The Poor Irish Family of the Tenement House

From the mid-nineteenth century into the early twentieth, New York City began building tenement houses to absorb its exploding population.

Concentrated mainly in Lower Manhattan, these overcrowded, squalid buildings were home mostly to the poor—and the great majority of them were impoverished immigrants from other lands.

Lower East Side, Manhattan, New York.

A tenement house at the intersection of Hester and Forsyth Streets.

On the third floor, farthest to the right, lived the Graves family. In other words, my home.

I had no clear memory of how Leo had gotten me there. Even after I arrived I spent two full days flat on my back, surviving on potato soup and, humiliating as it was, relying on other hands even to relieve myself.

Not strangers, exactly—the original owner of this body. Kieran’s family.

A mother younger than I had been in my previous life. A fifteen-year-old younger brother full of teenage rebellion. A six-year-old little sister, the baby of the house.

Suddenly one of them, I lay in bed wrapped in a strange tangle of feelings.

My mind was a storm of thoughts.

There was no room left for doubt: I had been possessed into the body of a seventeen-year-old boy named Kieran Graves.

The bloodline was the real kick in the teeth.

Father Korean, mother Irish.

In this era, was that even a combination that made sense?

Bloodline aside, the place we lived was a problem too.

New York at this moment was the most densely populated city on earth, and the Lower East Side overflowed with immigrants. Most of them lived hard lives. They had come to America chasing freedom and hope, only to tumble into an endless abyss of poverty.

Low wages, endless hours of labor—and even that work was hard to find.

The Graves family was no exception.

Three years earlier, after the Korean father died, they had sunk into grinding destitution. A woman and children, the weakest hands in the labor market, scraped by just enough to stay alive. Life never improved; they only sank deeper into the mire of poverty and could not climb out.

…Damn it. Suddenly I was furious.

So my previous life had been a dumpster fire and I’d left dreams unfinished, and God decided to hand me another chance? This was an even worse dumpster fire.

Until the PTSD hit, my last life hadn’t been bad. Aside from losing my parents in a car crash as a kid, I’d done the work I wanted and even saved a decent amount of money. Yet God had shoved my second round of life into something far more wretched.

Worst-case scenario every way you looked at it.

The one bright spot: for nearly five years the PTSD that had hollowed me out day after day had not shown itself. The ringing hallucinations were gone.

It was still early to declare victory, but the disappearance of symptoms that used to strike without warning was extremely encouraging.

Late that night the faint smell of candle wax woke me. I cracked my eyes open and looked at the woman seated at the small table, her back to the candlelight.

Nora Graves.

An Irish immigrant who had fled to America during the potato famine, starving for food. The mother of this body—Kieran’s mother.

“Hoo…”

She pressed a hand to her forehead and let out a long sigh.

Through Kieran’s memories I knew exactly what she was fretting over.

Money. Always money.

Monthly rent for the tenement. Food for four people for a month. Fuel, clothing, odds and ends. All told, at least forty dollars were needed.

Her wages as a seamstress and the two shoe-shine boys working without rest were barely enough to keep them fed. And I had been laid up sick for two days. Of course her worries had deepened.

She might have to take on debt. If she hated that idea, she would have to keep working even if she collapsed while shining shoes. At least then they could put something in their mouths. Just being dropped into this damned era and place and forced to worry about such things made anger surge through me.

In my previous life I had lived alone for more than twenty years. Once solitude became familiar I had reveled in the freedom, doing whatever I pleased. Loneliness never touched me. To me family was nothing but cumbersome baggage.

The original Kieran Graves had treasured his family like his own life. But he was him, and I was me.

I was already in nothing but my drawers. Maybe I should just make a clean break and run…

Mother snuffed the candle. Her dark silhouette turned toward me. I shut my eyes at once.

Soft footsteps. She came close, stroked my hair, and whispered low.

“My big boy…”

A trembling voice. Then her lips brushed my forehead lightly and lifted away.

“Meeting parents who couldn’t do better… never even sending you to school… I’m so sorry. Mom knows how hard you’ve worked, so this time rest properly. You never got to rest, did you?”

Talking to herself, I supposed.

The awkward discomfort made me shift as if turning in my sleep. She patted my back in silence and returned to her own room.

Strange. In this Irish mother I saw the familiar outline of a Korean one. Maybe because it had been so long since I had felt a parent’s presence.

Of course that feeling alone did not erase the thought of bolting. But my body still had not recovered. Going outside right now offered no clever solution. Preparation was needed.

The next dawn my body, which had tingled all over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with every breath, recovered so dramatically I almost felt guilty. After a beating that should have killed me, the resilience was astonishing. When I sat up I felt as if I could do anything.

But Mother was already up in the early hours, so I could not rise. She was preparing breakfast in the kitchen-living room.

She lit the old stove, poured water into a pot, and when the oatmeal began to boil she added sugar. While it thickened she pulled a few potatoes from the cupboard, peeled them, and cut them small.

Potatoes again, of course.

