Alone

Agnes sat in Rittenhouse Square, alone that soggy July evening as the skies poured rain upon her vanquished spirit. Everyone had failed her, and it was all over for her. Her husband was dead, killed in the war not even a year ago. She had almost lost their son in New York, but by the grace of God had found him in Times Square. Her mother was lost to her, gone to Washington after their falling out more than nine years ago. Patrick wouldn't speak with her, Uncle John hated her. And then there were Christina and Mr. Larney, her Sean.

Why had she not seen that Christina, her best friend for a dozen years, had been having an affair with Norman Balmoral all those years, had in fact been sleeping with him even before she, Agnes Limerick, had met her future husband? Why hadn't she recognized her friend's resentment of how Norman treated women, why hadn't she recognized that Christina knew more about him than a casual friend would know? And why hadn't she made the connection when Christina mentioned Norman's rescue of the Wilson granddaughter, information she would only have had if she had in fact been there herself? And if she had been there, then she was "the other woman" Norman had confessed to seeing.

And her Mr. Larney. All those years he taught her piano -- and she had known he was gay all along, everybody did. Why had she failed to make the connection between her Mr. Larney and her father? It was Daddy, dead so many years ago, who had insisted that she take piano lessons from his childhood friend. And when he died, Uncle John desperately tried, but failed, to convince Mama to take her to a different teacher. But Mama, who knew nothing of what went on between Mr. Larney and her father, refused. And perhaps, wasn't that better? Wasn't it better that she had the best piano teacher in Philadelphia, even if he was her father's former lover?

She had lost Christina, her best friend. Her father had been dead since she was eight. Her mother barely spoke with her any longer, and had moved more than a hundred miles away. She had no relationship with her brother Patrick. Uncle John, the priest of St. Patrick's Church where she went to school for twelve years, had formally damned her to her face the last time. When Mama, Patrick, and Uncle John had come to Norman's funeral last fall, the man refused to look her in the eye. And there had been Granny -- her beloved Annie Kate -- who had been dead ten years now. And Norman Balmoral, her husband, her faithless husband who had insisted on going to England to be in the war effort -- he had abandoned her, too.

So there she was, and only one thing remained for her. Her piano, her imagination, playing her heart out. Yes, there were the children -- they were her responsibility. So with her piano, she wasn't entirely alone. And Mr. Larney would be there, too, and she supposed she could forgive him for his relationship with Daddy. But she couldn't forgive him for not telling her about it, letting her find out from Uncle John.

Alone, alone but for her children, her home, and her piano.