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Skyscraper (feat. Megan Nicole) - Boyce Avenue

Angela's Ashes


A Memoir of a Childhood


By Frank McCourt


This book is dedicated to my brothers, Malachy, Michael, Alphonsus. I learn from you, I admire you and I love you.


Acknowledgments


This is a small hymn to an exaltation of women.

R'lene Dahlberg fanned the embers.

Lisa Schwarzbaum read early pages and encouraged me.

Mary Breasted Smyth, elegant novelist herself, read the first third

and passed it on to Molly Friedrich, who became my agent and thought that Nan Graham, Editor-in-Chief at Scribner, would be just the right person to put the book on the road.

And Molly was right.

My daughter, Maggie, has shown me how life can be a grand adventure, while exquisite moments with my granddaughter, Chiara, have helped me recall a small child's wonder.

My wife, Ellen, listened while I read and cheered me to the final

page.

I am blessed among men.



I

My father and mother should have stayed in New York where they met and married and where I was born. Instead, they returned to Ireland when I was four, my brother, Malachy, three, the twins, Oliver and Eugene, barely one, and my sister, Margaret, dead and gone.

When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.

People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early years, but nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty; the shiftless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and the terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years.

Above all-we were wet.

Out in the Atlantic Ocean great sheets of rain gathered to drift slowly up the River Shannon and settle forever in Limerick. The rain dampened the city from the Feast of the Circumcision to New Year's Eve.

It created a cacophony of hacking coughs, bronchial rattles, asthmatic wheezes, consumptive croaks. It turned noses into fountains, lungs into bacterial sponges. It provoked cures galore; to ease the catarrh you boiled onions in milk blackened with pepper; for the congested passages you made a paste of boiled flour and nettles, wrapped it in a rag, and slapped it, sizzling, on the chest.

From October to April the walls of Limerick glistened with the damp. Clothes never dried: tweed and woolen coats housed living things, sometimes sprouted mysterious vegetations. In pubs, steam rose from damp bodies and garments to be inhaled with cigarette and pipe smoke laced with the stale fumes of spilled stout and whiskey and tinged with the odor of piss wafting in from the outdoor jakes where many a man puked up his week's wages.

The rain drove us into the church-our refuge, our strength, our only dry place. At Mass, Benediction, novenas, we huddled in great damp clumps, dozing through priest drone, while steam rose again from our clothes to mingle with the sweetness of incense, flowers and candles.

Limerick gained a reputation for piety, but we knew it was only the

rain.

My father, Malachy McCourt, was born on a farm in Toome, County

Antrim. Like his father before, he grew up wild, in trouble with the English, or the Irish, or both. He fought with the Old IRA and for some desperate act he wound up a fugitive with a price on his head.

When I was a child I would look at my father, the thinning hair, the collapsing teeth, and wonder why anyone would give money for a head like that. When I was thirteen my father's mother told me a secret: as a wee lad your poor father was dropped on his head. It was an accident, he was never the same after, and you must remember that people dropped on their heads can be a bit peculiar.

Because of the price on the head he had been dropped on, he had to be spirited out of Ireland via cargo ship from Galway. In New York, with Prohibition in full swing, he thought he had died and gone to hell for his sins. Then he discovered speakeasies and he rejoiced.

After wandering and drinking in America and England he yearned for peace in his declining years. He returned to Belfast, which erupted all around him. He said, A pox on all their houses, and chatted with the ladies of Andersontown. They tempted him with delicacies but he waved them away and drank his tea. He no longer smoked or touched alcohol, so what was the use? It was time to go and he died in the Royal Victoria Hospital.

My mother, the former Angela Sheehan, grew up in a Limerick slum with her mother, two brothers, Thomas and Patrick, and a sister, Agnes. She never saw her father, who had run off to Australia weeks before her birth.

After a night of drinking porter in the pubs of Limerick he staggers down the lane singing his favorite song, Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murphy's chowder?

Nobody spoke so he said it all the louder It's a dirty Irish trick and I can lick the Mick Who threw the overalls in Murphy's chowder.

He's in great form altogether and he thinks he'll play a while with little Patrick, one year old. Lovely little fella. Loves his daddy. Laughs when Daddy throws him up in the air. Upsy daisy, little Paddy, upsy daisy, up in the air in the dark, so dark, oh, Jasus, you miss the child on the way down and poor little Patrick lands on his head, gurgles

a bit, whimpers, goes quiet. Grandma heaves herself from the bed, heavy with the child in her belly, my mother. She's barely able to lift little Patrick from the floor. She moans a long moan over the child and turns on Grandpa. Get out of it. Out. If you stay here a minute longer I'll take the hatchet to you, you drunken lunatic. By Jesus, I'll swing at the end of a rope for you. Get out.

Grandpa stands his ground like a man. I have a right, he says, to stay in me own house.

She runs at him and he melts before this whirling dervish with a damaged child in her arms and a healthy one stirring inside. He stumbles from the house, up the lane, and doesn't stop till he reaches Melbourne in Australia.

Little Pat, my uncle, was never the same after. He grew up soft in the head with a left leg that went one way, his body the other. He never learned to read or write but God blessed him in another way. When he started to sell newspapers at the age of eight he could count money better than the Chancellor of the Exchequer himself. No one knew why he was called Ab Sheehan, The Abbot, but all Limerick loved him.

My mother's troubles began the night she was born. There is my grandmother in the bed heaving and gasping with the labor pains, praying to St. Gerard Majella, patron saint of expectant mothers. There is Nurse O'Halloran, the midwife, all dressed up in her finery. It's New Year's Eve and Mrs. O'Halloran is anxious for this child to be born so that she can rush off to the parties and celebrations. She tells my grandmother: Will you push, will you, push. Jesus, Mary and holy St. Joseph, if you don't hurry with this child it won't be born till the New Year and what good is that to me with me new dress? Never mind St. Gerard Majella. What can a man do for a woman at a time like this even if he is a saint? St. Gerard Majella my arse.

My grandmother switches her prayers to St. Ann, patron saint of difficult labor. But the child won't come. Nurse O'Halloran tells my grandmother, Pray to St. Jude, patron saint of desperate cases.

St. Jude, patron of desperate cases, help me. I'm desperate. She grunts and pushes and the infant's head appears, only the head, my mother, and it's the stroke of midnight, the New Year. Limerick City erupts with whistles, horns, sirens, brass bands, people calling and singing, Happy New Year. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and church bells all over ring out the Angelus and Nurse O'Halloran weeps for the waste of a dress, that child still in there and me in me finery. Will you come out, child, will you? Grandma gives a great push and the child is in the world, a lovely girl with black curly hair and sad blue eyes.

Ah, Lord above, says Nurse O'Halloran, this child is a time straddler, born with her head in the New Year and her arse in the Old or was it her head in the Old Year and her arse in the New. You'll have to write to the Pope, missus, to find out what year this child was born in and I'll save this dress for next year.

And the child was named Angela for the Angelus which rang the midnight hour, the New Year, the minute of her coming and because she was a little angel anyway.

Love her as in childhood

Though feeble, old and grey.

For you'll never miss a mother's love

Till she's buried beneath the clay.

At the St. Vincent de Paul School, Angela learned to read, write, and calculate and by her ninth year her schooling was done. She tried her hand at being a charwoman, a skivvy, a maid with a little white hat opening doors, but she could not manage the little curtsy that is required and her mother said, You don't have the knack of it. You're pure useless. Why don't you go to America where there's room for all sorts of uselessness? I'll give you the fare.

She arrived in New York just in time for the first Thanksgiving Day of the Great Depression. She met Malachy at a party given by Dan MacAdorey and his wife, Minnie, on Classon Avenue in Brooklyn. Malachy liked Angela and she liked him. He had a hangdog look, which came from the three months he had just spent in jail for hijacking a truck. He and his friend John McErlaine believed what they were told in the speakeasy, that the truck was packed to the roof with cases of canned pork and beans. Neither knew how to drive and when the police saw the truck lurch and jerk along Myrtle Avenue they pulled it over. The police searched the truck and wondered why anyone would hijack a truck containing, not pork and beans, but cases of buttons.

With Angela drawn to the hangdog look and Malachy lonely after three months in jail, there was bound to be a knee-trembler.

A knee-trembler is the act itself done up against a wall, man and woman up on their toes, straining so hard their knees tremble with the excitement that's in it.

That knee-trembler put Angela in an interesting condition and, of course, there was talk. Angela had cousins, the MacNamara sisters, Delia and Philomena, married, respectively, to Jimmy Fortune of County Mayo, and Tommy Flynn, of Brooklyn itself.

Delia and Philomena were large women, great-breasted and fierce. When they sailed along the sidewalks of Brooklyn lesser creatures stepped aside, respect was shown. The sisters knew what was right and they knew what was wrong and any doubts could be resolved by the One, Holy, Roman, Catholic and Apostolic Church. They knew that Angela, unmarried, had no right to be in an interesting condition and they would take steps.

Steps they took. With Jimmy and Tommy in tow they marched to the speakeasy on Atlantic Avenue where Malachy could be found on Friday, payday when he had a job. The man in the speak, Joey Cacciamani, did not want to admit the sisters but Philomena told him that if he wanted to keep the nose on his face and that door on its hinges he'd better open up for they were there on God's business. Joey said, Awright, awright, you Irish. Jeezoz! Trouble, trouble.

Malachy, at the far end of the bar, turned pale, gave the great breasted ones a sickly smile, offered them a drink. They resisted the smile and spurned the offer. Delia said, We don't know what class of a tribe you come from in the North of Ireland.

Philomena said, There is a suspicion you might have Presbyterians in your family, which would explain what you did to our cousin.

Jimmy said, Ah, now, ah, now. 'Tisn't his fault if there's Presbyterians in his family.

Delia said, You shuddup.

Tommy had to join in. What you did to that poor unfortunate girl is a disgrace to the Irish race and you should be ashamed of yourself.

Och, I am, said Malachy. I am.

Nobody asked you to talk, said Philomena. You done enough damage with your blather, so shut your yap.

And while your yap is shut, said Delia, we're here to see you do the right thing by our poor cousin, Angela Sheehan.

Malachy said, Och, indeed, indeed. The right thing is the right thing and I'd be glad to buy you all a drink while we have this little

talk.

Take the drink, said Tommy, and shove it up your ass.

Philomena said, Our little cousin no sooner gets off the boat than

you are at her. We have morals in Limerick, you know, morals. We're not like jackrabbits from Antrim, a place crawling with Presbyterians.

Jimmy said, He don't look like a Presbyterian.

You shuddup, said Delia.

Another thing we noticed, said Philomena. You have a very odd

manner.

Malachy smiled. I do?

about

You do, says Delia. I think 'tis one of the first things we noticed you, that odd manner, and it gives us a very uneasy feeling.

'Tis that sneaky little Presbyterian smile, said Philomena.

Och, said Malachy, it's just the trouble I have with my teeth. Teeth or no teeth, odd manner or no odd manner, you're gonna marry

that girl, said Tommy. Up the middle aisle you're going.

Och, said Malachy, I wasn't planning to get married, you know.

There's no work and I wouldn't be able to support... Married is what you're going to be, said Delia. Up the middle aisle, said Jimmy.

You shuddup, said Delia.

Malachy watched them leave. I'm in a desperate pickle, he told Joey Cacciamani.

Bet your ass, said Joey. I see them babes comin' at me I jump inna Hudson River.

Malachy considered the pickle he was in. He had a few dollars in his pocket from the last job and he had an uncle in San Francisco or one of the other California Sans. Wouldn't he be better off in California, far from the great breasted MacNamara sisters and their grim husbands? He would, indeed, and he'd have a drop of the Irish to celebrate his decision and departure. Joey poured and the drink nearly took the lining off Malachy's gullet. Irish, indeed! He told Joey it was a Prohibition concoction from the devil's own still. Joey shrugged. I don't know nothing. I only pour. Still, it was better than nothing and Malachy would have another and one for yourself, Joey, and ask them two decent Italians what they'd like and what are you talking about, of course, I have the money to pay for it.

He awoke on a bench in the Long Island Railroad Station, a cop rapping on his boots with a nightstick, his escape money gone, the MacNamara sisters ready to eat him alive in Brooklyn.

On the feast of St. Joseph, a bitter day in March, four months after the knee-trembler, Malachy married Angela and in August the child was born. In November Malachy got drunk and decided it was time to register the child's birth. He thought he might name the child Malachy, after himself, but his North of Ireland accent and the alcoholic mumble confused the clerk so much he simply entered the name Male on the certificate.

Not until late December did they take Male to St. Paul's Church to be baptized and named Francis after his father's father and the lovely saint of Assisi. Angela wanted to give him a middle name, Munchin, after the patron saint of Limerick but Malachy said over his dead body. No son of his would have a Limerick name. It's hard enough going through life with one name. Sticking on middle names was an atrocious American habit and there was no need for a second name when you're christened after the man from Assisi.

There was a delay the day of the baptism when the chosen godfather, John McErlaine, got drunk at the speakeasy and forgot his responsibilities. Philomena told her husband, Tommy, he'd have to be godfather. Child's soul is in danger, she said. Tommy put his head down and grumbled. All right. I'll be godfather but I'm not goin' to be responsible if he grows up like his father causin' trouble and goin' through life with the odd manner for if he does he can go to John McErlaine at the speakeasy. The priest said, True for you, Tom, decent man that you are, fine man that never set foot inside a speakeasy. Malachy, fresh from the speakeasy himself, felt insulted and wanted to argue with the priest, one sacrilege on top of another. Take off that collar and we'll see who's the man. He had to be held back by the great breasted ones and their husbands grim. Angela, new mother, agitated, forgot she was holding the child and let him slip into the baptismal font, a total immersion of the Protestant type. The altar boy assisting the priest plucked the infant from the font and restored him to Angela, who sobbed and clutched him, dripping, to her bosom. The priest laughed, said he had never seen the likes, that the child was a regular little Baptist now and hardly needed a priest. This maddened Malachy again and he wanted to jump at the priest for calling the child some class of a Protestant. The priest said, Quiet, man, you're in God's house, and when Malachy said, God's house, my arse, he was thrown out on Court Street because you can't say arse in God's house.

After baptism Philomena said she had tea and ham and cakes in her house around the corner. Malachy said, Tea? and she said, Yes, tea, or is it whiskey you want? He said tea was grand but first he'd have to go and deal with John McErlaine, who didn't have the decency to carry out his duties as godfather. Angela said, You're only looking for an excuse to run to the speakeasy, and he said, As God is my witness, the drink is the last thing on my mind. Angela started to cry. Your son's christening day and you have to go drinking. Delia told him he was a disgusting specimen but what could you expect from the North of Ireland.

Malachy looked from one to the other, shifted on his feet, pulled his cap down over his eyes, shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets, said, Och, aye, the way they do in the far reaches of County Antrim, turned, hurried up Court Street to the speakeasy on Atlantic Avenue where he was sure they'd ply him with free drink in honor of his son's baptism.

At Philomena's house the sisters and their husbands ate and drank while Angela sat in a corner nursing the baby and crying. Philomena stuffed her mouth with bread and ham and rumbled at Angela, That's what you get for being such a fool. Hardly off the boat and you fall for that lunatic. You shoulda stayed single, put the child up for adoption, and you'd be a free woman today. Angela cried harder and Delia took up the attack, Oh, stop it, Angela, stop it. You have nobody to blame but yourself for gettin' into trouble with a drunkard from the North, a man that doesn't even look like a Catholic, him with his odd manner. I'd say

that... that... Malachy has a streak of the Presbyterian in him right enough. You shuddup, Jimmy.

If I was you, said Philomena, I'd make sure there's no more children. He don't have a job, so he don't, an' never will the way he drinks. So... no more children, Angela. Are you listenin' to me?

I am, Philomena.

A year later another child was born. Angela called him Malachy after his father and gave him a middle name, Gerard, after his father's brother.

The MacNamara sisters said Angela was nothing but a rabbit and they wanted nothing to do with her till she came to her senses.

Their husbands agreed.

I'm in a playground on Classon Avenue in Brooklyn with my brother, Malachy. He's two, I'm three. We're on the seesaw.

Up, down, up, down.

Malachy goes up.

I get off.

Malachy goes down. Seesaw hits the ground. He screams. His hand is

on his mouth and there's blood.

Oh, God. Blood is bad. My mother will kill me.

And here she is, trying to run across the playground. Her big belly

slows her.

She says, What did you do? What did you do to I don't know what to say. I don't know what I She pulls my ear. Go home. Go to bed. Bed?

In the middle of the day?

She pushes me toward the playground gate. Go. She picks up Malachy and waddles off.

My father's friend, Mr. MacAdorey, is outside

the child?

did.

our building. He's standing at the edge of the sidewalk with his wife, Minnie, looking at a

dog lying in the gutter. There is blood all around the dog's head. It's the color of the blood from Malachy's mouth.

Malachy has dog blood and the dog has Malachy blood.

I pull Mr. MacAdorey's hand. I tell him Malachy has blood like the

dog.

Oh, he does, indeed, Francis. Cats have it, too. And Eskimos. All

the same blood.

Minnie says, Stop that, Dan. Stop confusing the wee fellow. She

tells me the poor wee dog was hit by a car and he crawled all the way from the middle of the street before he died. Wanted to come home, the poor wee creature.

Mr. MacAdorey says, You'd better go home, Francis. I don't know what you did to your wee brother, but your mother took him off to the hospital. Go home, child.

Will Malachy die like the dog, Mr. MacAdorey? Minnie says, He bit his tongue. He won't die. Why did the dog die?

It was his time, Francis.

The apartment is empty and I wander between the two rooms, the bedroom and the kitchen. My father is out looking for a job and my mother is at the hospital with Malachy. I wish I had something to eat but there's nothing in the icebox but cabbage leaves floating in the melted ice. My father said never eat anything floating in water for the rot that might be in it. I fall asleep on my parents' bed and when my mother

shakes me it's nearly dark. Your little brother is going to sleep a while. Nearly bit his tongue off. Stitches galore. Go into the other

room.

My father is in the kitchen sipping black tea from his big white

enamel mug. He lifts me to his lap.

Dad, will you tell me the story about Coo Coo?

Cuchulain. Say it after me, Coo-hoo-lin. I'll tell you the story

when you say the name right. Coo-hoo-lin.

I say it right and he tells me the story of Cuchulain, who had a

different name when he was a boy, Setanta. He grew up in Ireland where Dad lived when he was a boy in County Antrim. Setanta had a stick and ball and one day he hit the ball and it went into the mouth of a big dog that belonged to Culain and choked him. Oh, Culain was angry and he said, What am I to do now without my big dog to guard my house and my wife and my ten small children as well as numerous pigs, hens, sheep?

Setanta said, I'm sorry. I'll guard your house with my stick and ball and I'll change my name to Cuchulain, the Hound of Culain. He did. He guarded the house and regions beyond and became a great hero, the Hound of Ulster itself. Dad said he was a greater hero than Hercules or Achilles that the Greeks were always bragging about and he could take on King Arthur and all his knights in a fair fight which, of course, you could never get with an Englishman anyway.

That's my story. Dad can't tell that story to Malachy or any other children down the hall.

He finishes the story and lets me sip his tea. It's bitter, but I'm happy there on his lap.

For days Malachy's tongue is swollen and he can hardly make a sound never mind talk. But even if he could no one is paying any attention to him because we have two new babies who were brought by an angel in the middle of the night. The neighbors say, Ooh, Ah, they're lovely boys, look at those big eyes.

Malachy stands in the middle of the room, looking up at everyone, pointing to his tongue and saying, Uck, uck. When the neighbors say, Can't you see we're looking at your little brothers? he cries, till Dad pats him on the head. Put in your tongue, son, and go out and play with Frankie. Go on.

In the playground I tell Malachy about the dog who died in the street because someone drove a ball into his mouth. Malachy shakes his head. No uck ball. Car uck kill dog. He cries because his tongue hurts and he can hardly talk and it's terrible when you can't talk. He won't let me push him on the swing. He says, You uck kill me uck on seesaw. He gets Freddie Leibowitz to push him and he's happy, laughing when he swings to the sky. Freddie is big, he's seven, and I ask him to push me. He says, No, you tried to kill your brother.

I try to get the swing going myself but all I can do is move it back and forth and I'm angry because Freddie and Malachy are laughing at the way I can't swing. They're great pals now, Freddie, seven, Malachy, two. They laugh every day and Malachy's tongue gets better with all the laughing.

When he laughs you can see how white and small and pretty his teeth are and you can see his eyes shine. He has blue eyes like my mother. He has golden hair and pink cheeks. I have brown eyes like Dad. I have black hair and my cheeks are white in the mirror. My mother tells Mrs. Leibowitz down the hall that Malachy is the happiest child in the world.

She tells Mrs. Leibowitz down the hall, Frankie has the odd manner like his father. I wonder what the odd manner is but I can't ask because I'm not supposed to be listening.

I wish I could swing up into the sky, up into the clouds. I might be able to fly around the whole world and not hear my brothers, Oliver and Eugene, cry in the middle of the night anymore. My mother says they're always hungry. She cries in the middle of the night, too. She says she's worn out nursing and feeding and changing and four boys is too much for her. She wishes she had one little girl all for herself. She'd give anything for one little girl.

I'm in the playground with Malachy. I'm four, he's three. He lets me push him on the swing because he's no good at swinging himself and Freddie Leibowitz is in school. We have to stay in the playground because the twins are sleeping and my mother says she's worn out. Go out and play, she says, and give me some rest. Dad is out looking for a job again and sometimes he comes home with the smell of whiskey, singing all the songs about suffering Ireland. Mam gets angry and says Ireland can kiss her arse. He says that's nice language to be using in front of the children and she says never mind the language, food on the table is what she wants, not suffering Ireland. She says it was a sad day Prohibition ended because Dad gets the drink going around to saloons offering to sweep out the bars and lift barrels for a whiskey or a beer. Sometimes he brings home bits of the free lunch, rye bread, corned beef, pickles. He puts the food on the table and drinks tea himself. He says food is a shock to the system and he doesn't know where we get our appetites. Mam

says,

They get their appetites because they're starving half the time.

When Dad gets a job Mam is cheerful and she sings, Anyone can see why I wanted your kiss,

It had to be and the reason is this

Could it be true, someone like you

Could love me, love me?

When Dad brings home the first week's wages Mam is delighted she can pay the lovely Italian man in the grocery shop and she can hold her head up again because there's nothing worse in the world than to owe and be beholden to anyone. She cleans the kitchen, washes the mugs and plates, brushes crumbs and bits of food from the table, cleans out the icebox and orders a fresh block of ice from another Italian. She buys toilet paper that we can take down the hall to the lavatory and that, she says, is better than having the headlines from the Daily News blackening your arse. She boils water on the stove and spends a day at a great tin tub washing our shirts and socks, diapers for the twins, our two sheets, our three towels. She hangs everything out on the clotheslines behind the apartment house and we can watch the clothes dance in wind and sun. She says you wouldn't want the neighbors to know what you have in the way of a wash but there's nothing like the sweetness of clothes dried by the sun.

When Dad brings home the first week's wages on a Friday night we know the weekend will be wonderful. On Saturday night Mam will boil water on the stove and wash us in the great tin tub and Dad will dry us. Malachy will turn around and show his behind. Dad will pretend to be shocked and we'll all laugh. Mam will make hot cocoa and we'll be able to stay up while Dad tells us a story out of his head. All we have to do is

say a name, Mr. MacAdorey or Mr. Leibowitz down the hall, and Dad will have the two of them rowing up a river in Brazil chased by Indians with green noses and puce shoulders. On nights like that we can drift off to sleep knowing there will be a breakfast of eggs, fried tomatoes and fried bread, tea with lashings of sugar and milk and, later in the day, a big dinner of mashed potatoes, peas and ham, and a trifle Mam makes, layers of fruit and warm delicious custard on a cake soaked in sherry.

When Dad brings home the first week's wages and the weather is fine Mam takes us to the playground. She sits on a bench and talks to Minnie MacAdorey. She tells Minnie stories about characters in Limerick and Minnie tells her about characters in Belfast and they laugh because there are funny people in Ireland, North and South. Then they teach each other sad songs and Malachy and I leave the swings and see-saws to sit with them on the bench and sing, A group of young soldiers one night in a camp Were talking of sweethearts they had.

All seemed so merry except one young lad, And he was downhearted and sad.

Come and join us, said one of the boys, Surely there's someone for you.

But Ned shook his head and proudly he said I am in love with two, Each like a mother to me,

From neither of them shall I part.

For one is my mother,

God bless her and love her,

The other is my sweetheart.

Malachy and I sing that song and Mam and Minnie laugh till they cry at the way Malachy takes a deep bow and holds his arms out to Mam at the end. Dan MacAdorey comes along on his way home from work and says Rudy Vallee better start worrying about the competition.

When we go home Mam makes tea and bread and jam or mashed potatoes with butter and salt. Dad drinks the tea and eats nothing. Mam says, God above, How can you work all day and not eat? He says, The tea is enough. She says, You'll ruin your health, and he tells her again that food is a shock to the system. He drinks his tea and tells us stories and shows us letters and words in the Daily News or he smokes a cigarette, stares at the wall, runs his tongue over his lips.

When Dad's job goes into the third week he does not bring home the wages. On Friday night we wait for him and Mam gives us bread and tea. The darkness comes down and the lights come on along Classon Avenue. Other men with jobs are home already and having eggs for dinner because you can't have meat on a Friday. You can hear the families talking upstairs and downstairs and down the hall and Bing Crosby is singing on the radio, Brother, can you spare a dime?

Malachy and I play with the twins. We know Mam won't sing Anyone can see why I wanted your kiss. She sits at the kitchen table talking to herself, What am I going to do? till it's late and Dad rolls up the stairs singing Roddy McCorley. He pushes in the door and calls for us, Where are my troops? Where are my four warriors?

Mam says, Leave those boys alone. They're gone to bed half hungry because you have to fill your belly with whiskey.

He comes to the bedroom door. Up, boys, up. A nickel for everyone who promises to die for Ireland.

Deep in Canadian woods we met

From one bright island flown.

Great is the land we tread, but yet

Our hearts are with our own.

Up, boys, up. Francis, Malachy, Oliver, Eugene. The Red Branch Knights, the Fenian Men, the IRA. Up, up.

Mam is at the kitchen table, shaking, her hair hanging damp, her face wet. Can't you leave them alone? she says. Jesus, Mary and Joseph,

isn't it enough that you come home without making fools of the children on top of it? She comes to us. Go back to bed, she

I want them up, he says. I want them

be free from the center to the sea.

Don't cross me, she says, for if you your mother's house.

a penny in your pocket without

says.

ready for the day Ireland will

do it'll be a sorry day in

He pulls his cap down over his face and cries, My poor mother. Poor Ireland. Och, what are we going to do?

Mam says, You're pure stone mad, and she tells us again to go to bed.

On the morning of the fourth Friday of Dad's job Mam asks him if he'll be home tonight with his wages or will he drink everything again? He looks at us and shakes his head at Mam as if to say, Och, you shouldn't talk like that in front of the children.

Mam keeps at him. I'm asking you, Are you coming home so that we can have a bit of supper or will it be midnight with no money in your pocket and you singing Kevin Barry and the rest of the sad songs?

He puts on his cap, shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, sighs and looks up at the ceiling. I told you before I'll be home, he

says.

Later in the day Mam dresses us. She puts the twins into the pram

and off we go through the long streets of Brooklyn. Sometimes she lets Malachy sit in the pram when he's tired of trotting along beside her. She tells me I'm too big for the pram. I could tell her I have pains in my legs from trying to keep up with her but she's not singing and I know this is not the day to be talking about my pains.

We come to a big gate where there's a man standing in a box with windows all around. Mam talks to the man. She wants to know if she can go inside to where the men are paid and maybe they'd give her some of Dad's wages so he wouldn't spend it in the bars. The man shakes his head. I'm sorry, lady, but if we did that we'd have half the wives in Brooklyn storming the place. Lotta men have the drinking problem but there's nothing we can do long as they show up sober and do their work.

We wait across the street. Mam lets me sit on the sidewalk with my back against the wall. She gives the twins their bottles of water and sugar but Malachy and I have to wait till she gets money from Dad and we can go to the Italian for tea and bread and eggs.

When the whistle blows at half five men in caps and overalls swarm through the gate, their faces and hands black from the work. Mam tells us watch carefully for Dad because she can hardly see across the street

herself, her eyes are that bad. There are dozens of men, then a few, then none. Mam is crying, Why couldn't ye see him? Are ye blind or what?

She goes back to the man in the box. Are you sure there wouldn't be one man left inside?

No, lady, he says. They're out. I don't know how he got past you.

We go back through the long streets of Brooklyn. The twins hold up their bottles and cry for more water and sugar. Malachy says he's hungry and Mam tells him wait a little, we'll get money from Dad and we'll all have a nice supper. We'll go to the Italian and get eggs and make toast with the flames on the stove and we'll have jam on it. Oh, we will, and we'll all be nice and warm.

It's dark on Atlantic Avenue and all the bars around the Long Island Railroad Station are bright and noisy. We go from bar to bar looking for Dad. Mam leaves us outside with the pram while she goes in or she sends me. There are crowds of noisy men and stale smells that remind me of Dad when he comes home with the smell of the whiskey on him.

The man behind the bar says, Yeah, sonny, whaddya want? You're not supposeta be in here, y'know.

I'm looking for my father. Is my father here?

Naw, sonny, how'd I know dat? Who's your fawdah?

His name is Malachy and he sings Kevin Barry.

Malarkey?

No, Malachy.

Malachy? And he sings Kevin Barry?

He calls out to the men in the bar, Youse guys, youse know guy

Malachy what sings Kevin Barry?

Men shake their heads. One says he knew a guy Michael sang Kevin

Barry but he died of the drink which he had because of his war wounds. The barman says, Jeez, Pete, I didn't ax ya to tell me history o'

da woild, did I? Naw, kid. We don't let people sing in here. Causes trouble. Specially the Irish. Let 'em sing, next the fists are flying. Besides, I never hoid a name like dat Malachy. Naw, kid, no Malachy here.

The man called Pete holds his glass toward me. Here, kid, have a sip, but the barman says, Whaddya doin', Pete? Tryina get the kid drunk? Do that again, Pete, an' I'll come out an' break y'ass.

Mam tries all the bars around the station before she gives up. She leans against a wall and cries. Jesus, we still have to walk all the way to Classon Avenue and I have four starving children. She sends me back into the bar where Pete offered me the sip to see if the barman would fill the twins' bottles with water and maybe a little sugar in each. The men in the bar think it's very funny that the barman should be filling baby bottles but he's big and he tells them shut their lip. He tells me babies should be drinking milk not water and when I tell him Mam doesn't have the money he empties the baby bottles and fills them with milk. He says, Tell ya mom they need that for the teeth an' bones. Ya drink water an' sugar an' all ya get is rickets. Tell ya Mom.

Mam is happy with the milk. She says she knows all about teeth and bones and rickets but beggars can't be choosers.

When we reach Classon Avenue she goes straight to the Italian grocery shop. She tells the man her husband is late tonight, that he's probably working overtime, and would it be at all possible to get a few things and she'll be sure to see him tomorrow?

The Italian says, Missus, you always pay your bill sooner or later and you can have anything you like in this store.

Oh, she says, I don't want much.

Anything you like, missus, because I know you're an honest woman and you got a bunch o' nice kids there.

We have eggs and toast and jam though we're so weary walking the long streets of Brooklyn we can barely move our jaws to chew. The twins fall asleep after eating and Mam lays them on the bed to change their diapers. She sends me down the hall to rinse the dirty diapers in the lavatory so that they can be hung up to dry and used the next day. Malachy helps her wash the twins' bottoms though he's ready to fall asleep himself.

I crawl into bed with Malachy and the twins. I look out at Mam at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, drinking tea, and crying. I want to get up and tell her I'll be a man soon and I'll get a job in the place with the big gate and I'll come home every Friday night with money for eggs and toast and jam and she can sing again Anyone can see why I wanted your kiss.

The next week Dad loses the job. He comes home that Friday night, throws his wages on the table and says to Mam, Are you happy now? You hang around the gate complaining and accusing and they sack me. They were looking for an excuse and you gave it to them.

He takes a few dollars from his wages and goes out. He comes home late roaring and singing. The twins cry and Mam shushes them and cries a long time herself.

We spend hours in the playground when the twins are sleeping, when Mam is tired, and when Dad comes home with the whiskey smell on him, roaring about Kevin Barry getting hanged on a Monday morning or the Roddy McCorley song, Up the narrow street he stepped Smiling and proud and young About the hemp rope on his neck The golden ringlets clung, There's never a tear in the blue eyes Both glad and bright are they, As Roddy McCorley goes to die On the bridge of Toome today.

When he sings he marches around the table, Mam cries and the twins howl with her. She says, Go out, Frankie, go out, Malachy. You shouldn't see your father like this. Stay in the playground. We don't mind going to the playground.

We can play with the leaves piling up on the ground and we can push each other on the swings but then winter comes to Classon Avenue and the swings are frozen and won't even move. Minnie MacAdorey says, God help these poor wee boys.

They don't have a glove between them. That makes me laugh because I know Malachy and I have four hands between us and one glove would be silly. Malachy doesn't know what I'm laughing at: He won't know anything till he's four going on five.

Minnie brings us in and gives us tea and porridge with jam in it. Mr. MacAdorey sits in an armchair with their new baby, Maisie. He holds her bottle and sings, Clap hands, clap hands, Till Daddy comes home, With buns in his pocket For Maisie alone.

Clap hands, clap hands,

Till Daddy comes home,

For Daddy has money

And Mammy has none.

Malachy tries to sing that song but I tell him stop, it's Maisie's song. He starts to cry and Minnie says, There, there. You can sing the

song.

and I

song.

That's a song for all the children. Mr. MacAdorey smiles at Malachy wonder what kind of world is it where anyone can sing anyone else's

Minnie says, Don't frown, Frankie. It makes your face dark and God it's dark enough. Some day you'll have a little sister and you can

knows

sing that song to her. Och, aye. You'll have a little sister, surely.

Minnie is right and Mam gets her wish. There's a new baby soon, a little girl, and they call her Margaret. We all love Margaret. She has black curly hair and blue eyes like Mam and she waves her little hands and chirps like any little bird in the trees along Classon Avenue. Minnie says there was a holiday in heaven the day this child was made. Mrs. Leibowitz says the world never saw such eyes, such a smile, such happiness. She makes me dance, says Mrs. Leibowitz.

sings

When Dad comes home from looking for a job he holds Margaret and to her: In a shady nook one moonlit night A leprechaun I spied.

With scarlet cap and coat of green

A cruiskeen by his side.

'Twas tick tock tick his hammer went Upon a tiny shoe.

Oh, I laugh to think he was caught at last, But the fairy was laughing, too.

He walks around the kitchen with her and talks to her. He tells her how lovely she is with her curly black hair and the blue eyes of her mother. He tells her he'll take her to Ireland and they'll walk the Glens of Antrim and swim in Lough Neagh. He'll get a job soon, so he will, and she'll have dresses of silk and shoes with silver buckles.

The more Dad sings to Margaret the less she cries and as the days pass she even begins to laugh. Mam says, Look at him trying to dance with that child in his arms, him with his two left feet. She laughs and we all laugh.

The twins cried when they were small and Dad and Mam would say Whisht and Hush and feed them and they'd go back to sleep. But when Margaret cries there's a high lonely feeling in the air and Dad is out of bed in a second, holding her to him, doing a slow dance around the table, singing to her, making sounds like a mother. When he passes the window where the streetlight shines in you can see tears on his cheeks and that's strange because he never cries for anyone unless he has the drink taken and he sings the Kevin Barry song and the Roddy McCorley song. Now he cries over Margaret and he has no smell of drink on him.

Mam tells Minnie MacAdorey, He's in heaven over that child. He hasn't touched a drop since she was born. I should've had a little girl a long time ago.

Och, they're lovely, aren't they? says Minnie. The little boys are grand, too, but you need a little girl for yourself.

My mother laughs, For myself? Lord above, if I didn't nurse her I wouldn't be able to get near her the way he wants to be holding her day and night.

Minnie says it's lovely, all the same, to see a man so charmed with his little girl for isn't everyone charmed with her?

Everyone.

