Lost on cherry street, p.17
Lost on Cherry Street, page 17
Before he attended to other parishioners waiting in the narthex, Father Walsh offered God’s blessings upon the lives of Emma, Peggy, James, and William.
“You are a good priest, Patrick J. Walsh,” Emma said, “A very good priest. We will never forget you. Don’t you dare leave before stopping by for a box of Peggy’s scones.”
Emma followed Peggy and the boys as they descended the large stone steps. When they reached street level, Peggy turned, and ran back inside the church. She came up behind Father Walsh as he stood before the altar of St. Paul, his hands folded in prayer. Her big blue eyes reddened with tears. Peggy cupped her hands over his and said, “No man has ever touched me as intimately as you. My body remembers being carried on your back. My soul remembers your righteous prayers. God bless you, Father. God bless you.”
She rushed back outside, put her arms around her sons, took a deep breath and headed home.
Old Sparky
“Where is it?”
The guard turned around. “Who said that?”
James Callaghan stepped in front of his classmates “I did. And you know what I’m talking about.”
The guard kept walking.
“Where is Old Sparky? We want to see Old Sparky!” James said, strutting like a rooster, trailing the keeper.
The High School field trip to the prison is organized by school officials each year to scare the seniors, to show them the grim consequences of living a life of crime. James liked the place. He interacted with the warden, the keepers, even some of the ‘model’ prisoners. After he asked about ‘Old Sparky’ the third time, the keeper pulled James out of the line, knowing full well he was talking about the prison’s notorious electric chair. The keeper asked him if he was tired, did he need a chair to sit on, then promised he’d invite him back the next time ‘Old Sparky’ was all hooked up and ready for the deep fry.
The field trip represented an epiphany for James. He found his calling, deciding he wanted to be a keeper at Sing Sing Prison. He returned to the prison two weeks later to apply for their summer internship program. He was accepted into the Sing Sing Correctional Facility volunteer program to begin one week after receiving his high school diploma.
The yearbook entry for James P. Callaghan noted his yearly participation in the school’s annual SONGfest. James had a pleasant tenor voice, not exceptional, yet good enough to sing in the chorus. He was never enthusiastic about the tedium of SONGfest rehearsals until one afternoon, standing high up on the risers, he heard the voice of an angel. He could barely see the top of her head. The Choir Director had selected a diminutive first year student to sing a solo part. The girl’s sweet voice, an ethereal tone floating on air, wafted up to the top row where he stood, and lingered for several heartfelt moments in the hollows of the empty auditorium. The sound of her voice acted as an invisible aural magnet. The girl’s singing drew James in like a siren call.
Rushing down to catch sight of her following the rehearsal, James found it hard to believe that such a big voice could be coaxed out of a tiny Irish wisp of a girl named Nellie Murphy. For several rehearsals, he tried to get close to her, memorizing beforehand what he would say to compliment her richly textured soprano voice. He waited for the right moment to approach when she was alone, but Nellie, painfully shy, stayed behind the shield of her girlfriends.
James got his moment after the final performance at SONGfest when the Choir Director presented Nellie with a bouquet of roses. James stepped forward, anointing her the Irish nightingale, and appointing himself president of her fan club.
Before the academic year ended, James invited Nellie to the sweet shoppe. Although she was impressed that a senior took an interest in her, she firmly said no. Determined, James asked if he could walk her home after school. She answered no. Her mother would not approve, claiming she is too young. Besides, she was busy with singing and step dancing lessons.
Just days before the close of the school year, James stopped Nellie in the hallway and said, “How can I get to know you better?”
“By winning over my mother.”
“I want to date you, not your mother. Could you put in a good word for me so we can set things up in advance when I ask for your hand.”
“You’re a bold one.”
“You’re a sweet little bird. I want to hold you in my hands and listen to you sing all day. I want to run my fingers through your lovely hair,” James said, blocking her.
