1919
It was early, and the summer sun had just begun its relentless attack on the city. Celia Foley was making the short walk to her job at the Mahanoy City shirt factory by herself. Normally, she went with her sisters Maggie and Katie, but they had argued this morning over breakfast, and
Celia was too angry to worry about looking unseemly.
“It’s not fair,” Celia had complained. “I’m 25 and still working in a shirt factory. The cousins get to go to school. I want to be a teacher. I could be a great teacher, if I just had the chance.”
“There’s no money for that,” replied Katie, with a calm detachment that made Celia want to scream. “And you barely finished 8thgrade. Da doesn’t believe in throwing money after schools. Even if he did, he doesn’t make enough money for all of us to go to fancy colleges.”
“But that’s my point,” said Celia. “You go to school so you can do something better.”
“His brothers didn’t go to school,” said Katie. “Uncle John has a saloon, and he fights fires, Uncle James is an office manager. And Uncle Michael…”
“Uncle Michael is a trolley conductor,” said Maggie proudly. “And they all work in mines, too.”
“Again, that’s my point,” said Celia. “They all do something else besides working in the mines. Except Da.”
The words hung in the air, and the three girls were quiet, contemplating. Finally, Katie spoke up. “It doesn’t matter. We’re lucky we don’t have to be housemaids, like Nora had to do. We’ll keep making shirts for a while, and then we’ll get married. You’ll see. Even the cousins will quit teaching as soon as they get married.”
“Why? That’s what I’m worried about. We never stop owing our lives to men. I don’t want another prison; I want to do something in my life. For myself!”
“Keep your voice down,” said Katie. “Ma will hear you.”
“Ugh!” said Celia, flinging down her napkin. “You two don’t understand anything. I’m walking to work alone.”
Celia stepped into the street. She was ashamed of her angry words toward her father.
She loved him, even covered in coal dust. But she was sick of sitting at a sewing machine, stitching shirts for men who didn’t have to work in a factory, while her relatives flaunted her cousins’ achievements in the newspaper with every step they took, attending their schools and special classes.
But what else could her Da do? Maybe he didn’t have a knack for numbers or politics, but what would be so hard about running a saloon? Then again no, maybe that was a bad idea. She’d heard the men arguing and cursing something called the Anti-Saloon League, ironically drunk over their beers. More and more people were supporting Prohibition, and it seemed like so many immigrants ran saloons. It was bad timing for sure.
But couldn’t people run saloons without liquor? Who cared? What she wouldn’t give for the chance to sit on a stool surrounded by strangers, drinking a tall glass of sarsaparilla, and dipping her fork into a hot dinner. It sounded wonderful. And if your saloon had lots of rooms to let for travelers, it could be a great way to make a living.
She looked up as she approached the shirt factory. It looked and felt to her like a prison. As the chattering women filed in, Celie had a thought. She had sort of befriended a woman named Anna, whose uncle owned a saloon. Why not ask her?
Then she gave herself a mental shake. To what end, you fool. Women didn’t frequent saloons, much less own them. And Da wouldn’t be interested anyway. She couldn’t see him showing rooms or standing behind a cash register.
At any rate, Anna was Lithuanian, and you didn’t just start hanging out with other people like that. The city was highly self-segregated, she realized, right down to the lunchroom at the factory. Irish, Germans, Poles, Lithuanians,and Slavs… they lived and worked side by side without mixing, attending their own churches and soliciting their own businesses. Celie decided to let the whole matter drop.
But inevitably, she found out, walls don’t hold forever. And Celie Foley and Peter Joseph were destined to meet.
Anna grabbed her arm one day after work. “Listen, I have to drop something off at my uncle’s place. Normally, I’d go with my sister, but she’s home with the flu. Come with? My mother is making me.”
Her uncle’s “place” was a saloon. Celia knew a good girl wouldn’t be caught dead in one, but this was an errand. Not like they were going to sit down, or anything. The chatter of the patrons momentarily hushed as they stepped into the room.
“This is from Mom,” said Anna, tossing an envelope on thebar.
The man behind the bar put down the glass and rag he had been cleaning it with, wiping his hands dry on his apron.
“You girls shouldn’t be in here.” His voice was deep, and somehow the accent that drove Celie crazy coming from Anna was intoxicating when it came from Peter Joseph.
He was staring at her. The smoke and the smell of beer, even the clatter of dishes faded as she fought to keep her composure under his gaze.
“Tell your mother I said thank you, but this is no place for young girls.” He was speaking to Anna, but his eyes were on Celie.
“As if we wanted to be here.” Anna grabbed Celie’s arm and pulled her toward the door.
Outside, Celie let out a long breath.
Anna said, “I know. No manners. We were doing him a favor, after all."
Celie nodded.
"What nerve," Anna continued. "And the way he was looking at you!”
“Yes” said Celie. “It was very rude, but I’m going to be late for supper now, just watch. See you tomorrow.”
