"Gerald, was that really necessary?" Matilda demands. I stagger through the window on the fire escape, clutching a bough of evergreen. Needles scatter on the wet floor, floating on puddles. The bitter winter wind claws at me, inviting me into her chilly embrace. I reject her with a slammed window.
"Mattie girl, it's almost Christmas," I protest as I yank my scarf down from my mouth. "Think of the children."
"Where did you get that?" my wife asks, pointing at the branch. "How much did it cost?"
"Nothing." I'm not lying.
"Lately you've been bringing things home- fliers, a scarf, now this- and saying they're free." Hands on hip, she sighs. "Please tell me you're not stealing."
"Why would you say that?" I snap, her accusation stinging. "I am not a petty thief."
"I'm not saying you are, I just don't understand how you can get anything for free."
"Well, I'm smart. I know where to look. So there." I'm not telling her how I dug through the trash for three hours to get scraps for the scarf, nor how the guys and I used an trashed printing press to print the fliers. I'm definitely not mentioning the pine tree in Central Park that now is missing a twig or two.
She doesn't need to worry, I tell myself as I reopen the window to prepare the branch. I shake the snow from the branch on the fire escape. Loose, brown needles either fall or are pinched off. Wearing my mittens, I fluff the emerald bough, reaping whatever festiveness this one branch can offer. Finally I wrap a red ribbon around the hard stem and hang it on a hook sunk in the ceiling. Matilda, although tittering in suspicion, is visibly pleased by the small Christmas tree.
"Papa! Papa!" A three year old boy with caramel hair like my wife's barrels into my knees, wrapping his lanky arms around my calves. "Papa!"
"Why good evening Jack!" My arms throb from fifteen hours on the job at Mac-Griffin's shoe factory, but I still scoop my son up. He squeals, waving his arms above his head.
"What's that?" he chirps, pointing at the branch.
"That, my boy, is the closest thing we have to a Christmas tree," I explain. "Rich people can afford a big tree in their house, which they decorate with ornaments and tinsel. We haven't any of that, so Papa did the best he could."
"Huh?" He stares at me, his three year old brain struggling to comprehend this. Chuckling I delve into further detail, describing the tradition of Christmas trees, how nobodies like us managed, and so on. I made sure to leave out words like "poor," "rich scum," and "struggling to make ends meet." Toddlers shouldn't have to fret.
"Tell me a story," he begs after I finish a dull lecture on Christmas trees.
"About what?" I reply playfully.
"You," he peeps. "Tell me bout you."
"You've heard so many stories about me. Why do you want another?"
"Tell me! Please!"
"Alright, alright." Resting on our one couch, Jack perched on my knee with adoring eyes, I recite a tale very close to heart.
"Once there was a family of three: a mother, a father, and a son. They lived on a small farm in Ireland, not too far from Dublin. They loved each other very much, but life was hard. You see, they did not have very much money. Their house only had one room, the soil yielded little, and the landlord always demanded more money from them. The boy and his parents went to bed hungry every single night. However, no one complained, since this was how most people lived. They worked for rich men in exchange for a home, as tenants.
One day, a terrible famine struck Ireland. The potatoes farmers grew to eat died of a strange sickness. Everyone in Ireland ate potatoes, so without potatoes, they were very hungry. Even the rich landlords did not have enough. So the boy's family packed up their belongings, said good-bye to their home, and walked all the way to Dublin. It took them an entire day; when they finally reached the city, the boy's feet hurt horribly. Since they didn't have money for an inn, they slept in the street.
The boy started to wonder if this journey would bring any good. All he knew was that he felt tired, hungry, and homesick. He missed his friends back home terribly. His mother noticed his sadness, so she told him a secret: she could read!
Not many Irish peasants could read. The mother worked as a maid in a big house as a teenager, so she secretly studied the master's books at night. She wanted her son's life to be better, so she began teaching him to read that night in the street. The next morning, the father went to the harbor to get tickets for a ship to America. Immigration is a difficult process, so several nights in the street went by until the father finally could buy tickets.
