Annie Kate Limerick: Count them

A new life with money they'd never known before! What fun to be rich, what fun to give the children what they wanted. Andrew might be gone all day to construction sites to oversee his workers -- always hire the Irish, he said, they're the most productive. Well, Annie should know. She had nine children under her roof, though Martin was soon to go to college. The first person in their family to go to college, and not even years after they'd come to America! This, to Annie, was the American dream.

She walked into her new foyer. Too many dark colors! This house might have been owned by George Taylor, who signed the Declaration of Independence, but that didn't mean it had to look like a mausoleum. FIrst thing Annie would do, she decided, would be redecorate. And they had the money to do it! She couldn't believe this. They'd grown up in County Meath poor as poor could be, always wondering where the next meal would come from, if they'd have to slaughter their favorite livestock just to survive. They always made it on just this side of starvation. But now, now she was moving into a large corner house in Philadelphia, paid for with cash and a lot of money to buy furniture, rugs, and wallpapers. Annie wanted happy, bright colors to reflect the mood of her family -- all nine children, Andrew, and herself. These were the 1890s. Grover Cleveland was president and it was a new day.

She'd have enough money to feed the children. Martin would go to college. James would apprentice with Andrew. Mary would marry one of the Murphy sons. Isabelle, Josephine, and Lucy would enter the convent. Andrew, Jr., Monica, and Sean -- well, they were too young, but they'd do something great with their lives. What could stop them now? But a nagging voice told Annie Kate, don't count on something lasting forever. Keep a stash in the cellar for a rainy day, she thought, and don't expect too much and you won't be disappointed. Looking around her, it was hard to keep that in the front of her mind. The plush rugs and twinkling chandeliers made it seem too real, too permanent.

Brian Larney: Amethyst

The picture of two boys in a swimming hole hung crooked. Lying in bed flat on his back, Brian didn't feel like getting up to straighten it. He'd do it later. Right now he was remembering Red. Six months ago he'd kicked Red out and God only knew where he now lived. Hopefully Timbuktu or somewhere completely remote. Brian just hoped he stayed there and didn't curse him by returning. The affair had lasted nearly two years, but when he caught Red in his third-floor bedroom, naked with the maintenance man Noel thrusting inside him -- the same Noel who'd made Mrs. O'Toole crazy by, among other things, pooping in her back yard and leaving it there -- he had no choice but to kick Red out.

He'd given everything to the relationship. He gave up Thomas, his best friend and mentor, who'd warned him that Red was nothing but bad news. He gave up piano students, so his income fell. He spent a lot more money on food and alcohol because Red couldn't seem to get enough. He cleaned the apartment, he did laundry, he did all the shopping because Red liked to have a perfect home but usually didn't feel motivated enough to do those things himself. Red preferred lying in bed all day reading glamour books. He bought him flowers weekly, he took him on trips to Manhattan, and with the small inheritance he got from his mother, he bought him jewels -- an emerald, a sapphire, and an amethyst. But Brian sure did like having sex with Red. It was the best it'd ever been in his life. Why, given the two years and their weekly Saturday afternoon romps, he figured they must've had sex at least 110 times. Given the money he'd spent on Red, that came to about $35.00 per encounter. A lot of money, especially one year after the stock market crashed.

Brian felt sick. He felt miserable and sick. He never had energy any more. It was all Brian could do to get himself out of bed, walk downstairs mornings, and teach his few remaining piano students. The lumps on his neck wouldn't go away. He could feel his glands, tender and swollen, now three months bothering him and no change. He'd been to the doctor and he'd said it was all in Brian's head. Brian wished Martin Limerick were still living -- the wise doctor would've known what ailed him. And he could've told Martin about Red. His old friend would've understood. Now there was no one he could tell -- no one would understand, nor would anyone sympathize. Because Brian knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the lumps under his neck and his constant fatigue came from one of the last encounters he'd had with Red. God was punishing him for loving that man.

Siobhan Limerick: Talk about the eggs

"I wish you wouldn't smoke those soddy things in the kitchen, Martin. It's not as if the house weren't large enough for you to go into the parlor or onto the back porch."

"I'm sorry, puss. I'm just worried about Agnes. She's been ill for three days and there's no sign she can keep any food down. If she's not better in two days, I'm going to admit her to the Pennsylvania Hospital. With all this influenza about, it's little we can do but hope she's come down with something else. At least her fever's not that high -- unlike all my other patients, and it's an early death they've all had."

"Martin, you can't say that, not ever. Agnes must get well. All those others, you know --"

"No, we don't talk about them -- just our Patrick and Agnes, Siobhan. And there will be more. It's not so old that we can't be having a third."

"Martin, I'm nearly forty and you're nearly fifty."

"Ah, wife, the 'twinkle in me eye' as Mama would say!"

"Your mother has a lot of odd things to say these days. It's been nine years since Papa Limerick died and she's still in a pickled mood."

"Don't criticize my mother, sweetheart. She means well and she's had a hard life. And she says 'stuff and nonsense' to the notion that Agnes might have the influenza. She's more worried about my brother, off fighting the war in France. Says James should get the Kaiser personally. And besides, she says Agnes's the strongest 8-year old girl she's ever known, stronger even than her."

"Martin, do you think Agnes might just have food poisoning? So far it's only vomiting and diarrhea. That scrawny chicken has been giving us eggs that've smelled up the house. Maybe she was poisoned?"

"Possible. But food poisoning cases like that usually pass within two days. That's why I said, if she isn't better by Friday, it's to the hospital she goes."

Siobhan heard footsteps coming down the back stairs into the kitchen. LittleAgnes stood in front of them, her red pigtails wild, looking up at them with her saucy green eyes. "Mama, Papa, may I have some crackers? I'm hungry!"

Siobhan rushed over and gave her baby a big hug. "Of course you may, darling! You may have anything you like!"

