Then Mrs. Cozzolina remembered she hadn’t asked the girl’s name. She leaned towards the girl. “Your name?” she asked, her voice filled with a fear of having the child go through life without a name.
Slowly the girl opened her eyes. She looked as if she had come back a long way. “Frances Cain,” her voice barely carried to Mrs. Cozzolina’s straining ear. She shut her eyes, and then suddenly they opened and were blank. Her jaw hung loosely towards the pillow.
Mrs. Cozzolina took the child and stood up. She watched the doctor cover the girl with the sheet. The doctor took out a slip of paper from his bag. He said in Italian: “We’ll fill out the birth certificate first, eh?”
Mrs. Cozzolina nodded. First, the living. “What’s his name?”
“Francis Kane,” answered Mrs. Cozzolina. It was only right—a name he could always be proud of, a name he could carry. His life would be hard enough; let him have this, which was his mother’s.
A
CROSS
the street, high in the steeple of St. Thérèse, the bells were ringing for the eight- o’clock Mass. The kids were all lined up waiting to go to their classes and the sisters had just come into the yard. A second before, all had been confusion as we milled around, playing games, calling to one another, but now all was quiet. We formed double rows and marched into the school and up the winding staircase to our classrooms. We seated ourselves with a rustle of books from the boys’ side of the room and a rustle of starched middy blouses and skirts from the girls’ side of the room.
“We will begin our day with a prayer, children,” Sister Anne said. We folded our hands on the desk and bent our heads.
I took the opportunity to shoot a spitball at Jerry Cowan. It hit him on the back of the neck and stuck there. It looked so funny I almost began to laugh in the middle of the prayer, but I stopped myself in time. When the prayer was over Jerry looked around to see who did it but I pretended to be occupied with my books.
Sister Anne spoke to me: “Francis.”
I stood up guiltily. For a second I thought she had seen me shoot the spitball at Jerry, but no, all she wanted me to do was write the day and date on the blackboard. I went to the front of the room and taking a large piece of chalk from the box wrote in big letters on the board: “Friday, June 5th, 1925.”
I stood there and looked at the teacher. “That’s all, Francis. You may sit down,” she said. I returned to my seat.
The morning passed by lazily. The air was warm and sultry and the school would be out in a few weeks and I wasn’t interested in school anyhow. I was thirteen and big for my age, and as soon as school was over Jimmy Keough would let me run his errands and pick up his bets for him from the boogies that worked in the near-by garages—the half- dollar and quarter bets he didn’t have the time to bother with himself. And I would make a pile of dough—maybe even ten bucks a week. And I didn’t give a damn for school.
At lunch time, while the other kids ran home for lunch, I would go over to the dormitory building in the back of the school, and we orphans would eat in the dining- room there. For lunch we had a glass of milk and a sandwich and a cup cake. We probably ate better than most of the kids in the neighbourhood who went home. Then back to school we would go for the afternoon. In the afternoon I felt like going on the hook. Jeeze, it was hot! I could go swimming off the docks down at Fifty-fourth Street and the Hudson. But I remembered what had happened the last time I had gone on the hook. I think I set the world’s record for hookey playing. I played hookey for six straight weeks in a row. And if you think that’s something, remember, I lived in the school and returned there to sleep every night. I used to swipe the letters that would be sent from the sisters to Brother Bernhard, who was in charge of our dormitory, complaining about my absence. I would forge replies to them, saying that I was sick and signing them “Bernhard”. This went on till one of the sisters came to visit me and they found out. I got
in that night after a strenuous day in the movies. I saw four pictures. Brother Bernhard and Sister Anne were waiting for me in the hall.
“There he is, the rascal!” Brother Bernhard cried, “I’ll teach him, the sick he is!” He came towards me. “And what have you been doing wi’ yoursel’? Where ha’e ye been bummin’?” As he grew excited the Welsh accent in his speech, which ordinarily made it soft and beautiful, would come out until you could hardly understand a word he was saying.
“I was workin’,” I said.
“Workin’ ye were,” he said. “’Tis lyin’ ye are.” He hit me in the face. I put my hand to my cheek.
Sister Anne looked at me. “Francis, Francis, how could you do it?” she said softly, almost sorrowfully. “You know I had the most hopes of you.”
