Chapter 1
Starting her senior year at Royal
High School in Armagh, Ireland,
17-year-old Hanora Doyle was 5-foot 11-inches tall. She was afraid she would
never have a date, much less find a man to marry her. But, today, two years
later, with her head of thick, copper-colored hair covered by a white hat and
her face by a lacy veil, she stood before Father Grace and married 5-foot-9
Sean Flanagan. The day’s rain couldn’t spoil things for her. She was married.
It was the happiest time of her life.
After a two-day honeymoon in Dublin, the happy couple
moved into the back bedroom at the home of Sean’s parents.
“It’s just temporary, hon,” Sean
said. “I’ll do better now that I have you.”
They were married three months when
Hanora’s discovery filled her heart with joy. She was pregnant. But her joy and excitement soon faded as she
realized the living conditions that awaited her baby.
Their room was not much more than a
narrow space, enough for their bed and a chest of drawers and nothing else.
There was no mirror and only one small window. The walls stayed wet after every
rain, until the heat of the sun beat through the thin plaster and dried the
droplets that formed on them. I can’t let
my baby start life like this.
After a dinner of boiled ham and
cabbage, spoiled by the family's bickering and the coughing of Ol’ Mike, Sean’s
father, Hanora wanted some privacy, and her stomach warned her to get away from
the smell of dinner.
“Sean, want to take a walk?”
“Okay, hon, I’ll grab our jackets.”
A block away, a group of Irish brats,
throwing stones and yelling loud enough to wake the saints, spoiled their walk.
One of the kids noticed Sean and Hanora and ran over to them, yelling, “Penny
mister. Penny mister?”
The ragamuffin, a girl of around
nine or ten, had iodine splotches on her neck and face; an
attempt to control ringworm.
Hanora stopped, but Sean took her by
the arm and kept her moving.
The skinny child yelled to their
backs, “Up yours, the cheap fookers that ya are.”
Soon, Sandy Hill came into view, with
its larger houses, well-kept lawns and clean streets. They were nearing St.
Patrick’s Cathedral.
“I’ve something to tell you, Sean.”
“Let’s hear it.”
She gave his hand a squeeze, and
with a tender expression on her face she coyly looked away. There, beneath the magnificent twin
towers that protect the Celtic Cross of Saint Patrick, Hanora said, “I’m
pregnant.”
Sean took a deep breath. “I’m to be
a father?” He made the sign of the cross, “I’m to be a father? Dear God, I am
truly blessed.”
He put both arms around his Hanora,
looked lovingly into her eyes, and kissed her.
After the kiss she leaned back. Sean
saw the tenderness fade from her face, replaced by a sullen look.
She stared hard at him and said, “I
want better than the fookin streets of Armagh
for our baby.” She looked up at the huge cathedral
for a moment, closed her eyes. “Bye or girl, I’ve made up me mind,
it’ll be born in America.”
“America,” said Sean, as he released
his grip on her. “We canna’ afford a flat of our own here, how the hell are we
gonna’ get to America?”
“There’s got ta be a way. Me brother
did it, an if he found a way ta get there, so can we. I’m writing him.”
They turned toward home. At the
other side of the cathedral they saw a bedraggled lot waiting in line at the
side door.
Hanora nodded toward them and said,
“I’ll have no child of mine standing in line for a bowl of potato soup. Over in
America,
people are standing in line to see movin' pictures that talk, for crissake.”
Hanora squeezed his hand and they
walked on in silence for nearly a block. She stopped and faced him.
“I love you, Sean, and I’ll be a
good wife, but you’ve got to see this my way. Even if we could get our own
place, with what you earn here it’d be just another rat hole. No . . . we’re
going to America.”
With steel in her voice, she repeated, “Yeah hear me, luv? One way or another,
we’re going to America.”
As they walked, he saw the set of
Hanora’s chin and the determined look on her face. He felt sorry for her. There
was no way they would ever get to America.
*
* *
Back in their room, Hanora got her
tablet and pencil, sat on the lumpy bed, and wrote a pleading letter to her
brother. The next morning she waited out front to hand it to the postman.
Three weeks later a reply from her
brother, Marty Doyle, arrived. She took it into the bedroom and closed the
door. At the window, with trembling hands, she opened it. As she unfolded what
was a single page, a check fluttered to the floor. She retrieved it and
clutched to her breast. Then she dropped to her knees and with tears in her
eyes said a Hail Mary.
Her older brother had written a
short note that said he was happy to help out and anxious to have his baby
sister in Chicago
with him. But the check covered only their passage. The money they needed for
incidentals was scraped together by their clan and from the help of a priest at
St. Patrick’s.
They obtained their passports, and
after the Christmas holiday was over, Hanora packed for their departure. All
they owned fit in two suitcases.
Sean was apprehensive about moving
so far from family, but he accepted the fact that Hanora would lead him
forever.
*
* *
Sean stayed in his bunk, seasick
most of the voyage. Hanora spent as much time on deck as she could. She loved
the sapphire color of the cold Atlantic Ocean,
and she inhaled deeply of the oft-swirling winds. She never tired of the
endless rolling waves. The swaying of the boat reminded her of being lulled in
her mother’s arms. Most of all, the ocean and the sky were clean, and the salt
air gave her a heady feeling she enjoyed. Hanora knew the great ocean blessed
her and would make her unborn child strong and healthy.
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