“Aren’t you a sweet talker,” Nellie said, escaping under his outstretched arm, “I have a class and so do you.”
“I’m not giving up on you.”
“When you hold this little bird in your hands, will you let her fly away?”
“Never. I will take care of you. I will guard you with my life.”
“Well, don’t give up trying. You never know.”
“You sure play hard to get.”
After persisting for several weeks, James got to take Nellie to the sweet shoppe. They sat side by side at the counter sharing a ginger beer float. As she sipped on her straw, he leaned over, whiffing her hair. With his starstruck eyes still closed, he said, “I met the most beautiful girl in Westchester County, maybe in all of New York State, who is so pretty, delicate, so light and bright, and has the voice of an angel and …”
“Has wisdom, discernment …” Nellie said.
“Big words for a frosh.”
“Wisdom to know I can never be too sure when listening to an Irish smooth-talker.”
“And a handsome one.”
“Well, don’t you have confidence.”
“I need to hear it from somebody.”
After several secret dates over the summer, James took it upon himself to pay a call on the Murphy household, where Nellie lived with her mother and cousins in Mrs. McGuire’s boarding house on Elizabeth Street. In an effort to build up his courage, he walked around town, trying to memorize the magic words that would sway her mother.
As he passed the Water Street Fanning Wire Company, the skies opened up and drenched him down to his underwear. Disoriented, he roamed the streets until he turned the corner of Clinton Avenue and knew he was close. He walked down Tompkins and headed toward Elizabeth.
James knocked on the front door. Mrs. McGuire stuck her head out of the second-floor window above the portico.
“Who’s there?” Mrs. McGuire said, “And why are you so daft to be out in this rain?”
“James Callaghan, Mrs. McGuire. Respectfully so.”
“Step into the street so I can see ya.”
“It’s pouring buckets, Mrs. McGuire. I’m quite wet already.”
“So, come back on a sunny day, then,” she said, slamming the window shut.
James knocked on the door again, quickly stepping into the street.
Mrs. McGuire opened the window and looked at James.
“I’m calling on the Murphy Miss,” James said.
“Well, aren’t you original. I doubt she’d be interested in a drenched fool like you. There are four Murphy misses up here. All live in the same room,” Mrs. McGuire said, “Which one is of interest to you.”
“The tiny one named Nellie is my particular interest. The one who sings like a nightingale, if you catch my drift.”
“Oh, her. She’s taking dance lessons with her cousins at the moment and not available,” Mrs. McGuire said.
“Tell her I know how to dance, and I could teach her myself.”
“You must be Irish, are ya? Anyhow, your little nightingale is with her mother.”
“Tell’em both to come to the window so they can watch me dance. They won’t be disappointed. My dad taught me. He’s right off the boat from Tipperary.”
Mary Murphy and daughter Nellie stood behind Mrs. McGuire, looking at James doing an Irish jig in the street. They thought his form was off a bit but gave him high grades for gumption.
Mrs. McGuire put a mat on the floor, opened the door and handed him a towel. Mrs. Murphy came down the stairs to have a closer look.
“If I wore a hat I would tip it to you, Ma’am,” James said.
“You should see yourself in a mirror,” Mrs. Murphy said, “State your business, young man.”
“I got a promotion and earn a good salary with room for advancement.”
“You’re a volunteer in the prison office, helping the clerks file papers. You exaggerate like every other Irishman I know. Why do you men always have to make little things big things? Come back when you have a real job, young man.”
“As the eldest son, I will one day have ownership of a nice house on Cherry Street in Manhattan. My brother William quit school and lives there now, taking up space after my dear old Uncle died. But he won’t live there long. He’s just holding the fort until I move in with my bride.”
“And who would that be?”
“Your lovely daughter Nellie … and you … if you can stand to live with us. There’s plenty of room.”
“That’s silly talk. What are you really after, Callaghan?”
“I would like to court your daughter.”
“You want to marry my daughter?”
“I do and I will.”
“She’s too young.”