They boarded a ship, the Seagull, a great ship with white sails- the biggest one they'd ever seen- that would take them and thousands of other Irishmen across the ocean to America. The boy was at once excited and scared. He definitely wanted a better life, but he would miss Ireland. As the ship pulled away from shore, he stood on the deck, waving good-bye to his mother country. Soon Ireland became no more than a blur on the horizon. He cried, knowing he'd never see his homeland again. His father, seeing how unhappy his son had become, hugged him tight and told him America would make up for his lost Ireland.
All anyone on that boat talked about was America. Folks said you could become mighty rich. You could arrive with nothing but the shirt on your back and be a millionaire- a man with a million dollars- ten years later! No potato famines, no tenants, none of the hardships in Ireland. The boy wondered how great this America must be.
The Seagull was not so great. Rats ran through the walls. Horrid storms rocked the boat, making passengers sick. The captain charged the families more than they could pay. Worst of all, getting sick was very easy. Some people got so sick they died. This happened so much ships like the Seagull became known as "coffin ships."
The boy's mother continued teaching him how to read. She owned a book with several fairy tales in it that she brought from the great house she worked in. Every day they studied. Soon the boy could read entire stories! He even learned to write sentences. As a reward, his mother gave him a blank journal to write his thoughts in. He saved the journal, for he had no thoughts to write down.
Days passed. Life on the ship was crowded and cramped. He hated the smell, the lack of space, everything. He couldn't concentrate. The boy still felt the pains of hunger, and he longed for Ireland.
One day, something terrible happened. The mother woke up with a fever. She suffered from a headache, she couldn't eat, she felt too tired to even get up! The ship doctor said she was gravely ill. He took her to separate part of the ship, where no one could see her. A few days later, the doctor came to the boy and his father. The mother died.
The boy never felt so awful in his life. His father became very sad; he did not pay attention to his son. He missed his wife. The boy cried, but didn't know what to do. He wanted to see his mother, his sweet mother who'd been with him all his life. Without anyone to talk to, he decided to write in his journal.
He wrote about missing his mother, his life in Ireland, and his uncertainty about America. He wrote little stories he dreamed up in his head, ones that made him think of fairy tales she read. Many more days after his mother died, the Seagull docked in Ellis Island.
The passengers had to be inspected first. Anyone who felt funny had to stay on the island before they could to the city of New York. The boy felt embarrassed, but he didn't know what to say. He didn't even speak English!
Two days after the boat docked, they took another boat to New York City, which is on the mainland. The father and the boy did not know where to go, who to trust, or what to say. A man named Mr. Murphy, who happened to be Irish, led them to a boarding house full of other Irishmen. It was dirty, cramped, and smelly, but they lived there because they needed to save money. The father got a job at a factory, working long hours. The boy did odd jobs for richer people, who paid him a few pennies.
America did not impress him. They didn't have a better life. He was still poor, lonely, hungry, and he missed his mother. His only friends were his father and his journal, which he wrote in every night. More time- two whole years- passed. The father didn't make very much money, so his son had to work in the factory, where he received less money than his father. The long hours, harsh treatment, and sadness wore at him. He made some friends; however, they had to grow up very fast too, so he rarely saw them. Finally the boy decided he was so miserable that he wanted to go back to Ireland, without his father. He ran to the docks; no ship would take him. He prepared to jump in, to swim across the ocean. Maybe then God felt sorry, for an angel appeared to save him.
A pretty girl told him not to jump, because no man can swim across the ocean. She told him he should treat his life with more value. The boy yelled at her angrily. But she looked into his eyes, mesmerizing him. She ordered him not to leap into the cold water. This time he listened. The angel comforted him. That night the boy went back to his father, who wept to hear his son almost went into the sea. After that the father had his son leave the factory to wait until he got older. So he returned to odd jobs on the street. Guess who was there? The angel who rescued him! From that day forward, the two remained the best of friends, and they still are close to this very day."
I steal a wink at Matilda, my angel. A secret smile plays across her lips, but Baby Elliot breaks into a fit of wails at that moment. Mattie goes to her youngest while Jack, curled up on my lap, stirs in his sleep. The story put him to sleep, but I'm rather glad of that. I hope he didn't hear about my mother's death or my near suicide.
"You'll do better, son," I whisper into his unhearing ear as I carry him to his bed. "I, your father swear it." He doesn't wake even after I tuck him under a quilt. I kiss his forhead before returning to the kitchen. "Merry Christmas, mo amhrán."
Mo amhran: My son.