Irish Luck
Mrs. O’Leary flipped little Michael O’Leary Junior around on his back and removed a large safety pin from his wet sarong. That little Michael was not the first heir to the O’Leary clan was demonstrated by the indifference with which his mother lifted him up feet first and smacked his red bottom when he roared at being exposed to the cold drafts of a bleak December Sunday morning. The increased howls, shrieks and kicks did not disturb Mrs. O’Leary. Her ears were accustomed to the noise and her hands went about their duty. Mrs. O’Leary was rather more interested in staring at her husband, Michael O’Leary, who was in turn staring out the window.
“Michael O’Leary,” she finally said as she smothered Junior’s hips with Rosebud talcum. “Why don’t you climb out on the fire escape so all the neighbors can get a better look at you in your underwear.”
Mr. O’Leary simply scratched his bottom vertebra in answer and moved closer to the clouded pane. “Mike, are you listening or are you in another one of your Sunday trances” shouted Mrs. O’Leary over the yells of her open-mouthed toothless offspring.
Her husband ran his weather scarred palm over the center of the pane and cleared a larger space. Then, turning about, he faced his wife and bawling child. “Well,” commented Mrs. O’Leary, “You’re a pretty specimen. The only thing I can say about you is that you’re clean.”
Michael O’Leary hoisted up his baggy laundry-yellowed long drawers and grinned, showing a crowded bunch of white teeth set in the valley of his rugged face. His big flat pug nose spanned out to fill the dents left by his drawn back cheeks. “Come on now, Mary,” he cajoled, his voice rumbling with throaty laughter. “You know you always loved me for my legs. They’re the best looking legs on the block. And don’t fool yourself. If I was to climb out on the fire escape all the women would be sticking their necks out the window just to get a peek at them. Sure, it is a pity I have to cover them up with pants.”
Michael Junior closed his mouth and widened his wet blue eyes as he saw his father yanking up the cuffs of his drawers and hopping around the kitchen floor on two long scrawny legs with a cover of defiant red hairs. Mrs. O’Leary looked from her son to her husband and sighed. “My God,” she admonished, then caught herself. “There, you have me swearing on Sunday again. Will you cover up those old red oaks of yours and get on your way before your son is scared out of his wits.” But little Michael O’Leary laughed for the first time that morning.
His father spurred on by such tender applause, leaped across the room, grabbed the child in his arms, and spun around the floor. Mary O’Leary sighed again, looked at the clock and shouted, “Michael O’Leary, put that child in his crib immediately and get into your clothes. You’re five minutes late already. I should think you’d try to be on time after the way you yelled at the children this morning for moping.”
Mike made a wry face at his wife, balanced the delighted baby astride his weed-like head of disheveled red hair, and tiptoed noisily into the bedroom mumbling as he went, “Your mother, my lad, must have been born with a whip in her mouth.”
Mrs. O’Leary walked over to the kitchen table and started removing the dirty breakfast dishes. She was smiling to herself. From the bedroom she heard the sounds of her husband’s chant. “Who do you love? Your mother or your father? Your mother whines while your father works, so sonny stick to your father and you’ll always have your belly full.”
Mrs. O’Leary shook her head, looked at the clock and called out, “Mike, you’re now seven minutes late.”
“In just a minute,” sang out Mike’s voice, “And I’ll be leaving you, my little lovebird.” Mike emerged from the bedroom, dressed in hat, suit and overcoat but still in his bare feet. “And where have you hidden my shoes?” he asked. “I’m sure you don’t want me parading down the street exposing my naked tootsies to the stare of all the bold women.”
Mrs O’Leary appraised her husband’s apparel as she hurried past. “Fix your tie,” she ordered. “It looks as if you’ve just come out of a brawl.” As she threw a pair of shiny shoes from the hall closed she added, “Eight minutes late now.”
Under his breath Mike muttered, “What, so early!” He picked up his shoes and his wife ran out of the bedroom with a pair of socks.
“Here,” she directed. “Will you hurry? And while I think of it I wish you’d cut those toenails of yours one of these fine days. I’m sick of closing up the holes in your socks.” As Mike bent over to pull on his socks, his hat fell off. Mrs. O’Leary picked it up and stood waiting over at the door. While Mike was staring at the last shoelace to be tied, she informed him, “You are now ten minutes late.”
Mike jumped up with dramatic hurriedness, rushed towards the door, kissed his wife on the cheek, grabbed his hat, and flew down the first flight of stairs. When he reached the second and heard Mary close the door, he slowed up the pace. When he met Mrs. Flint on the front landing, he stopped altogether and stared at her homely child. “Why Mrs. Flint,” he cried, I must say you’re going to have the handsomest child on the street.”
Mrs. Flint preened like a mother hen whose scrawny little chick has just popped out of its shell and gushed back, “Well, Mr. O’Leary, if he’s one half as good-looking as you, I’ll consider myself blessed.”
Mike scratched one of his jug-like ears with his hat, grinned back at Mrs. Flint, and thought,
“You’re as big a liar as I am, you old hypocrite.” Aloud he flirted, “Aw, Mrs. Flint, you are the one. You remind me of the swan trying to tell the chipmunk he must have been a beautiful baby.”
