Victoria Balmoral: Room for rent

She wasn't prepared for this development. Ever since Norman had started working again, she'd depended on the income. Now he, Agnes, and little Grace were leaving to move into their new house on Spruce Street. A big brownstone with lots of room for them, Grace, any dog they choose to get (Victoria knew her daughter-in-law would want to get a dog immediately), and any more grandchildren that came down the pike. But what would she and Cornelius do for income? How would they make up for the loss that Norman's departure meant? True, they'd been stuffed like sardines in their two-bedroom apartment above the pharmacy. It'd been very difficult for them all -- first, when the bank had taken the big house across the street, and then when Norman had to get married so quickly and so suddenly. Victoria didn't like to think about that, but it happened all the time. And all's well that ends well, after all. Agnes had proved to be a delightful addition to the family. What a shame, though, that her Catholic family didn't approve of them, just because they were Episcopalians.

She decided to find a boarder, but who would be paying these days? It was 1934 and no one had any money. And despite being told they had nothing to fear but fear itself, everyone was afraid to spend money. Money. She hated the word, she hated what it meant, and she hated being without it. Why was it, they'd taken their money for granted when it was plentiful, but when it went scarce, all of a sudden it became the most important thing? Income was still way down at the pharmacy, only a little more than fifty percent what it'd been in '28. And this was the sixth year of the Depression, if you included '29. Surely better times were around the corner, and surely she could find a boarder who'd pay the $19 that Norman would no longer be paying, now that he and Agnes had their own house. That $19 would make all the difference in the world to Cornelius and her.

Gracie Honeywalker: A question in the dog's eyes

First time my life, Dog comes live in the house. Forty-five years on this farm, ain't never had no dog in the house, always outside, sleeping in the barn with them chickens, my cow, my horse. But Agnes, she takes a liking to Dog and done bring him in the house. You'd a thought he was royalty, he was belonged to King George and Queen Mary, the way Agnes carries on about Dog. It's the truth, I love Dog, but heck, ain't no place in the house for him. But Agnes, she done insisted, this dog is old, he needs to come in the house. As if she don't have enough to worry about, a 3-week old baby girl and no car to get home to Philadelphia, she brings Dog into the house and sets about making him healthy.

I've had Dog long as I can remember. Shoot, he must be going on thirteen years now. Long before Al Smith became governor our state. Agnes, when she first saw Dog about the place, she cried. That was just two days after we done delivered Baby Grace. She done cried and told me, wasn't a year ago she buried her own old dog. So she wanted him for companionship, and Mr. Norman, he said she's real sweet on dogs, would it be okay just this once. So I said yes, why the heck not, but he ain't used to being in the house. He'll tear up the place. Mr. Norman, he said he'd clean up after Dog and fix anything done broke.

Even on that old plantation back in Kentucky just before the war, had no dogs in the house. Master wouldn't have it. So we had the dogs in the cabins with us, they kept us warm winter nights. Those Kentucky Januarys, they was brutal. It was the rain worse than the snow and when it done rained, the dogs they come into the cabins and get us all wet. But no matter because they was warm and they made us feel real fine. So when I got my own farm up here in New York with my man, we done had no dogs in the house -- and even after he died back in '95 I ain't never brought no dog in, not even for my eleven children. But Agnes, she wants Dog in the house, keeping us warm and cozy. 

Cristina Rosamilia: Tortillas and cheese

"Tortillas and cheese? Isn't that something they serve in Mexico? It's the Fall of '43. How'm I supposed to know anything about Mexico? We're fighting two wars, my husband's in the Navy on some leaky boat in the middle of the Pacific, and I'm supposed to give a damn about Mexican food? Beautyful, that's just beautyful."

Cristina meowed her complaint to the waitress of Philadelphia's latest avante garde restaurant -- the Habanero, a brand-new restaurant on Front Street near Walnut. She gave it four months to close, but Agnes insisted they go. She'd gotten Brian Larney to stay at the house for Grace and Harold. Victoria had decided to come with them -- Agnes had the best mother-in-law. Cristina had never liked hers and (secretly, lest Angelo should find out) had jumped for joy when she died of a stroke in '39. But Victoria was lots of fun, especially since her husband had died, Norman had gone off to work for the war effort in London, and she'd moved in with Agnes and the kids. She always encouraged the girls to make their own decisions -- said any woman was smart as any man, didn't need a man to make a good decision. Sometimes, Cristina think she liked Agnes even better than her own son. And Victoria always treated Cristina like a daughter, a special thing from a Waspy English Protestant to an ethnic Italian Catholic. No pretenses at all, even though she looked just like Sara Delano Roosevelt.

Agnes worried about her husband in London. Bombs were still falling like rain, and Heaven knew when one might land on the U.S. Bureau of Mines facility in Kensington and bring Norman Balmoral to an untimely end. But Cristina had faith. She knew Norman well enough, better than anyone, considering what they'd been doing off and on for years, and she knew he'd make it through the war. He just had to. He just had to come back to her and their lunches with the colored lights going.

Siobhan Limerick: No plastic surgery

Standing in the parlor, looking across the room, she looked into Mother Limerick's 81 year old face, odd that it had so few wrinkles. Perhaps that was because she was lying there, very peaceful, very still, very quiet. Annie Kate still had marvelous cheekbones, a high-bridged nose with a slight upturn at the bottom, a small mouth even now, and a pointed chin. Why, at 52 years, Siobhan had almost as many wrinkles as Annie Kate, nearly 30 years older. Of course, her mother-in-law could look younger. She didn't have the responsibility of raising two young children and managing a large Philadelphia house on her shoulders like Siobhan did. And she'd been almost 60 when her husband died, not 38 like Siobhan had been. Once her hair had turned white after Papa Limerick had died, she started dying it bright red. Said an old lady had a right to at least some enjoyment since she no longer had a man to keep her warm nights. How long ago had that been? 20 years? Oh, right -- 22 years ago, just weeks before Agnes had been born.

She wondered if Agnes would be here. Be here with her new husband and new baby. They'd sent a telegram from somewhere in upstate New York back in August after Grace had been born. Her new granddaughter, Grace -- Siobhan hadn't even seen her yet. She wondered what she looked like, who she looked like. Was there any of the Irish in her? She'd called Agnes's mother-in-law yesterday, and Victoria Balmoral had told her, they were still in New York and she'd send a telegram. Why would they still be in New York, living in a country farmhouse with a newborn baby? They needed to get back to Philadelphia. But she didn't know why, because Collin would have nothing to do with them. Her brother would never forgive Agnes for marrying that man.

