“Andrew, come over here. Bring your satchel.”
Annie Kate cradled the baby under her shawl, but another wave crashed over the ship and doused it yet again. Baby Martin cried a weak little mew into Annie Kate’s breast. Andrew crossed from the other side of the ship. The boat’s rocking from a swell knocked him over. He fell onto the deck and the satchel slid over to Annie Kate. A wet potato cake rolled out next to Annie Kate’s feet. She grabbed it.
A bony six-year old boy with sunken eyes and a bulging stomach jumped and tore it out of Annie Kate’s hands before she could give it to the baby. “Mine,” she cried out, “for my baby!”
Andrew grabbed the boy who’d already swallowed the cake. He shook the boy until he vomited on Andrew. Annie Kate cried. That was the last of their food and New York still lay another two days beyond. She looked at Martin, crying from hunger. Annie Kate didn’t yet have milk. The new baby was only four months along.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Collin Doherty: Brand new
1936 was the year God allowed their church to breathe a little, Monsignor Collin observed. The furnace in the rectory had failed back in ’34 and they had too little money to replace it. Until now, when they raised $325 from sacramental offerings and the diocese gave them an additional $140 to make up the difference. Thank heavens for the fireplaces in the office and in his living room upstairs. He’d moved Mrs. Callahan into his office for the past two years and he’d moved out of his own bedroom into the living room. Now he could finally have some peace – and a good night’s sleep in his own bed.
Of course, they’d only gotten the money for a furnace in March, so they’d missed yet another winter – their third without heat in the rectory. So Collin and Mrs. Callahan would have to wait until next winter to feel the benefit. Alas, at least spring and summer were on their way and they didn’t need to use the furnace at all – never past March 15, never before November 15. Cold is good, Collin told himself and the parishioners who came to the rectory to see him.
He lay in bed on the Ides of March, contemplating God’s wisdom. He had a plan for them all, Collin knew – even for Agnes, who continued to trouble him. She’d yet repented for her sins. It was bad enough she’d committed carnal sins without benefit of marriage, but much, much worse that she’d forsaken the Church when she married that man. God had a plan for Agnes, he believed – but Collin had no idea how he could reveal that plan to her.
Collin felt a drop of water on his nose. And then another on his forehead. A third wet drop hit him in the eye and he sat up in bed. He looked at the ceiling – water coming in from above him. A new roof. God was asking them to get a new roof now.
Of course, they’d only gotten the money for a furnace in March, so they’d missed yet another winter – their third without heat in the rectory. So Collin and Mrs. Callahan would have to wait until next winter to feel the benefit. Alas, at least spring and summer were on their way and they didn’t need to use the furnace at all – never past March 15, never before November 15. Cold is good, Collin told himself and the parishioners who came to the rectory to see him.
He lay in bed on the Ides of March, contemplating God’s wisdom. He had a plan for them all, Collin knew – even for Agnes, who continued to trouble him. She’d yet repented for her sins. It was bad enough she’d committed carnal sins without benefit of marriage, but much, much worse that she’d forsaken the Church when she married that man. God had a plan for Agnes, he believed – but Collin had no idea how he could reveal that plan to her.
Collin felt a drop of water on his nose. And then another on his forehead. A third wet drop hit him in the eye and he sat up in bed. He looked at the ceiling – water coming in from above him. A new roof. God was asking them to get a new roof now.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: The lines
Cristina rearranged the lines on her face and dabbled with her hair, waiting for Agnes to open the door. What was taking her so long? Finally she did and Cristina heard laughter – the ebullient Mr. Larney was inside. Oh, good. He always brought a smile to my face.
“This wind, Agnes. What’s a girl to do with her hair?”
“It doesn’t look windy to me, Cristina. Come inside.”
“Howdy, Mr. Larney!” Cristina said. He wore a blue jacket and a red bow tie. Always so cheerful, so unlike Norman. Cristina couldn’t imagine Agnes being happy with a dour husband like Norman when she had such a lively friend as Mr. Larney.
“It’s the lovely Cristina Rosamilia, I’ll be bound – a million roses for you, my dear,” Mr. Larney said.
“Mr. Larney and I – Brian, I mean,” Agnes said, “were just finishing up our visit.”
“I have to be on my way, Cristina,” he said, grabbing his coat and hat – a dark green, yet another color for him. “I have an 8-year old piano student to teach. Agnes, I will consider your offer.”
After he left, Cristina said, “What is he talking about?”
They went into the parlor room and sat on the sofa. “I’ve asked him to move in here with us, Cristina.”
Cristina wondered what Norman’s mother would think of the shuffle in the household. Norman had been dead three weeks and buried twenty-four hours, and Agnes was asking another man – even if it was the old “confirmed bachelor” Mr. Larney – to move into the house. Victoria would raise bloody hell.
“This wind, Agnes. What’s a girl to do with her hair?”
“It doesn’t look windy to me, Cristina. Come inside.”
“Howdy, Mr. Larney!” Cristina said. He wore a blue jacket and a red bow tie. Always so cheerful, so unlike Norman. Cristina couldn’t imagine Agnes being happy with a dour husband like Norman when she had such a lively friend as Mr. Larney.