The twins are able to stand and walk and they have accidents all the time. Their bottoms are sore because they're always wet and shitty. They put dirty things in their mouths, bits of paper, feathers, shoelaces, and they get sick. Mam says we're all driving her crazy. She dresses the twins, puts them in the pram, and Malachy and I take them to the playground. The cold weather is gone and the trees have green leaves up and down Classon Avenue.

We race the pram around the playground and the twins laugh and make goo-goo sounds till they get hungry and start to cry. There are two bottles in the pram filled with water and sugar and that keeps them quiet for awhile till they're hungry again and they cry so hard I don't know what to do because they're so small and I wish I could give them all kinds of food so that they'd laugh and make the baby sounds. They love the mushy food Mam makes in a pot, bread mashed up in milk and water and sugar. Mam calls it bread and goody.

If I take the twins home now Mam will yell at me for giving her no rest or for waking Margaret. We are to stay in the playground till she sticks her head out the window and calls for us. I make funny faces for the twins to stop their crying. I put a piece of paper on my head and let it fall and they laugh and laugh. I push the pram over to Malachy playing on the swings with Freddie Leibowitz. Malachy is trying to tell Freddie all about the way Setanta became Cuchulain. I tell him stop telling that story, it's my story. He won't stop. I push him and he cries, Waah, waah, I'll tell Mam. Freddie pushes me and everything turns dark in my head and I run at him with fists and knees and feet till he yells, Hey, stop, stop, and I won't because I can't, I don't know how, and if I stop Malachy will go on taking my story from me. Freddie pushes me away and runs off, yelling, Frankie tried to kill me. Frankie tried to kill me. I don't know what to do because I never tried to kill anyone before and now Malachy, on the swing, cries, Don't kill me, Frankie, and he looks so helpless I put my arms around him and help him off the swing. He hugs me. I won't tell your story anymore. I won't tell Freddie about Coo, Coo. I want to laugh but I can't because the twins are crying in the pram and it's dark in the playground and what's the use of trying to make funny faces and letting things fall off your head when they can't see you in the dark?

The Italian grocery shop is across the street and I see bananas, apples, oranges. I know the twins can eat bananas. Malachy loves bananas and I like them myself. But you need money, Italians are not known for giving away bananas especially to the McCourts who owe them money already for groceries.

My mother tells me all the time, Never, never leave that playground except to come home. But what am I to do with the twins bawling with the hunger in the pram? I tell Malachy I'll be back in a minute. I make sure no one is looking, grab a bunch of bananas outside the Italian grocery shop and run down Myrtle Avenue, away from the playground, around the block and back to the other end where there's a hole in the fence. We push the pram to a dark corner and peel the bananas for the twins. There are five bananas in the bunch and we feast on them in the dark corner. The twins slobber and chew and spread banana over their faces, their hair, their clothes. I realize then that questions will be asked. Mam will want to know why the twins are smothered in bananas, where did you get them? I can't tell her about the Italian shop on the corner. I will have to say, A man.

That's what I'll say. A man.

Then the strange thing happens. There's a man at the gate of the playground. He's calling me. Oh, God, it's the Italian. Hey, sonny, come 'ere. Hey, talkin' to ya. Come 'ere.

I go to him.

You the kid wid the little bruddas, right? Twins?

Yes, sir.

Heah. Gotta bag o' fruit. I don' give it to you I trow id out.

Right? So, heah, take the bag. Ya got apples, oranges, bananas. Ya like bananas, right? I think ya like bananas, eh? Ha, ha. I know ya like the bananas. Heah, take the bag. Ya gotta nice mother there. Ya father? Well, ya know, he's got the problem, the Irish thing. Give them twins a banana. Shud 'em up. I hear 'em all the way cross the street.

Thank you, sir.

Jeez. Polite kid, eh? Where ja loin dat?

My father told me to say thanks, sir.

Your father? Oh, well.

Dad sits at the table reading the paper. He says that President

Roosevelt is a good man and everyone in America will soon have a job. Mam is on the other side of the table feeding Margaret with a bottle. She has the hard look that frightens me.

Where did you get that fruit?

The man.

What man?

The Italian man gave it to me.

Did you steal that fruit?

Malachy says, The man. The man

And what did you do to Freddie

Lovely woman. I don't know what we'd

And you had to attack poor Freddie.

gave Frankie the bag.

Leibowitz? His mother was here.

do without her and Minnie MacAdorey.

Malachy jumps up and down. He din't. He din't. Din't try to kill Freddie. Din't try to kill me.

Dad says, Whisht, Malachy, whisht. Come over here. And he takes Malachy on his lap.

My mother says, Go down the hall and tell Freddie you're sorry.

But Dad says, Do you want to tell Freddie you're sorry?

I don't.

My parents look at one another. Dad says, Freddie is a good boy. He

was only pushing your little brother on the swing. Isn't that right? He was trying to steal my Cuchulain story.

Och, now. Freddie doesn't care about the Cuchulain story. He has

his own story. Hundreds of stories. He's Jewish. What's Jewish?

Dad laughs. Jewish is, Jewish is people with their own stories. They don't need Cuchulain. They have Moses. They have Samson.

What's Samson?

If you go down and talk to Freddie I'll tell you about Samson later. You can tell Freddie you're sorry and you'll never do it again and you can even ask him about Samson. Anything you like as long as you talk to Freddie. Will you?

The baby gives a little cry in my mother's arms and Dad jumps up, dropping Malachy to the floor. Is she all right? My mother says, Of course she's all right. She's feeding. God above, you're a bundle of nerves.

They're talking about Margaret now and I'm forgotten. I don't care. I'm going down the hall to ask Freddie about Samson, to see if Samson is as good as Cuchulain, to see if Freddie has his own story or if he still wants to steal Cuchulain. Malachy wants to go with me now that my father is standing and doesn't have a lap anymore.

Mrs. Leibowitz says, Oh, Frankie, Frankie, come in, come in. And little Malachy. And tell me, Frankie, what did you do to Freddie? Tried to kill him? Freddie is a good boy, Frankie. Reads his book. Listens to radio with his papa. He swinks you brother on swink. And you try to kill him. Oh, Frankie, Frankie. And you poor mother and her sick baby.

She's not sick, Mrs. Leibowitz.

Sick she is. Zat is one sick baby. I know from sick babies. I work in hoztipal. Don't tell me, Frankie. Come in, come in. Freddie, Freddie, Frankie is here. Come out. Frankie won't kill you no more. You and little Malachy. Nice Chewish name, have piece cake, eh? Why they give you a Chewish name, eh? So, glass milk, piece cake. You boys so thin, Irish don't eat.

We sit at the table with Freddie, eating cake, drinking milk. Mr. Leibowitz sits in an armchair reading the paper, listening to the radio. Sometimes he speaks to Mrs. Leibowitz and I don't understand because strange sounds come from his mouth. Freddie understands. When Mr. Leibowitz makes the strange sounds Freddie gets up and takes him a piece of cake. Mr. Leibowitz smiles at Freddie and pats his head and Freddie smiles back and makes the strange sounds.

Mrs. Leibowitz shakes her head at Malachy and me. Oy, so thin. She says Oy so much Malachy laughs and says Oy and the Leibowitzes laugh and Mr. Leibowitz says words we can understand, When Irish oyes are smiling. Mrs. Leibowitz laughs so hard her body shakes and she holds her stomach and Malachy says Oy again because he knows that makes everyone laugh. I say Oy but no one laughs and I know Oy belongs to Malachy the way Cuchulain belongs to me and Malachy can have his Oy.

Mrs. Leibowitz, my father said Freddie has a favorite story.

Malachy says, Sam, Sam, Oy. Everyone laughs again but I don't because I can't remember what comes after Sam. Freddie mumbles through his cake, Samson, and Mrs. Leibowitz tells him, Don't talk wiz you mouse full, and I laugh because she's grown-up and she says mouse instead of mouth. Malachy laughs because I laugh and the Leibowitzes look at each other and smile. Freddie says, Not Samson. My favorite story is David and the giant, Goliath. David killed him dead with a slingshot, a stone in his head. His brains was on the ground.

Were on the ground, says Mr. Leibowitz.

Yes, Papa. Papa.

That's what Freddie calls his father and Dad is what I call my

father.

My mother's whisper wakes me. What's up with the child? It's still

early and there isn't much morning in the room but you can see Dad over by the window with Margaret in his arms. He's rocking her and sighing,

Och.

Mam says, Is she, is she sick?

Och, she's very quiet and she's a wee bit cold.

My mother is out of the bed, taking the child. Go for the doctor.

Go for God's sake, and my father is pulling on his trousers over his shirt, no jacket, shoes, no socks on this bitter day.

We wait in the room, the twins asleep at the bottom of the bed, Malachy stirring beside me. Frankie, I want a drink of water. Mam rocks in her bed with the baby in her arms. Oh, Margaret, Margaret, my own little love. Open your lovely blue eyes, my little leanv.

I fill a cup of water for Malachy and me and my mother wails, Water for you and your brother. Oh, indeed, Water, is it? And nothing for your sister. Your poor little sister. Did you ask if she had a mouth in her head? Did you ask if she'd like a drop of water? Oh, no. Go on and drink your water, you and your brother, as if nothing happened. A regular day for the two of you, isn't it? And the twins sleeping away as if they didn't have a care and their poor little sister sick here in my arms. Sick in my arms. Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven.

Why is she talking like this? She's not talking like my mother today. I want my father. Where is my father?

I get back into bed and start to cry. Malachy says, Why you cry? Why you cry? till Mam is at me again. Your sister is sick in my arms and you're there whining and whinging. If I go over to that bed I'll give you something to whinge about.

Dad is back with the doctor. Dad has the whiskey smell. The doctor examines the baby, prods her, raises her eyelids, feels her neck, arms, legs. He straightens up and shakes his head. She's gone. Mam reaches for the baby, hugs her, turns to the wall. The doctor wants to know, Was there any kind of accident? Did anyone drop the baby? Did the boys play too hard with her? Anything?

My father shakes his head. Doctor says he'll have to take her to examine her and Dad signs a paper. My mother begs for another few minutes with her baby but the doctor says he doesn't have all day. When Dad reaches for Margaret my mother pulls away against the wall. She has the wild look, her black curly hair is damp on her forehead and there is sweat all over her face, her eyes are wide open and her face is shiny with tears, she keeps shaking her head and moaning, Ah, no, ah, no, till Dad eases the baby from her arms. The doctor wraps Margaret completely in a blanket and my mother cries, Oh, Jesus, you'll smother her. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me. The doctor leaves. My mother turns to the wall and doesn't make a move or sound. The twins are awake, crying with the hunger, but Dad stands in the middle of the room, staring at the ceiling. His face is white and he beats on his thighs with his fists. He comes to the bed, puts his hand on my head. His hand is shaking. Francis, I'm going out for cigarettes.

Mam stays in the bed all day, hardly moving. Malachy and I fill the twins' bottles with water and sugar. In the kitchen we find a half loaf of stale bread and two cold sausages. We can't have tea because the milk is sour in the icebox where the ice is melted again and everyone knows you can't drink tea without milk unless your father gives it to you out of his mug while he's telling you about Cuchulain.

The twins are hungry again but I know I can't give them water and sugar all day and night. I boil sour milk in a pot, mash in some of the stale bread, and try to feed them from a cup, bread and goody. They make faces and run to Mam's bed, crying. She keeps her face to the wall and they run back to me, still crying. They won't eat the bread and goody till I kill the taste of the sour milk with sugar. Now they eat and smile and rub the goody over their faces. Malachy wants some and if he can eat it, so can I. We all sit on the floor eating the goody and chewing on the

cold sausage and drinking water my mother keeps in a milk bottle in the icebox.

After we eat and drink we have to go to the lavatory down the hall but we can't get in because Mrs. Leibowitz is inside, humming and singing. She says, Wait, chiltren, wait, darlinks. Won't be two seconds. Malachy claps his hands and dances around, singing, Wait, chiltren, wait, darlinks. Mrs. Leibowitz opens the lavatory door. Look at him. Little actor awready. So, chiltren, how's you mother?

She's in bed, Mrs. Leibowitz. The doctor took Margaret and my father went for cigarettes.

Oh, Frankie, Frankie. I said that was one sick child.

Malachy is clutching himself. Have to pee. Have to pee.

So, pee awready. You boys pee and we see you mother.

After we pee Mrs. Leibowitz comes to see Mam. Oh, Mrs. McCourt. Oy

vey, darlink. Look at this. Look at these twins. Naked. Mrs. McCourt, what is mazzer, eh? The baby she is sick? So talk to me. Poor woman. Here turn around, missus. Talk to me. Oy, this is one mess. Talk to me, Mrs. McCourt.

She helps my mother sit up against the wall. Mam seems smaller. Mrs. Leibowitz says she'll bring some soup and tells me get some water to wash my mother's face. I dip a towel in cold water and pat her forehead. She presses my hand against her cheeks. Oh, Jesus, Frankie. Oh, Jesus. She won't let my hand go and I'm frightened because I've never seen her like this before. She's saying Frankie only because it's my hand she's holding and it's Margaret she's thinking about, not me. Your lovely little sister is dead, Frankie. Dead. And where is your father? She lets my hand drop. I said where is your father? Drinking. That's where he is. There isn't a penny in the house. He can't get a job but he finds money for the drink, money for the drink, money for the drink, money for the drink. She rears back, knocks her head on the wall and screams, Where is she? Where is she? Where is my little girl? Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me this night. I'll go mad, so I will, I'll go pure mad.

Mrs. Leibowitz rushes in. Missus, missus, what is it? The little girl. Where is she?

My mother screams again, Dead, Mrs. Leibowitz. Dead. Her head drops and she rocks back and forth. Middle of the night, Mrs. Leibowitz. In her pram. I should have been watching her. Seven weeks she had in this world and died in the middle of the night, alone, Mrs. Leibowitz, all alone in that pram.

Mrs. Leibowitz holds my mother in her arms. Shush, now, shush. Babies go like that. It happens, missus. God takes them.

In the pram, Mrs. Leibowitz. Near my bed. I could have picked her up and she didn't have to die, did she? God doesn't want little babies. What is God going to do with little babies?

I don't know, missus. I don't know from God. Have soup. Good soup. Make you strong. You boys. Get bowls. I give you soup.

What's bowls, Mrs. Leibowitz?

Oh, Frankie. You don't know bowl? For the soup, darlink. You don' have a bowl? So get cups for the soup. I mix pea soup and lentil soup. No ham. Irish like the ham. No ham, Frankie. Drink, missus. Drink you soup.

She spoons the soup into my mother's mouth, wipes the dribble from her chin. Malachy and I sit on the floor drinking from mugs. We spoon the soup into the twins' mouths. It is lovely and hot and tasty. My mother never makes soup like this and I wonder if there's any chance Mrs.

Leibowitz could ever be my mother. Freddie could be me and have my mother and my father, too, and he could have Malachy and the twins for brothers. He can't have Margaret anymore because she's like the dog in the street that was taken away. I don't know why she was taken away. My mother said she died in her pram and that must be like getting hit by a car because they take you away.

I wish little Margaret could be here for the soup. I could give it to her with a spoon the way Mrs. Leibowitz is giving it to my mother and she'd gurgle and laugh the way she did with Dad. She wouldn't cry anymore and my mother wouldn't be in the bed day and night and Dad would be telling me Cuchulain stories and I wouldn't want Mrs. Leibowitz to be my mother anymore. Mrs. Leibowitz is nice but I'd rather have my father telling me Cuchulain stories and Margaret chirping and Mam laughing when Dad dances with two left feet.

Minnie MacAdorey comes in to help. Mother o' God, Mrs. Leibowitz, these twins smell to the high heavens.

I don't know about Mother o' God, Minnie, but these twins need a wash. They need clean diapers. Frankie, where are the clean diapers?

I don't know.

Minnie says, They're just wearing rags for diapers. I'll get some of Maisie's. Frankie, you take off those rags and throw them out.

Malachy removes Oliver's rag and I struggle with Eugene. The safety pin is stuck and when he wriggles it comes loose, sticks him in the hip, and starts him screaming for Mam. But Minnie is back with a towel and soap and hot water. I help her wash away the caked shit and she lets me shake talcum powder on the twins' raw sore skin. She says they're good little boys and she has a big surprise for them. She goes down the hall and brings back a pot of mashed potatoes for all of us. There is plenty of salt and butter in the potatoes and I wonder if there's any chance Minnie could be my mother so that I could eat like this all the time. If I could have Mrs. Leibowitz and Minnie for mothers at the same time I'd have no end of soup and mashed potatoes.

Minnie and Mrs. Leibowitz sit at the table. Mrs. Leibowitz says something has to be done. These children are running wild and where is the father? I hear Minnie whisper he's out for the drink. Mrs. Leibowitz says terrible, terrible, the way the Irish drink. Minnie says her Dan doesn't drink. Never touches the stuff and Dan told her that when the baby died that poor man, Malachy McCourt, went mad all over Flatbush Avenue and Atlantic Avenue, that he was thrown out of all the bars around the Long Island Railroad Station, that the cops would have thrown him in jail if it was anything else but the death of that lovely little baby.

Here he has four lovely little boys, says Minnie, but it's no comfort to him. That little girl brought out something in him. You know he didn't even drink after she was born and that was a miracle.

Mrs. Leibowitz wants to know where Mam's cousins are, the big women with the quiet husbands. Minnie will find them and tell them the children are neglected, running wild, sore arses and everything.

Two days later Dad returns from his cigarette hunt. It's the middle of the night but he gets Malachy and me out of the bed. He has the smell of the drink on him. He has us stand at attention in the kitchen. We are soldiers. He tells us we must promise to die for Ireland.

We will, Dad, we will.

All together we sing Kevin Barry,

On Mountjoy one Monday morning,

High upon the gallows tree,

Kevin Barry gave his young life

For the cause of liberty.

Just a lad of eighteen summers

Sure there's no one can deny

As he marched to death that morning

How he held his head on high.

There's a knock at the door, Mr. MacAdorey. Och, Malachy, for God's sake, it's three in the morning. You have the whole house woke with the singing.

Och, Dan, I'm only teaching the boys to die for Ireland.

You can teach them to die for Ireland in the daytime, Malachy. 'Tis urgent, Dan, 'tis urgent.

I know, Malachy, but they're only children. Babies. You go to bed

now like a dacent man.

Bed, Dan! What am I to do in bed? Her little face is there day and

night, her curly black hair and her lovely blue eyes. Oh, Jesus, Dan, what will I do? Was it the hunger that killed her, Dan?

Of course not. Your missus was nursing her. God took her. He has his reasons.

One more song, Dan, before we go to bed. Good night, Malachy.

Come on, boys. Sing.

Because he loved the motherland, Because he loved the green

He goes to meet a martyr's fate With proud and joyous mien;

True to the last, oh! true to the last He treads the upward way;

Young Roddy McCorley goes to die

On the bridge at Toome today.

You'll die for Ireland, won't you, boys?

We will, Dad.

And we'll all meet your little sister in heaven, won't we, boys? We will, Dad.

My brother is standing with his face pressed against a leg of the

table and he's asleep. Dad lifts him, staggers across the room, places him in the bed by my mother. I climb into bed and my father, still in his clothes, lies beside me. I'm hoping he'll put his arms around me but he goes on singing about Roddy McCorley and talking to Margaret, Oh, my little curly-haired, blue-eyed love, I would dress you in silks and take you to Lough Neagh, till day is at the window and I fall asleep.

That night Cuchulain comes to me. There's a big green bird on his shoulder that keeps singing about Kevin Barry and Roddy McCorley and I don't like that bird because there's blood dripping from his mouth when he sings. In one hand Cuchulain carries the gae bolga, the spear that is so mighty only he can throw it. In the other hand he carries a banana, which he keeps offering to the bird, who just squawks and spits blood at

him. You'd wonder why Cuchulain puts up with a bird like that. If the twins ever spat blood at me when I offered them a banana I think I'd hit them on the head with it.

In the morning my father is at the kitchen table and I tell him my dream. He says there were no bananas in Ireland in the old times and even if there were Cuchulain would never offer one to that bird because that was the one that came over from England for the summer and perched on his shoulder when he was dying and propped up against a stone and when the men of Erin which is Ireland wanted to kill him they were afraid till they saw the bird drinking Cuchulain's blood and then they knew it was safe to attack him, the dirty bloody cowards. So you have to be wary of birds, Francis, birds and Englishmen.

Most of the day Mam lies in bed with her face to the wall. If she drinks tea or eats anything she throws up in the bucket under the bed and I have to empty it and rinse it in the lavatory down the hall. Mrs. Leibowitz brings her soup and funny bread that is twisted. Mam tries to slice it but Mrs. Leibowitz laughs and tells her just pull. Malachy calls it pull bread but Mrs. Leibowitz says, No, it's challah, and teaches us how to say it. She shakes her head. Oy, you Irish. You'll live forever but you'll never say challah like a Chew.

Minnie MacAdorey brings potatoes and cabbage and sometimes a piece of meat. Och, times are hard, Angela, but that lovely man, Mr. Roosevelt, will find a job for everyone and your husband will have work. Poor man, it's not his fault there's a Depression. He looks for work day and night. My Dan is lucky, four years with the city and he don't drink. He grew up in Toome with your husband. Some drink. Some don't. Curse of the Irish. Now eat, Angela. Build yourself up after your loss.

Mr. MacAdorey tells Dad there's work with the WPA and when he gets the work there's money for food and Mam leaves the bed to clean the twins and to feed us. When Dad comes home with the drink smell there's no money and Mam screams at him till the twins cry, and Malachy and I run out to the playground. On those nights Mam crawls back into bed and Dad sings the sad songs about Ireland. Why doesn't he hold her and help her sleep the way he did with my little sister who died? Why doesn't he sing a Margaret song or a song that will dry Mam's tears? He still gets Malachy and me out of bed to stand in our shirts promising to die for Ireland. One night he wanted to make the twins promise to die for Ireland but they can't even talk and Mam screamed at him, You mad oul' bastard, can't you leave the children alone?

He'll give us a nickel for ice cream if we promise to die for Ireland and we promise but we never get the nickel.

We get soup from Mrs. Leibowitz and mashed potatoes from Minnie MacAdorey and they show us how to take care of the twins, how to wash their bottoms and how to wash diaper rags after they get them all shitty. Mrs. Leibowitz calls them diapers and Minnie calls them nappies but it doesn't matter what they call them because the twins get them shitty anyway. If Mam stays in the bed and Dad goes out looking for a job we can do what we like all day. We can put the twins in the small swings in the park and swing them till they get hungry and cry. The Italian man calls to me from across the street, Hey, Frankie, c'mere. Watch out crossing da street. Dem twins hungry again? He gives us bits of cheese and ham and bananas but I can't eat bananas anymore after the way the bird spat blood at Cuchulain.

The man says his name is Mr. Dimino and that's his wife, Angela, behind the counter. I tell him that's my mother's name. No kiddin', kid. Your mother is Angela? I didn't know the Irish had any Angelas. Hey, Angela, his mother's name is Angela. She smiles. She says, Thatsa nice.

Mr. Dimino asks me about Mam and Dad and who cooks for us. I tell him we get food from Mrs. Leibowitz and Minnie MacAdorey. I tell him all about the diapers and the nappies and how they get shitty anyway and he laughs. Angela, you listenin' to this? Thank God you're Italian, Angela. He says, Kid, I gotta talk to Mrs. Leibowitz. Ya gotta have relations can take care of you. Ya see Minnie MacAdorey, tell her come in see me. You kids runnin' wild.

Two big women are at the door. They say, Who are you? I'm Frank. Frank! How old are you?

I'm four going on five.

You're not very big for your age, are you?

I don't know.

Is your mother here?

She's in the bed.

What is she doing in the bed on a fine day in the middle of the

day?

She's sleeping. Well, we'll come in. We have to talk to your

mother.

They brush past me into the room. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the smell

of this place. And who are these children?

Malachy runs smiling to the big women. When he smiles you can see

how white and straight and pretty his teeth are and you can see the shiny blue of his eyes, the pink of his cheeks. All that makes the big women smile and I wonder why they didn't smile when they talked to me.

Malachy says, I'm Malachy and this is Oliver and this is Eugene, they're twins, and that's Frankie over there.

The big woman with the brown hair says, Well, you're not a bit shy, are you? I'm your mother's cousin, Philomena, and this is your mother's cousin, Delia. I'm Mrs. Flynn and she's Mrs. Fortune and that's what you call us.

Good God, says Philomena. Those twins are naked. Don't you have clothes for them?

Malachy says, They're all shitty.

Delia barks. See. That's what happens. A mouth like a sewer, and no wonder with a father from the North. Don't use that word. That's a bad word, a curse word. You could go to hell using a word like that.

What's hell? says Malachy. You'll know soon enough, says Delia.

The big women sit at the table with Mrs. Leibowitz and Minnie MacAdorey. Philomena says it's terrible what happened to Angela's little baby. They heard all about it and you'd wonder, wouldn't you, what they did with the little body. You might wonder and I might wonder but Tommy Flynn didn't wonder. Tommy said that Malachy from the North got money for that baby. Money? says Mrs. Leibowitz. That's right, says Philomena. Money. They take bodies any age and do experiments on them and there's not much left to give back nor would you want back bits of baby when they can't be buried in consecrated ground in that condition.

That's terrible, says Mrs. Leibowitz. A father or mother would never give the baby for something like that.

They would, says Delia, when they have the craving for the drink. They'd give their own mothers when they have the craving so what's a baby that's dead and gone in the first place?

Mrs. Leibowitz shakes her head and rocks in her chair. Oy, she says, oy, oy, oy. The poor baby. The poor mother. I thank God my husband don'have no what you call it? Craving? Right, craving. It's the Irish have the craving.

Not my husband, says Philomena. I'd break his face if he came home with the craving. Of course, Delia's Jimmy has the craving. Every Friday night you see him slipping into the saloon.

You needn't start insulting my Jimmy, says Delia. He works. He brings home his wages.

You'd want to keep an eye on him, says Philomena. The craving could get the better of him and you'd have another Malachy from the North on your hands.

Mind your own bloody business, says Delia. At least Jimmy is Irish, not born in Brooklyn like your Tommy.

And Philomena has no answer for that.

Minnie is holding her baby and the big women say she's a lovely baby, clean, not like this pack of Angela's running around this place. Philomena says she doesn't know where Angela got her dirty habits because Angela's mother was spotless, so clean you could eat your dinner off her floor.

I wonder why you'd want to eat your dinner off the floor when you had a table and a chair.

Delia says something has to be done about Angela and these children for they are a disgrace, so they are, enough to make you ashamed to be related. A letter has to be written to Angela's mother. Philomena will write it because a teacher in Limerick told her once she had a fine fist. Delia has to tell Mrs. Leibowitz that a fine fist means good handwriting.

Mrs. Leibowitz goes down the hall to borrow her husband's fountain pen, paper and an envelope. The four women sit at the table and make up a letter to send to my mother's mother: Dear Aunt Margaret, I take pen in hand to write you this letter and hope this finds you as it leaves us in the best of health. My husband Tommy is in fine form working away and Delia's husband Jimmy is in fine form working away and we hope this finds you in fine form. I am very sorry to tell you that Angela is not in fine form as the baby died, the little girl that was called Margaret after yourself, and Angela has not been the same since lying in the bed with her face to the wall. To make matters worser we think she's expecting again and that's too much altogether. The minute she losses one child there is another one on the way. We don't know how she does it. She's married four years, five children and another on the way. That shows you what can happen when you marry someone from the North for they have no control over themselves up there a bunch of Protestands that they are. He goes out for work every day but we know he spends all his time in the saloons and gets a few dollars for sweeping floors and lifting barrels and spends the money right back on the drink. It's terrible, Aunt Margaret, and we all think Angela and the children would be better off in her native land. We don't have the money to buy the tickets ourselves for times is hard but you might be able to see your way. Hopping this finds you in fine form as it leaves us thank God and His Blessed Mother.

I remain your loving neice

Philomena Flynn (what was MacNamara) and last but not least your neice Delia Fortune (what was MacNamara, too, ha ha ha)

Grandma Sheehan sent money to Philomena and Delia. They bought the tickets, found a steamer trunk at the St. Vincent de Paul Society, hired a van to take us to the pier in Manhattan, put us on the ship, said Good- bye and good riddance, and went away.

The ship pulled away from the dock. Mam said, That's the Statue of Liberty and that's Ellis Island where all the immigrants came in. Then she leaned over the side and vomited and the wind from the Atlantic blew it all over us and other happy people admiring the view. Passengers cursed and ran, seagulls came from all over the harbor and Mam hung limp and pale on the ship's rail.

II

In a week we arrived at Moville, County Donegal, where we took a bus to Belfast and from there another bus to Toome in County Antrim. We left the trunk in a shop and set out to walk the two miles up the road to Grandpa McCourt's house. It was dark on the road, the dawn barely stirring on the hills beyond.

Dad carried the twins in his arms and they took turns crying with the hunger. Mam stopped every few minutes to sit and rest on the stone wall along the road. We sat with her and watched the sky turn red and then blue. Birds started to chirp and sing in the trees and as the dawn came up we saw strange creatures in the fields, standing, looking at us. Malachy said, What are they, Dad?

Cows, son.

What are cows, Dad?

Cows are cows, son.

We walked farther along the brightening road and there were other

creatures in the fields, white furry creatures. Malachy said, What are they, Dad?

Sheep, son.

What are sheep, Dad?

My father barked at him, Is there any end to your questions? Sheep are sheep, cows are cows, and that over there is a goat. A goat is a goat. The goat gives milk, the sheep gives wool, the cow gives everything. What else in God's name do you want to know?

And Malachy yelped with fright because Dad never talked like that, never spoke sharply to us. He might get us up in the middle of the night and make us promise to die for Ireland but he never barked like this. Malachy ran to Mam and she said, There, there, love, don't cry. Your father is just worn out carrying the twins and 'tis hard answering all those questions when you're carting twins through the world.

Dad set the twins on the road and held out his arms to Malachy. Now the twins started to cry and Malachy clung to Mam, sobbing. The cows mooed, the sheep maaed, the goat ehehed, the birds twittered in the trees, and the beep beep of a motor car cut through everything. A man called from the motor car, Good Lord, what are you people doing on this road at this hour of an Easter Sunday morning?

Dad said, Good morning, Father.

Father? I said. Dad, is that your father?

Mam said, Don't ask him any questions.

Dad said, No, no, this is a priest.

Malachy said, What's a-? but Mam put her hand over his mouth. The priest had white hair and a white collar. He said, Where are

you going?

Dad said, Up the road to McCourts of Moneyglass, and the priest

took us in his motor car. He said he knew the McCourts, a fine family, good Catholics, some daily communicants, and he hoped he'd see us all at Mass, especially the little Yankees who didn't know what a priest was, God help us.

At the house my mother reaches for the gate latch. Dad says, No, no, not that way. Not the front gate. They use the front door only for visits from the priest or funerals.

We make our way around the house to the kitchen door. Dad pushes in the door and there's Grandpa McCourt drinking tea from a big mug and Grandma McCourt frying something.

Och, says Grandpa, you're here.

Och, we are, says Dad. He points to my mother. This is Angela, he says. Grandpa says, Och, you must be worn out, Angela. Grandma says nothing, she turns back to the frying pan. Grandpa leads us through the kitchen to a large room with a long table and chairs. He says, Sit down and have some tea. Would you like boxty?

Malachy says, What's boxty?

Dad laughs. Pancakes, son. Pancakes made with potatoes.

Grandpa says, We have eggs. It's Easter Sunday and you can have all

the eggs you can hold.

We have tea and boxty and boiled eggs and we all fall asleep. I

wake up in a bed with Malachy and the twins. My parents are in another bed over by the window. Where am I? It's getting dark. This is not the ship. Mam snores hink, Dad snores honk. I get up and poke at Dad. I have to pee. He says, Use the chamber pot.

What?

Under the bed, son. The chamber pot. It has roses on it and maidens cavorting in the glen. Pee in that, son.

I want to ask him what he's talking about for even if I'm bursting I feel strange peeing into a pot with roses and maidens cavorting, whatever they are. We had nothing like this in Classon Avenue where Mrs. Leibowitz sang in the lavatory while we clutched ourselves in the hall.

Now Malachy has to use the chamber pot but he wants to sit on it. Dad says, No, you can't do that, son. You have to go outside. When he says that I have to go, too, to sit. He leads us downstairs and through the big room where Grandpa is sitting reading by the fire and Grandma is dozing in her chair. It's dark outside, though the moon is bright enough for us to see where we're going. Dad opens the door of a little house that has a seat with a hole in it. He shows Malachy and me how to sit on the hole and how to wipe ourselves with squares of newspaper stuck on a nail. Then he tells us wait while he goes inside, closes the door and grunts. The moon is so bright I can look down the field and see the things called cows and sheep and I wonder why they don't go home.

In the house there are other people in the room with my grandparents. Dad says, These are your aunts: Emily, Nora, Maggie, Vera. Your aunt Eva is in Ballymena with children like you. My aunts are not like Mrs. Leibowitz and Minnie MacAdorey, they nod their heads but they don't hug us or smile. Mam comes into the room with the twins and when

Dad tells his sisters, This is Angela and these are the twins, they just nod again.

Grandma goes to the kitchen and soon we have bread and sausages and tea. The only one who speaks at the table is Malachy. He points his spoon at the aunts and asks their names again. When Mam tells him eat his sausage and be quiet his eyes fill with tears and Aunt Nora reaches over to comfort him. She says, There, there, and I wonder why everyone says there there when Malachy cries. I wonder what there there means.

It's quiet at the table till Dad says, Things are terrible in America. Grandma says, Och, aye. I read it in the paper. But they say Mr. Roosevelt is a good man and if you stayed you might have work by now.

Dad shakes his head and Grandma says, I don't know what you're going to do, Malachy. Things are worse here than they are in America. No work here and, God knows, we don't have room in this house for six more people.

Dad says, I thought I might get work on some of the farms. We could get a small place.

Where would you stay in the meantime? says Grandma. And how would you support yourself and your family?

Och, I could go on the dole, I suppose.

You can't get off a ship from America and go on the dole, says Grandpa. They make you wait a while and what would you do while you're waiting?

Dad says nothing and Mam looks straight ahead at the wall.

You'd be better off in the Free State, says Grandma. Dublin is big and surely there's work there or in the farms around.

You're entitled to money from the IRA, too, says Grandpa. You did your bit and they've been handing out money to men all over the Free State. You could go to Dublin and ask for help. We can loan you the bus fare to Dublin. The twins can sit on your lap and you won't have to pay for them.

Dad says, Och, aye, and Mam stares at the wall with tears in her eyes.

After we ate we went back to bed and next morning, all the grown- ups sat around looking sad. Soon a man came in a motor car and took us back down the road to the shop which had our trunk. They lifted the trunk up on the roof of a bus and we got into the bus. Dad said we were going to Dublin. Malachy said, What's Dublin? but no one answered him. Dad held Eugene on his lap and Mam held Oliver. Dad looked out at the fields and told me this is where Cuchulain liked to go for a walk. I asked him where Cuchulain hit the ball into the dog's mouth and he said a few miles away.

Malachy said, Look, look, and we looked. It was a great silvery sheet of water and Dad said it was Lough Neagh, the largest lake in Ireland, the lake where Cuchulain used to swim after his great battles. Cuchulain would get so hot that when he jumped into Lough Neagh it boiled over and warmed the surrounding countryside for days. Some day we'd all come back and go swimming like Cuchulain himself. We'd fish for eels and fry them in a pan not like Cuchulain, who would pluck them from the lough and swallow them, wriggling, because there's great power in an eel.

Is that right, Dad?

'Tis.

Mam didn't look out the window at Lough Neagh. Her cheek rested on

top of Oliver's head and she stared at the floor of the bus.

Soon the bus is rolling into a place where there are big houses, motor cars, horses pulling carts, people on bicycles and hundreds walking. Malachy is excited. Dad, Dad, where's the playground, the swings? I want to see Freddie Leibowitz.

Och, son, you're in Dublin now, far from Classon Avenue. You're in Ireland, a long way from New York.

When the bus stops the trunk is lifted down and set on the floor of the bus station. Dad tells Mam she can sit on a bench in the station while he goes to see the IRA man in a place called Terenure. He says there are lavatories in the station for the boys, he won't be long, he'll have money when he returns and we'll all have food. He tells me go with him and Mam says, No, I need him to help. But when Dad says, I'll need help carrying all that money, she laughs and says, All right, go with your Pop.