Collin stood by Annie Kate, talking with Lucy Limerick in a low voice. Why was it, when people died, everyone whispered? This was supposed to be a wake, not a morose funeral. Annie Kate always lived for the excitement of the day. Siobhan had to give her mother-in-law that -- but looking over at the woman lying in the coffin by the fireplace, she couldn't really feel any affection. They'd had so many differences over the years, really starting more than a dozen years ago when she'd moved in, supposedly to help raise the children after Siobhan's husband died. But she'd ended up being just as much work for Siobhan as Agnes and Patrick had been. And now she was gone. Why couldn't Siobhan bring herself to shed a tear for her?

Agnes Limerick: Looking out the back window

She woke up as thirsty as she'd ever been, her mouth as dry as sandpaper. Where was she? She didn't recognize this room, so small, dark, and dank. One small window adorned the room on the far wall, away from the bed. The window had no covering on it and the Sun from the east made an awful glare on her face. She sat up in bed and with a lurch to her stomach realized she had a hangover. She also realized she was naked and, embarrassed by being unclothed in a strange room, she clasped the strange sheets and blankets to her chest and cried. What had she done?

She'd gotten married last night, that's what she'd done. This must be Norman's bedroom. They'd drunk a lot of wine at dinner afterwards, she realized, not even remembering the walk home -- to Norman's home. Her home, now? Could it be otherwise? She saw a robe strewn across the bottom of the bed -- green, wool, very heavy for the cold March days. She didn't recognize it. It must be Mrs. Balmoral's. Norman's mother. Was she in the house now? She grabbed for the robe and put it on, zipping it to the collar and breathing a sigh of modest relief. She went to the window -- looked out, saw the backs of two two houses fifteen feet away, one red-bricked, one gray-bricked. Each had bedroom windows parallel to her tiny peekhole of a window. A toothless lady with wild gray hair stared out the window. Agnes darted away from the window, sure she'd been spotted.

She didn't feel well, walking back to the bed, dizzy and unsteady on her feet. She sat down on the bed and knew she would be sick. Of course, she'd be sick. She'd been sick every morning now for nearly two weeks. That was the price for getting pregnant. And now she was married to the father of her baby. And now she was living in his house -- his three rooms above his parents' pharmacy in West Philadelphia. So that's where she was. Of course! She heard plates and pots clanging outside her door. That must be Norman's mother. And with a lurch, her stomach seized her and she vomited right onto her new mother-in-law's robe.

Where was Norman on the morning after their wedding? Why had he disappeared?

Norman Balmoral: The elevator

The elevator door closed. Mr. Winfrey, tall, silent, and gaunt, pressed the button for the bottom floor. How long had he worked at the 20th and Locust Professional Offices? How long had he collected a paycheck from the owners, earned his livelihood, taken money home to his wife and children? How many days had he donned his starchly pressed navy blue uniform with white lapels, white gloves, black hat? How many years had he shined his matching black shoes to give them that brilliant, reflective sheen? How long had he given each passenger a shallow bow of his head as the door opened and wished him or her a good day as he or she exited, whether it be the building or one of the higher floors?

Mr. Winfrey didn't have to worry about losing his job. The building needed him. He was an absolute requirement, the man who ran the elevator. Mr. Winfrey had never been to college and, so far as Norman knew, had not even graduated from high school. Mr. Winfrey spoke halting English, "yes, sir" this and "no, sir" that. Life required little of Mr. Winfrey besides cranking the elevator door open and shut, pushing the button for the requested floor, and making his greetings to his esteemed passengers.

The world might need elevator conductors, but it didn't need architects. At least not now. Smith and Weisskopf might be one of the leading firms in Philadelphia, but it didn't need an architect whose vision always pointed to the future. It didn't need an architect who proposed fascinating, interesting projects to Herbert Hoover's Reconstruction Finance Corporation, who proposed revolutionary hospital wings and luminative library designs. No, the firm and the world didn't need an architect -- especially not in January 1932.

But what of Norman's needs? How could he go home and face his parents, recently turned out of their home of 28 years, the three of them now living in two small rooms above their struggling pharmacy. How could he go home and tell them they'd just lost $108 per month in income? How would they put food on the table? And how could he face Agnes Limerick, knowing that he would never be able to propose to her, like he wanted to do?

Brian Larney: Last week in the rain

Last week I walked home from work at Longacre's Music in the rain, a long seventeen blocks from 19th and Chestnut Streets to 10th and Clinton Streets. I didn't notice the rain very much and I didn't care how soaked I became, if my hat got ruined, if my shoes became sodden and soggy in the water. Was there any point for me any longer? I was a 50 year old man, wrinkles about the eyes, balding head, gray hair for what was left of it, and no one wanted me. On top of that, I could feel the pull of the glands under my neck. I could feel the infection, the disease, the malady that churned within me. I knew the days were numbered. I knew there were very, very few years left. And for a 50 year old piano teacher who'd liked boys and had never found one to keep.

Who would care if I were gone? Who would want to attend my funeral? Here I was, a lonely man who'd never married, who'd never had children. All I'd done was teach piano to the children of Philadelphia and go to mass at St. Monica's Church. Occasionally I'd play the organ at the church, but they never wanted me to lead the choir. Too effiminate, they said, too much of a colorful dandy. Well, I'd accepted that. And I'd accepted that I was a queeny fairy who had to know his place. Hadn't they rooted out all the fairies from the Navy back in '21 after all the soldiers had come home from the war?

The rain soaked me. I didn't care. I didn't even care if I walked into Mrs. O'Toole's house and she scolded me for getting her oriental rugs wet before I even had the chance to march up to my third floor apartment. Where I'd lived for the last thirty years. By myself. I didn't care any more. It would all soon come to an end.

I walked around the corner at 12th and Pine Streets. And I stopped in my tracks -- there she was, my favorite student, Agnes Limerick. Only now she was Agnes Balmoral, the wife of a Protestant architect. She'd incurred a lot of gossip back in '32 when she eloped. And here she was, 8 years later, crying against a building on this intersection. She didn't care about the rain any more than I did.

Cristina Rosamilia: I used to think ...

I used to think the Irish were stuck-up boring fanatics but now I believe they're just fanatics. True, Agnes has told me just about everything she thinks and she makes fun of me and Angelo, how we carry on when my folks aren't looking. And she really enjoys a good picture show with me, especially Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. What a riot to go to the movies with her! Why, Angelo never wants to go. All he wants to do is stay at home, play music on the victrola, dance with me, and then spend a steamy afternoon in the bedroom. How can I now we're living at home, my parents just across the hallway?

