The Big Bad Wolf Had Blue Eyes

By Anne Mackey

As a child, Patricia was abandoned by her mother and left in the care of her father and grandmother. Her father is called to war in the jungles of New Guinea, and her grandmothernot the most loving womanrefuses to care for the young girl. Patricia is put into foster care, under the watchful eye of a kind, elderly couple.

Her life in the Haggerty home is one of peace and gardening. At eight years old, she is happy there and would have remained so if not for the arrival of her cruel mother. Her mother suffers from a violent temper.

Patricias safe, stable life with the Haggertys is gone forever, and her trials are increased as the years go by. She has to meet them alone; a trial; a marriage; raising her kids alone. Then the challenge of her own well being has to be met and conquered. How will she meet all the obstacles? When will it all end?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475996050

Anne Mackey

Anne Mackey was raised in New England and is settled in New Jersey with a residence in Florida as well. She devotes her time to reading, working, and family. This is her first novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I HAD ONLY ONE BAG to lug to Grand Central Station. I wore my brown plaid wool suit to fortify against the fall chill in the air on an otherwise beautiful day in Manhattan. I loved the warm cozy feeling of the wool and welcomed the change of weather after the oppressive summer heat. The sun was shining brightly, and there was a crisp, fresh breeze in the air that promised to refresh the city of the odors that lingered from a long, hot summer. I hailed a cab, one of many that always cruised through the neighborhood looking for fares from businessmen, shoppers, and women who had time to leisurely lunch with their coterie of the privileged.

The terminal wasn’t crowded, but I felt lost in the vastness of its architecture. I’d left work early enough to pick up my packed bag and reach the station before the Friday rush hour began. I found my track, and a porter helped me stow my bag and gave me directions to the lavatory and bar car. I settled in my seat and watched as the car filled with commuters clutching briefcases, packages of goods bought in the city, and their newspapers, the Post or the Wallstreet Journal.

I loved taking the train to Connecticut. It slowly made its way through the Bronx, heading north to small towns with names like New Rochelle, Rochester, White Plains, then into Connecticut to Greenwich, Cos Cob, Stamford, Noroton, and Darien. As the train slowly began its journey, I remained in my seat until the conductor punched my ticket. I then gathered up my handbag and magazine and headed for the bar car to have an early cocktail before settling down for the long trip. There were only a few men in the car on this Friday afternoon. At a glance, I imagined they were executives, stockbrokers, and lawyers getting a jump on the weekend.

The bartender, an older man with impeccable manners and a pleasant smile, was polishing the bar and rinsing glasses. He had a discrete air about him, as though he heard not one word of the business and personal chatter of the men around him. I was the only woman in the car.

Can I get something for the beautiful lady? he asked.

Yes, I’d like a Johnny Walker Red on the rocks with a splash of water and a twist of lemon, please.

It’s a beautiful day for a train ride through this part of the state, he remarked.

Yes. I always enjoy the trip home to Connecticut. There’s tranquility and beauty in the small towns and landscapes we pass through.

Enjoy your cocktail ma’am.

I found I wasn’t interested in my magazine. The clickity-clack of the train wheels and the slowly passing scenery was too mesmerizing. At each stop, in each little town, I watched wives and children greet their men, pile into the family station wagon, and begin their weekend together. Then the train slowly rocked and creaked to the next station.

Living in Brooklyn was not devoid of beautiful green places, but my apartment in Bensonhurst could not compare with Connecticut. As I watch the scenery unfold, the beautiful fall hues of orange, brown, red, and purple looked as though God had taken His artistic paintbrush to the landscape and changed the ordinary into magnificent beauty. The houses were nestled snuggly in their patches of serenity, and I knew that there would soon be curls of smoke rising from their chimneys as winter approached.

I left the bar car to return to my seat. As I gazed out the window, I thought of my visit with both excitement and trepidation. It wasn’t always an easy visit when Mira and I got together. All my life I had pursued a relationship with my half sister. My mind, lulled by the repetitive clatter of the wheels, slipped into a reverie of the past.

My parents never married nor lived together. My father lived with his mom when he was on leave from the Army. When my parents’ relationship ended, eighteen months after I was born, Mother dropped me off on his doorstep and disappeared. Not long after, Father’s battalion received orders to go overseas. He was certain that his mother would take care of me while he was away, but she refused. She did not like little girls—especially me. My grandmother believed I was a product from the wrong side of the blanket and belonged in a foster home. Father contacted Catholic Welfare for help, and they placed me with an older couple, portly and gray, who were qualified to care for a child my age.