Your Pop. That means she's in a good mood. If she says your father it means she's in a bad mood.

Dad holds my hand as I trot along beside him. He's a fast walker, it's a long way to Terenure and I'm hoping he'll stop and carry me the way he did with the twins in Toome. But he lopes along and says nothing except to ask people where Terenure is. In awhile he says we're in Terenure and now we have to find Mr. Charles Heggarty of the IRA. A man with a pink patch on his eye tells us we're on the right street, Charlie Heggarty lives at number fourteen, God blast him. The man tells Dad, I can see you're a man that did his bit. Dad says, Och, I did my bit, and the man says, I did me bit, too, and what did it get me but one eye less and a pension that wouldn't feed a canary.

But Ireland is free, says Dad, and that's a grand thing.

Free, my arse, the man says. I think we were better off under the English. Good luck to you anyway, mister, for I think I know what you're here for.

A woman opens the door at number fourteen. I'm afraid, she says, that Mr. Heggarty is busy. Dad tells her he just walked all the way from the middle of Dublin with his small son, that he left wife and three children waiting for him at the bus place, and if Mr. Heggarty is that busy then we'll wait for him on the doorstep.

The woman is back in a minute to say Mr. Heggarty has a little time to spare and would you come this way. Mr. Heggarty is sitting at a desk near a glowing fire. He says, What can I do for you? Dad stands before the desk and says, I have just returned from America with wife and four children. We have nothing. I fought with a Flying Column during the Troubles and I'm hoping you can help me now in the time of need.

Mr. Heggarty takes Dad's name and turns the pages of a big book on his desk. He shakes his head, No, no record of your service here. Dad makes a long speech. He tells Mr. Heggarty how he fought, where, when, how he had to be smuggled out of Ireland because of the price on his head, how he was raising his sons to love Ireland.

Mr. Heggarty says he's sorry but he can't be handing out money to every man who wanders in claiming he did his bit. Dad says to me, Remember this, Francis. This is the new Ireland. Little men in little chairs with little bits of paper. This is the Ireland men died for. Mr. Heggarty says he'll look into Dad's claim and he'll be sure to let him know what turns up. He'll let us have money to take the bus back into the city. Dad looks at the coins in Mr. Heggarty's hand and says, You could add to that and make the price of a pint.

Oh, it's the drink you want, is it?

One pint is hardly drink.

You'd walk the miles back and make the boy walk because you want a

pint, wouldn't you?

Walking never killed anyone.

I want you to leave this house, says Mr. Heggarty, or I'll call a

guard, and you can be sure you'll never hear from me again. We're not handing out money to support the Guinness family.

Night falls along the streets of Dublin. Children laugh and play under streetlights, mothers call from doorways, smells of cooking come at us all the way, through windows we see people around tables, eating. I'm tired and hungry and I want Dad to carry me but I know there's no use asking him now the way his face is tight and set. I let him hold my hand and I run to keep up with him till we reach the bus place where Mam is waiting with my brothers.

They're all asleep on the bench, my mother and three brothers. When Dad tells Mam there's no money she shakes her head and sobs, Oh, Jesus, what are we going to do? A man in a blue uniform comes over and asks her, What's up, missus? Dad tells him we're stranded there at the bus station, we have no money and no place to stay and the children are hungry. The man says he's going off duty now, he'll take us to the police barracks where he has to report anyway, and they'll see what can be done.

The man in uniform tells us we can call him guard. That's what you call policemen in Ireland. He asks us what you call policemen in America and Malachy says, cop. The guard pats him on the head and tells him he's a clever little Yankee.

At the police barracks the sergeant tells us we can spend the night. He's sorry but all he can offer is the floor. It's Thursday and the cells are filled with men who drank their dole money and wouldn't leave the pubs.

The guards give us hot sweet tea and thick slices of bread slathered with butter and jam and we're so happy we run around the barracks, playing. The guards say we're a great bunch of little Yanks and they'd like to take us home but I say, No, Malachy says, No, the twins say, No, No, and all the guards laugh. Men in cells reach out and pat our heads, they smell like Dad when he comes home singing about Kevin Barry and Roddy McCorley going to die. The men say, Jasus, will ye listen to them. They sound like bloody fillum stars. Did yez fall outa the sky or what? Women in cells at the other end tell Malachy he's gorgeous and the twins are dotes. One woman talks to me. C'mere, love, would you like a sweet? I nod, and she says, All right, put your hand out. She takes something sticky from her mouth and puts it on my hand. There you are now, she says, a nice bit of butterscotch. Put that in your mouth. I don't want to put it in my mouth because it's sticky and wet from her mouth but I don't know what you're supposed to do when a woman in a cell offers you sticky butterscotch and I'm about to put it in my mouth when a guard comes, takes the butterscotch and throws it back at the woman. You drunken hoor, he says, leave the child alone, and all the women laugh.

The sergeant gives my mother a blanket and she sleeps stretched out on a bench. The rest of us lie on the floor. Dad sits with his back to the wall, his eyes open under the peak of his cap, and he smokes when the guards give him cigarettes. The guard who threw the butterscotch at the woman says he's from Ballymena in the north and he talks with Dad about people they know there and in other places like Cushendall and Toome. The

guard says he'll have a pension some day and he'll live on the shores of Lough Neagh and fish his days away. Eels, he says, eels galore. Jasus, I love a fried eel. I ask Dad, Is this Cuchulain? and the guard laughs till his face turns red. Ah, Mother o' God, did yez hear this? The lad wants to know if I'm Cuchulain. A little Yank and he knows all about Cuchulain.

Dad says, No, he's not Cuchulain but he's a fine man who will live on the shores of Lough Neagh and fish his days away.

****

Dad is shaking me. Up, Francis, up. It is noisy in the barracks. A boy mopping the floor is singing, Anyone can see why I wanted your kiss, It had to be and the reason is this, Could it be true, someone like you Could love me, love me?

I tell him that's my mother's song and he's to stop singing it but he just puffs on his cigarette and walks away and I wonder why people have to sing other people's songs. Men and women coming out of the cells are yawning and grunting. The woman who offered me the butterscotch stops and says, I had a drop taken, child. I'm sorry I made a fool of you, but the guard from Ballymena tells her, Move on, you oul' hoor, before I lock you up again.

Oh, lock me up, she says. In, out. What does it matter, you blue arsed bastard.

Mam is sitting up on the bench, the blanket wrapped around her. A woman with gray hair brings her a mug of tea and tells her, Sure, I'm the sergeant's wife and he said you might need help. Would you like a nice soft-boiled egg, missus?

Mam shakes her head, no.

Ah, now, missus, surely you should have a nice egg in your condition.

But Mam shakes her head and I wonder how she can say no to a soft- boiled egg when there's nothing in the world like it.

All right, ma'am, says the sergeant's wife, a bit of toast, then, and something for the children and your poor husband.

She goes back to another room and soon there's tea and bread. Dad drinks his tea but gives us his bread and Mam says, Will you eat your bread, for God's sake. You won't be much use to us falling down with the hunger. He shakes his head and asks the sergeant's wife is there any chance of a cigarette. She brings him the cigarette and tells Mam the guards in the barracks have taken up a collection to pay our train fares to Limerick. There will be a motor car to pick up our trunk and leave us at Kingsbridge Railway Station and, You'll be in Limerick in three or four hours.

Mam puts up her arms and hugs the sergeant's wife. God bless you and your husband and all the guards, Mam says. I don't know what we'd do without you. God knows 'tis a lovely thing to be back among our own.

'Tis the least we could do, says the sergeant's wife. These are lovely children you have and I'm from Cork meself and I know what 'tis to be in Dublin without two pennies to rub together.

Dad sits at the other end of the bench, smoking his cigarette, drinking his tea. He stays that way till the motor car comes to take us through the streets of Dublin. Dad asks the driver if he'd mind going by way of the G. P. O. and the driver says, Is it a stamp you want or what? No, says Dad. I hear they put up a new statue of Cuchulain to honor the men who died in 1916 and I'd like to show it to my son here who has a great admiration for Cuchulain.

The driver says he has no notion of who this Cuchulain was but he wouldn't mind stopping one bit. He might come in himself and see what the commotion is all about for he hasn't been in the G. P. O. since he was a boy and the English nearly wrecked it with their big guns firing up from the Liffey River. He says you'll see the bullet holes all over the front and they should be left there to remind the Irish of English perfidy. I ask the man what's perfidy and he says ask your father and I would but we're stopping outside a big building with columns and that's the G. P. O.

Mam stays in the motor car while we follow the driver into the G. P. O. There he is, he says, there's your man Cuchulain.

And I feel tears coming because I'm looking at him at last, Cuchulain, there on his pedestal in the G. P. O. He's golden and he has long hair, his head is hanging and there's a big bird perched on his shoulder.

The driver says, Now what in God's name is this all about? What's this fellow doin' with the long hair and the bird on his shoulder? And will you kindly tell me, mister, what this has to do with the men of 1916?

Dad says, Cuchulain fought to the end like the men of Easter Week. His enemies were afraid to go near him till they were sure he was dead and when the bird landed on him and drank his blood they knew.

Well, says the driver, 'tis a sad day for the men of Ireland when they need a bird to tell them a man is dead. I think we better go now or we'll be missing that train to Limerick.

The sergeant's wife said she'd send a telegram to Grandma to meet us in Limerick and there she was on the platform, Grandma, with white hair, sour eyes, a black shawl, and no smile for my mother or any of us, even my brother, Malachy, who had the big smile and the sweet white teeth. Mam pointed to Dad. This is Malachy, she said, and Grandma nodded and looked away. She called two boys who were hanging around the railway station and paid them to carry the trunk. The boys had shaved heads, snotty noses, and no shoes and we followed them through the streets of Limerick. I asked Mam why they had no hair and she said their heads were shaved so that the lice would have no place to hide. Malachy said, What's a lice? and Mam said, Not lice. One of them is a louse. Grandma said, Will ye stop it! What kind o' talk is this? The boys whistled and laughed and trotted along as if they had shoes and Grandma told them, Stop that laughin' or 'tis droppin' an' breakin' that trunk ye'll be. They stopped the whistling and laughing and we followed them into a park with a tall pillar and a statue in the middle and grass so green it dazzled you.

Dad carried the twins, Mam carried a bag in one hand and held Malachy's hand with the other. When she stopped every few minutes to catch her breath, Grandma said, Are you still smokin' them fags? Them fags will be the death of you. There's enough consumption in Limerick without people smokin' fags on top of it an'

'tis a rich man's foolishness.

Along the path through the park there were hundreds of flowers of different colors that excited the twins. They pointed and made squeaky noises and we laughed, everyone except Grandma, who pulled her shawl over her head. Dad stopped and put the twins down so that they could be closer to the flowers. He said, Flowers, and they ran back and forth, pointing, trying to say Flowers. One of the boys with the trunk said, God, are they Americans? and Mam said, They are. They were born in New York. All the

boys were born in New York. The boy said to the other boy, God, they're Americans. They put the trunk down and stared at us and we stared back at them till Grandma said, Are ye goin' to stand here all day lookin' at flowers an' gawkin' at each other? And we all moved on again, out of the park, down a narrow lane and into another lane to Grandma's house.

There is a row of small houses on each side of the lane and Grandma lives in one of the small houses. Her kitchen has a shiny polished black iron range with a fire glowing in the grate. There is a table along the wall under the window and a press opposite with cups and saucers and vases. This press is always locked and she keeps the key in her purse because you're not supposed to use anything in there unless someone dies or returns from foreign parts or there's a visit by a priest.

There is a picture on the wall by the range of a man with long brown hair and sad eyes. He is pointing to his chest where there is a big heart with flames coming out of it. Mam tells us, That's the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and I want to know why the man's heart is on fire and why doesn't He throw water on it? Grandma says, Don't these children know anything about their religion? and Mam tells her it's different in America. Grandma says the Sacred Heart is everywhere and there's no excuse for that kind of ignorance.

Under the picture of the man with the burning heart there is a shelf with a red glass holding a flickering candle and next to it a small statue. Mam tells us, That's the Baby Jesus, the Infant of Prague, and if ye ever need anything pray to Him.

Malachy says, Mam, could I tell Him I'm hungry, and Mam puts her finger to her lips.

Grandma grumbles around the kitchen making tea and telling Mam to cut the loaf of bread and don't make the cuts too thick. Mam sits by the table with her breath coming hard and says she'll cut the bread in a minute. Dad takes the knife and starts slicing the bread and you can see Grandma doesn't like that. She frowns at him but says nothing even though he makes thick slices.

There aren't enough chairs for everyone so I sit on the stairs with my brothers to have bread and tea. Dad and Mam sit at the table and Grandma sits under the Sacred Heart with her mug of tea. She says, I don't know under God what I'm goin' to do with ye. There is no room in this house. There isn't room for even one of ye.

Malachy says, Ye, ye, and starts to giggle and I say, Ye, ye, and the twins say, Ye, ye, and we're laughing so hard we can hardly eat our bread.

Grandma glares at us. What are ye laughin' at? There's nothin' to laugh at in this house. Ye better behave yeerselves before I go over to

ye.

She won't stop saying Ye, and now Malachy is helpless with

laughter, spewing out his bread and tea, his face turning red.

Dad says, Malachy and the rest of you, stop it. But Malachy can't, he goes on laughing till Dad says, Come over here. He rolls up Malachy's

sleeve and raises his hand to slap his arm.

Are you going to behave yourself?

Malachy's eyes fill with tears and he nods, I will, because Dad

never raised his hand like that before. Dad says, Be a good boy and go sit with your brothers, and he pulls down the sleeve and pats Malachy on the head.

That night Mam's sister, Aunt Aggie, came home from her job in the clothing factory. She was big like the MacNamara sisters, and she had flaming red hair. She wheeled a large bicycle into the little room behind the kitchen and came out to her supper. She was living in Grandma's because she had a fight with her husband, Pa Keating, who told her, when he had drink taken, You're a great fat cow, go home to your mother. That's what Grandma told Mam and that's why there was no room for us in Grandma's house. She had herself, Aunt Aggie, and her son Pat, who was my uncle and who was out selling newspapers.

Aunt Aggie complained when Grandma told her Mam would have to sleep with her that night. Grandma said, Oh, will you shut your gob. 'Tis only for one night an' that won't kill you an' if you don't like it you can go back to your husband where you belong anyway instead of runnin' home to me. Jesus, Mary an' Holy St. Joseph, look at this house- you an' Pat an' Angela and her clatther of Americans. Will I have any peace in the latter end of my life?

She spread coats and rags on the floor of the little back room and we slept there with the bicycle. Dad stayed on a chair in the kitchen, took us to the lavatory in the backyard when we needed it, and in the night hushed the twins when they cried from the cold.

In the morning, Aunt Aggie came for her bicycle telling us, Will ye mind yeerselves, will ye? Will ye get out of my way?

When she left, Malachy kept saying, Will ye mind yeerselves, will ye? Will ye get out of the way, will ye? and I could hear Dad laughing out in the kitchen till Grandma came down the stairs and he had to tell Malachy be quiet.

That day Grandma and Mam went out and found a furnished room on Windmill Street where Aunt Aggie had a flat with her husband, Pa Keating. Grandma paid the rent, ten shillings for two weeks. She gave Mam money for food, loaned us a kettle, a pot, a frying pan, knives and spoons, jam jars to be used for mugs, a blanket and a pillow. She said that was all she could afford anymore, that Dad would have to get up off his arse, get a job, go on the dole, go for the charity at the St. Vincent de Paul Society or go on the relief.

The room had a fireplace where we could boil water for our tea or an egg in case we ever came into money. We had a table and three chairs and a bed, which Mam said was the biggest she had ever seen. We were glad of the bed that night, worn out after nights on floors in Dublin and in Grandma's. It didn't matter that there were six of us in the bed, we were together, away from grandmothers and guards, Malachy could say ye ye ye and we could laugh as much as we liked.

Dad and Mam lay at the head of the bed, Malachy and I at the bottom, the twins wherever they could find comfort. Malachy made us laugh again. Ye, ye, ye, he said, and oy oy oy, and then fell asleep. Mam made the little hink hink snore sound that told us she was sleeping. In the moonlight I could look up the length of the bed and see Dad still awake and when Oliver cried in his sleep Dad reached for him and held him. Whisht, he said. Whisht.

Then Eugene sat up, screaming, tearing at himself. Ah, ah, Mommy, Mommy. Dad sat up. What? What's up, son? Eugene went on crying and when Dad leaped from the bed and turned on the gaslight we saw the fleas, leaping, jumping, fastened to our flesh. We slapped at them and slapped but they hopped from body to body, hopping, biting. We tore at the bites till they bled. We jumped from the bed, the twins crying, Mam moaning,

Oh, Jesus, will we have no rest! Dad poured water and salt into a jam jar and dabbed at our bites. The salt burned but he said we'd feel better

soon.

Mam sat by the fireplace with the twins on her lap. Dad pulled on

his trousers and dragged the mattress off the bed and out to the street. He filled the kettle and the pot with water, stood the mattress against the wall, pounded it with a shoe, told me to keep pouring water on the ground to drown the fleas dropping there. The Limerick moon was so bright I could see bits of it shimmering in the water and I wanted to scoop up moon bits but how could I with the fleas leaping on my legs. Dad kept pounding with the shoe and I had to run back through the house to the backyard tap for more water in the kettle and the pot. Mam said, Look at you. Your shoes are drenched and you'll catch your death and your father will surely get the pneumonia without a shoe to his foot.

A man on a bicycle stopped and wanted to know why Dad was beating that mattress. Mother o' God, he said, I never heard such a cure for fleas. Do you know that if a man could jump like a flea one lep would take him halfway to the moon? The thing to do is this, when you go back inside with that mattress stick it on the bed upside down and that will confuse the little buggers. They won't know where they are and they'll be biting the mattress or each other, which is the best cure of all. After they bite the human being they have the frenzy, you know, for there are other fleas around them that also bit the human being and the smell of the blood is too much for them and they go out of their minds. They're a right bloody torment an' I should know for didn't I grow up in Limerick, down in the Irishtown, an' the fleas there were so plentiful an' forward they'd sit on the toe of your boot an' discuss Ireland's woeful history with you. It is said there were no fleas in ancient Ireland, that they were brought in be the English to drive us out of our wits entirely, an'I wouldn't put it past the English. An'isn't it a very curious thing that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland an' the English brought in the fleas. For centuries Ireland was a lovely peaceful place, snakes gone, not a flea to be found. You could stroll the four green fields of Ireland without fear of snakes an' have a good night's sleep with no fleas to bother you. Them snakes were doin' no harm, they wouldn't bother you unless you cornered them an' they lived off other creatures that move under bushes an'such places, whereas the flea sucks the blood from you mornin' noon an' night for that's his nature an' he can't help himself. I hear for a fact that places that have snakes galore have no fleas. Arizona, for instance. You're forever hearing about the snakes of Arizona but when did you ever hear of fleas in Arizona? Good luck to you. I have to be careful standin' here for if one of them gets on my clothes I might as well invite his whole family home. They multiply faster than Hindus.

Dad said, You wouldn't by any chance have a cigarette, would you?

A cigarette? Oh, sure, of course. Here you are. Aren't I nearly destroyed from the fags myself. The oul' hacking cough, you know. So powerful it nearly knocks me off the bicycle. I can feel that cough stirring in me solar plexus an' workin' its way up through me entrails till the next thing it takes off the top o' me head.

He struck a match on a box, lit a cigarette for himself and held out the match for Dad. Of course, he said, you're bound to have the cough when you live in Limerick because this is the capital city of the weak chest and the weak chest leads to the consumption. If all the people that has consumption in Limerick were to die this would be a ghost town,

though I don't have consumption meself. No, this cough was a present from the Germans. He paused, puffed on his cigarette, and struggled with a cough. Bejesus, excuse the language, but the fags'll get me in the end. Well, I'll leave you now to the mattress an' remember what I told you, confuse the little buggers.

He wobbled away on his bicycle, the cigarette dangling from his mouth, the cough racking his body. Dad said, Limerickmen talk too much. Come on, we'll put this mattress back and see if there's any sleep in this night.

Mam sat by the fireplace with the twins asleep on her lap, and Malachy lay curled up on the floor by her feet. She said, Who was that you were talking to? It sounded very like Pa Keating, Aggie's husband. I could tell by the cough. He got that cough in France in the war when he swallowed the gas.

We slept the rest of that night, and in the morning we saw where the fleas had feasted, our flesh pink with flea welts and bright with the blood of our scratches.

Mam made tea and fried bread, and once more Dad dabbed at our bites with the salty water. He hauled the mattress outside again to the backyard. On a cold day like this the fleas would surely freeze to death and we'd all have a good night's sleep.

A few days later when we're settled into the room Dad is shaking me out of my dreams. Up, Francis, up. Put on your clothes and run over for your aunt Aggie. Your mother needs her. Hurry.

Mam is moaning in the bed, her face pure white. Dad has Malachy and the twins out of the bed and sitting on the floor by the dead fire. I run across the street and knock on Aunt Aggie's door till Uncle Pat Keating comes coughing and grumbling, What's up? What's up?

My mother is moaning in the bed. I think she's sick.

Now Aunt Aggie comes grumbling. Ye are nothing but trouble since ye came from America.

Leave him alone, Aggie, he's only a child that's doing what he's told.

She tells Uncle Pa go back to bed, that he has to go to work in the morning not like some from the North that she won't mention. He says, No, no, I'm coming. There's something wrong with Angela.

Dad tells me sit over there with my brothers. I don't know what's up with Mam because everyone is whispering and I can barely hear Aunt

Aggie

Pa is

about

never looks at him.

telling Uncle Pa the child is lost run for the ambulance and Uncle out the door, Aunt Aggie telling Mam you can say what you like Limerick but the ambulance is fast. She doesn't talk to my father,

Malachy says, Dad, is Mammy sick?

Och, she'll be all right, son. She has to see the doctor.

I wonder what child is lost because we're all here, one two three

four of us, not a lost child anywhere and why can't they tell me what's wrong with my mother. Uncle Pa comes back and the ambulance is right behind him. A man comes in with a stretcher and after they carry Mam away there are blood spots on the floor by the bed. Malachy bit his tongue and there was blood and the dog on the street had blood and he died. I want to ask Dad to tell me if Mam will be gone forever like my sister Margaret but he's going with Mam and there's no use asking Aunt Aggie anything for fear she'd bite your head off. She wipes away the blood spots and tells us get back into bed and stay there till Dad comes home.

It's the middle of the night and the four of us are warm in the bed and we fall asleep till Dad comes home and tells us Mam is nice and comfortable in the hospital and she'll be home in no time.

Later, Dad goes to the Labour Exchange for the dole. There is no hope of a laboring man with a North of Ireland accent getting a job in Limerick.

When he returns, he tells Mam we'll be getting nineteen shillings a week. She says that's just enough for all of us to starve on. Nineteen shillings for six of us? That's less than four dollars in American money and how are we supposed to live on that? What are we to do when we have to pay rent in a fortnight? If the rent for this room is five shillings a week we'll have fourteen shillings for food and clothes and coal to boil the water for the tea.

Dad shakes his head, sips his tea from a jam jar, stares out the window and whistles "The Boys of Wexford. " Malachy and Oliver clap their hands and dance around the room and Dad doesn't know whether to whistle or smile because you can't do both and he can't help himself. He has to stop and smile and pat Oliver's head and then go back to the whistling. Mam smiles, too, but it's a very quick smile and when she looks into the ashes you can see the worry where the corners of her mouth turn down.

Next day she tells Dad to mind the twins and takes Malachy and me with her to the St. Vincent de Paul Society. We stand in a queue with women wearing black shawls. They ask our names and smile when we talk. They say, Lord above, would you listen to the little Yankees, and they wonder why Mam in her American coat would be looking for charity since there's hardly enough for the poor people of Limerick without Yanks coming over and taking the bread out of their mouths.

Mam tells them a cousin gave her that coat in Brooklyn, that her husband has no work, that she has other children at home, twin boys. The women sniff and pull their shawls about them, they have their own troubles. Mam tells them she had to leave America because she couldn't stand it after her baby girl died. The women sniff again but now it's because Mam is crying. Some say they lost little ones, too, and there's nothing worse in the world, you could live as long as Methuselem's wife but you never get over it. No man can ever know what it is to be a mother that has lost a child, not if the man lived longer than two Methuselems.

They all have a good cry till a red-haired woman passes a little box around. The women pick something from the box between their fingers and stuff it up their noses. A young woman sneezes and the red-haired woman laughs. Ah, sure, Biddy, you're not able for that snuff. Come here, little Yankee boys, have a pinch. She plants the brown stuff in our nostrils and we sneeze so hard the women stop crying and laugh till they have to wipe their eyes with their shawls. Mam tells us, That's good for ye, 'twill clear yeer heads.

The young woman, Biddy, tells Mam we're two lovely boys. She points at Malachy. That little fella with the goldy ringlet, isn't he gorgeous? He could be a film star with Shirley Temple. And Malachy smiles and warms up the queue.

The woman with the snuff says to Mam, Missus, I don't want to be forward but I think you should be sitting down for we heard about your

loss.

Another woman worries, Ah, no, they don't like that. Who don't like what?

Ah, sure, Nora Molloy, the Society don't like us sittin' on the steps. They want us to be standin' respectful against the wall.

They can kiss my arse, says Nora, the red-haired woman. Sit down there, missus, on that step an' I'll sit next to you an' if there's one word out of the St. Vincent de Paul Society I'll take the face off 'em, so I will. Do you smoke, missus?

I do, says Mam, but I don't have them.

Nora takes a cigarette from a pocket in her apron, breaks it, and offers half to Mam.

The worried woman says, They don't like that either. They say every fag you smoke is taking food from the mouth of your child. Mr. Quinlivan inside is dead against it. He says if you have money for the fags you have money for food.

Quinlivan can kiss my arse, too, the grinny oul' bastard. Is he going to begrudge us a puff of a fag, the only comfort we have in the world?

A door opens at the end of the hall and a man appears. Are any of ye waiting for children's boots?

Women raise their hands, I am. I am.

Well, the boots are all gone. Ye'll have to come back next month. But my Mikey needs boots for school.

They're all gone, I told you.

But 'tis freezin' abroad, Mr. Quinlivan.

The boots are all gone. Nothing I can do. What's this? Who's

smoking?

Nora waves her cigarette. I am, she says, and enjoying it down to

the last ash.

Every puff you take, he starts.

I know, she says, I'm taking food out of the mouths of my children. You're insolent, woman. You'll get no charity here.

Is that a fact? Well, Mr. Quinlivan, if I don't get it here I know

where I will.

What are you talking about?

I'll go to the Quakers. They'll give me the charity.

Mr. Quinlivan steps toward Nora and points a finger. Do you know

what we have here? We have a souper in our midst. We had the soupers in the Famine. The Protestants went round telling good Catholics that if they gave up their faith and turned Protestant they'd get more soup than their bellies could hold and, God help us, some Catholics took the soup, and were ever after known as soupers and lost their immortal souls doomed to the deepest part of hell. And you, woman, if you go to the Quakers you'll lose your immortal soul and the souls of your children.

other

Then, Mr. Quinlivan, you'll have to save us, won't you?

He stares at her and she stares back at him. His eyes wander to the

women. One puts her hand to her mouth to smother a laugh.

What are you tittering about? he barks.

Oh, nothing, Mr. Quinlivan. Honest to God.

I'm telling ye once more, no boots. And he slams the door behind

him.

One by one the women are called into the room. When Nora comes out

she's smiling and waving a piece of paper. Boots, she says. Three pairs I'm gettin' for my children. Threaten the men in there with the Quakers and they'll give you the drawers off their arses.

When Mam is called she brings Malachy and me in with her. We stand before a table where three men are sitting asking questions. Mr. Quinlivan starts to say something but the man in the middle says, Enough out of you, Quinlivan. If we left it up to you we'd have the poor people of Limerick jumping into the arms of the Protestants.

He turns to Mam, he wants to know where she got that fine red coat. She tells him what she told the women outside and when she comes to the death of Margaret she shakes and sobs. She tells the men she's very sorry for crying like that but it was only a few months ago and she's not over it yet, not even knowing where her baby was buried if she was buried at all, not knowing even if she was baptized itself because she was so weak from having the four boys she didn't have the energy to be going to the church for the baptism and it's a heart scald to think Margaret might be in Limbo forever with no hope of her ever seeing the rest of us whether we're in heaven, hell, or Purgatory itself.

Mr. Quinlivan brings her his chair. Ah, now, missus. Ah, now. Sit down, will you. Ah, now.

The other men look at the table, the ceiling. The man in the middle says he's giving Mam a docket to get a week's groceries at McGrath's shop on Parnell Street. There will be tea, sugar, flour, milk, butter and a separate docket for a bag of coal from Sutton's coal yard on the Dock Road.

The third man says, Of course you won't be getting this every week, missus. We will be visiting your house to see if there's a real need. We have to do that, missus, so we can review your claim.

Mam wipes her face on the back of her sleeve and takes the docket. She tells the men, God bless you for your kindness. They nod and look at the table, the ceiling, the walls and tell her send in the next woman.

The women outside tell Mam, When you go to McGrath's, keep an eye on the oul' bitch for she'll cheat you on the weight. She'll put stuff on a paper on the scale with the paper hanging down on her side behind the counter where she thinks you can't see it. She'll pull on that paper so that you're lucky if you get half of what you're supposed to get. And she has pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus all over the shop, and she's forever on her knees abroad in St. Joseph's chapel clackin' her rosary beads an' breathing like a virgin martyr, the oul' bitch.

Nora says, I'll go with you, missus. I'm on to the same Mrs. McGrath and I'll know if she's cheating you.

She leads the way to the shop in Parnell Street. The woman behind the counter is pleasant to Mam in her American coat till Mam shows the St. Vincent de Paul docket. The woman says, I don't know what you're doing here at this hour of the day. I never serve the charity cases before six in the evening. But this is your first time and I'll make an exception.

She says to Nora, Do you have a docket, too?

No. I'm a friend helping this poor family with their first docket from the St. Vincent de Paul.

The woman lays a sheet of newspaper on the scale and pours on flour from a large bag. When she finishes pouring, she says, There's a pound of flour.

I don't think so, says Nora. That's a very small pound of flour. The woman flushes and glares, Are you accusin' me?

Ah, no, Mrs. McGrath, says Nora. I think there was a little accident there the way your hip was pressed against that paper and you didn't even know the paper was pulled down a bit. Oh, God, no. A woman like you that's forever on her knees before the Virgin Mary is an inspiration to us all and is that your money I see on the floor there?

Mrs. McGrath steps back quickly and the needle on the scale jumps and quivers. What money? she says, till she looks at Nora, and knows. Nora smiles. Must be a trick of the shadows, she says, and smiles at the scale. There was a mistake right enough for that shows barely half a pound of flour.

That scale gives me more trouble, says Mrs. McGrath.

I'm sure it does, says Nora.

But my conscience is clear before God, says Mrs. McGrath.

I'm sure it is, says Nora, and you're admired by one and all at the

St. Vincent de Paul Society and the Legion of Mary.

I try to be a good Catholic.

Try? God knows 'tis little trying you'd have for you're well known

for having a kind heart and I was wondering if you could spare a couple of sweets for the little boys here.

Well, now, I'm not a millionaire, but here...

God bless you, Mrs. McGrath, and I know it's asking a lot but could you possibly lend me a couple of cigarettes?

Well, now, they're not on the docket. I'm not here to supply luxuries.

If you could see your way, missus, I'd be sure to mention your kindness to the St. Vincent de Paul.

All right, all right, says Mrs. McGrath. Here. One time for the cigarettes and one time only.

God bless you, says Nora, and I'm sorry you had so much trouble with that scale.

On the way home we stopped in the People's Park and sat on a bench while Malachy and I sucked on our sweets and Mam and Nora smoked their cigarettes. The smoking brought on Nora's cough and she told Mam the fags would kill her in the end, that there was a touch of consumption in her family and no one lived to a ripe old age, though who would want to in Limerick, a place where you could look around and the first thing you noticed was a scarcity of gray hairs, all the gray hairs either in the graveyard or across the Atlantic working on railroads or sauntering around in police uniforms.

You're lucky, missus, that you saw a bit of the world. Oh, God, I'd give anything to see New York, people dancing up and down Broadway without a care. No, I had to go and fall for a boozer with the charm, Peter Molloy, a champion pint drinker that had me up the pole and up the aisle when I was barely seventeen. I was ignorant, missus. We grew up ignorant in Limerick, so we did, knowing feck all about anything and signs on, we're mothers before we're women. And there's nothing here but rain and oul' biddies saying the rosary. I'd give me teeth to get out, go to America or even England itself. The champion pint drinker is always on the dole and sometimes he even drinks that and drives me so demented I wind up in the lunatic asylum.

She drew on her cigarette and gagged, coughing till her body rocked back and forth, and in between the coughs she whimpered, Jesus, Jesus. When the cough died away she said she had to go home and take her medicine. She said, I'll see you next week, missus, at the St. Vincent de

Paul. If you're stuck for anything send a message to me at Vize's Field. Ask anyone for the wife of Peter Molloy, champion pint drinker.

Eugene is sleeping under a coat on the bed. Dad sits by the fireplace with Oliver on his lap. I wonder why Dad is telling Oliver a Cuchulain story. He knows the Cuchulain stories are mine, but when I look at Oliver I don't mind. His cheeks are bright red, he's staring into the dead fire, and you can see he has no interest in Cuchulain. Mam puts her hand on his forehead. I think he has a fever, she says. I wish I had an onion and I'd boil it in milk and pepper. That's good for the fever. But even if I had what would I boil the milk on? We need coal for that fire.

She gives Dad the docket for the coal down the Dock Road. He takes me with him but it's dark and all the coal yards are closed.

What are we going to do now, Dad?

I don't know, son.

Ahead of us women in shawls and small children are picking up coal

along the road.

There, Dad, there's coal.

Och, no, son. We won't pick coal off the road. We're not beggars. He tells Mam the coal yards are closed and we'll have to drink milk

and eat bread tonight, but when I tell her about the women on the road she passes Eugene to him.

If you're too grand to pick coal off the road I'll put on my coat and go down the Dock Road.

She gets a bag and takes Malachy and me with her. Beyond the Dock Road there is something wide and dark with lights glinting in it. Mam says that's the River Shannon. She says that's what she missed most of all in America, the River Shannon. The Hudson was lovely but the Shannon sings. I can't hear the song but my mother does and that makes her happy. The other women are gone from the Dock Road and we search for the bits of coal that drop from lorries. Mam tells us gather anything that burns, coal, wood, cardboard, paper. She says, There are them that burn the horse droppings but we're not gone that low yet. When her bag is nearly full she says, Now we have to find an onion for Oliver. Malachy says he'll find one but she tells him, No, you don't find onions on the road, you get them in shops.

The minute he sees a shop he cries out, There's a shop, and runs

in.

Oonyen, he says. Oonyen for Oliver.

Mam runs into the shop and tells the women behind the counter, I'm

sorry. The woman says, Lord, he's a dote. Is he an American or what? Mam says he is. The woman smiles and shows two teeth, one on each

side of her upper gum. A dote, she says, and look at them gorgeous goldy curls. And what is it he wants now? A sweet?

Ah, no, says Mam. An onion.

The woman laughs, An onion? I never heard a child wanting an onion before. Is that what they like in America?

Mam says, I just mentioned I wanted to get an onion for my other child that's sick. Boil the onion in milk, you know.

True for you, missus. You can't beat the onion boiled in milk. And look, little boy, here's a sweet for yourself and one for the other little boy, the brother, I suppose.

Mam says, Ah, sure, you shouldn't. Say thank you, boys.

The woman says, Here's a nice onion for the sick child, missus.

Mam says, Oh, I can't buy the onion now, missus. I don't have a penny on me.

I'm giving you the onion, missus. Let it never be said a child went sick in Limerick for want of an onion. And don't forget to sprinkle in a little pepper. Do you have pepper, missus?

Ah, no, I don't but I should be getting it any day now.

Well, here, missus. Pepper and a little salt. Do the child all the good in the world.

Mam says, God bless you, ma'am, and her eyes are watery.

