yes, sir.

It’s Charlie. Murphy bent forward as if he had asked a question and was waiting for an answer.

Oh, I’m Jack.

Give my best to your father. Murphy stabbed the cigar back into his mouth and walked off. Jack watched as some men in evening clothes trailed after him. Murphy ignored them.

He left the glasses in a side room to be washed, and as he came out, he was sure that he spotted George M. Cohan. He wanted a closer look, but some kid was pulling on his sleeve. Brian wants you. He made his way around the tables and dancers—some by now a bit tipsy.

Brian said, Give us a hand will you? Curly had to go home.

He filled beer glasses, and they disappeared as fast as he could fill them. Finally, there was a lull, and he leaned against the wall behind the bar and arched his back. That’s when she walked up, directly in front of him. He had been stealing sidelong glances at her all evening, and he thought she knew it. She walked with her head erect, looking poised compared to the few other girls who had come to the bar, usually with companions. She passed through some people standing near the bar.

He remained against the wall and had a good look at the blue eyes, the red-blond hair, and the smile that went with the figure in the blue dress. No freckles, her skin was clear. She was tall for a girl, and slender, but definitely not skinny. The only jewelry she wore was a simple gold cross that hung by a gold chain to sit on her dress just below the high collar. What was she doing here at the bar? There had to be ten guys who would leap at the chance to get her anything she wanted. As she approached, he pushed away from the wall, picked up a glass of beer and held it toward her.

She looked at it as if surprised. I’d like a root beer, please.

Sensing her eyes on him, he scrambled and with some difficulty found a root beer. Then he over-filled the glass so that it foamed onto the bar top. He felt his neck redden as he lifted the glass and wiped it; it didn’t help—the rag was too wet. He felt beads of perspiration breaking out on his upper lip. He added a little more root beer and offered it to her. Sorry, he said.

She watched him the whole time, apparently more amused than bothered. It’s perfectly all right, she said, accepting the glass. Thank you, very much.

He stared after her. That’s when Brian grasped his elbow and leaned close, their heads almost touching. A word in your ear, kid. That’s Valentine’s daughter. They say her mother’s got big plans for her that don’t include the likes of you. Stick with Molly, she’s more in your class. Brian moved away. Jack called after him. A cat can look at a king, you know.

He wrung out the rag and began methodically to wipe the bar. That’s what an older brother does, I guess. Look after a younger brother; even when he’s grown to be the biggest.

He glanced up and saw her standing with a group of older women along one of the side walls. She turned her head and caught him again. He continued to look at her and to feel her eyes. What can she be thinking?

Someone called for more beers; he turned to set out glasses and pour.

Most of the uptown people, having made their obligatory appearances, had been gone for over an hour. Their beers were left untouched—but not for long; the Irish were not ones to let such things go to waste. Jack was back to cleaning up. He picked up glasses, set them aside and bent to wipe one of the tables.

You’ll have to learn to be less shy, if you’re going to be in politics. It was her, standing to one side, watching him.

He bent his neck to look at her. I’m not planning on a political career.

"Well then, Jack Sullivan, what are you going to be?"

She knew his name. Her father must have told her. What did she care, anyway?

He concentrated on the table. I might become a lawyer.

She strolled around to his side of the table. And what do lawyers do besides become politicians?

He stood up to face her—to stand his ground. Lots of things, prepare wills, handle real estate transactions… As he listened to his own words, his stomach tightened.

Keeping her eyes on him, she moved as if to pass in front of him. She stopped, her eyes now at an angle. Sounds exciting.

It sounded dull. She was slagging him and flirting, all in one. His eyes narrowed. It can provide a good living, and there are more important things.

She cocked her head. Such as?

Such as getting married, raising a family. Such as being a good Catholic. Why was he going on like this? What a time to be making an ass of himself.

She faced him. I was only teasing.

He glanced down at the rag in his hand and then looked at her. Yes. He gazed off into space. I don’t normally talk like this.

She reached out briefly to touch his bare forearm. He could not believe the sensation. It was like a chill—a delicious tingling chill. He looked into her eyes and tried to engrave the moment into his brain.

You have convictions, she said, I admire that.

A woman called. Maureen.

That’s my mother. She started off, and over her shoulder, said back to him, I hope I’ll see you again.

He watched her go and then turned to catch Brian’s eye and give him a big grin and a wink. Brian shook his head.

From that night, he was frantic to find some excuse to see her again. Perhaps he could work something through his job and the connections that Clancy had with Valentine’s office.

