“Yeah. She told us we were wrecking the joint and she wants us out by the end of the week.”
“But that's terrible. Where will you go? Has Nuala found a new place for you?”
He shook his head. “She ain't got no money, do she?”
“Seamus! Where did you learn to speak like that? You know better than to say‘ain't.’”
“It's how New Yorkers talk. I'm a New Yorker now.” He looked defiant.
My conscience was undergoing a silent battle. Much as I loved living with Sid and Gus, I couldn't let these children go back to the slums with Nuala and her brood. After all, I owed my own life to their mother, Kathleen. And I was fond of them.
“I'll stop off and see your father when I come to lunch with Miss Van Woekem,” I said. “Don't worry. We'll sort everything out for you.”
“Are you coming back to us, Molly?” His face lit up. “It was better when you were there, even though you made me wash.”
“We'll talk about it,” I said. “Off you go now.”
The next day I presented myself at Miss Van Woekem's house.
“My dear child, how very exciting for you,” she said as sherry was served. “Do tell me all about it; leave no detail out.”
I was in the midst of my tale when Miss Van Woekem looked up and stared out of the window. “Something's wrong,” she said.
“What is it?”
“I'm not sure. Go and open the window.”
There was the sound of wailing on the breeze. From a window farther down the square, now black bunting fluttered. A newsboy walked down the street shouting, “McKinley dead. McKinley dead.”
Miss Van Woekem sighed. “And now that cowboy will take over as President,” she said. “I fear the world will never be the same again.”
I found I was shivering. How would my world be changed?
Afterword
Molly Murphy and most of the characters in this book are fictional, but the events surrounding the assassination of President McKinley are true to historical fact. Leon Czolgosz, the lone assassin, was an enigma. He was not part of any organized anarchist group, although he had hung around at a few meetings, arousing the suspicion of the group's members. His family thought he was crazy and kept him safely out of harm's way on their farm. He didn't work, yet he seemed to have enough money for luxuries like cigars. When he was questioned after he fired the gun concealed in his handkerchief, he claimed he had worked alone and belonged to no group. He admitted to having been inspired by Emma Goldman, although she couldn't remember him.
Historians have not been able to come up with a motive for his deed. I have merely attempted to give him one.
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FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE
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J. P. Riley and Associates,
M. Murphy Notes:
Monday, Oct. 14, 1901
Followed JBTfrom his office at 38 Wall Street. Observed him entering 135 E. Twelfth Street at approximately 7:40 P.M.
Actually I had been guessing at the time. I heard the clock on Grace Church, a couple of blocks away at Tenth and Broadway, chiming the half hour and it hadn't yet chimed the three quarters, but in my profession guessing wasn't really good enough. I'd just have to get myself a watch. I sensed my mother turning in her grave at the thought of such presumptive ideas. No one in Ballykillin had ever owned a watch, apart from the family at the big house, and they didn't count, being English. It was a pity I hadn't managed to get my hands on Paddy Riley's pocket watch before the police took his body away. Now it was probably on some sergeant's watch chain, where it was going to stay put, and as for myself, I wasn't making enough money to indulge in luxuries. If you want a real confession, I wasn't making any money at all.