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A New World
A Novel
Robert M. Keane
A New World
A Novel
Copyright © 2018 Robert M. Keane. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-5372-8
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-5373-5
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-5374-2
Manufactured in the U.S.A. 08/20/18
Chapter 1
The Meaghers lived on Brush Avenue in Riverdale, a neighborhood of tree-lined streets in the Northwest section of the Bronx. When the father and the son got home they walked up the path single-file to their two-story brick home. The father, walking ahead, was a tall, large-shouldered Irishman, still handsome at fifty-nine, with black hair and blue eyes. The son, nineteen, was very nearly a physical copy of the father, without the wrinkles around the eyes or the thickening at the waist.
Florence heard the door open, and stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, you’re home.” She was Mr. Meagher’s daughter, the woman of the house, for the mother had been dead for nineteen years.
Mr. Meagher passed through the foyer into the living room, then the dining room, and then into the kitchen, where he opened an upper cabinet and took down a bottle of Old Overholt whiskey. Florence watched him pour out two ounces and drink it down. She was surprised. He almost never drank except at parties.
“Daddy, do you mind if we eat early?”
“Why so?”
“I have so much to do this afternoon.”
“It’s alright with me.”
The father, son and daughter sat down to the table in the dining room, a room dark even now in mid-afternoon in the month of May. Florence gave her brother James a series of orders. “There’s a big order at the A&P that has to be picked up. I shopped this morning but I didn’t bring it all. And the bathroom has to be done. And this week it has to be done right.”
James gave her a sour look. She was four years his senior, a big girl, heavy at the breasts and hips. She had the family blue eyes in a pretty face. “You always wait until he’s in the area before you issue commands,” Jim accused.
Her father cut her short. “We’ll say grace first.” He stood up. “Bless us, O Lord, for these and all thy gifts which we have received from thy bounty through Jesus Christ, our Lord” —he hit hard on the “Our” and “Lord”—“Amen.”
“—and the order has to be picked up tonight,” continued Florence.
James didn’t answer. The father also remained silent. Florence looked at them both. “What’s the matter?” James still didn’t answer.
“He came out to the brewery to me,” said the father, “to tell me he’s been thrown out of college.”
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
James said in a voice loud with exasperation, “I told you, Pop. I haven’t been thrown out of school. I’ve been suspended for two weeks. Two weeks.”
The father turned on him angrily. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, you pup. Whether it’s two weeks, or however long it is, they don’t want you.”
“A lot of guys get suspended. You don’t have to make such a big deal over it.”
“Big deal? Big deal is it? You talk as if it was an honor they gave you. Sure, maybe I’ve been mistaken. Maybe it was an honor they gave you, and me thinking you were in disgrace.”
James threw down his fork, pushed the chair back and started for the other room.
“Sit down there!” the father thundered, his arm pointing to the chair.
James stopped. “I don’t want to eat.”
“Sit down there.”
“I don’t feel like eating.”
“Sit down there! You’ll get up when we’re all finished.”
James sat down again.
“What happened?” Florence asked.
Mr. Meagher answered, “He’s been put down for theft.”
James answered, “I borrowed one of the reference books from the library.”
Mr. Meagher: “He stole it.”
James: “I brought it back already.” He turned to the father. “And it wasn’t stealing.”
“What does suspended mean?” Florence asked.
“It doesn’t mean anything really,” said James. “I don’t go to class for two weeks.”
“The priest wants to see me tomorrow,” said the father.
“What priest?” Florence asked.
“The dean,” said James. “Father Phelan.”
Florence started to cry.
“What are you crying for?” the father asked.
She wouldn’t reply. She covered her face and continued to sniffle.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She was still sniffling.
“Well, your bladder is very close to your eyes if you’re crying and there’s no reason.”
“Everything’s going wrong,” she wailed.
“How does it affect you?” the father asked.
“How does it affect me?” Her eyes were big. “Ralph is coming with his family tomorrow and everything’s in a mess. The house is a wreck. The food is still in the store. Nobody wants to do anything to help. And James is suspended from school. And now you won’t even be here tomorrow. The whole thing is going to be a. . .a. . .fiasco.”
“Won’t I be back for dinner?”
“Well,
