Somewhere I Belong (21 page)

“The farmers were paying rent to the landlords, sir,” he said. “And when they wanted to buy their farms, the landlords refused to sell them because they made money from collecting the rents. So the farmers stopped paying them and staged uprisings all over the Island.”

“So then what happened?” Mr. Dunphy asked.

“First the sheriffs threatened to seize their livestock in return for payment and then they threatened to throw the farmers off the land.”

Mr. MacPhee had been standing quietly at the side of the room. Now he moved up the aisle and stood in front of Larry. “Your mother's a Lanigan, is she not, Larry?”

“Yes, sir,” Larry replied.

“I think I recall an interesting story about one of the Lanigans being involved in the Northbridge Uprising. Scared the sheriff off, I hear tell. Did your mother ever talk about it?”

“Granny did.” Larry smiled up at Mr. MacPhee. “She said when Grandfather William heard the sheriff was coming to throw his family off their farm, he hauled a cannon out onto the road and aimed it in the direction he figured the sheriff would be coming from.”

“So what happened then?” Mr. MacPhee was grinning, like he already knew.

“When the sheriff saw that cannon, he turned tail and ran.” Larry laughed. “Only thing was, he didn't know it wasn't loaded.”

“You really know your Island history, Larry.” Mr. MacPhee practically beamed at my older brother.

“Granny sometimes tells us stories,” Larry replied.

I never thought of Granny's stories as history, but I suppose they were.

Mr. MacPhee glanced back at the clock and then at Old Dunphy. “It's hot in here. Shall we let them go out a bit early?”

Old Dunphy rang the bell for recess. Then he grabbed the tin cup from his desk and held it up to the school inspector. “Would you like a drink Mr. MacPhee?”

I watched Mr. MacPhee inspect the cup and then the water pail,
and held my breath. I let it out again when he politely declined. Then I watched Old Dunphy's meaty hand plunge the cup into the water and lift it to his mouth. He drained it, then stood back and wiped his mouth. He looked confused for a moment, and checked the cup. He bent down and examined the contents of the water pail, dipping his fingers in, raising them up to his nose, and sniffing them. Then he moved across the platform toward the window and popped his head out.

“Curtis Murphy, would you come back in, please? I need you to pour out the water—it's gone brackish in the heat already. And refill it, too.”

I finally relaxed—nobody else would be drinking the water I'd
brought in, and Old Dunphy wouldn't be able to pin anything on me.

By noon, the room felt like a furnace. We ate our lunch outside, then
filed into the schoolroom to find Mr. MacPhee standing beside the
pot-bellied stove. His navy blue blazer still hung from a chair on the platform. He had removed his bowtie, and the collar of his pinstriped
shirt stood open. Old Dunphy's bowtie sat on his desk, the papers
around it now neatly arranged. His white cotton shirt stuck to him in pools of sweat, exposing his bulging belly.

“Mr. MacPhee is going to present this afternoon's lesson.” Old Dunphy beamed at the school inspector and smiled a fake smile. “It's a science experiment, is it not?”

Mr. MacPhee nodded at Mr. Dunphy and scanned the room. “It's
sort of a science experiment. But I suppose it's a bit of a civics lesson too.” His eyes lit up as he turned to the front row. “I'd like everybody to gather 'round. Perhaps the little ones could stand in front so they can see better.”

I liked Mr. MacPhee. I liked the way he circulated the room and
remembered everybody's name. I liked how he took a personal interest in the topics we were working on. And the way his eyes sparkled when he smiled reminded me of Uncle Jim.

We all crowded around the pot-bellied stove. Mr. MacPhee stood
beside it and pointed to two glass jars that each contained a clear liquid and to the two saucers beside them. One of the saucers was empty. On the other sat a fat, wiggly earthworm, the kind Uncle Jim dug up from the garden before he went fishing.

I supposed that Mr. MacPhee must have been satisfied with what he had seen in our classroom that morning and had decided to have a bit of fun.

“Look at this big, fat, wiggly worm.” Mr. MacPhee placed the earthworm on his palm and held it out to the little kids. It looked as if it had just been dug up; it was coated with mud. Old Dunphy edged around him and peered over his shoulder.

