The Cassidy Posse by D. N. Bedeker Read Free Book Online Page B

O’Shay hanging around the men talking on the corner, waiting for one to throw away a cigarette butt from which two boys could steal a few more desperate puffs.
    He pushed the gate at his mother’s place and it moved only far enough that he be permitted to enter. It was one of the many things he should fix but never seemed to find the time. When his father was alive, he never had to concern himself with such mundane tasks. The old man was overjoyed when something broke so he had the opportunity to roll up his sleeves and attack the problem. He would grumble and cuss and beg the saints for patience but would enjoy every minute of it. He noticed that his mother had already been out in the garden preparing the soil for another planting. Mike stood on the porch a moment considering the freshly turned earth, relieved that spring was here.
    “Hey, where’s me darlin’ mother,” he shouted as he came through the door without knocking.
    “Your darlin’ mother tis over here darnin’ her ungrateful son’s socks, if yuh must be knowin’,” came a reply from the parlor. “Even a lowly sot from County Mayo would be showin’ more respect.”
    Mike swept off his hat with a dramatic flurry and knelt in front of the gray-haired woman hunched over in a chair. He picked up each hand and kissed it elaborately.
    “Right you are mother dear and bless these precious hands that keep the cold ov uh Chicago winter from nippin’ young Michael McGhan’s wee little toes.”
    “Young, indeed,” she said scornfully pulling her hand away from him. “I got uh son thirty-two yars ov age without the least prospects ov marriage. Thet is uh grim thought fer a poor widow woman whose husband has already passed fer his reward. There will be no grandchildren tuh carry forth the McGhan name.”
    “Grandchildren!” Mike drew back, feinting surprise. “I have two sisters producing litters of grandchildren. Why, on Sunday I can scarce move through this house for all the nieces and nephews under foot. Sure but ye’re blessed with grandchildren.”
    “Dun’t be dancin’ aroond the issue, Michael. You know watt I mean. There will be no one tah carry on the proud name ov yer blessed father, may his soul rest in peace.”
    “Now, mother, you know yer only son is much like yer dearly departed husband. The apple never falls far from duh tree. The more yuh pester a hard-headed Irishman about somthin’, the less likely he is tuh ever do it.”
    “Harriet Flanagan broke up with Jack Daley last week,” she continued without missing a beat. “I always felt it wuz a crime fer thet fine girl to be weddin’ the likes uh him. When thet man drinks, there’s uh dee-vil in him. The Irish curse is on him sure.”
    “I dun’t mean tuh be critical ov yer judgment Mrs. McGhan but have yuh noticed that dear Harriet has been fillin’ out some ov late.”
    “She ah fine full figure ov uh woman, Michael McGhan,” his mother retorted defensively. “A healthy lass able tuh bear uh dozen children and do uh good day’s wark in the bargain.”
    “Oh, I’ll give yuh thet,” chided Mike. “She is healthy and then some.”
    “I am supposin’ thet yer taste runs towards the skinny side like thet hussy Nell Quinn.”
    The mischievous smile disappeared from Mike’s face. She was tired of being toyed with and broached the subject that had kept them at odds for the past year. He folded his hands and looked at her patiently. She met his gaze, bristling with self-righteousness.
    “Mother,” he began with resignation, “why do you insist on bringin’ up Nell? I’ve told you over and over that I simply look after duh girl. She’s with uh bad lot down there on duh levee and I just keep an eye on her. It’s no more than I would do fer any poor lass from Bridgeport thet had fallen upon hard times.”
    “Tell me alot ov tall tales, Michael, but dun’t be poortrayin’ Nell Quinn as uh victim. Thet girl’s got the schmin’ heart ov a bathhouse poletician and