In the Shadows of the Onion Domes ~ Collected Short Stories

By Mary Pat Hyland

By the confluence of the Susquehanna and Chenango rivers in New York's Southern Tier lies a verdant valley called the Triple Cities.

The shoe factories that originally drew thousands of immigrants from across Europe have long moved on.

What remains are the distinct ethnic flavors of a gritty community determined to overcome economic woes, adapt to the rapid changes in society and find true meaning in life.

Consider these stories as pages ripped from a sketchbook. Some are quick studies; others are more detailed portraits inspired by observed characters, whispered gossip, overheard conversations and the local lore of the residents whose neighborhoods are framed by the gilded Orthodox Church domes that span this valley.

You'll find that each tale has its own tone: some are humorous or poignant, others are surprising and haunting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Pat Hyland
• Release date: Jan 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310499333

Mary Pat Hyland

Mary Pat Hyland is an award-winning former newspaper journalist and Amazon Top 100 Bestseller. She writes novels and short stories set in the scenic Finger Lakes wine country and Southern Tier region of New York State. Hyland's characters reflect her own Irish American heritage and her story lines often stray into magical realism.Her latest novel, The Water Mystic of Woodland Springs, is the second book in the Caviston Sisters Mystery series, preceded by The Curse of the Strawberry Moon. She is the author of the best-selling novel, The House With the Wraparound Porch, a family saga spanning four generations. Her other works include The Maeve Kenny series: The Cyber Miracles (Book 1), A Sudden Gift of Fate (Book 2), and A Wisdom of Owls (Book 3); 3/17 (an Irish trad music parody of Dante's Inferno); The Terminal Diner (a suspense novel); and In the Shadows of the Onion Domes (collected short stories).