Norman Balmoral: What he really was trying to say

Norman sat at his mother's desk in the back office. He looked at the monthly ledger, sighed, and covered his eyes with his hands. How could it possibly be this bad, he asked himself. How could their debts be so great? Last month, their expenses came to a whopping $165.00. They had revenue of $47.85. Norman just couldn't see any way they'd be able to keep the store afloat. They wouldn't be able to pay the drug company and when Mrs. Gibbons came for her tonics, they'd be empty-handed. Word would get out that Balmoral's was an unreliable general store and all their customers would start going to Helgemann's on Chestnut Street instead. What he really thought, but couldn't bring himself to say aloud, they'd be living on the street three months hence.

A knock on the door startled Norman out of his concentration. Mr. Soltham, of course. He opend the door and saw the elderly, bespectacled man in front of him. "What is it, Mr. Soltham? Can't you see I'm busy?" The underlying message he was trying to say (but didn't): Mr. Soltham, leave me the hell alone!

"A Miss Limerick to see you, Mr. Balmoral." He responded automatically. "Please ask her to wait. I'll be just a moment." What he really thought, however, was that Agnes would have to wait while he figured out what to say to her.

Agnes! What was she doing here? The last time they'd seen each other, he couldn't bear to look her in the eye. Why would she want him now, now that he'd lost his job? Norman couldn't stand the idea of her knowing he'd lost his job. And if she were here, he'd probably seen the eviction notice on his parents' house across the street. And if this monthly ledger was any indication, the store would probably fail, too. And where would they go? He'd probably never be able to ask her to marry him, just like he'd wanted to do for the last two months. Even if her family didn't approve of him, even if she were a Catholic (surely she'd convert for him?), even if his future prospects as an architect looked dim -- he wanted to ask her. When he thought of Agnes Limerick, he felt a powerful attraction that always had an undeniable effect on him. She had no idea, he supposed, because she was so innocent, so young. He really knew, in this long moment while he thought about Agnes, that every time she came to his mind, he'd get an erection.

He walked out. There she was, looking him in the eye. He was wrong. She did have an idea. She might still be young, but she wasn't quite so innocent. Her eyes told him exactly what she wanted. In an instant, he felt a stiffness in his slacks concealed (thank heavens) by tight undershorts. Here it goes again, Norman really thought: an erection he couldn't control.

"Mr. Soltham," he directed to his employee, "you may go now. It's the end of the day and I'll close up the store." This time, he really thought, this time he'd put it to use. With Agnes.

Agnes Limerick: A reunion and a goodbye

An arrangement of liles adorned the front door as the three of them walked into the red-bricked house. A black gloom draped the house in sadness as Agnes brought Norman and Grace to the place she'd called home until sixteen months ago. Not even the endless arrangements of hydrangeas, calla lilies, geraniums, and spring tulips friends and family had sent could mask the morbid spirit that descended on Agnes like grasping ghosts.

What a way for Mama to meet Grace, her only granddaughter. Grace was, what, eleven months old now? Yes, born August 20 and today was July 31. Almost a year old. Hard to believe the time had passed so long with Gracie, but she and Norman had decided, they needed to come back to Philadelphia. Now that Roosevelt was president, happy days were here again, so Norman could start thinking about getting a real job again. When Victoria sent the telegram to Norman, they knew the time had come. The telegram read: "A. K. Limerick died last night. S. asks, please come home."

Norman, wearing a black suit and black tie, followed Agnes into the parlor, carrying Grace, who wore a little pink dress with matching bonnet. Victoria had made it for Grace's first birthday, but gave it to her this morning. Agnes saw her mother's back, her brother's profile, and Uncle Collin. She clutched her stomach. What would he say to her after more than a year's absence? After she'd left the church and had a baby? It'd been Granny who'd protected her from their wrath -- and now, as Agnes looked over at the open coffin.

Uncle Collin was reading prayers. Mama turned to see her and started to cry -- but not for Granny. She and her mother-in-law had never really gotten along, even after living together thirteen years. Mama cried, Agnes knew, because she was there. With Norman and with Grace. In the brief look, before Mama put her head in her hands, she saw reproach in her eyes.

After Uncle Collin finished prayers, Agnes went directly over to the coffin. There was Granny, red hair combed and pulled tight above her head, a pallid, plastic expression on her face -- not the Granny she knew. But the red hair, black laced dress, and white cameo at her neckline, they were all Granny's.

Gracie Honeywalker: My secret weapon

M'Lord, got to get this dang tractor fixed, but Old Mr. Lacey, he done give me no help these days. Says his sorry back done gone out and got to lie flat on his back or sit in his porch chair until's better. But the good Lord above, he done provided when I done needed. Miz Agnes and Mr. Norman, they staying a while -- Mr. Norman, he says they like the farm and until Miz Agnes, until she's strong enough to travel, they got to stay here, can we work for you, earn our keep. Besides, he got to fix his own car. I got my tractor, he got his car. Can't go nowhere with that car, Mr. Norman I tells him, and don't have no money for paying you. But you sure can stay a while if you like.

That was nine months ago. The baby's now crawling on the floor. Miz Agnes, she done took care of the house for me. I came down with bronchitis -- that's what Mr. Norman called it -- so I done stayed in bed two weeks back in October. So Miz Agnes, while I settled upstairs, she cleaned my house and gave it a shine. When I first saw, I could've cried. Hadn't cleaned like that since back in '85 after Old Man Honeywalker done died and left me a widow with 11 children. Well, 9 since one'd already left and one'd already died.

So tonight, I'm sitting on the porch, looking out toward the May stars. Thank you, Lord, for bringing Mr. Norman, Miz Agnes, their little baby Grace. Named for me she was. I hear a rustling in the leaves, what's that? I slip off my shoes, tippy-toe in the house, grab the shotgun, peek through the window. Young man wearing a hat, smoking a cigarette -- short, sallow, heavy beard -- he done approaching, now he crouches by the juneberry bush. He don't know it, but I can see him and I got my rifle aimed dead center on him.