Dad is walking back and forth with Oliver in his arms and Eugene is playing on the floor with a pot and a spoon. Dad says, Did you get the onion?

I did, says Mam, and more. I got coal and the way of lighting it. I knew you would. I said a prayer to St. Jude. He's my favorite saint, patron of desperate cases.

I got the coal. I got the onion, no help from St. Jude.

Dad says, You shouldn't be picking up coal off the road like a common beggar. It isn't right. Bad example for the boys.

Then you should have sent St. Jude down the Dock Road.

Malachy says, I'm hungry, and I'm hungry, too, but Mam says, Ye'll wait till Oliver has his onion boiled in milk.

She gets the fire going, cuts the onion in half, drops it in the boiling milk with a little butter and sprinkles the milk with pepper. She takes Oliver on her lap and tries to feed him but he turns away and looks into the fire.

Ah, come on, love, she says. Good for you. Make you big and strong.

He tightens his mouth against the spoon. She puts the pot down, rocks him till he's asleep, lays him on the bed and tells the rest of us be quiet or she'll demolish us. She slices the other half of the onion and fries it in butter with slices of bread. She lets us sit on the floor around the fire where we eat the fried bread and sip at the scalding sweet tea in jam jars. She says, That fire is good and bright so we can turn off that gaslight till we get money for the meter.

The fire makes the room warm and with the flames dancing in the coal you can see faces and mountains and valleys and animals leaping. Eugene falls asleep on the floor and Dad lifts him to the bed beside Oliver. Mam puts the boiled onion pot up on the mantelpiece for fear a mouse or rat might be at it. She says she's tired out from the day, the Vincent de Paul Society, Mrs. McGrath's shop, the search for coal down the Dock Road, the worry over Oliver not wanting the boiled onion, and if he's like this tomorrow she's taking him to the doctor, and now she's going to bed.

Soon we're all in bed and if there's the odd flea I don't mind because it's warm in the bed with the six of us and I love the glow of the fire the way it dances on the walls and ceiling and makes the room go red and black, red and black, till it dims to white and black and all you can hear is a little cry from Oliver turning in my mother's arms.

In the morning Dad is lighting the fire, making tea, cutting the bread. He's already dressed and he's telling Mam hurry up and get dressed. He says to me, Francis, your little brother Oliver is sick and we're taking him to the hospital. You are to be a good boy and take care of your two brothers. We'll be back soon.

Mam says, When we're out go easy with that sugar. We're not millionaires.

When Mam picks up Oliver and wraps him in a coat Eugene stands on the bed. I want Ollie, he says. Ollie play.

Ollie will be back soon, she says, and you can play with him. Now you can play with Malachy and Frank.

Ollie, Ollie, I want Ollie.

He follows Oliver with his eyes and when they're gone he sits on the bed looking out the window. Malachy says, Genie, Genie, we have bread, we have tea. Sugar on your bread, Genie. He shakes his head and pushes away the bread Malachy is offering. He crawls to the place where Oliver slept with Mam, puts his head down and stares out the window.

Grandma is at the door. I heard your father and mother were running down Henry Street with the child in their arms. Now where are they gone to?

Oliver is sick, I said. He wouldn't eat the boiled onion in milk. What are you blatherin' about?

Wouldn't eat the boiled onion and got sick.

And who's minding ye?

I am.

And what's up with the child in the bed? What's That's Eugene. He misses Oliver. They're twins. I know they're twins. That child looks starved.

his name?

Have ye any

porridge here?

What's porridge? says Malachy.

Jesus, Mary and Holy St. Joseph! What's porridge! Porridge is

porridge. That's what porridge is. Ye are the most ignorant bunch o' Yanks I ever seen. Come on, put on yeer clothes and we'll go across the street to your aunt Aggie. She's there with the husband, Pa Keating, and she'll give ye some porridge.

She picks up Eugene, wraps him in her shawl and we cross the street to Aunt Aggie's. She's living with Uncle Pa again because he said she wasn't a fat cow after all.

Do you have any porridge? Grandma says to Aunt Aggie.

Porridge? Am I supposed to be feeding porridge to a crowd of Yanks? Pity about you, says Grandma. It won't kill you to give them a

little porridge.

And I suppose they'll be wanting sugar and milk on top of

everything or they might be banging on my door looking for an egg if you don't mind. I don't know why we have to pay for Angela's mistakes.

Jesus, says Grandma, 'tis a good thing you didn't own that stable in Bethlehem or the Holy Family would still be wanderin' the world crumblin' with the hunger.

Grandma pushes her way past Aunt Aggie, puts Eugene on a chair near the fire and makes the porridge. A man comes in from another room. He has black curly hair and his skin is black and I like his eyes because they're very blue and ready to smile. He's Aunt Aggie's husband, the man who stopped the night we were attacking the fleas and told us all about fleas and snakes, the man with the cough he got from swallowing gas in the war.

Malachy says, Why are you all black? and Uncle Pa Keating laughs and coughs so hard he has to ease himself with a cigarette. Oh, the little Yanks, he says. They're not a bit shy. I'm black because I work at the Limerick Gas Works shoveling coal and coke into the furnaces. Gassed in France and back to Limerick to work in the gas works. When you grow up you'll laugh.

Malachy and I have to leave the table so the big people can sit and have tea. They have their tea but Uncle Pa Keating, who is my uncle because he's married to my aunt Aggie, picks up Eugene and takes him on his lap. He says, This is a sad little fella, and makes funny faces and silly sounds. Malachy and I laugh but Eugene only reaches up to touch the blackness of Pa Keating's skin, and then when Pa pretends to bite his little hand, Eugene laughs and everyone in the room laughs. Malachy goes to Eugene and tries to make him laugh even more but Eugene turns away and hides his face in Pa Keating's shirt.

I think he likes me, says Pa, and that's when Aunt Aggie puts down her teacup and starts to bawl, Waah, waah, waah, big teardrops tumbling down her fat red face.

Aw, Jesus, says Grandma, there she is again. What's up with you this time?

And Aunt Aggie blubbers, To see Pa there with a child on his lap an' me with no hope of having my own.

Grandma barks at her, Stop talkin' like that in front of the children. Have you no shame? When God is good and ready He'll send you your family.

Aunt Aggie sobs, Angela with five born an' one just gone an' her so useless she couldn't scrub a floor an' me with none an' I can scrub an' clean with the best and make any class of a stew or a fry.

Pa Keating laughs, I think I'll keep this little fella.

Malachy runs to him. No, no, no. That's my brother, that's Eugene. And I say, No, no, no, that's our brother. Aunt Aggie pats the tears on her cheeks. She says, I don't want nothing of Angela's. I don't want nothing that's half Limerick and half North of Ireland, so I don't, so ye can take him home. I'll have me own someday if I have to do a hundred novenas to the Virgin Mary and her mother, St. Ann, or if I have to crawl from here to Lourdes on me two bended knees.

Grandma says, That's enough. Ye have had yeer porridge and 'tis time to go home and see if yeer father and mother are back from the hospital.

She puts on her shawl and goes to pick up Eugene but he clutches so hard at Pa Keating's shirt she has to pull him away though he keeps looking back at Pa till we're out the door.

***

We followed Grandma back to our room. She put Eugene in the bed and gave him a drink of water. She told him to be a good boy and go to sleep for his little brother, Oliver, would be home soon and they'd be playing again there on the floor.

But he kept looking out the window.

She told Malachy and me we could sit on the floor and play but to be quiet because she was going to say her prayers. Malachy went to the bed and sat by Eugene and I sat on a chair at the table making out words on the newspaper that was our tablecloth. All you could hear in the room was Malachy whispering to make Eugene happy and Grandma mumbling to the click of her rosary beads. It was so quiet I put my head on the table and fell asleep.

Dad is touching my shoulder. Come on, Francis, you have to take care of your little brothers.

Mam is slumped on the edge of the bed, making small crying sounds like a bird. Grandma is pulling on her shawl. She says, I'll go down to

Thompson the undertaker about the coffin and the carriage. The St. Vincent de Paul Society will surely pay for that, God knows.

She goes out the door. Dad stands facing the wall over the fire, beating on his thighs with his fists, sighing, Och, och, och.

Dad frightens me with his och, och, och, and Mam frightens me with her small bird sounds and I don't know what to do though I wonder if anyone will light the fire in the grate so that we can have tea and bread because it's a long time since we had the porridge. If Dad would move away from the fireplace I could light the fire myself. All you need is paper, a few bits of coal or turf, and a match. He won't move so I try to go around his legs while he's beating on his thighs but he notices me and wants to know why I'm trying to light the fire. I tell him we're all hungry and he lets out a crazy laugh. Hungry? he says. Och, Francis, your wee brother Oliver is dead. Your wee sister is dead and your wee brother is dead.

He picks me up and hugs me so hard I cry out. Then Malachy cries, my mother cries, Dad cries, I cry, but Eugene stays quiet. Then Dad sniffles, We'll have a feast. Come on, Francis.

He tells my mother we'll be back in awhile but she has Malachy and Eugene on her lap in the bed and she doesn't look up. He carries me through the streets of Limerick and we go from shop to shop with him asking for food or anything they can give to a family that has two children dead in a year, one in America, one in Limerick, and in danger of losing three more for the want of food and drink. Most shopkeepers shake their heads. Sorry for your troubles but you could go to the St. Vincent de Paul Society or get the public assistance.

Dad says he's glad to see the spirit of Christ alive in Limerick and they tell him they don't need the likes of him with his northern accent to be telling them about Christ and he should be ashamed of himself dragging a child around like that like a common beggar, a tinker, a knacker.

A few shopkeepers give bread, potatoes, tins of beans and Dad says, We'll go home now and you boys can eat something, but we meet Uncle Pa Keating and he tells Dad he's very sorry for his troubles and would Dad like to have a pint in this pub here?

There are men sitting in this pub with great glasses of black stuff before them. Uncle Pa Keating and Dad have the black stuff, too. They lift their glasses carefully and slowly drink. There is creamy white stuff on their lips, which they lick with little sighs. Uncle Pa gets me a bottle of lemonade and Dad gives me a piece of bread and I don't feel hungry anymore. Still, I wonder how long we'll sit here with Malachy and Eugene hungry at home, hours from the porridge, which Eugene didn't eat anyway.

Dad and Uncle Pa drink their glass of black stuff and have another. Uncle Pa says, Frankie, this is the pint. This is the staff of life. This is the best thing for nursing mothers and for those who are long weaned.

He laughs and Dad smiles and I laugh because I think that's what you're supposed to do when Uncle Pa says something. He doesn't laugh when he tells the other men about Oliver dying. The other men tip their hats to Dad. Sorry for your troubles, mister, and surely you'll have a pint.

Dad says yes to the pints and soon he's singing Roddy McCorley and Kevin Barry and song after song I never heard before and crying over his lovely little girl, Margaret, that died in America and his little boy, Oliver, dead beyond in the City Home Hospital. It frightens me the way he

yells and cries and sings and I wish I could be at home with my three brothers, no, my two brothers, and my mother.

The man behind the bar says to Dad, I think now, mister, you've had enough. We're sorry for your troubles but you have to take that child home to his mother that must be heartbroken by the fire.

Dad says, One, one more pint, just one, eh? and the man says no. Dad shakes his fist. I did me bit for Ireland, and when the man comes out and takes Dad's arm, Dad tries to push him away.

Uncle Pa says, Come on now, Malachy, stop the blaguarding. You have to go home to Angela. You have a funeral tomorrow and the lovely children waiting for you.

But Dad struggles till a few men push him out into the darkness. Uncle Pa stumbles out with the bag of food. Come on, he says. We'll go back to your room.

Dad wants to go to another place for a pint but Uncle Pa says he has no more money. Dad says he'll tell everyone his sorrows and they'll give him pints. Uncle Pa says that's a disgraceful thing to do and Dad cries on his shoulder. You're a good friend, he tells Uncle Pa. He cries again till Uncle Pa pats him on the back. It's terrible, terrible, says Uncle Pa, but you'll get over this in time.

Dad straightens up and looks at him. Never, he says. Never.

Next day we rode to the hospital in a carriage with a horse. They put Oliver in a white box that came with us in the carriage and we took him to the graveyard. They put the white box into a hole in the ground and covered it with earth. My mother and Aunt Aggie cried, Grandma looked angry, Dad, Uncle Pa Keating, and Uncle Pat Sheehan looked sad but did not cry and I thought that if you're a man you can cry only when you have the black stuff that is called the pint.

I did not like the jackdaws that perched on trees and gravestones and I did not want to leave Oliver with them. I threw a rock at a jackdaw that waddled over toward Oliver's grave. Dad said I shouldn't throw rocks at jackdaws, they might be somebody's soul. I didn't know what a soul was but I didn't ask him because I didn't care. Oliver was dead and I hated jackdaws. I'd be a man someday and I'd come back with a bag of rocks and I'd leave the graveyard littered with dead jackdaws.

The morning after Oliver's burial Dad went to the Labour Exchange to sign and collect the week's dole, nineteen shillings and sixpence. He said he'd be home by noon, that he'd get coal and make a fire, that we'd have rashers and eggs and tea in honor of Oliver, that we might even have a sweet or two.

He wasn't home by noon, or one, or two, and we boiled and ate the few potatoes the shopkeepers had given the day before. He wasn't home anytime before the sun went down that day in May. There was no sign of him till we heard him, long after the pubs closed, rolling along Windmill Street, singing, When all around a vigil keep, The West's asleep, the West's asleep- Alas, and well may Erin weep When Connacht lies in slumber deep.

There lake and plain smile fair and free, 'Mid rocks their guardian chivalry.

Sing, Oh, let man learn liberty

From crashing wind and lashing sea.

He stumbled into the room, hanging on to the wall. A snot oozed from his nose and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He tried to speak. Zeeze shildren should be in bed. Lishen to me. Shildren go to bed.

Mam faced him. These children are hungry. Where's the dole money? We'll get fish and chips so they'll have something in their bellies when they go to sleep.

She tried to stick her hands into his pockets but he pushed her away. Have respheck, he said. Reshpeck in front of shildren.

She struggled to get at his pockets. Where's the money? The children are hungry. You mad oul' bastard, did you drink all the money again? Just what you did in Brooklyn.

He blubbered, Och, poor Angela. And poor wee Margaret and poor wee Oliver.

He staggered to me and hugged me and I smelled the drink I used to smell in America. My face was wet from his tears and his spit and his snot and I was hungry and I didn't know what to say when he cried all over my head.

Then he let me go and hugged Malachy, still going on about the wee sister and the wee brother cold in the ground, and how we all have to pray and be good, how we have to be obedient and do what our mother tells us. He said we have our troubles but it's time for Malachy and me to start school because there's nothing like an education, it will stand to you in the end, and you have to get ready to do your bit for Ireland.

***

Mam says she can't spend another minute in that room on Windmill Street. She can't sleep with the memory of Oliver in that room, Oliver in the bed, Oliver playing on the floor, Oliver sitting on Dad's lap by the fire. She says it's not good for Eugene to be in that place, that a twin will suffer more over the loss of his brother than even a mother can understand. There's a room going on Hartstonge Street with two beds instead of the one we have here for the six of us, no, the five of us. We're getting that room and to make sure she's going to the Labour Exchange on Thursday to stand in the queue to take the dole money the minute it's handed to Dad. He says she can't do that, he'd be disgraced with the other men. The Labour Exchange is a place for men not for women taking the money from under their noses. She says, Pity about you. If you didn't squander the money in the pubs I wouldn't have to follow you the way I did in Brooklyn.

He tells her he'll be shamed forever. She says she doesn't care. She wants that room on Hartstonge Street, a nice warm comfortable room with a lavatory down the hall like the one in Brooklyn, a room without fleas and the dampness that kills. She wants that room because it's on the same street as Leamy's National School and Malachy and I can come home at the dinner hour, which is noon, for a cup of tea and a cut of fried bread.

On Thursday Mam follows Dad to the Labour Exchange. She marches in behind him and when the man pushes the money toward Dad she takes it. The other men on the dole nudge each other and grin and Dad is disgraced because a woman is never supposed to interfere with a man's dole money. He might want to put sixpence on a horse or have a pint and if all the women start acting like Mam the horses will stop running and Guinness will go broke. But she has the money now and we move to Hartstonge Street. Then she carries Eugene in her arms and we go up the street to Leamy's National School. The headmaster, Mr. Scallan, says we are to

return on Monday with a composition book, a pencil, and a pen with a good nib on it. We are not to come to school with ringworm or lice and our noses are to be blown at all times, not on the floor, that spreads the consumption, or on our sleeves, but in a handkerchief or a clean rag. He asks us if we are good boys and when we say we are, he says, Good Lord, what's this? Are they Yanks or what?

Mam tells him about Margaret and Oliver and he says, Lord above, Lord above, there's great suffering in the world. Anyway, we'll put the little fellow, Malachy, in the infants' class and his brother in first class. They're in the same room with one master. Monday morning, then, nine o'clock prompt.

The boys in Leamy's want to know why we talk like that. Are ye Yanks or what? And when we tell them we came from America they want to know, Are ye gangsters or cowboys?

A big boy sticks his face up to mine. I'm asking ye a question, he says. Are ye gangsters or cowboys?

I tell him I don't know and when he pokes his finger into my chest Malachy says, I'm a gangster, Frank's a cowboy. The big boy says, Your little brother is smart and you're a stupid Yank.

The boys around him are excited. Fight, they yell, fight, and he pushes me so hard I fall. I want to cry but the blackness comes over me the way it did with Freddie Leibowitz and I rush at him, kicking and punching. I knock him down and try to grab his hair to bang his head on the ground but there's a sharp sting across the backs of my legs and I'm pulled away from him.

Mr. Benson, the master, has me by the ear and he's whacking me across the legs. You little hooligan, he says. Is that the kind of behavior you brought from America? Well, by God, you'll behave yourself before I'm done with you.

He tells me hold out one hand and then the other and hits me with his stick once on each hand. Go home now, he says, and tell your mother what a bad boy you were. You're a bad Yank. Say after me, I'm a bad boy.

I'm a bad boy.

Now say, I'm a bad Yank.

I'm a bad Yank.

Malachy says, He's not a bad boy. It's that big boy. He said we

were cowboys and gangsters.

Is that what you did, Heffernan?

I was only jokin', sir.

No more joking, Heffernan. It's not their fault that they're Yanks. 'Tisn't, sir.

And you, Heffernan, should get down on your two knees every night

and thank God you're not a Yank for if you were, Heffernan, you'd be the greatest gangster on two sides of the Atlantic. Al Capone would be coming to you for lessons. You're not to be bothering these two Yanks anymore, Heffernan.

I won't, sir.

And if you do, Heffernan, I'll hang your pelt on the wall. Now go home, all of ye.

There are seven masters in Leamy's National School and they all have leather straps, canes, blackthorn sticks. They hit you with the sticks on the shoulders, the back, the legs, and, especially, the hands. If they hit you on the hands it's called a slap. They hit you if you're

late, if you have a leaky nib on your pen, if you laugh, if you talk, and if you don't know things.

They hit you if you don't know why God made the world, if you don't know the patron saint of Limerick, if you can't recite the Apostles' Creed, if you can't add nineteen to forty-seven, if you can't subtract nineteen from forty-seven, if you don't know the chief towns and products of the thirty-two counties of Ireland, if you can't find Bulgaria on the wall map of the world that's blotted with spit, snot, and blobs of ink thrown by angry pupils expelled forever.

They hit you if you can't say your name in Irish, if you can't say the Hail Mary in Irish, if you can't ask for the lavatory pass in Irish. It helps to listen to the big boys ahead of you. They can tell you

about the master you have now, what he likes and what he hates.

One master will hit you if you don't know that Eamon De Valera is

the greatest man that ever lived. Another master will hit you if you don't know that Michael Collins was the greatest man that ever lived.

Mr. Benson hates America and you have to remember to hate America or he'll hit you.

Mr. O'Dea hates England and you have to remember to hate England or he'll hit you.

If you ever say anything good about Oliver Cromwell they'll all hit

you.

Even if they slap you six times on each hand with the ash plant or

the blackthorn with the knobs you must not cry. You'll be a sissy. There are boys who might jeer at you and mock you on the street but even they have to be careful because the day will come when the master hits and slaps them and they have to keep the tears behind their eyes or be disgraced forever. Some boys say it is better to cry because that pleases the masters. If you don't cry the masters hate you because you've made them look weak before the class and they promise themselves the next time they have you up they'll draw tears or blood or both.

Big boys in fifth class tell us Mr. O'Dea likes to get you in front of the class so that he can stand behind you, pinch your sideburns, which are called cossicks, pull up on them. Up, up, he says, till you're on tiptoe and the tears are filling your eyes. You don't want the boys in the class to see you cry but pulling on the cossicks makes the tears come whether you like it or not and the master likes that. Mr. O'Dea is the one master who can always bring the tears and the shame.

It is better not to cry because you have to stick with the boys in the school and you never want to give the masters any satisfaction.

If the master hits you there's no use complaining to your father or mother. They always say, You deserve it. Don't be a baby.

I know Oliver is dead and Malachy knows Oliver is dead but Eugene is too small to know anything. When he wakes in the morning he says, Ollie, Ollie, and toddles around the room looking under the beds or he climbs up on the bed by the window and points to children on the street, especially children with fair hair like him and Oliver. Ollie, Ollie, he says, and Mam picks him up, sobs, hugs him. He struggles to get down because he doesn't want to be picked up and hugged. He wants to find Oliver.

Dad and Mam tell him Oliver is in heaven playing with angels and we'll all see him again someday but he doesn't understand because he's only two and doesn't have the words and that's the worst thing in the whole world.

Malachy and I play with him. We try to make him laugh. We make funny faces. We put pots on our heads and pretend to let them fall off. We run across the room and pretend to fall down. We take him to the People's Park to see the lovely flowers, play with dogs, roll in the grass.

He sees small children with fair hair like Oliver. He doesn't say Ollie anymore. He only points.

Dad says Eugene is lucky to have brothers like Malachy and me because we help him forget and soon, with God's help, he'll have no memory of Oliver at all.

***

He died anyway.

Six months after Oliver went, we woke on a mean November morning

and there was Eugene, cold in the bed beside us. Dr. Troy came and said that child died of pneumonia and why wasn't he in the hospital long ago? Dad said he didn't know and Mam said she didn't know and Dr. Troy said that's why children die. People don't know. He said if Malachy or I showed the slightest sign of a cough or the faintest rattle in the throat we were to be brought to him no matter what time of day or night. We were to be kept dry at all times because there seemed to be a bit of a weakness in the chest in this family. He told Mam he was very sorry for her troubles and he'd give her a prescription for something to ease the pain of the days to come. He said God was asking too much, too damn much.

Grandma came over to our room with Aunt Aggie. She washed Eugene, and Aunt Aggie went to a shop for a little white gown and a set of rosary beads. They dressed him in a white gown and laid him on the bed by the window where he used to look out for Oliver. They placed his hands on his chest, one hand on top of the other, bound in the little white rosary beads. Grandma brushed the hair back from his eyes and forehead and she said, Doesn't he have lovely soft silky hair? Mam went to the bed and pulled a blanket over his legs to keep him warm. Grandma and Aunt Aggie looked at each other and said nothing. Dad stood at the end of the bed beating his fists against his thighs, talking to Eugene, telling him, Och, it was the River Shannon that harmed you, the dampness from that river that came and took you and Oliver. Grandma said, Will you stop that? You're making the whole house nervous. She took Dr. Troy's prescription and told me run over to O'Connor the chemist for the pills, that there would be no charge due to the kindness of Dr. Troy. Dad said he'd come with me, that we'd go to the Jesuit church and say a prayer for Margaret and Oliver and Eugene, all happy in heaven. The chemist gave us the pills, we stopped to say the prayers, and when we returned to the room, Grandma gave Dad money to bring a few bottles of stout from the pub. Mam said, No, no, but Grandma said, He doesn't have the pills to ease him, God help us, and a bottle of stout will be some small comfort. Then she told him he'd have to go to the undertaker tomorrow to bring the coffin back in a carriage. She told me to go with my father and make sure he didn't stay in the pub all night and drink all the money. Dad said, Och, Frankie shouldn't be in pubs, and she said, Then don't stay there. He put on his cap and we went to South's pub and he told me at the door I could go home now, that he'd be home after one pint. I said, No, and he said, Don't be disobedient. Go home to your poor mother. I said, No, and he said I was a bad boy and God would be displeased. I said I wasn't going home without him and he said, Och, what is the world coming to? He had one quick pint of porter in the pub and we went home with the bottles

of stout. Pa Keating was in our room with a small bottle of whiskey and bottles of stout and Uncle Pat Sheehan brought two bottles of stout for himself. Uncle Pat sat on the floor with his arms around his bottles and he kept saying, They're mine, they're mine, for fear they'd be taken from him. People who were dropped on their heads always worry someone will steal their stout. Grandma said, All right, Pat, drink your stout yourself. No one will bother you. She and Aunt Aggie sat on the bed by Eugene. Pa Keating sat at the kitchen table drinking his stout and offering everyone a sip of his whiskey. Mam took her pills and sat by the fire with Malachy on her lap. She kept saying Malachy had hair like Eugene and Aunt Aggie said no he did not till Grandma drove her elbow into Aunt Aggie's chest and told her shut up. Dad stood against the wall drinking his stout between the fireplace and the bed with Eugene. Pa Keating told stories and the big people laughed even though they didn't want to laugh or they weren't supposed to laugh in the presence of a dead child. He said when he was in the English army in France the Germans sent gas over which made him so sick they had to take him to the hospital. They kept him in the hospital a while and then sent him back to the trenches. English soldiers were sent home but they didn't give a fiddler's fart about the Irish soldiers, whether they lived or died. Instead of dying Pa made a vast fortune. He said he solved one of the great problems of trench warfare. In the trenches it was so wet and muddy they had no way of boiling the water for the tea. He said to himself, Jasus, I have all this gas in my system and 'tis a great pity to waste it. So he shoved a pipe up his arse, lit a match to it, and there in a second he had a fine flame ready to boil water in any billycan. Tommies came running from trenches all around when they heard the news and they gave him any amount of money if he'd let them boil water. He made so much money he was able to bribe the generals to let him out of the army and off he went to Paris where he had a fine time drinking wine with artists and models. He had such a high time of it he spent all his money and when he came back to Limerick the only job he could get was in the gas works shoveling coal into the furnaces. He said there was so much gas in his system now he could supply light to a small town for a year. Aunt Aggie sniffed and said that was not a proper story to be telling in the presence of a dead child and Grandma said it was better to have a story like that than to be sitting around with the long face. Uncle Pat Sheehan, sitting on the floor with his stout, said he was going to sing a song. More power to you, said Pa Keating, and Uncle Pat sang "The Road to Rasheen. " He kept saying, Rasheen, Rasheen, mavourneen mean, and the song made no sense because his father dropped him on his head long ago and every time he sang that song he had different words. Grandma said that was a fine song and Pa Keating said Caruso better look over his shoulder. Dad went over to the bed in the corner where he slept with Mam. He sat on the edge, put his bottle on the floor, covered his face with his hands and cried. He said, Frank, Frank, come here, and I had to go to him so that he could hug me the way Mam was hugging Malachy. Grandma said, We better go now and sleep a bit before the funeral tomorrow. They each knelt by the bed and said a prayer and kissed Eugene's forehead. Dad put me down, stood up and nodded to them as they left. When they were gone he lifted each of the stout bottles to his mouth and drained it. He ran his finger inside the whiskey bottle and licked it. He turned down the flame in the paraffin oil lamp on the table and said it was time for Malachy and me to be in bed. We'd have to sleep with him and Mam that

night as little Eugene would be needing the bed for himself. It was dark in the room now except for the sliver of streetlight that fell on Eugene's lovely soft silky hair.

Dad lights the fire in the morning, makes the tea, toasts the bread in the fire. He brings Mam's toast and tea but she waves it away and turns to the wall. He brings Malachy and me to Eugene to kneel and say a prayer. He says the prayers of one child like us are worth more in heaven than the prayers of ten cardinals and forty bishops. He shows us how to bless ourselves, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen, and he says, Dear God, this is what you want, isn't it? You want my son, Eugene. You took his brother, Oliver, You took his sister, Margaret. I'm not supposed to question that, am I? Dear God above, I don't know why children have to die but that is Your will. You told the river to kill and the Shannon killed. Could You at last be merciful? Could You leave us the children we have? That is all we ask. Amen.

He helps Malachy and me wash our heads and feet so that we'll be clean for Eugene's funeral. We have to be very quiet even when he hurts us cleaning our ears with the corner of the towel we brought from America. We have to be quiet because Eugene is there with his eyes closed and we don't want him to be waking up and looking out the window for Oliver.

Grandma comes and tells Mam she has to get up. There are children dead, she says, but there are children alive and they need their mother. She brings Mam a little tea in a mug to wash down the pills that ease the pain. Dad tells Grandma it's Thursday and he has to go to the Labour Exchange for the dole and then down to the undertaker to bring the mourning carriage and the coffin. Grandma tells him to take me with him but he says it's better for me to stay with Malachy so that I can pray for my little brother dead in the bed. Grandma says, Is it coddin' me you are? Pray for a little child that's barely two and already playing with his little brother in heaven? You'll take your son with you and he'll remind you this is no day for the pubs. She looks at him and he looks at her and he puts on his cap.

At the Labour Exchange we stand at the end of the queue till a man comes from behind the counter and tells Dad he's very sorry for his troubles and he should go ahead of everyone else on this sorrowful day. Men touch their caps and say they're sorry for his troubles and some pat my head and give me pennies, twenty-four pennies, two shillings. Dad tells me I'm rich now and I should buy myself a sweet while he goes into this place for a minute. I know this place is a pub and I know he wants to get the black stuff that is called a pint but I don't say anything because I want to go to the shop next door for a piece of toffee. I chew my toffee till it melts and leaves my mouth all sweet and sticky. Dad is still in the pub and I wonder if I should get another piece of toffee as long as he's in there with the pint. I'm about to give the money to the woman in the shop when my hand is slapped down and there's Aunt Aggie, raging. Is this what you do, she says, on the day of your brother's funeral? Gorgin' yourself on sweets. And where's that father of yours?

He's, he's, in the pub.

Of course he's in the pub. You out here stuffin' yourself with sweets and him in there gettin' himself into a staggerin' condition the day your poor little brother goes to the graveyard.

She tells the shop woman, Just like his father, the same odd manner, the same oul' northern jaw. She tells me get into that pub and tell my father to stop the drinking and get the coffin and the carriage. She will not set foot inside the pub for the drink is the curse of this poor godforsaken country.

Dad is sitting at the back of the pub with a man who has a dirty face and hair growing out of his nose. They're not talking but staring straight ahead and their black pints are resting on a small white coffin on the seat between them. I know that's Eugene's coffin because Oliver had one like it and I want to cry when I see the black pints on top of it. I'm sorry now I ever ate that toffee and I wish I could take it out of my stomach and give it back to the woman in the shop because it's not right to be eating toffee when Eugene is dead in the bed and I'm frightened by the two black pints on his white coffin. The man with Dad is saying, No, mister, you can't leave a child's coffin in a carriage no more. I did that once, went in for a pint and they robbed that little coffin out of the bloody carriage. Can you credit that? It was empty, thank God, but there you are. Desperate times we live in, desperate. The man with Dad lifts his pint and takes a long swallow and when he puts his glass down there's a hollow sound in the coffin. Dad nods at me. We'll be going in a minute, son, but when he goes to put his glass on the coffin after the long swallow I push it away.

That's Eugene's coffin. I'll tell Mam you put your glass on Eugene's coffin.

Now, son. Now, son.

Dad, that's Eugene's coffin. The other man says, Will we have another pint, mister?

Dad says to me, Wait outside another few minutes, Francis. No.

Don't be a bad boy.

No.

The other man says, By Jesus, if that was my son I'd kick his arse from here to the County Kerry. He have no right to be talkin' to his father in that manner on a sorrowful day. If a man can't have a pint the day of a funeral what's the use of livin' at all, at all.

Dad says, All right. We'll go.

They finish their pints and wipe the wet brown stains off the coffin with their sleeves. The man climbs up to the driver's seat of the carriage and Dad and I ride inside. He has the coffin on his lap and he presses it against his chest. At home our room is filled with big people, Mam, Grandma, Aunt Aggie, her husband, Pa Keating, Uncle Pat Sheehan, Uncle Tom Sheehan, who is Mam's oldest brother and who never came near us before because he hates people from the North of Ireland. Uncle Tom has his wife, Jane, with him. She's from Galway and people say she has the look of a Spaniard and that's why no one in the family talks to her.

The man takes the coffin from Dad and when he brings it into the room Mam moans, Oh, no, oh, God, no. The man tells Grandma he'll be back in awhile to take us to the graveyard. Grandma tells him he'd better not come back to this house in a drunken state because this child that's going to the graveyard suffered greatly and deserves a bit of dignity and she won't put up with a driver that's drunk and ready to fall out of the high seat.

The man says, Missus, I drove dozens o' children to the graveyard an' never once fell out of any seat, high or low.

The men are drinking stout from bottles again and the women are sipping sherry from jam jars. Uncle Pat Sheehan tells everyone, This is my stout, this is my stout, and Grandma says, 'Tis all right, Pat. No one will take your stout. Then he says he wants to sing "The Road to Rasheen" till Pa Keating says, No, Pat, you can't sing on the day of a funeral. You can sing the night before. But Uncle Pat keeps saying, This is my stout and I want to sing "The Road to Rasheen, " and everyone knows he talks like that because he was dropped on his head. He starts to sing his song but stops when Grandma takes the lid off the coffin and Mam sobs, Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, will it ever stop? Will I be left with one child?

Mam is sitting on a chair at the head of the bed. She's stroking Eugene's hair and face and hands. She tells him that of all the children in the world he was the sweetest and the most delicate and loving. She tells him 'tis a terrible thing to lose him but isn't he in heaven now with his brother and his sister and isn't that a comfort to us, knowing Oliver is no longer lonesome for his twin. Still, she puts her head down next to Eugene and cries so hard all the women in the room cry with her. She cries till Pa Keating tells her we have to go before the darkness falls, that we can't be in graveyards in the dark.

Grandma whispers to Aunt Aggie, Who'll put the child in the coffin? and Aunt Aggie whispers, I won't. That's the job for the mother.

Uncle Pat hears them. I'll put the child in the coffin, he says. He limps to the bed and places his arms around Mam's shoulders. She looks up at him and her face is drenched. He says, I'll put the child in the coffin, Angela.

Oh, Pat, she says. Pat.

I can do it, he says. Sure he's only a small child an' I never lifted a small child before in my life. I never had a small child in me arms. I won't drop him, Angela. I won't. Honest to God, I won't.

I know you won't, Pat. I know you won't.

I'll lift him an' I won't be singin'"The Road to Rasheen."

I know you won't, Pat, Mam says.

Pat pulls down the blanket Mam put there to keep Eugene warm.

Eugene's feet are white and bright with little blue veins. Pat bends over, picks up Eugene and holds him against his chest. He kisses Eugene's forehead and then everyone in the room kisses Eugene. He places Eugene in the coffin and steps back. We are all gathered around looking at Eugene for the last time.

Uncle Pat says, See, I didn't drop him, Angela, and she touches his

face.

Aunt Aggie goes to the pub for the driver. He puts the lid on the

coffin and screws it down. He says, Who's comin' in the carriage? and takes the coffin to the carriage. There's room only for Mam and Dad, Malachy and me. Grandma says, Ye go ahead to the graveyard and we'll wait here.

I don't know why we can't keep Eugene. I don't know why they have to send him away with that man who puts his pint on the white coffin. I don't know why they had to send Margaret away and Oliver. It is a bad thing to put my sister and my brothers in a box and I wish I could say something to someone.

The horse clop-clopped through the streets of Limerick. Malachy said, Are we going to see Oliver? and Dad said, No, Oliver is in heaven and don't ask me what heaven is because I don't know.

Mam said, Heaven is a place where Oliver and Eugene and Margaret are happy and warm and we'll see them there some day.

Malachy said, The horse did his doodoo on the street and there was a smell, and Mam and Dad had to smile.

At the graveyard the driver climbs down and opens the door of the carriage. Gimme that coffin, he says, an' I'll carry it up to the grave. He yanks at the coffin and stumbles. Mam says, You're not carrying my child in the condition you're in. She turns to Dad. You carry him, she says. Do what you like, says the driver.

