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?