My Notorious Life (3 page)

—’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mam said, her voice Irish but proper.

—He’s brung you some bread, Mam, I said.

—Brought you, she whispered, correcting my savage grammar. We children had poor mouths, she was forever telling us. And she would know, as she went to a proper classroom five years back home in Carrickfergus, while our education was only a smatter of lessons at P.S. 114.

Dutch had climbed on the bed and was laid out by our mother’s feet, stroking the coverlet over her ankles. The baby was clamoring, —Mam Mam, in his pitiful way.

—Is there any water? Mr. Brace asked me.

I ran for the pail and brought it to him.

—Let me help you now, he said. He sat at her side and placed his white hands very tender beneath her shoulders to lift her. She cried out so next he raised her head only, and held the cup to her lips while she drank.

—What is your ailment? he asked, his voice gentle as the pigeon’s coo.

She did not move nor say. I pulled back the cover to show him.

He gasped. There was her arm mangled and cooked, burned red with the flesh on it dried black and angry, hard white streaks under the peeled-off skin. She could not bend the elbow nor fist her fingers even a little. A blast of odor came up from under the blanket. Mr. Brace turned his face away and then made himself turn back.

—Madam, he said, his eyes emotional, —how did you come by this injury?

—I got my hand caught in the mangle with the aprons, sir. The roller press took the whole arm and burned it in the steam, so it did. Three days ago.

The accident happened where she worked at the laundry on Mott, when an apron string pulled her fingers between the hot cylinder and the rollers
and cooked the whole arm while the other girls took ten minutes to get it free.

—Lord have mercy, said Mr. Brace, —I will escort you to the hospital.

—No no no.

—By the grace of God we’ll save your life.

—I can’t accept no charity.

—The central figure in the world of charity is Christ, he said. —It’s our Lord’s grace and not my own. He gives value to the poorest and most despised among us.

—’Tis sure I am despised.

—No madam. Our Lord despises not one on this earth. In His love, you will find a friend, who can make your life an offering of service, and dry your children’s tears.

—If he can dry them then sure he is my friend, my mother whispered.

Mr. Brace smiled. —Then shall the splendor of heaven come to this dark and dreary den and lead you to reform as well as charity, madam, for I must tell you, your children are exposed.

—Exposed?

—Certainly, he said. —Exposed to the temptations that beset the unfortunate: sharpness, deception, roguery, fraud, vice in many forms, and offenses against the law. Not to mention starvation and disease.

—No doubt, said she, —the devil himself has his eye on ’em.

—At the very least let me take your little ones away from such influences.

—If it kills me, said my saintly mother, —you won’t steal them.

—Have no fear, said Brace. —I do not propose to steal them, but to save them. Wouldn’t you like our Aid Society to find them good homes in the countryside out West?

—For faith they’ve their home here. It’s not no castle, sure, but it’s ours.

—The best of all asylums for the child of unhappy fortune is the farmer’s home.

—I lived in a farmer’s home all me life and it’s just why we emigrated.

—Madam, it is your duty to get these children away to kind Christian families in the country, where they will be better off.

—Children belong with their mothers.

—Allow me at the very least to take you to the hospital. I shall pay the
expense. You have a gangrenous fever in that arm. If you don’t relent, you may not last the week.

My poor injured mother was no match for the blunt elocution of the Reverend Mr. Charles Loring Brace. He plied her with stories of our doom and hers, if we did not all come along with him.

—Madam, these are the little children of Christ. Do not be among those who, by their ignorance, promote the development of a dangerous class of urchins, with depraved tendencies to crime and dissolution. It was the Lord’s Work, he said, for him to take us three somewheres warm and safe, a place of hot cider and oxtail stew, new boots and green grass all around.

Soon he had her swanning and thanking him through her tears and anguish. —Oh mister, bless you for thinking of such poor souls as we are. We watched her bobbing her head and curtsying even in her agony, struggling to walk out the door, and down the stairs. —Such a fine gentleman, she said, combing her hair with the fingers of her good hand.

