Every Man for Himself. Mark J. Hannon

practice, on one side of the bed. Dr. Butler was in a nice tweed coat and striped tie. Joe was there with them. My, but Joe has red eyes today, she thought, I wonder if he slept well last night.

      On the other side of the bed, all the children were lined up, staring at her, except for Charley, who was drumming his fingers on the bed rail and tapping his feet. She reached up to touch his hand and said, “Don’t fidget so, son,” which got sighs of relief from all around.

      The doctor in the white coat called for a nurse and said, “The medicine’s taking effect now. We’ll sit her up in a minute and see how she’s feeling.” When the nurse came in, she and Dr. Butler helped Eileen sit up and propped some fine, fluffy pillows that smelled of bleach behind her.

      “My, but that’s a fine jacket, Doctor. We’ll have to be calling you ‘squire’ now with such clothes.”

      Chuckles went around the bed, and the white-coated doctor shined a light in her eyes, then stood back and spoke.

      “Mrs. Brogan, I’m afraid you have diabetes. You’ve no doubt had it for some time, but now it has become acute.”

      Confused, Eileen shook her head and blinked several times.

      Joe stepped between the doctor and his wife, and took her hand in both his. “It’s going to be all right,” and with a glance at Dr. Butler, “We’re going to take care of you.”

      CHAPTER 22

      NORTH PARK, 1944

      Joe sat at the kitchen table, having finished his breakfast, and read about the allied attacks on the Gustav Line in Italy. The map on the front page showed two swooping arrows representing the maneuvers of the British and American armies, as they drove the Germans northward. The articles told of the tanks, planes, and units in the struggle; and Ernie Pyle’s column told of the soldiers pushing trucks in knee-deep mud, and boys about Pat and Charley’s age being crippled by mines, and blinded by shrapnel.

      As those two scraped the last of the rationed eggs and bacon onto their forks, Joe looked up from his Courier Express at them and imagined them in the war. Good God, he thought, It might happen any time now.

      Charley seemed to have read his father’s mind. The nineteen-year-old belched behind his hand, said “Excuse me,” and folded his hands on the table before himself, as he had done in the past, when he was ready to advance his latest great idea to the family. Pat, meanwhile, was taking his plate and silverware over to the sink.

      “Dad, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” Charley said.

      “What’s that, Charley?”

      “I’ve been thinking,” Charley replied, which set his father slightly on edge, for it usually meant he was ready to launch some risky scheme, if he hadn’t already.

      “I’m nineteen, almost twenty now, and signed up for the draft. They might call me up any time, so I figured I’d just go and join the branch I wanted to get into first, rather than wait for them to come get me.”

      “And?” Joe said, adjusting his rimless glasses.

      “I figured I’d join the Navy,” Charley told him, thinking of palm trees and hula dancers in the Pacific.

      “Well,” Joe began slowly, thinking of the picture in the Courier of the battleship West Virginia exploding in Pearl Harbor. “I think that wherever you might go, boys, it’s bound to be dangerous. There’s names printed in church bulletins all over town every Sunday of soldiers, sailors, and Marines dying, and being wounded, all over the world. Perhaps it might be better to wait and see where your duty to your country lies, and let the draft board make the decision that’s best for the country.” Joe looked at the two boys.

      Pat knitted his brows in silent dissatisfaction and Charley squeezed his lips together and gave a little shake of his head.

      They were silent for a moment, then Charley spoke.

      “I already signed up, Pop. Went downtown and checked up on things. The guy there said I’ll be shipping out for the Pacific for sure. And Pat . . .”

      Joe had expected something like this brash foolishness from Charley, but he stared at his ever-steady Pat in disbelief.

      “I joined the Army same day, Pop. They need us, Dad. They’re talking about invading France. We’re liable to miss the whole thing if we don’t get through basic soon . . .”

      Joe shook his head, stood up, and looked out the window, a single tear coming down his cheek.

      “I know you’ve got to do your duty, boys, but it’ll kill your mother, the way she worries about you.”

      “What’s that?” Eileen said, coming down the back stairs in her bathrobe.

      “The boys, mother,” Joe said, holding his palm out to keep the youth seated, “have been talking about joining up.”

      “It’s okay, Ma,” Charley said, hurriedly. “I’m sure I’ll be in basic for weeks, then traveling all the way out west, then on a slow boat to some quiet island in the Navy.”

      Joe locked eyes with Eileen, who clutched the folds of her robe together over her chest. She looks so pale, he thought.

      Pat stared down at his plate and said quietly, “It’s our duty to our country, Mom. We’ve already signed up.”

      XYZ

      “Ah, ya damn, young fools,” Joe exclaimed. “You couldn’t wait, could you? You couldn’t wait for the draft! You couldn’t even wait for me to break it to your mother that gave you life! If something . . .” He stopped, being on the edge of saying something he’d regret forever. Nobody moved, and the room went silent, except for Eileen’s quiet sobbing.

      CHAPTER 23

      NORTH PARK, 1945

      Eileen and Joe learned to give the injections of insulin, and made the adjustments in diet, but the blurred vision continued. She always had a terrible thirst, and used the bathroom frequently. When asked, she said she felt better, but her condition deteriorated. Her circulation to her legs and feet gave her pain, and kept her from walking very far. Gangrene set in to her toes, then her feet, one of which was amputated. Her faith in God never wavered, and Tim was her constant companion. Finally, she took to her bed, refusing to go to the hospital. Dr. Butler said her heart was giving out.

      When she lost consciousness one evening, as Joe read to her, he called the doctor and sent Tim for Father Crotty. The doctor stayed while Father Crotty recited the last rites, and when he had kissed his purple stole and folded it up, they both spoke with Joe.

      “The boys are away, and Mary Agnes is strong, Joe,” the priest said, “But . . .”

      Joe held up a hand, then opened the bedroom door and found Tim hovering in the hallway.

      “Timmy, go downstairs and fetch Dr. Butler a glass of water.”

      When he had gone, the priest continued. “We’ll all keep an eye on the boy, Joe. You know he’s not as strong as the others, and this will hurt him terribly,”

      The doctor nodded. “He’s liable to take this very hard, Joe. If need be, I will prescribe something.”

      The two remained at the Brogan house until Eileen had passed away that night. They helped Joe break the news to Tim and Mary Agnes, and make arrangements with the funeral home. When the body was taken to the funeral parlor for preparation, Tim broke down and Mary Agnes helped him to his room, and stayed with him all night. For the three days Eileen was in the open casket in the front room of the house, the youngest boy was silent, and ate nothing. Those who came to the wake did their best to console him; after the services, it seemed half of him was buried in the Lackawanna graveyard by the Basilica.

      CHAPTER 24

      THE WEST SIDE, 1947

      Joe Brogan entered the school through the heavy wooden doors reinforced with black iron bands,