Dorothy's Winter of 1929

                     DOROTHY’S WINTER OF 1929

The evening before he died, Daniel O’Hara barged through the door, a dust-bowl storm of rage filling the room. Mary and the children watched wide-eyed, not breathing, waiting for his next move. Cowering in the corner of the kitchen, Dorothy saw her father’s face turn crimson red with violence and hate and knew someone in the room would be his victim, and most likely it would be her.

“What the hell are you standing around for, stupid girl, take that trash downstairs before I throw you and the trash out the window!” Slamming his fist on the table, glaring at Dorothy with drooped eyelids on a red face, he was close enough for his spittle to land on her hand.

“Yes Papa, I’m sorry” she answered, stepping quickly away before he could shout at her again.

Dan often came home from the bar in a foul mood, taking the daily strife of the family burden out on his wife and children, with particular focus on his eldest child, Dorothy.

Angry that she was not a boy who would be working by now, helping feed the family, he focused his anger on the mild-mannered child.

Dorothy should have taken the trash out before he came home, but in the excitement to tell her mother about choir rehearsal for the school Christmas pageant, she took too long, and he came home early.

Years of abuse taught her what to look for. There was a pattern before the explosive outburst. Her father became briefly quiet, staring at the infraction, then erupt, spewing his hate and anger so loudly her ears hurt and her heart pounded. It never took much to set him off, the slightest word or action. Dropping a fork on the floor was cause for cursing.  Crooked lines, uneven rows, forgetfulness, disorder, all reasons for slapping her face, pushing her to the floor, or shoving her into a wall, looking at her with disdain when she fell. 

Sometimes certain there would be no reason for an outburst, too often she was wrong. It came unexpectedly for no apparent reason, anytime, anywhere, with or without provocation.  Dorothy lived on the edge, ducking her head instinctively if a hand came too close. She hid in her room when she was able, hoping he would forget about her. She listened for his footsteps coming down the hallway. Fear manifested itself in physical eruptions of trembling hands and shaking legs. She was terrified of him.

Her mother did not defend her.

On the eve of her 14^th birthday, Dorothy Fitzpatrick stood over her father’s unadorned pine coffin in the pouring rain of November 27, 1929, his incessant lament over her uselessness consuming her thoughts.  Filled with a sense of shame and failure, she blamed herself for his death, simultaneously fearful of what lay ahead.

“If you don’t quit school, I’ll go down there and quit for you! I need you to work! You’re wasting your time in school. You’ll never amount to anything more than a laundress. If I had a son your age, he’d already be bringing money into this house!” But I’m stuck with you, a simple-minded, dimwitted girl pretending she has value. You want to be of use to me girl? get a job!”

Rain dripped from the veil of the small, black out-of-fashion hat tipped slightly to one side of her head. She plucked out a red rose to bring home before throwing the bouquet on the coffin of the thirty-seven-year-old. Shivering in the raw air, Dorothy pulled the black coat tighter around her slim body, brought her shaking knees together and arms closer to her ribs. Her feet made a squishing noise as she maneuvered through the puddled ground in her Sunday best shoes.

After her father’s death from a heart attack, Dorothy had no choice but to quit school and search for work.

Her father left no life insurance for the family. Generously his mother gave the family enough for the first few months to pay the rent and put food on the table, money she had taken from meager savings.

But as Dorothy’s mother lay dying of cancer, the money ran out, and Dorothy panicked over how they would manage. Her mother was too sick to be bothered with such a disagreeable subject. The church and some relatives helped out with food, but the rent fell behind.

The girl kept the home together, cooking meals, cleaning, and watching the kids, as cancer worsened. When Her mother’s pain became unbearable, she took the kid’s outside to play. Long walks around the neighborhood provided a short reprieve from the torment of watching their mother die.

The following May, as the lilacs blossomed, 38-year-old Mary O’Hara lay cold, dead, ready for the pauper’s grave near her husband. Her fifteen-year-old daughter stared, transfixed, as the men lowered the body into the ground. Dorothy was unable to rid herself of the image of disgust on her mother’s tortured face.

