One From Two

One From Two

One From Two

Copyright 2013 by R.C. Mulcahy

Published at Smashwords

One From Two is dedicated to those lost on September 11, 2001.

Table of Contents

Preface

The Derrys

The Donoghues

The Confluence

A Note About the Proceeds

References

Acknowledgements

Preface

On the morning of September 11, 2001 I sat at my desk on the top floor of the Newport Financial Center office tower in Jersey City, New Jersey. The windows before me stretched from floor to ceiling. With a clear view of southwestern Manhattan, I witnessed the attack against the World Trade Center.

The assault underscored how random life is. Anyone is vulnerable to the misdeeds of scheming assailants, to the offenses of thoughtless dunderheads or to unforeseen accidents. Imagine how a twist of fate, or even a bad shake of chromosomes at the origin of life, can indiscriminately devastate.

The terrorists’ crimes will never be a match for the resolve within humanity. Like most people, I have reflected on the events of September 11. In fact, the World Trade Center represents a primary theme in the novel, which serves as a salute to the Twin Towers.

At its core, One From Two depicts the human condition. Namely, no matter what problems today brings, tomorrow holds hope.

As I wrote, the obvious became more obvious.

If one is confronted with a tangible problem, in most fields, such as medicine or engineering, the first step of the solution is to isolate the concern. Then it has to be removed and remedied. With a tumor, if a doctor has determined the growth is localized, the cancer must be excised. Then appropriate follow up therapy to banish the disease has to be recommended. With the construction of a skyscraper, if a crew has discovered a beam of steel is the wrong length, the girder has to be pushed aside; a new one ordered and set into place.

Human interactions, however, are intangible and boundlessly more complex. When dealing with them, the concept of isolation typically has failed. For example, consider the dilapidated housing projects built on urban superblocks and the impact the projects have on a city’s population. To amputate this infected limb from the city is impractical though, if not bad medicine, especially if treatments of proper antibiotics and nutrients would allow the body, the city, to heal itself. Steps can be taken within and beyond, but most especially within, the city neighborhood that could serve as a vaccine to prevent such degeneration. To crystallize the complexity of human interactions further, consider a patient who suffers from a treatable psychiatric illness. To prescribe infinite solitude would merely exacerbate the ailment. The patient, like the detached neighborhood, would never be assimilated back into society, would forever be ostracized. What is better understood now, is that these physical, mental and societal problems will only have working solutions when there is hope.

One From Two is designed to increase awareness for those in need of hope, especially those who have been harmed by a tragedy of chance, those who have suffered because they were fatefully at the wrong place at the wrong time. The story includes a symbolic analogy, which compares the trials of the main characters to the challenges of the World Trade Center’s construction, collapse and revitalization.

While chapters were being drafted, I consulted with patients who were harmed by a tragedy of chance. With a greater appreciation of what these patients face, I felt obligated to use the book as a vehicle to raise money for non-controversial medical research. The patients were innocent victims, decent and ordinary people, worthy of an opportunity to rebuild their lives.

The characters in One From Two are fictional.

Monday, December 21, 1998

Jersey City, New Jersey

No! My God, no! A spring of tears pooled in the corners of Key Derry’s eyes. He slumped his head in disbelief. Life was forever altered.

The permanency of change had yet to be grasped fully in his frantic state. A thousand thoughts thundered through every crevice of his brain.

What happened? What happened! Was I hit? I can't move!

After the smack of collision, a small crowd of onlookers immediately began to inspect the car accident. Key’s black Jeep was a crumpled heap. A few pedestrians tried to pry open the driver's side door. It refused to budge.

Key guessed that his body had become embedded in the warped steel frame and the broken plastic of the dashboard. The stillness of his body directly contrasted his soul's instant leap into battle.

Soon the faint wail of sirens whistled in the chilled morning air.

The Derrys

Friday, March 11, 1927

Killybegs, County Donegal, Ireland

Off to the pub now? Flannan Derry bid his son, Joseph. Flannan’s leathered cheeks, prematurely aged by the sun and the spray of saltwater, were always crimson.