That's why I like Agnes so much. But that family of hers, they're a bit stiff on the Catholic stuff. Why, the evening her mother and uncle came over for dinner, you'd have thought it was a funeral. Not even an Irish wake in that family. I wish they'd lighten up, but at least I've got to say, old Mrs. Limerick's a pile of fun. How does she ever live with Agnes's mother, all those grays and lilacs. She's only 50 but she's got more wrinkles than Mrs. Harding had or even old Mrs. Taft. But Agnes has some life in her, like when we danced on Locust Street to Camptown races. Lord, she's 21 years old and still happy as a ten year old at the beginning of summer.

Me, I can't be bothered with all that depressing religion stuff. I go to mass just like any good Italian girl, but it's mostly for Ma and Pop's sake. I don't do it for me, and I know Angelo doesn't care a whit about it. But Agnes ... she's got some pretty strong opinions about religion, but looks to me, every time she talks about St. Patrick's Church where her uncle's the priest, you'd think God lived in the house himself. Seems to me, the way she recalls going to the St. Patrick's school, you'd think she'd been a juvenile delinquent, being called into her uncle's office at the drop of a hat. Hopefully now she's an adult, she can make her own decisions. Just not the Balmoral man.

Collin Doherty: Black and white on the sidewalk

Monsignor Doherty first swept the broad sidewalk on the Locust Street side of St. Patrick's and then the more narrow sidewalk on the 20th Street side. The church's red doors faced 20th Street, but all he saw that day was black and white. You don't marry Protestants, especially not Anglicans. You don't even socialize with them. You talk about them in whispers and frowns and dismiss them for invading the homeland. You find ways to send money back home, whether through the collection plate or church socials, to help fund the resistance.

The wind blew up on this March Friday. She'd run away to marry him yesterday, St. Patrick's Day no less. What an insult to how he'd raised her, this favorite niece. The worst betrayal of them all, especially to Siobhan. She would collapse under the weight of the trauma, especially after the child came into the world. Annie Kate had told them bluntly. Balmoral had come for Agnes before noon and they'd gone off, gone for ever. Agnes was expected Balmoral's child and they would marry that afternoon -- in an Episcopal church, no less, and Annie Kate said, they needed to accept it, pray for the marriage, pray for the child.

Prayers came slowly to Monsignor Doherty. He kept busy by sweeping the sidewalk, by fixing the broken door hinge. Why did it have to swing that way in the wind and make that awful noise? He'd have to write a homily for tomorrow afternoon's mass. There had been today's morning mass to consider and there would be tomorrow morning's, but neither required him to stand in the pulpit and speak to the hearts of his parishioners. How could he walk up those three steps to his pulpit, look into his parishioners eyes, and tell them he'd failed? What would he say to reassure them that the world was, as he'd always believed, black and white?

Gracie Honeywalker: Red

Land's sake, I ain't never seen hair that color before in my life. And in ponytails, too. Don't her husband tell her, she looks twelve years old in them ponytails? And as big as a house, too, gone to have a baby any minute now. Well, I tell them, come upstairs the house, you can do your lying-in in my bedroom. I'll midwife you, ma'am, just as long as you realize, I'm a colored lady. Ain't going to be easy, no morphine, no ether. Your baby's going to come out real hard. You up to it? So she looks at her husband, says Old Man Lacey says, Mrs. Honeywalker, she's the best around, white or black. And they nod their heads, come on in.

So I talk to her. She's scared as a kitten. Ain't before too long she's having pains five minutes apart, three minutes apart. Then comes the thunder. Thank the good Lord above. We need the rain something fierce. That rain three days ago didn't do no good. My grass's been dying out, my poor cows practically got nothing to eat. Now we'll get good grass for 'em in September. Might even last all the way to wintertime. Yep, we get a good rainstorm, even as the lady, her lying-in takes real long. Ain't before morning that the baby done come. A fine baby girl, beautiful blue eyes. They're gone to stay blue, too, I can tell. Her daddy's got blue eyes. She looks like him, too -- same square jawline. He's a handsome fellow, got to say, and the mother, she's something else. Can't put my face on it -- nope, I can. She's as bright as the summer moon above the night's sky. All the stars dancing around her, bouncing around the heavens.

Her red hair's all wet, all in tangles, so I bathe her after the baby done come. She says thank you, ma'am, you done mighty good and falls right asleep. Husband gets in bed next to her, falls asleep too. Nice couple. Like me and the old man when he was alive. Gosh, Albert died 35 years ago. I was a 45-year old widow with eleven children to raise. A widow's got to do what a widow's got to do. This woman, she wakes up before her man, wants her baby, starts feeding her milk. Tells me she's gone to name her Grace, cause that's what she feels. That's my name and I'm mighty proud.

Norman Balmoral: Describe a process

(Parenthetical observation: let's pretend I was born in 1984 instead of 1905, because the writer who created me doesn't feel like doing research to figure out how people washed cars in 1932. Fast forward and I'm washing a car in 2011.)

I like processes and I'm glad you asked. This is my process for washing my parents' car. You can learn a thing or two from me, to be quite frank and completely honest with you. So pay attention and pay attention now. Do you hear me? That last part I'm being quite facetious, but only in part because that's what I'm thinking, deep down, why doesn't anyone pay attention to me because I know the best there is to know in order to get things done properly in right way, quickly, efficiently, and why doesn't anyone listen to me because I know best? All right, you say, this man is a lunatic. So let's stay on the polite surface, shall we, and we'll talk about my process for washing a car in a completely objective, unjudgemental sort of way. At least, that's how my psychotherapist tells me to communicate with others. Even if I'm smarter than anyone else and I know better than anyone does. And that includes you, the reader.

Perhaps I haven't told you about my process for washing a car yet? First, make certain you have all of your car washing supplies stored in a large, cylindrical bucket. That would include a wisk broom, thick brush for the wheels, car washing liquid, wheel cleaner, windex, and hose plus nozzle for an external water spigot; make sure that hose and nozzle are connected to the spigot at all times. You need towels: three large towels and two medium-sized towels. Not to rough; we don't want to scratch our paint surfaces, do we? Place your automobile in the driveway. Open all two or four doors. Use the wisk broom to brush away any dirt or debris on the floor's carpeting (front and back, please - pay attention). Close the doors with a bang. Use the brush, wheel cleaner, and nozzled hose to clean the wheels. Do the rear wheels first because the front wheels get more brake dust and will get the brush dirtier. Are you paying attention, because I have years of experience that will help you if you're actually paying attention? Stop looking at the television, I'm talking to you.

