Page 8 of Cillian
My parents didn’t understand the state of unease I was going through. Silently, I was just praying that it wasn’t him.
My father was wrong. I had seen another one of them before. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that face. Killing a priest was bad enough, but killing a priest when your father was Oisín Sullivan made headlines. Even if I could forget a face, constantly seeing that family in the papers wouldn’t allow me the peace to.
Cruel blue eyes. Violent stains of blood that covered his cold face. A priest begging for mercy as even then, he committed to ending that man’s life. White men already scared me, but I don’t think I’d ever seen a scarier man until that night.
I pleaded, prayed to God I would never have to see that face again. Please let it not be him. Passing the safety net of South End, I curiously looked back, wondering where we could possibly be going since all the respectable churches were in the Black part of Boston. Or at least all the Baptist ones were.
“You didn’t tell me we weren't getting married in South End,” I griped. Not only were we leaving the safety net of a Black town, we were gambling with our lives. Sundown towns weren’t as common as where my parent’s people were from, but you still knew which areas not to chance it in Boston. Whatever these men had promised my father, he was willing to risk the safety of all of us.
“That's because you're not getting married in no Black church. Why do you think we driving in the dead of night? Ain't no priest gonna risk his congregation marrying some Colored girl to an Irish man in the daytime. The ceremony was arranged this late so it could safely be hosted while not having to deal with wall-to-wall traffic during business hours. And the Sullivans made it clear to me you were marrying in a Catholic ceremony. A priest owes them a favor and this was the only time he could do it without prying eyes.”
Anger clawed its way through me at such a revelation. What about our heritage and traditions? Just because I was marrying some white man didn't mean I wanted to lose sight of who I was, lose sight of who I am. Call it small, but even marrying someone I didn't find of my choosing, I thought I'd at least be able to jump the broom.
“Papa you didn't say anything about getting married in no Catholic Church. I'm all about respecting someone's customs and culture, but what part of me do I get to keep? I’m not gonna have none of my friends there. I’m not marrying in a church of my choosing. I don't even know who the hell I’m marrying! Your ambition doesn’t have you seeing right, Papa. What they promised you can’t be so important that you go against your own values,” as an unexpected screech flung me and my Mama forward.
Papa took a sharp left at the fork of a road, and turned to me with a violent fire in his eyes that told me if I kept talking, and I wasn’t the one who would pay for it, my mama surely was going to later.
“You listen to me, young girl. You're too young to understand that the nice house we live in, those clothes you wear, don't come from your daddy slaving in some factory. What they promised me is something that even the best of us don’t ever get close to. I make a friend with the Sullivans and doors open for me. They own the Boston. They’re giving me a slice but they don’t do shit like that for free. Our kind don’t trust each other, so this is the only way to gain that trust.
If you don’t control that temper of yours, I’m sure your new husband will control it for you. They ain’t no fucking choir boys, they’re stone cold killers. All this back talk makes me glad you’ll be their problem now. I’m so sick and tired of raising a fast, spoiled little brat who don’t know how to listen when you tell them you know what’s best for her. Now shut up until we reach the damn church.”
If my father’s intention was to humble me, he’d certainly achieved it. I swear I wanted to cry, but I just wanted to disappear more. I wasn't quiet like my mama. And I wasn't good at pretending to be stupid. But most of all, I hated that if a boy even looked at me, I was just fast. I’d never even gotten to hold a boy’s hand before. And now I was just going to married to some stranger who was probably going to make me do things I didn’t want to do.
Being a woman was hard enough, but being a Black woman, it’s like I had no power. No one to speak up for me. No one to stand up for me. At least when you had the right amount of money or power, as a man, you could convince other men to follow you.
Which I suppose is what Papa wanted most. To be the most powerful Colored man in Boston. He couldn’t achieve that goal without breaking bread with the Irish. No Colored man after Papa would be able to do it without him.
I was all for my rights getting better in the name of progression, but I regret the day the government ever passed those damn miscegenation laws. This wouldn’t even be an option if Black and white people weren’t allowed to marry. Not that either race was rushing to walk down the altar with one another; there was too much tension to just expect us want to be with each other, despite it being legal now.
But the law basically said, “You better get used to seeing Black people as human.” So, I prayed my future husband did. And to think, if only I had just taken that murder to the grave with me, I wouldn’t even be in this mess.
Three
Cillian
After a short ride through town, we were met with some Scoundrel soldiers in our gang at the agreed mutual ground. It was an unspoken agreement that Lower Roxbury was a mutual ground, and that no blood would spill here unless someone wanted to get try something stupid. The rule was, none of the other gangs stepped foot in each other's neighborhoods without prior permission. This was my first encounter ever breaking bread with Black gangs, but apparently my brothers were already on first name bases.
We walked the rest of the way to the church, the fear consuming me spreading to my legs mimicking walking through cement. It was taking all my fucking power to match the pace of the others, but somehow, I kept up. No one else understood. No one else would be in a rush to sign over their freedom to some woman they never met before. And to a Black girl, no less.
Of all the things I thought I'd ever be forced to do, I couldn’t believe it was this. Truthfully, I had never had eyes for a Black girl. Why would I have when there was really no need to in Boston. I was knee deep in Irish girls, both American and Old Country born, who were always ready to drop their knickers for a kiss on the forehead and empty promises.
The way Pa put Bellamy in the hospital for even catching him galivanting in South End had taught me enough about where I was allowed to go and who was allowed to be seen with. We didn't mingle with folks who weren't our own kind, and we certainly didn't do business with Black folk.
All that's changed now, and according to the big brother on top, I would have no choice but to do what he asked of me. All I prayed is that she was somewhat decent to look at. Irish lasses, that was what I was used to. Thin and slim frames was what I preferred. From what I've encountered with Black girls, they weren't exactly known for their small and svelte body types.
But what if she had an unsorted smile? What if the woman only had one eye? What if she had a bloody mustache? The list of things that could be wrong with her made me fucking sick to my stomach. I grabbed for Paddy, Bellamy catching wind of my discomfort as I struggled with the will to stand. “Bel, Paddy, I think I got a bad dose of it,” I admitted, nearly collapsing as both flanked me on each side to help me stand.
“Here, let me talk to him,” Bellamy volunteered, whisking me off to the side as the others went on ahead. He gave me a light pat on the cheek meant to slap some sense into me, but everything happening just didn't feel real. “Hey, stop acting the maggot, Cilly. Straighten up! We don't need you getting cold feet.” I took a deep breath, seconds away from hyperventilating.
“Bell. I ain't built like you. I can't handle the kind of woman you pull. Those big girls, I ain't sturdy enough for all that woman.”
“Hey, hey,” Bellamy interrupted, giving my face another pat, pointing an index finger between my eyes. “See there your mind goes bringing up unimportant things. Already going to her size.”
“Come on, Bel. You all don't even know what she looks like. What if she’s fat? What if she's ugly?”
“Cilly boy, now you listen to me. You're either fat, or you're ugly. When it comes a woman, they ain't never both. Now I get it. You don't have an appreciation for voluptuous women. That's my thing. That's what I like. But just know the three of us, we’re your brothers and we ain't never going to steer you in the wrong direction. So, pull yourself together,” He said, with a pat to my shoulder.
“There isn’t a woman in Boston you can’t handle, and ain’t a woman in the world strong enough to resist a goddamn Sullivan. Look alive, Cilly boy. Everyone's waiting.”