With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 03

She glimpsed at Michael's nameplate and with an upward lift of her nose told him where to go without a word. She turned to Mr. Florentino and, with the same pronunciation of O and of My and with the same inflection of X said, "I needa to opena my box."

"Excusa, Signora Enunzio, excusa, uno momento piacere," he said bowing his baldhead to her.

"I needa to opena my box," she repeated with impatient desperation to her voice.

"Of course, Signora Enunzio, of course." He lightly touched her arm to redirect her attention to Michael. "This is Michael O'Leary, transferred from South Boston, he can help you with your—". With a look that wrinkled his tie, she stopped him from speaking any more about Michael O'Leary helping her. He straightened his tie, tugged his vest down over his bulging belly, and buttoned his suit coat. "But, I can help you, today," he said with a flourish of his hand in the manner of a Maitre d' seating an important patron.

Mr. Florentino nodded Michael his exasperation.

"Your son was here, Friday," said Mr. Florentino, "bright and early, as soon as we opened our doors and, as usual, I suspect he'll arrive Tuesday, as well."

She continued walking toward the safety deposit vault without acknowledging his remark.

"I noticed that," he persisted, "when your son comes in on Friday, you come in that Monday, and then he comes in again the next day."

"Childrena, no matta howa olda, wanta money." She turned to him, "I puta in the money and he taka outa the money." Her faced cracked half a smile. "Ehh, whata ya gonna do?"

They disappeared in the vault and Michael heard the cage door of the vault slam shut and lock. Two minutes later, he heard the cage door of the vault squeak open and slam shut. He again heard Mr. Florentino's solicitous, one-sided conversation as they walked by his window to exit the bank.

"That's a beautiful shawl, Signora Enunzio, did you make it yourself or did you import it from the old country? It's quite exquisite. My wife would love to have something a beautiful as that."

"Yes," she said as she fled the bank.

"Yes, what?" Michael wanted to take her by the shoulders and scream in her face. Did you make it yourself or did you import it from the old country? He found it troubling that in the few minutes that he met Mrs. Enunzio that she could illicit that kind of hostile reaction in him.

"Buon Giorno, Signora Enunzio," said Mr. Florentino waving his unacknowledged good-bye. "Ciao!" He returned to his office to await the arrival of the next widow of a terminated Mafioso Don."

"I hope you fall on the sidewalk and break your hip, Mrs. Enunzio," said Michael for no one to hear. If nothing else, relieving some of the stress from her visit, it made him feel better. He waved to her as she walked on the sidewalk by the bank's window hoping that she would never come to his window, again.

Chapter 13 Shannon Kelly-O'Day

Mrs. Enunzio crossed Hanover Street from the North End branch of Earth Bank looking over her shoulder as she walked. She ducked down Richmond Street to North Street between Paul Revere's house and the Callahan Tunnel continuing her way across Commercial Street. Once out of the North End, she quickened her pace heading downtown.

From the waterfront park, she walked past the Meridian Hotel and the New England Aquarium to where she parked her car in a lot behind Faneuil Hall. She found it difficult to walk in the old, black leather shoes she wore and paused at storefront windows to rest her feet and to view the reflection of those behind her. She noted every car, specifically watching for Ford Crown Victorias, the universal, undercover, cop car of the Boston Police and the FBI. As usually, no one followed her. She blended in with the people who passed by her without anyone giving her so much as a look. Despite Florentino's alertness of her banking routine, once again, she had deceived everyone at the bank and retrieved the envelope left for her. She disregarded Florentino's suspicion chalking it up to his busybody nature. Still, she needed to notify her people that it was time to switch banks and time for her to create another disguise, another character, and another identity.

She pushed the traffic signal to cross and waited for the light to change. Without making eye contact, without calling attention to herself, she was aware of everyone who passed by her. A tall, well-dressed man stood beside her to the left. He had the gaunt body of an FBI agent; he could be a cop, but his shoes were too expensive looking and she surmised that he was not a policeman. A woman walking her dog tugged at the leash pulling her dog away just as the dog growled and lunged for her. Startled, Mrs. Enunzio stepped back and felt a light touch on her right side, as a hand took her by the arm.