Do what you bloody well like, and he climbs up to his seat.

It's getting dark now and the coffin seems whiter than ever in Dad's arms. Mam takes our hands and we follow Dad through the graves. The jackdaws are quiet in the trees because their day is nearly over and they have to rest so that they can get up early in the morning and feed their babies.

Two men with shovels are waiting by a small open grave. One man says, Ye are very late. Good thing this is a small job or we'd be gone. He climbs into the grave. Hand it to me, he says, and Dad hands him the coffin.

The man sprinkles some straw and grass on the coffin and as he climbs out the other man shovels in the earth. Mam lets out a long cry, Oh, Jesus, Jesus, and a jackdaw croaks in a tree. I wish I had a rock to hit that jackdaw. When the men finish shoveling in the earth they wipe their foreheads and wait. One says, Ah, well, now, there's usually a little something for the thirst that's in it.

Dad says, Oh, yes, yes, and gives them money. They say, Sorry for your troubles, and they leave.

We make our way back to the carriage at the graveyard gate but the carriage is gone. Dad looks around in the darkness and comes back shaking his head. Mam says, That driver is nothing but a dirty old drunkard, God forgive me.

It's a long walk from the graveyard to our room. Mam tells Dad, These children need some nourishment and you have money left from the dole this morning. If you're thinking of going to the pubs tonight you can forget it. We're taking them to Naughton's and they can have fish and chips and lemonade for 'tisn't every day they bury a brother.

The fish and chips are delicious with vinegar and salt and the lemonade is tart in our throats.

When we get home the room is empty. There are empty stout bottles on the table and the fire is out. Dad lights the paraffin oil lamp and you can see the hollow left in the pillow by Eugene's head. You expect to hear him and see him toddling across the room, climbing up on the bed to look out the window for Oliver.

Dad tells Mam he's going out for a walk. She says no. She knows what he's up to, that he can't wait to spend his last few shillings in the pubs. All right, he says. He lights the fire and Mam makes tea and soon we're in bed.

Malachy and I are back in the bed where Eugene died. I hope he's not cold in that white coffin in the graveyard though I know he's not there anymore because angels come to the graveyard and open the coffin and he's far from the Shannon dampness that kills, up in the sky in heaven with Oliver and Margaret where they have plenty of fish and chips and toffee and no aunts to bother you, where all the fathers bring home

the money from the Labour Exchange and you don't have to be running around to pubs to find them.

III

Mam says she can't spend another minute in that room on Hartstonge Street. She sees Eugene morning, noon and night. She sees him climbing the bed to look out at the street for Oliver and sometimes she sees Oliver outside and Eugene inside, the two of them chatting away. She's happy they're chatting like that but she doesn't want to be seeing and hearing them the rest of her life. It's a shame to move when we're so near Leamy's National School but if she doesn't move soon she'll go out of her mind and wind up in the lunatic asylum.

We move to Roden Lane on top of a place called Barrack Hill. There are six houses on one side of the lane, one on the opposite side. The houses are called two up, two down, two rooms on top, two on the bottom. Our house is at the end of the lane, the last of the six. Next to our door is a small shed, a lavatory, and next to that a stable.

Mam goes to the St. Vincent de Paul Society to see if there's any chance of getting furniture. The man says he'll give us a docket for a table, two chairs, and two beds. He says we'll have to go to a second- hand furniture shop down in the Irishtown and haul the furniture home ourselves. Mam says we can use the pram she had for the twins and when she says that she cries. She wipes her eyes on her sleeves and asks the man if the beds we're getting are secondhand. He says of course they are, and she says she's very worried about sleeping in beds someone might have died in, especially if they had the consumption. The man says, I'm very sorry, but beggars can't be choosers.

It takes us all day to haul the furniture on the pram from one end of Limerick to the other. There are four wheels on the pram but one is bockety, it wants to go in a different direction. We have two beds, one sideboard with a mirror, a table and two chairs. We're happy with the house. We can walk from room to room and up and down the stairs. You feel very rich when you can go up and down the stairs all day as much as you please. Dad lights the fire and Mam makes the tea. He sits at the table on one chair, she sits on the other and Malachy and I sit on the trunk we brought from America. While we're drinking our tea an old man passes our door with a bucket in his hand. He empties the bucket into the lavatory and flushes and there's a powerful stink in our kitchen. Mam goes to the door and says, Why are you emptying your bucket in our lavatory? He raises his cap to her. Your lavatory, missus? Ah, no. You're making a bit of a mistake there, ha, ha. This is not your lavatory. Sure, isn't this the lavatory for the whole lane. You'll see passing your door here the buckets of eleven families and I can tell you it gets very powerful here in the warm weather, very powerful altogether. 'Tis December now, thank God, with a chill in the air and Christmas around the corner and the lavatory isn't that bad, but the day will come when you'll be calling for a gas mask. So, good night to you, missus, and I hope you'll be happy in your house.

Mam says, Wait a minute, sir. Could you tell me who cleans this lavatory?

Cleans? Ah, Jasus, that's a good one. Cleans, she says. Is it joking you are? These houses were built in the time of Queen Victoria herself and if this lavatory was ever cleaned it must have been done by someone in the middle of the night when no one was lookin'.

And he shuffles up the lane laughing away to himself.

Mam comes back to her chair and her tea. We can't stay here, she says. That lavatory will kill us with all diseases.

Dad says, We can't move again. Where will we get a house for six shillings a week? We'll keep the lavatory clean ourselves. We'll boil buckets of water and throw them in there.

Oh, will we? says Mam, and where will we get the coal or turf or blocks to be boiling water?

Dad says nothing. He finishes his tea and looks for a nail to hang our one picture. The man in the picture has a thin face. He wears a yellow skullcap and a black robe with a cross on his chest. Dad says he was a Pope, Leo the Thirteenth, a great friend of the workingman. He brought this picture all the way from America where he found it thrown out by someone who had no time for the workingman. Mam says he's talking a lot of bloody nonsense and he says she shouldn't say bloody in front of the children. Dad finds a nail but wonders how he's going to get it into the wall without a hammer. Mam says he could go borrow one from the people next door but he says you don't go around borrowing from people you don't know. He leans the picture against the wall and drives the nail with the bottom of a jam jar. The jam jar breaks and cuts his hand and a blob of blood falls on the Pope's head. He wraps his hand in the dish rag and tells Mam, Quick, quick, wipe the blood off the Pope before it dries. She tries to wipe the blood away with her sleeve but it's wool and spreads the blood till the whole side of the Pope's face is smeared. Dad says, Lord above, Angela, you've destroyed the Pope entirely, and she says, Arrah, stop your whining, we'll get some paint and go over his face some day, and Dad says, He's the only Pope that was ever a friend to the workingman and what are we to say if someone from the St. Vincent de Paul Society comes in and sees blood all over him? Mam says, I don't know. It's your blood and 'tis a sad thing when a man can't even drive a nail straight. It just goes to show how useless you are. You'd be better off digging fields and anyway I don't care. I have pain in my back and I'm going to bed.

Och, what am I going to do? Dad says.

Take down the Pope and hide him in the coal hole under the stairs where he won't be seen and he'll be out of harm's way.

I can't, says Dad. It would be bad luck. Coal hole is no place for a Pope. When the Pope is up, he's up.

Suit yourself, says Mam.

I will, says Dad.

This is our first Christmas in Limerick and the girls are out in

the lane, skipping rope and singing, Christmas is coming And the goose is getting fat, Please put a penny In the old man's hat.

If you haven't a penny

A ha'penny will do

And if you haven't a ha'penny

God bless you.

Boys tease the girls and call out,

May your mother have an accident

Abroad in the loo.

Mam says she'd like to have a nice Christmas dinner but what can you do when the Labour Exchange reduces the dole to sixteen shillings after Oliver and Eugene died? You pay the rent of six shillings, you have ten shillings left, and what use is that to four people?

Dad can't get any work. He gets up early on weekdays, lights the fire, boils water for the tea and his shaving mug. He puts on a shirt and attaches a collar with studs. He puts on his tie and his cap and goes to the Labour Exchange to sign for the dole. He will never leave the house without collar and tie. A man without collar and tie is a man with no respect for himself. You never know when the clerk at the Labour Exchange might tell you there's a job going at Rank's Flour Mills or the Limerick Cement Company, and even if it's a laboring job what will they think if you appear without collar and tie?

Bosses and foremen always show him respect and say they're ready to hire him, but when he opens his mouth and they hear the North of Ireland accent, they take a Limerickman instead. That's what he tells Mam by the fire and when she says, Why don't you dress like a proper workingman? he says he'll never give an inch, never let them know, and when she says, Why can't you try to talk like a Limerickman? he says he'll never sink that low and the greatest sorrow of his life is that his sons are now afflicted with the Limerick accent. She says, Sorry for your troubles and I hope that's all you'll ever have, and he says that some day, with God's help, we'll get out of Limerick and far from the Shannon that kills.

I ask Dad what afflicted means and he says, Sickness, son, and things that don't fit.

When he's not looking for work Dad goes for long walks, miles into the country. He asks farmers if they need any help, that he grew up on a farm and can do anything. If they hire him he goes to work right away with his cap on and his collar and tie. He works so hard and long the farmers have to tell him to stop. They wonder how a man can work through a long hot day with no thought of food or drink. Dad smiles. He never brings home the money he earns on farms. That money seems to be different from the dole, which is supposed to be brought home. He takes the farm money to the pub and drinks it. If he's not home when the Angelus rings at six o'clock Mam knows he had a day of work. She hopes he might think of his family and pass the pub even once, but he never does. She hopes he might bring home something from the farm, potatoes, cabbage, turnips, carrots, but he'll never bring home anything because he'd never stoop so low as to ask a farmer for anything. Mam says 'tis all right for her to be begging at the St. Vincent de Paul Society for a docket for food but he can't stick a few spuds in his pocket. He says it's different for a man. You have to keep the dignity. Wear your collar and tie, keep up the appearance, and never ask for anything. Mam says, I hope it keeps fine for you.

When the farm money is gone he rolls home singing and crying over Ireland and his dead children, mostly about Ireland. If he sings Roddy McCorley, it means he had only the price of a pint or two. If he sings Kevin Barry, it means he had a good day, that he is now falling down drunk and ready to get us out of bed, line us up and make us promise to die for Ireland, unless Mam tells him leave us alone or she'll brain him with the poker.

You wouldn't do that, Angela.

I would and more. You better stop the nonsense and go to bed.

Bed, bed, bed. What's the use of going to bed? If I go to bed I'll

only have to get up again and I can't sleep in a place where there's a river sending poison to us in mist and fog.

He goes to bed, pounds the wall with his fist, sings a woeful song, falls asleep. He's up at daylight because no one should sleep beyond the dawn. He wakes Malachy and me and we're tired from being kept up the night before with his talking and singing. We complain and say we're sick, we're tired, but he pulls back the overcoats that cover us and forces us out on the floor. It's December and it's freezing and we can see our breath. We pee into the bucket by the bedroom door and run down stairs for the warmth of the fire Dad has already started. We wash our faces and hands in a basin that sits under the water tap by the door. The pipe that leads to the tap has to be held to the wall by a piece of twine looped around a nail. Everything around the tap is damp, the floor, the wall, the chair the basin sits on. The water from the tap is icy and our fingers turn numb. Dad says this is good for us, it will make men of us. He throws the icy water on his face and neck and chest to show there's nothing to fear. We hold our hands to the fire for the heat that's in it but we can't stay there long because we have to drink our tea and eat our bread and go to school. Dad makes us say grace before meals and grace after meals and he tells us be good boys at school because God is watching every move and the slightest disobedience will send us straight to hell where we'll never have to worry about the cold again.

And he smiles.

Two weeks before Christmas Malachy and I come home from school in a heavy rain and when we push in the door we find the kitchen empty. The table and chairs and trunk are gone and the fire is dead in the grate. The Pope is still there and that means we haven't moved again. Dad would never move without the Pope. The kitchen floor is wet, little pools of water all around, and the walls are twinkling with the damp. There's a noise upstairs and when we go up we find Dad and Mam and the missing furniture. It's nice and warm there with a fire blazing in the grate, Mam sitting in the bed, and Dad reading The Irish Press and smoking a cigarette by the fire. Mam tells us there was a terrible flood, that the rain came down the lane and poured in under our door. They tried to stop it with rags but they only turned sopping wet and let the rain in. People emptying their buckets made it worse and there was a sickening stink in the kitchen. She thinks we should stay upstairs as long as there is rain. We'll be warm through the winter months and then we can go downstairs in the springtime if there is any sign of a dryness in the walls or the floor. Dad says it's like going away on our holidays to a warm foreign place like Italy. That's what we'll call the upstairs from now on, Italy. Malachy says the Pope is still on the wall downstairs and he's going to be all cold and couldn't we bring him up? but Mam says, No, he's going to stay where he is because I don't want him on the wall glaring at me in the bed. Isn't it enough that we dragged him all the way from Brooklyn to Belfast to Dublin to Limerick? All I want now is a little peace, ease and comfort....

Mam takes Malachy and me to the St. Vincent de Paul Society to stand in the queue and see if there's any chance of getting something for the Christmas dinner-a goose or a ham, but the man says everyone in

Limerick is desperate this Christmas. He gives her a docket for groceries at McGrath's shop and another one for the butcher.

No goose, says the butcher, no ham. No fancy items when you bring the docket from the St. Vincent de Paul. What you can have now, missus, is black pudding and tripe or a sheep's head or a nice pig's head. No harm in a pig's head, missus, plenty of meat and children love it, slice that cheek, slather it with mustard and you're in heaven, though I suppose they wouldn't have the likes of that in America where they're mad for the steak and all classes of poultry, flying, walking or swimming itself.

He tells Mam, no, she can't have boiled bacon or sausages and if she has any sense she'll take the pig's head before they're all gone the way the poor people of Limerick are clamoring for them.

Mam says the pig's head isn't right for Christmas and he says 'tis more than the Holy Family had in that cold stable in Bethlehem long ago. You wouldn't find them complaining if someone offered them a nice fat pig's head.

No, they wouldn't complain, says Mam, but they'd never eat the pig's head. They were Jewish.

And what does that have to do with it? A pig's head is a pig's head.

And a Jew is a Jew and 'tis against their religion and I don't blame them.

The butcher says, Are you a bit of an expert, missus, on the Jews and the pig.

I am not, says Mam, but there was a Jewish woman, Mrs. Leibowitz, in New York, and I don't know what we would have done without her.

The butcher takes the pig's head off a shelf and when Malachy says, Ooh, look at the dead dog, the butcher and Mam burst out laughing. He wraps the head in newspaper, hands it to Mam and says, Happy Christmas. Then he wraps up some sausages and tells her, Take these sausages for your breakfast on Christmas Day. Mam says, Oh, I can't afford sausages, and he says, Am I asking you for money? Am I? Take these sausages. They might help make up for the lack of a goose or a ham.

Sure, you don't have to do that, says Mam.

I know that, missus. If I had to do it, I wouldn't.

Mam says she has a pain in her back, that I'll have to carry the

pig's head. I hold it against my chest but it's damp and when the newspaper begins to fall away everyone can see the head. Mam says, I'm ashamed of me life that the world should know we're having pig's head for Christmas. Boys from Leamy's National School see me and they point and laugh. Aw, Gawd, look at Frankie McCourt an'his pig's snout. Is that what the Yanks ate for Christmas dinner, Frankie?

One calls to another, Hey, Christy, do you know how to ate a pig's

head?

No, I don't, Paddy.

Grab him by the ears an' chew the face offa him.

And Christy says, Hey, Paddy, do you know the only part of the pig the McCourts don't ate?

No, I don't, Christy.

The only part they don't ate is the oink.

After a few streets the newspaper is gone altogether and everyone

can see the pig's head. His nose is flat against my chest and pointing up at my chin and I feel sorry for him because he's dead and the world is

laughing at him. My sister and two brothers are dead, too, but if anyone laughed at them I'd hit them with a rock.

I wish Dad would come and help us because Mam has to stop every few steps and lean against a wall. She's holding her back and telling us she'll never be able to climb Barrack Hill. Even if Dad came he wouldn't be much use because he never carries anything, parcels, bags, packages. If you carry such things you lose your dignity. That's what he says. He carried the twins when they were tired and he carried the Pope, but that was not the same as carrying ordinary things like a pig's head. He tells Malachy and me that when you grow up you have to wear a collar and tie and never let people see you carry things.

He's upstairs sitting by the fire, smoking a cigarette, reading The Irish Press, which he loves because it's De Valera's paper and he thinks De Valera is the greatest man in the world. He looks at me and the pig's head and tells Mam it's a disgraceful thing to let a boy carry an object like that through the streets of Limerick. She takes off her coat and eases herself into the bed and tells him that next Christmas he can go out and find the dinner. She's worn out and gasping for a cup of tea so would he drop his grand airs, boil the water for the tea and fry some bread before his two small sons starve to death.

On Christmas morning he lights the fire early so that we can have sausages and bread and tea. Mam sends me to Grandma to see if we can borrow a pot for the pig's head. Grandma says, What are ye having for yeer dinner? Pig's head! Jesus, Mary an' Joseph, that's goin' beyond the beyonds. Couldn't your father get out and find a ham or a goose at least? What kind of man is he at all, at all?

Mam puts the head in the pot, just covered with water, and while the pig is boiling away Dad takes Malachy and me to Mass at the Redemptorist church. It's warm in the church and sweet with flowers and incense and candles. He takes us to see the Baby Jesus in the crib. He's a big fat baby with fair curls like Malachy. Dad tells us that's Jesus' mother there, Mary, in the blue dress, and his father, St. Joseph, the old man with the beard. He says they're sad because they know Jesus will grow up and be killed so that we can all go to heaven. I ask why the Baby Jesus has to die and Dad says you can't ask questions like that. Malachy says, Why? and Dad tells him be quiet.

Mam is in a terrible state at home. There isn't enough coal to cook the dinner, the water isn't boiling anymore and she says she's demented with worry. We'll have to go down the Dock Road again to see if there's any coal or turf lying around from the lorries. Surely we'll find something on the road this day of all days. Even the poorest of the poor don't go out on Christmas Day picking coal off the road. There's no use asking Dad to go because he will never stoop that low and even if he did he won't carry things through the streets. It's a rule he has. Mam can't go because of the pain in her back.

She says, You'll have to go, Frank, and take Malachy with you.

It's a long way to the Dock Road but we don't mind because our bellies are filled with sausages and bread and it's not raining. We carry a canvas bag Mam borrowed from Mrs. Hannon next door and Mam is right, there is no one on the Dock Road. The poor are all at home having pig's head or maybe a goose and we have the Dock Road to ourselves. We find bits of coal and turf stuck in cracks on the road and in the walls of the coal yards. We find bits of paper and cardboard that will be useful in starting the fire again. We're wandering around trying to fill the bag

when Pa Keating comes along. He must have washed himself for Christmas because he's not as black as he was when Eugene died. He wants to know what we're doing with that bag and when Malachy tells him he says, Jesus, Mary and Holy St. Joseph! Christmas Day and ye don't have a fire for yeer pig's head. That's a bloody disgrace.

He takes us to South's pub, which is not supposed to be open, but he's a regular customer and there's a back door for men who want their pint to celebrate the birthday of the Baby Jesus above in the crib. He orders his pint and lemonade for us and asks the man if there's any chance of getting a few lumps of coal. The man says he's been serving drink for twenty-seven years and nobody ever asked him for coal before. Pa says it would be a favor and the man says if Pa asked for the moon he'd fly up and bring it back. The man leads us to the coal hole under the stairs and tells us take what we can carry. It's real coal and not bits from the Dock Road and if we can't carry it we can drag it along the ground.

It takes us a long time to go from South's pub to Barrack Hill because of a hole in the bag. I pull the bag and it's Malachy's job to pick up the lumps that fall through the hole and put them back again. Then it starts to rain and we can't stand in a doorway till it passes because we have that coal and it's leaving a black trail along the pavement and Malachy is turning black from picking up the lumps, pushing them into the bag and wiping the rain from his face with his wet black hands. I tell him he's black, he tells me I'm black, and a woman in a shop tells us get away from that door, 'tis Christmas Day and she doesn't want to be looking at Africa.

We have to keep dragging the bag or we'll never have our Christmas dinner. It will take ages to get a fire going and ages more to get our dinner because the water has to be boiling when Mam puts in the head of cabbage and the potatoes to keep the pig company in the pot. We drag the bag up O'Connell Avenue and we see people in their houses sitting around tables with all kinds of decorations and bright lights. At one house they push up the window and the children point and laugh and call to us, Look at the Zulus. Where are yeer spears?

Malachy makes faces at them and wants to throw coal at them but I tell him if he throws coal there's less for the pig and we'll never get our dinner.

The downstairs in our house is a lake again from the rain pouring under the door but it doesn't matter because we're drenched anyway and we can wade through the water. Dad comes down and drags the bag upstairs to Italy. He says we're good boys for getting so much coal, that the Dock Road must have been covered with it. When Mam sees us she starts to laugh, and then she cries. She's laughing because we're so black and crying because we're sopping wet. She tells us take off all our clothes and she washes the coal off our hands and faces. She tells Dad the pig's head can wait a while so that we can have a jam jar of hot tea.

It's raining outside and there's a lake downstairs in our kitchen but up here in Italy the fire is going again and the room is so dry and warm that, after our tea, Malachy and I doze off in the bed and we don't wake till Dad tells us the dinner is ready. Our clothes are still wet, so Malachy sits on the trunk at the table wrapped in Mam's red American overcoat and I'm wrapped in an old coat that Mam's father left behind when he went to Australia.

There are delicious smells in the room, cabbage, potatoes, and the pig's head, but when Dad lifts the head from the pot to a plate Malachy says, Oh, the poor pig. I don't want to eat the poor pig.

Mam says, If you were hungry you'd eat it. Now stop the nonsense and eat your dinner.

Dad says, Wait a minute. He takes slices from the two cheeks, places them on our plates and smears them with mustard. He takes the plate that holds the pig's head and puts it on the floor under the table. Now, he says to Malachy, that's ham, and Malachy eats it because he's not looking at what it came from and it isn't pig's head anymore. The cabbage is soft and hot and there are plenty of potatoes with butter and salt. Mam peels our potatoes but Dad eats his skin and all. He says all the nourishment of a potato is in the skin and Mam says it's a good thing he's not eating eggs, he'd be chewing the shells and all.

He says he would, and it's a disgrace that the Irish throw out millions of potato skins every day and that's why thousands are dying of consumption and surely there's nourishment in the shell of an egg since waste is the eighth deadly sin. If he had his way, and Mam says, Never mind your way. Eat your dinner.

He eats half a potato with its skin on and puts the other half back in the pot. He eats a small slice of the pig's cheek and a leaf of cabbage and leaves the rest on his plate for Malachy and me. He makes more tea and we have that with bread and jam so that no one can say we didn't have a sweet on Christmas Day.

It's dark now and still raining outside and the coal is glowing in the grate where Mam and Dad sit and smoke their cigarettes. There's nothing to do when your clothes are wet but get back into bed where it's cozy and your father can tell you a story about how Cuchulain became a Catholic and you fall asleep and dream about the pig standing in the crib at the Redemptorist church crying because he and the Baby Jesus and Cuchulain all have to grow up and die.

The angel that brought Margaret and the twins comes again and brings us another brother, Michael. Dad says he found Michael on the seventh step of the stairs to Italy. He says that's what you have to watch for when you ask for a new baby, the Angel on the Seventh Step.

Malachy wants to know how you can get a new brother from the Angel on the Seventh Step if you don't have any stairs in your house and Dad tells him that asking too many questions is an affliction.

Malachy wants to know what an affliction is.

Affliction. I'd like to know what that word means. Affliction, but Dad says, Och, child, the world is an affliction and everything in it, puts on his cap and goes to the Bedford Row Hospital to see Mam and Michael. She's in the hospital with the pain in her back and she has the baby with her to make sure he was healthy when he was left on the seventh step. I don't understand this because I'm sure angels would never leave a sick baby on the seventh step. There's no use asking Dad or Mam about this. They say, You're getting as bad as your brother for asking questions. Go play.

I know that big people don't like questions from children. They can ask all the questions they like, How's school? Are you a good boy? Did you say your prayers? but if you ask them did they say their prayers you might be hit on the head.

Dad brings Mam home with the new baby and she has to stay in bed for a few days with the pain in her back. She says this baby is the

spitting image of our sister who died, with his wavy black hair, his lovely blue eyes, and the gorgeous eyebrows. That's what Mam says.

I want to know if the baby will be spitting. I also want to know which is the seventh step because there are nine steps on the stairs and I'd like to know if you count from the bottom or the top. Dad doesn't mind answering this question. Angels come down from above, he says, and not up from kitchens like ours which are lakes from October till April.

So I find the seventh step by counting from the top.

The baby Michael has a cold. His head is stuffed and he can barely breathe. Mam worries because it's Sunday and the Dispensary for the poor is closed. If you go to the doctor's house and the maid sees you're from the lower classes she tells you go to the Dispensary where you belong. If you tell her the child is dying in your arms she'll say the doctor is in the country riding his horse.

Mam cries because the baby is struggling to get air through his mouth. She tries to clear his nostrils with a bit of rolled up paper but she's afraid to push it too far up. Dad says, There's no need for that. You're not supposed to be pushing things inside a child's head. It looks like he's going to kiss the baby. Instead, he has his mouth on the little nose and he's sucking sucking the bad stuff out of Michael's head. He spits it into the fire, Michael gives out a loud cry and you can see him drawing the air into his head and kicking his legs and laughing. Mam looks at Dad as if he just came down from heaven and Dad says, That's what we did in Antrim long before there were doctors riding their horses.

Michael entitles us to a few extra shillings on the dole but Mam says it isn't enough and now she has to go to the St. Vincent de Paul Society for food. One night there is a knock on the door and Mam sends me down to see who it is. There are two men from the St. Vincent de Paul and they want to see my mother and father. I tell them my parents are upstairs in Italy and they say, What?

Upstairs where 'tis dry. I'll tell them.

They want to know what that little shed is beside our front door. I tell them it's the lavatory. They want to know why it isn't in the back of the house and I tell them it's the lavatory for the whole lane and it's a good thing it's not in the back of our house or we'd have people traipsing through our kitchen with buckets that would make you sick.

They say, Are you sure there's one lavatory for the whole lane? I am.

They say, Mother of God.

Mam calls down from Italy. Who's down there?

The men.

What men? From the St. Vincent de Paul.

They're careful the way they step into the lake in the kitchen and

they make tsk tsk and tut tut noises and they tell one another, Isn't this a disgrace? till they get upstairs to Italy. They tell Mam and Dad they're sorry to disturb them but the Society has to be sure they're helping deserving cases. Mam offers them a cup of tea but they look around and say, No, thank you. They want to know why we're living upstairs. They want to know about the lavatory. They ask questions because big people can ask all the questions they like and write in notebooks, especially when they're wearing collars and ties and suits. They ask how old Michael is, how much Dad gets at the Labour Exchange, when did he last have a job, why doesn't he have a job now and what class of an accent is that he has?

Dad tells them the lavatory could kill us with every class of disease, that the kitchen floods in the winter and we have to move upstairs to stay dry. He says the River Shannon is responsible for all the dampness in the world and killing us one by one.

Malachy tells them we're living in Italy and they smile.

Mam asks if there's any chance of getting boots for Malachy and me and they say she'll have to come down to Ozanam House and apply. She says she hasn't been feeling well since the baby came and she wouldn't be able to stand long in a queue, but they say everyone has to be treated the same, even a woman down in the Irishtown that had triplets and, thank you, we'll make our report to the Society.

When they're leaving Malachy wants to show them where the angel left Michael on the seventh step but Dad tells him, Not now, not now. Malachy cries and one of the men gives him a piece of toffee from his pocket and I wish I had something to cry about so that I'd get a piece, too.

I have to go downstairs again and show the men where to step to keep their feet dry. They keep shaking their heads and saying, God Almighty and Mother of God, this is desperate. That's not Italy they have upstairs, that's Calcutta.

Dad is telling Mam up in Italy she should never beg like that. What do you mean, beg?

Don't you have any pride, begging for boots like that?

And what would you do, Mr. Grand Manner? Would you let them go

barefoot?

I'd rather fix the shoes they have.

The shoes they have are falling to pieces.

I can fix them, he says.

You can't fix anything. You're useless, she says.

He comes home the next day with an old bicycle tire. He sends me to

Mr. Hannon next door for the loan of a last and a hammer. He takes Mam's sharp knife and he hacks at the tire till he has pieces to fit on the soles and heels of our shoes. Mam tells him he's going to destroy the shoes altogether but he pounds away with the hammer, driving the nails through the rubber pieces and into the shoes. Mam says, God above, if you left the shoes alone they'd last till Easter, at least, and we might get the boots from the St. Vincent de Paul. But he won't stop till the soles and heels are covered with squares of rubber tire which stick out on each side of the shoe and flop before and behind. He makes us put on the shoes and tells us our feet will be good and warm but we don't want to wear them anymore because the tire pieces are so lumpy we stumble when we walk around Italy. He sends me back to Mr. Hannon with the last and hammer and Mrs. Hannon says, God above, what's up with your shoes? She laughs and Mr. Hannon shakes his head and I feel ashamed. I don't want to go to school next day and I pretend to be sick but Dad gets us up and gives us our fried bread and tea and tells us we should be grateful we have any shoes at all, that there are boys in Leamy's National School who go to school barefoot on bitter days. On our way to school Leamy's boys laugh at us because the tire pieces are so thick they add a few inches to our height and the boys say, How's the air up there? There are six or seven barefoot boys in my class and they don't say anything and I wonder if it's better to have shoes with rubber tires that make you trip and stumble or to go barefoot. If you have no shoes at all you'll have all the barefoot boys on your side. If you have rubber tires on your shoes

you're all alone with your brother and you have to fight your own battles. I sit on a bench in the schoolyard shed and take off my shoes and stockings but when I go into the class the master wants to know where my shoes are. He knows I'm not one of the barefoot boys and he makes me go back to the yard, bring in the shoes and put them on. Then he says to the class, There is sneering here. There is jeering at the misfortunes of others. Is there anyone in this class that thinks he's perfect? Raise your hands.

There are no hands. Is there anyone in this class that comes from a rich family with money galore to spend on shoes? Raise your hands.

There are no hands.

He says, There are boys here who have to mend their shoes whatever way they can. There are boys in this class with no shoes at all. It's not their fault and it's no shame. Our Lord had no shoes. He died shoeless. Do you see Him hanging on the cross sporting shoes? Do you, boys?

No, sir.

What is it you don't see Our Lord doing?

Hanging on the cross and sporting shoes, sir.

Now if I hear of one boy in this class jeering and sneering at

McCourt or his brother over their

will come out, boys?

The stick, sir.

The stick will sting, boys.

air, it will land on the backside

sneers. Where will it land, boys?

shoes the stick will come out. What

The ash plant will whistle through the

of the boy that jeers, the boy that

On the boy that jeers, sir.

And?

The boy that sneers, sir.

The boys bother us no more and we wear our shoes with the rubber

tires the few weeks to Easter when the St. Vincent de Paul Society gives us the gift of boots.

If I have to get up in the middle of the night to pee in the bucket I go to the top of the stairs and look down to see if the angel might be on the seventh step. Sometimes I'm sure there's a light there and if everyone's asleep I sit on the step in case the angel might be bringing another baby or just coming for a visit. I ask Mam if the angel just brings the babies and then forgets about them. She says, Of course not. The angel never forgets the babies and comes back to make sure the baby is happy.

I could ask the angel all kinds of questions and I'm sure he'd answer, unless it's a girl angel. But I'm sure a girl angel would answer questions, too. I never heard anyone say they didn't.

I sit on the seventh step a long time and I'm sure the angel is there. I tell him all the things you can't tell your mother or father for fear of being hit on the head or told go out and play. I tell him all about school and how I'm afraid of the master and his stick when he roars at us in Irish and I still don't know what he's talking about because I came from America and the other boys were learning Irish a year before me.

I stay on the seventh step till it gets too cold or Dad gets up and tells me go back to bed. He's the one who told me the angel comes to the seventh step in the first place and you'd think he'd know why I'm sitting there. I told him one night that I was waiting for the angel, and he said, Och, now, Francis, you're a bit of a dreamer.

I get back into bed but I can hear him whisper to my mother. The poor wee lad was sitting on the stairs talking away to an angel.

He laughs and my mother laughs and I think, Isn't it curious the way big people laugh over the angel who brought them a new child.

Before Easter we move back downstairs to Ireland. Easter is better than Christmas because the air is warmer, the walls are not dripping with the damp, and the kitchen isn't a lake anymore, and if we're up early we might catch the sun slanting for a minute through the kitchen window.

In fine weather men sit outside smoking their cigarettes if they have them, looking at the world and watching us play. Women stand with their arms folded, chatting. They don't sit because all they do is stay at home, take care of the children, clean the house and cook a bit and the men need the chairs. The men sit because they're worn out from walking to the Labour Exchange every morning to sign for the dole, discussing the world's problems and wondering what to do with the rest of the day. Some stop at the bookie to study the form and place a shilling or two on a sure thing. Some spend hours in the Carnegie Library reading English and Irish newspapers. A man on the dole needs to keep up with things because all the other men on the dole are experts on what's going on in the world. A man on the dole must be ready in case another man on the dole brings up Hitler or Mussolini or the terrible state of the Chinese millions. A man on the dole goes home after a day with the bookie or the newspaper and his wife will not begrudge him a few minutes with the ease and peace of his cigarette and his tea and time to sit in his chair and think of the world.

Easter is better than Christmas because Dad takes us to the Redemptorist church where all the priests wear white and sing. They're happy because Our Lord is in heaven. I ask Dad if the baby in the crib is dead and he says, No, He was thirty-three when He died and there He is, hanging on the cross. I don't understand how He grew up so fast that He's hanging there with a hat made of thorns and blood everywhere, dripping from His head, His hands, His feet, and a big hole near His belly.

Dad says I'll understand when I grow up. He tells me that all the time now and I want to be big like him so that I can understand everything. It must be lovely to wake up in the morning and understand everything. I wish I could be like all the big people in the church, standing and kneeling and praying and understanding everything.

At the Mass people go up to the altar and the priest puts something into their mouths. They come back to their seats with their heads down, their mouths moving. Malachy says he's hungry and he wants some, too. Dad says, Shush, that's Holy Communion, the body and blood of Our Lord.

But, Dad.

Shush, it's a mystery.

There's no use asking more questions. If you ask a question they

tell you it's a mystery, you'll understand when you grow up, be a good boy, ask your mother, ask your father, for the love o' Jesus leave me alone, go out and play.

Dad gets his first job in Limerick at the cement factory and Mam is happy. She won't have to stand in the queue at the St. Vincent de Paul Society asking for clothes and boots for Malachy and me. She says it's not begging, it's charity, but Dad says it's begging and shameful. Mam says she can now pay off the few pounds she owes at Kathleen O'Connell's shop and she can pay back what she owes her own mother. She hates to be under obligation to anyone, especially her own mother.

The cement factory is miles outside Limerick and that means Dad has to be out of the house by six in the morning. He doesn't mind because he's used to the long walks. The night before Mam makes him a flask of tea, a sandwich, a hard-boiled egg. She feels sorry for him the way he has to walk three miles out and three miles back. A bicycle would be handy but you'd have to be working a year for the price of it.

Friday is payday and Mam is out of the bed early, cleaning the house and singing.

Anyone can see why I wanted your kiss, It had to be and the reason is this...

There isn't much to clean in the house. She sweeps the kitchen floor and the floor of Italy upstairs. She washes the four jam jars we use for mugs. She says if Dad's job lasts we'll get proper cups and maybe saucers and some day, with the help of God and His Blessed Mother, we'll have sheets on the bed and if we save a long time a blanket or two instead of those old coats which people must have left behind during the Great Famine. She boils water and washes the rags that keep Michael from shitting all over the pram and the house itself. Oh, she says, we'll have a lovely tea when your Pop brings home the wages tonight.

Pop. She's in a good mood.