 “You’ll never find a man. Your father was right, nobody’s going to want you. You don’t have what it takes to get ahead, you’re too weak. If you’d helped your father, he’d be alive now, instead of working himself into the grave.” I don’t know what you’ll do when I’m gone, you can’t take care of yourself, how can you take care of your brothers and sisters? God have mercy on you.”

A few friends from the button factory where her mother worked prior to the birth of John James, and relatives from her father’s family attended the funeral. Mourners politely gave their condolences. Dorothy watched as each one left the graveside, hoping someone would offer help with the children, or tell her how to survive this catastrophe.

The reality of her mother’s death left her stunned, in silent shock, feelings of guilt overwhelming her. Alone and unprepared for what was ahead she left the graveside and walked to McCaffrey’s to buy a loaf of bread with the last seven cents from her mother’s change purse.  

The day after Mary’s funeral, fraught with uncertainty, Dorothy paced her bedroom floor, chewing what was left of her nails.  Her mind raced from one idea to another, finally deciding on a visit to the Parish Priest, hoping for his guidance and support.

Father Donaghy brought her to the Rectory of the Church of the Immaculate Conception, where he handed her $10 from the emergency fund to tide her over until she found work. Father reminded her the Lord would watch over her and her brothers and sisters if she remained faithful.

“God has given you this challenge because he knows you’re capable of seeing it through. Do not disappoint him.” Father said.

He held her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes, “Trust in the Lord” he instructed.

Dorothy left the church feeling guilty that Father had expressed faith in her ability to care for the children when she knew it to be untrue. She was a fraud, an imposter, pretending to be up to the task. Hearing her mother’s words “you can’t take care of yourself, how can you take care of your brothers and sisters?” She knew her mother was right.

The worn wooden steps creaked as she climbed to the third-floor apartment of the run-down building, in the poorest section of town, just outside of Boston. She felt for the doorknob in the dark hallway and slowly turned it, opening the oak door to their small, cold apartment.

Dorothy pulled out a pack of her mother’s stale Lucky Strike cigarettes, before dropping her bag and the bread on the counter. Collapsing into the kitchen chair to light up, she absentmindedly blew out the flame and tossed the match in an ashtray filled with Mary’s old butts.

Cousin Joe taught Dorothy how to blow smoke rings last fall, out in the train yard behind their house. Mesmerized by the rings floating through the air, becoming larger as they descended, she was quickly jolted back to reality, when she heard twelve-year-old sister Charlotte’s words faintly coming through the fog in her mind.

“Here, these are from Edith. She and Warren couldn’t make the funeral”, Charlotte told her, holding the wilted mix from the downstairs neighbor.

“Can you put them in a glass with some water, for me?”

“What?”

“Put them in water," Dorothy instructed, flatly.

 Dressed in Dorothy’s hand-me-down faded green dress with white roses, the girl appeared frail as Dorothy looked over at her.  Dark brown hair hung in greasy strings around her sunken cheeks.

“You eaten today?”

“No” Charlotte murmured

“Why don’t you find something, I bought bread, make a bologna sandwich,” Dorothy said softly.

Charlotte stared expressionless through vacant eyes at her older sister, and after a moment of dwelling on Dorothy’s words, reached for a glass from the cupboard over the porcelain sink. As she turned, Dorothy, unable to tolerate the irritation of the constant drip, jumped up, inserting herself between Charlotte and the sink, and pushed the faucet away from the pile of plates.

“Sorry,” Dorothy said, almost knocking her sister over, who dropped the glass smattering it in pieces on the porcelain. 

Without saying a word, Charlotte shoved past Dorothy and stomped into the living room.

Charlotte had been close to their mother. Throughout her illness, Charlotte sat at the end of the couch, reading from the few novels stacked in the bookcase; Anne of Green Gables, David Copperfield, Little Women. They discussed each chapter, voicing their opinions, agreeing and disagreeing. Their books transported them from the evil reality of cancer to places far away filled with happiness and hope.

Charlotte was the image of their mother, dark hair, narrow nose, thin lips, and sad eyes. They shared an emotional bond that Dorothy and her mother did not. Dorothy felt the glaring difference but secreted it deep within herself. 

