“What parish?” the conductor inquired.
“St. Bridget’s,” Quindlen stated, matter-of-factly, because the question was almost expected. “And you?”
“St. Ludwig’s.”
Quindlen grinned. “You’re joking with me man. A priest from Ludwig’s would never hear your confession, not in a million years.”
Galloway’s face turned sour. “Tis true my man - tis very true, indeed. An Irishman’s sins are a trial for a German priest. It’s because whiskey is our mother’s milk, not beer. But I take up residence where my car barn is. Livin’ with the Germans isn’t so bad. They make their own black brew and share it willingly. Besides The Most Precious Blood is just around the corner. In a pinch I can confess there.”
“But the Huns have no sense of decency,” Quindlen replied. “Ever since the war they blame the Irish for everything.”
“For God’s sake, man,” Galloway insisted, “the stuff they brew will knock your socks off. Didn’t I just tell you that it’s free? And who are you to be givin’ lectures anyway? Although you’re sober, praise be. Still, only the Episcopalians are welcomed this far west. Are you that bad off that you have to rise in the middle of the night to find work? You’re out of your league and into the land of lace curtains.”
Quindlen looked down at his shoes and sighed, deeply. Galloway cocked his head and saw the poor man’s reaction to his opinions through the streetcar’s mirror. He decided on a tactical retreat.
“But I agree that it was the Irish that put an end to the Kaiser. If it wasn’t for us the Gerrys would have won the war and the English finally put in their place. Just look at what Wild Bill Donovan did with the Fighting 69th and Father Duffy’s prayers."
Quindlen didn’t hear a word the conductor said. He was staring out at the empty street, his mind filled with the faces of his children.
Then, the conductor’s baritone voice became the sweet middle C soprano of his wife, Kitty, and her parting words to him when he rose from their bed at midnight: “Gene, don’t go. We’ll just have to do without. I have enough flour and sugar.
REGINA | 80