“It’s the lovely Cristina Rosamilia, I’ll be bound – a million roses for you, my dear,” Mr. Larney said.
“Mr. Larney and I – Brian, I mean,” Agnes said, “were just finishing up our visit.”
“I have to be on my way, Cristina,” he said, grabbing his coat and hat – a dark green, yet another color for him. “I have an 8-year old piano student to teach. Agnes, I will consider your offer.”
After he left, Cristina said, “What is he talking about?”
They went into the parlor room and sat on the sofa. “I’ve asked him to move in here with us, Cristina.”
Cristina wondered what Norman’s mother would think of the shuffle in the household. Norman had been dead three weeks and buried twenty-four hours, and Agnes was asking another man – even if it was the old “confirmed bachelor” Mr. Larney – to move into the house. Victoria would raise bloody hell.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Siobhan Limerick: In the background
After Collin’s homily Siobhan kneeled to pray to her babies. Collin had spoken of Ruth and Naomi, their abiding friendship, and the power of love. She’d named the first born Ruth, just before she died back in ’01. How many years ago, was that? Almost twenty. She wondered what that baby would be like today, if she’d lived. Same thing with the other three, Andrew, James, and Mary.
Patrick and Agnes didn’t know. Siobhan would never tell them about their older siblings, the ones who didn’t make it. They didn’t need to bear that weight. She leaned back onto the St. Patrick’s pew and looked at her twelve-year old. He liked school but something went wrong with everything he did. It never seemed to be his fault but his projects always went awry. And little Agnes, her nine-year old, a wilted geranium since Martin died last fall. She’d adored her daddy like no child Siobhan had ever seen.
Collin stood at the altar, ready to begin the sacrament. The good Lord might’ve taken Martin away from them, but at least Siobhan’s brother could be a good role model for her children. He began to read the service of Holy Communion and Siobhan crossed herself, feeling a momentary glimpse of peace.
Patrick and Agnes didn’t know. Siobhan would never tell them about their older siblings, the ones who didn’t make it. They didn’t need to bear that weight. She leaned back onto the St. Patrick’s pew and looked at her twelve-year old. He liked school but something went wrong with everything he did. It never seemed to be his fault but his projects always went awry. And little Agnes, her nine-year old, a wilted geranium since Martin died last fall. She’d adored her daddy like no child Siobhan had ever seen.
Collin stood at the altar, ready to begin the sacrament. The good Lord might’ve taken Martin away from them, but at least Siobhan’s brother could be a good role model for her children. He began to read the service of Holy Communion and Siobhan crossed herself, feeling a momentary glimpse of peace.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: I am currently obsessed by ...
Tonight was Angelo’s poker night with the boys from Washington Street, so tonight was Cristina’s golden chance. She sent the boys across the street to Ma and Pop, but on a light dress and headed over to Rittenhouse Square. Agnes said they’d be dining at the top of the Warwick tonight and would have a stroll in Rittenhouse Square after dinner.
A lovely evening, but Cristina didn’t give a whit’s whit about the spring weather. She walked the mile to the square in nothing flat. If she sat on a bench and they walked by, they’d see her, and she didn’t want to be seen. So she just walked around the square on the perimeter. How many times before she saw them walk over from Locust Street, two, three, or four? But finally, there they were – holding hands.
Cristina felt her heart thump. Agnes wore a white and navy blue frock. Her hair flowed freely down her back – she’d always been jealous of that straight red hair. Why’d Cristina have to get her Sicilian mother’s unruly black hair? The two of them were laughing, carrying on, shoulder to shoulder. Agnes stood only a few inches shorter than he – but Cristina barely came up to his shoulder. Why couldn’t she have Agnes’s height?
Norman looked so handsome in his blue suit. He wore clothes well on that muscular frame he exercised every day. But he also wore no clothes well. How well she remembered that month in Florence back in ’29. She didn’t count everything like Agnes did, so she didn’t remember how many times they made love – but she remembered the intensity of his muscles, the bristly hairs on his stomach rubbing against her abdomen.
Seven years had passed quickly. She still didn’t know how they broke up, how they got back to America and worked in the same architecture firm, how she and Agnes became best friends, how Agnes fell in love with him. Norman belonged to Cristina. She found him first.
After a while Agnes got up and walked across the park to Peterson’s. It was time for Cristina to make her move. No one was looking.
A lovely evening, but Cristina didn’t give a whit’s whit about the spring weather. She walked the mile to the square in nothing flat. If she sat on a bench and they walked by, they’d see her, and she didn’t want to be seen. So she just walked around the square on the perimeter. How many times before she saw them walk over from Locust Street, two, three, or four? But finally, there they were – holding hands.
Cristina felt her heart thump. Agnes wore a white and navy blue frock. Her hair flowed freely down her back – she’d always been jealous of that straight red hair. Why’d Cristina have to get her Sicilian mother’s unruly black hair? The two of them were laughing, carrying on, shoulder to shoulder. Agnes stood only a few inches shorter than he – but Cristina barely came up to his shoulder. Why couldn’t she have Agnes’s height?
