Something Serious and Heartfelt…

The following is an excerpt from a book by Vincent Patrick written in 1979 entitled “The Pope of Greenwich Village.”  (There was a movie starring Eric Roberts, Mickey Rourke and Darryl Hannah (also with Jack Kehoe, Kenneth McMillan, Burt Young, M. Emmet Walsh and the amazing Geraldine Page), produced in 1984.)   Like most novels made into movies, a lot of the more meaningful (and politically incorrect language) was omitted, though Mr. Patrick also wrote the great screenplay.  The movie has a somewhat redeeming and happy ending, but the novel is more like real life: gritty, gray, and greasy.  

In 1977, my mother-in-law, Sherry, gave birth to her sixth child, Mary, who has Down Syndrome.  Mary is precious to us all, and none of us could imagine the family without her.  Sherry passed away (Alzheimer’s – my Father-in-law spent every afternoon with her without fail) a few years ago now, but Mary is still with us and a delight to listen to and play cards with. Back in 1977, children with Down Syndrome and other “special-situation” births were handled differently than they are today – the example of bootlegger Joseph Kennedy’s handling of his daughter Rosemary’s hypoxic birth is one example.  Mary would have been relegated to a home to wither and fade away, apart from family and society, and on account of this treatment, many like her tended have a reduced life span compared to so-called “normal” people.  Sherry (and Paul) would have none of that, and insisted Mary attend school like all the other kids and she did so, all the way through high school graduation.  Today, she has a job, and her own apartment with several roommates, and spends a lot of time with her father, sisters and brother.  I am quoting this passage of Vincent Patrick’s book to honor my Mother-(and Father-)in-law – character like theirs’ is not as common as it should be.  

From The Pope of Greenwich Village, Seaview Books, New York:1979, pp.169-171.

“Ginty filled Barney’s glass and wrapped his knuckles twice on the bar to signify that it was on the house. He leaned forward and dropped the professionally warm, bartender’s tone from his voice. “You know, Barney, keeping that boy of yours at home all these years, it’s no small thing. You and your Mrs. both you deserve a full measure of credit. It can’t be easy.”       

“Credit for what?”
“For keeping the boy, Barney.”

“He’s not a boy, Ginty. Roger’s an infant. A twenty-year-old infant who’s toilet-trained–just about.”

“Ah, but you behaved like parents and kept him a part of the family.”

“Do you think that was smart. Ginty? You know what it cost? It’s seventeen years since Nora and me left the house together. Seventeen years. When he was two or three we could still get a babysitter–after that it’s impossible. We hardly talk to each other, Ginty. I haven’t laid a hand on her in fifteen years. It was never right again, with him there. Something is just the matter. We should’ve got rid of them at the start. We waited until it was too late.”

“You don’t mean that Barney, It wouldn’t have been right. The (others) can do it, maybe. They certainly waste no time planting their old mothers and fathers in the nursing homes. You wouldn’t believe the boardwalk at Long Beach. Perched like some endless row of gulls they are, on a sunny afternoon, with a mile of poor old souls staring out at the ocean with their (hired) maids standing behind the chairs. They must ship off the babies as well if they don’t see them suitable. You can bet your ass, Barney at that it’s not (our people)  filling up the nursing homes and the Letchworth Villages.” 

Barney jerked his thumb toward the front of the bar. “This crew doesn’t look much better off Ginty. Every one of them will cash his next Social Security check right here and leave most of it in the register.”

 “Old John O’Connell has to add to it each month.”

“So who’s to say what was right, Ginty?”

“What if you had to do it over again? That’s the test. Serious now. Are you saying you would lock the boy up in some home? Among a bunch of strangers?”

Barney thought for a few moments. “I don’t know, Ginty. I just don’t know. Most likely I do it the same way, but not because I think it’s right. I just figured if you got dealt a bad hand, then you sat with it and played it out.  I never even stopped to figure it, to tell you the truth–it’s just the way it was. 

“That’s my point, Barney. That’s exactly my point. It’s the way (our people) are. All this nursing-home crap and the homes for the retarded and divorces and abortions–all the rest of them out there want life to be one grand picnic. Demand it they do. It’s got to be every (effenheimer) inch of it their way. And if it’s not right, then by God, it’s got to be fixed, whether it means murdering some unborn baby or sentencing their own flesh and blood to something called a ‘home.’ God love us. They each of them demand that life treat them just so. Well just who the hell do they think they are, that everything should be so easy? They want to answer to no one but themselves.”

Barney shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, Ginty.  Maybe not.  We all just go through it our own way.  Who the hell can say why?”

“In any case, I’m happy you wouldn’t do any different with the boy, Barney.” 

He walked to the front sinks to catch up on glasses.