"You get off this land," I yell, "or I'm gone to shoot you."

Cristina Rosamilia: Crunchy leaves

Cristina loved the crunchy sound of October leaves under her feet. Because of that it was her favorite month in Philadelphia. She, like Agnes, could walk about town in a light tweed coat and jump from pile to pile of crunchy, brown leaves. Mornings were cool, afternoons were warm, and evenings were cool once again. Cristina had been doing this for years now, ever since Agnes had first opened her eyes to the happiness of the city walk. From Cristina's house at 5th and Christian Streets, she could embark on an infinite number of adventures through the streets of Philadelphia. North to Independence Square, east to Old City, west to the Market Street district, even further west to Rittenhouse Square and, beyond, the University of Pennsylvania. Everything lay at their feet here in Philadelphia -- if only Agnes would ever rejoin her on these city walks. But Cristina knew that could never be.

Here Cristina stood at the corner of Locust and Broad Street, this cool late October day in 1956. How long ago had it been when she and Agnes stood on this corner the first time? Oh, yes -- August of 1931, more than twenty-five years ago. Here she was, alone on the corner, an Italian Catholic with three sons, pushing fifty now, divorced now ten years. She lost Agnes by a slip of the tongue when Agnes had realized, Cristina was Norman's other woman. Agnes eventually forgave her, but their friendship ended. Then Angelo came back from the war in Japan and, when she confessed and wiped the slate clean with him, he divorced her. How she'd like to go back to that August day in 1931, before Agnes had even met Norman Balmoral, and tell her, "I had an affair with Norman last year." Maybe she wouldn't have continued the affair after Agnes and Norman got married, if everyone had known about it in the first place.

She lit up a cigarette and turned to go toward the Reading Terminal. She wanted corned beef pastrami for lunch.

Norman Balmoral: Keep an eye on the target

Norman sat at his mother's desk in the back office. He looked at the monthly ledger, sighed, and covered his eyes with his hands. How could it possibly be this bad, he asked himself. How could their debts be so great? Last month, their expenses came to a whopping $165.00. They had revenue of $47.85. Norman just couldn't see any way they'd be able to keep the store afloat. They wouldn't be able to pay the drug company and then, when Mrs. Gibbons came for her tonics, they'd be empty-handed. Word would get out that Balmoral's was an unreliable general store and all their customers would start going over to Chestnut Street to Helgemann's instead.

A knock on the door startled Norman out of his concentration. Mr. Soltham, of course. He opend the door and saw the elderly, bespectacled man in front of him. "What is it, Mr. Soltham? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"A Miss Limerick to see you, Mr. Balmoral."

He responded automatically. "Please ask her to wait. I'll be just a moment."

Agnes! What was she doing here? The last time they'd seen each other, he couldn't bear to look her in the eye. Why would she want him now, now that he'd lost his job? Norman couldn't stand the idea of her knowing he'd lost his job. And if she were here, he'd probably seen the eviction notice on his parents' house across the street. And if this monthly ledger was any indication, the store would probably fail, too. And where would they go? He'd probably never be able to ask her to marry him, just like he'd wanted to do for the last two months. Even if her family didn't approve of him, even if she were a Catholic (surely she'd convert for him?), even if his future prospects as an architect looked dim -- he wanted to ask her. When he thought of Agnes Limerick, he felt a powerful attraction that always had an undeniable effect on him. She had no idea, he supposed, because she was so innocent, so young.

He walked out. There she was, looking him in the eye. He was wrong. She did have an idea. She might still be young, but she wasn't quite so innocent. Her eyes told him exactly what she wanted. In an instant, he felt a stiffness in his slacks concealed (thank heavens) by tight undershorts.

"Mr. Soltham," he directed to his employee, "you may go now. It's the end of the day and I'll close up the store."

Brian Larney: "Thank you," I said

The somber procession lurched forward, inch by inch, as hundreds of mourners filed their way into the cavernous St. Patrick's Church. Philadelphia, so far as Brian knew, had never seen quite so large a turnout for the funeral of one of its own. But this funeral, among so many that had occurred in the last six months, stood out like no other. The city was burying its finest and most selfless physician, Dr. Martin Limerick. He had toiled endless hours in the last six months, trying to save as many patients as he could. He'd mostly failed, Brian knew from what Martin had told him, but he'd said, "Brian, if I can just save one life from this terrible epidemic, I'll have done my job for the year." In the end, he could not save himself. He'd worn himself down and when the influenza of 1918 reached him, he died quickly and decisively. On a Christmas Eve that would've had Martin making his neighborhood visits, including one to Brian, he instead lay dying in bed. He didn't make it to Christmas Day.

Once inside the church, Brian could see the long row of people to greet the Limericks. There, at the front, stood Siobhan. Brian knew his best friend's wife -- and now widow -- could not stand him. Couldn't stand him because Brian had been different than anyone else. Well, Siobhan wasn't his friend; Martin had been. He came here to pay his respects. Next to Siobhan stood the redoubtable Mrs. Limerick -- Annie Kate, the spitfire who'd give Brian a sharp peck on the cheek with a how-de-doo every time they met. Standing close to Mrs. Limerick was Agnes -- Brian's favorite piano student. So gifted, so magical at the piano! Why, at just eight years of age, he could tell that she'd be a master. All in good time. And next to her, Agnes's older brother Patrick, a handsome young man of eleven years who'd grow into an even handsomer adult. Brian had to squelch the thought. It didn't seem proper, here at the funeral. But yes, he could sense it. Patrick was just like him.