Aye, I'm good for a Guinness, dad.

I think a pint will do us good. Them waters been choppy for days. Made the trip seem a lot longer than a week.

Eight days…We’ve been away eight days.

I shoulda figured the newlywed would know the exact number of nights away from his bride. So Joseph, have ya changed ya mind? Are ya headed straight home to Brigid or comin' for a pint? Flannan, the father of six, teased his oldest child.

I’ll drink one with ya. The eighteen year-old Joseph threw his arm around Flannan’s shoulder. Each possessed a sturdy frame, immense hands and a dimpled jaw.

The Derrys were a closely knit family of fishermen. Flannan's grandfather, father and brothers were all men of the sea. Fishing was a predestined occupation for them, along with most of the other families living on the shoreline of southwestern County Donegal. For generations the husbands of Killybegs fished, and their wives tended to the hearth.

The townsmen, their clothes and the village itself smelled of fish. With seawater at Killybegs doorstep, vessels of all sizes routinely dropped off tons of catch to be processed by a dockside fishery.

As father and son walked from the Killybegs pier to the pub, they climbed the steep terrain slowly. While finding their land legs, their bodies ached in the cold, damp climate.

The men bellied up to the bar.

Good to see ya fellas back. Flannan, how was the fishin' for ya? Paddy greeted. He was a short, boisterous bartender. His baby face was full and pink. Paddy's head, which was disproportionate to his frail skeleton, was the size of a late autumn pumpkin.

The fishin’ was good! Flannan exclaimed to all the patrons.

The first round is on the house! Paddy pounded his fist against the bar. The drinkers cheered with approval.

Out of the few empty tables, the Derrys chose a corner one. Joseph squared himself with Flannan so eye contact was direct. Flannan sensed Joseph’s uneasiness.

He recalled the details of his most recent discussion with Brigid. Prior to leaving on the fishing expedition, Joseph and his young wife talked about their life plans. Both were born and raised in Killybegs. They resided in a room in his parents’ house. Under Flannan's thatched roof, privacy eluded them. To find it, on occasion Joseph and Brigid secretly met in a rear pew at Saint Mary's Church.

Joseph, are ya sure ya can convince ya dad, about us going to America? Brigid whispered in the dim Church. Saint Mary's musty scent added gravity to their discourse.

I want better for us. And I can't stand the fish. Joseph scratched his coarse, brown hair.

Aye, God bless the fishermen, but we don't wear the sea well…One bad storm could take ya away from me. I can't--

I know there's a better lot for me, for us in America. Before we wed, I promised ya that we'd go there. Ya thoughts haven’t changed, have they?

No.

Neither have mine.

So you'll speak to ya father about it?

Aye.

Joseph left the Church to meet Flannan at the Killybegs pier to embark on their fishing trip to the Atlantic Ocean.

Joseph, sitting in the tavern, was about to summon up the courage to broach the subject of America. While on deck, he had a thousand opportunities to speak to Flannan. Each time Joseph found an excuse. The moment would never be perfect. He had to keep the vow made to both Brigid and himself.

Dad… Joseph's voice faltered, um, me and Brigid, uh…

Joseph, whatever is troublin' ya, say it. What's weighin' on ya?

Me and Brigid, we, we want to go to America.

America? To live in America?

Aye.

But it’s--

Dad, I don't like the fishin' and I want better.

But America's so far away--

Aye, I know…

Uh, we got some cousins in Dublin and Cork with factory jobs. Would they be more to ya likin'?

Joseph took a swig of his Guinness.

Son, if ya want to do something different, I understand. Is there any--

America, me and Brigid want America.

If you stay--

Dad, I hear ya say all the time, 'Tis Ireland. Even when you're goin' downhill, you're goin' uphill.' I know you’re trying to be funny, but ya say it 'cause ya know it's true.

Flannan digested Joseph's decision.

