1940

     We had all seen the woolly bear caterpillars in vast numbers the autumn before. Gigi had foretold that this winter was going to be bitter. She was always right. I can still see the bright red of my brothers’ ears as we walked into town one cold afternoon. Every Victorian house we passed had the smell of coal furnaces and bacon frying. We had never lived in a stick-built house. Daydreaming of bacon with each step through the snow. Our mouths watered as we wiped ours noses and tried to cover our wind burnt cheeks.

     Fridays were the day we had to get supplies with Pap’s wages. Come Sunday they would surely be squandered to the racetracks. Too poor to ride the street trolley, we walked the three miles to the Centre Market. On the corner of Cromwell Street, I began to hear a hum. A shiny black Coupe Deville is blocking the alley with Reverend Michael peering out of the half rolled down window. Gigi doesn’t trust the priests. She came from old Irish Catholic immigrants. First generation in America, first generation to not attend mass. The others noticed. They always noticed.

     “You tell that grandmother of yours that we can help if she comes to the Parish. There is no reason you children shouldn’t be in school during the week and in pews on Sunday.” I froze. Gigi did not take handouts. She refused charity. She would not live on the Holliness of others. She had always taught us to be leery of strangers. His dark eyes were like fire and brimstone. My brother began pulling on my glove, nudging for us to cross through the alley. But Reverend Michael peered out with one more thought, “I know what’s she does down there, you tell her I said that.” Leaving grey snow misplaced by two tire marks, we nearly escaped the judgment. 

     The sky began spitting snow as we carried a poke each of herbs, tea, chuck roast, pipe tobacco and canned goods. The coal barge steamed onward under the bridge as we crossed it, rocking it side to side. Fearful of heights, my brother squeezed his eyes shut as I guided him across. Gigi was wiping her raw hands on a linen apron around her waist when we got back to the boat. The smell of Russian Caravan Tea brewing filled the air. Spoonfuls of piping hot creamed corn were placed onto the toast, as we quietly settled in by the fire.

    Pulling our coats off to hang on the line, Gigi puts her hand on my forehead to check for a fever. “Yins’ have any trouble in town?” I begin to tell her about Reverend Michael. My brother stood up and puffed his chest out. “Why can’t we ask for help? The man said we could be in school. I don’t want to work at the Nail Factory or the Mill like Pap.” Just like that, a cold wind snapped onto the deck stiffening our backs. Gigi pushed us inside and closed to latch.

     In the safety of the boat, she began to tell us the stories. She heard tales from the mothers and wives who came for her help. The secrets of the Parish. The dangerous men, powerful men. I believed her when she said the children were not safe there. Gigi came from a long line of women who were brave guardians of the little ones. I once heard Gigi tell a woman on the deck about her Grandma Maime. As children, they would all sleep in the same cot as Maime. This was to protect them from their drunken Uncles. 

     We all listened as Pap shuffled out for his shift, clanking his metal lunch box down the ramp as he always did. By the fire we all laid down, mittens and cap still hugging us tightly. I could hear Gigi singing “She moved through the fair”, as she waited on her night reading with another stranger, we will never see.