And he was, too, very fine, with his Christian hymns and mentions of Our Lord. I would not claim that he was not kind. He was. He meant well. I would not claim either that he did not save the lives of many orphans and poor scabs of youth such as us. He saved thousands and was famous for it. I would only say that Brace was a sorter. He thought he knew best. He plucked us up that day away from our mother, and set us down into our fate, sure as if we was kittens he’d lifted by the loose wet skin of the neck and put in a sack, and for that I do not forgive him, despite how I became a sorter of sorts, myself.

B
ack by the bakery on Broadway and Catherine Mr. Brace had his private carriage and driver waiting in the cold. It might as well’ve been made of crystal, so surprised were we to see it there for us to ride in. Our mother climbed up with great effort and lay her head pale against the seat. The Gentleman helped us three into the trap to sit beside her.

Before you could say Beat It, we was trotting along, past all the mugs staring at us in their mossy jealousy. I known they were thinking, There goes a fancy cove and his toffee family. We looked down on them through the curtains and smiled like cream was in our mouth. You might say that my future fancies, what the newspapers called my FLAMBOYANCE, was born in that moment. So this is how it feels to go wheeling past the hoi polloi, me in my chariot, I thought. Nice.

But the enjoyment was tainted by worry over my Mam’s fatal appearance, and the ominous kind Gentleman, with his pale eyes crinkled up at the corners, watching.

—Where are you taking us? I asked.

For an answer the carriage stopped in front of a massive stone building. Bellevue Hospital, said the words carved above the entrance.

—You little wanderers must wait here while I take your mother to see the doctor, said Our Protector.

—We’ll come along, I cried. —Won’t we? Mam!

—You must go with Mr. Brace, said Mam, in pain and surrender—and if he’s good as his word I’ll meet you again soon on Cherry Street when I’m improved.

—I’m good as my word, madam, you can trust it, says he.

—And Axie, listen, Mam said. —For the love of God promise you’ll take care of our Joseph and our Dutchess. Keep them with you d’ya hear me?

—Yes I promise Mam, I says, fainthearted.

Mr. Brace helped her down, and she leaned on him into the gray building. We kept our six eyes on her to the last. It was not a ceremonious nor hysterical farewell. We did not cry nor cling to her but bit down on our fears and obeyed as she had taught us. We waited in the carriage with a warm robe over our legs, and after a time we fell asleep.

We was awoken by the noise of wheels on cobbles, and seen the carriage was off again, but our Mam was not with us. —Where is she? I accused Mr. Brace.

—The doctor must see to her injury. We’re off to find you some dinner and a bed.

Dutchie clutched at me while Joe whimpered on my lap.

—Suffer the little children, said Mr. Brace, with a tender look.

—We are suffering, sure, I said. —You took our mother, you don’t need to tell us.

—‘Suffer the little children to come unto me,’ said the Lord Jesus Christ.

—It was you that said it, I told him.

—My only motive in life is to do good for the unfortunate, dear child.

Brace was the pooka, I thought, come to haul us off to the hills, turn us to cabbages, cook us and eat us. The unfamiliar streets passed till at last we arrived very nervous at a house with a grand porch and fluted columns, its tower topped with a golden weather vane in the shape of a rooster. The snow lay around it pure and cold as froth on a draft of beer.

—What is this place? Dutch asked the Gentleman. —Is this where you live?

—This, young lady, is the Little Roses Orphan Asylum.

—We are not no orphans, I said hotly.

—Of course not, my spirited girl! His voice was honey in his throat. —You may stay here until such time as your mother is able to take care of you.

We were taken inside, limp with traveling, and Brace introduced us to a Lady, Mrs. Reardon. The look of her was starched, her apron white and stiff, her hair pulled back severely on her small head. Plus we never seen such a rump on a human. It was its own continent, but we did not stare now, as we were stupefied to distraction by the sight of the sweeping staircase and the high ceilings, the statue of a stone child holding one stone rose there in the vestibule of the Asylum.