…Me boy is all grown up now.

Joseph grimaced, strode out of the pub. While Flannan drank a few more rounds, Joseph walked home. The breeze from the inlet was especially strong. The odor from the sea overpowered the smoked peat puffing from the cottages of Killybegs.

Joseph opened the bright red door of his parents' house. Brigid was the only one inside the usually bustling home. She embraced him. He held her soft curves. Her indigo eyes smiled as she swept back her blonde curls. Joseph settled into a worn chair in the drafty living room. Brigid tossed more peat into the fireplace. He told her about the conversation with his father.

Some months later, after saying final good-byes to their loved ones, Brigid and Joseph headed south to Cork. From there, they boarded a passenger ship bound for New York. As the Irish port faded into the eastern horizon, the pair knew that they likely saw their relatives for the last time. Full of anxiety and ambition, Brigid and Joseph marked the days until reaching their destination in the New World by talking about their hopes. Rather than dwell on what they were leaving, they concentrated on their fresh start.

After the Derrys’ boat docked, they traveled to Jersey City, on the western bank of the Hudson River, across from Manhattan. Brigid had a relative who lived in the Heights section. From its elevated shoulders, generous views of New York's skyline were offered. Her cousin and his wife, along with the Derrys, shared the cramped quarters of a one bedroom apartment.

As the 1920s roared with prosperity in America, the Derrys landed jobs quite easily. Brigid gained employment as a clerk at a five-and-dime store in Jersey City; Joseph, as a factory worker at Colgate in the Paulus Hook district of town. The industrial plant, landmarked by a colossal clock, rested near the water's edge. The timepiece faced lower Manhattan. The Colgate Clock was often a New Yorker's first impression, from across the Hudson River, of Jersey City. At that time, New Jersey and the rest of the country were more impressed with New York. All were mesmerized by Manhattan's erection of dizzying skyscrapers and dizzying stock market climb.

When Wall Street's party finally pooped out and a massive hangover choked the economy, the Derrys grew concerned. New immigrants, the least senior laborers, were among the most vulnerable to get their jobs axed. After the nation’s financial collapse, the gates for new immigrants were essentially closed. The Derrys, however, had the luck of the Irish. Not only did they enter the country just a few years before the doors for immigration were shut, but Brigid and Joseph also survived the Great Depression fully employed, though modestly.

Their good fortune afforded them the opportunity to move into their own apartment in Paulus Hook. Although Brigid was grateful that she and her husband were registered on payrolls, she was frustrated with their efforts to start a family. Upon arrival in America, her optimism had assured her that babies, many babies, many American babies were to be born from her womb.

Many years passed with her belly flat. Eventually she outright questioned the decision to move to the States. Brigid bickered with Joseph, We came here for a better life for us, for our children. But we have none.

Each letter mailed back to Ireland was inked with disappointment. Although she knew no one was at fault, a tacit friction cooled marital relations as headlines chronicled the boiling of Europe. After the outbreak of World War II, the Derrys resigned themselves to a life without offspring. Their joint acceptance brought them closer. As battles were being waged abroad, unexpectedly Brigid discovered she was pregnant.

Their dingy apartment needed to become fit for a family. Joseph Malachy Derry was born on a winter's evening in 1944. Malachy was Brigid's father's name. Joe, as he was called, reveled in a childhood full of fun and learning.

His parents imparted proper values and a strong work ethic into their child. During his grammar school years, Joe had a newspaper route. He delivered the Jersey Journal throughout his neighborhood, which was an immigrants' nest. After grade school he attended Saint Peter's Prep, a Jesuit secondary school located a few blocks from the Derrys’ residence. The family’s humble start in America pushed Joe to succeed.

Friday, April 13, 1962

Jersey City, New Jersey

Joe, the mailman came, Brigid told her son. An envelope is on the table for ya. Joseph, holding a stained teacup, stood silently next to her in their tight kitchen.