She turned to look at Father Kilpatrick from Saint Mary's Church in South Boston. Surprised to see him, she wondered what he was doing here so far away from his parish in Southie. She panicked when she remembered that she was dressed as Mrs. Enunzio. Did he recognize her? Was he following her? Does he know about her secret life? What does he want? Of all the people to see, Father Kilpatrick, she hurried to think of an excuse why she wore the disguise of an old woman. She thought to tell him that she was going to a masquerade ball held at the Meridian Hotel that she had just passed or she was hired as an actor in a movie that they are shooting on location in Boston or—"

"May I help you across the street, madam?" They started across the street.

"Oh, Jesus Father, youa frightened me," she said in the practiced voice of Mrs. Enunzio. He did not recognize her. He thinks that she is someone else. "I thought youa werea a mugger aftera mya pursa." She played him along thickening her Italian accent for the benefit of him. "Ita isa not safa to walka the streets alonea anymore."

"You are never alone when walking with God, my dear, but here on Earth, it is safer to have an escort," he said smiling at her. "You looked like you could use some help crossing this busy intersection." He pointed to the light as the walk sign appeared and as they began crossing the street. "It's a quick light and the traffic does not allow you enough time to cross." He held up his hand to hold the traffic and deposited her at the curb. "Go with God, my child," he said walking away in the opposite direction.

"Thank you, Father," she made the sign of the cross and said calling after him, "and peace be with you."

Father Kilpatrick, who baptized her, performed her first communion, her confirmation, married her, and stood by her side giving her his spiritual support when she buried her husband and three children did not recognize her. Born in South Boston and living there most of her life, if Michael O'Leary did not recognize her, little Michael who joined the seminary to forget her, Shannon Kelly, she thought, how would Father Kilpatrick recognize her? She needed to calm down. She was experiencing heart palpations. She was wound too tight with all of this sneaking around in disguise pretending to be someone else.

She continued to her car thinking of Michael. She thought about how she rebuffed him when he asked her to the senior prom. "You're too short," she had said to him, "everyone will laugh at me."

That comment haunted her more than it hurt him, she believed. She wished she had never said that to him, especially after seeing him again after so many years. He turned out so handsome and so kind. She wished she could ask him for his forgiveness. She wished she could go out with him. She wished her life had turned out differently than it did. She wished she had peace instead of a mission.

She thought of her three children and her husband murdered by terrorist as he started their car in front of a Belfast church. The terrorists knew that they were American and wired their car with explosives and murdered her family hoping to get the attention of the United States. She no longer cared if the murderers were Catholic or Protestant; her family was dead. She wished her husband had never gone there. He went with the hope of returning home to Ireland. He felt that the American way was poisoning his children. Besides, he could not find work and hated the hustle of city life. He treasured his memories of his parent's farm in Northern Ireland and thought that a slower, less materialistic life would benefit his children.

Shannon wished her mother had not taken ill, so that she could have made the trip with her family instead of staying home to care for her. She wished she had died with them instead of living now only to seek revenge. She wished Mickey Donovan had never proposed a way for her to get back at those bastards who murdered her innocent children and her husband. What could she do, a grieving widow burying her husband, and inconsolable mother burying her three children; she was ripe for the advances of the IRA. She wished she had accepted Michael's invitation to the prom. She wished she had married him. She wished she were dead.

Once in her car, Shannon removed her black lace shawl and gray wig unraveling her long, red hair. She turned the rear view mirror to see as she pealed off the rubber like skin that stuck to her face, ears, and nose like old chewing gum. She took out the brown contact lenses that concealed her blue eyes and removed the black dress that covered her shorts and top. She kicked off the uncomfortable shoes, finally, and put on her sneakers. She reached in Mrs. Enunzio's big, black handbag and removed a white envelope that contained a winning lottery ticket and placed that on the seat of her car beside her. She folded her costume in a duffle bag and dropped it on the floor on the passenger side of her car. With one hand on the door and the other hand holding the ignition key, she paused. She always paused before starting her car.