“I can wait.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time, James Callaghan.”
“When can Nellie and I start dating?”
“We’ll let you know.”
“When will that be?”
“When she’s old enough,” Mrs. Murphy said.
James left, fully aware that he did not get a yes. Although more importantly, he did not get a no.
When he was clear out of sight, Nellie said to her mother, “Oh Mom, isn’t he handsome?”
“Yes … more so after he dried off.”
“Oh Mom, isn’t he funny?”
“That he is.”
“Oh Mom, isn’t he a good sport?”
“For certain.”
“Oh Mom, I think I want to marry him.”
“You can’t marry that wet rag of a man. Aside from his good looks and his ability to put on a good show, you know nothing about him.”
“But how will I get to know him unless you give me permission to date him?” Nellie said.
“There’s a whole world out there, Nellie. You’re very young. Right now, concentrate on your studies, your singing, and dancing. After a while, you’ll find there are many fine young men who’ll take an interest in you. The novelty of James Callaghan might wear off over time.”
Nellie Murphy took her mother’s advice. She had numerous suitors during the years following her graduation from High School.
James Callaghan immersed himself in his work as a Prison Keeper. He dated several different ladies on occasion but kept a soft spot in his heart for the Irish nightingale.
The Pilgrimage
James repeated the same graphic stories each night at dinnertime, not sparing any grim details about his work as Prison Keeper. Emma excused herself from the table. She did not need to hear ever again about the state electrician’s step-by-step preparations for affixing the black leather straps, helmet, brine-soaked sponges, mask, and electrodes to the shrieking, wailing prisoner. He described the precise manipulation of the dials and switchboard levers, upping the voltage until the prisoner’s body jerked forward, strained against the straps, smoke rising from head and leg, culminating in the scent of burnt flesh. He relished telling the whole grim story up to and including the doctor’s pronouncement that the poor soul is dead.
Peggy was deeply concerned that James spoke in the same dispassionate tone about the splendid views of the Hudson River from Guard Tower No. 7, as he did about his observations of fresh fingernail grooves on Old Sparky’s armrest etched by the latest anguished, convulsing electrocuted prisoner. When Peggy had finally heard enough, she pushed back her chair and told James it was time for him to find new living quarters. One week later, James packed his bags and rented an apartment two blocks from the prison. Emma and Peggy were now the sole occupants of the Kennedy home. The boarders were gone, and William had relocated to 347 Cherry Street three years earlier. He collected the tenants’ rents and worked as a union organizer in the building trades.
“Do you think I was too hard on James, Emma? Throwing him out on the street like that?” Peggy said.
“There you go again with Irish Catholic guilt. He’s a grown man. He can afford to be out from under mother’s wing. Besides, he’s courting that Murphy girl. He’ll be free to …”
“I don’t know about her,” Peggy said.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s a wee bit soft. He needs a woman who can stand up to him. It’s a difficult place where he works. I dread that he might become like the other men there … I understand they have to be tough … but I hear most are quite cruel.”
“Even so,” Emma said, “Not all of them take the job home with them.”
Remembering a talk once given before the St. Paul’s Sodality by Father Walsh about making a difference for Christ in this world, especially in one’s own community, Emma and Peggy discussed transforming the virtually empty house into a mission. They wanted to make it a place of refuge for families that had to travel long distances to visit their loved ones incarcerated at Sing Sing.
After several attempts, Emma Kennedy secured an appointment with the warden. She had to convince him she was not there as a do-gooder social activist campaigning for prison reform. It was no secret he had his fill of those crusaders. As a fellow St. Paul’s parishioner, she explained that she simply wanted to offer free lodging and meals for visiting spouses and their children. Once convinced of Emma’s good intentions, the warden let the prisoners know about her offer and left it up to them to notify their families.
The Kennedy House had full occupancy year-round. The majority of visits lasted a few days, but provision was made for longer stays for families of prisoners on death row. Emma, Peggy, and other sodality volunteers kept a candlelight vigil for those distraught families on the evenings Old Sparky’s lever got pulled.