When the oatmeal was ready she set the pot aside and boiled the potatoes. Meanwhile she took out hard pieces of bread, sliced them thin on the cutting board, and arranged them on plates. Then she poured water into a small kettle, boiled it, and mixed in a little milk.

Only when everything was finished did she wake the younger ones.

The first to appear was little Roa, who slept in Mother’s room. Clutching her blanket, she rubbed her eyes and toddled out. A six-year-old this diligent. And why did she always come straight to me the moment she woke?

I kept my eyes closed, pretending to sleep.

In no time Roa, blanket still in hand, came up and poked my cheek.

“Big brother, still hurt?”

“……”

“If I blow on it, will it stop hurting?”

As if that would fix anything.

“Hmph. Guess I can’t play with Big Brother again today.”

Liam, two years younger than me, slept on the upper bunk above mine. Roa climbed the iron ladder. Each step rang with metal.

Creak. Creak.

Thwack.

“Little brother, wake up! It’s morning!”

Thwack.

“Aah, seriously! Just wake me with words, okay?!”

“I did use words. Sleepyhead brother, hurry up and eat so we can go to work. Roa needs something tasty.”

“You think I work just to buy you candy?”

“No? Then Roa will be so sad…”

“Aah, fine, fine! I’m coming down, so move out of the way, will you?”

Roa hopped off the ladder and scurried into the kitchen where Mother waited. Liam followed down from the bunk. A shadow fell across my closed eyes. He seemed to be staring at me. He said nothing. After a moment of silent looking he moved to the table.

A little later the rest of the family gathered at the narrow table. Breakfast began with a prayer.

“Liam, can you take Roa to Aunt Mary’s again like yesterday?”

“I need to leave early today.”

“What urgent business do you have first thing in the morning?”

Liam chewed for a long while before answering carefully.

“Calvin said he has a new job for me.”

“What kind of job?”

“I’ll find out when I get there. But do you know how much the daily pay is? One dollar.”

He glanced sideways as he continued.

“Mom, you know I’m a coward. And if it looks dangerous I just won’t do it.”

In truth, shoe-shining was dangerous enough. Territory fights turned into brawls; people could get beaten to death. Just like this body—Kieran.

Anyway, Mother said that at fifteen a boy should look after himself and stressed responsibility. As long as the work was not outright dangerous she did not forbid it.

A short exchange, and breakfast ended.

Our tenement had no bathroom. The toilet was a shared outhouse behind the building. Mother filled a basin, washed Roa, and dressed her. As a seamstress she kept the clothes free of holes, yet the patches made them look painfully poor. Only I seemed to mind; Roa clearly did not care how her clothes looked. Her bright expression made that certain.

After everyone washed in turn, Mother left first, hurrying as if chased to her workplace. A little later Liam took Roa’s hand and went out. Until Mother finished work, Roa would stay at a community child-care place. Fancy name for simple shared childcare, a kind of mutual favor. It was inside the same tenement; a woman named Mary watched a dozen or so children for two dollars a month per head.

That aside—

At last I was alone.

I rose from the loathsome bed and stood solidly on both feet in the living room. Three days since the possession and I still had not seen my own face. I went to the mirror on the living-room wall.

And finally I met the face of the boy called Kieran.

Bruises and swelling from the savage beating remained, but I could still take stock of the looks. First impression: quite… ambiguous. Asian, yet something foreign clung to him. Black hair. Thick, straight eyebrows. A slightly sharp double-lidded gaze. Full lips with clear definition. A face neither round nor angular. Limbs long and clean; he was tall. Kieran had thought of himself as five-foot-ten; if that was right, there was still room to grow.

As for a man’s most important part—I had confirmed it thoroughly while lying in bed. Honestly, it was more than satisfactory; better than my previous self. That alone made this life worth living. If this was the “opportunity” God had meant, then escaping bachelorhood and reigniting the will to live again would burn hot—anyway.

The apartment was roughly two hundred square feet. One room plus a living-kitchen. From the living room a single turn of the head took in every possession; that was how cramped it was.

“Ugh, just looking at it feels stifling.”

I prowled the place like a burglar. In a corner of the kitchen I found potatoes wrapped in newspaper. I brushed off the dirt, smoothed the crumpled sheet, and scanned it.

It was the New York Times issued two weeks earlier—April 6, 1917.

That was the origin of the massive Boy Scout parade held two days earlier in Manhattan. Their cry of “Wake up, America!” had been a slogan to encourage enlistment.

A time before the Second World War existed, so the conflict was still called the European War or simply the Great War rather than the First World War.

Perhaps this era suited me perfectly. Half my life had been war—Special Forces, mercenary work—right up to the moment I died. But if God wanted me to shine on the battlefield, if He meant to assign me some “grand and meaningful mission,” He should have sent me somewhere better.

Eighty-nine thousand casualties in the Battle of the Bulge. Four thousand cut down on the first day of Normandy. If He expected me to do something in those places, He should at least have opened the path to becoming an officer.