—These merry rascals are the Muldoon children, the Gentleman told her. —I found them half-frozen on Catherine Street.

—Poor lambs.

—The home is patently unfit, he whispered low to her. —Terrible vice and degradation. I left the Mother at Bellevue. Her prognosis is dire.

Dire he said. The word stang me with fear, but before I could ask its meaning here was Mr. Brace bidding us farewell with a wave of his leather glove hand, leaving us to the Asylum, where it was common knowledge among the children of Cherry Street that the matrons kidnapped Catholic kids to sell them into slavery.

Mrs. R. led us to a large dining room, a lordly place full of tables, every one of them with uniformed children sitting, banging their forks in a racket till somebody rang a bell and the room went quiet. All those scrubbed orphan eyes turned our way, and I seen us now as they must, unwashed and reeking of misery. We had to sit right down amongst them. —Let us give thanks, said Mrs. R.

Like one marvelous machine, the orphans folded their hands and bowed their heads. We did likewise and mumbled along with the blessing.

—Amen, said all the kids. The word was deafening.

—Where yiz come from? said one girl. She was the size of a man, nearly, with red pimples on her long face.

—Cherry Street.

—I’m called Mag. You?

—Axie Muldoon. And this is Dutchie my sister.

—Ha! said a big rough boy who known he was good-looking. —Ax and Dutch. What kind of crank names is that?

I did not say what kind. Nor how my sister was Dutchess Muldoon named by our Da like royalty and I was our dear Annie called Axie by Mam because I was forever axing so many questions. I only scowled at this
big b*ll*cks. He was cocky and black-haired with a dangerous jaw that jutted out in a hard underbite.

—Ax Muldoon, he muttered. —A girl named Ax.

—You’ve the mug of a bulldog, I says, —so is that your name then, Bulldog?

—Name’s Charlie, he says with a smirk.

—Bulldog, I says, and smiled at big Mag.

—Don’t make no problems with him, she said. —Charlie’s the pet and so clever he charms all the matrons. Any trouble, they marrow you good.

Dutch began to snivel at the idea of a marrowing but quieted down when she smelled dinner arriving. We was served each a bowl of soup, thick with carrots and potatoes. Chicken fat floated in golden rings on the surface. Our Joe was on my lap, and hummed while I fed him. We three was just about bamboozled into thinking there was never a better place than this Asylum, when Mrs. Reardon comes along with her arms out for Joe.

—We’ll have the baby from you, she says. —He’ll sleep in the nursery.

—That’s our brother! He sleeps with us.

But the hag lifted him up under the arms.

I pulled his legs. She pulled back. Joe was stretched like a taffy between us, twisting himself and screeching.

—He’s our brother, we cried, as I hammered her.

In a blink, two more apron ladies had a hold of me.

—She’s a hellcat, cried Mrs. R. —Keep her down.

—PUGGA MAHONE, alla yiz, I said, which is Irish for Kiss My *ss.

—None of your papist curses, said Mrs. Rump who now had a grip on my hair.

I bit her.

—Dear Lord in Heaven, she screamed, my teeth in her arm.

I kicked at both them matrons and flailed, swinging. The orphans went wild with laughter and remarks, with that Bulldog Charlie the loudest, cheering. —Atta girl, Ax.

—Silence! said Reardon, ringing a bell like a mad steeple. —We do not tolerate heathen behavior here. I saw a red mark on the white meat of her forearm and I was that starved I might have gone for seconds had she not grabbed me by the ear. —Apologize!

I would not. She twisted my ear like it was a doorknob and I cried out in pain.

—I’ll give you a hiding and lock you away, said she, but still got no sorry out of me. Apology or none, Mrs. R. had won the prize of Joe. She carried him off even as he wailed for us, —AxieDutch. He called us always the one name, AxieDutch. But the hard-hearted cow did not turn nor relent.