Norman looked so handsome in his blue suit. He wore clothes well on that muscular frame he exercised every day. But he also wore no clothes well. How well she remembered that month in Florence back in ’29. She didn’t count everything like Agnes did, so she didn’t remember how many times they made love – but she remembered the intensity of his muscles, the bristly hairs on his stomach rubbing against her abdomen.
Seven years had passed quickly. She still didn’t know how they broke up, how they got back to America and worked in the same architecture firm, how she and Agnes became best friends, how Agnes fell in love with him. Norman belonged to Cristina. She found him first.
After a while Agnes got up and walked across the park to Peterson’s. It was time for Cristina to make her move. No one was looking.
Brian Larney: It's behind me now
Brian heard the clickety clacking of hard-soled shoes against the hospital’s white tiles. Dr. Limerick walk into the room and place a hand on Brian’s leg. Like his face, the hand was soft and pink, the fingers long and slender. He would’ve made a knock-out pianist.
“It’s time for you to go home, young man. We stopped the bleeding two days ago and your digestive system has come back to normal.”
“Thank you, Dr. Limerick.” Brian got out of bed and felt a sharp stab in his abdomen. He wondered how long he’d feel the stabs and the punches. He didn’t dare look at his face in the mirror and relive what they’d done to him at the train station.
“Have you read the newspaper, Brian? While you were unconscious San Francisco had a massive earthquake and big fire, killing hundreds.”
Apparently Brian wasn’t the only one who’d been destroyed in the last week. He walked over to the dresser to change out of this hospital gown and into his own clothes, but nothing. “Would you know where my clothes are?”
“No one brought you a change of clothes?”
“No, there’s no one who visited me.”
“Not your family? What about your parents?”
Brian thought back to the altercation over the boy in Pittsburgh that took place before he got on the train. “My father is dead, and my mother – she and I no longer speak.”
“I will get you a change of clothing and ask an orderly to escort you home.”
Brian tried to hold the truth back from the doctor, but something in his expression gave him away.
“You do have a home, Brian,” the doctor asked and, after a pause, said, “in that case, you’ll come with me. My wife and I have a very large house and you can sleep in the upstairs bedroom awhile. Our church will be able to help you back on your feet.”
Dr. Limerick placed his hand on Brian’s shoulder. Brian flinched at the touch – but these hands were soft and pink, not rough and gnarly. Dr. Limerick wouldn’t strike him.
“And you must call me Martin, Brian.”
“It’s time for you to go home, young man. We stopped the bleeding two days ago and your digestive system has come back to normal.”
“Thank you, Dr. Limerick.” Brian got out of bed and felt a sharp stab in his abdomen. He wondered how long he’d feel the stabs and the punches. He didn’t dare look at his face in the mirror and relive what they’d done to him at the train station.
“Have you read the newspaper, Brian? While you were unconscious San Francisco had a massive earthquake and big fire, killing hundreds.”
Apparently Brian wasn’t the only one who’d been destroyed in the last week. He walked over to the dresser to change out of this hospital gown and into his own clothes, but nothing. “Would you know where my clothes are?”
“No one brought you a change of clothes?”
“No, there’s no one who visited me.”
“Not your family? What about your parents?”
Brian thought back to the altercation over the boy in Pittsburgh that took place before he got on the train. “My father is dead, and my mother – she and I no longer speak.”
“I will get you a change of clothing and ask an orderly to escort you home.”
Brian tried to hold the truth back from the doctor, but something in his expression gave him away.
“You do have a home, Brian,” the doctor asked and, after a pause, said, “in that case, you’ll come with me. My wife and I have a very large house and you can sleep in the upstairs bedroom awhile. Our church will be able to help you back on your feet.”
Dr. Limerick placed his hand on Brian’s shoulder. Brian flinched at the touch – but these hands were soft and pink, not rough and gnarly. Dr. Limerick wouldn’t strike him.
“And you must call me Martin, Brian.”
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Agnes Limerick: Thanksgiving dinner
Despite Mama’s recent cost-cutting, this year’s dinner somehow managed to make for an elegant display. The table was set with the artifacts of Grandpa Andrew’s success in the 1880s: Granny’s blue Wedgewood china; a complete set of silverware, trays, and serving dishes, each piece monogrammed with a tall, sloping L; crystal goblets for water and glasses for wine; six tall candlesticks, white candles for illuminating the room; and a fall centerpiece of gourds, cobs, and artificial branches with gold and red leaves collected by Granny from the trees behind Independence Hall.
On the far end of the table sat the turkey on its silver platter, waiting for Uncle Collin to do the carving. The small bird looked a little ridiculous sitting all by itself on the large platter, not even a bowl of gravy to keep it company. On the other end of the table were the mashed potatoes and vegetables with Agnes’s cheese sauce in their own silver serving bowls. In the middle of the table was another serving bowl for the cranberry chutney. A crystal chandelier hung over the table, surrounded by strings of reflective crystals draped from the ceiling to its base, four interior lamps reflecting outward, and twelve exterior lamps on its outer perimeter.
Lighting the candles instead of switching on the chandelier’s light, Mama stepped back to survey the table. Agnes could see Mama’s pride in her Thanksgiving table, reduced though it might be.
