The harbormaster hollered through cupped hands His voice harsh and cracked in the early morning.  The ragtag children, their legs dangling over the sides of the dark and muddy pier, scrambled to their feet running and whooping back along the crowded boardwalk, dodging tall men in black bowler hats, heads down, small women, hands holding too many things, bonnet ribbons whipping about their busy heads. A couple of scrawny mutts trailed after the boys, patchy brown fur crusted with heaven knew what.

A large ship, black and white, its tall smokestack red against the grey sky was just visible in the morning fog that had yet to burn off. The SS Antonia had limped its way into New York harbor that cool April morning in 1929. Its journey had been long, its passengers boarding from Liverpool to Queenstown to Alexandria until finally – New York, the land of prosperity and good fortune. The blackest of souls can disappear into the “New World” and dreams can take root and grow. Tummies will be filled; heads will rest on pillows of goose down. Eyes will alight on the the statue, its wise eyes frozen in welcome.

The pier was thronged with people waving and yelling, greeting family and friends, gawking at the sheer size of the Antonia. A tall young man wearing dark brown wide-legged trousers, a cotton button-up shirt the color of eggshells, under a threadbare gray woolen sweater and a Norfolk coat with large patch pockets slowly made his way down the precariously tilting gangplank and onto the moaning pier. His brown, flat woolen cap was drawn low over his eyes. Over his shoulder was slung a patched brown satchel made of tweed.

Behind him bounced another young man. His blue eyes were alive and lifted to the sky, his smile wide and hungry.  He did not look down, or up, he looked everywhere his eyes could take in, feasting on the sights, the colors, the sounds, the faces. The tall buildings lining the docks, the smoke circles ringing the stacks. The carts waiting on the cobbled side streets, buggies too. Filled with hard men puffing on old brown cigars. Women smiling and winking holding their long cotton dresses above their ankles. Older woman held soft cloth to their noses and muttered prayers in Gaelic, in Yiddish, in Italian, in Spanish and German, the sounds humming together like bees.

He clapped his more solemn companion on the back. “Ah, Joe weel you look at this place!”. His voice was dotted with an Irish lilt and sang out musically from a boyish mouth.  His companion, Joe, did not respond. They made their way slowly though the crowd until they were butted snugly up against a patched stone wall, the southern wall of a bike shop called F. Lombardi and Sons, the tattered marquee read.  They remained on Bay Street for quite some time simply taking in the quality of the color and spectacle of the city.

The sky was as blue as the egg of a robin and the air clamored with scents. Sea water, fish, fresh baked bread, sweat, and something a little less savory that Joe could not place. He looked up at the sky and at once all the sounds and flashes seemed to fade away. The echoes of civilization began to grow fuzzy and his eyes sought only the blue sky. How like a sky over another place, he thought, a quiet tug in his heart.

Joseph Patrick Finnegan was a tall and slender young man of 21 years. His skin had the softness of a babe but his hands were large and calloused from work on his father’s farm and peat fields. He was clean shaven and his eyes were the green of the River Liffey in County Kildare. His hair was a dark brown, thick and full of waves. It stuck out at various angles under his cap, unruly and wild. Quite the opposite of the young man himself who was quiet, tended toward broodiness, and was very devout.

His companion, Robert Jamie McNeely, was a head shorter than Joe and stocky. His arms were thick with muscle and he made up for his stature with balls as big as brass. He wore brown homespun trousers similar to Joe’s, a patchwork coat over a brilliant blue cable-knit sweater. His brogues were scuffed and his hat was askew. He blue eyes lit up his face and deepened his dimple. His hair was the color of wheat and currently windblown.

Bobby could tell that Joe was away. Away in his mind’s eye for a moment and he was content. Unlike Bobby, Joe had not wanted to leave their home. But there was no work and no work meant no pound notes nor guineas.  No income meant no home and hearth for a wife and bairns. And for Joe, no true happiness.

Joe’s mother had died when he was 10. It was a strain of influenza that struck Ireland in 1918. It was a long and hard time while she was ill and he remembered it clearly. But he remembered her more. Her soft brown curls, her dark sloe eyes, and her smile. The coolness of her skin. The way she would place her thumb and forefinger against his cheek and stare into his eyes. She’d known his soul.

Joe and Bobby had been inseparable since they were small boys. Bobby’s cottage was just up the lane from Joe’s farm and they’d spent about as much time at each other’s supper table as their own. Joe’s mother had taught both boys their letters. Bobby could get by when he needed to but for Joe, the world of reading meant escape. When the boys were 21 they made plans to pack up and travel to the Americas. Bobby left behind his parents and his two younger brothers and Joe, just his father. His father had wanted him to go. Sometimes Joe thought that just the mere sight of him made his father’s eyes well with unshed tears. So like his mother he was, so like Anne

Next Chapter: Lyllian, November 2016 Friday, Seattle