Jack was the only one in his family to finish high school. The family agreed he was the one with the brains, the one to push ahead. After graduation, he took whatever jobs were available to a young Irishman. For a time, like his brothers before him, he worked at the Fulton Street Fish Market. That’s when he decided to become a boxer. It seemed like it might be an easy way to get rich.

He had learned early. He came home from school one day with some bruises and a black eye. He was in the third grade, and a bully had worked him over. His brothers were not about to let it pass. They drilled him and practiced boxing with him every day. They told him he couldn’t stop until he beat the bully. Three beatings and a school year later, he came home wearing a big grin. After that, he held his own. In high school, he even fought and won a couple of amateur matches. The matches were fun, but he hated any other kind of fighting.

He thought that professional fighting would be like the amateur matches. He was wrong. What he found was a world of cigar smoke and dirty gyms filled with sweaty smelly people who would do anything for a buck. One night, he was set for a bout at Houlihan’s, a very large pub near the waterfront at the corner of South and Catherine Streets. His manager, Paddy Flood, a friend from grade school, came into the store room at the back of the pub, which served as a dressing room. Jack was already in his trunks and hanging his clothes on a nail. Wish me luck, Paddy, he said over his shoulder.

Good luck, Paddy said as he stood looking at the floor.

Jack turned around. Cheer up, Paddy. I’m going to beat O’Rourke. I’ve seen him fight.

Paddy’s head stayed down. He reached a hand holding some money toward Jack.

What’s this?

Take it, Jack. I’ll hold it till after.

Jack leaned back against a large beer barrel and folded his arms. I’ve won my last three fights, Paddy. You take that back to Houlihann and tell him to shove it up his ass.

Paddy looked at him now. Jack, you don’t know. These people—they’re animals.

Right. And you shouldn’t have anything to do with them. Jack picked up his gloves and strode toward the door.

Jack, please.

Jack kept moving. He put O’Rourke down in two rounds, had his gloves removed and raced into the store room for his clothes. They were gone. He ran to the door. Outside, he kept running, but they were on him with axe handles and clubs. He ran for his life and escaped with a few bad bruises and cuts. At a friend’s house, he cleaned himself up and borrowed some clothes. He sneaked into the house and stayed out of his mother’s way for several days. When she realized what he had been up to and put her foot down, he was all too ready to quit the world of boxing.

He took a job with Tammany Hall and started to study law. Without a degree, it would take years to pass the Bar, but he was determined. Tammany Hall, he learned as a child, was not a building but an organization within the Democratic Party in New York. Tammany, as it was known, was a political machine, but it had gained some respectability since the days when it was run by Boss Tweed.

His job paid eight dollars a week. He put a dollar in the bank and gave four dollars to Kitty. All the brothers contributed half of their pay; Annie, his sister and the youngest, was obliged to bring her pay envelope home unopened. All of this was in accord with tradition. His job had other compensations. He had ample time to study his law books, and Clancy saw that he received a share of the many things, which were donated. Every merchant in the ward sent things to Clancy for distribution to the poor, or just to curry favor. Jack had a good overcoat, warm gloves, shoes, and even a suit that didn't fit too badly.

Jack worked as the office manager in the office on Pearl Street, in the Lower East Side—Al Smith’s old territory. As office manager, he had no subordinates; he simply did whatever Clancy, his boss, had in mind.

Once or twice a week, Clancy sent some kind of notice or letter up to Valentine’s headquarters located near the Tammany main office on East Fourteenth Street. Valentine was independently wealthy—at least by the standards of the newly-arrived Irish. He held no appointive or elective offices himself, but raised funds in various ways and helped others to get elected or obtain a patronage job. In return, he received information, which he used to make money in real estate. He and Silent Charlie were reportedly very tight.

Jack volunteered to go whenever Clancy had a delivery for Valentine He enjoyed getting out of the office and taking the Third Avenue elevated train uptown. He left Clancy’s envelopes with Valentine’s secretary, Gracie Flaherty. She ignored him at first, but then they began to exchange a few words when he dropped by. Gracie was in her forties, and she enjoyed teasing him about the downtown Irish. He played along and tried to say something deliberately stupid. She laughed and then showed her warmer side. She asked about his family. If it was raining, she would ask if he’d like to borrow an umbrella. Gradually, a kind of friendship was established. If Big Bill passed through the office while Jack was there, he’d wave. Hello, Jack. It’s nice to see you.

On his first uptown trip after meeting Maureen, Jack asked Gracie, Does Maureen ever stop in here?

Maureen Valentine? She looked at him over her glasses.

He looked her in the eye but said nothing.

She said, You know her?

He nodded.

She looked away and put her knuckles up to her mouth, now in a broad grin. Well, she said, turning back. She’s rarely here.