By tradition, Mama sat at the end closest to the kitchen while Uncle Collin, titular head of the family, sat at the far end, closest to the turkey and carving knife. Agnes sat on her mother’s left side, Granny on her mother’s right. Patrick sat between Agnes and his uncle. Three dejected and empty chairs had been removed to the far corner of the room. Perhaps next year, Mama could invite her aunts.
On the far end of the table sat the turkey on its silver platter, waiting for Uncle Collin to do the carving. The small bird looked a little ridiculous sitting all by itself on the large platter, not even a bowl of gravy to keep it company. On the other end of the table were the mashed potatoes and vegetables with Agnes’s cheese sauce in their own silver serving bowls. In the middle of the table was another serving bowl for the cranberry chutney. A crystal chandelier hung over the table, surrounded by strings of reflective crystals draped from the ceiling to its base, four interior lamps reflecting outward, and twelve exterior lamps on its outer perimeter.
Lighting the candles instead of switching on the chandelier’s light, Mama stepped back to survey the table. Agnes could see Mama’s pride in her Thanksgiving table, reduced though it might be.
By tradition, Mama sat at the end closest to the kitchen while Uncle Collin, titular head of the family, sat at the far end, closest to the turkey and carving knife. Agnes sat on her mother’s left side, Granny on her mother’s right. Patrick sat between Agnes and his uncle. Three dejected and empty chairs had been removed to the far corner of the room. Perhaps next year, Mama could invite her aunts.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Collin Doherty: The holidays
“He’s making me out to be the heavy,” Collin snorted to Norman. “And you’re a tight-assed prick.”
“Go jump in a lake, Doherty. You Irish Catholics should get off your lazes arses and get back to work.”
“Oh, stop spewing out all that workaholic bullshit dialogue he’s making you say. You don’t understand, he’s the reason we fight so much. We don’t really hate each other, do we?”
“I do as my author tells me to do, Doherty – and I’m supposed to be your mortal enemy. Get on board with the program, buddy.”
“You have your own mind, Balmoral. He made you an architect and he gave you a college education. He even gave you a hidden agenda.” Collin smirked at Norman. “I know about Cristina, you sly devil.”
“No one but the author is supposed to know about that. Does Agnes know? And how'd you ever find out?"
“ I’ve heard a rumor that Agnes finds out in Chapter 23. About me, well, a priest always knows who’s screwing whom.”
“Seems like he’s written you a bit too well. But there’s something I don’t get. What happened in the principal’s office with that Balfiglio boy?”
“Nothing. The author was just trying to stew up trouble because every chapter has to have some kind of conflict in it. But he couldn’t come out and say it because it’s the ‘30s, after all, and no one said that out loud. Especially my very own niece.”
“Well, did you do it?”
“Balmoral, I have no idea. You’ll just have to read between the lines.”
“I thought you just said the writer gave you your own mind.”
“Yes, but he didn’t give me my own body. I’d give myself anything to beat off in front of a mirror some time. That Cristina Rosamilia is one hot mama.”
“Doherty, you ain’t bad. Want to split a whiskey?”
“Sure, Balmoral, but let’s keep it from the author. It’s going to be a fun St. Patrick’s Day here in Chicago.”
“But it says here on page 153 that it’s Thanksgiving in Philadelphia.”
“Phooey on that. This is a mutiny, after all. I’m changing the setting.”
“Go jump in a lake, Doherty. You Irish Catholics should get off your lazes arses and get back to work.”
“Oh, stop spewing out all that workaholic bullshit dialogue he’s making you say. You don’t understand, he’s the reason we fight so much. We don’t really hate each other, do we?”
“I do as my author tells me to do, Doherty – and I’m supposed to be your mortal enemy. Get on board with the program, buddy.”
“You have your own mind, Balmoral. He made you an architect and he gave you a college education. He even gave you a hidden agenda.” Collin smirked at Norman. “I know about Cristina, you sly devil.”
“No one but the author is supposed to know about that. Does Agnes know? And how'd you ever find out?"
“ I’ve heard a rumor that Agnes finds out in Chapter 23. About me, well, a priest always knows who’s screwing whom.”
“Seems like he’s written you a bit too well. But there’s something I don’t get. What happened in the principal’s office with that Balfiglio boy?”
“Nothing. The author was just trying to stew up trouble because every chapter has to have some kind of conflict in it. But he couldn’t come out and say it because it’s the ‘30s, after all, and no one said that out loud. Especially my very own niece.”
“Well, did you do it?”
“Balmoral, I have no idea. You’ll just have to read between the lines.”
“I thought you just said the writer gave you your own mind.”
“Yes, but he didn’t give me my own body. I’d give myself anything to beat off in front of a mirror some time. That Cristina Rosamilia is one hot mama.”
“Doherty, you ain’t bad. Want to split a whiskey?”
“Sure, Balmoral, but let’s keep it from the author. It’s going to be a fun St. Patrick’s Day here in Chicago.”
“But it says here on page 153 that it’s Thanksgiving in Philadelphia.”