Book preview

In the Shadows of the Onion Domes

Collected Short Stories by

Mary Pat Hyland

Copyright 2015 Mary Pat Hyland

Smashwords Edition

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite e-retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book may not be reproduced in any fashion without permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and plots are the creation of the author and should not be considered real. Although in some cases they are inspired by real life, the characters in these stories do not exist and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Pour Jack Reilly: Nous nous souviendrons de ton rire et de ton sourire à tout jamais.

~~~

The following short stories were inspired by observed characters, whispered gossip, overheard conversations and local lore from the Triple Cities of New York’s Southern Tier.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Rose of the First Ward

How to Manage Your Exploding Head

Kate & The Irishman

The Tomato’s Pain

The Wake Dancer

The Food Describer

McInerney’s Angel

The Dalmatian High Heels Plot

Big Blue Spruce

The Driveway Ladies Chorus

The Repurposed Journalist

The Rush Hour Angels

The Tool Belt Widow

The Errant Wildflower

Cat Dancing in Brittany

No Alterations Needed

The Geranium Preener

The Reluctant Magnolia

About the Author

Other Works by Mary Pat Hyland

Thanks

The Rose of the First Ward

Amber sunlight filtered through the entrance to Johnny Luska’s on Clinton Street as an eighty-year-old, ruby-haired woman teetered on high heels away from the bar. Her chandelier earrings jingled over a charmeuse blouse and leopard-skin pants as she carried a tray of manhattans to customers in the back room. She’d filled the glasses too high and they sloshed onto the tray. So she paused, took a big sip from each glass, and continued on her way.

A university student sitting at the bar witnessed the scene and snorted. The elderly man sitting next to him nudged his elbow and tilted his head toward the barmaid.

Back in the Fifties, she used to be a real spitfire. They called her The Rose of the First Ward.

The young man raised his eyebrows as he sipped a pint of lukewarm pilsner. Really? I guess she’s changed a lot since then.

His tone offended the old man. Hey! She’s still the same old Rosie. I’d like to see you go through all she has in her life and still look that good. Most women her age are drooling in a nursing home.

Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to offend….

The old man raised his hand as a sign of truce. Don’t worry none; just pullin’ your chain, kid. I’m Stan, by the way. Got a name? He extended his hand.

Cody. Nice to meet you. So what’s Rosie’s story?

"Well, she got married right after high school because her fiancé was headin’ to Korea. He widowed her within a year. Since then the only luck she’s had with men is no luck. Rosie got a good job at the film factory in The Ward, but soon after her supervisor started harassing her. When she complained to his boss, he fired her. After that, no one wanted to hire her around The Ward because she had a reputation as a troublemaker.

"Johnny Luska didn’t care. He ignored the talk and gave her the job of dishwasher here. That’s when they used to offer fast and cheap lunches for the factory workers. They served things like halupki, pierogi and city chicken. When it got too busy, Johnny would ask Rosie to step in and help prepare the food. Before long, he promoted her to assistant cook.

Around that time Viktor’s Tap Room opened three doors down and lured some of Johnny’s regular customers away. Butch Bobek noticed, and he asked Johnny why he was hiding a looker like Rosie in the kitchen. ‘She could be drawing all those workers to the bar,’ he said. Johnny wisely took his advice. As my Czech grandfather used to say, ‘Better a sparrow in the hand than a pigeon on the roof.’ Right?

Cody nodded, though he had no clue what the proverb meant.

Rosie returned and set the drinks tray on the bar.

Need a refill, son?

Sure. Thanks, Rosie.

She smiled—pleased that the young man addressed her politely by name.

You too, Stan?

He nodded and said, Put my friend Cody’s beer on my tab, doll. The young man patted Stan’s back.

Awesome. Thanks, bud.

Rosie chuckled as she pulled the tap. Don’t be too impressed. We’ve got the cheapest beer in The Ward, Cody. Hah! She laughed hoarsely as she handed them their beers. The door swung open and new customers walked toward the booth opposite the bar. Rosie grabbed two menus and greeted them.

Well, look who the cat drug in, she said.

Cody glanced up as he sipped foam off his beer. Hanging askew above the bar was a black and white photograph of a man dressed in a wool newsboy cap and ragged clothes. One of his eyes appeared sewn shut. He was leaning against the rail at the very place where Cody sat.

Who’s that? he asked Stan.

Sonny Sloboda. He was a legend in The Ward.

What did he do?

Not a damn thing! Stan laughed so hard that he coughed. He leaned closer to Cody. Gotta watch what I say. Rosie was sweet on him.

He and Rosie were…?

No, it was nothing like that. I think she felt more like his mother. Sonny was what you might call a hobo. He lost his left eye in a coal mining accident down in Shickshinny, P-A. After that, he vowed never to work a day again in his life and jumped a Binghamton-bound train. Once he arrived, Sonny had a regular route of the bars in The Ward. People fed him and bought him drinks. To thank them, he’d tell a few jokes or sing a folk song from the old country. The poor fella had no home. He used to sleep on people’s porches, in the back seats of cars and even in the cellars of some bars here on Clinton Street. In the winter, he’d break the window of a business to get arrested and thrown in jail so he could spend a few months in a warm place with regular meals. Didn’t have a mean bone in his body though, and when you think about it, he was pretty smart.

So where does Rosie fit in his life?

He was a regular here, so she got to chatting with him and learned his life story. She tried to help him help himself. Rosie was always setting up job interviews for him and gave him some of her brother’s old clothes so he’d have something clean to wear to them. Sonny would thank her, put on the clothes and head off whistling in the direction of the job interview. Along the way he would park himself at the first bar stool he met and miss the appointment. It was a cryin’ shame, ’cause he was pretty good at numbers and could figure out a customer’s bill for her faster than the cash register. If he’d only had the desire to work, who knows what he could have been. Stan slid slowly off the stool and steadied himself. I’ll be back, son. Gotta visit the john.

~~~

Rosie poured the ingredients for a Tom Collins into an ice-filled shaker. As she shook the metal canister vigorously, bangles clinked on her arm counterpointing the clanking ice. She poured the fizzy drink into a cocktail glass and looked up at Cody sitting all alone. Stan hadn’t returned to his seat. He’d run into some old buddies in the back room and was now sharing their pitcher of beer.

You go to the university? she asked.

I just graduated.

Good for you. What are your plans now?

Write the great American novel, I guess. My major was creative writing.

Fascinating. I’d like to hear more about that. Hold on a sec, son, she said and disappeared into the kitchen. About twenty minutes later she returned with skewers of grilled chicken spiedies and deep-fried city chicken and set them down in front of Cody. Felt a little woozy so I had Chuck make us a bite to eat. Gotta keep my blood sugar steady. Here, help yourself, she said handing him a paper plate and napkin. He set down his cell phone and picked up a city chicken skewer. Cody grinned as he bit into a greasy, cracker-breaded pork chunk.

Wow, that’s a little hunk of heaven, he said, following it with a sip of beer. Why is it called city chicken when it’s pork?

Rosie shrugged and set a picked cleaned chicken spiedie skewer on the paper plate. She wiped her hands on a napkin and sighed as she glanced up at the photo of Sonny. So many dreamers like you have passed through these doors. Plenty of stories right here in the shadows of the onion domes.