He looked up from Patrick and caught the eye of Father Doherty. Siobhan's brother would be conducting the funeral himself -- a little irregular, considering he was the deceased's brother-in-law, but typical. Collin Doherty needed to be in control of everything, it seemed, though he certainly never controlled the independent Martin Limerick. Father Doherty suspected. He suspected it all -- about Brian, about the younger Patrick, about what had really connected Brian to Martin Limerick. Well, no matter. He didn't know anything. He could suspect all he wanted but never know a thing. Brian would certainly carry his and Martin's secret to his own grave, how ever many decades hence that might be.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the family and made his condolences. And he saw the mahogany coffin beyond. He bowed his head in a silent prayer and said, "Thank you, Martin."

Victoria Balmoral: The laundry

She wished Cornelius could be more sensitive about the laundry. He simply had no idea how difficult a task doing the laundry weekly could be. It took the entire day, usually on Saturdays when he slept the afternoon away on his hammock out back or played touch football with the boys. Cornelius Jr. was exactly the same as his father. If Victoria hadn't been a staunch Episcopalian, she'd have divorced Cornelius long ago, just over the issue of the laundry.

Everything he wore, he put into the laundry. And in such a state! Armpit stains, tomato stains on his white shirts, crumpled sleeves, dirty stockings, underwear yellow in the front and (dare she think it) brown in the back. And Cornelius was such a sloppy shaver each morning that he almost always had dried blood on his white collars. Thank goodness he wasn't smart enough to have gone to college, because then he'd have to wear a tie to work and she'd have something else to worry about, laundry-wise. But, lucky for her, butchers were never expected to wear ties. And if they had, Cornelius was too clumsy and he'd always be chopping it off.

And thank goodness Cornelius wasn't smart enough to do the books. He gave her his weekly paycheck and let her handle the bills. So she did. And she kept money from him, because she knew he couldn't save a dime and everything he'd get he'd spend on British ale down at the pub at 34th and Market. That Cornelius! He didn't know that she was saving 20% of his paycheck every week and scrimping. The Berkowitz pharmacy across the street would be on the market before too long -- Mr. Berkowitz, old and infirm, could only last so much longer -- and she intended to buy it. She intended to buy it and run it herself. But, of course, she'd use Cornelius as the facade so that she could appear ladylike and supportive of her husband. Women in 1914 Philadelphia couldn't do otherwise.

She intended to improve their lot, send her sons to college, give them futures that neither she nor Cornelius ever had. Cornelius wouldn't do it himself, he didn't have the drive. He was too set in his ways, just like most middle-aged fat men with red faces. The little dears.

Annie Kate Limerick: Irish folk dancing

Patrick, Collin, and Agnes cleared the St. Patrick's basement of furniture -- save the old grand piano, not as nice as Annie Kate's but in tune nonetheless -- so the wedding party could have its dance. Annie Kate had worn a long black dress with white lace trim to her nephew's wedding. Her first grandchild's wedding, the second-oldest son of her second-oldest son. Her right high heels complemented her long red hair, which she'd rolled up into an attractive bun on the back of her head. So what if she was 75 years old, who cared what shoes she wore and how she did her hair? It was her own style, no one else's. She might've let her hair go gray and worn grays, lilacs, and beiges like Siobhan, but her daughter-in-law reacted to widowhood very differently from Annie Kate. She still had some life left in her, even if Andrew had died nearly twenty years earlier and she had no intention of getting a man. Now or ever.

That didn't stop her from flirting with the head server, an attractive man with short, dark hair, a square jaw, and black-framed glasses. Annie Kate liked the boys and they loved her. Who wouldn't love an old Irish lady with carrot-top hair, a black lace dress, and red high heels? The dancing started and Annie Kate led the group. They started with an Irish folk dance, the group in a circle kicking up a storm. Agnes danced to her left, Patrick on her right. Sister Lucy was across from her, smiling and laughing -- she needed it. The convent of St. Monica's could be dee-pressing. Even Collin Doherty cracked a smile at the dancing. Too bad his sister -- Siobhan, that was -- couldn't join in the merriment. It wasn't as if she hadn't been a widow long enough. Martin had been dead nearly ten years.

Two hours later, Annie Kate was still going strong. She danced with James, she danced with Patrick, and she and Collin buried their polite feud long enough to share a friendly waltz. And then she retired for the day to her seat and watched the young ones do the Charleston. Now that was one dancing Annie Kate had no interest in doing.

Siobhan Limerick: Saturday night

The back kitchen door shut with a bang and a sudden quiet descended on the house. Siobhan stood at the stove, stirring a pot of corned beef and cabbage soup, enough for twelve people, but all the occupants had left for the evening but her. And Racer's death only made the silence in the house more unbearable. The old golden retriever had died only three weeks ago and since then Agnes seemed to lead one rebellion after the other against her and Uncle Collin.

Siobhan loved the smell of corned beef and cabbage soup. Its savory smell filled the house with a warm coziness that felt like the whole house held her in a close hug. When she and Martin had moved into the house back in '09, just before Agnes had been born, she'd changed all of Annie Kate's whites and blues with dark reds, browns, and greens. They'd spent a fortune on heavy brocade drapes, thick oriental rugs, dark mahogany furniture -- the best of the Victorian furniture she could find. Annie Kate, who'd moved to a small house in Chestnut Hill, told them it looked like a French whore house, but Siobhan had by then learned to ignore her mother-in-law's outspoken remarks. Why, it'd taken nearly six years to redecorate the house to Siobhan's taste -- and then Martin had died of influenza, barely two years after that.

She could hear the shuffle of her own hard shoes on the wood flooring. Why hadn't she bought any rugs for this kitchen? She hardly wanted to hear her own feet, a reminder that she was the only one in the house. Annie Kate, who'd moved back into the house to help with little Agnes and Patrick after Martin had died, had gone to the church for a Saturday night bingo game. Patrick was at the theatre with his friends, or so Siobhan thought. More likely, they were playing poker and pinochle, which Siobhan detested.