“Phooey on that. This is a mutiny, after all. I’m changing the setting.”
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Victoria Balmoral: It's raining
Victoria walked down the staircase to rest in the parlor. Thank heavens, she thought, Agnes and the children went to New York for the weekend. Ever since Norman was killed, Agnes had been pestering her to eat more, get out and about, walk, exercise, do something. But Agnes was only Norman’s wife. She was his mother. No one but a mother could ever know what it was like for your youngest child to die.
She walked to the window, a dreary December day. Why couldn’t it be ten degrees colder, then she’d be looking at a winter scene rather than this gray rain? Philadelphia had a strange beauty in the snow, but in the rain it was just an ordinary train town. Victoria tightened the robe about her. She’d sit here in the parlor with a cup of tea and put logs on the fire. That would make it manageable.
Agnes had forgotten to turn off the lights in the kitchen, too bright for Victoria. She turned them off. Why have any light at all? And then she looked in the refrigerator. All disorganized. So Victoria took everything out and reorganized, ended up throwing a lot away. And then she looked in the drawers and the cabinets – everything everywhere, no order to anything these days. So she took everything out of the cabinets, sorted dishes and glasses, spices and staples, and cleaned off the shelves. Put everything back in.
How long had it been? Two months since she’d been in this kitchen? After Norman died Victoria had stopped cooking for Agnes and the children. She loved her daughter-in-law, but this disorganization … she moaned out her exasperation.
She forgot about her tea, putting logs on the fire, sitting in the dark in the parlor. Victoria had to get back to work here.
She walked to the window, a dreary December day. Why couldn’t it be ten degrees colder, then she’d be looking at a winter scene rather than this gray rain? Philadelphia had a strange beauty in the snow, but in the rain it was just an ordinary train town. Victoria tightened the robe about her. She’d sit here in the parlor with a cup of tea and put logs on the fire. That would make it manageable.
Agnes had forgotten to turn off the lights in the kitchen, too bright for Victoria. She turned them off. Why have any light at all? And then she looked in the refrigerator. All disorganized. So Victoria took everything out and reorganized, ended up throwing a lot away. And then she looked in the drawers and the cabinets – everything everywhere, no order to anything these days. So she took everything out of the cabinets, sorted dishes and glasses, spices and staples, and cleaned off the shelves. Put everything back in.
How long had it been? Two months since she’d been in this kitchen? After Norman died Victoria had stopped cooking for Agnes and the children. She loved her daughter-in-law, but this disorganization … she moaned out her exasperation.
She forgot about her tea, putting logs on the fire, sitting in the dark in the parlor. Victoria had to get back to work here.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Siobhan Limerick: On the wall
Siobhan had no idea Washington, D.C. could be so muggy. Three months in the city at Patrick’s new apartment, every day had been worse. And now here they were on the last day of July, Siobhan’s sixtieth birthday. She made breakfast for her son, he left for work at his new job, and she cleaned the dishes in a dress already sticking to her sides.
She felt a sharp itch on her neck and slapped it. A fly few around the kitchen, so she picked up the fly swatter and swatted it dead on the kitchen wall. Good, Siobhan thought. Serves you right, coming into our home like this. Their home, the place they lived. These three small rooms on the third floor of a Massachusetts Avenue house just off Dupont Circle. Who would ever have thought she, Siobhan Limerick, wife of Philadelphia’s finest internist, mistress of the George Taylor estate at Sixth and Pine Streets, just two blocks from Independence Hall – she would be living with her son in a musty apartment that someone else owned?
She should be thankful they had a roof over their heads, Collin had told her. Too many people walked the streets with blank eyes, shaking hands, and empty stomachs. Yes, she did have that – and she had her faith. St. Patrick’s was only two blocks away and Siobhan went every day at noon to mass. She could accept losing her house, her home city, and most of the money – but as much as she tried to will herself to forget about Agnes, she wanted her daughter back.
She felt a sharp itch on her neck and slapped it. A fly few around the kitchen, so she picked up the fly swatter and swatted it dead on the kitchen wall. Good, Siobhan thought. Serves you right, coming into our home like this. Their home, the place they lived. These three small rooms on the third floor of a Massachusetts Avenue house just off Dupont Circle. Who would ever have thought she, Siobhan Limerick, wife of Philadelphia’s finest internist, mistress of the George Taylor estate at Sixth and Pine Streets, just two blocks from Independence Hall – she would be living with her son in a musty apartment that someone else owned?
She should be thankful they had a roof over their heads, Collin had told her. Too many people walked the streets with blank eyes, shaking hands, and empty stomachs. Yes, she did have that – and she had her faith. St. Patrick’s was only two blocks away and Siobhan went every day at noon to mass. She could accept losing her house, her home city, and most of the money – but as much as she tried to will herself to forget about Agnes, she wanted her daughter back.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Victoria Balmoral: The wedding
Her beloved Royal Doultons. Gone and crashed to the floor. How long had she been collecting those blue-green, white, yellow-red figurines of Victorian women in petticoats and parisoles? Did that go back to her mother, the Anna Tasker she’d never known? Had she collected them and Father gave them to her when she married Cornelius? Yes, that’s right – Father had packed them himself in her trunk when she left the house on Park Avenue and come to Philadelphia.