No longer could she start her car without thinking of her husband and her three children. The horror of it overwhelmed her. Did they die instantly or did they burn to death in the fire? Did they receive the body of Christ in church that day before they died? If not, did they have time to ask God for his forgiveness for their sins and deliver them to Heaven? She waited wondering and hoping that someone had planted a bomb in her car.

Gently, she inserted the ignition key. Gingerly, she turned it. Her heart erupted with the start of the engine. She shifted to drive and drove home to Hyde Park.

Chapter 14 The North End

Michael missed his customers and missed the neighborhood gossip that made South Boston, Southie. Most of his customers at his new branch were polite, but none were friendly towards him. Their looks of suspicion made him feel like an outsider.

When walking about this unfamiliar neighborhood, he felt the stare of the people who lived in these huddled, brick houses. They made him feel like a trespasser. Sometimes, he caught the movement of a curtain or a blind slat and thought it odd, in a neighborhood this crowded, that he did not see more people about walking and talking. He believed that many residents hid in their homes watching out from inside. He could not help but feel that he was under surveillance from prejudiced eyes that hated him for his orange hair and freckled skin.

He took to wearing hats that when pulled down far enough covered his hair and sideburns and he concealed his freckles by lowering his head and raising his collar. He found alternative ways to work to avoid those people who he felt gave him la maleocchio, the evil eye. Giuseppe, the cobbler, advised him to carry a red, plastic pepper to ward off the effects of the evil eye.

Instead of parking in the lot on Cross Street and walking up Cooper Street, he parked his car on North Washington Street, cut through Stillman Street, across Salem Street, and turned up Parmenter Street to Hanover Street to avoid most residents. Sometimes, if he found a spot on Cooper Street he'd park there bypassing the marketplace all together, but those parking spots were permit parking for the residents of the North End, and he risked a ticket and/or a tow parking there. Besides, the neighbors policed their parking and were not happy with outsiders, especially those with bright orange hair, taking their beloved parking spaces. He used to park on Commercial Street and walk the length of Hanover Street to Earth Bank, but they made that street residential parking too, because too many tourists parked their cars all day to board the tour bus or to walk the red, white, and blue Freedom Trail line, which snaked it's way through the city as a path making sure that tourists never got lost, so long as they did not stray from the path of the Freedom Trail.

Mostly, he parked at the Government Center parking garage and walked the mile to the bank. He had to arrive early to take advantage of the early bird special rate. He hated parking garages, traffic, and commuting and, as he did not need to be at the bank until 8:30 for its 9:00 am opening, he had nowhere to go to kill time. When he worked in South Boston, he had breakfast at Bonnie's Brew and Biscuit, now he sat in his car and read. He did not stop in any of the Italian coffee shops that littered Hanover Street. Once, he went in one for a pastry and everyone in the place turned to stare; he took it outside to eat.

He felt he was under the constant scrutiny of the narrow minds of a small population of ignorant Italians who could not get by their dislike of his nationality, his heritage, his orange hair, and his last name, O'Leary. He hated how they watched him as he approached, stared at him as he passed them by, and without ever acknowledging his "Hello."

Although he saw their glimmers of recognition as he passed by them, few offered him their "Good morning."

In response to their ignorance, he stopped offering them his hellos and good-byes. Yet, uncomfortable snubbing customers and potential customers even when away from the bank, as per McCarthy's customer service training permanently was etched in his brain, he reverted to smiling his hello and waving his good-bye to all who he saw. He relieved his anguish over the issue of their ignorance by assuring himself that he was the better person for not playing their game of rudeness and ignorance.

Now, his face hurt from the smiles that he saved for his most difficult customers, such as Mrs. Enunzio and now used on the Italian citizenry of the North End. He hated saying, "Hi, how are you?" whenever he recognized someone, especially when they walked by him without a response. Yet, he was glad for their silence, as he really did not care to know how they were, anyway.

