Sugar House (9780991192519) Read online

  Joe looked up at the three steeples of St. Josaphat as he heard the three mighty bells begin to ring, calling the devoted to worship. Two young women in slim-fitting dresses and babushkas chatted and laughed as they walked on the sidewalk in front of him. One was telling the other how a would-be suitor's overzealous attempt to impress had resulted in his landing on his rear in a pile of horse manure. Joe chuckled to himself and turned his attention to a conversation several men were having with his father, behind him.

  "Falling down drunk," a small man was saying to Mikołaj.

  "The foreman threw him right out into the street in front of the Piquette plant," another added. Joe's ears strained to hear over the sound of the giggling women in front of him.

  "Everyone knows Jacob drinks at lunch," Mikołaj replied. "But how was he drinking in the plant without being noticed?"

  A gruff voice answered, "Apparently he'd somehow fastened a flask to his back, attached a long tube and pulled it over his shoulder down his sleeve to his cuff. He'd just put his wrist to his mouth and suck on the tube and take a drink and no one was the wiser. Till he over-served himself, that is!" The gravelly voice guffawed. Joe slowed his pace so he wouldn't miss anything.

  "Too many men hooked on booze lately. Seems everywhere I look there's some drunk in the gutter or harassing a lady as she tries to go about her errands," Mikołaj said. "They don't know the difference between having a nice glass of beer and drinking a bottle of whiskey. From what I read in the paper, the whole country is drowning themselves in it. Just adds fuel to the fire for those Temperance ladies. Watch my words boys—this keeps on the government will decide to outlaw booze."

  "No way, Mikołaj" the small man replied. "Never will happen. Those women have been trying to ban liquor for twenty years. It's no business of the government's if a man has a drink or two. A man has to set his own moral compass." Several other men joined in to voice their own opinions, but they were now nearing the cathedral and the conversation dimmed into a respectful murmur and then to silence as the parishioners ascended the stairs into church.

  The smell of incense drifted into their nostrils as the large wooden doors opened and they entered the sanctuary. Pulling off his cap, Mikołaj nodded a greeting to the ushers in the vestibule, and the family entered the nave, bathed in a soft light from the stained glass windows lining both sides. They headed to a pew, on the left, near the back, with the number 143 intricately carved in its side of white oak.

  Joe's father paid a monthly pew rental to occupy a designated seat, as did all parishioners. New members to the parish were typically assigned seating in the rear of the cathedral. However, people whose weekly tithing was deemed generous or were important members of the community would quickly find themselves near the front. Visitors to the parish could occupy seats in the back of the church if they were available.

  Bright golden angels gazed down at Joe from every nook and arch of the nave ceiling. Murals of saints, Christ and his apostles decorated the vaults above his seat. Myriad electric bulbs twinkled on a great chandelier suspended in the middle of the church. Candles glowing in red and blue glass flickered on the five altars. A cloud moved in the sky outside, and a beam of sunshine shone through the stained glass windows.

  The warm weather combined with the body heat of nearly twelve hundred attendees had women fanning themselves with their prayer books throughout the hundreds of pews. Joe pulled his handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped the perspiration from under his collar. His gaze drifted from the oval rose window, with its rose, violet, and blue petals stretching out from the central picture of Jesus, to the ostrich feathers trimming the ladies' hats in the pews before him. Looking around the crowd he spotted Sam and his mother kneeling in prayer a few rows behind his family. Joe coughed quietly to try to grab Sam's attention, but the boy and his mother were deep in prayer. Matka looked down sharply at Joe, and he looked to the front of the church.

  Scarlet carpeting down the main aisle ended at the alabaster altar. This too was illuminated with electric lights going up the sides and culminating in a vibrantly lit cross thirty feet above. Two angels blowing trumpets flanked the outer corners. Images of Our Lady of Częstochowa, Saint Stanislaus and Saint Aloysius adjoined a painting of the church's patron, Saint Josaphat.