Agnes gasped. “I’m sorry, Victoria, I’m so sorry!”
A mask came over Victoria’s face. Ever since last Wednesday’s sudden wedding they were having a hard time adjusting to her new daughter-in-law. Cornelius wet himself one morning, unable to get to the bathroom in time because Agnes was bathing so long. Norman had a hard time, waiting for three or four hours every morning until she finally woke up at nine in the morning. And now Victoria had her turn: her precious Royal Doultons, gone and crashed to the floor.
“It’s quite all right, my dear. Don’t give it a second’s thought.”
A second’s thought. As if those figurines should occupy more than a second of time in anyone’s head. True, they had each other. She still had her husband and her two sons. Three grandsons from Neil already, and a grandchild on the way from Norman and Agnes. But what of their home? They no longer had that, just this cramped apartment for four adults (and a baby on the way) on top of their general store, their beautiful home across the street, empty – and wearing a “bank foreclosure sale” sign on the front.
Agnes gasped. “I’m sorry, Victoria, I’m so sorry!”
A mask came over Victoria’s face. Ever since last Wednesday’s sudden wedding they were having a hard time adjusting to her new daughter-in-law. Cornelius wet himself one morning, unable to get to the bathroom in time because Agnes was bathing so long. Norman had a hard time, waiting for three or four hours every morning until she finally woke up at nine in the morning. And now Victoria had her turn: her precious Royal Doultons, gone and crashed to the floor.
“It’s quite all right, my dear. Don’t give it a second’s thought.”
A second’s thought. As if those figurines should occupy more than a second of time in anyone’s head. True, they had each other. She still had her husband and her two sons. Three grandsons from Neil already, and a grandchild on the way from Norman and Agnes. But what of their home? They no longer had that, just this cramped apartment for four adults (and a baby on the way) on top of their general store, their beautiful home across the street, empty – and wearing a “bank foreclosure sale” sign on the front.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Norman Balmoral: I never looked back
He leaned down to kiss Grace on the cheek. “This one is for your birthday, princess. Give Daddy a big kiss. I won’t be here in September when you turn ten.”
“No, Daddy,” she sobbed into the folds of her mother’s skirt. “You don’t have to leave.”
The train whistled its two-minute warning. “Harold,” Norman said, “you must be a fine little boy, just like I had to be when my father went off to fight the Great War.”
“Norman, don’t deceive the boy,” Victoria warned, acid in her voice. “Your father fought in the Spanish-American War long before you were even born.”
“I know, Mother, but the boy doesn’t have to learn that now.”
It was now time to say goodbye to Agnes. She stood eighteen inches in front of him. “Take care of yourself, Agnes, and the children. And good luck.”
An impenetrable distance lay between them. He looked his wife in the eyes, but a glaze had come over Agnes. She spoke in the smooth legato she’d put into her voice since they made their decision. “Good luck to you, Norman.”
The whistle blew its one-minute warning. “I’m off, then.” He went up the steps and looked down the tracks – at the end, just as he’d expected, Cristina stood alone in a corner. He nodded his head and boarded.
The train left 30th Street Station on its way to Washington. Norman sat with his back against the seat and looked ahead. In an hour they’d reach Wilmington, three hours Baltimore, four Washington, and six all the way to Camp Pendleton. England lay beyond that.
“No, Daddy,” she sobbed into the folds of her mother’s skirt. “You don’t have to leave.”
The train whistled its two-minute warning. “Harold,” Norman said, “you must be a fine little boy, just like I had to be when my father went off to fight the Great War.”
“Norman, don’t deceive the boy,” Victoria warned, acid in her voice. “Your father fought in the Spanish-American War long before you were even born.”
“I know, Mother, but the boy doesn’t have to learn that now.”
It was now time to say goodbye to Agnes. She stood eighteen inches in front of him. “Take care of yourself, Agnes, and the children. And good luck.”
An impenetrable distance lay between them. He looked his wife in the eyes, but a glaze had come over Agnes. She spoke in the smooth legato she’d put into her voice since they made their decision. “Good luck to you, Norman.”
The whistle blew its one-minute warning. “I’m off, then.” He went up the steps and looked down the tracks – at the end, just as he’d expected, Cristina stood alone in a corner. He nodded his head and boarded.
The train left 30th Street Station on its way to Washington. Norman sat with his back against the seat and looked ahead. In an hour they’d reach Wilmington, three hours Baltimore, four Washington, and six all the way to Camp Pendleton. England lay beyond that.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: Out of the blue
Behind the counter, Cristina chopped salami for Mrs. Monteverdi. Why’d she promise Pop she’d fill in for Dorothy when she went on her Atlantic City honeymoon? The marriage wouldn’t last, Cristina knew – she’d married a yutz named Stanley Zbornak who didn’t know his left foot from the right. But Cristina had sexy, sweaty Angelo who knew how to get the eyes rolling in the back of her head.