The next day, after trying to catch her eye all morning in the workroom, Anna cornered her in the toilet. “I’m sorry about my uncle. I am. He’s been off since his wife died last winter. He’s got eight kids, can you believe it?”
“Huh.” Celie fussed with her hair. “Why won’t it stay out of my eyes?”
Anna pulled a hairpin from her pocket and tucked the offending lock flat. Maybe he’s looking for a nanny.”
Celie scoffed. “I hardly think so. It’s fine, really. I’d already forgotten about it.”
But of course she hadn’t. Why was she thinking about him? She didn’t kid herself; she was looking at him “that” way. But he was twice her age. He was foreign. He was a saloon keeper. There were so many reasons he was completely inappropriate. But he had a dark exotic appeal she couldn’t deny. And he was worlds apart from all the Irish boys she knew.
It wasn’t long before she found herself in front of the saloon one Saturday morning. Go home, she told herself. And yet, her feet refused to obey. As she pushed open the heavy wooden door, exhilaration and trepidation almost brought her to her knees.
The bar was empty. Peter looked up from behind the bar, his dark eyes assessing her with curiosity.
“You’re back. What can I get for you?” he asked. His deep, accented voice, again.
“Sarsaparilla, please,” she replied, trying to project an air of confidence.
“Alright,” he said. There was a ghost of a smile. Was he laughing at her?
"I was just wondering, Anna said, I mean..." She trailed off, embarassed, but then took the plunge. "Are you looking for a nanny?”
He shook his head. “I have one already but thank you. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.” She lifted her chin. “I’m not a ‘young girl’.”
“Nothing wrong with being that, now,” he said as he placed her soda on the bar. “Nothing at all.”
Despite, and perhaps because of the societal barriers between them, Celia found herself captivated by his story; his struggles running a saloon, the challenges of raising children without a mother, his aspirations to the city government, and his refusal to return to the mines. The more they spoke, the more she admired his tenacity and ambition. He was making his way in this
country and refusing to be beaten.
As the weeks slipped by, Celia’s visits to the saloon becamemore frequent, and her excuses to return late or leave the house on errands became more and more careless. In the dim light of the saloon, she kidded herself that no Irish folk came here, that no one knew her. And then inevitably, she admitted to him and to herself that their long talks could be causing a scandal for her family, and thus, ironically, found herself alone in a room with him. Just so they could talk
unobserved, of course. Away from prying eyes and ears. And away from judgement…
By August, Celia discovered she was pregnant. Panic flooded her body as she realized the implications. Peter had eight children already; would he want another one? And her father! He would never allow her to marry a Lithuanian.
That was of course, assuming Peter would want to marry her. What if he denied her? Or worse, exposed her?
No. She would refuse him the chance to do either. And so, she abruptly ceased her visits.
She confided in her older sister Maggie, who, with a mix of pity, piety, and practicality, offered her advice: “You’ll have to hide it, Celia. You can’t let anyone know.”
And then what? Celia felt trapped in a web of shame and fear, unable to tell her father, unable to confess to Peter. It was her mother who connected the dots, finally, and found a solution. “Mary and Frank can raise her. As their own. You can visit now and then, and you’ll still have the chance to meet a nice Irish boy.”
And so, in April, in the throes of agony and near hysteria, she handed over her newborn baby girl, Johannah, to her sister Mary. For a while, she visited her “niece,” her heart overflowing as she held her baby close. She came often and felt justified. Why shouldn't I care for my sister's children? One day, she took all of Mary's children to a studio for a family photo, gleeful in the knowledge that she now had a picture of herself and her daughter that no one could question.
Then one day she met Joseph, a kind but proud man of Polish stock who worked in the mines and had served in the Army during the Great War. He was strong but affectionate, enough that she contemplated telling him her secret; daring to indulge in the fantasy of having all her family under one roof. Until one day she happened to overhear the men, loose over their beers, complaining about “those dirty Slav and Lithuanian criminals”, and worse, of the “whores” who frequented their bars. She could see Joseph nodding his head in agreement, and her heart sank. She’d heard Peter speaking the same way about women in his saloon. All men were the same. They wanted you, but they judged you, and you couldn’t win.
In another blow, her sister put the brakes on her visits. “Celie, she looks too much like you,” she said, her voice heavy. “People will talk. It’s not safe to visit, especially not if you want to marry Joseph.”
She was right, Celie thought. You never how how a man would react. Look at her Da. Joseph wasn’t Irish, yet her father put up no objection to their engagement. Men would never make sense to her. But look where rebelling had gotten her. And Joseph was a good man.
So they married and moved to Pottsville, and she kept her photo locked away in the attic. The drive wasn't even an hour, but it was far enough to feel like she was a world away from her family. When her son was born, she wallowed in the freedom to publicly cherish her baby. And yet she never forgot that other piece of her heart. When her sister's family moved to Delaware, it both pained her and made it easier to pretend Johannah wasn't hers. Celia kept her focus on her husband and son, only rarely indulging in the the exquisite pain of a quick look at her precious photo. She never saw her daughter again.