  Above the high altar a mural of the Trinity was depicted on the domed ceiling, bordered by images of the Nativity and the Last Supper. Detailed paintings of significant biblical scenes adorned the ceiling above the four confessionals in the transept. The décor, murals, lights and vastness of the sanctuary could easily sway a man back into the arms of God. The building was intended to elicit humility and worship. To a small boy, St. Josaphat's cathedral was truly God's house.

  Joe stood, as loud chords began to reverberate throughout the church from the massive organ. Two lines of nuns in long, black habits started the procession down the aisle, followed by six altar boys wearing white surplices over black cassocks and carrying flickering ivory candles. Four priests conveying tall golden crosses preceded the head priest, Father Gatowski.

  Joe followed along in his missal, singing the sacred songs with reverence and joy. Though he couldn't understand the language, he was familiar with the rites and traditions. Not many in the church could comprehend the old language. Most of the older parishioners couldn't understand English much less Latin, but Mass had been conducted in Latin in the old country, so all were familiar with the liturgy.

  Joe had much to be thankful for this week. He thanked God during the time of prayer for his kind, hardworking parents, for Frank not bugging him too much last week and especially for the adventure that awaited him. He finished his prayer with a request. "Dear God, please help the nuns be nicer this week, so I don't get a note home that'll mess the plans for Saturday."

  Following the readings, Father Gatowski climbed the curved steps of the pulpit at the center of the front pews. He stood fifteen feet above the congregation, his ivory robes billowing about him. The people near the bottom of the pulpit craned their necks to see the monsignor.

  Father Gatowski was a kind man, and the children of St. Josaphat's often brought him treats from home, which only helped to enhance his round girth. Frequently, he could be seen behind the school throwing a football with the boys or pushing a couple girls on the swings. He was average in stature though a little generous in the belly and had a shock of thick white hair that stood straight up when he was running on the small playground.

  Switching from Latin to Polish, Father Gatowski began, "Dzień dobry, St. Josaphat's! Today I have great news to share with you. Just as Jesus walked through Jerusalem pronouncing the good news of his Father's love, I want to follow in his footsteps and walk through our streets shouting our good news. All thanks to the donations of money and time from you, our friends and neighbors, St. Josaphat's new school will be finished in less than a month's time. All the sacrifices given by you to build a place where our young can learn and be educated in the ways of the Catholic Church are coming to fruition. The school building will be officially dedicated on Friday, November 12, the feast day of our patron saint. There will be no school for the children that day. The sisters and the children will march in procession from the corner of Beaubien and St. Antoine Streets, turning onto Canfield and ending here at the church. They will begin the procession at nine o'clock in the morning. For those that can attend; there will be a ceremony and benediction given by Bishop Foley. Following Mass there will be a dinner held at Polonia Hall. Ladies, please plan to donate a dish to pass, and at that I only request one thing… that no meat will be served or eaten on this day in honor of St. Josaphat, who abstained from meat throughout his life out of devotion to our Lord. The weekend will include many celebratory events that the parish social committees are planning. Please stop in the vestibule after Mass to look over the scheduled events and sign up to work at one or two functions. With God's blessing it will be a wonderful occasion. So, as I again thank all of you, let us ask the blessing of St.
Josaphat and our Lord Jesus Christ and we pray… ."

  After the blessing of the gifts, Joe followed his parents out of the pew for Communion. He crossed his arms over his chest as he knelt next to Matka at the altar. This signified to the priest that he had not received the First Holy Communion sacrament, so Father Gatowski instead, lay his hand on Joe's head, giving him a small blessing for the week, and moved down to distribute a holy wafer on the tongue of Ojciec and the others kneeling at the altar.