I wonder? If I left a note?

She looked at him for a moment and then said, I’ll see she gets it.

He leaned forward and grinned. I’ll remember you in my prayers.

Hmmm. I’m sure that will help with whatever ails me.

Now, all he had to do was figure out what to write. None of his friends would know what to do with a girl like Maureen, and he did not want to consult his family. Brian could be such a pain in the ass sometimes. He decided it would be best to start with something simple, something neutral. She might barely remember who he was, and there had to be other men. This was starting to feel like going out onto a stage with no clothes on.

He sent her little clippings from papers he read. The subject was not important, just something that caught his eye, a book review—‘The Desert of Wheat’ by Zane Grey. He added a note saying how much he liked Zane Grey. The next time, he clipped together some articles on the World Series, which the Giants won over the White Sox, and added a comment indicating his preference for the Yankees. When John Mitchell, a reform mayor and the incumbent, was opposed by Tammany’s candidate, John Hylan, he wrote saying that he thought Mitchell had been an honorable man and a good mayor.

After sending three notes with no response, he began the inner process of talking himself down. He thought back to the Ball. Maybe she was just feeling a little flirtatious that night. Maybe she collected men, enjoyed the attention. He asked Gracie about the notes.

Oh, they’re getting to her all right. She did not elaborate. You know, Jack Sullivan, not every girl is going to flop over even for a handsome brute like yourself.

He wasn’t sure of how to take her meaning; he wasn’t looking for a flop, just an echo. He stared at her.

She leaned forward and spoke softly. Give her a little more time. And then? Well there are other fish in the sea.

He left and soon found himself back downtown with no awareness of how he got there. That night, Kitty, his mother, fished an envelope out of her apron and handed it to him without a word. He stuck it in his pocket—also without a word.

After supper, his father went to a meeting at the church; his brothers were going out to see their girls. Jack sat in the tiny living room with his newspaper. He took out the envelope and stared at the return address, M. Valentine, 107 East 38th Street, New York, N. Y. She probably won’t say much. He put it back into his pocket to wait until his brothers were gone.

He tried to read his paper, but his eyes wandered about the room. Annie and his mother’s voices came from the kitchen where they sat at the table. He was thirteen when Kitty took him and Annie, then eight, for a walk-through what seemed to them a palace. It was a third floor walk-up flat on Front Street not far from the Fulton Street Fish Market and the Brooklyn Bridge. They were moving there from a smaller place because Brian and Tim were both working, and things were easier. The kitchen, just off the entryway from the stairs, contained a large coal-fired cast-iron stove, a double sink and an overhead rack for drying clothes. There was still plenty of room for a table and chairs. The family ate there, and now Kitty and Annie were playing cards.

The most wonderful discovery that day was the bathroom, located to the rear of the kitchen along with a small room for Annie and a larger one for his mother and father. It contained a flush toilet, a sink and had room for a tub, which they acquired two years latter. He remembered that Kitty had let them both try the toilet.

Tim passed through, and Jack pulled his feet in to let him by. Tim, being the oldest, had his own room at the front of the house, while he and Brian still shared the one behind that. They were both eager for Tim to get married so that Brian could move to the front room.

The living room occupied the space between the room he shared with Brian and the kitchen. He looked across the room at the two windows and the small couch. After that first exploration of their new home, Kitty confided to him and Annie. We’ve bought a lovely couch for the living room. We’ll be paying fifty cents a week.

The apartment was quiet. He opened the envelope.

There were two clippings: one about the coming elections that mentioned her father; and another about the war and American troops landing in France. He read the clippings first and then unfolded the note.

Dear Jack,

I appreciate your thinking of me. At first, I wasn’t sure whether you expected a reply, or not. After three communications, I thought a brief letter would be appropriate.

I know that you’re not planning to be a politician, but you are apparently interested in the election. I thought that the article mentioning my father might be of interest.

You haven’t said anything about the war. It’s such a horror. I don’t believe that we should be sending our men to die on foreign soil.

You mustn’t feel obliged to respond, but if you do write, it would be better to use the mail. My father sometimes forgets that he has one of your envelopes.

Sincerely,

Maureen

Jack waited a day, rereading the letter several times—especially the last paragraph. Did she want him to write, or not? A hint wouldn’t have hurt. Now, he had to agonize over exactly what to write. With her letter committed to memory, he wrote:

Dear Maureen,

I admire my boss, Frank Clancy. I don’t know of anyone who works harder and yet is always ready with a smile and a kind word. He works at all hours, attending weddings, wakes and funerals. He will get up at two