A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [82]
The conductor announced each selection: “Mattie Mahony’s Band will now play….” Each song ended with the band members shouting in unison, “Hurray for Mattie Mahony.” With each glass of beer drawn, the attendants said, “Compliments of Mattie Mahony.” Each event was labeled, “The Mattie Mahony Foot Race,” “The Mahony Peanut Race” and so on. Before the day was over, Francie was convinced that Mattie Mahony was a very great man indeed.
Late in the afternoon, Francie got the idea that she ought to find Mr. Mahony and thank him personally for a very nice time. She searched and searched, and asked and asked and a strange thing happened. No one knew Mattie Mahony; no one had ever seen him. Certainly he was not at the picnic. His presence was felt everywhere but the man was invisible. Some man told her that maybe there was no Mattie Mahony; it was just the name they gave to whatever man was head of the organization.
“I been votin’ the straight ticket for forty years,” he said. “Seems like the candidate was always the same man, Mattie Mahony; or else it was a different man but with the same name. I don’t know who he is, girlie. All I know is that I vote the straight Democratic ticket.”
The trip home down the moonlit Hudson was notable only for the many fights that broke out among the men. Most of the children were sick and sunburnt and fretful. Neeley fell asleep on Mama’s lap. Francie sat on the deck and listened to Mama and Papa talking.
“Do you happen to know Sergeant McShane?” Katie asked.
“I know who he is. They call him the Honest Cop. The party has its eye on him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was put up for Assemblyman.”
A man sitting nearby leaned forward and touched Johnny’s arm. “Police Commissioner is more like it, Mac,” he said.
“What about his life?” Katie asked.
“It’s like one of those Alger stories. He came from Ireland twenty-five years ago with nothing but a trunk small enough to be carried on his back. He worked as a dock walloper, studied nights and got on the force. He kept on studying and taking examinations and finally got to be Sergeant,” said Johnny.
“I suppose he’s married to an educated woman who helped him?”
“Matter of fact, no. When he first came over, an Irish family took him in and kept him till he got on his feet. The daughter of the family married a bum who ran out on her after the honeymoon and got himself killed in a brawl. Well, the girl was going to have a baby and you couldn’t make the neighbors believe she had ever been married. Seems like the family would be disgraced but McShane married her and gave the child his name to kind of repay the family. It wasn’t a love marriage, exactly, but he’s been very good to her, I hear.”
“Did they have children together?”
“Fourteen, I heard.”
“Fourteen!”
“But he only raised four. Seemed like they all died before they grew up. They were all born with consumption, you know, inherited it from their mother who had it from a girl.”
“He’s had more than his share of trouble,” mused Johnny. “And he’s a good man.”
“She’s still alive, I suppose.”
“But very sick. They say she hasn’t long to live.”
“Oh, those kind hang on.”
“Katie!” Johnny was startled by his wife’s remark.
“I don’t care! I don’t blame her for marrying a bum and having a child by him. That’s her privilege. But I do blame her for not taking her medicine when the time came due. Why did she put her troubles off on to a good man?”
“That’s no way to talk.”
“I hope she dies and dies soon.”
“Hush, Katie.”
“Yes, I do. So that he can marry again—marry a cheerful healthy woman who’ll give him children that can live. That’s every good man’s right.”
Johnny said nothing. A nameless fear had grown within Francie while she listened