  After Mass, Joe walked as quickly as he could to the back of the church but not so fast he'd be noticed by one of the nuns who were always watching. Reaching the vestibule, he saw the plans for the big festival posted on a large easel. A polka band would play for a dance on that Friday evening. Joe had never been to a dance before, and he wondered if he'd be allowed to attend. On Saturday morning a baseball game for the boys from the school would be held at a small park near the church. After a picnic lunch, the men of the parish could join a team that would play in the afternoon. Later, the parishioners would reconvene at the church for an evening of song. Tunes from the old county were to be sung followed by dessert and coffee in the basement. The festivities would end with a special Mass on Sunday. Proceeds from a weekend long bake sale would go to buy supplies for the new school.

  Joe swiftly wrote his name on the signup sheet for the boys' baseball game. He wanted to make sure he secured a spot on one of the teams. As he turned to walk away, he was surprised to see his father signing up for the baseball game on Saturday afternoon. "Ojciec, have you played baseball before?" asked Joe.

  "No, Joe but I've wanted to since I first heard about it when I came to this country. I see you and the neighborhood boys playing in the street, and I think I could learn to play. I am not too old, you know. Twenty-eight is not too old of a man yet, my son. Perhaps you can teach me a couple of the rules in the backyard this afternoon?"

  "Yes, Ojciec. Sure! That will be fun!" Joe could hardly believe it. Ojciec had never played a game with him before. When they'd lived in the Upper Peninsula his father had always been too tired from working in the mine, and seven months of snow prohibited much outdoor playing time. Walking home from church, Joe felt that his family was truly on their way to living the American dream.

  Chapter Four

  Joe's parents stopped to talk to their friends Mr. and Mrs. Stanislewski, who were sitting on their front porch. The Stanislewski's had lived in a village near where Mikołaj and Blanca had come from in Poland. The couples liked to compare stories and war reports they heard throughout the week from newspapers and from new immigrants arriving in Detroit. The Prussian army was heavily entrenched in the region where they'd lived, and accurate reporting on the state of their villages was difficult to ascertain. Joe sat on the porch step for a few minutes until there was a small break in the conversation.

  "Would you like a sugar cookie, Mrs. Stanislewski?" Blanca ventured, pulling the sweet smelling treat from the basket she had taken to church.

  "I'd love one, Mrs. Jopolowski! You do make the finest sweets on this side of Detroit, Blanca."

  "Oh, I don't know about that…"

  "Blanca, please don't be so humble! Mikołaj! Aren't Blanca's pastries the best in the city?" Mrs. Stanislewski asked.

  "Absolutely! And they should be, for as much sugar she goes through in a week." He smiled. "Pretty soon I'll have to buy a car so I can carry it back from the market."

  "If she sold them you probably could buy a car, Mikołaj," Mr. Stanislewski interjected.

  "Now stop, all of you," Blanca said. "I could never charge for my baking. I just enjoy it, and I enjoy sharing it with others. Here, Joe, why don't you take two cookies and give one to Walt," she said.

  "Is Walt home?" he asked Mrs. Stanislewski hopefully, as she fanned herself on a chair in the shade.

  "Go on upstairs," Mrs. Stanislewski replied, smiling. "He's in his room." Joe ran up the narrow staircase to Walt's room. Walt was three years older than Joe and a friendly kid who didn't mind hanging out with Joe while their parents visited. Joe found Walt sitting on his bed, glasses lying crooked on his nose, looking at postcards of the Gold Cup boat races in Manhasset Bay, New York.

  "Hiya Joe! Hey, look at this. These are from August fourteenth of this year." Walt pointed at a black and white picture of a hydroplane boat named the Miss Detroit. "This girl has a two hundred fifty horsepower Sterling engine!"

  "Wow! Two hundred fifty horses! How fast can she go?" asked Joe.

  "Almost fifty miles per hour, but she averages around forty-two in a circular course. The Miss Detroit won the Gold Cup this year. First time a boat from Detroit has won since they started racing eleven years ago. Look, see this other postcard? That's a picture of Jack Beebe standing on her bow. Last year he was the riding mechanic on the Baby Speed Demon II, but that boat wasn't from Michigan. He's a master mechanic. He rebuilds all his engines to make them faster and lighter for racing."