I knew this experiment because our teacher back home had done it. It was supposed to show us how bad alcohol was.

Mr. MacPhee asked one of the little kids in the front to open a jar and pour water into the saucer. “What do you think will happen when I put him in the water?”

“He'll get all clean,” Bridget MacGee said.

“Yes, he most certainly will,” Mr. MacPhee replied.

“He'll likely drown,” Curtis Murphy said.

“Let's put him in and see.”

Mr. MacPhee put the worm into the water, picked the saucer up,
and held it out. The worm squirmed and poked up its head. “What's it doing now?” he asked.

“He's having a swim,” Nora Daley said.

“He's getting fatter,” Pat Jr. said.

“Well, he might be having a swim,” Mr. MacPhee said. “But do we get fatter when we go for a swim?”

The little kids, in the front row, shook their heads.

“No, sir,” the rest of us said.

The inspector opened the second jar. This time, he poured some of its contents onto the second saucer. “Let's see what happens when we give him a little drink of gin.”

Just as he picked the earthworm out of the water to immerse it in the gin, I heard a shuffling sound, and Old Dunphy stepped away from the group. He looked pale and stricken. Beads of sweat ran down his face.

“I'll be right back,” he said. Then he turned, edging around us. When he reached the door, he glared back at me. The anger in his eyes said I was in for it.

The door slammed and Curtis and Connor Murphy burst out laughing. I took a breath and tried to brush off Old Dunphy's accusing stare. Next to me, Pat Jr. had a hand to his face and was suppressing a grin.

“You like this one, do you, boys?” Mr. MacPhee said. He thought we were laughing at the earthworm that now lay shrivelled and motionless in the clear liquid. “So what do you suppose is happening here?”

Pat Jr. raised his hand. “I know this one, sir.”

“Tell us, then,” Mr. MacPhee said.

“The worm's dead,” Pat Jr. said with a straight face. “That means you got to keep your fishing worms away from the gin—it's bad for 'em.”

Mr. MacPhee laughed again, “Close, Mr. Giddings, but not quite.”

The school inspector held up the saucer and the earthworm that now lay dead in the clear liquid. Then he went on and on about the evils of alcohol the way Granny did when Old Dunphy had been for dinner and had got so drunk that one of the uncles had to escort him out the back door. He was just starting in on the subject of bootlegging when Old Dunphy stormed through the back door, looking pale and drained. He marched across the room, put a hand on my shoulder, and hissed into my ear. “Go back to your seat and stay there until I say so. We are going to get to the bottom of this, I can assure you.”

The strapping was worse than the first one. Old Dunphy told Larry, Helen, Pat Jr., and Thomas to go on home and that I would be along when he had finished with me. He escorted Mr. MacPhee to his motorcar and waited for him to disappear down Northbridge Road. Then he returned to the schoolroom, his jaw clenched, his eyes bulging in anger. He stomped up to his desk, ripped open a drawer, and grabbed his “little friend.”

“Turn around,” he barked. “Put your hands out—both of them.”

I stepped away from him and put my hands behind my back. “Sorry, sir.”

“Sorry!” Old Dunphy was screaming now. His spittle sprayed across my face. “
You're
sorry. What about me? Whatever did you think your little prank would do to me, huh?”

His face was in mine now, with its fat, swollen flesh and fish eyes. He threw out a hand and put a vice-like grip on my arm. When I looked down at it and then up at him, he took a breath and calmed himself.

“We'll do it your way, then. We'll do it one at a time.” He yanked my arm, grabbed my hand, and peeled open my fingers. Then he raised up the strap and landed it, hard, on my palm.

I gritted my teeth and sucked in a breath. No way was I going to cry.

“How'd you like that, huh?” Old Dunphy said. Up went the hand.
Down came the strap, a second time and a third.

My palm stung; it reddened and began to swell. I gritted my teeth and took in slow, tempered breaths. I felt tears come and fought them back.

On the fourth hit, Old Dunphy twisted his wrist and the strap landed side-on, cutting through skin that had already begun to blister. This time, I screamed.

“Ha!” Old Dunphy stepped back and smiled, still gripping my hand.