And Agnes. They'd had a big fight over Norman Balmoral. She was always disappearing these days, returning late from work at the architecture firm, saying she had to work late. But Siobhan knew. She could see it in her daughter's eyes: the girl was in love and, if Siobhan knew her daughter after twenty-one years well enough, there would be no stopping her. Siobhan could only pray that Agnes would see the Balmoral man for the scoundrel he was.

She said a silent prayer, hoping Agnes would seek guidance from Uncle Collin or another priest. Then she went into the parlor and sat in the heavy chair. She picked up a book to read -- it was Agnes's worn edition of "Sense and Sensibility." She stole furtive glances at the front door. When would someone come home?

Collin Doherty: Ask a question

He could hear the storm clouds release their fury with a bang and then the persistent barrage of heavy rain on the sidewalks outside the church. Agnes would be soaked. She'd only left five minutes ago.

Collin remained where he sat -- front, left pew. He looked at the altar where he'd conducted mass for what, forty years? No, not quite -- thirty-nine years. It would be forty in November, but this was just August. He'd taken over as chief pastor of St. Patrick's when old Father McCullough had retired in '04. He remembered the day well when he ascended the pulpit to deliver his first homily, his nervous, unsteady feet, his halting delivery. He was so young back then, really just a boy, only twenty-five years old. And called to the priesthood and to this beloved parish with the red velvet carpet along the altar, the Notre Dame buttresses and stained glass windows, the organ's famous pipes echoing trumpets, clarinets, bassoons, and cellos from the narthex to the precept. He loved it as the great soul of his being. It had become as much a part of him as, well, his family.

And what remained of Collin's family? His parents, dead ever so long ago, his sister, Julia, on her own and living in New York with, the dear Lord only knew, the most bohemian of independent women and, Collin could barely say, unmarried females. There were his three younger brothers, gone to Pittsburgh to seek their fortunes, only to die in the steel mills. And Siobhan, the closest of them all, driven from Philadelphia to Washington by the Great Depression. All the money from the Limerick fortune lost when the business crashed back in '30, Siobhan forced to accompany Patrick when after four long years of unemployment had finally secured a position in the Labor Department. Only he remained in Philadelphia -- and Agnes, but they'd counted her for dead back in '33 after she'd married Norman Balmoral and had her poor, God-forsaken baby.

Agnes. His favorite niece. The pain, Collin could feel, still unbearable after all these years. How talented, how smart, how gifted she had been. How creative, and how funny. But the betrayal -- all because she'd left their family for a Protestant. And one stupid enough to get killed in the war. And now Agnes comes to him, after nearly eleven years, wanting forgiveness and understanding. Wanting to know about faith and love. Well, he could forgive her in God's name, but doing it as her uncle, that was an entirely different story.

Collin thought about her children. He remembered little Grace, eleven years old at Norman's funeral, and Harold, seven years old. Grace was the spitting image of Siobhan -- and Harold, a beautiful little boy with the same blue eyes and dark hair as Norman. They were probably smart just like Agnes, funny and witty. He could just see Grace with her head in a book or her hands on the piano, running up and down. He could just see little Harold, cocking his head to the left when he didn't understand who Siobhan was -- that this was his grandmother, just like Mrs. Balmoral was his grandmother. How Collin wished he could meet them.

But could he? He'd promised himself, he'd never see Agnes again. And she hadn't tried to see him, at least not until today. Well, the Church told him, the sinned must first seek forgiveness before they can be forgiven. And so Agnes would have to seek his forgiveness -- but wait, she'd done that. She'd come to the church today, asking him for guidance, asking for his help. Collin's heart twinged. He looked at the altar again, at the benevolent face of Jesus -- and then he knew. Agnes, her little Grace and Harold, they were the only family Collin had remaining in Philadelphia. She'd asked for his help and he'd withheld it. What kind of uncle had he been? And what would his Savior have said?

The rain had stopped. Agnes's house was only six blocks away, just on the other side of Rittenhouse Square. Collin stood, crossed himself and bowed, turned around and walked right out of the church. Mass might take place in forty-five minutes, but he had an even more important job in front of him.

Norman Balmoral: You messed up, you messed up huge!

I noticed it first last week and then yesterday, Agnes noticed it and she asked me about it.

"Norman," she asked in her clipped, tense voice, "what is this sore down here? Do you know anything about this?"

How would I respond to that? Of course I knew exactly what it was, but I didn't want to have that discussion with my wife. I'd already confessed my affair to her, and though I'd lied about the woman's identity to protect Cristina from Agnes's wrath (after all, they'd been best friends for nearly ten years), I hadn't told Agnes that I saw a masseuse on Friday afternoons once a month and that I'd doubtless picked up the infection from her. And passed it on to Agnes, obviously. Fridays might've been for the masseuse once a month, but every Saturday ... no exceptions, unless one of us was ill ... every Saturday was for us.

"I don't know, sweetheart. Do you feel a cold coming on?"

"Liar! I wasn't born yesterday. My father was a doctor, you know, and I'm smart enough to know exactly what this is. This is because of your affair with Mary Holmes! You got this from her and you brought it home to me!"

"It's possible, Agnes, it's possible. We should both see the doctor, shouldn't we?"

Agnes didn't know this, but I'd already gone to the doctor three weeks ago and he'd confirmed the diagnosis and prescribed some medications which I'd concealed at home.

"You'd better believe it, Norman. And if this is anything really serious, there's going to be hell to pay."

"I should also contact Mary Holmes."

"You'll do nothing of the kind. I hope she rots."

Cristina Rosamilia: Late afternoon sunlight in the row homes

"Ma, you're burning the shad! Turn off the fire before it's burned beyond all recognition!"

