It was New York in the middle of August, 1915. Europe was at war, but that was far away from the unlit streets in the Irish quarter. The darkness didn’t bother Gael any. He’d been up and down this street thousands of times, it seemed. Coming off a winning night, he had nearly twenty-five dollars in his pocket. One month past his eighteenth birthday, Galen Francis McNeil owned New York, owned the world. He had a new hat! It was cast off from Alfred, but it was a twenty dollar imported French hat, hand stitched, with an ace of hearts tucked inside the rim. It was the hat he was going to be buried in, someday. It’s not like Irish gangsters have long lives.
The street was dark, and quieter than normal, but not actually quiet. Gael hadn’t heard quiet since they’d gotten on the ship in Dublin. He didn’t really miss it, mostly. Sometimes though, his thoughts went to the world outside of Dublin, the village where his uncle lived and where everyone was Irish. He ducked into the darkened doorway of the building his family lived in.
There were eighteen rooms to a floor and one of them belonged to his family. Once inside the dark entryway, he toed off one of his shoes, and pulled off his grey silk sock while standing on one foot. The other shoe went the same path. Shoes in one hand, he held his precious hat in the other and ran up the stairs, his bare feet barely making a sound. Three steps at a time, humming music from the club in his mind, he dodged those sleeping on the stairs agilely and made it to the fourth floor. His family was in the back hall, third in. To be honest, they actually had two rooms, which they had made a door between. Alfred had paid for that. Alfred paid for a lot, which really meant Gael was paying.
Pulling the key from around his neck, he danced, bare feet still making little sound as he tapped, dancing to the music still in his head. Before he could turn the key in the lock, the door creaked open and wide blue eyes looked up at him. He slipped inside, shut the door, and put the key back around his neck as he picked Ian up in his arms. Finn took his shoes as Gael set his fancy hat on his little brother’s head. In Irish, he whispered, “Now there’s my fine gentleman, isn’t it?”
The little boy giggled without sound. Also without sound, their littlest sister wrapped her arms around Gael’s leg and he reached down to pet her slightly strawberry curls.
Finn, who had neatly folded Gael’s socks and tucked them into the shoes and then under the bed, out of sight, while carefully pulling out a wash bowl with water in it, looked up at Gael and made hand signs asking about food.
Gael winked at him as he carried the other two to the couch. It was a lovely couch, scrounged like all good things, out of Alfred’s cast offs. Once settled, Emily scrambled up into his lap and he gave her a hug, ruffling her hair, then like it was a magic trick, he pressed both hands together, wiggled his eyebrows, and with a flourish, he produced a wedge of cheese. Her fat little hands reached for it and he gave it a kiss before giving it over to her.
She scrambled off his lap, tucked up next to him like he was the safest place in all the world.
The two boys shuffled to get in front of him, and he pressed his hat back from his face, settling it on his head, slightly cocked and jaunty before he did another magic trick and produced two wedges of salami.
Finn took his with both hands, bowed as he imagined a prince might, then ran off to the corner where his blankets were. Ian waited until Gael kissed it and handed it back. Only then did he pull his blanket out from under the couch and cuddle up to eat his treat.
Suddenly tired, Gael sighed, leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. The moment didn’t last long. Moment over, he hid his hat behind the couch, in the bag he’d long since tacked there to hide things in. He pulled his own blanket from behind the couch and laid down, bare feet propped up, Emily curled on his chest. He covered them both, whispered a bit of prayer at her almost like a lullaby, then was out before she’d finished gnawing her soft cheese.
Morning came, as it does with the sun, harsh, loud, and bright. The whole couch moved under him, but a couple hours was not nearly enough. He tightened his hold on Emily and rolled over. Sometimes it worked.
This morning wasn’t that day. His mother gave the couch another hard kick, flattening it against the wall, then grabbed a handful of his blond curls. “On your feet, you lazy bastard!”
Experience had him on his feet before he lost any curls and before he was well awake. “Ma!”
“Did you bring any money home for your family, you lazy tramp, or did you give it away for free again?”
He held up both hands to the slender, grey haired woman who held him by the hair still. “Ma! I have money and I got ya four wallets,” he said in English, with the least Irish accent that he could, because he knew it bothered her.
He was right. She gave him a good smack on the face, leaving a red handprint. “Irish in this house, you bugger!” She had her hand out for the wallets and the money.
“Yeah, yeah, I just didn’t want to wake you,” he said, sweet as mead, as he handed her ten dollars and the four wallets, in which there was another four dollars and seventy-eight cents. “I bring you everything, Ma, just like I always have.”
She slapped the back of his head lightly, but let him go. “Liar. Don’t you be bringing Kate-Marie anymore of those books neither. She won’t do a damn thing until she’s finished reading it. She’s old enough to be working now. You get back out there now, do a good job. If you want to sleep, you better make it home earlier.”
“Yes, Ma,” he said, pulling the couch out from the wall so he could fish his hat out. He spent a moment unflattening it and telling himself it had more character now. As soon as she went back into the other room, he pulled three small wrapped caramels from his pocket and gave one to each of the little kids watching him. “It’s going to be alright,” he promised. “Everything is going to be alright.”
Those little candies were gone, wrappers all given back to Gael before he could even start washing his feet. Feet had to be washed before shoes could be put back on.
His fifteen-year-old sister, Kate-Marie, her hair done up in ringlets and a new dress, a touch of blush on her cheeks, stepped into the room.
“Galen will take care of you now,” Ma said, patting the girl on the shoulder.
“Yes, Ma,” she said with a swallow.
Gael gave her a wink, put his hat on a little tighter, then held out his arm to her. “Come my love! Let us go milk the cow of the morning.”
