The rough hewn wooden door slams shut behind me, blocking what little sunlight was able to penetrate the swirling dust and thick air. I elbow my way through the crowd of sweaty new-comers and late-nighters, looking for Pop. Mr. Novak’s bristle brush mustache comes into view. His breath is enough to make anyone gag, but living with Pop for thirteen years has made me immune to the stench of Jim Bean.
“Hey Sonny, what do you think you’re doing in here? This ain’t no place for kids. You’se best be running along now. Your father sure wouldn’t like you following in his footsteps, would he?”

“Maybe you should be running along yourself. Mrs. Novak sure wouldn’t like it if Leo followed in your footsteps, would she?”
Mr. Novak raises his free hand, and I duck in anticipation of the smack upside-the-head that is sure to come. Sorrow fills his grey eyes instead. He lets his callused hand drop, and without another word is out the door of Sullivan’s and stumbling home along Stuart Street’s cobblestoned sidewalk.
Pop is laying in a back room when I find him. I kneel in the sawdust covering the dirt floor, squinting to see above the dim lighting. “Someone hand me a lantern” A short, burly man caters to my demand, and in the flickering light I see the gash in Pop’s forehead.
“He could have won, that one, but Novak put a stop to the fight before it got too ugly.”
Novak? He knew about Pop? That’s why he tried to send me home.
“That’s a first, Novak puttin’ a stop to anything.” This time the speaker is familiar, Mr. Johnson from down the street. Together the two of us manage to get Pop to standing, and I slowly lead him home, along Stuart Street’s cobblestoned sidewalk, up three flights of stairs to apartment number six, and into the bedroom we’ve shared ever since Momma died.

Pop mumbles as he drifts off to sleep, some far away memory of Ireland’s green hills invading his dreams, back before he came to the New Country, after the potato crops failed and everyone had to find a new home, create a new livelihood. I drift off to sleep myself, too tired to mind the mattress springs jabbing my back or the scratchy wool blanket. My own dreams are invaded by Momma’s carefree laugh as she meanders along Stuart Street, market basket in hand, ready to face the day with her broad smile and mischievous sea-green eyes.