Mr. Haggerty was over six feet tall. He sported a large mustache and a half smile, the other half drooping from the weight of a corncob pipe. In his younger days, he had been a professional gardener who tended to the flora on the huge estates in the surrounding areas. On weekends, he donned his overalls to care for the bushes, trees, plants, and flowers that beautified his own yard.

Mrs. Haggerty was still a beautiful woman. Her long, grey hair was braided and coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck, while loosened wisps framed her face. Her blue eyes always twinkled, even as she cleaned her house, cooked and baked, or greeted us as we came in from the out-of-doors.

They lived in a small suburb, between Stamford and Darien, called Noroton, a half block off the Post Road. It was an idyllic setting with St. John’s Catholic Church across the street and a newsstand/soda fountain and general store that could be reached via a short path through the small copse of trees behind their house.

The house was not large in the scope of the properties in the area, but it was a handsome, two-story house with brick façade on bottom and wood shingles on the top. A trestle with roses or morning glories, depending on the season, directed you from the gravel driveway to a flagstone path that led to the front porch. The brick steps were flanked by two white columns. A large, oak front door was graced by two etched glass panels on either side, through which one could view a visitor who had rung their melodious doorbell.

Inside, the long living room, complete with a cozy fireplace, spanned the front half of the house. Victorian furniture hugged each side of the fireplace, and oriental carpets covered the polished wood floors. At the left end was a glassed-in sun porch furnished with old wicker chairs and couches with comfy cushions. They invited one to sit and read, play a game of cards, work on the puzzle (invariably in progress on the side table), or rest from one’s labors in the afternoon sunlight which streamed through the surrounding windows. To the right, a set of steps plat-formed and lead either up to the second story or down to the kitchen area.

A large dining room and kitchen were located in the back half of the house. The dining suite seated eight. The buffet sparkled with Waterford crystal teardrop candlesticks and bowls. English bone china and serving pieces were safely stored inside a china cabinet. There was a small telephone table on which an upright, black phone rested, the receiver hanging in its cradle. The adjacent kitchen was sparse with only a deep double sink, a huge coal stove, and an enamel-top table and three chairs. All of the dishes, glassware, cookware, and staples were kept in a spacious walk-in pantry. Against the wall near the basement stairs stood a modern refrigerator. Off the kitchen, a mudroom, lined with racks for coats, led to a small screened-in porch. During the summer, the honey suckle bushes surrounding the porch produced an incredibly sweet fragrance.

The upper story of the house had three large bedrooms and a bathroom. The guest bedroom had the best furniture. Its twin, four-poster beds had pineapples carved on the posts. The color of the wood looked almost black.

Mr. and Mrs. Haggerty, however, were not rich. He worked at Yale and Towne Lock Company, and she worked for the Catholic Welfare. She cared for me and a young boy named Jack. Their home also welcomed other children who needed care for a few days, weeks, or months until their situations were satisfactorily resolved. They had developed an atmosphere of rules and discipline, tempered by patience and kindness, and a religious wisdom of right and wrong that facilitated a sense of security and peace in the household.

There was some consideration given to the proper manner in which I should address my new guardians. It was decided that I should use Maggie, with a short ah (as in Margaret) and Uncle, for Ewan Haggerty.

Each Sunday we walked down the hill and across the Post Road to Saint John’s for Sunday Mass. Mrs. Haggerty always wore her ‘Sunday best’ clothes to church, which she also donned on shopping trips to the city and social outings. She rarely bought a new dress or hat, but when she did, it was always a good quality item that she had frugally saved for out of their meager income. I remember one beautiful, blue voile cloche, a close-fitting hat, that complimented her twinkly blue, Irish eyes. Mr. Haggerty wore his good jacket and trousers with a white shirt and tie.

I went to Catechism and was confirmed in that church. On special occasions, they served a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, a welcome change from the oatmeal and cream of wheat that was the staple at home. Though the nuns had a reputation for being very harsh, I often defied them with one of my stubborn stares, which, along with pouting, were my two coping skills. I didn’t realize until I was older that it was because of Mrs. Haggerty, a pillar of the community and a formidable person to deal with, that I escaped any knuckle rapping or ear cuffing.

My sister Mira and her grandmother, Mrs. McLaren, lived four miles away in a pleasant area of three- and four-bedroom homes. The smaller houses were snuggled peacefully amid mansions with tall stone walls marking the timeless boundaries between properties. They attended the Episcopal Church a few blocks up from Saint John’s. The war had imposed rations on gas, so they walked to church, passing our house each week. They often stopped in for a cup of tea and toast to carry them on their journey home. During that time, Mrs. Haggerty developed a medical problem that required hospitalization. Not understanding the seriousness of a hospital stay, at age four, I was elated to learn that I would be staying with Mira and her grandmother for a few days.