  Walt walked over to a small desk and picked up several books that were piled high on the corner. Papers fell to the ground, and Joe saw several drawings of engines and boats as he lent a hand picking up the sheets. Joe knew better than to ask his friend if he was going to play in the St. Josaphat baseball game. Walt always refused to play games or baseball with the other boys. He spent half his time tinkering with small machines and kitchen tools and the other half down at the river watching boats and ships.

  "What's a riding mechanic?" Joe asked.

  "That's the guy that sits in the boat with the driver. He operates the engine and fixes what breaks while they're' racing. Last year Jack Beebe whittled a washer for the air pump of the Speed Demon while they were racing!"

  "Boy, how long is a race?"

  "Depends on the race," Walt said. "This year the Gold Cup was five miles."

  "Does Jack Beebe ever drive the boat or does he always just work on the engine?" Joe was very interested; he hadn't known a boat could go so fast.

  "Well, actually this year, when he won again, he was driving. See, Miss Detroit's driver didn't show up for the race and five minutes before the starting gun they still had no one to drive. So the owners of the boat say 'Hey! Can anybody here drive a boat?' and this guy Johnny Milot says he can. Johnny'd come to the race to be a mechanic's assistant and had driven the boat a couple times to test it out but he'd never driven in a race and didn't know the course."

  Joe stared hard at the facial features of the mechanic on the postcard as Walt continued. The man's face was wrinkled, and his cap was tilted up above his forehead.

  "So the race starts, see? And Johnny decides to follow the other boats so he can figure out the course. After a few times around, he tells Jack to let it out. Jack pulls out the throttle and they start gaining. Then the water starts getting really rough and young Johnny starts getting banged up and he's getting sick from the smell of the exhaust from the other boats. So old Jack takes over driving while still operating the engine. On top of that, he's holding Johnny in the boat so he won't fall out! But old Jack just keeps the throttle open and gets in the lead. Finally, he's gotta pull into the pit for some gas and someone yells 'Why didn't you stop? You won the race long ago.' And Jack says 'We forgot to count the laps.' Can you believe that? Yes sir, as soon as I'm older I'm going to drive a boat like that!"

  "Do you really think you will?" Joe asked. He handed the postcard back to Walt, who put it on the crowded desk.

  "Sure. Next year I'll be eleven, old enough to help with doing something around those fast machines—anything. Even if it's just washing 'em up. Next summer they're having the Gold Cup right here on the Detroit River on account of the Miss Detroit winning last year. I'm sure I'll be able to work my way in somewhere."

  Joe left the Stanislewski's a little while later, thinking about speed boats and races the entire way home.

  Exciting things were happening in Joe's city. Detroit was growing; new high-rise buildings, stores, theaters and auto plants were going up everywhere, along with new homes to house a
ll the people that were arriving daily at the train station. Every week there were new faces at church and almost as often a new kid at school. Good thing the new school was almost finished. Joe's classroom was getting pretty full. Lately, he had gotten into the habit of getting to school early so he'd be one of the first in line when the bell rang to make sure he'd get a desk for the day.

  ***

  After a dinner of ham, green beans, bread and some poppy seed cake, Joe and Ojciec went in the backyard to throw a ball around. The yard was small and they didn't have a mitt, but it didn't matter. Ojciec lobbed the ball at Joe. With concerted effort, Joe jumped a couple feet to make the catch. As they played catch, Joe tried to explain the rules of the game to his father.

  "A pitcher can spit on a ball and throw it at the batter?" asked Ojciec.

  "Sure, it's called a spitball," Joe explained. "The pitcher can spit or rub some Vaseline from inside his baseball cap on the ball. When he throws the ball the batter can't be sure where or how it's going to come into the plate. Sometimes the pitcher smears the ball with tobacco spit and dirt so the ball is the same color of the infield and it's hard to see."

  "I think I'm following you on the basic rules. Three outs, three strikes, four balls, nine innings, both teams go up each inning. Guess it'd be easier to understand if I could see a game before I go out there and make a fool of myself, huh, Joe?"