Isn't the car a lot nicer looking, now the wheels are cleaned? So rinse off the brush, put it aside, and now rinse the car off with the hose. Get that excess dirt off and make sure the car's all wet. This is the point you need to be thankful you're washing the car early in the morning. If you're washing the car in the afternoon, chances are it's too hot because of global warming and the soap you're about to splash all over your car is going to dry on the metallic surface and stain, so aren't you glad you were smart enough to do it at 8:00 in the morning rather than 2:00 in the afternoon because otherwise you would think you were a stupid idiot, you marginally intelligent human? Okay, now we've got our car all wet, so we splurt a big of car washing liquid into our large bucket and then fill the rest of it with tepid, warm water. I hope you've got lots of fun suds, suds, suds because that makes it easier, easier, easier to wash the car, car, car. So you wash the car from front to back. Do the hood and front fenders in one step. Don't forget the windshield. Do the sides and the top of the car in the second step. Don't forget the side windows. Do the trunk and rear fenders in the third step. Don't forget the rear window!

Now we've soaped up our car and it looks like we do, naked in the shower every morning. Except without the hard-on. So now you rinse off the car until all the soap's gone. Turn off your water source at the spigot -- because you don't want to waste water or build up excess pressure in the hose, thereby shortening its lifespan and costing you extra money when you have to replace it six months before you'd otherwise have to replace it. So turn off the water source! Then breathe a sigh of relief that you've been as efficient as possible and now start to think about drying off the car before the water puddles dry up and leave nasty stains that you'll have to look at for a week before you have the time to wash the car again. So take one of the three large towels and dry off the top parts of the car -- you know, hood, roof, trunk lid. Because they're the hardest to dry off. Then take the second towel and dry off the sides. Be sure to bend at the knees when you're drying the sides, because otherwise you'll hurt your lower back and you'll regret it on your fortieth birthday. Then open the two or four doors, pop the hood, open the trunk lid, and open the gas tank cover. Take your third towel and dry all the nooks and crannies that got wet. Then close everything. Take another small towel, your windex, and do the final cleaning of the windows.

Gather up your supplies, put them away exactly where they belong, and look at the car you cleaned. Now aren't you glad you followed my instructions? Be sure to follow my instructions every single week. If you do, you'll be successful. If you don't, you'll be a complete and utter failure.

Victoria Balmoral: City across the river

On Sunday Victoria took the bus across the Ben Franklin Bridge to get out of Philadelphia for a spell. She didn't much care for Camden's seedy, industrial nature, but felt the need to be anywhere but Philadelphia. She dressed too warmly for the spring day -- a long, gray dress she thought typical for women her age, a heavy black coat, hat, veil, and white gloves. Ladies didn't go in public, she felt, without wearing gloves and a hat. Even on this warm May day in 1935.

She got off the bus at Main Street. Perhaps she could do some shopping? She'd like to buy a scarf for Agnes, perhaps another one for her other daughter-in-law, too. She didn't know why, but she wanted to do something for Agnes. The scene last night at their house had been unbearable to Victoria. She could barely speak with her son when he called in the morning. He had lied to Agnes right in front of Victoria and she could barely stand it. She couldn't understand why he'd lie like that. Was he concealing something from his wife? She dreaded trouble in her son's marriage, and the effect that would have on her granddaughter -- her only granddaughter, Grace Victoria, named for her and for the midwife who'd delivered her just three years ago.

She wanted to think; she couldn't concentrate on shopping, once she'd found scarves for Agnes and Brigitta. She sat on a bench in a park nestled between a cheese market and a confectionary. Market Street lay parallel to the Delaware River, and the park looked out onto the river with Philadelphia just beyond. The sky's gray clouds threatened rain and the dark gray above Philadelphia's industrial skyline depressed Victoria even more. She looked across the river to her city, where she'd lived since coming here as a bride back in '02. Two years before Neil had been born and four years before Norman. Her two sons, both in troubled marriages. Had she and Cornelius done something wrong?

Annie Kate Limerick: It's amazing

These newfangled contraptions, I can never figure them out. Twenty years ago, Andrew bought a horseless carriage for us and after he died, Martin bought a Ford Model T, a real and live automobile. My husband never taught me how to drive the Olds and my son never taught me how to drive the Ford. That's men's business, they both said. Now they're both gone and it's my business. Mine and Siobhan, but she doesn't want to drive an automobile. Ever since my son died in the flu epidemic, all she's bothered with has been her kitchen and her two of my twenty-eight grandchildren. Patrick and Agnes are growing up real fine, but it's smothered and led by their Uncle Collin they are. I wish that man would stay out of our business! Isn't he busy enough with his parish?

So now I'm learning to drive this automobile. We've had it ten years and it's a bloody shame, Martin never taught his red-haired mother how to drive it. But I've got to do it on my own now. That -- and vote in the presidential election. First time I've got to make a decision like that. Always left those things to men, things like driving and voting. But now the men are gone, the politicians gave us women the right to vote. Pretty soon there'll be a telephone in the house, that's what they're saying'll come next. That I'm not ready for. Sure is enough, calling on neighbors Sunday afternoons. Don't need for my knitting, my reading, or my cooking to be interrupted by a telephone ringing. Better to receive a telegram in the mail from Western Union, someone needs to send me a message.

Voting. Hmmph. All a bunch of crooks is what I say -- we've got the Democrats, they've been in power now for eight years. And we've got the Republicans, they'd like to be in power again. Well, I'm for the Irish and they tend to be Democrats -- but my husband, he was a Republican and my son, he was a Democrat. So now I can't choose, do I vote for Cox or do I vote for Harding? Can't say I care to vote for either one. Perhaps I'll vote for Edith Wilson ... now she'd be a good president.

Siobhan Limerick: On the cutting edge

Annie Kate fumed, huffed, and puffed from her choice seat at the kitchen table.

"Siobhan, if I've told you once, I've told you a million times. Don't dice those onions so large! And that squash has got to be quartered before you toss it in the stove."

"Mother Limerick, I have it all under control. The meal will be just fine." Siobhan thought Annie Kate the most meddling of mothers-in-law. Certainly none of her friends had quite so heavy a burden, but then again, their husbands hadn't died and left them a 40-year old widow with two children to raise, not to mention a 66-year old mother-in-law who decided to move back in the house with them.

Just then, nine-year old Agnes screamed at the top of her lungs, ran down the back stairs into the kitchen, and plopped herself onto Granny's lap. "Mama, Patrick just pulled my hair! He's a terrible brother, a terrible brother!"

Siobhan walked over to her younger child and rubbed her head. "Agnes, dear, you're just upset. Patrick didn't hurt you, really he didn't. Now did he, Mother Limerick?"

"Certainly not, child. Why your brother's upset!"

"Oh, poo! If Daddy were here, he'd take his belt to Patrick!"

"Martin would do nothing of the kind. Why, Agnes, whatever would make you say that?"

