Trouble and a Stepfather (Click most images for larger versions.)
Mother and I sailed on the ship St. Louis.
At least that's what records show. The boat sailed out of Liverpool, but whether we traveled to Liverpool to board her or whether she took-on passengers in Ireland, I can't say; all I know is I didn't get left behind. As I said, I have no memory of the return voyage, except for a vague, fog-enshrouded Statue of Liberty, which might be a memory or a contrivance. Either way, Ellis Island's records show Mother arriving on December 31, 1916.
(New Year's Eves prove to be significant in my life, as you will see.)
The St. Louis' ship register makes mention of me, in fact, makes just as much mention of me as Mum. So, I don't know why I didn't rate at least an asterik on Mother's Ellis Island entry.
Back in New York, we moved into a terribly small, two room Manhattan apartment above a corner grocery store on Amsterdam Avenue, somewhere twixt 96th and 104th Streets, one block from Broadway. The main room was a big, square kitchen-living space and we did everything there, except sleep. We did that in the tiny rear bedroom, both of us in the same decrepit bed. The bathroom was out in the hall, so at night we used a chamber pot...at least for "number one." The apartment was much too small, however, for a curious, unattended four-year old, which was the case when Mother left for work.
I would wander the neighborhood, seeing what people were doing, talking to anyone who paid attention, entering doors that were open, and making the acquaintance of local merchants. The kindlier ones gave me candy, but others would just roughly shoo me off without ceremony; they didn't want a "street urchin" hanging around, pestering customers (I guess you could say this was my Dickensian period). I never thought anything of it; wandering the streets seemed so much better than sitting in a hot, sticky apartment, staring at the walls. But, when Mother began working as a live-in maid for Enrico Caruso, I wouldn't see her for days. So, she left me with her brother, Patrick, and his wife, Kitty.
Unfortunately, Patrick worked and Kitty had her hands full with household chores, so I always managed to get out and get into trouble. It was just that sitting around their apartment was almost as boring as sitting around ours. I had to get out or go crazy!
One day, I caused quite a stir when I happened to walk into a classroom, disrupting the teacher's lesson. I don't know what lesson I interrupted, but the public school was only a block from Patrick's apartment, so it had to happen sooner or later. I can't remember how long my wandering's lasted, but an infamous misadventure finally brought them to an end.
It might have been a Sunday morning, although I guess Catholics celebrate mass every day. At any rate, I was walking up Amsterdam Avenue when I think music tempted me to wander into a Catholic church, probably Church of the Ascension on West 107th Street, which is right at the intersection with Amsterdam. Several people were lined up down the aisle, so I joined them. Of course, they were queued for Holy Communion. I had no idea what it was but, never one to refuse food, I opened my mouth with the rest of them. When the priest placed the host on my tongue, however, I didn't like the way it tasted, so I spit it out. People nearby sucked in their breath in a collective gasp. The murmuring brought me to the attention of the priest, who picked up the wafer, grabbed me by the arm, and led me to his office.
I didn't know it was a blasphemy. I was too young to understand what that meant, but Mother knew. I was known or recognized, and word sent out. Heck, for all I know, it might have been the church Mother attended. I don't remember, but when she got there, she was apoplectic with me and devoutly apologetic with the priest. Any punishment I might have received has long since vanished from my memory, but the ultimate outcome was an end to my rambling. My uncle must have kept me under lock and key, because I don't remember ever being out alone again, not until I was much older. I only got to go out on Sundays.
Every Sunday I spent with Patrick and Kitty, following my communion debacle, Patrick would make me go for long, grueling walks with him around the Central Park reservoir, what they now call the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. I hated it, and for all I know those walks were my punishment. They surely felt like it. It was pure agony. Uncle's legs were so long and mine so short, but he wouldn't slow down; I had to struggle to keep up. And it was such a long way around the reservoir. Tears were in my eyes by the time we finished. Even now, when I think back, I can still feel how wobbly and sore my legs would get, and the cramps that hit me in bed those nights.
It occurs to me that my inauspicious introduction to church and Sundays might have something to do with my lack of religious leanings today. Cause and effect? Over the course of my life, I've tended to follow the lead of whomever I was with when it came to religion, but once on my own, I tried the Unitarian Universalist Church—I loved the Santa Paula pastor, Marjorie Leaming. I was searching for something more meaningful than the religions I had tried, something more in line with the Unity philosophy and the teachings of Emmet Fox—I used to listen to their radio programs, and I still have some of his colorful little pamphlets. Lately, however, and after having attended Christian Science services with my second husband, I've come to think of myself more as an agnostic, for want of a better term. I believe there is some form of universal consciousness, if only a collective one, but I don't think any religion's tenets encompass "It." My son, Bob, likes to quote Carl Jung, who said, "Religion is a defense against a religious experience." But, I've always kept a copy of a quote that I agree with by Bertrand Russell:
"I think our own hearts can teach us no longer to look around for imaginary supports, no longer to invent allies in the sky, but rather to look to our own efforts to make this world a fit place to live in instead of the sort of place that the churches, in all these centuries, have made it."
• • •
The other clear memory I have, while living in that small apartment with Mother, is the night World War I ended: November 11, 1918, later to be called Armistice Day. I was five years old, but some scenes are still clear in my mind.
