Бетти Смит: Maggie-Now

"Why do you always have to argue?" asked Pat.

The elevator took them as far as the pedestal, then they had to climb the winding stairway. Mick Mack started to lag behind. Pat looked back. The little man was pale and his hand was pressed to his heart. He seemed to have trouble getting his breath.

Pat felt a stab of pity. I never saw before how old he's getting, thought Pat. And he don't look so strong, either. He went back to Mick Mack.

"Me old friend," he said, " 'tis shamed I am, making you climb up here and you with no stren'th a-tall. Do you let me put me arm around you and I will help you up."

~ 4] ~ J To Pat's surprise, he saw that Mick Mack was crying. "Is it a bad pain you have, me friend?" he asked tenderly.

"No. It's because of the soft way you spoke to me; the kindness of your words. It puts a strangeness on you. I

don't know you no more, you black-hearted stranger."

Pat lost his temper. "That's what a man gets trying to be decent to the likes of you. Here! Carry this, you damned fool!" He thrust the urn into Mick Mack's hands.

"Making me do all the work, Come on, now! And let me hear no more complaining out of you."

The little man looked up at Pat and beamed.

In those days, people were allowed to go up into the torch. Pat and Hick Mack slowly made their tortuous way up through the arm. The torch could hold twelve people but Pat and Mick Mack were the only persons there at the time.

The wind was terrific. They had to hold on to their hats and the wind tore the paper bag off the urn.

"Give me that," yelled Pat angrily against the wind, "before you drop it." Mick Mack gave him the urn.

Hundreds of gulls flew around the head of Miss Liberty, and wheeled and banked and swooped and screamed.

"Look at all them pigeons!" said Mick Mack.

"They ain't pigeons," hollered Pat.

"What are they then? " screamed back the little fellow.

"Whatever they are, they ain't pigeons! Take your hat off!"

"What? "

"Take your hat off! And hold mine." The wind made the hair stand up on their bared heads.

Pat lowered his head;md spoke silently to the urn.

Mick Mack thought he was saying a private prayer for the dead. Mick Mack lowered his eyes and said his own prayer. Pat wasn't praying, he was telling his daughter's husband good-by.

You wanted to be buried off a high place, Claude, and this is the highest I can get. And you wanted to go out over the sea. Well, here's the whole ocean. And there is birds here the kind you like. And may God rest your soul.

He removed the cover from the urn. Before he could scatter the ashes, the wind scooped most of them out of the urn. Pat had an instant of terror. The gulls, the screams, the wind and the

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infinity of sky and sea, and he was such a tiny dot.

There is things I don't,'~no~v, he thought, and God forgive me all me sins.

Mick Mack vvas screaming. "Say something! " he screamed. "For the love of God say something! Don't let him go without a word! Say something!'' "What? " hollered Pat.

"Good-by! Good-by! " shouted l\lick Slack. He w aved the hand that held Pat's hat. The wind caught Pat's hat and blew it out to sea.

It was more than Pat could stand. He took the urn, which still held some ol the ashes, anal with all his strength he hurled it into the wind. He shook his fist at the slay and the sea and the wind and the gulls.

"I'll bury youse all!" sh ~utcd Patrick Dennis Moore.

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