I didn’t answer her. Brother Bernhard slapped me again. “Answer the taycher.” Angrily I faced them and the words tumbled from my mouth.
“I’m sick of it—sick of the school, sick of the orphanage. I’m nothing but a prisoner here. People in jail have as much freedom as me. And I didn’t do nothin’ to deserve it— nothin’ to be put in jail for—nothin’ to be locked away at night for. It says in the Bible the truth shall make you free. You teach to love the Lord because He has given us so much. You start my day with prayers of thanks—thanks for being born into a prison without freedom.” I was half crying. My breath came fast.
There were tears in the corners of Sister Anne’s eyes, and even Brother Bernhard was silent. Sister Anne came over to me and put her arms around me and drew me close to her. “Poor, poor Francis, can’t you see we’re trying to help you?” She kept talking quietly. “What you did was wrong—very wrong.” I was not used to gestures of affection and I stirred in her arms. “You must promise never to do that again,” she said.
“I promise,” I said automatically.
She turned to Brother Bernhard. “He has been punished enough, Brother. He will be good from now on. He has promised. I will go now and pray for the good of his soul.” She turned from Brother Bernhard and walked towards the door.
I turned to Brother Bernhard. For a moment he looked at me. “Come and get your supper,” he said, and led the way into the dining-room.
I was thirteen and very large for my age and very wise in the way of the streets. And I wouldn’t play hookey this afternoon, no matter how good the swimming would be, for I was going to be good and go back to class and plague my teacher, Sister Anne.
The lines hadn’t formed yet when I reached the schoolyard. Near the gate a ball game was going on and everyone was hollering. I got interested in the game and the next thing I knew I was on my back on the sidewalk. Jerry Cowan and another boy had one-a-catted me. I looked up at Jerry; he was laughing.
“What’s so damn funny?” I almost snarled.
“You, ya dope! That’s for the spitball. Thought I didn’t know.” He laughed. I got to my feet. “O.K.,” I said. “Even Steven.”
Together we sat at the edge of the kerb and watched the game till school started, Jerry Cowan and I—the son of the Mayor of New York, and a bastard from the orphanage
of St. Thérèse, who, by the grace of God, attended the same parochial school and were pretty close friends.
I
HAD
lived at the orphanage ever since I could remember. It wasn’t as bad a life as most people seem to think it. I was well fed, properly clothed, and carefully schooled. If I hadn’t received my share of family love and interest I wasn’t particularly concerned about it. I had been endowed with, among other things, a certain amount of self-sufficiency and independence that others do not generally acquire until much older.
I had always worked at one job or another and very often had loaned nickels and dimes to other children in school who were supposed to be more fortunate than I. I knew the days the different fellows would get their allowance, and the devil help them if they didn’t pay me back! About two weeks earlier I had loaned Peter Sanpero twenty cents. The week after that he had ducked out before I could catch him and when I did see him later he was broke, but this week I meant to get my dough.
After school that afternoon I stopped him in the yard. He was walking with a couple of his pals.
“Hey, Pete,” I said, “how’s about my twenty cents?”
Peter fancied himself a tough guy. He knew the answers. He was a little shorter than I but much broader and heavier. “What about it?” he asked.
“I want it,” I said. “I loaned you the dough. I didn’t give it to ya.”
“Screw you and your twenty cents too!” he said in a nasal, sing-song voice. And then he turned to his pals. “That’s the trouble with those bastards from the orphanage. We pay tuition and donate to the school for their care, and they act as if they were the owners of the place. You’ll get it when I’m damn good and ready to give it to yuh.”
I got sore. I didn’t mind being called a bastard. I’d been called it often enough. It didn’t bother me. I wasn’t like the McCrary kid Brother Bernhard had told to stick a “Junior” after his name so people would know not to call him bastard. Besides, I had heard Brother Bernhard often say: “You children are the luckiest. We’re all God’s children. But you are most like our Lord because you have only our Lord for parents.” No, being called bastard didn’t bother me, but no one was going to welsh on me and get away with it.