In the shadows of the onion domes—hmm, what a great title for a novel, Cody thought as she continued talking. There was something intriguing about this valley framed by gilded Orthodox Church domes. At first glance, these urban streets embodied the lonely mood of an Edward Hopper painting. Yet Cody sensed a gritty determination to overcome all odds in everyone he met here. It was nothing like the privileged boredom he encountered back home in Westchester.

Generations of East European immigrants had made The Ward their first home in America, imparting a distinct cultural and culinary flavor across the neighborhood. Butcher shops displayed fresh-made kishka and churches cooked popular Lenten dinners of pierogi (or pirohy or pirohi—spelling differences delineated specific ethnicities). Polka music bounced from AM radio stations in the antique shops lining the street. These were a people very proud of their heritage.

Cody squinted at Rosie and tried to picture what she looked like as a nineteen-year-old widow. Take away that garish hair and replace it with truer, brunette tresses. Scrub away the heavy-handed eye makeup and overly rouged high cheekbones. Underneath were hints of the beauty she once was.

You know, I could tell you a few good tales if you’d like, she said, wiping the bar with a rag.

Really? I’d love to hear them. Can you tell me something about that guy? Cody asked, pointing at the photo of Sonny.

Sure. Let me check on my customers and I’ll be right back.

Cody looked around at all the happy faces in this rundown bar. These people were great. They’d bought him drinks, they fed him free food. You’d never get this treatment from the rich snobs at home. Man, there’s nothing better than the common people, he thought. Right here was the backbone of America—good, decent folks who took care of each other.

Rosie returned. OK, so back to Sonny Sloboda. She winced as if the pain of witnessing his wasted life was still fresh. "There are so many stories to choose from; I’ll tell one that will bring a laugh. One fall morning the milkman was making his rounds along Elm Street. It was very foggy. He stepped out of his truck and glanced at the cemetery across the street, just in time to see a dark shadow emerge from a fresh grave. The milkman was so frightened that he dropped his bottle carrier on the street and ran off screaming for help. You see, Sonny was homeless and lived by his wits. What the milkman didn’t know was Sonny needed a warm place to sleep the previous night and found that grave to be as good a place as any. Sonny saw the abandoned bottle carrier on the street and thought the milkman had left it there for him. So he took a bottle of milk and strolled off. When the milkman finally convinced a cop to investigate the spook in the cemetery, they found seven bottles in the dropped carrier instead of eight. ‘Looks like ghosts drink milk,’ the cop chuckled.

"A finger tap on his shoulder startled the milkman. He spun around and saw it was just Sonny handing the empty bottle back. ‘Thanks a bunch,’ Sonny said and wandered off. The cop doubled over laughing; the milkman was not amused.

Well that story quickly made the rounds. On the rare occasions when Sonny would ask for coffee after that, he’d always ask for cream, saying, ‘Ghosts drink milk!’

Cody laughed. That’s pretty funny.

You know, Rosie said, Sonny used to sit on that very stool. See that concaved mark on the bar in front of you? If he couldn’t pay for a drink, he’d sit there rubbing his knuckle against that spot to calm his jitters until someone offered to buy him a beer. I hated seeing him shake as he waited for a drink. It was heartbreaking. Every time he left, I wondered if we’d see him again. Sonny never acted scared, but I know each day he worried about where he’d sleep that night.

Cody traced the knuckle-worn depression in the wood. He wished it could play back all of the conversations shared on that very spot.

They say that anyone who sits on Sonny’s barstool will be blessed with the gift of gab.

Cody grinned. Can we change that to blessed with the gift of a bestseller?

As you wish, hon.

So what were your dreams, Rosie?

She squinted as she discerned whether he was worth trusting. Promise me it won’t end up in your novel?

He knew he couldn’t lie to her, so if he was going to agree, whatever gems she was about to dispense he’d have to carry to his grave. Why did he have a feeling she was about to offer him something priceless?

He nodded.

Just like you, Cody, I was interested in the lives of all the strangers who came through that door. Guess deep down I wanted to be a writer, too. Well I’ve been working here since 1954, and every night when I’d go home from work, I’d jot down notes about new people who stopped by the bar. It was a good trick to help me remember customers. First I’d write a description after the person’s name, like greasy brown hair or a scar on the left cheek. Then I’d write down something memorable the person said. ‘I played baseball with Whitey Ford,’ or ‘I kissed Natalie Wood.’ It’s funny the things people admit to a bartender. Sometimes you feel like a priest in a confessional. Anyway, I have a whole bookcase full of these notebooks.

