Light of the Diddicoy. Eamon Loingsigh

the bottom of Richie’s leg off when he was only of eight years fetching bread for his poor old Ma. Brosnan and Bill Lovett too, who helped calm the squirming child that stared at his own blood and limp leg lying motionless between the tracks. An accident so deeply set in the back end of his youth that he rarely thinks on it himself, though others always seem to wonder and whisper about it.

      Richie peers around the brick building and hones in on the bicycle, then listens implicitly to the sounds animating the night; the clopping in the distance of old nags pulling their loads along the rocky cobblestones to deliver fish and vegetables and the like for the morning’s market; the plucking of standup pianos in local saloons where suds wet the insides of late-night merchant marines and happy barkeeps; the bellowing of old Brosnan again laughing brusquely, mixing in a few jokes before again to blast open an uprooting bellow on the other side of the glimmer at the back door. Richie hears too the rumbling tracks above like rolling thunder in age-old lores where gods show their disapproval of mortal sins by the distant cannonades and clapping above. When the time seems right, Richie limps to the back of the factory, dragging his wooden leg behind, clicks the kickstand back on the bicycle, and walks to the front as though the bike were his from the get-go and nary a nerve jingled in the boy’s body nor mind. Unable to ride the thing himself, he pushes it all the way back up Hicks Street against the wind. Through the rail yard he goes limping all the way toward the Lonergan first-floor room on Johnson Street, a wooden frame, pre–Civil War tumbledown that creaks when the wind rings up.

      Richie reaches out to open the door, then maneuvers the bike and his leg through the sleeping troupe of ten or eleven sheetless children lying askew on the parlor-room floor. Their light-haired heads dark and wet from the body’s oils and fallen asleep they have, exactly where their heads lay now.

      Mary Lonergan’s back is bent over the bucket of dishes beyond the sprawled children, her hands already wrinkled and sore from the late-night scrubbing job at a Crown Heights mansion. It isn’t until Richie drops the bike with a rattle among the others that Mary turns round.

      “And what are ya supposin’ we do with all dese bikecycles you keep findin’ in the middle o’ the night, Richie? Are ya makin’ a collection?” she shoots off in her Brooklyn brogue.

      “Nah, rentin’ ’em.”

      Across the left side of Mary’s face is an old scar from hot grease that had been thrown across her. Under her left temple the hair has been scalded away and was never to grow again and her left shoulder too was spotted with burns that had eaten the pigment from her skin to leave the side of her a pale color. In 1904, when Richie was three years old, his father took a pan of grease off the fire and threw it on her in a fit of anger. It even made the papers but that was only for a day. The scars are there still.

      “I know da plan, Richie.” She lays a fist on her hip. “But do you think ya can get up a little earlier now an’ again to rent’m out to the kids that need them durin’ the day? Ya’ve got a collection now; next step is the rentin’ part you keep spakin’ of.”

      “Where’s Paps?” he answers.

      “Don’t know, saloon I s’pose.”

      “Anna?”

      “Sleepin’ in the back room, God let ’er rest. The sweetest darlin’ of a girl, she is. Spent the whole of a day at St. Ann’s prayin’ for me,” Mary whined her voice a bit at the end to accentuate that Anna was praying for her poor old mother. “No one hears a t’ing in this werld, not even a poor mother with starvin’ chicks. But Anna does. Ignore and ignore, that’s what they do. The evil is in the ignorin’, write it down fer it’s the truth. Doesn’t matther it’s yer dyin’ breath, they’ll just give ya the blindeye. Yer last dyin’ wish’ll go unheard and then off ya take to the groundsweat with ya, and fer the goin’ price too. That’s the cure fer ya.”

      “Why she prayin’ for ya, Ma? Wha’ happened?” Richie could tell she had been thinking and plotting all day.

      “Yer fadder’s a loogin,” Mary threw a washrag on the draining board. “He’s made enemies of every boxer from here to Hell’s Kitchen, he has. No future in promotin’ or nothin’ o’ the sort. We’re doomed!” she cries out and turns her back, half acting. “We’re doomed to a life o’ peasantry, Richie. Ye’re da son of a scrubberwoman and a punchy ex-gangster and ex-boxer from the Lower East Side. We won’t go nowhere an’ with all these childers, Richie?” she spread her arm out motioning along the floor.

      “Ma, stop cryin’,” Richie hated when she used old words like that, “peasantry.”

      “I went by the Dock Loaders’ Club t’day . . .”

      “Again,” Richie finished her sentence.

      “Yeah, they won’ let me in, but Bill Lovett was there and he said he’d send a message to Dinny about helpin’ out widda openin’ costs fer ya own bikecycle shop, God bless that young man Lovett. Ya know he’s a big dockboss for Dinny Meehan now? Did ya know that?”

      Richie turned around.

      “Even though McGowan’s the rightful dockboss in the Red Hook, Bill’s proved himself by fillin’ in with honor,” she continued. “Only twentyone year old and he’s showin’ his colors as a dockboss, God bless’m. Ran out all them I-talians that tried takin’ over the Red Hook after McGowen got sent up for a jolt . . . Saved Dinny Meehan a war against ’em, ya know he did. And Lovett’s got just the temperament fer such a place as the Red Hook. But I known it from the day that bhoy was born into those rookeries on Cat’erine Street. That bhoy had swagger and he had a lot of it too. He’s a good one, that Lovett. Always cared ’bout ya too since the accident . . .”

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .”

      “Since before even too, he has, Richie. He always looked out for ya. He’s got the ol’ can-do, Lovett. And he was the first one there when the trolley got ya and he wrapped his tie ‘round ya leg so’s it wouldn’t bleed out.”

      Mary stopped speaking as she blushed and the warmth hit her throat, tears blurred her eyes. She had the highest of expectations of Richie since he was her first and since he had everything it would take to lead her family out of the Bridge District slums. He had the fight in him and he had the nerve for it. He had followers and most important, he had the name: Lonergan, known on the Lower East Side and Brooklyn as a name to put the fear in people. And Brady too, Mary’s maiden name and the surname of her famous brother, Yakey Yake who ran things in the old days on the docks by Catherine Street: a man who could turn on a dime, but fought mostly not for pleasure, but to give bread to his people, his family. Who kept the Eastman Gang and the Five Points Gang at bay. Yakey Yake was also the man who employed John Lonergan as one of his main soldiers that she married at his courting. But when Yakey Yake died of the consumption in 1904, things quickly went awry for the Lonergan family.

      Most of the time Mary was quietly proud of her Richie as he fought through his childhood injury, but there were other times when she hid from him and couldn’t stop thinking how far along he’d be if that accident had never come to them. She couldn’t let him see the terrible disappointment that overcame her when she thought of it. Gathering herself in front of him, she continued.

      “Richie, ya’ve five bikecycles in a pile among the children here and four out on loan. That’s a lot o’ bikecycles. With ya own shop on Bridge Street, ya can quit the cutpursin’ gimmick at the Sands Street station and become a legitimate retailer. A real businessm’n. Out of all me children, you got what it takes to be somethin’ more’n anyone, Richie. Somebody! Ya fifteen now, Richie. A man o’ da werld. Even Anna likes the idea and swears she’d help. Ya know how she looks up at ya, Richie.”

      Through his sternness, Richie looks at his mother with a shade of concern.

      “Ya know Richie, people talk. They do, and they’re sayin’ one day the gang could be all Lovett’s. Can you imagine the take fer us if ya was his right hand? Like the Romans we’d live! O’ course he’s too young yet and that Dinny Meehan’s a smart one too, him bein’ as long-lastin’ as he has. And Bill’s only got