Sirens and whistles go off all over the city when the men finish work at half-past five. Malachy and I are excited because we know that when your father works and brings home the wages you get the Friday Penny. We know this from other boys whose fathers work and we know that after your tea you can go to Kathleen O'Connell's shop and buy sweets. If your mother is in a good mood she might even give you tuppence to go to the Lyric Cinema the next day to see a film with James Cagney.

The men who work in factories and shops in the city are coming into the lanes to have their supper, wash themselves and go to the pub. The women go to the films at the Coliseum or the Lyric Cinema. They buy sweets and Wild Woodbine cigarettes and if their husbands are working a long time they treat themselves to boxes of Black Magic chocolates. They love the romance films and they have a great time crying their eyes out when there's an unhappy ending or a handsome lover goes away to be shot by Hindus and other non-Catholics.

We have to wait a long time for Dad to walk the miles from the cement factory. We can't have our tea till he's home and that's very hard because you smell the cooking of other families in the lane. Mam says it's a good thing payday is Friday when you can't eat meat because the smell of bacon or sausages in other houses would drive her out of her mind. We can still have bread and cheese and a nice jam jar of tea with lashings of milk and sugar and what more do you want?

The women are gone to the cinemas, the men are in the pubs, and still Dad isn't home. Mam says it's a long way to the cement factory even if he's a fast walker. She says that but her eyes are watery and she's not singing anymore. She's sitting by the fire smoking a Wild Woodbine she got on credit from Kathleen O'Connell. The fag is the only luxury she has and she'll never forget Kathleen for her goodness. She doesn't know how long she can keep the water boiling in this kettle. There's no use making the tea till Dad gets home because it will be stewed, coddled, boiled and unfit to drink. Malachy says he's hungry and she gives him a piece of bread and cheese to keep him going. She says, This job could be

the saving of us. 'Tis hard enough for him to get a job with his northern accent and if he loses this one I don't know what we're going to do.

The darkness is in the lane and we have to light a candle. She has to give us our tea and bread and cheese because we're so hungry we can't wait another minute. She sits at the table, eats a bit of bread and cheese, smokes her Wild Woodbine. She goes to the door to see if Dad is coming down the lane and she talks about the paydays when we searched for him all over Brooklyn. She says, Some day we'll all go back to America and we'll have a nice warm place to live and a lavatory down the hall like the one in Classon Avenue and not this filthy thing outside our door.

The women are coming home from the cinemas, laughing, and the men, singing, from the pubs. Mam says there's no use waiting up any longer. If Dad stays in the pubs till closing time there will be nothing left from his wages and we might as well go to bed. She lies in her bed with Michael in her arms. It's quiet in the lane and I can hear her crying even though she pulls an old coat over her face and I can hear in the distance, my father.

I know it's my father because he's the only one in Limerick who sings that song from the North, Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today. He comes round the corner at the top of the lane and starts Kevin Barry. He sings a verse, stops, holds on to a wall, cries over Kevin Barry. People stick their heads out windows and doors and tell him, For Jasus' sake, put a sock in it. Some of us have to get up in the morning for work. Go home and sing your feckin' patriotic songs.

He stands in the middle of the lane and tells the world to step outside, he's ready to fight, ready to fight and die for Ireland, which is more than he can say for the men of Limerick, who are known the length and breadth of the world for collaborating with the perfidious Saxons.

He's pushing in our door and singing,

And if, when all a vigil keep,

The West's asleep, the West's asleep! Alas! and well my Erin weep,

That Connacht lies in slumber deep,

But hark! a voice like thunder spake 'The West's awake! the West's awake! Sing, Oh, hurrah, let England quake, We'll watch till death for Erin's sake!'

He calls from the bottom of the stairs, Angela, Angela, is there a drop of tea in this house?

She doesn't answer and he calls again, Francis, Malachy, come down here, boys. I have the Friday Penny for you.

I want to go down and get the Friday Penny but Mam is sobbing with the coat over her mouth and Malachy says, I don't want his old Friday Penny. He can keep it.

Dad is stumbling up the stairs, making a speech about how we all have to die for Ireland. He lights a match and touches it to the candle by Mam's bed. He holds the candle over his head and marches around the room, singing, See who comes over the red-blossomed heather, Their green banners kissing the pure mountain air, Heads erect, eyes to front,

stepping proudly together, Sure freedom sits throned on each proud spirit there.

Michael wakes and lets out a loud cry, the Hannons are banging on the wall next door, Mam is telling Dad he's a disgrace and why doesn't he get out of the house altogether.

He stands in the middle of the floor with the candle over his head. He pulls a penny from his pocket and waves it to Malachy and me. Your Friday Penny, boys, he says. I want you to jump out of that bed and line up here like two soldiers and promise to die for Ireland and I'll give the two of you the Friday Penny.

Malachy sits up in the bed. I don't want it, he says.

And I tell him I don't want it, either.

Dad stands for a minute, swaying, and puts the penny back in his

pocket. He turns toward Mam and she says, You're not sleeping in this bed tonight. He makes his way downstairs with the candle, sleeps on a chair, misses work in the morning, loses the job at the cement factory, and we're back on the dole again.

IV

The master says it's time to prepare for First Confession and First Communion, to know and remember all the questions and answers in the catechism, to become good Catholics, to know the difference between right and wrong, to die for the Faith if called on.

The master says it's a glorious thing to die for the Faith and Dad says it's a glorious thing to die for Ireland and I wonder if there's anyone in the world who would like us to live. My brothers are dead and my sister is dead and I wonder if they died for Ireland or the Faith. Dad says they were too young to die for anything. Mam says it was disease and starvation and him never having a job. Dad says, Och, Angela, puts on his cap and goes for a long walk.

The master says we're each to bring threepence for the First Communion catechism with the green cover. The catechism has all the questions and answers we have to know by heart before we can receive First Communion. Older boys in the fifth class have the thick Confirmation catechism with the red cover and that costs sixpence. I'd love to be big and important and parade around with the red Confirmation catechism but I don't think I'll live that long the way I'm expected to die for this or that. I want to ask why there are so many big people who haven't died for Ireland or the Faith but I know if you ask a question like that you get you the thump on the head or you're told go out and play.

It's very handy to have Mikey Molloy living around the corner from me. He's eleven, he has fits and behind his back we call him Molloy the Fit. People in the lane say the fit is an affliction and now I know what affliction means. Mikey knows everything because he has visions in his fits and he reads books. He's the expert in the lane on Girls' Bodies and Dirty Things in General and he promises, I'll tell you everything, Frankie, when you're eleven like me and you're not so thick and ignorant.

It's a good thing he says Frankie so I'll know he's talking to me because he has crossed eyes and you never know who he's looking at. If he's talking to Malachy and I think he's talking to me he might go into a

rage and have a fit that will carry him off. He says it's a gift to have crossed eyes because you're like a god looking two ways at once and if you had crossed eyes in the ancient Roman times you had no problem getting a good job. If you look at pictures of Roman emperors you'll see there's always a great hint of crossed eyes. When he's not having the fit he sits on the ground at the top of the lane reading the books his father brings home from the Carnegie Library. His mother says books books books, he's ruining his eyes with the reading, he needs an operation to straighten them but who'll pay for it. She tells him if he keeps on straining his eyes they'll float together till he has one eye in the middle of his head. Ever after his father calls him Cyclops, who is in a Greek story.

Nora Molloy knows my mother from the queues at the St. Vincent de Paul Society. She tells Mam that Mikey has more sense than twelve men drinking pints in a pub. He knows the names of all the Popes from St. Peter to Pius the Eleventh. He's only eleven but he's a man, oh, a man indeed. Many a week he saves the family from pure starvation. He borrows a handcart from Aidan Farrell and knocks on doors all over Limerick to see if there are people who want coal or turf delivered, and down the Dock Road he'll go to haul back great bags a hundredweight or more. He'll run messages for old people who can't walk and if they don't have a penny to give him a prayer will do.

If he earns a little money he hands it over to his mother, who loves her Mikey. He is her world, her heart's blood, her pulse, and if anything ever happened to him they might as well stick her in the lunatic asylum and throw away the key.

Mikey's father, Peter, is a great champion. He wins bets in the pubs by drinking more pints than anyone. All he has to do is go out to the jakes, stick his finger down his throat and bring it all up so that he can start another round. Peter is such a champion he can stand in the jakes and throw up without using his finger. He's such a champion they could chop off his fingers and he'd carry on regardless. He wins all that money but doesn't bring it home. Sometimes he's like my father and drinks the dole itself and that's why Nora Molloy is often carted off to the lunatic asylum demented with worry over her hungry famishing family. She knows as long as you're in the asylum you're safe from the world and its torments, there's nothing you can do, you're protected, and what's the use of worrying. It's well known that all the lunatics in the asylum have to be dragged in but she's the only one that has to be dragged out, back to her five children and the champion of all pint drinkers.

You can tell when Nora Molloy is ready for the asylum when you see her children running around white with flour from poll to toe. That happens when Peter drinks the dole money and leaves her desperate and she knows the men will come to take her away. You know she's inside frantic with the baking. She wants to make sure the children won't starve while she's gone and she roams Limerick begging for flour. She goes to priests, nuns, Protestants, Quakers. She goes to Rank's Flour Mills and begs for the sweepings from the floor. She bakes day and night. Peter begs her to stop but she screams, This is what comes of drinking the dole. He tells her the bread will only go stale. There's no use talking to her. Bake bake bake. If she had the money she'd bake all the flour in Limerick and regions beyond. If the men didn't come from the lunatic asylum to take her away she'd bake till she fell to the floor.

The children stuff themselves with so much bread people in the lane say they're looking like loaves. Still the bread goes stale and Mikey is so bothered by the waste he talks to a rich woman with a cookbook and she tells him make bread pudding. He boils the hard bread in water and sour milk and throws in a cup of sugar and his brother loves it even if that's all they have the fortnight their mother is in the lunatic asylum.

My father says, Do they take her away because she's gone mad baking bread or does she go mad baking bread because they're taking her away?

Nora comes home calm as if she had been at the seaside. She always says, Where's Mikey? Is he alive? She worries over Mikey because he's not a proper Catholic and if he had a fit and died who knows where he might wind up in the next life. He's not a proper Catholic because he could never receive his First Communion for fear of getting anything on his tongue that might cause a fit and choke him. The master tried over and over with bits of the Limerick Leader but Mikey kept spitting them out till the master got into a state and sent him to the priest, who wrote to the bishop, who said, Don't bother me, handle it yourself. The master sent a note home saying Mikey was to practice receiving Communion with his father or mother but even they couldn't get him to swallow a piece of the Limerick Leader in the shape of a wafer. They even tried a piece of bread shaped like the wafer with bread and jam and it was no use. The priest tells Mrs. Molloy not to worry. God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform and surely He has a special purpose for Mikey, fits and all. She says, Isn't it remarkable he can swally all kinds of sweets and buns but if he has to swally the body of Our Lord he goes into a fit? Isn't that remarkable? She worries Mikey might have the fit and die and go to hell if he has any class of a sin on his soul though everyone knows he's an angel out of heaven. Mikey tells her God is not going to afflict you with the fit and then boot you into hell on top of it. What kind of a God would do a thing like that?

Are you sure, Mikey?

I am. I read it in a book.

He sits under the lamppost at the top of the lane and laughs over

his First Communion day, which was all a cod. He couldn't swallow the wafer but did that stop his mother from parading him around Limerick in his little black suit for The Collection? She said to Mikey, Well, I'm not lying so I'm not. I'm only saying to the neighbors, Here's Mikey in his First Communion suit. That's all I'm saying, mind you. Here's Mikey. If they think you swallied your First Communion who am I to contradict them and disappoint them? Mikey's father said, Don't worry, Cyclops. You have loads of time. Jesus didn't become a proper Catholic till he took the bread and wine at the Last Supper and He was thirty-three years of age. Nora Molloy said, Will you stop calling him Cyclops? He has two eyes in his head and he's not a Greek. But Mikey's father, champion of all pint drinkers, is like my uncle Pa Keating, he doesn't give a fiddler's fart what the world says and that's the way I'd like to be myself.

Mikey tells me the best thing about First Communion is The Collection. Your mother has to get you a new suit somehow so she can show you off to the neighbors and relations and they give you sweets and money and you can go to the Lyric Cinema to see Charlie Chaplin.

What about James Cagney?

Never mind James Cagney. Lots of blather. Charlie Chaplin is your only man. But you have to be with your mother on The Collection. The grown-up people of Limerick are not going to be handing out money to

every little Tom Dick and Mick with a First Communion suit that doesn't have his mother with him.

Mikey got over five shillings on his First Communion day and ate so many sweets and buns he threw up in the Lyric Cinema and Frank Goggin, the ticket man, kicked him out. He says he didn't care because he had money left over and went to the Savoy Cinema the same day for a pirate film and ate Cadbury chocolate and drank lemonade till his stomach stuck out a mile. He can't wait for Confirmation day because you're older, there's another collection and that brings more money than First Communion. He'll go to the cinema the rest of his life, sit next to girls from lanes and do dirty things like an expert. He loves his mother but he'll never get married for fear he might have a wife in and out of the lunatic asylum. What's the use of getting married when you can sit in cinemas and do dirty things with girls from lanes who don't care what they do because they already did it with their brothers. If you don't get married you won't have any children at home bawling for tea and bread and gasping with the fit and looking in every direction with their eyes. When he's older he'll go to the pub like his father, drink pints galore, stick the finger down the throat to bring it all up, drink more pints, win the bets and bring the money home to his mother to keep her from going demented.

He says he's not a proper Catholic which means he's doomed so he can do anything he bloody well likes. He says, I'll tell you more when you grow up, Frankie. You're too young now and you don't know your arse from your elbow.

The master, Mr. Benson, is very old. He roars and spits all over us every day. The boys in the front row hope he has no diseases for it's the spit that carries all the diseases and he might be spreading consumption right and left. He tells us we have to know the catechism backwards, forwards and sideways. We have to know the Ten Commandments, the Seven Virtues, Divine and Moral, the Seven Sacraments, the Seven Deadly Sins. We have to know by heart all the prayers, the Hail Mary, the Our Father, the Confiteor, the Apostles' Creed, the Act of Contrition, the Litany of the Blessed Virgin Mary. We have to know them in Irish and English and if we forget an Irish word and use English he goes into a rage and goes at us with the stick. If he had his way we'd be learning our religion in Latin, the language of the saints who communed intimately with God and His Holy Mother, the language of the early Christians, who huddled in the catacombs and went forth to die on rack and sword, who expired in the foaming jaws of the ravenous lion. Irish is fine for patriots, English for traitors and informers, but it's the Latin that gains us entrance to heaven itself. It's the Latin the martyrs prayed in when the barbarians pulled out their nails and cut their skin off inch by inch. He tells us we're a disgrace to Ireland and her long sad history, that we'd be better off in Africa praying to bush or tree. He tells us we're hopeless, the worst class he ever had for First Communion but as sure as God made little apples he'll make Catholics of us, he'll beat the idler out of us and the Sanctifying Grace into us.

Brendan Quigley raises his hand. We call him Question Quigley because he's always asking questions. He can't help himself. Sir, he says, what's Sanctifying Grace?

The master rolls his eyes to heaven. He's going to kill Quigley. Instead he barks at him, Never mind what's Sanctifying Grace, Quigley. That's none of your business. You're here to learn the catechism and do

what you're told. You're not here to be asking questions. There are too many people wandering the world asking questions and that's what has us in the state we're in and if I find any boy in this class asking questions I won't be responsible for what happens. Do you hear me, Quigley?

I do.

I do what?

I do, sir.

He goes on with his speech, There are boys in this class who will

never know the Sanctifying Grace. And why? Because of the greed. I have heard them abroad in the schoolyard talking about First Communion day, the happiest day of your life. Are they talking about receiving the body and blood of Our Lord? Oh, no. Those greedy little blaguards are talking about the money they'll get, The Collection. They'll go from house to house in their little suits like beggars for The Collection. And will they take any of that money and send it to the little black babies in Africa? Will they think of those little pagans doomed forever for lack of baptism and knowledge of the True Faith? Little black babies denied knowledge of the Mystical Body of Christ? Limbo is packed with little black babies flying around and crying for their mothers because they'll never be admitted to the ineffable presence of Our Lord and the glorious company of saints, martyrs, virgins. Oh, no. It's off to the cinemas, our First Communion boys run to wallow in the filth spewed across the world by the devil's henchmen in Hollywood. Isn't that right, McCourt?

'Tis, sir.

Question Quigley raises his hand again. There are looks around the room and we wonder if it's suicide he's after.

What's henchmen, sir?

The master's face goes white, then red. His mouth tightens and opens and spit flies everywhere. He walks to Question and drags him from his seat. He snorts and stutters and his spit flies around the room. He flogs Question across the shoulders, the bottom, the legs. He grabs him by the collar and drags him to the front of the room.

Look at this specimen, he roars.

Question is shaking and crying. I'm sorry, sir.

The master mocks him. I'm sorry, sir. What are you sorry for? I'm sorry I asked the question. I'll never ask a question again,

sir.

The day you do, Quigley, will be the day you wish God would take

you to His bosom. What will you wish, Quigley?

That God will take me to His bosom, sir.

Go back to your seat, you omadhaun, you poltroon, you thing from

the far dark corner of a bog.

He sits down with the stick before him on the desk. He tells

Question to stop the whimpering and be a man. If he hears a single boy in this class asking foolish questions or talking about The Collection again he'll flog that boy till the blood spurts.

what?

What will I do, boys?

Flog the boy, sir.

Till?

Till the blood spurts, sir.

Now, Clohessy, what is the Sixth Commandment?

Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not commit adultery

Thou shalt not commit adultery, sir.

And what is adultery, Clohessy?

Impure thoughts, impure words, impure deeds, sir.

Good, Clohessy. You're a good boy. You may be slow and forgetful in

the sir department and you may not have a shoe to your foot but you're powerful with the Sixth Commandment and that will keep you pure.

Paddy Clohessy has no shoe to his foot, his mother shaves his head to keep the lice away, his eyes are red, his nose always snotty. The sores on his kneecaps never heal because he picks at the scabs and puts them in his mouth. His clothes are rags he has to share with his six brothers and a sister and when he comes to school with a bloody nose or a black eye you know he had a fight over the clothes that morning. He hates school. He's seven going on eight, the biggest and oldest boy in the class, and he can't wait to grow up and be fourteen so that he can run away and pass for seventeen and join the English army and go to India where it's nice and warm and he'll live in a tent with a dark girl with the red dot on her forehead and he'll be lying there eating figs, that's what they eat in India, figs, and she'll cook the curry day and night and plonk on a ukulele and when he has enough money he'll send for the whole family and they'll all live in the tent especially his poor father who's at home coughing up great gobs of blood because of the consumption. When my mother sees Paddy on the street she says, Wisha, look at that poor child. He's a skeleton with rags and if they were making a film about the famine he'd surely be put in the middle of it.

I think Paddy likes me because of the raisin and I feel a bit guilty because I wasn't that generous in the first place. The master, Mr. Benson, said the government was going to give us the free lunch so we wouldn't have to be going home in the freezing weather. He led us down to a cold room in the dungeons of Leamy's School where the charwoman, Nellie Ahearn, was handing out the half pint of milk and the raisin bun. The milk was frozen in the bottles and we had to melt it between our thighs. The boys joked and said the bottles would freeze our things off and the master roared, Any more of that talk and I'll warm the bottles on the backs of yeer heads. We all searched our raisin buns for a raisin but Nellie said they must have forgotten to put them in and she'd inquire from the man who delivered. We searched again every day till at last I found a raisin in my bun and held it up. The boys started grousing and said they wanted a raisin and Nellie said it wasn't her fault. She'd ask the man again. Now the boys were begging me for the raisin and offering me everything, a slug of their milk, a pencil, a comic book. Toby Mackey said I could have his sister and Mr. Benson heard him and took him out to the hallway and knocked him around till he howled. I wanted the raisin for myself but I saw Paddy Clohessy standing in the corner with no shoes and the room was freezing and he was shivering like a dog that had been kicked and I always felt sad over kicked dogs so I walked over and gave Paddy the raisin because I didn't know what else to do and all the boys yelled that I was a fool and a feckin' eejit and I'd regret the day and after I handed the raisin to Paddy I longed for it but it was too late now because he pushed it right into his mouth and gulped it and looked at me and said nothing and I said in my head what kind of an eejit are you to be giving away your raisin.

Mr. Benson gave me a look and said nothing and Nellie Ahearn said, You're a great oul'Yankee, Frankie.

The priest will come soon to examine us on the catechism and everything else. The master himself has to show us how to receive Holy

Communion. He tells us gather round him. He fills his hat with the Limerick Leader torn into little bits. He gives Paddy Clohessy the hat, kneels on the floor, tells Paddy to take one bit of paper and place it on his tongue. He shows us how to stick out the tongue, receive the bit of paper, hold it a moment, draw in the tongue, fold your hands in prayer, look toward heaven, close your eyes in adoration, wait for the paper to melt in your mouth, swallow it, and thank God for the gift, the Sanctifying Grace wafting in on the odor of sanctity. When he sticks out his tongue we have to hold in the laugh because we never saw a big purple tongue before. He opens his eyes to catch the boys who are giggling but he can't say anything because he still has God on his tongue and it's a holy moment. He gets off his knees and tells us kneel around the classroom for the Holy Communion practice. He goes around the room placing bits of paper on our tongues and mumbling in Latin. Some boys giggle and he roars at them that if the giggling doesn't stop it's not Holy Communion they'll be getting but the Last Rites and what is that sacrament called, McCourt?

Extreme Unction, sir.

That's right, McCourt. Not bad for a Yank from the sinful shores of Amerikay.

He tells us we have to be careful to stick out our tongues far enough so that the Communion wafer won't fall to the floor. He says, That's the worst thing that can happen to a priest. If the wafer slides off your tongue that poor priest has to get down on his two knees, pick it up with his own tongue and lick the floor around it in case it bounced from one spot to another. The priest could get a splinter that would make his tongue swell to the size of a turnip and that's enough to choke you and kill you entirely.

He tells us that next to a relic of the True Cross the Communion wafer is the holiest thing in the world and our First Communion is the holiest moment in our lives. Talking about First Communion makes the master all excited. He paces back and forth, waves his stick, tells us we must never forget that the moment the Holy Communion is placed on our tongues we become members of that most glorious congregation, the One, Holy, Roman, Catholic and Apostolic Church, that for two thousand years men, women and children have died for the Faith, that the Irish have nothing to be ashamed of in the martyr department. Haven't we provided martyrs galore? Haven't we bared our necks to the Protestant ax? Haven't we mounted the scaffold, singing, as if embarking on a picnic, haven't we, boys?

We have, sir.

What have we done, boys?

Bared our necks to the Protestant ax, sir.

And?

Mounted the scaffold singing, sir.

As if?

Embarking on a picnic, sir.

He says that, perhaps, in this class there is a future priest or a

martyr for the Faith, though he doubts it very much for we are the laziest gang of ignoramuses it has ever been his misfortune to teach.

But it takes all kinds, he says, and surely God had some purpose when He sent the likes of ye to infest this earth. Surely God had a purpose when among us He sent Clohessy with no shoes, Quigley with his damnable questions and McCourt heavy with sin from America. And remember

this, boys, God did not send His only begotten Son to hang on the cross so that ye can go around on yeer First Communion day with the paws clutching for The Collection. Our Lord died so that ye might be redeemed. It is enough to receive the gift of Faith. Are ye listening to me?

We are, sir.

And what's enough?

The gift of Faith, sir.

Good. Go home.

At night three of us sit under the light pole at the top of the

lane reading, Mikey, Malachy and I. The Molloys are like us with their father drinking the dole money or the wages and leaving no money for candles or paraffin oil for the lamp. Mikey reads books and the rest of us read comic books. His father, Peter, brings books from the Carnegie Library so that he'll have something to do when he's not drinking pints or when he's looking after the family anytime Mrs. Molloy is in the lunatic asylum. He lets Mikey read any book he likes and now Mikey is reading this book about Cuchulain and talking as if he knows everything about him. I want to tell him I knew all about Cuchulain when I was three going on four, that I saw Cuchulain in Dublin, that Cuchulain thinks nothing of dropping into my dreams. I want to tell him stop talking about Cuchulain, he's mine, he was mine years ago when I was young, but I can't because Mikey reads us a story I never heard of before, a dirty story about Cuchulain which I can never tell my father or mother, the story of how Emer became Cuchulain's wife.

Cuchulain was getting to be an old man of twenty-one. He was lonely and wanted to get married, which made him weak, says Mikey, and got him killed in the end. All the women in Ireland were mad about Cuchulain and they wanted to marry him. He said that would be grand, he wouldn't mind marrying all the women of Ireland. If he could fight all the men of Ireland why couldn't he marry all the women? But the King, Conor MacNessa, said, That's all very well for you, Cu, but the men of Ireland don't want to be lonely in the far reaches of the night. The King decided there would have to be a contest to see who would marry Cuchulain and it would be a pissing contest. All the women of Ireland assembled on the plains of Muirthemne to see who could piss the longest and it was Emer. She was the champion woman pisser of Ireland and married Cuchulain and that's why to this day she is called Great Bladdered Emer.

Mikey and Malachy laugh over this story though I don't think Malachy understands it. He's young and far from his First Communion and he's only laughing over the piss word. Then Mikey tells me I've committed a sin by listening to a story that has that word in it and when I go to my First Confession I'll have to tell the priest. Malachy says, That's right. Piss is a bad word and you have to tell the priest because 'tis a sin word.

I don't know what to do. How can I go to the priest and tell him this terrible thing in my First Confession? All the boys know what sins they're going to tell so that they'll get the First Communion and make The Collection and go to see James Cagney and eat sweets and cakes at the Lyric Cinema. The master helped us with our sins and everyone has the same sins. I hit my brother. I told a lie. I stole a penny from my mother's purse. I disobeyed my parents, I ate a sausage on Friday.

But now I have a sin no one else has and the priest is going to be shocked and drag me out of the confession box into the aisle and out into the street where everyone will know I listened to a story about

Cuchulain's wife being the champion woman pisser in all Ireland. I'll never be able to make my First Communion and mothers will hold their small children up and point at me and say, Look at him. He's like Mikey Molloy, never made his First Communion, wandering around in a state of sin, never made The Collection, never saw James Cagney.

I'm sorry I ever heard of First Communion and The Collection. I'm sick and I don't want any tea or bread or anything. Mam tells Dad it's a strange thing when a child won't have his bread and tea and Dad says, Och, he's just nervous over the First Communion. I want to go over to him and sit on his lap and tell him what Mikey Molloy did to me but I'm too big to be sitting on laps and if I did Malachy would go out in the lane and tell everyone I was a big baby. I'd like to tell my troubles to the Angel on the Seventh Step but he's busy bringing babies to mothers all over the world. Still, I'll ask Dad.

Dad, does the Angel on the Seventh Step have other jobs besides bringing babies?

He does.

Would the Angel on the Seventh Step tell you what to do if you didn't know what to do?

Och, he would, son, he would. That's the job of an angel, even the one on the seventh step.

Dad goes for a long walk, Mam takes Michael and goes to see Grandma, Malachy plays in the lane, and I have the house to myself so that I can sit on the seventh step and talk to the angel. I know he's there because the seventh step feels warmer than the other steps and there's a light in my head. I tell him my troubles and I hear a voice. Fear not, says the voice.

He's talking backward and I tell him I don't know what he's talking about.

Do not fear, says the voice. Tell the priest your sin and you'll be forgiven.

Next morning I'm up early and drinking tea with Dad and telling him about the Angel on the Seventh Step. He places his hand on my forehead to see if I'm feeling all right. He asks if I'm sure I had a light in my head and heard a voice and what did the voice say?

I tell him the voice said Fear not and that means Do not fear.

Dad tells me the angel is right, I shouldn't be afraid, and I tell him what Mikey Molloy did to me. I tell him all about Great Bladdered Emer and I even use the piss word because the angel said, Fear not. Dad puts down his jam jar of tea and pats the back of my hand. Och, och, och, he says, and I wonder if he's going demented like Mrs. Molloy, in and out of the lunatic asylum, but he says, Is that what you were worried about last night?

I tell him it is and he says it's not a sin and I don't have to tell the priest.

But the Angel on the Seventh Step said I should.

All right. Tell the priest if you like but the Angel on the Seventh Step said that only because you didn't tell me first. Isn't it better to be able to tell your father your troubles rather than an angel who is a light and a voice in your head?

'Tis, Dad.

The day before First Communion the master leads us to St. Joseph's Church for First Confession. We march in pairs and if we so much as move a lip on the streets of Limerick he'll kill us on the spot and send us to

hell bloated with sin. That doesn't stop the bragging about the big sins. Willie Harold is whispering about his big sin, that he looked at his sister's naked body. Paddy Hartigan says he stole ten shillings from his aunt's purse and made himself sick with ice cream and chips. Question Quigley says he ran away from home and spent half the night in a ditch with four goats. I try to tell them about Cuchulain and Emer but the master catches me talking and gives me a thump on the head.

We kneel in the pews by the confession box and I wonder if my Emer sin is as bad as looking at your sister's naked body because I know now that some things in the world are worse than others. That's why they have different sins, the sacrilege, the mortal sin, the venial sin. Then the masters and grown-up people in general talk about the unforgivable sin, which is a great mystery. No one knows what it is and you wonder how you can know if you've committed it if you don't know what it is. If I tell a priest about Great Bladdered Emer and the pissing contest he might say that's the unforgivable sin and kick me out of the confession box and I'll be disgraced all over Limerick and doomed to hell tormented forever by devils who have nothing else to do but stab me with hot pitchforks till I'm worn out.

I try to listen to Willie's confession when he goes in but all I can hear is a hissing from the priest and when Willie comes out he's crying.

It's my turn. The confession box is dark and there's a big crucifix hanging over my head. I can hear a boy mumbling his confession on the other side. I wonder if there's any use trying to talk to the Angel on the Seventh Step. I know he's not supposed to be hanging around confession boxes but I feel the light in my head and the voice is telling me, Fear not.

The panel slides back before my face and the priest says, Yes, my child?

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my First Confession. Yes, my child, and what sins have you committed?

I told a lie. I hit my brother. I took a penny from my mother's

purse. I said a curse.

Yes, my child. Anything else?

I, I listened to a story about Cuchulain and Emer.

Surely that's not a sin, my child. After all we are assured by

certain writers that Cuchulain turned Catholic in his last moments as did his King, Conor MacNessa.

'Tis about Emer, Father, and how she married him.

How was that, my child?

She won him in a pissing contest.

There is heavy breathing. The priest has his hand over his mouth

and he's making choking sounds and talking to himself, Mother o' God. Who, who told you that story, my child?

Mikey Molloy, Father.

And where did he hear it?

He read it in a book, Father.

Ah, a book. Books can be dangerous for children, my child. Turn your mind from those silly stories and think of the lives of the saints. Think of St. Joseph, the Little Flower, the sweet and gentle St. Francis of Assisi, who loved the birds of the air and the beasts of the field. Will you do that, my child?

I will, Father.

Are there any other sins, my child?

No, Father.

For your penance say three Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and say a

special prayer for me.

I will. Father, was that the worst sin?

What do you mean?

Am I the worst of all the boys, Father?

No, my child, you have a long way to go. Now say an Act of

Contrition and remember Our Lord watches you every minute. God bless you, my child.

First Communion day is the happiest day of your life because of The Collection and James Cagney at the Lyric Cinema. The night before I was so excited I couldn't sleep till dawn. I'd still be sleeping if my grandmother hadn't come banging at the door.

Get up! Get up! Get that child outa the bed. Happiest day of his life an' him snorin' above in the bed.

I ran to the kitchen. Take off that shirt, she said. I took off the shirt and she pushed me into a tin tub of icy cold water. My mother scrubbed me, my grandmother scrubbed me. I was raw, I was red.

They dried me. They dressed me in my black velvet First Communion suit with the white frilly shirt, the short pants, the white stockings, the black patent leather shoes. Around my arm they tied a white satin bow and on my lapel they pinned the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a picture of the Sacred Heart, with blood dripping from it, flames erupting all around it and on top a nasty looking crown of thorns.

Come here till I comb your hair, said Grandma. Look at that mop, it won't lie down. You didn't get that hair from my side of the family. That's that North of Ireland hair you got from your father. That's the kind of hair you see on Presbyterians. If your mother had married a proper decent Limerickman you wouldn't have this standing up, North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair.

She spat twice on my head.

Grandma, will you please stop spitting on my head. If you have anything to say, shut up. A little spit won't kill you. Come on, we'll be late for the Mass.

We ran to the church. My mother panted along behind with Michael in her arms. We arrived at the church just in time to see the last of the boys leaving the altar rail where the priest stood with the chalice and the host, glaring at me. Then he placed on my tongue the wafer, the body and blood of Jesus. At last, at last.

It's on my tongue. I draw it back.

It stuck.

I had God glued to the roof of my mouth. I could hear the master's

voice, Don't let that host touch your teeth for if you bite God in two you'll roast in hell for eternity.

I tried to get God down with my tongue but the priest hissed at me, Stop that clucking and get back to your seat.

God was good. He melted and I swallowed Him and now, at last, I was a member of the True Church, an official sinner.

When the Mass ended there they were at the door of the church, my mother with Michael in her arms, my grandmother. They each hugged me to their bosoms. They each told me it was the happiest day of my life. They each cried all over my head and after my grandmother's contribution that morning my head was a swamp.

Mam, can I go now and make The Collection?

She said, After you have a little breakfast.

No, said Grandma. You're not making no collection till you've had a

proper First Communion breakfast at my house. Come on.

We followed her. She banged pots and rattled pans and complained

that the whole world expected her to be at their beck and call. I ate the egg, I ate the sausage, and when I reached for more sugar for my tea she slapped my hand away.

Go aisy with that sugar. Is it a millionaire you think I am? An American? Is it bedecked in glitterin' jewelry you think I am? Smothered in fancy furs?

The food churned in my stomach. I gagged. I ran to her backyard and threw it all up. Out she came.

Look at what he did. Thrun up his First Communion breakfast. Thrun up the body and blood of Jesus. I have God in me backyard. What am I goin' to do? I'll take him to the Jesuits for they know the sins of the Pope himself.

She dragged me through the streets of Limerick. She told the neighbors and passing strangers about God in her backyard. She pushed me into the confession box.

In the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's a day since my last confession.

A day? And what sins have you committed in a day, my child?

I overslept. I nearly missed my First Communion. My grandmother said I have standing up, North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair. I threw up my First Communion breakfast. Now Grandma says she has God in her backyard and what should she do.

The priest is like the First Confession priest. He has the heavy breathing and the choking sounds.

Ah... ah... tell your grandmother to wash God away with a little water and for your penance say one Hail Mary and one Our Father. Say a prayer for me and God bless you, my child.

Grandma and Mam were waiting close to the confession box. Grandma said, Were you telling jokes to that priest in the confession box? If 'tis a thing I ever find out you were telling jokes to Jesuits I'll tear the bloody kidneys outa you. Now what did he say about God in me backyard?

He said wash Him away with a little water, Grandma. Holy water or ordinary water?

He didn't say, Grandma.

Well, go back and ask him.

But, Grandma...

She pushed me back into the confessional.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's a minute since my last

confession.

A minute! Are you the boy that was just here?

I am, Father.

What is it now?

My grandma says, Holy water or ordinary water? Ordinary water, and

tell your grandmother not to be bothering me again.

I told her, Ordinary water, Grandma, and he said don't be bothering

him again.

Don't be bothering him again. That bloody ignorant bogtrotter.

I asked Mam, Can I go now and make The Collection? I want to see James Cagney.

Grandma said, You can forget about The Collection and James Cagney because you're not a proper Catholic the way you left God on the ground. Come on, go home.

Mam said, Wait a minute. That's my son. That's my son on his First Communion day. He's going to see James Cagney.

No he's not.

Yes he is.

Grandma said, Take him then to James Cagney and see if that will

save his Presbyterian North of Ireland American soul. Go ahead.

She pulled her shawl around her and walked away.

Mam said, God, it's getting very late for The Collection and you'll

never see James Cagney. We'll go to the Lyric Cinema and see if they'll let you in anyway in your First Communion suit.

We met Mikey Molloy on Barrington Street. He asked if I was going to the Lyric and I said I was trying. Trying? he said. You don't have money?

I was ashamed to say no but I had to and he said, That's all right. I'll get you in. I'll create a diversion.

What's a diversion?