"What is this, my own daughter telling me how to cook fish, and I've been feeding this family more than thirty years now."

Cristina and Angelo sat at the kitchen table, looking out the side window. The afternoon rays of late winter sunlight cast themselves through the backyard and into the house, bringing the red bricks of the Casanovas' house into full color -- a welcome respite to the Monteverdis, since the winter and bad news from Europe had put everyone on edge. Hitler seemed to be in control of all of Europe and was bombing London to smithereens.

The young couple sipped red wine and looked at each other. Ma was sauteeing fish and onions on the stove, about to add the ingredients for a marinara. Pop was in the parlor playing with little Angelo, Carlo, and Bernadetta. Cristina thought, this war comes to the United States, Angelo will have to go. He'd already said he wanted to fight for Italy, until Mussolini allied himself with Hitler. No one in the house wanted to talk about the war in Italy -- too painful. They hadn't heard from their Monteverdi cousins in Toscana or their Italiano cousins in Napoli for months. The pallid expressions on Ma and Pop's faces told Cristina to hold her tongue.

"Ma, when do you and Pop think you'll head to the beach this spring? You always go down by mid-May."

That would be two months from now. They spent their summers at the little house on the Delaware Bay. Used to be, Ma would spend her summers there while Pop ran the store here in town. But since Angelo had taken over the store and seemed to be running it real good, Pop had decided to retire and spend more time fishing in the bay.

"Things being so bad these days, we thought we'd stay here and just go down for weekends. We don't have a radio down there, you know."

"You can take the one here, can't you?"

"I'd rather not go to the effort."

Cristina knew the real reason. Ma and Pop were afraid the Sal would join the Navy and leave town. They didn't want their only son going to war. Everyone knew it was just a matter of time before Roosevelt got the U.S. into the war.

Victoria Balmoral: I don't want to write about ...

Charlie Tasker, my cousin, stood at the doorway, his shoulders facing forward, his head turned to the side, looking at me. I sat on the bed on the opposite wall, exhausted from tears and packing. Let's get this over with, I said, let's get this over with. I'd loved Charlie since I was four years old and I couldn't bear the thought of him going to Cuba to fight. McKinley had called up for volunteers. Our assemblyman, a loud, burly man with a thick handle-bar moustache, six children from two marriages, and a huge estate on the water from his family's railroad money, had cornered Charlie at an Oyster Bay town meeting, I'm organizing troops to fight for McKinley, would you join me? Charlie'd said yes without asking what I thought. And sure enough, off Charlie went with Colonel Roosevelt and the Rough Riders.

I never talk about what happened next. When I look back these forty years onto that time, there's a vacuum between 1898 and 1901. I don't like to think about those years. I don't like to think about what the years since would've been like, if Charlie had come back in 1901. So many possibilities for happiness that didn't happen. I met Cornelius in 1902. He was a nice man, kind enough, and since I couldn't think of any reason to say no, we got married a year later. I was in a fog the whole time and came out of it only when my two sons were born, young Cornelius and my special Norman. My Tasker relatives doted on the boys. It didn't help that Norman bore a great resemblance to Charlie. That much everyone knew and said. Cornelius, unsuspecting, gave me a good life. He was a nice man.

Siobhan Limerick: It never ends

When I buried my first baby, I didn't complain to anyone because that's what a mother does. It's what my mother did with two of hers and it's what my grandmother did with one of hers. It's what a mother does. But my tears come for that little baby -- my first, a boy with pretty blue eyes just like his father, a boy who lived only one hour before God took him from me. I wonder what his life might've been. What would his voice have sounded like? What would he have liked? Would he have been thin or fat? Would he have grown up, interested in music like my Agnes has been, or would he have been interested in cars like my Patrick? I wonder.

When I buried my second baby, I told myself that God tests us but that in his wisdom he calls the little children unto him. I told myself that I must have faith in his greater plan, that I needed to understand the miracle of birth didn't necessarily promise the miracle of life. My second baby, a little girl who made it just six hours before being released to the next world, she had brown eyes and dark features, just like my brother Collin. He came to the house after she was born and stayed until she died -- and read the last rites to her, my second baby. I wonder what her life might've been.

When I buried my third baby, I began to doubt God's wisdom for us and his plan. My third baby made it even longer -- almost to the second day of life, but alas, this little boy died, too, and we buried him in the family plot out in Gladwyn. By now I'd learned to stop wondering what the baby's life might've been. I told myself it made no difference, life would've been just as unhappy for these babies as it's been for me.

When I buried my fourth baby, I cried bitter tears of retribution for God's malice toward me. I knew I'd done something wrong, something very wrong to deserve this kind of punishment. My brother with his rock solid forearms supporting me on my way to the cemetery told me that I could not give up. My husband, the good doctor with the wisdom to say, "Keep trying, Siobhan, we must keep trying," also told me never to give up.

I'm glad I didn't give up. If I had, my Patrick and Agnes would never have been born. And even if my son never married, even if my daughter left the Church to marry a Protestant, they're alive and well. And that's the only thing a mother can hope for.

Gracie Honeywalker: Clink, clink

I's hiding in the floor below's our cabin. They done come for Seth minutes fore and I can hear 'em, shuffling their feets across the wood. Old Master, he still outside, can see the Sun, its shine coming from the black boots with silver tips. He surrounded by his people from the big house. Seth, he inside and he being shackled in chains, going away Praise Be God only knows where. I hear them moving toward the front door and the clink, clink, clink of chains on the wood above my heads. Sounds like chains when they release the coffin down in the Earth. I see Seth, he come down our three steps, two big white men in blue and brown on either side. He's bent at the knees, can't walk since the whippings when they done found him outside the gates. Even with the war over in Virginia now they got to keep their men on the farm, can't bring in the tobacco without 'em. My Seth, he's the fastest in the fields.