Mrs. Flint giggled hysterically, ending her spasm with a long, drawn out squeal of delight. “Oh Mr. O’Leary,” she fluttered. “You’re so funny. I wish my husband had your disposition.”
Mike gave her a playful tickle under her chin, and sauntered out into the street where he stopped short and stared down along two blocks at the misty Hudson. “Gosh,” he deliberated, “How I’d like to go down and watch the boats. And why don’t I?”
But his wife’s voice came floating through the air. “Mike,” he heard. Mike looked up. Sure enough, there she was hanging out the window. “Mike,” she yelled, “You’re now fifteen minutes late. It’s disgraceful. Get on your way.”
Mike pulled up his overcoat collar and answered, “Okay, okay, but close that window before you catch your death of cold. And I’ll have to go to the trouble of courting myself a new wife, which wouldn’t make the girls feel a bit too bad.” Mrs. O’Leary yanked her head in, but her hand dangled out directing him on.
Mike started off at a fast pace, but his steps lingered as he passed a group of kids playing marbles. He offered his services as a spectator until one of the larger boys looked up and said, “You’d better hurry, Mr. O’Leary, you’re awfully late.”
Mike grinned his amusement as he asked, “You too, my lad?” When Mike reached the corner he rested to admire a new model Ford. “Boy,” he mused, “How I’d like to get my hands on one of them.” Just as he was imagining how he’d duck in and out of that Sunday traffic line, an authoritative voice cut him short with, “I see you’re late again O’Leary..”
Mike turned around to greet his friend Bill Clancy, the neighborhood cop. “Yeah,” he replied, “Honest to God, you’d think I was one of the children the way my wife pushes me out of the house on Sundays. One of these days I’m going to stay in bed like the lazy rich do.”
After the two friends passed a few whispered jokes, Mike loitered on his way. He stopped in front of the grocery store to stare at some olives from Italy. He wondered what he’d have been doing now if he’d gone in the navy like he wanted to when he was eighteen. Then he pictured a movie-set tropics with himself sitting in the midst of a pack of love-sick hula dancers. He pulled himself together when he recollected it was Sunday and moved on to the next store window where he stared at five limp chickens hanging on hooks. After he had philosophized on the strangeness of life, he moved out to the curb and looked up to watch the snow-pregnant clouds traveling slowly across the bright sky. He felt big and powerful and was glad he was alive when a sarcastic laugh broke the spell.
“Ahah, Mr. O’Leary,” a voice cracked through constant use said, “You can get going now, it’s almost over, and you’ll be just in time for the last few minutes.”
Mike looked down and saw old Mrs. Flanker. He shook her cold hand and kidded, “Now, Mrs. Flanker, and tell me what you’re doing leavin’ so early. Want to beat the crowd out I bet. Now do you call that a nice thing to do?”
Mrs. Flanker poked him in the rib and answered, “You ought to know, you old devil. Now be gone with you. You’d better hurry.”
Mike took her advice and hurried up the street, but humming. As he reached the corner, he commenced to run. To himself he rationalized, “Sure, I know God understands, if anybody does. If there’s anything that gets me nervous it’s sitting still for an hour.”
As he leaped two steps at a time up the stone stairs of his destination, a long-gowned figure blocked his progress. “Well now, Mr. O’Leary,” greeted the adamant figure. “How pleasant it is to see you early for a change.”
Mike hated to look up, but he did, and stared into the merry eyes of Father Callahan. “Oh, Father,” he boomed, flustering about for further words. The white interiors of his protruding frost-bitten ears turned crimson.
Father Callahan broke the conversational lull with, “I guess, O’Leary, this is the first time in twenty years you’ve ever been early. You’ll only have to wait a few minutes for the ten o’clock mass to be over. I know you’ll be delighted to know the next is High Mass. And I’m going to say it. And I want you to sit right down front in the first pew. It will do my heart good to see that ruddy head of yours out front when I’m delivering my sermon. I have a splendid long one for today, which I know you’ll enjoy.”
Mike’s neck squirmed nervously as if his collar had suddenly taken it into mind to shrink by degrees. Father Callahan tugged on Mike’s blue tie and hinted, “Mike, you’re putting on weight; you ought to buy your collars a little larger.” As a rush of shuffling feet sounded from behind the closed church doors, Father Callahan drew Mike into the vestibule where he left him with a parting warning, “Now don’t forget, Michael, I expect to see you sitting in the center pew down front.”
Mike stood limply with the air of a puppy who’s about to be thrown into a tub of suds. People started passing him. In the jostle there were cries of “O’Leary, what are you waiting for? It’s all over. Don’t you feel well, old man? Don’t tell me you’re going to High Mass.”
Finally a small read-headed boy tagging along at the rear of the departing crowds stood before him. “Hey, Pop,” the child said. “Did you see Father Callahan? He was hunting all over the church for you. He whispered to me to tell you that ‘sometimes the early worm catches the late bird.’ What did he mean, Papa?” Mike O’Leary just stared into space and said nothing. His small son tugged on his coat and urged, “Come on, Papa. Aren’t you coming home?”
Mike spoke, “No son, your father has reformed.”
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Peggy Stebbins Nelson
Circa 1939