I remember being wakened by noise from outside. Mother and I went to the window, confused and wiping sleep from our eyes. We looked out to see lots of bright lights and fireworks, and a large mob hooting and hollering in the street. Celebrants blew horns, fired guns, and pierced the night with loud cries and sharp whistles. I can still hear the din.
It was frightening. I didn't know what was going on, but Mother grew excited. She wanted to go down and join in the celebration. I was too afraid to stay in the apartment by myself, so I went with her. Other tenants were bounding down the stairs, too, the stairwell reverberating like thunder.
The noise washed over me as we emerged onto the street. It was very loud. I gripped Mother's hand, frightened and confused, unable to understand what was going on. Everywhere was bedlam, people acting crazy: men and women kissing and dancing, others climbing on the roofs and running boards of cars, still more hanging precariously out of windows. A man next to me blew a trumpet so loud that it made me cry, and I noticed a woman nearby also crying, heaving great sobs. I thought maybe the trumpet scared her, too.
"Why else would someone cry?"
(Later in life I learned people cried for joy; I've shed tears over simple beauty.)
People bumped into me, nearly invisible as I was low by my mother's side. They stepped on my toes without even noticing. I spent my time dodging them; wishing they would quiet down, but they wouldn't stop cheering and hugging and laughing and carrying on. I didn't know that everyone was ecstatic because a war was finally over. For me it was all a confusing, intimidating sea of legs and lights and noise. That's what I remember.
Life is yin and yang, so it was that in 1918, during the euphoria of victory, Mother hooked up with Isaac "Ike" Hillis. Another Irish immigrant, he was eleven years older than Mother, born June 27, 1878 in County Monaghan. And he would prove to be a mean man.
• • •
Isaac arrived at Ellis Island on April Fools Day, 1906. He gave his age as 23, which would mean he was born in 1883, and not in 1878 as other sources state—which date is right? He traveled aboard the S.S. Caledonia, which set sail March 24th out of Glasgow, Scotland, also where he got on. It's confusing: was he working in Scotland or did he go there to board ship? The register also says a sister had paid for his ticket, but gives no name. For the friend or relative Ike claimed to be joining in the States it says: Mr. or Mrs. Hyman (the writing was too illegible to make out), which the record also states was Ike's cousin, living at 568 Columbus Avenue. (There's that street again!)
It's so upsetting to find a record for a related immigrant only to have what little information there is nearly indecipherable due to someone's horrible handwriting. For instance, the ship's register also listed Ike's "Calling or Occupation," but whoever wrote it down overwrote the two word description so badly that all I can make out is "officer." The word above begins with what I think is "Ro..." but neither I nor my son were able to determine what it is. In New York, Ike worked in the express shipping business all his life, so maybe it said "Routing" or "Receiving Officer." I don't know if he was in the military, but I doubt a military officer would get out at twenty-three. He did like military music, however, so it's possible he was stationed in Scotland and left from there for New York when he mustered out. At any rate, he immigrated.
In a peculiar twist of fate, although in keeping with the close-knit Irish communities of the time, Ike was my father's brother-in-law by the time I knew him. Ike married and had a son, William "Billy" Hillis, with Martha Guy, the youngest of my father's three sisters ( Sarah "Sadie" Jane, Maud, and Martha, to put them chronologically). Martha died, however, giving birth to Billy, leaving Ike a widower and in the market for another wife—he needed someone to care for him and his son. My father's sister, Maud, up to the time Ike entered my life, had raised Billy as her own, while Ike lived separately. It must have been an awkward arrangement, and I'm sure Ike wanted to have his son back, and create a family environment for him.
I assume Ike and Mother already knew each other due to this relationship and had met before Ike began his courtship. I've speculated on what sparked his interest, and I think it was merely practical on both sides. He needed someone, just as Mother needed someone, making their marriage one of mutual opportunity. At any rate, I don't remember much romance in the equation, which must be why it added up to trouble.
Nonetheless, Ike haunts my final memories of that boxlike apartment on Amsterdam. He began visiting after work and on Sundays. He didn't laugh much, which bothered me. He also paid me little attention, which bothered me more. I didn't understand what was going on; I didn't know why this strange man was hanging around. Later that year, though, once her divorce became final, Mother explained, and that bothered me most of all. I had a stepfather I didn't like.
I've since realized, though, that Mother's remarriage was responsible for bringing my father back into our lives, if only briefly. He probably came to sign the divorce papers, I don't know. I only know that after Ike left for work one day, my father came to see Mother and me. I don't recall much, just that he came by our Myrtle Avenue apartment. Then, the three of us walked to the five-and-dime, where Father said I could pick out anything in the store and he would pay for it.
I remember being so excited! I can't remember what I chose, but the wonder I felt at knowing the whole store was within my grasp left a lasting impression. Mother, on the other hand, was furious—she wanted a piano.
A nun taught piano at the convent near my school, and once a week after classes, she gave me a lesson. The problem was practice. Without a piano at home, I either had to stay after school each day or make that long trek alone all the way back to the convent—something Mother frowned upon. That's why she thought it made more sense, if Father wanted to splurge, for him to buy me a cheap piano.
Today, when I think of it, I believe my father was too stubborn and selfish to do that. I don't think he wanted to give Mother the satisfaction of having her way, plus I'm sure he realized that he would get off a lot cheaper at the five and dime. And, if he felt that my experience there was more likely to impress me, to carve out some inroads to a future relationship, he was right. Although, after that brief visit, I didn't see him again for thirteen years.