As nasty as he had been, I had never seen this side of him. He seemed to be taking joy in watching me tremble, in seeing the tears course down my face and my palm bleed.

“Looks like we're done with this one. Shall we do the other?”

“No you don't.” A deep voice boomed from the back of the classroom. Larry had been waiting outside the whole time, listening through the open window. “He's had enough—you let him go.”

Ma paced the floor, clutching Old Dunphy's note. Thanks to the party line, she already knew the details of what had transpired that day—both the prank and the strapping. But she wanted to hear about them from me.

“What were you thinking!” She practically spit out the words. “Castor oil in the drinking water? Your uncle's fermented cider? You could have made everybody sick.” Then she glared at me. “You're suspended! Mr.
Dunphy said can write your exams, but otherwise, he doesn't want to see you for the rest of the year. This is unbelievable, Pius James.
Whatever got into you? And I can just imagine what your report card will look like.”

I stood there, taking in Ma's anger, searching for words. Larry stood beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. Helen and Alfred sat at the kitchen table and watched in silence. I wanted to tell her everything,
but didn't know where to begin. I hung my head and held out my
bloodied palm.

“Holy Mother of God!” Ma said. “Charlie Dunphy did that to you?”

“He did more than that, Ma,” Larry said. “He's been rotten to P.J.
ever since we got here.”

Uncle Jim saw my school suspension as a chance to finish opening up his new field. First he put salve on my hand and wrapped it in a thick bandage, then he took me out to the now half-completed tract of land.

“I gotta learn you how to operate this here plough,” he said.

We were out by the field. Larry and Helen had left for school. Lu was standing in her harness, stretching out her neck, trying to reach the grass. The blade of the plough had been dipped into the turf, ready to begin tearing open more ground.

“You gotta wrestle with it,” Uncle Jim said. “Keep it in a straight
line.” He held a handle of the plough and gauged its height to my head. “You just take it up the one row 'til you get the hang of it. And watch
them rocks. That plough hits a big one and that handle'll send you
clear into Sunday.”

There were a few other things I learned that day, too. Like when Uncle Jim took his breaks—hourly—and what Granny had waiting for him in the kitchen: hot tea biscuits, butter, and honey. And tea with milk and three heaping teaspoons of sugar. All this work was looking way better than school.

By mid-morning, Uncle Jim and I were sitting in the kitchen over a plate of newly baked biscuits. Nobody else was around. He sipped his tea, then put his cup down.

“Musta bin somethin', seein' Charlie Dunphy make a dash for the outhouse. It's bin years since I seen 'im run for anything.”

Of all the adults in the house, Ma was the only one who seemed
upset over what I had done to Old Dunphy. Now Uncle Jim sat with a smirk on his face. “What I can't figure out is how you did it, Pius James.” This seemed like a serious question, but Uncle Jim was still laughing.

“I got a little help,” I said, laughing back at him.

“You're not tellin' are you?”

“Nope.”

“The way I figure, Charlie Dunphy's bin askin' for it,” Uncle Jim said.

“I don't like being treated like a dummy.”

“That what he does?” He wasn't laughing now.

I nodded.

“Who would ever say such a thing 'bout you?” Uncle Jim said. “If
you asked me, I'd say you're near smart as Larry.”

I put my teacup down and looked at my uncle. This was the first
time since I arrived at Granny's that anyone had called me smart. I
took a breath and looked at the ceiling. Then I glanced at the kitchen window, at the icebox that stood between the kitchen counter and the doorway. I didn't want Uncle Jim to see me cry. “He called me a slow learner. He makes me sit in the dummy desk.” I started to shake. Tears began to fall. “He got out his strap and…he turned into a lunatic!”

Uncle Jim got up and moved beside me. “Listen here, young fella, nobody 'round here ever called you a dummy. Nobody thinks you're any such thing. And Charlie had no call to strap you like that.” He lowered his voice and put an arm over my shoulder. “He's got his problems. I reckon he treats you like he does 'cause something inside o' him makes him do it. Charlie's an angry man. And he don't belong in a classroom with you kids. Nevertheless, he's there.