Their large old house was set back from the road, surrounded by trees and hedges and tall lilac bushes—the heady scent of lilacs in spring still evokes a pleasant sigh. Large, healthy azalea bushes displayed their lavish colors of pinks and mauves in front of a glassed-in porch that spanned the front of the house, and that’s where Mira and I usually played; however, my favorite place to play was in her grandmother’s musty attic with trunks full of old clothes and relics from past decades.

Mira’s father John McLaren was also off to war. He was a mysterious figure, as was my father—probably because we were so young, and they were gone for such a long time. Mira and I shared the same adoration for our fathers as well as the psychological damages due to the absence of our mother. Our inquiries were always dismissed.

Our mother Nora seldom visited. Mira’s grandmother preferred it that way because, in her experience, Nora was a person to fear. She was controlling, overbearing, and had a violent temper. Arguing with a larger, younger, hot-tempered woman was a situation that Mrs. McLaren was not equipped to handle, especially when that woman was her daughter-in-law. She was tiny, compared to Nora, with a sweet disposition and kind heart, yet strong like so many women who had to cope with the scarcity of goods, food rationing, and their men off to war. Mrs. McLaren also knew the truth about the circumstances that precipitated the present situation, in other words, Nora’s promiscuity. Her Yorkshire heritage of keeping a stiff upper lip and a backbone of iron were part of her survival kit.

Mrs. Haggerty, on the other hand, was having none of it. Nora Moran dared not try to intimidate this hearty fellow Irish woman who had the backing of the Catholic Welfare and affluent relatives who loved and supported her. My mother visited so seldom that I would withdraw into a shell of depression that was too difficult to treat at the tender age of two or three years old. Mrs. Haggerty implored the representative handling my case to make a judgment about the matter. As a result, an ultimatum was issued regarding Mother’s visitation rights. In order to protect my mental health, either she visited on a regularly scheduled basis or not at all. I didn’t see my mother for almost five years.

My father was sent to the Pacific with an Army artillery division. He received many commendations for maintaining his Howitzers under enemy fire on the front line, day and night, in the heat of battle. My father’s brother Charles, who had been discharged after surgery for his wounds, visited frequently. He took me on outings and saw to my wardrobe needs. Sometimes he brought along his friends and girlfriends, all of whom spoiled me with attention and affection.

Chapter 2

AT SCHOOL, WE PUT TOGETHER care packages for the servicemen overseas, which were distributed by the Red Cross. They were small hygienic items such as Ipana brand toothpowder, toothbrushes, soap, razor blades, combs, and shampoo. All the children helped with the war drive. We towed our little red wagons around the neighborhood and collected tinfoil from cigarette packets, newspapers, and old tires. The grownups transported the items to a depot to be collected by the Army and recycled into usable byproducts.

Rubber and gas were in very short supply and, like so many other things, were rationed. The government gave every family a booklet filled with vouchers, called ration stamps, for purchasing these types of products. The amounts of rationed supplies, from processed foods to pairs of shoes, were determined by the number of family members. We used our ration stamps frugally and found ways to substitute things like Karo brand corn syrup and sweetened condensed milk for the sugar needed in cooking or sweetening coffee and tea. The substitute for butter was a big plastic bag of lard, complete with a packet of orange-colored powder. We mixed the food coloring into the lard, creating an orange product known as oleo. We ate many meatless casserole dinners, for meat was also rationed

Most of the homes in our neighborhood had a victory garden of vegetables; we ate what was in season and preserved the surplus crops in Mason jars, a process called canning. Because Mr. Haggerty had been a professional gardener, he planted a large garden, so we enjoyed tomatoes, green beans, carrots, squash, and peas all year long. We ate watermelon in the summer and pumpkin in the fall. Although Jack and I were very young, Mr. Haggerty taught us the skill of gardening by starting us out with a small herb patch of our own. When we were able to recognize the difference between crops and weeds, we helped weed the garden and the bordering hedges, and we cultivated the flowers all around the house. Two huge hydrangea bushes flanked the front porch. On the left side of the house, Mr. Haggerty grew rows of tulips, daffodils, and Iris, fronted by a border of purple and blue pansies.

We seldom used the old touring car that was housed in the garage next to the victory garden because of gas rationing. A few times a year we went to the country to visit friends who owned a farm. We picked bushels of apples, peaches, and pears for canning. On our ride home, Jack and I got to sit in the rumble seat to make room for the bushels on the back seat. We helped with the canning in little ways that Mrs. Haggerty found to keep our hands busy, all the while gorging on the fruit peelings. The summer was a great time to pick wild strawberries and blackberries in the open fields in the area. We took tin pails to fill with fruit; the dark purple stains on our faces revealed we had eaten our fill of the harvested berries. These fruits were preserved for use in pies and compotes during the winter months. Mrs. Haggerty always saved a little fruit to make jams and jellies, which were tart due to sugar rationing (I still prefer them to the sugary products on the market today). The filled Mason jars lined the shelves in the cellar. During the winter, Jack and I were given the chore of selecting the evening’s fare.