Still, he hated it when those who could speak fluent English, changed their conversation in his presence to Italian with a heavy Sicilian dialect, which he found impossible to understand. Their ignorance fueled his paranoia, and he believed that they were saying bad things about him. Their side-glances and their unintelligible conversation made him feel that he needed to defend his honor. He comforted himself with the belief that the years that he had invested in the seminary studying for the priesthood were not totally lost. Fluent in Spanish, comfortable with Latin, and able to read and order a meal in French, he had taken only two courses in Italian but, never having the need to speak Italian in South Boston and never having the opportunity to visit Italy, he had forgotten most of what he had learned. He promised to take a course in Italian to find out if they were talking about him and, if they were, to surprise them with Io parle Italiano. Come ti posso aiutare? I speak Italian. How may I help you?"

Except for Hanover Hardware where he met Gabriella, a dark-haired, brown-eyes, olive skinned beauty; he stopped frequenting those neighborhood stores where the owners and employees made him feel uncomfortable. He would rather receive a cold shoulder than an insincere greeting. Obviously, they did not appreciate his business, so he decided give his business to those who appreciate him as a customer. Still, their behavior hurt his feelings and the only way that he knew to get back at them was to stop shopping in their stores. He wished that he could confront those who offended him with their coldness and unfriendliness but the slight was so subtle that they would surely deny it and sometimes he wondered if he imagined it.

When he worked in South Boston, he enjoyed walking the half-mile to work from his house to his job at Neighborhood Bank. He would stop every morning at Bonnie's Brew and Biscuit for breakfast, for the newspaper, and for the latest gossip before heading off to work. Now, working in the North End for Earth Bank, he hated the walk to the bank from where he was forced to park his car because the residential parking made it difficult to park any closer than he did. It did not bother him as much if the weather was good but when it rained or was cold or it snowed, the walk seemed excruciatingly long. Admittedly, the walk from the bank to where he parked his car was better and he always had a bounce to his step because he was going home.

No longer patronizing Angelo's Sub Shop or Maria's Pizza Parlor, he brought his lunch, a lunch that he bought in South Boston and stored in his refrigerator at home. No longer buying fruit at Gino's Market, he bought apples, grapes, and bananas in South Boston and carried them with him to work in his briefcase. He took different streets to avoid walking by their businesses, so that he could save the muscles in his face from freezing in a permanent smiling position after giving the owners his biggest smile. A benefit to his new regime of eating healthier and walking further, he lost ten pounds.

He categorized most of the Italians who he became acquainted with as unfriendly towards anyone not Italian and toward anyone who did not grow up in the North End. Glad that those with red hair were no longer thought of as witches; the people of this neighborhood would have surely burned him at the stake. He wondered if he stayed with Earth Bank, where they would transfer him next, assuring himself that anywhere would be better than here.

Chapter 15 Little Ralphie

Every day of the week, he served the same customers. The customer he looked forward to seeing, the one who he had developed a friendship with was Little Ralphie, the newspaper boy who sold news papers on the corner instead of delivering them door-to-door.

Called Little Ralphie, as opposed to his father, Big Ralphie, a thug who supported his family whenever he made money at the track, Little Ralphie came in daily to deposit whatever money had had earned from his paper-route towards the purchase of a new bike. A waif of a boy with a broken front tooth and a limp from a broken leg that did not correctly heal, Little Ralphie looked in need of a good mean, a long bath, and new clothes. Not regularly washing his hair, he had permanent hat hair from constantly wearing his Red Sox baseball cap that Michael had bought him as a birthday gift. Michael wondered if he wore the cap to bed.

The type of kid who never could stand still, full of nervous energy, Little Ralphie complained about everything. Tired of listening to his complaints, Michael told him not to complain unless he had a solution to the problem. Now, with as many solutions as complaints, he looked forward to their discussions. Little Ralphie so awed him with his questions that Michael found it difficult to keep up with his quest for knowledge.

For some inexplicable reason Little Ralphie was unaware, as Michael asked him, he developed the habit of licking his dirty right hand, only his dirty right hand and never his dirty left hand, as his hands were eternally dirty from the constant contact with newspapers. Then, he would wipe his moist palm across his right eyebrow, never his left eyebrow, and on upward across his forehead to his hairline, moving his cap back with his hand as he went. He repositioned his cap exactly the way it was before he moved it. In the course of a conversation, like a cat cleaning itself, he repeated the same quirky process several times.