I’m coming. Joe secured his baseball mitt and hat under his skinny teenage arm. He had been playing ball with some friends at a nearby park. His gray eyes beamed from their rounded sockets. Bushy brown hair capped his fair skin.

It's from Princeton, Brigid noted.

Joe clutched the letter, imprinted with a black and orange crest, in front of his parents. Princeton University's correspondence, busting at its seams, invited Joe to be a member of the class of 1966. As he read aloud the letter of acceptance, Brigid and Joseph were momentarily taken aback. They could barely comprehend the steps the family had taken within a single generation of the Derrys’ immigration. They had steady employment, some cash in the bank and now their son was off to the Ivy League in a few months.

Time flew in the spring and summer of 1962 as Joe prepared for college.

On a muggy September morning Joe, with overstuffed suitcases in hand, took the train from Newark to Princeton. The ride to his new world lasted an hour and a quarter. Like his parents, years earlier, he integrated quickly into his new habitat.

The campus was alive. Green was growing everywhere -- on the ivy covered buildings, on the tree-lined streets and on the manicured lawns. The city boy appreciated the natural beauty of the campus.

Joe studied hard. After particularly grueling stretches, he relished the company of some of his fellow freshmen as they unwound at the Nassau Inn's pub in Palmer Square. The good-natured young man got a kick out of everyone's varied background. One friend came all the way from the coast of the Pacific Northwest, one from the Rocky Mountains, another from the Deep South, and one from a small hamlet on the outskirts of Brussels, Belgium. Their lively conversations invigorated all of them. They shared many stories and laughs. Life was good.

Though most of his classmates rarely ventured far from campus, except for the occasional trips to Manhattan or Philadelphia, Joe was eager to explore the surrounding countryside. The adjacent towns of West Windsor and Plainsboro were eye opening to him. These communities in central New Jersey were largely rural, unlike the urban corrosion Joe knew of Jersey City.

Sometimes as he gazed across the fields, he wondered, Am I in Nebraska or am I really standing in New Jersey? The corn, strawberries, apples and peaches were sweet as can be. The tomatoes were thick, rich with taste. In fact, Joe's favorite late night snack during college was the tomato sandwich. With a few good shakes of salt and pepper on the fruit and with a touch of mayonnaise on crisp toast, he had his fuel to burn the midnight oil while hunched over his textbooks. During the weeks of final exams, Joe was known to eat three or four of these sandwiches a day. He loved them. He loved his budding independence. He loved college. As the winds swept across the New Jersey farmland, they whispered life's promises to Joe.

When he was a freshman, Joe had a good inkling of what curriculum he wanted to pursue. His education confirmed his direction. Certainly every little boy has fond memories of playing with wooden toy blocks and erector sets. Joe was no exception. He was always putting together one contraption or another. Ultimately, he had a chance to combine his building skills with his childhood visions of the New York City skyline. Since Joe spent his formative years in downtown Jersey City, he had witnessed each day the expansion of the metropolis across the Hudson River. Before him, the swinging arms of tower cranes had danced while they reached skyward. He was enthralled. His decision to study architecture as an academic course made sense to him.

Structural design intrigued Joe. The application of art to science captivated his imagination. He accounted well for himself in his studies. After graduating near the top of his class, he sought his Master's degree at Princeton's School of Architecture.

The Master’s program lasted two years. With each passing semester, one observation was obvious to all. As the 1960s rolled forward, the times became more tumultuous. Joe never joined any radical groups on campus. The spirit of the sixties, nonetheless, affected everyone, everything. Architecture was no exception.

When Joe earned his graduate degree in 1968, no hair touched his ears or his shirt's collar. His face remained clean shaven. He was too engrossed in his schooling to partake in the changing political currents. Rather than join antiwar protests, he was more inclined to spend his time in The Lab. It was a workshop by the school's football stadium where students received hands-on experience building items of all sorts, from model bridges to furniture.

Students of the 1960s were very socially and politically conscious. Idealists inspired many spheres of society, including future architects. The mantra within the world