They won't miss me, those girls in the house. I's in training for maiding Miss Colleen. I ain't no regular maid, can't be no regular maid until I's fourteen years old. Miss Colleen, she's the second and meanest of them three girls. And ugly, ugly as a hungry vulture. Told me the other day, war's over in the fall, we're gone to be sorry the North ever crossed over from Ohio. After the Yankees, they done bombed that fort back in South Carolina, she said, we got to fight back. And when it all done, we gone to be back to normal.

Ain't no normal without my Seth on the place. And ain't no way I's staying around without him. He the daddy to my two babies, little Josiah who's two months and little Percy who's just over a year. Don't know what's gone to happen to them, can't leave without them, but I's leaving. I knows it. Ohio line's only fifty, maybe sixty miles from this here farm, I can make it with my babies. We just hide out in the woods, trap some rabbits, give the babies my milk. I done milked good for 'em. Summer weather's warm, too, ain't no problem freezing at night in the woods.

We gone to have it better, I knows that. We gone to have it better, once we get cross the Ohio line.

Cristina Rosamilia: The rug in the shop window

Agnes and I walked down Pine Street Saturday afternoon as we usually do these days. My Angelo's been gone to the South Pacific now almost six months and even Norman's been in England now, I think, what is it -- ten months? We're just two war wives now, trying to do the best we can, raising our children with our husbands overseas. And perhaps getting killed. We're window shopping now. I don't dare buy anything, money's so tight and who knows what'll happen when the war's over, if Angelo's lucky enough to come back? We'll probably get into another depression and then no one will have any money -- not even Agnes, and she's always been rich. She won't admit it, but she always has been.

Case in point, she walks into this shop and buys a rug for her kitchen -- dark red (her favorite color for all her oriental rugs, how many are there?), black, white, and even burgundy. She redecorated her kitchen after she found out about Norman's affair. Changed all the whites to colors. Got to admit, it looks pretty damned good. She's got great taste, but I'm glad I don't have to pay the bills. Norman told me once, once when we were lying in bed after a raucous afternoon, that being married to Agnes was tough because she always craved new things -- new books, new furniture, new clothes, new ideas, new projects, new challenges. Why can't she be satisfied with what she has, he would say, doesn't she remember living above my parents' pharmacy those two years before getting our own house?

I miss my afternoon romps with Norman. Maybe it's for the best, his being gone to England for the war. Removes the temptation to sleep with Agnes's husband. I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. And I met him first. He and I had been sleeping together off and on for a year before Agnes ever walked into the picture -- and without knowing it, she took him away from me. But I have to remember, he has his wife and I've got my husband. And right before he left, the last time we had sex, he told me it would be ... the last time we had sex. When he was coming back from the war, he would be faithful to Agnes and we would only be friends -- two married couples, going out on the town Saturday nights.

We'll see about that.

Brian Larney: Crackers

He changed trains in Washington, D.C., again in Richmond, Virginia, for the third time in Atlanta, Georgia. He wanted to get off in Atlanta and take a few days to see Mallory Evans, his favorite piano student before Agnes Limerick started taking lessons in '16. She'd gotten married and moved there, already had six children. He didn't have the time, however. The journey, already nearly forty hours, would be another sixteen before he reached Miami Beach, Florida and the ragtime band he planned to join for the winter.

They would play Scott Joplin, George Gershwin, and Igor Stravinsky to guests at the Delano and the Fontainebleau. He'd stay in the Kenmore, a guest house for musicians and their "friends." Everyone in Miami Beach knew what "friend" meant for a musician, especially a piano teacher from Philadelphia who wore bright green and yellow ties and red jackets. Brian didn't really care what anyone thought, not enough to get rid of his bow ties and jackets, and definitely not enough to lower his voice for the dried-up 400 clubbers from Philadelphia and New York.

He made the final connection in Valdosta, Georgia. He finally saw the name of his destination -- Miami Beach, Florida on the Flagler Special. The train lurched forward before Brian even had a chance to put his square box of a suitcase on the shelf above his cabin, empty save for three lone passengers on the opposite side. They came over to help him, all three seedy thin, tall, wearing faded dungarees and heavy flannel overcoats. Dirty blond hair, goatees, mustaches that hadn't been tended in months. Wide-brimmed hats that made it impossible for Brian to see their eyes. They surrounded Brian, lifted his suitcase above his head.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for the help."

The one behind Brian landed his punch in his lower back at the same time the heavy-set man in on his right landed his own left fist squarely on the right side of Brian's jaw. Brian put his hand up to his mouth, feeling the warm taste of blood and the chalky weight of teeth knocked loose by the force. The third man clutched Brian from behind around the waste as the other two lifted Brian landed their punches on Brian's stomach. They threw him to the ground, knocking his head against the metal side of Brian's bench.

Brian groaned in a voice deeper than one he'd ever used in speaking. Why couldn't he have remembered, he wasn't in Philadelphia anymore, and he wasn't yet in Miami Beach?

Annie Kate Limerick: I would like to hide it

The 80-year old mother of nine and grandmother of thirty-six sat in her pink stuffed chair knitting a sweater for Agnes. Of all the children and grandchildren, Agnes was most like her. She had the fire in her belly to do things that really mattered. She had the desire to do interesting things and be endlessly fascinating. She had talent, the girl had talent and could do whatever she wanted.

Even these days, even when her husband's 56-year old bricklaying company had succumbed to the depression that was taking over the country ... and the world, for her cousins in County Meath had written of their penury, asking for money, which Annie Kate always sent ... even these days, Annie Kate couldn't suppress her happy hopes for the new generation. She loved it. She loved the fact that Agnes was 21 and starting out her life with almost no chance of being employed and almost no chance of finding a suitable husband. The girl would survive, Annie Kate knew it. She just knew Agnes would make it in this world, and she'd do it on her terms. Not Siobhan's and not Collin Doherty - her mother and her uncle would only hold her back.