I have the money to go and when I get in I'll pretend to have the fit and the ticket man will be out of his mind and you can slip in when I let out the big scream. I'll be watching the door and when I see you in I'll have a miraculous recovery. That's a diversion. That's what I do to get my brothers in all the time.

Mam said, Oh, I don't know about that, Mikey. Wouldn't that be a sin and surely you wouldn't want Frank to commit a sin on his First Communion day.

Mikey said if there was a sin it would be on his soul and he wasn't a proper Catholic anyway so it didn't matter. He let out his scream and I slipped in and sat next to Question Quigley and the ticket man, Frank Goggin, was so worried over Mikey he never noticed. It was a thrilling film but sad in the end because James Cagney was a public enemy and when they shot him they wrapped him in bandages and threw him in the door, shocking his poor old Irish mother, and that was the end of my First Communion day.

V

Grandma won't talk to Mam anymore because of what I did with God in her backyard. Mam doesn't talk to her sister, Aunt Aggie, or her brother Uncle Tom. Dad doesn't talk to anyone in Mam's family and they don't talk to him because he's from the North and he has the odd manner. No one talks to Uncle Tom's wife, Jane, because she's from Galway and she has the look of a Spaniard. Everyone talks to Mam's brother Uncle Pat, because he was dropped on his head, he's simple, and he sells newspapers. Everyone calls him The Abbot or Ab Sheehan and no one knows why. Everyone talks to Uncle Pa Keating because he was gassed in the war and married Aunt Aggie and if they didn't talk to him he wouldn't give a fiddler's fart anyway and that's why the men in South's pub call him a gas man.

That's the way I'd like to be in the world, a gas man, not giving a fiddler's fart, and that's what I tell the Angel on the Seventh Step till I remember you're not supposed to say fart in the presence of an angel.

Uncle Tom and Galway Jane have children but we're not supposed to talk to them because our parents are not talking. They have a son and daughter, Gerry and Peggy, and Mam will yell at us for talking to them but we don't know how not to talk to our cousins.

People in families in the lanes of Limerick have their ways of not talking to each other and it takes years of practice. There are people who don't talk to each other because their fathers were on opposite sides in the Civil War in 1922. If a man goes off and joins the English army his family might as well move to another part of Limerick where there are families with men in the English army. If anyone in your family was the least way friendly to the English in the last eight hundred years it will be brought up and thrown in your face and you might as well move to Dublin where no one cares. There are families that are ashamed of themselves because their forefathers gave up their religion for the sake of a bowl of Protestant soup during the Famine and those families are known ever after as soupers. It's a terrible thing to be a souper because you're doomed forever to the souper part of hell. It's even worse to be an informer. The master at school said that everytime the Irish were about to demolish the English in a fair fight a filthy informer betrayed them. A man who's discovered to be an informer deserves to be hanged or, even worse, to have no one talk to him for if no one talks to you you're better off hanging at the end of a rope.

In every lane there's always someone not talking to someone or everyone not talking to someone or someone not talking to everyone. You can always tell when people are not talking by the way they pass each other. The women hoist their noses, tighten their mouths and turn their faces away. If the woman is wearing a shawl she takes a corner and flings it over her shoulder as if to say, One word or look from you, you ma faced bitch, and I'll tear the countenance from the front of your head.

It's bad when Grandma won't talk to us because we can't run to her when we need to borrow sugar or tea or milk. There's no use going to Aunt Aggie. She'll only bite your head off. Go home, she'll say, and tell your father to get off his northern arse and get a job like the decent men of Limerick.

They say she's always angry because she has red hair or she has red hair because she's always angry.

Mam is friendly with Bridey Hannon, who lives next door with her mother and father. Mam and Bridey talk all the time. When my father goes for his long walk Bridey comes in and she and Mam sit by the fire drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. If Mam has nothing in the house Bridey brings tea, sugar and milk. Sometimes they use the same tea leaves over and over and Mam says the tea is stewed, coddled and boiled.

Mam and Bridey sit so close to the fire their shins turn red and purple and blue. They talk for hours and they whisper and laugh over secret things. We're not supposed to hear the secret things so we're told go out and play. I often sit on the seventh step listening and they have no notion I'm there. It might be lashing rain out but Mam says, Rain or no, out you go, and she'll tell us, If you see your father coming, run in and tell me. Mam says to Bridey, Did you ever hear that poem that someone must have made up about me and him?

What poem, Angela?

'Tis called "The Man from the North. " I got this poem from Minnie MacAdorey in America.

I never heard that poem. Say it for me.

Mam says the poem but she laughs all through it and I don't know why, He came from the North so his words were few But his voice was kind and his heart was true.

And I knew by his eyes that no guile had he, So I married my man from the North Country.

Oh, Garryowen may be more gay

Than this quiet man from beside Lough Neagh And I know that the sun shines softly down

On the river that runs through my native town.

But there's not-and I say it with joy and with pride A better man in all Munster wide

And Limerick town has no happier hearth

Than mine has been with my man from the North.

I wish that in Limerick they only knew The kind kind neighbors I came unto. Small hate or scorn would there ever be Between the South and the North Country.

She always repeats the third verse and laughs so hard she's crying and I don't know why. She goes into hysterics when she says, And Limerick town has no happier hearth Than mine has been with my man from the North.

If he comes back early and sees Bridey in the kitchen the man from the North says, Gossip, gossip, gossip, and stands there with his cap on till she leaves.

Bridey's mother and other people in our lane and lanes beyond will come to the door to ask Dad if he'll write a letter to the government or a relation in a distant place. He sits at the table with his pen and bottle of ink and when the people tell him what to write he says, Och, no, that's not what you want to say, and he writes what he feels like writing. The people tell him that's what they wanted to say in the first place, that he has a lovely way with the English language and a fine fist for the writing. They offer him sixpence for his trouble but he waves it away and they hand it to Mam because he's too grand to be taking sixpence. When the people leave he takes the sixpence and sends me to Kathleen O'Connell's shop for cigarettes.

Grandma sleeps in a big bed upstairs with a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus over her head and a statue of the Sacred Heart on the mantel piece. She wants to switch from gaslight to electric light someday so that she'll have a little red light under the statue forever. Her devotion to the Sacred Heart is known up and down the lane and in lanes beyond.

Uncle Pat sleeps in a small bed in a corner of the same room where Grandma can make sure he comes in at a proper hour and kneels by the bed to say his prayers. He might have been dropped on his head, he may not know how to read and write, he may drink one pint too many, but there's no excuse for not saying his prayers before he goes to sleep.

Uncle Pat tells Grandma he met a man who is looking for a place to stay that will let him wash himself morning and night and give him two

meals a day, dinner and tea. His name is Bill Galvin and he has a good job down at the lime kiln. He's covered all the time with white lime dust but surely that's better than coal dust.

Grandma will have to give up her bed and move into the small room. She'll take the Sacred Heart picture and leave the statue to watch over the two men. Besides, she has no place for a statue in her little room.

Bill Galvin comes after work to see the place. He's small, all white, and he snuffles like a dog. He asks Grandma if she'd mind taking down that statue because he's a Protestant and he wouldn't be able to sleep. Grandma barks at Uncle Pat for not telling her he was dragging a Protestant into the house. Jesus, she says, there will be gossip up and down the lane and beyond.

Uncle Pat says he didn't know Bill Galvin was a Protestant. You could never tell by looking at him especially the way he's covered with lime. He looks like an ordinary Catholic and you'd never imagine a Protestant would be shoveling lime.

Bill Galvin says his poor wife that just died was a Catholic and she had the walls covered with pictures of the Sacred Heart and the Virgin Mary showing their hearts. He's not against the Sacred Heart himself, it's just that seeing the statue will remind him of his poor wife and give him the heartache.

Grandma says, Ah, God help us, why didn't you tell me that in the first place? Sure I can put the statue on the windowsill in my room and your heart won't be tormented at the sight of it.

Every morning Grandma cooks Bill's dinner and takes it to him at the lime kiln. Mam wonders why he can't take it with him in the morning and Grandma says, Do you expect me to get up at dawn and boil cabbage and pig's toes for his lordship to take in his dinner can?

Mam tells her, In another week school will be over and if you give Frank sixpence a week he'll surely be glad to take Bill Galvin his dinner.

I don't want to go to Grandma's every day. I don't want to take Bill Galvin his dinner all the way down the Dock Road, but Mam says that's sixpence we could use and if I don't do it I'm going nowhere else.

You're staying in the house, she says. You're not playing with your

pals.

Grandma warns me to take the dinner can directly and not be

meandering, looking this way and that, kicking canisters and ruining the toes of my shoes. This dinner is hot and that's the way Bill Galvin wants

it.

There's a lovely smell from the dinner can, boiled bacon and

cabbage and two big floury white potatoes. Surely he won't notice if I try half a potato. He won't complain to Grandma because he hardly ever talks outside of a snuffle or two.

It's better if I eat the other half potato so that he won't be asking why he got a half. I might as well try the bacon and cabbage too and if I eat the other potato he'll surely think she didn't send one at all.

The second potato melts in my mouth and I'll have to try another bit of cabbage, another morsel of bacon. There isn't much left now and he'll be very suspicious so I might as well finish off the rest.

What am I going to do now? Grandma will destroy me, Mam will keep me in for a year. Bill Galvin will bury me in lime. I'll tell him I was

attacked by a dog on the Dock Road and he ate the whole dinner and I'm lucky I escaped without being eaten myself.

Oh, is that so? says Bill Galvin. And what's that bit of cabbage hanging on your gansey? Did the dog lick you wit his cabbagey gob? Go home and tell your grandmother you ate me whole dinner and I'm falling down with the hunger here in this lime kiln.

She'll kill me.

Tell her don't kill you till she sends me some class of a dinner and if you don't go to her now and get me a dinner I'll kill you and throw your body into the lime there and there won't be much left for your mother to moan over.

Grandma says, What are you doin' back with that can? He could bring that back by himself.

He wants more dinner.

What do you mean more dinner? Jesus above, is it a hole he has in his leg?

He's falling down with the hunger below in the lime kiln. Is it coddin' me you are?

He says send him any class of a dinner.

I will not. I sent him his dinner.

He didn't get it.

He didn't? Why not?

I ate it.

What?

I was hungry and I tasted it and I couldn't stop.

Jesus, Mary and holy St. Joseph.

She gives me a clout on the head that brings tears to my eyes. She

screams at me like a banshee and jumps around the kitchen and threatens to drag me to the priest, the bishop, the Pope himself if he lived around the corner. She cuts bread and waves the knife at me and makes sandwiches of brawn and cold potatoes.

Take these sandwiches to Bill Galvin and if you even look cross- eyed at them I'll skin your hide.

Of course she runs to Mam and they agree the only way I can make up for my terrible sin is to deliver Bill Galvin's dinner for a fortnight without pay. I'm to bring back the can every day and that means I have to sit watching him stuff the food into his gob and he's not one that would ever ask you if you had a mouth in your head.

Every day I take the can back Grandma makes me kneel to the statue of the Sacred Heart and tell Him I'm sorry and all this over Bill Galvin, a Protestant.

Mam says, I'm a martyr for the fags and so is your father.

There may be a lack of tea or bread in the house but Mam and Dad always manage to get the fags, the Wild Woodbines. They have to have the Woodbines in the morning and anytime they drink tea. They tell us every day we should never smoke, it's bad for your lungs, it's bad for your chest, it stunts your growth, and they sit by the fire puffing away. Mam says, If 'tis a thing I ever see you with a fag in your gob I'll break your face. They tell us the cigarettes rot your teeth and you can see they're not lying. The teeth turn brown and black in their heads and fall out one by one. Dad says he has holes in his teeth big enough for a sparrow to raise a family. He has a few left but he gets them pulled at the clinic and applies for a false set. When he comes home with the new teeth he shows his big new white smile that makes him look like an

American and whenever he tells us a ghost story by the fire he pushes the lower teeth up beyond his lip to his nose and frightens the life out of us. Mam's teeth are so bad she has to go to Barrington's Hospital to have them all pulled at the same time and when she comes home she's holding at her mouth a rag bright with blood. She has to sit up all night by the fire because you can't lie down when your gums are pumping blood or you'll choke in your sleep. She says she'll give up smoking entirely when this bleeding stops but she needs one puff of a fag this minute for the comfort that's in it. She tells Malachy go to Kathleen O'Connell's shop and ask her would she ever let her have five Woodbines till Dad collects the dole on Thursday. If anyone can get the fags out of Kathleen, Malachy can. Mam says he has the charm, and she tells me, There's no use sending you with your long puss and your father's odd manner.

When the bleeding stops and Mam's gums heal she goes to the clinic for her false teeth. She says she'll give up the smoking when her new teeth are in but she never does. The new teeth rub on her gums and make them sore and the smoke of the Woodbines eases them. She and Dad sit by the fire when we have one and smoke their cigarettes and when they talk their teeth clack. They try to stop the clacking by moving their jaws back and forth but that only makes it worse and they curse the dentists and the people above in Dublin who made the teeth and while they curse they clack. Dad claims these teeth were made for rich people in Dublin and didn't fit so they were passed on to the poor of Limerick who don't care because you don't have much to chew when you're poor anyway and you're grateful you have any class of a tooth in your head. If they talk too long their gums get sore and the teeth have to come out. Then they sit talking by the fire with their faces collapsed. Every night they leave the teeth in the kitchen in jam jars filled with water. Malachy wants to know why and Dad tells him it cleans them. Mam says, No, you can't have teeth in your head while you're sleeping for they'll slip and choke you to death entirely.

The teeth are the cause of Malachy going to Barrington's Hospital and me having an operation. Malachy whispers to me in the middle of the night, Do you want to go downstairs and see if we can wear the teeth?

The teeth are so big we have trouble getting them into our mouths but Malachy won't give up. He forces Dad's upper teeth into his mouth and can't get them out again. His lips are drawn back and the teeth make a big grin. He looks like a monster in a film and it makes me laugh but he pulls at them and grunts, Uck, uck, and tears come to his eyes. The more he goes Uck, uck, the harder I laugh till Dad calls from upstairs, What are you boys doing? Malachy runs from me, up the stairs, and now I hear Dad and Mam laughing till they see he can choke on the teeth. They both stick their fingers in to pull out the teeth but Malachy gets frightened and makes desperate uck uck sounds. Mam says, We'll have to take him to the hospital, and Dad says he'll take him. He makes me go in case the doctor has questions because I'm older than Malachy and that means I must have started all the trouble. Dad rushes through the streets with Malachy in his arms and I try to keep up. I feel sorry for Malachy up there on Dad's shoulder, looking back at me, tears on his cheeks and Dad's teeth bulging in his mouth. The doctor at Barrington's Hospital says, No bother. He pours oil into Malachy's mouth and has the teeth out in a minute. Then he looks at me and says to Dad, Why is that child standing there with his mouth hanging open?

Dad says, That's a habit he has, standing with his mouth open.

The doctor says, Come here to me. He looks up my nose, in my ears, down my throat, and feels my neck.

The tonsils, he says. The adenoids. They have to come out. The sooner the better or he'll look like an idiot when he grows up with that gob wide as a boot.

Next day Malachy gets a big piece of toffee as a reward for sticking in teeth he can't get out and I have to go to the hospital to have an operation that will close my mouth.

On a Saturday morning Mam finishes her tea and says, You're going to dance.

Dance? Why?

You're seven years old, you made your First Communion, and now 'tis time for the dancing. I'm taking you down to Catherine Street to Mrs. O'Connor's Irish dancing classes. You'll go there every Saturday morning and that'll keep you off the streets. That'll keep you from wandering around Limerick with hooligans.

She tells me wash my face not forgetting ears and neck, comb my hair, blow my nose, take the look off my face, what look? never mind, just take it off, put on my stockings and my First Communion shoes which, she says, are destroyed because I can't pass a canister or a rock without kicking it. She's worn out standing in the queue at the St. Vincent de Paul Society begging for boots for me and Malachy so that we can wear out the toes with the kicking. Your father says it's never too early to learn the songs and dances of your ancestors.

What's ancestors?

Never mind, she says, you're going to dance.

I wonder how I can die for Ireland if I have to sing and dance for

Ireland, too. I wonder why they never say, You can eat sweets and stay home from school and go swimming for Ireland.

Mam says, Don't get smart or I'll warm your ear.

Cyril Benson dances. He has medals hanging from his shoulders to his kneecaps. He wins contests all over Ireland and he looks lovely in his saffron kilt. He's a credit to his mother and he gets his name in the paper all the time and you can be sure he brings home the odd few pounds. You don't see him roaming the streets kicking everything in sight till the toes hang out of his boots, oh, no, he's a good boy, dancing for his poor mother.

Mam wets an old towel and scrubs my face till it stings, she wraps the towel around her finger and sticks it in my ears and claims there's enough wax there to grow potatoes, she wets my hair to make it lie down, she tells me shut up and stop the whinging, that these dancing lessons will cost her sixpence every Saturday, which I could have earned bringing Bill Galvin his dinner and God knows she can barely afford it. I try to tell her, Ah, Mam, sure you don't have to send me to dancing school when you could be smoking a nice Woodbine and having a cup of tea, but she says, Oh, aren't you clever. You're going to dance if I have to give up the fags forever.

If my pals see my mother dragging me through the streets to an Irish dancing class I'll be disgraced entirely. They think it's all right to dance and pretend you're Fred Astaire because you can jump all over the screen with Ginger Rogers. There is no Ginger Rogers in Irish dancing and you can't jump all over. You stand straight up and down and keep your arms against yourself and kick your legs up and around and never smile.

My uncle Pa Keating said Irish dancers look like they have steel rods up their arses, but I can't say that to Mam, she'd kill me.

There's a gramophone in Mrs. O'Connor's playing an Irish jig or a reel and boys and girls are dancing around kicking their legs out and keeping their hands to their sides. Mrs. O'Connor is a great fat woman and when she stops the record to show the steps all the fat from her chin to her ankles jiggles and I wonder how she can teach the dancing. She comes over to my mother and says, So, this is little Frankie? I think we have the makings of a dancer here. Boys and girls, do we have the makings of a dancer here?

We do, Mrs. O'Connor.

Mam says, I have the sixpence, Mrs. O'Connor.

Ah, yes, Mrs. McCourt, hold on a minute.

She waddles to a table and brings back the head of a black boy with

kinky hair, big eyes, huge red lips and an open mouth. She tells me put the sixpence in the mouth and take my hand out before the black boy bites me. All the boys and girls watch and they have little smiles. I drop in the sixpence and pull my hand back before the mouth snaps shut. Everyone laughs and I know they wanted to see my hand caught in the mouth. Mrs. O'Connor gasps and laughs and says to my mother, Isn't that a howl, now? Mam says it's a howl. She tells me behave myself and come home dancing. I don't want to stay in this place where Mrs. O'Connor can't take the sixpence herself instead of letting me nearly lose my hand in the black boy's mouth.

I don't want to stay in this place where you have to stand in line with boys and girls, straighten your back, hands by your sides, look ahead, don't look down, move your feet, move your feet, look at Cyril, look at Cyril, and there goes Cyril, all dressed up in his saffron kilt and the medals jingling, medals for this and medals for that and the girls love Cyril and Mrs. O'Connor loves Cyril for didn't he bring her fame and didn't she teach him every step he knows, oh, dance, Cyril, dance, oh, Jesus, he floats around the room, he's an angel out of heaven and stop the frowning, Frankie McCourt, or you'll have a puss on you like a pound of tripe, dance, Frankie, dance, pick up your feet for the love o' Jesus, onetwothreefourfivesixseven onetwothree and a onetwothree, Maura, will you help that Frankie McCourt before he ties his two feet around his poll entirely, help him, Maura.

Maura is a big girl about ten. She dances up to me with her white teeth and her dancer's dress with all the gold and yellow and green figures that are supposed to come from olden times and she says, Give me your hand, little boy, and she wheels me around the room till I'm dizzy and making a pure eejit of myself and blushing and foolish till I want to cry but I'm saved when the record stops and the gramophone goes hoosh hoosh.

Mrs. O'Connor says, Oh, thank you, Maura, and next week, Cyril, you can show Frankie a few of the steps that made you famous. Next week, boys and girls, and don't forget the sixpence for the little black boy.

Boys and girls leave together. I make my own way down the stairs and out the door hoping my pals won't see me with boys who wear kilts and girls with white teeth and fancy dresses from olden times.

Mam is having tea with Bridey Hannon, her friend from next door. Mam says, What did you learn? and makes me dance around the kitchen, onetwothreefourfivesixseven onetwothree and a onetwothree. She has a good

laugh with Bridey. That's not too bad for your first time. In a month you'll be like a regular Cyril Benson.

I don't want to be Cyril Benson. I want to be Fred Astaire.

They turn hysterical, laughing and squirting tea out of their mouths, Jesus love him, says Bridey. Doesn't he have a great notion of himself. Fred Astaire how are you.

Mam says Fred Astaire went to his lessons every Saturday and didn't go around kicking the toes out of his boots and if I wanted to be like him I'd have to go to Mrs. O'Connor's every week.

The fourth Saturday morning Billy Campbell knocks at our door. Mrs. McCourt, can Frankie come out and play? Mam tells him, No, Billy. Frankie is going to his dancing lesson.

He waits for me at the bottom of Barrack Hill. He wants to know why I'm dancing, that everyone knows dancing is a sissy thing and I'll wind up like Cyril Benson wearing a kilt and medals and dancing all over with girls. He says next thing I'll be sitting in the kitchen knitting socks. He says dancing will destroy me and I won't be fit to play any kind of football, soccer, rugby or Gaelic football itself because the dancing teaches you to run like a sissy and everyone will laugh.

I tell him I'm finished with the dancing, that I have sixpence in my pocket for Mrs. O'Connor that's supposed to go into the black boy's mouth, that I'm going to the Lyric Cinema instead. Sixpence will get the two of us in with tuppence left over for two squares of Cleeves' toffee, and we have a great time looking at Riders of the Purple Sage.

Dad is sitting by the fire with Mam and they want to know what steps I learned today and what they're called. I already did "The Siege of Ennis" and "The Walls of Limerick, " which are real dances. Now I have to make up names and dances. Mam says she never heard of a dance called "The Siege of Dingle"but if that's what I learned go ahead, dance it, and I dance around the kitchen with my hands down by my sides making my own music, diddley eye di eye di eye diddley eye do you do you, Dad and Mam clapping in time with my feet. Dad says, Och, that's a fine dance and you'll be a powerful Irish dancer and a credit to the men who died for their country. Mam says, That wasn't much for a sixpence.

Next week it's a George Raft film and the week after that a cowboy film with George O'Brien. Then it's James Cagney and I can't take Billy because I want to get a bar of chocolate to go with my Cleeves' toffee and I'm having a great time till there's a terrible pain in my jaw and it's a tooth out of my gum stuck in my toffee and the pain is killing me. Still, I can't waste the toffee so I pull out the tooth and put it in my pocket and chew the toffee on the other side of my mouth blood and all. There's pain on one side and delicious toffee on the other and I remember what my uncle Pa Keating would say, There are times when you wouldn't know whether to shit or go blind.

I have to go home now and worry because you can't go through the world short a tooth without your mother knowing. Mothers know everything and she's always looking into our mouths to see if there's any class of disease. She's there by the fire and Dad is there and they're asking me the same old questions, the dance and the name of the dance. I tell them I learned "The Walls of Cork" and I dance around the kitchen trying to hum a made up tune and dying with the pain of my tooth. Mam says, "Walls o' Cork, " my eye, there's no such dance, and Dad says, Come over here. Stand there before me. Tell us the truth, Did you go to your dancing classes today?

I can't tell a lie anymore because my gum is killing me and there's blood in my mouth. Besides, I know they know everything and that's what they're telling me now. Some snake of a boy from the dancing school saw me going to the Lyric Cinema and told and Mrs. O'Connor sent a note to say she hadn't seen me in ages and was I all right because I had great promise and could follow in the footsteps of the great Cyril Benson.

Dad doesn't care about my tooth or anything. He says I'm going to confession and drags me over to the Redemptorist church because it's Saturday and confessions go on all day. He tells me I'm a bad boy, he's ashamed of me that I went to the pictures instead of learning Ireland's national dances, the jig, the reel, the dances that men and women fought and died for down those sad centuries. He says there's many a young man that was hanged and now moldering in a lime pit that would be glad to rise up and dance the Irish dance.

The priest is old and I have to yell my sins at him and he tells me I'm a hooligan for going to the pictures instead of my dancing lessons although he thinks himself that dancing is a dangerous thing almost as bad as the films, that it stirs up thoughts sinful in themselves, but even if dancing is an abomination I sinned by taking my mother's sixpence and lying and there's a hot place in hell for the likes of me, say a decade of the rosary and ask God's forgiveness for you're dancing at the gates of hell itself, child.

I'm seven, eight, nine going on ten and still Dad has no work. He drinks his tea in the morning, signs for the dole at the Labour Exchange, reads the papers at the Carnegie Library, goes for his long walks far into the country. If he gets a job at the Limerick Cement Company or Rank's Flour Mills he loses it in the third week. He loses it because he goes to the pubs on the third Friday of the job, drinks all his wages and misses the half day of work on Saturday morning.

Mam says, Why can't he be like the other men from the lanes of Limerick? They're home before the Angelus rings at six o'clock, they hand over their wages, change their shirts, have their tea, get a few shillings from the wife and they're off to the pub for a pint or two.

Mam tells Bridey Hannon that Dad can't be like that and won't be like that. She says he's a right bloody fool the way he goes to pubs and stands pints to other men while his own children are home with their bellies stuck to their backbones for the want of a decent dinner. He'll brag to the world he did his bit for Ireland when it was neither popular nor profitable, that he'll gladly die for Ireland when the call comes, that he regrets he has only one life to give for his poor misfortunate country and if anyone disagrees they're invited to step outside and settle this for once and for all.

Oh, no, says Mam, they won't disagree and they won't step outside, that bunch of tinkers and knackers and begrudgers that hang around the pubs. They tell him he's a grand man, even if he's from the North, and 'twould be an honor to accept a pint from such a patriot.

Mam tells Bridey, I don't know under God what I'm going to do. The dole is nineteen shillings and sixpence a week, the rent is six and six, and that leaves thirteen shillings to feed and clothe five people and keep us warm in the winter.

Bridey drags on her Woodbine, drinks her tea and declares that God is good. Mam says she's sure God is good for someone somewhere but He hasn't been seen lately in the lanes of Limerick.

Bridey laughs. Oh, Angela, you could go to hell for that, and Mam says, Aren't I there already, Bridey?

And they laugh and drink their tea and smoke their Woodbines and tell one another the fag is the only comfort they have.

'Tis.

Question Quigley tells me I have to go to the Redemptorist church on Friday and join the boys' division of the Arch Confraternity. You have to join. You can't say no. All the boys in the lanes and back streets that have fathers on the dole or working in laboring jobs have to join.

Question says, Your father is a foreigner from the North and he don't matter but you still have to join.

Everyone knows Limerick is the holiest city in Ireland because it has the Arch Confraternity of the Holy Family, the biggest sodality in the world. Any city can have a Confraternity, only Limerick has the Arch.

Our Confraternity fills the Redemptorist church five nights a week, three for the men, one for the women, one for the boys. There is Benediction and hymn singing in English, Irish and Latin and best of all the big powerful sermon Redemptorist priests are famous for. It's the sermon that saves millions of Chinese and other heathens from winding up in hell with the Protestants.

The Question says you have to join the Confraternity so that your mother can tell the St. Vincent de Paul Society and they'll know you're a good Catholic. He says his father is a loyal member and that's how he got a good pensionable job cleaning lavatories at the railway station and when he grows up himself he'll get a good job too unless he runs away and joins the Royal Canadian Mounted Police so that he can sing "I'll Be Calling You Ooo Ooo Ooo, " like Nelson Eddy singing to Jeanette MacDonald expiring with consumption there on the sofa. If he brings me to the Confraternity the man in the office will write his name in a big book and some day he might be promoted to prefect of a section, which is all he wants in life next to wearing the Mountie uniform.

The prefect is head of a section which is thirty boys from the same lanes and streets. Every section has the name of a saint whose picture is painted on a shield stuck on top of a pole by the prefect's seat. The prefect and his assistant take the attendance and keep an eye on us so that they can give us a thump on the head in case we laugh during Benediction or commit any other sacrileges. If you miss one night the man in the office wants to know why, wants to know if you're slipping away from the Confraternity or he might say to the other man in the office, I think our little friend here has taken the soup. That's the worst thing you can say to any Catholic in Limerick or Ireland itself because of what happened in the Great Famine. If you're absent twice the man in the office sends you a yellow summons to appear and explain yourself and if you're absent three times he sends The Posse, which is five or six big boys from your section who search the streets to make sure you're not out enjoying yourself when you should be on your knees at the Confraternity praying for the Chinese and other lost souls. The Posse will go to your house and tell your mother your immortal soul is in danger. Some mothers worry but others will say, Get away from my door or I'll come out and give every one o' ye a good fong in the hole of yeer arse. These are not good Confraternity mothers and the director will say we should pray for them that they'll see the error of their ways.

The worst thing of all is a visit from the director of the Confraternity himself, Father Gorey. He'll stand at the top of the lane

and roar in the voice that converted the Chinese millions, Where is the house of Frank McCourt? He roars even though he has your address in his pocket and knows very well where you live. He roars because he wants the world to know you're slipping away from the Confraternity and putting your immortal soul in danger. The mothers are terrified and the fathers will whisper, I'm not here, I'm not here, and they'll make sure you go to the Confraternity from this on out so they won't be disgraced and shamed entirely with the neighbors muttering behind their hands.

The Question takes me to the section St. Finbar's, and the prefect tells me sit over there and shut up. His name is Declan Collopy, he's fourteen and he has lumps on his forehead that look like horns. He has thick ginger eyebrows that meet in the middle and hang over his eyes and his arms hang down to his kneecaps. He tells me he's making this the best section in the Confraternity and if I'm ever absent he'll break my arse and send the bits to my mother. There's no excuse for absence because there was a boy in another section that was dying and still they brought him in on a stretcher. He says, If you're ever absent it better be a death, not a death in the family but your own death. Do you hear me?

I do, Declan.

Boys in my section tell me that prefects get rewards if there is perfect attendance. Declan wants to get out of school as soon as he can and get a job selling linoleum at Cannock's big shop on Patrick Street. His uncle, Foncey, sold linoleum there for years and made enough money to start his own shop in Dublin, where he has his three sons selling linoleum. Father Gorey, the director, can easily get Declan the reward of a job at Cannock's if he's a good prefect and has perfect attendance in his section and that's why Declan will destroy us if we're absent. He tells us, No one will stand between me and the linoleum.

Declan likes Question Quigley and lets him miss an occasional Friday night because the Question said, Declan, when I grow up and get married I'm going to cover my house in linoleum and I'll buy it all from you.

Other boys in the section try this trick with Declan but he says, Bugger off, ye'll be lucky enough to have a pot to piss in never mind yards of linoleum.

Dad says when he was my age in Toome he served Mass for years and it's time for me to be an altar boy. Mam says, What's the use? The child doesn't have proper clothes for school never mind the altar. Dad says the altar boy robes will cover the clothes and she says we don't have the money for robes and the wash they need every week.

He says God will provide and makes me kneel on the kitchen floor. He takes the part of the priest for he has the whole Mass in his head and I have to know the responses. He says, Introibo ad altare Dei, and I have to say, Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.

Every evening after tea I kneel for the Latin and he won't let me move till I'm perfect. Mam says he could at least let me sit but he says Latin is sacred and it is to be learned and recited on the knees. You won't find the Pope sitting around drinking tea while he speaks the Latin.

The Latin is hard and my knees are sore and scabby and I'd like to be out in the lane playing though still I'd like to be an altar boy helping the priest vest in the sacristy, up there on the altar all decked out in my red and white robes like my pal Jimmy Clark, answering the priest in Latin, moving the big book from one side of the tabernacle to

the other, pouring water and wine into the chalice, pouring water over the priest's hands, ringing the bell at Consecration, kneeling, bowing, swinging the censer at Benediction, sitting off to the side with the palms of my hands on my knees all serious while he gives his sermon, everyone in St. Joseph's looking at me and admiring my ways.

In a fortnight I have the Mass in my head and it's time to go to St. Joseph's to see the sacristan, Stephen Carey, who is in charge of altar boys. Dad polishes my boots. Mam darns my socks and throws an extra coal on the fire to heat up the iron to press my shirt. She boils water to scrub my head, neck, hands and knees and any inch of skin that shows. She scrubs till my skin burns and tells Dad she wouldn't give it to the world to say her son went on the altar dirty. She wishes I didn't have scabby knees from running around kicking canisters and falling down pretending I was the greatest footballer in the world. She wishes we had a drop of hair oil in the house but water and spit will keep my hair from sticking up like black straw in a mattress. She warns me speak up when I go to St. Joseph's and don't be mumbling in English or Latin. She says, 'Tis a great pity you grew out of your First Communion suit but you have nothing to be ashamed of, you come from good blood, McCourts, Sheehans, or my mother's family the Guilfoyles that owned acre after acre in County Limerick before the English took it away and gave it to footpads from London.

Dad holds my hand going through the streets and people look at us because of the way we're saying Latin back and forth. He knocks at the sacristy door and tells Stephen Carey, This is my son, Frank, who knows the Latin and is ready to be an altar boy.

Stephen Carey looks at him, then me. He says, We don't have room for him, and closes the door.

Dad is still holding my hand and squeezes till it hurts and I want to cry out. He says nothing on the way home. He takes off his cap, sits by the fire and lights a Woodbine. Mam is smoking, too. Well, she says, is he going to be an altar boy?

There's no room for him.

Oh. She puffs on her Woodbine. I'll tell you what it is, she says. 'Tis class distinction. They don't want boys from lanes on the altar. They don't want the ones with scabby knees and hair sticking up. Oh, no, they want the nice boys with hair oil and new shoes that have fathers with suits and ties and steady jobs. That's what it is and 'tis hard to hold on to the Faith with the snobbery that's in it.

Och, aye.

Oh, och aye my arse. That's all you ever say. You could go to the priest and tell him you have a son that has a head stuffed with Latin and why can't he be an altar boy and what is he going to do with all that Latin?

Och, he might grow up to be a priest.

I ask him if I can go out and play. Yes, he says, go out and play. Mam says, You might as well.

VI

Mr. O'Neill is the master in the fourth class at school. We call him Dotty because he's small like a dot. He teaches in the one classroom with

a platform so that he can stand above us and threaten us with his ash plant and peel his apple for all to see. The first day of school in September he writes on the blackboard three words which are to stay there the rest of the year, Euclid, geometry, idiot. He says if he catches any boy interfering with these words that boy will go through the rest of his life with one hand. He says anyone who doesn't understand the theorems of Euclid is an idiot. Now, repeat after me, Anyone who doesn't understand the theorems of Euclid is an idiot. Of course we all know what an idiot is because that's what the masters keep telling us we are.

Brendan Quigley raises his hand. Sir, what's a theorem and what's a Euclid?

We expect Dotty to lash at Brendan the way all the masters do when you ask them a question but he looks at Brendan with a little smile. Ah, now, here's a boy with not one but two questions. What is your name, boy?

Brendan Quigley, sir.

This is a boy who will go far. Where will he go, boys?

Far, sir.

Indeed and he will. The boy who wants to know something about the

grace, elegance and beauty of Euclid can go nowhere but up. In what direction and no other can this boy go, boys?

Up, sir.

Without Euclid, boys, mathematics would be a poor doddering thing. Without Euclid we wouldn't be able to go from here to there. Without Euclid the bicycle would have no wheel. Without Euclid St. Joseph could not have been a carpenter for carpentry is geometry and geometry is carpentry. Without Euclid this very school could never have been built.

Paddy Clohessy mutters behind me, Feckin' Euclid.

Dotty barks at him. You, boy, what is your name?

Clohessy, sir.

Ah, the boy flies on one wing. What is your Christian name? Paddy.

Paddy what?

Paddy, sir.

And what, Paddy, were you saying to McCourt? I said we

down on our two knees and thank God for Euclid.

I'm sure you did, Clohessy. I see the lie festering in

What do I see, boys?

The lie, sir.

And what is the lie doing, boys?

Festering, sir.

Where, boys, where?

In his teeth, sir.