“Now, I'm not going to tell you to respect him—he don't deserve it. But you can't stay clear of 'im, neither—he's your teacher, right?” He thought for a moment. “You know what the trick is with Charlie? It's like with most fellas: you gotta develop some kind a relationship with 'im. Maybe talk to 'im, try to understand what he's all about.”

This sounded like something adults did. I never heard any of the kids at Northbridge Road School talking to Old Dunphy except to answer his stupid questions. I looked at Uncle Jim and shrugged my shoulders. “After what he did to me?”

He poured me more tea. He added milk and sugar and stirred them in. “You're stuck with 'im, Pius James. We gotta figure out somethin'. He keeps on givin' you a hard time, you let me know, okay?” He grabbed a biscuit off the plate and handed it to me. “In the meantime, you get this here into you. We've got work to do.”

Later that day, Ma came storming into the kitchen, looking like she wanted to strangle someone. Uncle Jim and I were sitting at the table, taking one of our afternoon breaks.

“I've just spoken to Jaynie Giddings,” Ma said. “She tells me Pat Jr. was in on Pius James's little escapade.”

“Whatever for?” Uncle Jim looked up at Ma, then over at me.

I sat there, trying my best to put on an innocent face.

Ma stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes practically coming out of her head. “Maybe Pius James wants to tell us.”

Uncle Jim was still looking at me. “What's this all about, Pius James?” He waited, momentarily. “You don't mean to tell me you got Pat Jr. in on it too?”

I looked over at him, then up at Ma, searching for an answer. Wondering who had snitched on Pat Jr.

“He's suspended,” Ma said. “Just like Pius James. He can write his exams. But that's the end of it. Charlie doesn't want to see hide nor hair of them until September.”

“What does Jaynie have to say 'bout all this?” Uncle Jim asked. “She's not a woman who takes kindly to havin' her kids pushed 'round.”

“She put in a call in to Mr. MacPhee,” Ma said. “He promised to
investigate.”

“I hope that means he's not just talkin' to Charlie,” Uncle Jim said. “He'd better be talkin' to the boys too. There's still two sides to this story.”

The next day, Uncle Jim came through the back door waving an envelope in the air. A package wrapped in brown paper was tucked under an arm. It was late afternoon. Larry and Helen had just returned from school and were seated at the kitchen table with Alfred and me. Ma, Aunt Gert, and Granny were buzzing around the kitchen, preparing supper. Uncle Jim dropped the package on the counter and held up the letter.

“News from the Boston States!”

“Who's it from?” Ma asked. “Let me see.”

“Not so fast.” Uncle Jim grinned at her, stepped back, and held the envelope to his chest. “How d'you know it's for you?”

“How'd you know it isn't?” Ma reached out and pried the envelope from his hand. “It's from Everett—it
is
for me.”

We all crowded around her as she pulled back a chair and sat down.
She opened the envelope and pulled out a letter, two strips of red
paper, a U.S. Postal Service money order for one hundred dollars, and a newspaper article. She arranged them on the table, then picked up the letter and unfolded it.

“Well, ain't you gonna read it?” Uncle Jim asked.

Ma scanned the first page. “It's from Mayme…news of George…
something about a baseball game here too.” She folded the letter and smiled. Now she was playing Uncle Jim's game.

“Well, read it then.” Uncle Jim moved behind her and peered over her shoulder.

Ma held the letter up in both hands.

“‘Dear Martha, I must apologize for not writing sooner. George has been working with Mayor Roche on a very exciting venture and I wanted to be sure everything was in place before I sent the news. You probably heard that there was talk of a fundraiser for the families who lost men at the Beacon Oil Refinery explosion. Being the manager of the plant, I suppose the mayor felt he needed to do something.'”

Ma hesitated at the mention of the accident that had killed my dad. Then she rested her head on her hand and continued to read.

“‘Just a week after you and the kids left, he invited George and some of the local businessmen to a meeting at the Elks Lodge, here in Everett. He had an idea about organizing a ball game and he wanted to talk to them about it. At first, most of the men were skeptical. But when he reminded them about the local ball team he sponsored and told them he had a connection with the Boston Red Sox, they all got onside. Then he asked George to head up a committee. And you know George—when he takes on a project, there's no stopping him.