I threw myself at him. He stepped to one side and clouted me on the jaw. Down I went. “You wop louse!” I said. He threw himself on top of me, his fist hitting my face. I could feel my nose bleed. I drew my leg up and kicked him in the crotch. His face got white and he began to roil off me. I worked one hand free and punched him in the neck just under the chin. He fell sideways off me and lay face down on the sidewalk, his knees drawn up under his belly, one hand clutching his crotch, the other holding his side. He was moaning but only squeaks came from his throat.
I got to my feet and bent over him. My nose dripped blood on to his clothes. I reached into his pocket and took out a handful of small change. Carefully I counted out twenty cents. I showed it to his friends. “All I want is my twenty cents, see?” I said. “And none of you try nothin’ or you’ll get what he did.”
They watched me walk away, wiping my nose on my arm, and then they bent over their friend.
I walked into Jimmy Keough’s poolroom. Jimmy Keough was sitting behind the cigar stand, his green shade over his eyes. “What happened to you, kid?” he laughed.
“Nothin’ much, Mr. Keough,” I said proudly. “Some guy thought he could welsh on me.
But he didn’t.”
“That’s a good boy, Frankie,” Mr. Keough said. “Never let a guy welsh. The minute you do you’re licked. Now go in the back and wash up and then sweep out the place.” I could hear him say to one of the men there as I walked away: “That kid’ll be all right some day. He’s only thirteen, but he kin figure out my pay-offs on parlays and ‘if’ bets better than I kin myself.”
The washroom smelled of stale tobacco-smoke and urine. I climbed up on the bowl and opened the window near the ceiling. I washed my hands and face and dried them on the tail of my shirt. Then I went into the poolroom to start my afternoon’s work.
My afternoons at Keough’s were the high spot of my day. I would start by sweeping out the place. There were eight pool tables in the place and I would sweep under each and down the length of the store Then I would brush off the tables very softly so’s not to spoil the felt, and after that I would wipe off the wood on the tables. My next job would be to ice down the cold soda and beer. This was during prohibition and the beer was kept downstairs in the cellar. Whenever someone wanted a beer or a shot of whisky he would ask Jimmy Keough, and if Jimmy Keough was busy he would send me downstairs after it. Sometimes he would keep a couple of bottles under the counter.
About four o’clock the phone would start ringing and the race results would start coming in. Then I would mark them on a blackboard at the back of the store in a kind of corner where no one could see it unless he walked back there. I would rack the balls and run errands for the men there. Sometimes I would go across the street and get them sandwiches. I kept my shine box there and if any of them wanted a shine I would give it to him.
I used to pick up three bucks a week for this and whatever else I could pick up there. The job was good for an average of six to eight dollars a week. When school closed Jimmy was going to send me out to the garages to pick up the small bets. He said I’d make ten to fifteen bucks a week at it. At six-thirty Mr. Keough would give me all his slips of paper to figure up. The day’s bets were on them and I used to figure them for him. At seven o’clock I would leave and run back to the orphanage for supper. After supper I would come out for a couple hours, but Mr. Keough would never let me hang around the place at night. I don’t know why.
Peter Sanpero didn’t come to school the next day, but his mother did. She stood there in the classroom and glowered at me as she spoke to Sister Anne. Sister Anne sent her to the Sister Superior. A little while later a girl came with a message for Sister Anne.
“Mary Peters will read the lesson while I’m out,” Sister Anne said. “Francis, come with me.”
I followed her down the hall to the Sister Superior’s office. We went in. Brother Bernhard, the Sister Superior, and Mrs. Sanpero were there. Mrs. Sanpero was talking.
“Unless you control such little ruffians or send them where they belong to be …” She stopped when she saw me come into the room.
The Sister Superior spoke. “Come here, Francis.” I went over to her.
“What is this I hear? You’ve been fighting with Peter and hurt him severely. Why?” she asked in a slow, kindly manner.
“He owed me twenty cents and wouldn’t pay me,” I said, “and he called me bastard.” I knew that would gain their sympathy.
“Francis, you’ll have to learn to control your temper. Names will never hurt you and Jesus commands you to turn the other cheek. I want you to apologize to Mrs. Sanpero and tell her you’re sorry.”
An apology would cost me nothing so I apologized to her. I went over in front of her and said: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sanpero. I didn’t want to fight with Peter.” She didn’t answer.