Euclid, boys, was a Greek. What, Clohessy, is a Greek? Some class of a foreigner, sir.

Clohessy, you are a half-wit. Now, Brendan, surely you

should get

your teeth.

know what a

Greek is?

Yes, sir. Euclid was a Greek.

Dotty gives him the little smile. He tells Clohessy he should model

himself on Quigley, who knows what a Greek is. He draws two lines side by side and tells us these are parallel lines and the magical and mysterious thing is that they never meet, not if they were to be extended to infinity, not if they were extended to God's shoulders and that, boys, is a long way though there is a German Jew who is upsetting the whole world with his ideas on parallel lines.

We listen to Dotty and wonder what all this has to do with the state of the world with the Germans marching everywhere and bombing everything that stands. We can't ask him ourselves but we can get Brendan Quigley to do it. Anyone can see Brendan is the master's pet and that means he can ask any question he likes. After school we tell Brendan he has to ask the question tomorrow, What use is Euclid and all those lines that go on forever when the Germans are bombing everything? Brendan says he doesn't want to be the master's pet, he didn't ask for it, and he doesn't want to ask the question. He's afraid if he asks that question Dotty will attack him. We tell him if he doesn't ask the question we'll attack him.

Next day Brendan raises his hand. Dotty gives him the little smile. Sir, what use is Euclid and all the lines when the Germans are bombing everything that stands?

The little smile is gone. Ah, Brendan. Ah, Quigley. Oh, boys, oh, boys.

He lays his stick on the desk and stands on the platform with his eyes closed. What use is Euclid? he says. Use? Without Euclid the Messerschmitt could never have taken to the sky. Without Euclid the Spitfire could not dart from cloud to cloud. Euclid brings us grace and beauty and elegance. What does he bring us, boys?

Grace, sir.

And?

Beauty, sir.

And?

Elegance, sir.

Euclid is complete in himself and divine in application. Do you

understand that, boys?

We do, sir.

I doubt it, boys, I doubt it. To love Euclid is to be alone in this world.

He opens his eyes and sighs and you can see the eyes are a little watery.

Paddy Clohessy is leaving the school that day and he's stopped by Mr. O'Dea, who teaches the fifth class. Mr. O'Dea says, You, what's your

name?

Clohessy, sir.

What class are you in?

Fourth class, sir.

Now tell me, Clohessy, is that master of yours talking to you about

Euclid?

He is, sir.

And what is he saying?

He's saying he's a Greek.

Of course he is, you diddering omadhaun. What else is he saying? He's saying there would be no school without Euclid.

Ah. Now is he drawing anything on the board?

He's drawing lines side by side that will never meet even if they

land on God's shoulders.

Mother o' God.

No, sir. God's shoulders.

I know, you idiot. Go home.

The next day there's a great noise at our classroom door and Mr. O'Dea is yelling, Come out, O'Neill, you chancer, you poltroon. We can hear everything he's saying because of the broken glass over the door.

The new headmaster, Mr. O'Halloran, is saying, Now, now, Mr. O'Dea. Control yourself. No quarreling in front of our pupils.

Well, then, Mr. O'Halloran, tell him stop teaching the geometry. The geometry is for the fifth form and not the fourth. The geometry is mine. Tell him to teach the long division and leave Euclid to me. Long division will stretch his intellect such as it is, God help us. I don't want the minds of these boys destroyed by that chancer up there on the platform, him handing out apple skins and causing diarrhea right and left. Tell him Euclid is mine, Mr. O'Halloran, or I'll put a stop to his gallop.

Mr. O'Halloran tells Mr. O'Dea to return to his classroom and asks Mr. O'Neill to step into the hall. Mr. O'Halloran says, Now, Mr. O'Neill, I have asked you before to stay away from Euclid.

You have, Mr. O'Halloran, but you might as well ask me to stop eating my daily apple.

I'll have to insist, Mr. O'Neill. No more Euclid.

Mr. O'Neill comes back to the room and his eyes are watery again. He says little has changed since the time of the Greeks for the barbarians are within the gates and their names are legion. What has changed since the time of the Greeks, boys?

It is torture to watch Mr. O'Neill peel the apple every day, to see the length of it, red or green, and if you're up near him to catch the freshness of it in your nose. If you're the good boy for that day and you answer the questions he gives it to you and lets you eat it there at your desk so that you can eat it in peace with no one to bother you the way they would if you took it into the yard. Then they'd torment you, Gimme a piece, gimme a piece, and you'd be lucky to have an inch left for yourself.

There are days when the questions are too hard and he torments us by dropping the apple peel into the wastebasket. Then he borrows a boy from another class to take the wastebasket down to the furnace to burn papers and apple peel or he'll leave it for the charwoman, Nellie Ahearn, to take it all away in her big canvas sack. We'd like to ask Nellie to keep the peel for us before the rats get it but she's weary from cleaning the whole school by herself and she snaps at us, I have other things to be doin' with me life besides watchin' a scabby bunch rootin' around for the skin of an apple. Go 'way.

He peels the apple slowly. He looks around the room with the little smile. He teases us, Do you think, boys, I should give this to the pigeons on the windowsill? We say, No, sir, pigeons don't eat apples. Paddy Clohessy calls out, 'Twill give them the runs, sir, and we'll have it on our heads abroad in the yard.

Clohessy, you are an omadhaun. Do you know what an omadhaun is?

I don't, sir.

It's the Irish, Clohessy, your native tongue, Clohessy. An omadhaun

is a fool, Clohessy. You are an omadhaun. What is he, boys? An omadhaun, sir.

Clohessy says, That's what Mr. O'Dea called me, sir, a diddering omadhaun.

He pauses in his peeling to ask us questions about everything in the world and the boy with the best answers wins. Hands up, he says, who is the President of the United States of America?

Every hand in the class goes up and we're all disgusted when he asks a question that any omadhaun would know. We call out, Roosevelt.

Then he says, You, Mulcahy, who stood at the foot of the cross when Our Lord was crucified?

Mulcahy is slow. The Twelve Apostles, sir. Mulcahy, what is the Irish word for fool? Omadhaun, sir.

And what are you, Mulcahy?

An omadhaun, sir.

Fintan Slattery raises his hand. I know who stood at the foot of the cross, sir.

Of course Fintan knows who stood at the foot of the cross. Why wouldn't he? He's always running off to Mass with his mother, who is known for her holiness. She's so holy her husband ran off to Canada to cut down trees, glad to be gone and never to be heard from again. She and Fintan say the rosary every night on their knees in the kitchen and read all kinds of religious magazines: The Little Messenger of the Sacred Heart, The Lantern, The Far East, as well as every little book printed by the Catholic Truth Society. They go to Mass and Communion rain or shine and every Saturday they confess to the Jesuits who are known for their interest in intelligent sins not the usual sins you hear from people in lanes who are known for getting drunk and sometimes eating meat on Fridays before it goes bad and cursing on top of it. Fintan and his mother live on Catherine Street and Mrs. Slattery's neighbors call her Mrs. Offer-It-Up because no matter what happens, a broken leg, a spilled cup of tea, a disappeared husband, she says, Well, now, I'll offer that up and I'll have no end of Indulgences to get me into heaven. Fintan is just as bad. If you push him in the schoolyard or call him names he'll smile and tell you he'll pray for you and he'll offer it up for his soul and yours. The boys in Leamy's don't want Fintan praying for them and they threaten to give him a good fong in the arse if they catch him praying for them. He says he wants to be a saint when he grows up, which is ridiculous because you can't be a saint till you're dead. He says our grandchildren will be praying to his picture. One big boy says, My grandchildren will piss on your picture, and Fintan just smiles. His sister ran away to England when she was seventeen and everyone knows he wears her blouse at home and curls his hair with hot iron tongs every Saturday night so that he'll look gorgeous at Mass on Sunday. If he meets you going to Mass he'll say, Isn't my hair gorgeous, Frankie? He loves that word, gorgeous, and no other boy will ever use it.

Of course he knows who stood at the foot of the cross. He probably knows what they were wearing and what they had for breakfast and now he's telling Dotty O'Neill it was the three Marys. Dotty says, Come up here, Fintan, and take your reward. He takes his time going to the platform and we can't believe our eyes when he takes out a pocketknife to cut the apple peel into little bits so that he can eat them one by one and not be stuffing the whole thing into his mouth like the rest of us when we win. He raises his hand, Sir, I'd like to give some of my apple away.

The apple, Fintan? No, indeed. You do not have the apple, Fintan. You have the peel, the mere skin. You have not nor will you ever achieve

heights so dizzy you'll be feasting on the apple itself. Not my apple, Fintan. Now did I hear you say you want to give away your reward?

You did, sir. I'd like to give three pieces, to Quigley, Clohessy and McCourt.

Why, Fintan?

They're my friends, sir.

The boys around the room are sneering and nudging each other and I

feel ashamed because they'll say I curl my hair and I'll be tormented in the schoolyard and why does he think I'm his friend? If they say I wear my sister's blouse there's no use telling them I don't have a sister because they'll say, You'd wear it if you had a sister. There's no use saying anything in the schoolyard because there's always someone with an answer and there's nothing you can do but punch them in the nose and if you were to punch everyone who has an answer you'd be punching morning noon and night.

Quigley takes the bit of peel from Fintan. Thanks, Fintan.

The whole class is looking at Clohessy because he's the biggest and the toughest and if he says thanks I'll say thanks. He says, Thanks very much, Fintan, and blushes and I say, Thanks very much, Fintan, and I try to stop myself from blushing but I can't and all the boys sneer again and I'd like to hit them.

After school the boys call to Fintan, Hoi, Fintan, are you goin'home to curl your gorgeous hair? Fintan smiles and climbs the steps of the schoolyard. A big boy from seventh class says to Paddy Clohessy, I suppose you'd be curlin' your hair too if you wasn't a baldy with a shaved head.

Paddy says, Shurrup, and the boy says, Oh, an' who's goin' to make me? Paddy tries a punch but the big boy hits his nose and knocks him down and there's blood. I try to hit the big boy but he grabs me by the throat and bangs my head against the wall till I see lights and black dots. Paddy walks away holding his nose and crying and the big boy pushes me after him. Fintan is outside on the street and he says, Oh, Francis, Francis, oh, Patrick, Patrick, what's up? Why are you crying, Patrick? and Paddy says, I'm hungry. I can't fight nobody because I'm starving with the hunger an' fallin' down an' I'm ashamed of meself.

Fintan says, Come with me, Patrick. My mother will give us something, and Paddy says, Ah, no, me nose is bleedin'.

Don't worry. She'll put something on your nose or a key on the back of your neck. Francis, you must come, too. You always look hungry.

Ah, no, Fintan.

Ah, do, Francis.

All right, Fintan.

Fintan's flat is like a chapel. There are two pictures, the Sacred

Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Jesus is showing His heart with the crown of thorns, the fire, the blood. His head is tilted to the left to show His great sorrow. The Virgin Mary is showing her heart and it would be a pleasant heart if it didn't have that crown of thorns. Her head is tilted to the right to show her sorrow because she knows her Son will come to a sad end.

There's a picture on another wall of a man with a brown robe and birds sitting all over him. Fintan says, Do you know who that is, Francis? No? That's your patron, St. Francis of Assisi, and do you know what today is?

The fourth of October.

That's right and it's his feast day and special for you because you can ask St. Francis for anything and he'll surely give it to you. That's why I wanted you to come here today. Sit down, Patrick, sit down, Francis.

Mrs. Slattery comes in with her rosary beads in her hand. She's happy to meet Fintan's new friends and would we like a cheese sandwich? And look at your poor nose, Patrick. She touches his nose with the cross on her rosary beads and says a little prayer. She tells us these rosary beads were blessed by the Pope himself and would stop the flow of a river if requested never mind Patrick's poor nose.

Fintan says he won't have a sandwich because he's fasting and praying for the boy who hit Paddy and me. Mrs. Slattery gives him a kiss on the head and tells him he's a saint out of heaven and asks if we'd like mustard on our sandwiches and I tell her I never heard of mustard on cheese and I'd love it. Paddy says, I dunno. I never had a sangwidge in me life, and we all laugh and I wonder how you could live ten years like Paddy and never have a sandwich. Paddy laughs, too, and you can see his teeth are white and black and green.

We eat the sandwich and drink tea and Paddy wants to know where the lavatory is. Fintan takes him through the bedroom to the backyard and when they come back Paddy says, I have to go home. Me mother'll kill me. I'll wait for you outside, Frankie.

Now I have to go to the lavatory and Fintan leads me to the backyard. He says, I have to go, too, and when I unbutton my fly I can't pee because he's looking at me and he says, You were fooling. You don't have to go at all. I like to look at you, Francis. That's all. I wouldn't want to commit any class of a sin with our Confirmation coming next year.

Paddy and I leave together. I'm bursting and run behind a garage to pee. Paddy is waiting for me and as we walk along Hartstonge Street he says, That was a powerful sangwidge, Frankie, an' him an' his mother is very holy but I wouldn't want to go to Fintan's flat anymore because he's very odd, isn't he, Frankie?

He is, Paddy.

The way he looks at it when you take it out, that's odd, isn't it, Frankie?

'Tis, Paddy.

A few days later Paddy whispers, Fintan Slattery said we could come to his flat at lunchtime. His mother won't be there and she leaves his lunch for him. He might give us some too and he has lovely milk. Will we go?

Fintan sits two rows from us. He knows what Paddy is saying to me and he moves his eyebrows up and down as if to say, Will you come? I whisper yes to Paddy and he nods to Fintan and the master barks at us to stop waggling our eyebrows and our lips or the ash plant will sing across our backsides.

Boys in the schoolyard see the three of us walk out and they pass remarks. Oh, Gawd, look at Fintan and his ingles. Paddy says, Fintan, what's an ingle? and Fintan says it's just a boy from olden times who sits in a corner, that's all. He tells us sit at the table in his kitchen and we can read his comic books if we like, Film Fun, the Beano, the Dandy, or the religious magazines or his mother's romance magazines, the Miracle and the Oracle, which always have stories about factory girls who are poor but beautiful in love with sons of earls and vice versa and the factory girl ends up throwing herself into the Thames with the

hopelessness only to be rescued by a passing carpenter who is poor but honest and will love the factory girl for her own humble self though it turns out the passing carpenter is really the son of a duke, which is much higher than an earl, so that now the poor factory girl is a duchess and can look down her nose at the earl who spurned her because she's happy tending her roses on her twelve-thousand-acre estate in Shropshire and being kind to her poor old mother, who refuses to leave her humble little cottage for all the money in the world.

Paddy says, I don't want to read nothing, it's all a cod, all them stories. Fintan removes the cloth covering his sandwich and glass of milk. The milk looks creamy and cool and delicious and the sandwich bread is almost as white. Paddy says, Is that a ham sangwidge? and Fintan says, 'Tis. Paddy says, That's a lovely looking sangwidge and is there mustard on it? Fintan nods and slices the sandwich in two. Mustard seeps out. He licks it off his fingers and takes a nice mouthful of milk. He cuts the sandwich again into quarters, eighths, sixteenths, takes The Little Messenger of the Sacred Heart from the pile of magazines and reads while he eats his sandwich bits and drinks his milk and Paddy and I look at him and I know Paddy is wondering what we're doing here at all, at all, because that's what I'm wondering myself hoping Fintan will pass over the plate to us but he doesn't, he finishes the milk, leaves bits of sandwich on the plate, covers it with the cloth and wipes his lips in his dainty way, lowers his head, blesses himself and says grace after meals and, God, we'll be late for school, and blesses himself again on the way out with holy water from the little china font hanging by the door with the little image of the Virgin Mary showing her heart and pointing at it with two fingers as if we couldn't make it out for ourselves.

It's too late for Paddy and me to run and get the bun and milk from Nellie Ahearn and I don't know how I'm going to last from now till I can run home after school and get a piece of bread. Paddy stops at the school gate. He says, I can't go in there starving with the hunger. I'd fall asleep and Dotty'd kill me.

Fintan is anxious. Come on, come on, we'll be late. Come on, Francis, hurry up.

I'm not going in, Fintan. You had your lunch. We had nothing.

Paddy explodes. You're a feckin' chancer, Fintan. That's what you are an' a feckin' begrudger too with your feckin' sangwidge an' your feckin' Sacred Heart of Jesus on the wall an' your feckin' holy water. You can kiss my arse, Fintan.

Oh, Patrick.

Oh, Patrick my feckin' arse, Fintan. Come on, Frankie.

Fintan runs into school and Paddy and I make our way to an orchard

in Ballinacurra. We climb a wall and a fierce dog comes at us till Paddy talks to him and tells him he's a good dog and we're hungry and go home to your mother. The dog licks Paddy's face and trots away waving his tail and Paddy is delighted with himself. We stuff apples into our shirts till we can barely get back over the wall to run into a long field and sit under a hedge eating the apples till we can't swallow another bit and we stick our faces into a stream for the lovely cool water. Then we run to opposite ends of a ditch to shit and wipe ourselves with grass and thick leaves. Paddy is squatting and saying, There's nothing in the world like a good feed of apples, a drink of water and a good shit, better than any sangwidge of cheese and mustard and Dotty O'Neill can shove his apple up his arse.

There are three cows in a field with their heads over a stone wall and they say moo to us. Paddy says, Bejasus, 'tis milkin' time, and he's over the wall, stretched on his back under a cow with her big udder hanging into his face. He pulls on a teat and squirts milk into his mouth. He stops squirting and says, Come on, Frankie, fresh milk. 'Tis lovely. Get that other cow, they're all ready for the milkin'.

I get under the cow and pull on a teat but she kicks and moves and I'm sure she's going to kill me. Paddy comes over and shows me how to do it, pull hard and straight and the milk comes out in a powerful stream. The two of us lie under the one cow and we're having a great time filling ourselves with milk when there's a roar and there's a man with a stick charging across the field. We're over the wall in a minute and he can't follow us because of his rubber boots. He stands at the wall and shakes his stick and shouts that if he ever catches us we'll have the length of his boot up our arses and we laugh because we're out of harm's way and I'm wondering why anyone should be hungry in a world full of milk and apples.

It's all right for Paddy to say Dotty can shove the apple up his arse but I don't want to rob orchards and milk cows forever and I'll always try to win Dotty's apple peel so that I can go home and tell Dad how I answered the hard questions.

We're walking back through Ballinacurra. There's rain and lightning and we run but it's hard for me with the sole of my shoe flapping and threatening to trip me. Paddy can run all he wants in his long bare feet and you hear them slapping on the pavement. My shoes and stockings are soaked and they make their own sound, squish, squish. Paddy notices that and we make a song from our two sounds, slap slap, squish, squish, slap squish, squish slap. We laugh so hard over our song we have to hold on to one another. The rain gets heavier and we know we can't stand under a tree or we'll be fried entirely so we stand by a door which is opened in a minute by a big fat maid in a little white hat and a black dress with a little white apron who tells us get away from this door we're a disgrace. We run from the door and Paddy calls back, Mullingar heifer, beef to the heels, and he laughs till he chokes and has to lean against a wall with the weakness. There's no sense in standing in from the rain anymore, we're soaked to the skin, so we take our time down O'Connell Avenue. Paddy says he learned that Mullingar heifer thing from his uncle Peter, the one that was in India in the English army and they have a photo of him standing with a group of soldiers with their helmets and guns and bandoliers around their chests and there are dark men in uniform who are Indians and loyal to the King. Uncle Peter had a great time for himself in a place called Kashmir, which is lovelier than Killarney that they're always bragging about and singing. Paddy goes on again about running away and winding up in India in a silken tent with the girl with the red dot and the curry and the figs and he's making me hungry even if I'm stuffed with apples and milk.

The rain is clearing and there are birds honking over our heads. Paddy says they're ducks or geese or something on their way to Africa where it's nice and warm. The birds have more sense than the Irish. They come to the Shannon for their holidays and then they go back to the warm places, maybe even India. He says he'll write me a letter when he's over there and I can come to India and have my own girl with a red dot.

What's that dot for, Paddy?

It shows they're high class, the quality.

But, Paddy, would the quality in India talk to you if they knew you were from a lane in Limerick and had no shoes?

Course they would, but the English quality wouldn't. The English quality wouldn't give you the steam of their piss.

Steam of their piss? God, Paddy, did you think of that yourself?

Naw, naw, that's what my father says below in the bed when he's coughin' up the gobs and blamin' the English for everything.

And I think, Steam of their piss. I'll keep that for myself. I'll go around Limerick saying it, Steam of their piss, Steam of their piss, and when I go to America some day I'll be the only one who knows it.

Question Quigley is wobbling toward us on a big woman's bicycle and calls to me, Hoi, Frankie McCourt, you're going to be killed. Dotty O'Neill sent a note to your house and said you didn't come back to school after lunch, that you went on the mooch with Paddy Clohessy. Your mother is going to kill you. Your father is out looking for you and he's going to kill you, too.

Oh, God, I feel cold and empty and I wish I could be in India where it's nice and warm and there's no school and my father could never find me to kill me. Paddy tells the Question, He didn't go on the mooch and I didn't either. Fintan Slattery starved us to death and we were too late for the bun and the milk. Then Paddy says to me, Don't mind 'em, Frankie, 'tis all a cod. They're always sendin' notes to our house and we wipe our arses with them.

My mother and father would never wipe their arses with a note from the master and I'm afraid now to go home. The Question rides off on the bicycle, laughing, and I don't know why because he once ran away from home and slept in a ditch with four goats and that's worse than mooching from school half a day anytime.

I could turn up the Barrack Road now and go home and tell my parents I'm sorry I went on the mooch and I did it because of the hunger but Paddy says, Come on, we'll go down the Dock Road and throw rocks in the Shannon.

We throw rocks in the river and we swing on the iron chains along the bank. It's getting dark and I don't know where I'm going to sleep. I might have to stay there by the Shannon or find a door or I might have to go back out the country and find a ditch like Brendan Quigley with four goats. Paddy says I can go home with him, I can sleep on the floor and I'll dry out.

Paddy lives in one of the tall houses on Arthur's Quay looking at the river. Everyone in Limerick knows these houses are old and might fall down at any minute. Mam often says, I don't want any of ye going down to Arthur's Quay and if I find ye there I'll break yeer faces. The people down there are wild and ye could get robbed and killed.

It's raining again and small children are playing in the hallway and up the stairs. Paddy says, Mind yourself, because some of the steps are missing and there is shit on the ones that are still there. He says that's because there's only one privy and it's in the backyard and children don't get down the stairs in time to put their little arses on the bowl, God help us.

There's a woman with a shawl sitting on the fourth flight smoking a cigarette. She says, Is that you, Paddy?

'Tis, Mammy.

I'm fagged out, Paddy. Them steps is killin' me. Did you have your tea?

I didn't.

Well, I don't know if there's any bread left. Go up an' see. Paddy's family live in one big room with a high ceiling and a small

fireplace. There are two tall windows and you can see out to the Shannon. His father is in a bed in the corner, groaning and spitting into a bucket. Paddy's brothers and sisters are on mattresses on the floor, sleeping, talking, looking at the ceiling. There's a baby with no clothes crawling over to Paddy's father's bucket and Paddy pulls him away. His mother comes in, gasping, from the stairs. Jesus, I'm dead, she says.

She finds some bread and makes weak tea for Paddy and me. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. They don't say anything. They don't say what are you doing here or go home or anything till Mr. Clohessy says, Who's that? and Paddy tells him, 'Tis Frankie McCourt.

Mr. Clohessy says, McCourt? What class of a name is that? My father is from the North, Mr. Clohessy.

And what's your mother's name?

Angela, Mr. Clohessy.

Ah, Jaysus, 'twouldn't be Angela Sheehan, would it?

'Twould, Mr. Clohessy. Ah, Jaysus, he says, and he has a coughing fit which brings up all kinds of stuff from his insides and has him hanging over the bucket. When the cough passes he falls back on the pillow. Ah, Frankie, I knew your mother well. Danced with her, Mother o' Christ, I'm dying inside, danced with her I did below in the Wembley Hall and a champion dancer she was too.

He hangs over the bucket again. He gasps for air and reaches his arms out to get it. He suffers but he won't stop talking.

Champion dancer she was, Frankie. Not skinny mind you but a feather in my arms and there was many a sorry man when she left Limerick. Can you dance, Frankie?

Ah, no, Mr. Clohessy.

Paddy says, He can, Dada. He had the lessons from Mrs. O'Connor and Cyril Benson.

Well, dance, Frankie. Round the house an' mind the dresser, Frankie. Lift the foot, lad.

I can't, Mr. Clohessy. I'm no good.

No good? Angela's Sheehan's son? Dance, Frankie, or I'll get outa this bed an' wheel you round the house.

My shoe is broken, Mr. Clohessy.

Frankie, Frankie, you're bringin' the cough on me. Will you dance for the love o' Jesus so I can remember me youth with your mother in the Wembley Hall. Take off the feckin' shoe, Frankie, an' dance.

I have to make up dances and tunes to go with them the way I did a long time ago when I was young. I dance around the room with one shoe because I forgot to take it off. I try to make up words, Oh, The Walls of Limerick are falling down, falling down, falling down, The Walls of Limerick falling down and the River Shannon kills us.

Mr. Clohessy is laughing in the bed. Oh, Jaysus, I never heard likes o' that on land or sea. That's a great leg for the dancing you have there, Frankie. Oh, Jaysus. He coughs and brings up ropes of green and yellow stuff. It makes me sick to look at it and I wonder if I should go home from all this sickness and this bucket and let my parents kill me if they want to.

Paddy lies down on a mattress by the window and I lie beside him. I keep my clothes on like everybody else and I even forget to take off my

other shoe, which is wet and squishy and stinks. Paddy falls asleep right away and I look at his mother sitting by the bit of a fire smoking another cigarette. Paddy's father groans and coughs and spits into the bucket. He says, Feckin' blood, and she says, You'll have to go into the sanatorium sooner or later.

I will not. The day they put you in there is the end of you.

You could be givin'the consumption to the children. I could get the guards to take you away you're that much of a danger to the children.

If they were to get it they'd have it be now.

The fire dies and Mrs. Clohessy climbs over him into the bed. In a minute she's snoring even if he's still coughing and laughing about the days of his youth when he danced with Angela Sheehan light as a feather in the Wembley Hall.

It's cold in the room and I'm shivering in my wet clothes. Paddy is shivering too but he's asleep and he doesn't know he's cold. I don't know if I should stay here or get up and go home but who wants to be wandering the streets when a guard might ask you what you're doing out. It's my first time away from my family and I know I'd rather be in my own house with the smelly lavatory and stable next door. It's bad when our kitchen is a lake and we have to go up to Italy but it's worse in the Clohessys' when you have to go down four flights to the lavatory and slip on shit all the way down. I'd be better off with four goats in a ditch.

I drift in and out of sleep but I have to wake up for good when Mrs. Clohessy goes around pulling at her family to get them up. They all went to bed with their clothes on so they don't have to get dressed and there's no fighting. They grumble and run out the door to get downstairs to the backyard lavatory. I have to go too and I run down with Paddy but his sister Peggy is on the bowl and we have to piss against a wall. She says, I'll tell Ma what ye did, and Paddy says, Shurrup or I'll push you down into that feckin' lavatory. She jumps off the lavatory, pulls her drawers up and runs up the stairs crying, I'll tell, I'll tell, and when we get back to the room Mrs. Clohessy gives Paddy a belt on the head for what he did to his poor little sister. Paddy says nothing because Mrs. Clohessy is spooning porridge into mugs and jam jars and one bowl and telling us to eat up and go to school. She sits at the table eating her porridge. Her hair is gray black and dirty. It dangles in the bowl and picks up bits of porridge and drops of milk. The children slurp the porridge and complain they didn't get enough, they're starving with the hunger. They have snotty noses and sore eyes and scabby knees. Mr. Clohessy coughs and squirms on the bed and brings up the great gobs of blood and I run out of the room and puke on the stairs where there's a step missing and there's a shower of porridge and bits of apple to the floor below where people go back and forth to the lavatory in the yard. Paddy comes down and says, Sure that's all right. Everywan gets sick an' shits on them stairs an' the whole feckin' place is falling down anyway.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. If I go back to school I'll be killed and why should I go back to school or go home to get killed when I can go out the road and live on milk and apples the rest of my life till I go to America. Paddy says, Come on. School is all a cod anyway an' the masters is all madmen.

There's a knock at the Clohessys' door and it's Mam holding my little brother, Michael, by the hand, and Guard Dennehy, who is in charge of school attendance. Mam sees me and says, What are you doing with one shoe on? and Guard Dennehy says, Ah, now, missus, I think a more

important question would be, What are you doing with one shoe off, ha,

ha.

Michael runs to me. Mammy was crying. Mammy was crying for you,

Frankie.

She says, Where were you all night?

I was here.

You had me demented. Your father walked every street in Limerick

looking for you.

Mr. Clohessy says, Who's at the door?

It's my mother, Mr. Clohessy.

God above, is that Angela?

'Tis, Mr. Clohessy.

He struggles up on his elbows. Well, for the love of God, will you

come in, Angela. Don't you know me?

Mam looks puzzled. It's dark in the room and she tries to make out

who is in the bed. He says, 'Tis me, Dennis Clohessy, Angela. Ah, no.

'Tis, Angela.

Ah, no.

I know, Angela. I'm changed. The cough is killin' me. But I

remember the nights at the Wembley Hall. Aw, Jaysus, you were a great dancer. Nights at the Wembley Hall, Angela, and the fish and chips after. Oh, boys, oh, boys, Angela.

My mother has tears running down her face. She says, You were a great dancer yourself, Dennis Clohessy.

We could have won competitions, Angela. Fred and Ginger would have been lookin' over their shoulders but you had to run off to America. Aw, Jaysus.

He has another coughing fit and we have to stand and watch him hang over the bucket again and bring up the bad stuff from his insides. Guard Dennehy says, I think, missus, we found the by an' I'll be going. He says to me, If you ever go on the mooch again, by, we'll have you in the jail above. Are you listenin' to me, by?

I am, Guard.

Don't be tormentin' your mother, by. That's wan thing the guards won't put up with, the tormentin' of mothers.

I won't, Guard. I won't torment her.

He leaves and Mam goes to the bed to take Mr. Clohessy's hand. His face is caved in all around his eyes and his hair is shiny black with the sweat running from the top of his head. His children stand around the bed looking at him and looking at Mam. Mrs. Clohessy sits by the fire rattling the poker in the grate and pushing the baby away from the fire. She says, 'Tis his own bloody fault for not goin' into hospital, so 'tis.

Mr. Clohessy gasps, I'd be all right if I could live in a dry place. Angela, is America a dry place?

'Tis, Dennis.

The doctor told me go to Arizona. A funny man that doctor. Arizona how are you. I don't have the money to go around the corner for a pint.

Mam says, You'll be all right, Dennis. I'll light a candle for you. Save your money, Angela. My dancin' days are done.

I have to go now, Dennis. My son has to go to school.

Before you go, Angela, will you do one thing for me?

I will, Dennis, if 'tis in my power.

Would you ever give us a verse of that song you sang the night before you went to America?

That's a hard song, Dennis. I wouldn't have the wind for it.

Ah, come on, Angela. I never hear a song anymore. There isn't a song in this house. The wife there doesn't have a note in her head an' no step in her foot.

Mam says, All right. I'll try.

Oh, the nights of the Kerry dancing, Oh, the ring of the piper's tune, Oh, for one of those hours of gladness, gone, alas, like our youth too soon.

When the boys began to gather in the glen of a Summer night, And the Kerry piper's tuning made us long with wild delight.

She stops and presses her hand to her chest, Oh, God, my wind is gone. Help me, Frank, with the song, and I sing along, Oh, to think of it, Oh, to dream of it, fills my heart with tears.

Oh, the nights of the Kerry dancing, Oh, the ring of the piper's tune Oh, for one of those hours of gladness, gone, alas, like our youth too soon.

Mr. Clohessy tries to sing with us, gone, alas, like our youth too soon, but it brings on the cough. He shakes his head and cries, I wouldn't doubt you, Angela. It takes me back. God bless you.

God bless you, too, Dennis, and thanks, Mrs. Clohessy, for having Frankie here off the streets.

'Twas no trouble, Mrs. McCourt. He's quiet enough.

Quiet enough, says Mr. Clohessy, but he's not the dancer his mother

was.

Mam says, 'Tis hard to dance with one shoe, Dennis.

I know, Angela, but you'd wonder why he didn't take it off. Is he a

bit strange?

Ah, sometimes he has the odd manner like his father. Oh, yes. The

father is from the North, Angela, and that would account for it. They'd think nothing of dancing with one shoe in the North.

We walk up Patrick Street and O'Connell Street, Paddy Clohessy and Mam and Michael and myself, and Mam sobs all the way. Michael says, Don't cry, Mammy. Frankie won't run away.

She lifts him up and hugs him. Oh, no, Michael, 'tisn't Frankie I'm crying about. 'Tis Dennis Clohessy and the dancing nights at the Wembley Hall and the fish and chips after.

She comes into the school with us. Mr. O'Neill looks cross and tells us sit down he'll be with us in a minute. He talks a long time at the door with my mother and when she leaves he walks between the seats and pats Paddy Clohessy on the head.

I'm very sorry for the Clohessys and all their troubles but I think they saved me from getting into trouble with my mother.

VII

There are Thursdays when Dad gets his dole money at the Labour Exchange and a man might say, Will we go for a pint, Malachy? and Dad will say, One, only one, and the man will say, Oh, God, yes, one, and before the night is over all the money is gone and Dad comes home singing and getting us out of bed to line up and promise to die for Ireland when the

call comes. He even gets Michael up and he's only three but there he is singing and promising to die for Ireland at the first opportunity. That's what Dad calls it, the first opportunity. I'm nine and Malachy is eight and we know all the songs. We sing all the verses of Kevin Barry and Roddy McCorley, "The West's Asleep, "

"O'Donnell Abu, "

"The Boys of Wexford. " We sing and promise to die because you never know when Dad might have a penny or two left over from the drinking and if he gives it to us we can run to Kathleen O'Connell's next day for toffee. Some nights he says Michael is the best singer of all and he gives him the penny. Malachy and I wonder what's the use of being eight and nine and knowing all the songs and ready to die when Michael gets the penny so that he can go to the shop next day and stuff his gob with toffee galore. No one can ask him to die for Ireland at the age of three, not even Padraig Pearse, who was shot by the English in Dublin in 1916 and expected the whole world to die with him. Besides, Mikey Molloy's father said anyone who wants to die for Ireland is a donkey's arse. Men have been dying for Ireland since the beginning of time and look at the state of the country.

It's bad enough that Dad loses jobs in the third week but now he drinks all the dole money once a month. Mam gets desperate and in the morning she has the bitter face and she won't talk to him. He has his tea and leaves the house early for the long walk into the country. When he returns in the evening she still won't talk to him and she won't make his tea. If the fire is dead for the want of coal or turf and there's no way of boiling water for the tea, he says, Och, aye, and drinks water out of a jam jar and smacks his lips the way he would with a pint of porter. He says good water is all a man needs and Mam makes a snorting sound. When she's not talking to him the house is heavy and cold and we know we're not supposed to talk to him either for fear she'll give us the bitter look. We know Dad has done the bad thing and we know you can make anyone suffer by not talking to him. Even little Michael knows that when Dad does the bad thing you don't talk to him from Friday to Monday and when he tries to lift you to his lap you run to Mam.

I'm nine years old and I have a pal, Mickey Spellacy, whose relations are dropping one by one of the galloping consumption. I envy Mickey because every time someone dies in his family he gets a week off from school and his mother stitches a black diamond patch on his sleeve so that he can wander from lane to lane and street to street and people will know he has the grief and pat his head and give him money and sweets for his sorrow.

But this summer Mickey is worried. His sister, Brenda, is wasting away with the consumption and it's only August and if she dies before September he won't get his week off from school because you can't get a week off from school when there's no school. He comes to Billy Campbell and me to ask if we'll go around the corner to St. Joseph's Church and pray for Brenda to hang on till September.

What's in it for us, Mickey, if we go around the corner praying?

Well, if Brenda hangs on and I get me week off ye can come to the wake and have ham and cheese and cake and sherry and lemonade and everything and ye can listen to the songs and stories all night.

Who could say no to that? There's nothing like a wake for having a good time. We trot around to the church where they have statues of St. Joseph himself as well as the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the Virgin Mary and

St. Th

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