News from Brooklyn

Cousin Denny killed cousin Maura with a crossbow.

by Mike Newall

Patsy arrived for the St. Patty's Day Parade with news from Brooklyn. Patsy's my mother.

"I ran into cousin Denny's sister, Marian,* at a funeral," she said, draping a plastic shamrock necklace around my girlfriend as my father piled trays of corned beef onto the counter. "I asked Marian about cousin Denny and she said, 'Cousin Denny killed cousin Maura. Cousin Maura is dead and he killed her.' I almost fell to the floor. I couldn't believe it. I said, 'What happened?'"

Then Patsy asked to see our new curtains.

"They need adjustments," she said.

Cousin Denny is Patsy's first cousin's son. Maura was his wife. Cousin Denny killed cousin Maura with a crossbow.

Patsy explained the story as we walked to the parade.

"They kept a treadmill and a bow and arrow in the garage," said Patsy. "Some months before he killed her there was an accident with the bow and arrow where he grazed her. Cousin Maura told everyone it was a mistake."

Patsy asked for some tea. We walked into one of the gourmet places on Rittenhouse. The tea canisters each had three lines of description. Patsy took a sip and made a face.

"This tastes like perfume," she said.

We picked out some scones instead.

"The second time was near Christmas," Patsy said, walking through the Square. "Cousin Maura's on the treadmill and cousin Denny's cleaning the garage. He claims the bow and arrow is in a bag. He says he thought she got rid of it. He says he threw the bag onto a pile and when it landed that triggered the bow and it went through cousin Maura on the treadmill."

Groups of people were walking away from the parade.

"It's not over yet, is it?" Patsy yelled.

We found a spot near the Basilica. Patsy immediately began to cheer.

Patsy's an expert on St. Patrick's Day parades. She grew up in Brooklyn next to a large hill, which everybody called "Kelly's Hill," after Patsy's maiden name. In the winter, Patsy and her brothers and sisters sledded down the hill and roasted potatoes over kettle drums. In the spring, she played with chickens in the yard until her mother had her hold them down as she chopped their heads off. Patsy hated that. There was a rooster, too. They never ate the rooster. The rooster crowed every morning when Patsy's father went to work as a bank porter and, again, when he came home.

"For a rooster to be that smart ... " Patsy says.

Every St. Patrick's Day, Patsy's father squeezed his family onto the IRT train and found a spot close to the parade viewing stand. As the day wore on, people left, and they'd find seats. Patsy has gone almost every year since.

This is Patsy's first Philly parade.

"I like it here," she said as bagpipers played. She was wearing a green poncho, an Irish sombrero, a Celtic scarf and assorted pins and necklaces. She mistakenly forgot her shamrock stickers.

"It's open and spacious here, not as hectic as New York, and not as commercial either," she said.

A man was selling green carnations, a dollar a piece.

"I'll take two," said Patsy.

She was asked to finish the story about cousin Denny.

HALF OFF DEPOT

Why live life at full price?

"A few months after I found out, I was out riding my bike and your father was screaming, 'Come in, your cousin's on TV.' They had a whole thing about the trial. Well, Denny's lawyer tries to show the judge how the bow could accidentally go off, except he couldn't get it to do anything. I thought to myself, this guy's a horse's ass."

Cousin Denny got life.

We walked home for dinner.

"So he started writing me from jail," said Patsy, serving up corned beef. "He protested his innocence, said he needed money for pens and pencils to write people."

"I sent him $25," said Patsy.

He wrote again, saying he'd run out of pens and pencils.

"I sent him another $40," said Patsy, but then she called her older brother Eddie for advice.

"Are you nuts?" said Eddie. "He's gambling. They gamble on the cockroaches in prison."

Patsy stopped sending money.

"He's my cousin and I can't judge him, that's between him and God," said Patsy, sitting down to the table. "But being my cousin only goes so far. I mean, how many pens and pencils you gonna buy?"

The corned beef was delicious.

* All the facts in this story are true, of course. But Patsy requested we change a few names out of respect for the families of our deceased and incarcerated cousins.

Dispatch is filed from all corners of Philadelphia. E-mail mike.newall@citypaper.net.