Donnie and Ronnie were playing a game of Cowboys and Indians at Ma’s this afternoon. Those boys got away with murder when Ma babysat them – if only Ma could discipline them like Angelo’s mother. A few whacks here and there, and they knew what was good for them. Ma was too busy with making marinara and –
“Good morning, Cristina.”
She couldn’t believe her eyes. Norman Balmoral. They hadn’t seen each other since just before he and Agnes went on their honeymoon back in the summer of ’32. What was that, six, seven years? He looked like he was thriving, a crisp haircut and even stubble on his chin. How she remembered the feel of his stubble on her thighs …
Cristina frowned. "Norman Balmoral, I’m not so sure it’s a good morning for either of us. You be gone before I call Pop to throw you out.”
He only laughed. Sometimes he was impossible. No, he was always impossible.
Donnie and Ronnie were playing a game of Cowboys and Indians at Ma’s this afternoon. Those boys got away with murder when Ma babysat them – if only Ma could discipline them like Angelo’s mother. A few whacks here and there, and they knew what was good for them. Ma was too busy with making marinara and –
“Good morning, Cristina.”
She couldn’t believe her eyes. Norman Balmoral. They hadn’t seen each other since just before he and Agnes went on their honeymoon back in the summer of ’32. What was that, six, seven years? He looked like he was thriving, a crisp haircut and even stubble on his chin. How she remembered the feel of his stubble on her thighs …
Cristina frowned. "Norman Balmoral, I’m not so sure it’s a good morning for either of us. You be gone before I call Pop to throw you out.”
He only laughed. Sometimes he was impossible. No, he was always impossible.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Gracie Honeywalker: Shadow on the stairs
Gracie helped Old Man Lacey up the stairs after they dinner. He’d been getting fat, years recent, ain’t been under two fifty since ’36. But now he’d given up his own place, he never did yard work nor did he help her round here. Just sat in them rocker chairs staring out the sun evenings or so.
“Come on, Old Man, we gone to bed now.”
“Gracie, you’re the old one, not me. You’re close to ninety.”
“What you mean, close, I am ninety, fool.”
They continued this way, bickering like two married folk. Gracie’d been a widow since Honeywalker died back in ’85 and Lacey, his wife died twenty years gone. Couldn’t get married, did they want to. White man couldn’t marry an old negro woman, even in upstate New York. They done waited until Lacey’s daughter died before he moved in. Didn’t matter none. No one ever came out this far.
Gracie woke up next morning and did her chores around the barn, fed the chickens and the goats. Would be harvest time, soon enough, and the grandsons, they’d be coming over in the truck. Gracie went back to the house at eight to wake up Lacey.
“Lacey, you fool, come on down for your coffee.”
No answer, so she started up the stairs. Lacey always came down long before eight.
“Come on, Old Man, we gone to bed now.”
“Gracie, you’re the old one, not me. You’re close to ninety.”
“What you mean, close, I am ninety, fool.”
They continued this way, bickering like two married folk. Gracie’d been a widow since Honeywalker died back in ’85 and Lacey, his wife died twenty years gone. Couldn’t get married, did they want to. White man couldn’t marry an old negro woman, even in upstate New York. They done waited until Lacey’s daughter died before he moved in. Didn’t matter none. No one ever came out this far.
Gracie woke up next morning and did her chores around the barn, fed the chickens and the goats. Would be harvest time, soon enough, and the grandsons, they’d be coming over in the truck. Gracie went back to the house at eight to wake up Lacey.
“Lacey, you fool, come on down for your coffee.”
No answer, so she started up the stairs. Lacey always came down long before eight.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Brian Larney: A roar
Brian sat on the stool in the New York pub. He'd taken the train for a performance with his summer jazz band. They gave a great performance at the Carlyle and he had his weekend in the city. True, he loved Philadelphia better than anywhere. He'd been born there and his mother was buried in Longwood Cemetery. But New York was always a chance to get away and look at men from Greenwich Village – and those Italian immigrants. Trouble, most men his age didn't do that. Most men in their 50s had wives who cooked pot roast and grown children who breeded grandbabies. But he came to New York prowling for man. He'd go to confession tomorrow, ask for forgiveness and say his Hail Marys, and head back to Philadelphia in time for Fibber Magee and Molly. Tonight, he had to have a man.
He walked into his ritual Christopher Street bar. They asked him for the password and he gave it. He walked down the stairs to the basement and sat at the bar. A man sat next to him, nursing a gin and tonic, bald like a bowling ball, about Brian's age with a spare tire around his waist. Brian ordered whiskey and soda.
"Where you from? I'm from Chicago, but last year I lived 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 droned on, but Brian stopped listening. He eyeballed the gin and tonic, smiled, looked across the corner at another man talking to a friend. The bald man wouldn’t shut up. Some nonsense about the Oldsmobile Motor Company in Detroit. Brian looked at the man on the other side again. Perhaps ten years younger, powerful barrel chest, beard, dark blond hair, chiseled jawline. Brian couldn't take his eyes off him. The bald man shifted topics to talk about the Roosevelts in Washington --- love 'em, he said -- then about the chances for war with Germany -- not a chance, he said. Brian murmured an empty reply but averted his eyes to the bearded man across the way.