"Oh Granny, yes he would! And he wouldn't let Uncle Collin lord it over me, either, at school! I can't go to the bathroom without him watching over me like a hawk." She burst into tears and buried her head in her grandmother's chest.

Annie Kate furrowed her brow and looked at her daughter-in-law. "Siobhan, I do wish you'd ask Collin to go easier on these children. They've had a very hard time of it, these past six months. Agnes, dear, tell you what. I'll talk to your older brother and your mother will talk to Uncle Collin, all right?"

Siobhan felt though she were walking on pins and needles in her own home. "Mother Limerick, I'd like to manage my own children! And I'd like to manage my own household." She didn't say it, but she wished Annie Kate had stayed where she belonged rather than closing up her household and moving in with her and the children. She didn't need the help and, more than likely, would always be a third responsibility on top of the children.

Norman Balmoral: First meeting

As always, Norman was the first architect to start work. He had his morning walk from 36th and Hamilton Streets -- nearly two miles -- and arrived before 8:00 in the morning. The office was completely empty and he did his most productive design work and reviews before most of his colleagues arrived two hours later. He felt so good about his work on this particular Monday that, at 9:00 a.m., he went to the office lounge to have his breakfast. But he wanted to wash his hands, so he went to the bathroom across the lounge.

He opened the door and this young woman stood at the sink, her back to him. Startled by the presence of this woman, little more than a mass of red hair and a blue and white paisley dress to Norman, he stammered "I'm sorry, Miss, I didn't know anyone was in here," as she turned around in a furious flash and demanded of him, "please leave at once!" He had a split second to see her face, very pretty, round green eyes and white skin, lots and lots of freckles. Something about the tilt of her head and her posture made his heart skip a beat -- he didn't quite know it, but he found himself backing up and closing the door, not sure of what to say.

But he had to go to the bathroom now! She seemed to take forever in there, and when she did finally come out, she would barely look at him. What was the problem, he wondered. It was a simple mistake -- she didn't lock the door, he didn't knock. Why be embarrassed? But he had to go, so he went inside without really looking at the girl. And a girl she was, so childish in demeanor -- that was it, he thought. The tilt of her head, the posture -- this was a young woman who hadn't yet grown up. Still a child.

When he came out of the bathroom, she was there -- again, her back to him. He resolved to break the silence, but the high pitch in her voice when he addressed her made it clear, she didn't want to speak with him. Why not? The high pitch of her voice came down an octave and she seemed more like a normal girl. Norman began to smile. Perhaps he could charm her? He didn't know, but something, an inner voice perhaps, something told him he should try. He sensed something magical in this girl, perhaps the dexterity of her fingers as she manipulated the coffee grinder, the coffee machine. Perhaps the quick and efficient way she scratched her head and then straightened her hair. Perhaps her quick parenthesis of a laugh when, surprised by her own humor, she called him a "blue suit." Perhaps it was her name -- Agnes Limerick. He liked her name. It went well with this wispy red-haired, green-eyed, freckled girl.

Cristina Rosamilia: Waiting on the corner

She waited on the corner of 34th and Chestnut Streets, dressed in her best cloth coat. Underneath she wore a red and black dress -- appropriate for the occasion, she thought. A half hour had passed since Norman was supposed to have met her. They would have dinner tonight, he'd told her, at 38th and Sansom Streets at the White Dog Cafe. His favorite restaurant, wonderful filet roasts, wonderful Yorkshire bread pudding, and divine chocolate cakes. Norman knew she loved chocolate better than anything.

She grew restless. The temperature, cold even for the first of October, chilled her to the bone. People walked by her, turning from 34th onto Chestnut, turning from Chestnut onto 34th. Penn students, mostly, some doctors on the way home from a day at the hospital. None of them were Norman. Finally, after waiting forty-five minutes, she decided to walk directly to the restaurant. As she approached,she smelled the aroma of beef, vegetables, and sauces from the chimneys of this restaurant on the narrow Sansom alley. She walked into the restaurant, conspicuous as a young woman walking into a fine restaurant without an escort.

Norman sat at a table against the wall, looking into the eyes of an unexpected dinner companion -- a woman, a woman with long red hair. Could it be? Why, yes -- it was Agnes. And then anger flared at being put in this position. Norman was having dinner with his wife in the restaurant where he was supposed to be dining with her. Norman never looked her way, never raised his eyes. She saw the gaze into Agnes's face and had her answer. She hadn't even asked the question, but she knew the answer now, not having even formulated the question in her own mind. He'd never leave his wife.

Cristina made an excuse to the maitre-d', turned around, and left the restaurant. This would solve their problem. Norman wouldn't leave Agnes for her, she knew, and that made ending their affair much easier. And it also made it easier for Cristina to live with Angelo and raise their children in one household. And it also made it easier for Cristina to stay best friends with Agnes.

Brian Larney: Searching

Brian sat on the stool in the New York pub. He'd taken the train to New York for a performance with his summer jazz band. They'd wanted him again, they gave a great performance at the Carlyle, and he had his weekend in New York. True, he loved Philadelphia better than any other place. He'd been born there and his mother was buried in Longwood Cemetery. But New York was always a chance to get away from his routine and look at men from Greenwich Village. Trouble, most men his age didn't do that. Most men in their 50s were married with grown children, a wife who cooked pot roast every Sunday, most likely several grandchildren, too. But he came to New York, prowling for man. Hell, he didn't have to be all that young or pretty -- didn't matter to him -- but he had to have a man on this trip, he decided. He'd go to confession tomorrow, ask the priest for forgiveness, say his Hail Marys, and head back to Philadelphia in time for Fibber Magee and Molly. Tonight, however, he had to have a man.

He walked into the bar in Christopher Street. They asked him for the password and he gave it. He'd been there a number of times before, a ritual for his New York getaways. He walked down the stairs into the room and sat at the bar. A man sat next to him, nursing a gin and tonic, wearing a dark blue jacket, thin matching tie, and bald like a bowling ball, about Brian's age with a spare tire around his waist. Brian ordered whiskey and soda.

"Where are you from? I'm from Chicago, but last year I was living in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Did love it there. Also lived in San Francisco, Key West, and Baltimore. My mother grew up in Cleveland and she met my father, who was a traveling salesman for the Roebuck Company, and we all ended up in Chicago. You really have to love Chicago, my friend -- second only to New York, is what I say."

