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.
No comments:
Post a Comment