Pittsburg’s Ashes

Grey Skies Overhead

I wrote this short story with the flavor of old-time Pittsburg, the poverty my grandmother and father grew up in, and the heavy flavor of the Church on young, poor, immigrant families. It is a bit dark, but I was pleased with the word pictures I laid.

Pittsburgh air has a particular taste, I think. If you roll and click your tongue, you can almost catch it, the taste of iron, the cough of soot, a lingering touch of grease. Pittsburgh; a dark town, rich town, poor town, forsaken town bustling with a thousand immigrant stories. Waves of burly rough fresh off the boat men, swallowed into the mines, to the fiery steel mills, to the endless railroads and consumed whole. Women too, we begin with young love, a freshness and are ground into the land all while breathing this toxic soup of misplaced hope. But Pittsburgh has its success stories too. For the few rarified rich, it is a town of unimaginable wealth, of human capital ripe for the picking, human building blocks used to create empires. The rich, they glitter with all the sparkle of gold and diamonds and though they create giant citadels of learning, I doubt that a few good deeds will secure their place in the world to come. If they can map my life, my children’s life before we were born, I can map their life end trajectory too. May the rich find their place before the judgment bema and look for absolution, to be rewarded for the deeds of their lives.

            Back when I was newly married, I would stand by the road and watch the men go to work, lunch pails in hand, walking mightily to the trolley. Even my Henry had wide and wonderful dreams, and we would lie in bed at night planning for a prosperous and happy future. Henry was not to work in the steel factory for the rest of his life, oh no, our dream was to start a little corner grocery store as soon as we could save up a bit of money.

            As the years past, I watched through my window the young walked by with a spring in their steps, still hopeful of their life to come, while the old trudged with slow burden. Henry and I did not talk about the grocers much anymore, he just quietly and dutifully took his lunch from me in the morning. Rain or shine, bitter cold or burning heat, he would catch the trolley in the early morning and not return until late night, to eat a quick supper before falling tired to sleep. Like his father before him, he worked the mill with responsible feet. All the women of the street knew that in the steel factories, some men come back at the end of their shift, while others did not. A funeral is held, a memorial lunch, and the next day, a new batch of men take their place. Life is cheap, and there is always another woman’s husband or son to take their place.

A woman breathes the same air, dark and polluted as it is, we need to breathe. It takes its toll on us too, makes us act in ways that are not the proper way to act. I blame it, even though I know that it is of little excuse. In my life, I too have had to make quick and cold choices, ones that I know are not right. I admit as that much as a woman. Take my Paul. A mother is not supposed to have favorites, and I hold that to be true, but I will admit in the dark of night that my youngest son Paul is my favorite. Flesh of my flesh, his life is paid for with the price of my soul and that makes him precious to me.

            When I first began to think and worry about the maybe of him, we already had four young ones, Mary Elizabeth, Thomas, John, and little Agnes. God’s gifts are a blessing, but it is hard to understand them as such, when the house knows hunger. The way the dollar was squeezed in our house was a scandal, and I made every penny scream as it left my purse. Still, it was never enough. I knew what Henry, my husband, may he Rest in Peace, meant when he told me to go to the neighbor lady. I have never been a bold woman, and I know my place, but I said I would tell the priest if he made me do such a sin. It was just as well that I fought for Paul because he was my last baby. Henry, may he Rest in Peace, hurt me so much the night I refused him that, that I never could have another little one. It was a miracle that Paul survived that night, it was only under the covering of the Blessed Mother who protects the innocent, that he did.

            Maybe Henry was repentant about his “mistake” as he called it, I could see the sorrow in his eyes as they followed me around the house, and the air was ripe with unspoken apologies.