Cody’s eyes widened as he imagined what a great resource she’d created. He salivated as he pondered the volumes of stories he could write from a treasure trove like that. Rosie noticed the odd look on his face.

Do you think I’m some kind of weirdo?

Cody shook his head. Oh no, not at all! That’s so cool. I think they’d be fascinating to read. He couldn’t believe this conversation. He’d walked into Johnny Luska’s by chance, and here was this eighty-year-old woman with whom he was discussing the craft of writing. What were the odds? It was further proof to him about something he’d always suspected: nothing you experience in life is ever random.

Working here for so many years has made me a good judge of character, Rosie said. After each entry in the notebooks I’d add a plus or minus sign, just a final note to remind me if I got a feeling that the person was good or bad.

What will you write about me?

‘Cute college boy named Cody. Gonna be famous someday.’ And I’d give you two pluses.

He smiled as he wondered, is this old lady flirting with me?

Have you ever written a story about one of these people?

No, son, I never have energy after work. Standing on these gams all day makes me plumb worn out. Plus, I never thought anyone would want to read something by me.

Cody’s thoughts continued. If she hasn’t used any of these, maybe I could convince her to let me read them as historical research for that novel I’ve been planning about The Ward. Man, think of the authentic flavor her notes would add to it.

Did anyone ever tell you something that you felt you should report to the police? he asked, trying to push her to reveal more of what she’d gleaned from customers.

She motioned to Cody to move down to the end of the bar, away from anyone who might be eavesdropping.

"Yes. Once. But the chief of police was the brother of my boss at the film factory. That kokot harassed me and tried to get under my skirt. Because I reported his advances, I couldn’t get any work in The Ward. There was no way I’d help his brother solve a crime."

What type of crime are we talking about? Robbery? Assault? Murder? Cody gripped his beer with both hands as he leaned in to hear more details, aping (without realizing it) the photo of Sonny above him. Rosie looked toward Stan who was still chatting with his buddies in the back.

"A guy comes in here during the World Series of 1964. Most of the men were gathered around the TV to watch the game, but this guy sits in the last booth, facing away from the doorway, like he was hiding. If I hadn’t seen him walk in, I wouldn’t have noticed him there. It was odd from the start. He asks for a pitcher of beer and a glass. Then he pays me with a ten-dollar bill and says ‘Keep the change.’ I notice he smells smoky and his fingertips are sooty, like he’s been poking around a barbecue pit.

The Yankees lose and most of the customers clear out early. I walk around the place to let everyone know it’s last call and that guy is still there. His pitcher is empty. He looks at me, and from the way his eyes are dancing, I think he’s seeing two of me. ‘Gimme a shot of whiskey,’ he says. When I return, he gives me a twenty and tells me again to keep the change. So I hand him the whiskey, sit down in the booth across from him and slide the change back. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I can’t keep this. It’s too much. Are you OK?’ And next thing I know he’s telling me how he just burned down a house on the South Side. It belonged to his girlfriend’s former boss. The man called her into his office the week before and locked the door, then grabbed her and started ripping off her dress. She screamed. So he tossed her out the office door past the secretary and yelled that she’s fired for stealing. But of course she had done nothing! The guy was lying. So I ask the customer what her boss’s name was. You’ll never guess—the same disgusting pig who fired me.

Cody tried to get every juicy detail of the story and asked her many questions. So when the guy left, did you call the cops?

It wasn’t that easy. You see, the kid who burned down the house—he was Stan’s younger brother, Ivan. I couldn’t bear to turn him in.

Cody pushed himself back from the bar. No way!

Now that man over there may not be quick to pay his tab, but he has always been a gentleman to me. On several occasions, he’s kept customers that were trying to get too friendly away. He even punched one of them out; the man has the left jab of a prizefighter.

Do you think Stan loves you?

Rosie smiled.

Of course he does. All of the men who walk in here fall in love with me.

Cody laughed at her sassy confidence. Then what happened to Stan’s brother?

Nothing. He and his girlfriend got married. They live in West Texas now.

And the cops never solved the case?

Never had a good lead, though they were sure it was arson.

Do you regret never telling the cops what you knew?

I regret many things in my life, she said as she refilled Cody’s glass, but not that. The bastard had it coming. There were plenty of other women harassed by him.

Whatever happed to the boss?