In the front room, still in her pajamas, ten-year-old Phyllis rocked in her late grandmother’s mahogany chair, her feet not touching the floor, watching seven-year-old Myrtle and five-year-old William.  Two-year-old John James was in the adjoining bedroom, napping.  Rain tapped on the windows of the small, sparsely furnished living room, while William burrowed in their mother’s feather pillow and worn woolen blanket, still on the couch from the day the ambulance took her. Myrtle sat cross-legged on the floor, her thumb stuck securely in her mouth under a runny nose, her doll tucked into her mother’s grey corduroy slipper.

Phyllis stared blankly at her younger sister, unsure of what to do or say. The children had not gone to the funeral; Dorothy worried they would remember the horror of their mother being lowered into earth moving with worms and insects, soon to feast on what was left of her body. She told them funerals were for adults, no children were allowed. Charlotte cried, she wanted to go. She wanted to say goodbye one last time.

When Dorothy appeared in the living room, the three young children ran to her.  Timidly wrapping her arms around them, she was emotionally paralyzed, offering no words of comfort. She had no idea how to console the orphans, she had no frame of reference. The product of scorn and neglect herself, she lacked the ability to provide a sense of safety and security to these young souls. They looked up at her, waiting in expectation. She stood still, unmoving, silent. 

One by one the children left her standing alone in the room, feelings of tremendous failure washing over her again. She hated herself, her body, her mind, her lack of intelligence.

She couldn’t explain how she needed them more now than ever, or how important they were to her, the whole of her family, all that was left.

It was all up to her now; become mother and father. Consumed with overwhelming anxiety and enormous fear of inevitable defeat, she was afraid she would make a wrong decision, afraid she was not up to the task. She wanted to run. She had nowhere to go.

Dorothy spent hours considering how she could both work and care for the children properly. If she left the children with Charlotte after school, until she got home at night, John James still posed a problem.  She decided to ask Edith from downstairs if she would watch the two-year-old during the day until Charlotte got home.

Edith and Warren’s three children and eight grandchildren came to visit every Sunday. Dorothy heard the laughter when she listened in the hallway and longed for a family as happy and loving.

The aroma of meatballs and homemade sauce on the back burner filled the kitchen and second-floor hallway. On Sundays when their three children and eight grandchildren came to visit, Edith baked homemade Italian bread. 

She baked an extra loaf when she could for Dorothy and her family, knowing they struggled to survive.

“Dorothy, I did it again! I made too much bread. Please take this so I don’t have to throw it out. It would be a shame to waste it.”

 Dorothy loved the warmth and coziness of Edith’s kitchen. And the kind neighbor always invited her to stay for a meatball, while she wrapped the bread. 

When Dorothy arrived at the second-floor apartment after the funeral, Edith met her at the door and put her arms around her. 

“I’m so sorry Dorothy. I hope Charlotte told you we couldn’t make it. Warren isn’t well and I didn’t dare to leave him. Dear child, have you eaten anything?”

Edith led the girl to a chair and motioned for her to sit, while she made her a ham sandwich and poured hot water over the teabag in her favorite blue porcelain cup.

Dorothy found Edith’s kindness overwhelming and began to sob.

When she composed herself again she was able to explain her need to go to work and how she had no babysitter for John James.

“Please Edith, I don’t know what to do, I don’t have no one else to ask,” Dorothy begged

“Don’t you have a family?” Edith asked

“Yeah, but none of them talk to us. Ma had a fight or something with them, and they hate us. I don’t know, could you please, Edith?”

“Alright, I’ll watch him, but only until you can find somebody else. I’m too old and too tired for watching kids.” Besides, I have my own problems with Warren being sick and out of work.” Edith told her.

Knowing this was only a temporary solution, she sat with Charlotte to explain what she had in mind, and told her they would try this for a while until she could come up with a better plan. Charlotte patiently listened, then questioned,

“If, Papa and Ma could barely take care of us, how are you going to do it?” “You don’t know how to take care of a family. You won’t make as much money as Papa did. How can you pay for everything? What will you do, sell fruit? How much money will you make?

“I don’t know Charlotte” Dorothy answered, impatient with Charlotte’s negativity.

“But I’m going to try.”

Dorothy put more coal on the fire and sat to consider her options.

Burying her head in her hands she thought, “this is my worst nightmare.”