The man didn't stop, but Brian stopped listening. He focused on the gin and tonic, smiled, looked across the corner at another man who was talking to his friend. The man still didn't stop talking. Some nonsense about the Oldsmobile Motor Company in Detroit. Brian looked at the man on the other side again. He was perhaps ten years younger, powerful barrel chest, a beard, dark blond hair, chiseled jawline. Brian couldn't take his eyes off him. The bald man next to him shifted topics and talked about the Roosevelts in Washington --- love 'em, he said -- and then talked about the chances for war with Germany -- not a chance, he said. Brian smiled and said something, anything, but averted his eyes to the bearded man across the way.

The bearded man looked his way, excused himself from his friend, and walked toward the exit. The man's backward glance before exiting the door gave Brian all the invitation he needed. Brian came upstairs and onto the street, looking for the man -- nowhere to be found -- but then he heard a voice behind him. "Hello," the voice said, "I'd like to visit your hotel, would that be all right?"

"Yes," Brian stammered. The man was even better-looking than Brian had thought.

"Good. That'll be ten dollars, please."

Brian didn't have ten dollars, so he went back into the bar and sat on the stool. The bald man resumed his story about a musical he'd written based on the novel "The Good Earth." Brian listened more closely this time.

Agnes Limerick: Write about a movement

She began the Chopin Fantaisie and felt a sense of calm descend on her and her fingers. This beautiful Steinway, just like her own Granny's, was at nine feet even more sonorous and beautiful, deep and rich, especially in the baritone octaves. She felt a depth there that her own seven-footer lacked, but of course this was a concert grand. Her confidence returned to her before the tempo picked up and she felt the music play itself. The slow introduction yielded to the romantic allegro, it kept building powder, and she realized she'd mastered the music. Those months of tireless devotion to her scales, her arpeggios, and every nuance of this music had finally paid off. This music was hers and she commanded the audience. 

Agnes felt a keen sense of anticipation as the allegro reached its climax. Oh, if only Norman had approved of her doing this competition! If only he'd approved ... and if only he'd come with her today to Reading. The long train ride, even with her faithful Brian along, grated on Agnes's nerves because Norman wasn't there. How she missed his strong, steady hand, and oh, how proud he and the children would be of her -- thirty-three and performing this piece with a mastery even she'd never heard from herself.

The music built and climbed, ever higher, ever stronger, ever more powerful -- the four broken E-flat arpeggios stood in front of her. She played the first two with perfection: not a note was missed, the timing was perfect. Those four massive arpeggios!  If only Norman could hear you, he'd understand and he'd have approved of her doing this. And then it happened, at the top of the final arpeggio: she missed the top note, playing an A rather than the expected G. And she missed the bottom note, playing a B rather than the expected B-flat. It sounded awful. Her career was over. Back to the kitchen, preparing meals for the children.

Norman Balmoral: Blue jays, purple martins, and the stream

Damn those blue jays and purple martins. Martin blamed them all. He hadn't wanted Agnes to fall in love with him, indeed if he thought about it, he liked her a lot and sure, he could convince himself that he loved her. But really? Deep down, buried in a place no one could ever find, Norman knew sure as gun's iron, he wasn't in love with Agnes Limerick. But those blue jays and purple martins, that day back in October when they first connected, they were the reason she fell in love with him. Those birds and the stream they walked by on their walk through Fairmount Park. He saw it in her eyes, her hand clutching his bicep as they walked passed St. Mark's on Locust Street. Damn that beautiful October Saturday? Why couldn't it have been raining that day or why couldn't he have been home sick, suffering from some intestinal disease or something that wouldn't have gotten him so excited by her milky-white skin, red hair, freckles, and her Eleanor Roosevelt laugh?

He was in a fix, God only knew. Not as bad a fix as Agnes herself, but in a fix. He had to marry her, no question about it. But what would they do? He'd lost his job and no one, not even God himself, was hiring architects this year. Norman remembered '30 and '31 and thought they were bad -- hell, his folks had lost their home just after Christmas. But '32 was even worse. Mother, Dad, and he were crammed into two rooms above the pharmacy. How in the dickens would Agnes fit there, and then the baby? They certainly couldn't live at Agnes's mother's house, even if it was plenty big. Siobhan Limerick would never have him, an English Protestant, in her sainted husband's Catholic monument.

Nothing to do about it, but get married and raise the baby.

Gracie Honeywalker: Cheese

Lord a'mighty this bellowin' cow here's gone to kick me in the face. Can't get no closer than two feet, trying to milk her. Eight cows on the farm and she's only one, no way to get any milk out of her. I'd take even sour, stinky milk. Percy, he done leaved me a big mess when he up and died back in '95, but nothing in the last fifteen years of being a widow compares to this here damned cow. I had to fight all my life for everything, ain't no man or woman done kept me down. But a blasted cow? Shoot, you'd a thought she was a slave owner like the one who laid a strap to my back in Kentucky before the war done freed me.

None of the children, they're not going to help. Eleven of them, all have minds of their own. Oldest four already done married, next five working their own jobs, just got the two youngest at home, and they're still practically babies. Six and eight. I got Percy Jr., that's the baby, he's inside sweeping the floors. And Molly, she's eight, she done wrung a chicken's neck for tomorrow's Sunday dinner. Old Man Lacey's coming over. He's been real sweet on me ever since his own wife died, but he's a white man. Can't have no traffic with a white man. Life's tough enough without the neighbors stringing me up and taking my farm away from me. What'll my young ones do if I gone?

Now if I can only get this darn cow to settle down. Ain't nothing I haven't survived since fleeing the plantation back in '62. Ten years old I was, been on my own the whole time. Can't even remember my mama's name. Or my papa's. Just running away from Kentucky fast as I could and not stopping 'til I got here -- upstate New York done found me. Life's hard for everybody.

Annie Kate Limerick: Something's burning

She smelled an ugly mixture of singed wood, scorched brussel sprouts, and pungent iron from the kitchen. "Siobhan, you've burned the vegetables again."

Her daughter-in-law might've made Martin a good wife and provided him with two beautiful children, but she couldn't manage the kitchen, at least not since Martin had died and Annie Kate had moved back into the house. Why, oh why, on earth wouldn't Siobhan surrender the kitchen to her? It was her own kitchen, after all -- at least, it had been until Andrew had died in 1909. Back then, she'd given up the house so that Martin and Siobhan could move in. They were expecting their second child and needed to live in a bigger house, and as tradition dictated, Martin as the oldest son moved into her house -- the house she and Andrew had bought when his bricklaying business took off in the 1890s, where she'd lived nearly 20 of her 60 years -- and Annie Kate went to live with her cousin Aurelia in Chestnut Hill. Nearly ten years later, though, Martin died -- her favorite son, gone -- so Annie Kate had moved back to the red-bricked house on the corner of 6th and Pine Streets. She loved it here, but oh, how quiet it now sounded without Martin's jolly laugh ... and little Agnes, not even nine, quiet and still as a mouse, the frilly laughter and curls silenced since Martin succumbed to the flu on the day before Christmas.