Henry was the one who called the neighbor lady for me, hiding at the end of the bed until she roughly pushed him away out of the room. She had come at once, maybe even before we called, because she was already ready, when Mary Elizabeth ran breathless to her house in the middle of the night. The lady was a sly one she was, long widowed, and not blessed with children. It was rumored that her husband was a cruel and unrepentant man who had gone out for a pint one day and never returned home. She lived alone in a small, cluttered house up the street, and came when called to help with births and other whispered things. She saw at once what Henry had done, it was hard to miss, and all too common at that time too. It hurt so much, even after she had mixed and gave me a dark drink made from the powder from an envelope in her bag. “Shhhh”, she told me as she tightly held my hand, “It will be alright, momma, I see this young one’s soul, it’s bright and strong, he will grow to be a good man”. She leaned in and looked in my eyes, “Still his hold in this life is weak, what will you give to save him? Think wisely before you promise, it will be a heavy price on you, but given freely in the end he will live”.

            I lay there bleeding dark into our white wedding sheets, and I would like to blame the heavy air in the room for my evil, but I cannot, I made it of my own free choice. With hatred in my heart, I said I would pay anything, even my soul. She smiled, and then though I cannot remember it clearly, wove and weaved a small silver stick and cup over my womb, humming quietly as she did so. In my half-awake state, I saw a flash of red and gold like she was capturing some ethereal insect. I felt a sharp pain as she pulled the murderous hatred that burned inside of me out and then a dull welcome relief as she withdrew her cup. She gathered her various salves and potions and returned them into her dark and cavernous bag. As she left, she gently placed her hand on Henry’s shoulder, and leaned and whispered something softly into his ear. I did not catch what she said, and I never had a chance to ask him.

            In the morning, Henry slowly got ready for work. He moved as an old man, as if the weight of the world was upon him. Maybe it was at that. A man feels a burden just like a woman, we just have different flavors of suffering. Henry looked into our bedroom before he left and gave me a rough kiss on the forehead. I turned my head, unwilling to look him in the eyes. Eyes that I knew were sometimes kind, sometimes sad and sometimes cruel. Could I have stopped my hatred? Should I have? Would forgiveness have stopped the actions I put into play? I don’t know and I will wonder until the day I die.

            I never did have the chance to see his eyes in life again. I take comfort that his end was quick, there would not have been time for him to scream before he died. The line workers were not sure what happened to cause the accident. It, of course, was not unexpected or rare either, the way the workers ran from one end to another in the factory while frantically trying to keep up with the relentless line was a sin. That day, the pig iron bucket had cracked as it carried its great molten load to the smelting furnace, raining great sheets of molten metal down upon Henry. At the funeral, Henry’s coffin held no remains, and the priest’s words were like buzzing bees. I held on to my children’s hands, as one by one, the funeral attendees offered empty comfort. The neighbor lady came last through the line and nodded at me. In my womb, Paul kicked for the first time, testament to life continued, and a life paid for.

            Every Sunday, until Paul was born, I would offer two candles to the Virgin, one for the little one to come, and one for the soul of my departed Henry, may he rest in peace. It must have worked, or maybe it was my payment received, but my Paul is a big strong man with a family and little ones of his own. He is a good man, and it is a wonder that out of curse and cruel pain, Henry and I made such a pure soul. The neighbor lady has gone on to her reward, and I will go soon too. I twist my memory of that night in my mind, thinking about the two paths that I had, and the one I choose. I cannot know for sure, but I suspect I paid for Paul’s life with part of my soul and dammed Henry’s with my curse. Maybe it all happened in my imagination, but my intent was clear, and the price was well mapped. I do not know how God will judge me or indeed if I can hope that God is a God of mercy.

            I still light two candles every Sunday, one for Henry, and one for me. I don’t know if such measures make any sense. How can the wrath of God be ammoniated by a small flame offered by sinners? The Holy Church holds faith that they can receive forgiveness by such means, but I cannot follow the logic. Surely, our sins waft into the air and the blood that we shed cries for justice out from the land. I kneel at the church alter and watch as the flames and the smoke from the candles curl towards the quiet unspeaking heavens. As if the souls of the dead had leave traces of flesh as they leave the world. I could plead I had no idea what would happen but I would be lying.  Women and men hope their evil ways lay hidden in the dark and swear frantically that it isn’t so when exposed. Still, it gives me comfort that he survived, there are few who can say what we do in passion leads to anything good.