Patricia, Jackie! Go down to the cellar and decide what vegetable we shall have with dinner this evening.

Winter was also a great time of fun in the snow. Jack and I made snow forts, had snowball fights, and took turns sliding down the hill on our sled. I can still hear Maggie calling us home to thaw out. Children! Come in the house. Your cheeks are red and your hands are like ice. Jack, bring in the sled. I’m making Ovaltine for you.

Can we go back out later? we begged.

I’ll see, after you warm up, she would cajole; full well knowing we’d probably collapse in the sunroom and nap the afternoon away.

We took off our wet snowsuits and gloves in the mudroom, struggling with our galoshes. After drinking hot Ovaltine, we played games or worked on puzzles. Sure enough, before too long we would doze off on the wicker couch in the sunroom until it was time to wash up for supper.

Across the street lived Eleanor and Catherine, two spinsters. They were delightful ladies who were artistic in many ways. Eleanor painted pansies and bachelor buttons on glass plaques that could be hung in a window or mounted in frames. Catherine knitted and crocheted hats and scarves. I was the fortunate recipient all year round. I had a blue knitted cap with a tassel of yarn, a straw hat she decorated with ribbons, and my favorite, a crocheted white, lacy Dutch hat shaped over wire to form the wings. I had completely forgotten about that hat until years later when I saw the movie, Night and Day, with Cary Grant. One of the girls in the movie wore a hat exactly like it.

The ladies also had a player piano. On rainy summer days, they let us put the perforated rolls in the machine and peddle out tunes from marches to hymns to old classics.

At Mira’s house we played with an old RCA Victrola record player. I knew all the words to Al Jolson singing April Showers. The records were out-dated, but we had a lot of fun winding up the antiquated machine.

Summers were a wonderful time in our Connecticut neighborhood. Swinging from tree ropes like Tarzan or playing cowboys and Indians in the woods behind the garage were some of our favorite pastimes. We picked wild black-eyed Susans and tiger lilies in the fields to bring home to Maggie. Jack and I rested by a brook with amazingly cold water which quenched our thirsts and cooled our feet when we got too hot. Sometimes we went to the beach at Pear Tree Point for a simple picnic and a swim. The coast was rocky and rife with sand crabs that swiftly scrambled over the rocks, eliciting frightened squeals from us as we bolted to escape their vicious-looking claws and beady little black eyes. The water was always cold but a welcome respite from the heat. Finally, summer would end and the school year would begin.

I loved going to school. It was such a different world back then, when children could play outdoors and walk to and from school safely. I did well, and Maggie was very pleased. She always hugged me tightly and told me that I was a good girl.

Some of the children who attended our little brick elementary school on the Post Road came from very affluent families. I remember two girls, Leslie and Cornelia, very well. They were constantly together, giggling, and whispering secrets to each other, separating themselves from the rest of us. My Uncle Charles always saw to it that I was well dressed. On this particular occasion, I was wearing a new brown snowsuit with velvet lapels and velvet trim on the helmet-shaped hat. On the walk home from school, Cornelia and Leslie taunted me with cruel comments.

You live at Mrs. Haggerty’s! You have no mother! You’re just an orphan! said Cornelia with a contemptuous sneer.

Yeah, you don’t have a mother and father like us, you have to live with the Haggerty’s, piped in Leslie in a falsetto, snobbish mimicry of her friend’s derision.

They stopped when I turned around to face them, and spying shards of glass under a tree, Cornelia picked up a handful and threw them at me. Two pieces of glass hit my face, one piercing my left eyebrow, the other glancing off my cheek. As the blood streamed down my face, it dripped onto my beautiful new snowsuit. I looked in horror at the dark red spots that accumulated faster and faster. I turned and ran all the way home, the tears streaming down my face making further diluted bloody splotches on the front of my coat.

Maggie was at the kitchen table peeling potatoes when I burst in the back door, yelling my head off. I didn’t stop in the mudroom to remove my muddy boots but barged right through the kitchen door.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What happened to you, Patricia? she asked.

Leslie and Cornelia threw glass at me. They said I didn’t have a mother and had to live with you! I sobbed uncontrollably.

Leslie who, Cornelia who? Who threw the glass? Maggie asked as she undressed me.

Leslie Schoonover and Cornelia Caulfield! Cornelia did it, I wailed.

Maggie washed my face, extracted the shard