Of Irish Blood by Mary Pat Kelly

lives way out south near Fifty-fifth Street. You wouldn’t know him.” I would have come up with a better name but Henrietta wasn’t really listening, only shaking her head.
    “You’re spoiled. Always have been. And now you’re disgracing the family!”
    “What?” Oh dear God, did she know?
    “Coming in all hours. Riding with the porter, no less!”
    Thank God she’s such a snob.
    “Henrietta, would you give it a rest. I’m going to bed.”
    “And I’m going to wake Mike and tell him what his highfalutin sister’s really like.”
    I grabbed Henrietta’s arm. “Don’t you go near Mike, Henrietta, or I’ll…”
    “You’ll what?” She laughed. Here come the hysterics. But no, she stopped laughing and smiled.
    “You think Mike won’t believe me. But I’ll get proof. I’ve known for a long time you’ve been up to something. I’ll find you out, Nonie. I will.” And just like that, she went up to bed.
    Oh, great. Now I have her stirred up. Jesus Christ. Blessed Mother. Help.
    But the next morning Henrietta said no more so here I am, running for the tram and off to work every morning as always. Though now automobiles clog Archer Avenue. Model Ts mostly. Prices have come down so much working fellows can afford to buy an automobile. Mike says that the man who makes them, Henry Ford, is Irish though Ford doesn’t make much of his heritage. Still Mike felt a kind of connection to Ford or Forde as the name should be spelled, Mike said, when he bought the automobile. Doing very well, Mike is.
    Mike and Ed and their friends have started what they call the Irish Fellowship Club and love to trade stories about successful Irishmen. All the boys in the club are making money and not just from taverns or politics. Look at John M. Smyth with his furniture store, though Mike says it’s a shame he’s not called Murphy so everyone knows he’s Irish. And there are lawyers and doctors falling out of the trees now and building big houses far from the old neighborhoods. A march of new parishes as the Irish on the way up go farther south or west or north, depending on whether they’d started in South, West, or North Side neighborhoods. No more from Henrietta and I’m grateful. Glad almost when August comes and Tim’s gone to Saratoga.
    On Sundays, Mike takes us for spins in his automobile. Henrietta climbs up next to Mike in the front seat of the Model T, while Mart, Annie, Henrietta’s kids, and I fit ourselves into the back, and we cruise the boulevards that link one park to the next. Garfield Boulevard is Henrietta’s favorite. She knows who owns every house.
    SEPTEMBER 1911
    We’re out for our Sunday drive on Garfield Boulevard to see the fancy new houses south of Bridgeport.
    “See, there’s the place Mrs. O’Leary’s son built,” Henrietta says. A lovely fall day—the trees along the avenue bright yellow. Warm.
    “Look there, a bust of her carved into the post for all to see. That’s a devoted son,” Henrietta goes on.
    “Didn’t Mrs. O’Leary burn down the city?” Henrietta’s son Eddie says. We call him Toots—so many Eds in our family.
    “She did not,” Henrietta says. “They blame her just because she’s Irish.”
    Mike says that Mrs. O’Leary’s devoted son makes his money from casinos.
    “Why can’t we buy a big place on the boulevard? Crazy to be still renting in Bridgeport when all the best people are moving out,” Henrietta says to Mike.
    Mike says nothing. “We could be evicted,” Henrietta says. “Just like the people in Ireland.”
    “Never,” I say. “Mike’s put in all those bathrooms for the landlord. He’d beg us to stay.”
    “Why take on a mortgage?” Mike says, and asks Henrietta if she really she wants to leave St. Bridget’s and all her friends.
    “My friends are moving too,” Henrietta says as we get out of our Model T and climb the stairs of 2703. “Nobody’s in the old neighborhoods anymore.”
    “That’s not true, Henrietta,” I say. “Our