She walked into the kitchen -- her kitchen. How different it looked from when she was this mansion's mistress! Dark walls, dark wood on the floors, deep red draperies in the back of the house! Why, she'd insisted on bright colors and open windows even in the 1890s, when dark furnishings and colors were all the rage. No denying, Siobhan Limerick was an entirely different woman than she, but of course, Siobhan hadn't raised nine children -- she'd only had two, not counting the four that died at birth. And she hadn't needed to deal with the famine in Ireland, the harrows of making the Atlantic crossing, pregnant with Martin's younger brother, dealing with Americans hostile to the Irish (thank the Lord for Mr. Tasker, or she'd have died) -- no, she only had to deal with the loss of some babies and being a widow at 40. She didn't watch her favorite son succumb to the influenza like Annie Kate had.

But now Siobhan wanted to burn the house down -- her very own house! Annie Kate raced over to the stove and extinguished the fire with a bucket of water. Smoke went everywhere, right into Annie Kate's flaming red hair.

Victoria Balmoral: It is going to happen

She never quite remembered exactly when she first realized that it was going to happen: they were going to lose the house. Their home for nearly thirty years. Perhaps it had been when Cornelius, red-faced and sauced with cheap English ale, asked her what mortgage payment, haven't paid that since November. Perhaps it had been when she finally noticed the fourth unopened envelope, address to Mr. Cornelius Balmoral at 3601 Hamilton Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania from the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society, and opened it to assuage her worst fears. Perhaps it finally occurred to her when the bank posted its eviction notice on their front door and she knew they had 72 hours to vacate.

It hadn't been this way when Victoria Tasker, as she remembered the brown-haired, square-jawed girl with the saucer brown eyes, had agreed to marry Cornelius Tasker in West Carthage, New York. How proud her parents had been, marrying the grandson of the man who'd managed the queen's castle in Scotland! It seemed more like fate than irony that a young woman named Victoria would marry a man named Balmoral, and the Tasker descendants of England's loved queen, dead just two years at that point. Why, she and Cornelius would build a great house from the fortune they made running their general store in West Philadelphia! She'd entertain with majestic hospitality as if her house at the corner of 36th and Hamilton Streets were indeed the queen's castle! And she'd receive her two sons' new wives into the home and provide trusts and other bequests to their many children, her grandchildren.

But no, instead they would flee like nomads across the street to the dilapidated general store. She, Cornelius, and Norman -- the younger of their two boys, an architect who'd just lost his job in that lean year of 1932 -- would retreat to the upper floors of their store, the only possession they could still afford to keep. The three of them would live in three rooms -- a small living area, a bedroom for them, and a small room with no closet for Norman. Somehow, Victoria hoped, she'd find a way to entertain in this crowded space as if it were the queen's castle.

Collin Doherty: Winter flowers

The vortex of knife-like pain ripped through Father Collin's abdomen like a Drogheda machete. His little sister, broken-hearted over Agnes's betrayal, sobbing on his worn leather sofa in the St. Patrick's rectory office, the last of the winter chrysanthemums and pointsettias framing her wild gray hair and splotchy red face like a bedraggled Easter bonnet. Her rosary beads in her hands, Siobhan repeated Annie Kate's accounting of Agnes's departure -- her only daughter, her youngest child, the only daughter who survived to adulthood, running off with the Balmoral man. And expecting a child, already two months gone. Even worse, they'd be getting married in the Episcopal Church -- not only a Protestant, but an English Protestant, too -- and that Agnes would be living with his family, raising their child as a Protestant. An English Protestant. Siobhan's first grandchild would be damned to hell for all eternity.

He couldn't stand the pain. This beautiful child who'd been the apple of his eye, the best girl student in all of St. Patrick's history -- his favorite niece and the math genius of the 1928 graduating class. On top of that, so talented and so gifted with music, too, she could bring tears to the eyes of any listener just by a turn of a phrase or hint of sadness in the Chopin melodies she loved to massage the piano with ... all gone, all gone within the space of a few hours. What had happened that Thursday morning? Collin had been hearing confessions that morning -- a man, out of a job for nearly two years, had stolen food from a grocery store; a young woman, fearing spinsterhood, had lied about her age to her fiance and had yet to confess the truth to him; an older woman had withheld money from her four starving children; another man had slept with his brother's wife. Most of them had committed sins that Father Collin could forgive with little more than a set of rosaries for penance. Agnes's betrayal went right to the bone. Not only had she committed the sins of the flesh before marriage. She'd done so with a confirmed heretic and had renounced her Catholic faith and her Catholic family -- as well as her heritage as an Irish girl -- in order to do it. The family would never recover from this betrayal, he thought, as he pondered his sister. This would ruin Siobhan for good.

Cristina Rosamilia: Hold it up

"Hold it up for me, Angelo. Let's see what you've got there."

He held it in the palm of his hand. She liked the look of its spongy resilience, a life of its own with a mind of its own. She'd always liked it, really, ever since they'd first started dating in Catholic school -- same way on the day when Pop had caught the two of them in her bedroom. Why'd she been so foolish as to invite Angelo home with her? His parents never opened the door to his bedroom and she'd always known her folks were snoopy. Like back in the old country when Aunt Justina got in a nasty fix and had to marry Sylvio Berducci.

Looking at it there in Angelo's hand, it'd always been her major weakness -- she'd never been able to resist it, even when Angelo did something to make her mad like come to her parents' house for Sunday dinner in a sweaty t-shirt. Even the worst Philadelphia heat spell in twenty years didn't justify such rude behavior. He could've at least donned a white shirt and a tie, just like any gentleman always did. You'd think he was back in the vineyards of Toscana his parents had left back in 1890! And then he spat in public, right there on the sidewalk on Christian Street. Such manners! But oh, how she melted ... especially when he held it in his hand.

She always bossed him around in these circumstances. Seeing it emboldened, empowered her. She would see it, every time, and assert her basic needs. She'd tell me what to do with it, where to put it. She'd tell him when she'd finished with it, when he could wash it, when he could put it away. She knew Angelo  could control the two of them with it, but she also knew he enjoyed meeting her demands. Part of the game they'd played these seven years since they'd gotten married ... because no matter what she thought of Angelo's bad manners, his bad education, he'd still hold it up for her whenever she demanded it. If he needed to hold it up ... most of the time, it stood up all by itself.