As the Kennedy House mission grew, free clothing and laundry services were added. Word spread. More volunteers stepped forward. Peggy took charge of an ambitious fund-raising campaign, going door-to-door and writing to influential friends in New York City. Newspapers picked up the story. Despite significant backlash from local residents, wary about expansion of the prison’s existing notoriety, donations poured in from the village and surrounding communities.
When the house behind Emma’s became available, it was purchased and renovated, creating additional living space for destitute families. Paid staff was added when a nearby vacant factory was purchased. The commercial property was converted to accommodate a soup kitchen, offices and storage rooms for donated furniture and appliances. Mrs. Kennedy and Mrs. Callaghan became known in the community as Mother Emma and Sister Peggy.
Peggy and Emma corresponded regularly with Father Walsh, who praised their missionary work. His most recent letter informed them about an upcoming three-week Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, sponsored by his parish in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He hoped they could join him and the other pilgrims. Father challenged them to imagine the spiritual rewards gained doing the Stations of the Cross, not in St, Paul’s, but along the Via Dolorosa, praying and walking humbly in the same steps Jesus Christ journeyed on his path from Jerusalem to Calvary, where he was tortured, sentenced, crucified, died, and was buried.
“It is a trip of holiness,” Father Walsh wrote, “Where you will encounter God Himself.”
“We must go,” Peggy said.
“I agree,” Emma said, “I would crawl on my hands and knees to follow the Way of Sorrows. We must buy Father new shoes. The only thing is …”
“The Mission will thrive and be grander when we return,” Peggy said, “We have more than our share of volunteers and staff. Promise me you will rest before we sail.”
Emma was closing in on eighty years of age. During the first few weeks leading up to the Pilgrimage, she agreed to conserve her strength. Yet Emma could not remain idle. One morning, while Peggy worked in another building, a volunteer saw Mrs. Kennedy at the top of the stairs holding a basket of laundry, piled high. The volunteer offered to help but was shooed away. As Emma began her descent, the tail of one sheet got caught under her slipper. Mother Emma tumbled down the thirteen steps, breaking her right hip and banging her head on the hardwood floor.
She was transported to St. Francis Hospital, unconscious and remained comatose for two weeks, with a tracheal intubation. Peggy visited every day. She prayed openly, read many Psalms, and quoted Bible passages about Jesus’s love. Mother Emma never opened her eyes.
On the morning of the fifteenth visit, Peggy said, “Emma, have you heard any of my prayers about Jesus’s love for you?” Emma opened her eyes at the sound of Sister Peggy’s voice. A momentary distraction from death coaxed scratchy words from Emma’s artificial larynx, “I love Jesus, Peggy.”
Peggy fell to her knees. A mild breeze seeped into the windowless room. The pale blue walls softened the hospital’s harsh sterility. Sweet alyssum and subtle hyacinth scents replaced the room’s antiseptic atmosphere. The low murmurs of doctors’ voices and the snap of clipboard reports devolved into silence.
“Our pilgrimage will be our mission, and the hope of the downtrodden, Emma,” Peggy said.
Checking boxes
Carney rushed to the front of the cabin when he heard a knock. He swung the door open, bolting his large frame forward. He startled the visitor, a diminutive man dressed in suit and tie. The startled visitor backpedaled a few steps, stumbled, and fell to the ground, his clipboard and papers sailing in various directions.
Carney yanked the man to his feet. As he dusted himself off, the man beheld Carney, dressed in tattered coveralls and canvas shirt, a face weathered with craggy features resembling a shriveled russet potato. Carney’s head was topped with a nest of grayish brown hair and stray whiskers poking haphazardly out of his deeply dimpled chin. As Carney bent down to help retrieve the scattered papers, the man caught a glimpse of two girls inside the cabin on their hands and knees, crawling behind a large pig.