First World War was out of reach by age, so aim for the Second twenty years later? War is not some college-entrance qualification exam. The gap was long enough to be a problem, and realistically, with my bloodline, education, and money, an officer’s commission was nearly impossible.

Grrr.

My stomach howled for food. That was reality. When you are sick you should eat well, yet for two days I had lived on potato soup. On top of labor and malnutrition my body was already frail.

“Let’s see what’s here.”

I ransacked the kitchen for usable ingredients. Peeling an onion, I found the knife dull as a spoon.

“How are you supposed to cook with a blade like this?”

No Y-shaped potato peeler either. Had it not been invented yet? If I patented one I could make a killing. In the little notebook Kieran usually carried I roughly sketched a Y-shaped peeler.

“I’ll write things down whenever they come to me.”

My head was a gold mine of ideas. Becoming an officer might be hard, but if I pulled the right ones out, even surpassing Rockefeller was not an impossible dream.

“Shall I try living this life properly for once?”

Hunger came first, so I chopped the vegetables with the dull kitchen knife, cracked five eggs into them, and mixed. All that remained was to cook in a pan.

I cleaned the ashes from the stove used that morning, added fresh wood and coal, made a paper kindling, dropped it in, and opened the front vent to feed the air.

“What a pain in the ass.”

When the flame strengthened I set the grease-caked frying pan on top, poured oil, and dumped in the egg-and-vegetable mixture. A pinch of salt.

Sizzle.

When it browned nicely the cooking was done. I transferred it to a plate and polished it off in seconds with a fork.

As fullness returned, my mind filled again with hopeful futures.

“People really do need to eat well.”

Now, how was I going to live from here?

While thinking I laid the dull kitchen knife on the small table and began searching for a whetstone. Sharpening felt instinctive. Nothing honed the edge of reason quite like honing a blade.

Scrape, scrape.

Rain began to fall outside. Dust-caked windowpanes collected beads of water that ran down in rivulets. The house filled only with the sound of steel on stone, while my head filled with plans for the future.

I was finishing the last kitchen knife when—

Click.

The door opened. Mother stared at me with wide eyes.

“Kieran!”

“Kieran!”

From behind her skirt a little girl with big eyes and fair skin poked her head out. My younger sister Roa.

Already lunchtime?

“Big Brother! You’re all better already?!”

“…As you can see.”

“Waaah! Great! Let’s eat lunch together!”

Roa dashed toward me; I hid the knife behind my back so she would not get hurt.

“But Big Brother, last time you sharpened the knives you ruined them all. Still not in your right mind?”

“……”

I understood why Mother’s eyebrows had climbed.

She strode over and suddenly pulled me into a tight embrace. Caught off guard, I stood awkwardly, knife still in hand, not knowing what to do.

“Are you all right?”

“……I can move.”

Mother was thirty-eight this year—eight years younger than I had been when I died. She would have made a better remarriage match, but right now ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I was her son. Whether residual feelings from Kieran remained or not, the awkwardness vanished quickly.

“Do you know how scared I was? When Leo carried you in I thought I was going to faint.”

“Yes…”

“Anyway, I’m so glad you got up. My son.”

Just when I thought the hug was ending she pinched both my cheeks and wrinkled her nose.

“Those bastards. How hard did they hit you to make our handsome boy’s face look this ugly?”

The face isn’t the problem, Mother of Kieran. He already got beaten to death and went to heaven.

If she knew, she would be devastated. My chest ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tightened.

At that moment Roa poked my thigh. Her big bright eyes had grown moist too.

So this is family. Something I had not felt in a very long time…

“Big Brother… did you eat the eggs?”

“Hm?”

“….. Roa’s eggs are gone.”

Tears welled in Roa’s eyes. Her lips and the bridge of her nose twitched; then she burst into loud sobs.

“Waaaaah!”

I did not especially like children. Crying ones I particularly loathed. Soothing them was unfamiliar territory.

“Hey, did the country fall? What’s the big deal over a few eggs? Just eat some pota—”

Smack!

A back-smacking of unexpected force exploded across my spine. Mother’s hand was surprisingly sharp. The sting started between my shoulder blades and raced through my whole body.

“What a wonderful big brother you are! How could you eat every last egg in one go?”

Over a couple of eggs. The little sister wailing, the mother delivering a full back-smack. Reality hit hard. I felt exactly where I was and what era ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I lived in.

“Kieran, I told you never to touch the knives again. Last time you ruined every edge, and now again, again… eh?”

Mother’s face went blank as she stared at the knife. I smirked and drew it across the newspaper.

“Sssshk.”

“Oh my goodness!”

Mother and Roa gaped at the cleanly sliced paper.

That was the spark.

To replace the eggs I had eaten, I had to start working at once. Rain made shoe-shining impossible, so I looked for work inside the tenement itself. And so—

“Knife sharpening! Three cents each. Knife sharpening…”

Fuck. I had landed in one hell of a place.