“‘The following week, he and Mayor Roche went down to Fenway Park and met with Red Sox manager, Bill Carrigan. They mentioned their idea of a ball game and asked him to donate some Red Sox hats and pins to sell at it. Well, you wouldn't believe what happened. Mr. Carrigan told them to forget about “the small stuff.” Then he offered some of his players. And on top of that, he said they could use Fenway Park and he would put in a call to his old buddy, Babe Ruth.'”

“Babe Ruth!” I said. “Really?”

“Hold on, Pius James,” Ma said. “Let me read and we'll find out.”

She straightened the letter and continued. “‘He and Ruth had played together for the Sox when they were rookies. Carrigan was catcher; Ruth pitched. That was before the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees.
According to Carrigan, all he had to do was mention widows and
orphans and The Babe would be on side for sure. The only problem was deciding on a date that wouldn't conflict with the busy major league schedule. George and the mayor weren't so sure it would work, but Mr. Carrigan said to give him a few days and he would get back to them.

“‘Sure enough, two weeks later, the mayor got a call. Mr. Carrigan said he had contacted Babe Ruth, as promised and that he immediately agreed to help out. But he said he would only play if he could pitch and Carrigan played catcher, like they did in the old days. The added bonus was that Ruth was bringing his best friend, Lou Gehrig. '”

“I knew they was good buddies,” Uncle Jim said. “Imagine seeing the two of 'em together like that.” He looked at Ma. “Sorry, Martha.”

Ma waited for Uncle Jim to settle. “‘First he had to tell his manager, Miller Huggins. Carrigan thought Huggins would be the sticking point; he thought there was no way Huggins was going to let his best players barnstorm at the height of the season. But Ruth said he would deal with it.

“‘Well, he must have been pretty persuasive because it wasn't long before he called Mr. Carrigan back. Ruth told him that Huggins said he would spare Ruth and Gehrig because he figured they'd go ahead and play anyhow. When Carrigan heard that, he immediately offered this year's rookies—all sixteen of them. Then he checked the schedule and drew up a plan. As you can imagine, everyone was flabbergasted. Here is what they are going to do:

“‘The Yankees are playing four games against Boston, at Fenway
Park, from August 6 to 9. So Carrigan suggested August 9 would be the best time to fit in the charity ball game. They would play in the afternoon at Fenway. Then they could take a little break before playing a few innings for the charity event. The stadium would be full anyhow, so this would help ticket sales.

“‘Mayor Roche was thrilled with the news.'”

“I'd be thrilled too,” Uncle Jim said. “What about you fellas?”

“Let me finish, Jim,” Ma said.

Uncle Jim sat back and listened.

“‘Most of the committee members wanted the game be held at Glendale Park, here in Everett. They thought it would be more fitting to have it close to where most of the families affected by the explosion lived. So the mayor had to turn down Bill Carrigan's generous offer of Fenway. Can you imagine, Martha—Babe Ruth and that handsome Lou Gehrig at Glendale Park!'”

“That's our park!” Larry said. “That's where
we
play baseball.”

“What's it say next, Ma?” I said. “How are they going to do it?”

Ma scanned down the page, then continued to read. “‘So after their afternoon game, both teams will be bussed up to Glendale Park. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Bill Carrigan will play for the Knights of Columbus Blues—Mayor Roche's team—against a team of Boston Red Sox rookies. The rest of the Yankees and Red Sox will sit in the stands in full uniform and cheer on the game. The tickets have already sold out, but George managed to nab a few. There's one each for Larry and Pius James, and a money order for the return train trip.'”

“Wow,” I said. “You mean, Larry and I get to go?”

Ma looked over at me and pursed her lips. Then her voice trailed off as she finished reading Aunt Mayme's letter. “George and I would really like the boys to come. They loved it when he and Joe…took them to see the Red Sox play…'” Aunt Mayme was referring to the last time
Dad had been at Fenway Park. To the game he took Larry and me
to, the one where Babe Ruth had signed my baseball. And I was still wondering where Ma had put it.