Gracie Honeywalker: One tough job

The black clouds drew me into the barnyard. Got to get them chickens, my cow, my horse into the barn before the storm comes. Ain't no use in having no wet chickens and the horses don't like the thunder. Got 'em in but now I'm just sweeping the floor and up comes an old Ford jalopy gets stuck in the mud. Done had a rainstorm two days ago and still got puddles water and oodles mud. White lady and gentleman gets out of the old Model A. I done knowed cars real well, better than any colored lady in all of Newburgh. Old Man Lacey, he let me drive his anytime I want to. But most folks don't know about me and Old Man Lacey.

I ain't seen no woman that pasty-white or freckled since I was on me slave farm in north Kentucky back in '63. She's big as a house, bout to give birth but I don't pay me no mind to this until the gentleman, something about him is real stand-out but something's uppity about him, too, he says she's in labor, can I deliver the baby. Sake's alive, I ain't delivered no white woman's baby in a long time. And this one's small, narrow waist, and I done have no ether, either. She's gone to have one tough job and mine's gone be even tougher, birthing her baby for her. But I finally says yes I'll do it cause Miz Balmoral, that's her name, she's real friendly and I can tell, they're okay with me being 80 and black. Something clicks so in the come and I give 'em my bedroom upstairs, the one the Good Lord Jesus watch over, cross on the wall. He'll keep Miz Balmoral safe.  Now if I can just keep that Mr. Balmoral from bossing me around.

Brian Larney: At the train station

He had a graceful gait to his walk that late evening along Market Street and into the Broad Street Station. He had not a care in the world, 23 years old, in love with Billy from New York and making his debut at Carnegie Hall with a performance of the Schubert F minor Fantaisie. Life could not have been better as Brian walked into the train station on his way to Track 5 bound for Pennsylvania Station, Manhattan, New York City. Even Brian's clothes broadcast a happy-go-lucky, not-a-care-in-the-world man to the world.

The two man had other plans for him that evening. They telegraphed their choice to each other and moved closer to take action. The one started to walk in the same direction as Brian, toward the tracks, from the front. He slowed his gait until Brian reached six feet behind him. The other positioned himself after this, walking in the same direction and also approaching, but with Brian six feet ahead of him. The man in front turned around and flashed a serrated kitchen knife in front of him.

"Give me what you've got."

Brian turned to run but the man behind assaulted him, pulled his arms behind him, turned him around to face the man in front. He frisked Brian, tearing his blue overcoat, ripping the seams of his pockets, pulling his wallet out from his inside jacket.

"Only fifteen cents, enough for fare to New York. The chintz has no money."

The man behind kneed Brian in the lower back. The man in front kicked him in the groin, punched his face with one hand, stabbed him in the abdomen with the other. The man behind twisted his right elbow out to the right, slammed his tricep into the back of Brian's head. Brian fell to the ground. The man in front kicked him in his left ribs with all his force. The man behind did the same on the right.

Thirty-five minutes later the station's ambulence delivered Brian Larney to the Pennsylvania Hospital. Dr. Martin Limerick, the on-duty resident working the night shift that Friday evening, received the man in critical, albeit conscious, condition. Brian gasped for breath, dried blood on his face and coughing from blood in his throat. Martin strained to hear what the man had to say to him.

"Billy, it's Billy I want."

Siobhan Limerick: What I put my faith in

My first baby lasted four hours -- a girl, God be praised, so fair and white with pink lips and pink skin and lovely, lovely blue eyes. They stayed open for the first happy five minutes. And then they closed, never to open again, the faint beat of her even fainter heart stopping just four hours into the morning.

A boy for my sainted husband came just ten months later. He outlived the poor girl by just an hour -- made it five, that one with dark hair but his skin never lost the purple hue because his breathing didn't work quite right and I couldn't look at him very much. I said goodbye to him an hour before he went, because the doctor said there was no hope so why put yourself through that and I cried myself to sleep anyway.

The next two lasted even longer, one day for the third -- a boy, a beautiful blond boy with his father's chiseled nose and sharp jawline -- and four days, I couldn't believe my luck, for the fourth, my second girl, so homely and plain with her hairlip, all I could do was fall in love right away. The lovely girl, and the strongest of my four. She made it a whole six days before her heart gave out, too.

And now they all lie beneath the same grave, stacked vertically with the common stone, "the children Doherty-Limerick."

What I could only do for my husband four times, I could try a fifth. And a sixth. Though these times -- the children made it. At least, they've made it this long, right into their twenties, God bless their sainted souls. My son, Patrick -- stronger than any could imagine, the splitting image of my dear brother, Monsignor Collin Doherty. And Agnes -- more determined with that jutting chin, her red pony-tailed hair, her emerald green eyes, so determined even if it means leaving the dear Church to marry that Protestant heathen -- at least she lives, at least she survives. My Agnes.

Norman Balmoral: I can't do it

The damned light fixture wouldn't screw into the ceiling. He'd screwed it in too hard and it had stripped the inside lining of the screw. And he had no screws. And it was Saturday afternoon at 4:45 p.m. There was no way he could get to the hardware store before 5:00 p.m. and buy some new screws. He just had to get the bathroom fixture completed before his parents retired for the evening after dinner. He'd promised them he'd get it done, and Norman never let his parents down. Come to think of it, he'd never let anyone down -- not his parents, his brother, his teachers, even the women he'd bedded in Florence during his year abroad. But no one knew about those women here in America. That was a secret he kept entirely to himself. He'd never tell Agnes, either -- if their relationship went anywhere.


Mother and Dad were sitting in the parlor room, having their ritual tea and scones. They'd know something was wrong if he tippy-toed out and ran across the street. But it had to be risked. He'd have to make up a lie, anything would do -- they trusted him implicitly. They didn't know, or at least not yet, that he frequently told white lies when it was convenient. It always bothered Norman that he lied to his parents and to his brother, but there it was. No real harm had ever come of it. So Norman snuck down the stairs, told his parents he was heading over to the general store to get a soda. Mr. Soltham would be there. Hopefully, he wouldn't tattle on Norman, though he was always curious and snoopy. Maybe he could get by Mr. Soltham's pince-nez gaze without him even noticing that he was raiding the box of screws. Of course, Norman would have to inventory the screws he took -- but that wasn't a problem. Norman did the inventory and balanced the books himself, ever since he lost his architect's job at Smith and Weisskopf. Damn the Depression and damn Herbert Hoover!


"Mother, Dad, I'm heading across the street for a chocolate soda. Would you like anything from the store?"


They looked at each other, the expression on their faces plain to Norman. They were thinking, "why doesn't Norman just have tea and scones? Young people today, after all!" Norman chose to pretend he didn't understand their glances, made his excuses, and went out the door. He had to get those screws. He couldn't let his parents down.