She hoped Agnes would follow her heart and marry the Balmoral man. So what if he was an Episcopalian, who in the hell cares? This was America, it was Philadelphia in 1932! They were all Americans now. Balmoral certainly had nothing against him and everything for him -- an architect who might've just lost his job, but he'd land on his feet just like her Agnes would do. She hoped they'd make it together. And she hoped they'd make it together soon, very soon -- because Annie Kate's heart told her her days were numbered. She might have a month, she might have a year. But in her heart she knew, the end was coming soon.

Norman Balmoral: Evening out

This fabulous woman with the red hair and green eyes ... I want to fuck her senseless. I want to feel the moistness of her, inside, and that one place -- that one place -- where she rubs against me and ... yes, she makes me explode in a way no other living soul ever has. I love our recent Saturday evenings together. We'll go to the Academy, we'll go to the Rodin, we'll walk along the Parkway, and all I've got in my mind, all that's in my head as we make our way across the galaxy of our evening together, all I can imagine is being with her in bed. And the small of her back, my hands around the small of her back. And the red hair, twirling in my dark brown-haired forearms. And the curved line where her abdomen meets her hips ... as they merge into my own hips, hairier and more muscular. Not an ounce of fat on either of us. Delicious.

I enjoy these nights, gin martinis at the Top of the Warwick, beef tenderloin and roasted asparagus, the walk to the Academy (or whichever, doesn't matter to me), our walk back to the place, a brief nod to the grandmother waiting in the lobby, up the stairs, clothes disappearing before our conjoined bodies hit the sheets. And the twenty minutes of ecstacy (if we can make it that long) before we spend ourselves and collapse in a state of luxuriated bliss and exhaustion. And then we fall asleep, the warmth of our trembling skin settling into each other's blood stream, making its way to our languid hearts.

Too many adjectives, too many nouns, too many over-excited verbs. But how else does a husband of nine years describe what it's like to be inside his wife, our two children murmuring quiet sleep in the adjacent rooms, my mother the babysitter having just left, two minutes before we came? This red-headed woman's still the one who does it for me. If only she weren't a needy, demanding bitch in every other aspect of our life together.

Agnes Limerick: Five minutes ago

Agnes vomited into the wastebasket. She'd barely eaten anything for breakfast, but she did recognize corn and spinach from Victoria's dinner last night. Tears moistened her face, her red hair fell into her eyes. She blew her nose and a big wad of lettuce came out. It seemed like she was done throwing up, so she began to collect herself. She looked around. The priest in black and a white clerical collar stood above her. Dr. Dixon came back into the room with a wet cloth and wiped her forehead. Both men, silent and somehow knowing they needed to remain silent, helped her up from the hard tile floor. She stood, weak and dizzy, her hands shaking, and stared out the window. A young mother walked her children, two of them, on the opposite side of Arch Street.

Just five minutes ago, that might have been Agnes with Grace and Harold. A wife and mother, enjoying the crisp and clear October morning with her children. Just five minutes ago, she might've been sitting at her desk, starting her work day, planning the tasks she'd do for Dr. Dixon here at the War Department. Just five minutes ago, she might've been talking to Mr. Larney on the telephone, making sure he was all right, enjoying the sound of his voice, eager to sit at the piano with him. Just five minutes ago, she might've been reading a letter from Norman, telling her of shows on the West End he attended, when the U.S. Navy gave him evening leave, at theatres that refused to dim their lights just because HItler was bombing the city. Just five minutes ago, she was a wife. Not a widow.

It all changed when the priest walked in the door, when the priest said those very first words, "I have a very unhappy duty to perform." Just five minutes ago, she had a life. Now she had a question mark.

Collin Doherty: The winner

The restless night had Collin tossing and turning in his musty apartment above the rectory. He kept his windows open for a cross-breeze, but Philadelphia's August night had no wind but plenty of heat and humidity coming off the Schuylkill and Delaware Rivers. He tossed and turned, unable to catch the nightly ride to sleep, but finally did drift off.

The undiscovered world had him racing down Locust Street. A blinding light from above made it impossible to see as he navigated the strollers and walkers of Rittenhouse Square. He passed St. Mark's Episcopal Church, eyeing Agnes's mother-in-law in a light beige gown with matching hat and veil, shaking her priest's hand on the way out from Sunday services. He passed the Academy of Music, where Agnes and her Mr. Larney were performing a recital, their names above Schubert and Beethoven on the marquee. He made his way onward, always forward, huffing and puffing as he passed Washington Square. On the left, he saw the Athenaeum, the architects' library that in his squinting eyes was purple, not white.

And then it came to him that another man raced beside him on the left. Who could it be? Was it the enigmatic Martin Limerick, his sister's long-dead husband? Yes, he could recognize the pince-nez, the tightly wound features, the grays and browns that he had always worn. Martin Limerick ran beside him, urging him to greater speed, heavier breathing, more profuse sweating. And then another man joined them, this one on his right, a much younger man. A very fit man with dark hair, a chiseled, square jaw, black-framed glasses whose blue eyes pierced through the brightness. Could it be him, the man who'd taken Agnes, his favorite niece, away from the Church? The man who'd died in the war, not even a year ago? Yes, Norman Balmoral raced on his right.

The three of them sprinted to faster speeds, every block swimming by them like the scenery from the train to Pittsburgh. And though Collin knew the six blocks from Washington Square to Front Street could be covered in only a fraction of time, he felt the closer they got, the faster they ran, that it only seemed further away. Were Martin and Norman leading Collin to his own death? What was it the three of them were trying to reach? Just what goal eluded Collin, Martin, and Norman?

The sound of the window banging against its frame woke him up. Night sweats soaked his sheets. The weather had finally broken and a heavy, windy rain soaked the streets of Philadelphia.