The bearded man looked his way, excused himself from his friend, and walked to the exit. The man's backward glance at the exit gave Brian all the invitation he needed. Brian came upstairs and onto the street, looking for him -- nowhere to be found -- but then heard a voice behind him. "Hello," the voice said, "I'd like to visit your hotel."
"Yes," Brian stammered. The man was even better-looking than Brian had thought.
"Good. 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.
He walked into his ritual Christopher Street bar. They asked him for the password and he gave it. He walked down the stairs to the basement and sat at the bar. A man sat next to him, nursing a gin and tonic, bald like a bowling ball, about Brian's age with a spare tire around his waist. Brian ordered whiskey and soda.
"Where you from? I'm from Chicago, but last year I lived 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 droned on, but Brian stopped listening. He eyeballed the gin and tonic, smiled, looked across the corner at another man talking to a friend. The bald man wouldn’t shut up. Some nonsense about the Oldsmobile Motor Company in Detroit. Brian looked at the man on the other side again. Perhaps ten years younger, powerful barrel chest, beard, dark blond hair, chiseled jawline. Brian couldn't take his eyes off him. The bald man shifted topics to talk about the Roosevelts in Washington --- love 'em, he said -- then about the chances for war with Germany -- not a chance, he said. Brian murmured an empty reply but averted his eyes to the bearded man across the way.
The bearded man looked his way, excused himself from his friend, and walked to the exit. The man's backward glance at the exit gave Brian all the invitation he needed. Brian came upstairs and onto the street, looking for him -- nowhere to be found -- but then heard a voice behind him. "Hello," the voice said, "I'd like to visit your hotel."
"Yes," Brian stammered. The man was even better-looking than Brian had thought.
"Good. 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.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Collin Doherty: Enough is enough
Collin stopped sweeping the floor before the altar. He looked out to the pews, empty just like the last Doherty family reunion. Siobhan and Patrick, gone to Washington, had visited him only twice – when Julia died back in ’38 and when the Balmoral man died ten months ago. Now that Agnes’s husband was dead, Siobhan held hope she could visit her daughter without refighting the Battle of the Boyne.
Collin needed to rest before mass began in forty-five minutes. He sat in the back pew and looked at his church, his since ’06. Nearly forty years he’d had this parish and now, it sat silent as a sepulcher. He knew so few of the parishioners any longer. So many had left Philadelphia during the Depression, so few jobs in Pennsylvania and so many in Ohio, Michigan, as far away as California. And the war – he’d lost more than a dozen young boys. Only one of them came back for a funeral, Anthony Balfiglio, the troubled boy who’d planted those seeds in Agnes’s head. Maybe he had intimidated Anthony, who knew what teenaged boys thought?
His heart warmed at the thought of young Agnes, so bright and hopeful when she disobeyed his orders to write with her right hand. He thought of the change in her, the young wartime widow who sat in his front pew only thirty minutes ago and poured her heart out to him. He’d scolded her again, said she’d been a sinner and needed to repent.
He’d had enough of the dead quiet. He wanted his niece again. He called for Father Callahan.
“Thomas,” he said when he met his associate in the sacristy. “I need you to officiate at mass. I must attend to personal business.”
Collin needed to rest before mass began in forty-five minutes. He sat in the back pew and looked at his church, his since ’06. Nearly forty years he’d had this parish and now, it sat silent as a sepulcher. He knew so few of the parishioners any longer. So many had left Philadelphia during the Depression, so few jobs in Pennsylvania and so many in Ohio, Michigan, as far away as California. And the war – he’d lost more than a dozen young boys. Only one of them came back for a funeral, Anthony Balfiglio, the troubled boy who’d planted those seeds in Agnes’s head. Maybe he had intimidated Anthony, who knew what teenaged boys thought?
His heart warmed at the thought of young Agnes, so bright and hopeful when she disobeyed his orders to write with her right hand. He thought of the change in her, the young wartime widow who sat in his front pew only thirty minutes ago and poured her heart out to him. He’d scolded her again, said she’d been a sinner and needed to repent.
He’d had enough of the dead quiet. He wanted his niece again. He called for Father Callahan.
“Thomas,” he said when he met his associate in the sacristy. “I need you to officiate at mass. I must attend to personal business.”
Monday, November 14, 2011
Agnes Limerick: Jumping
Agnes pranced a little minuet down her Spruce Street home’s front steps that first Monday in October 1943. She reveled in the warm glow of Philadelphia’s Indian summer, the satisfaction of Victoria’s breakfast of tea and warm blueberry scones, and the joy of Grace and Harold’s departure for another week of school at Friends. Her light step echoed the weekly routine of delight that a job of her own awaited her, a job she’d held since Norman had gone off to England.
What fun to be going to work, and what a glorious morning to be doing it. She hummed Eine Kleine Nachtmusik to herself as she looked at the crystal blue sky and closed her eyes to breathe in the morning’s oaky scents.
Agnes greeted everyone she passed on the street, every businessman attired in a dark suit with a red, white, and blue tie, every doctor on his way to the hospital, every banker heading for a day of savings and loans, and every lawyer going for a day of courtly bickering. The men bowed and tipped their hats as she passed by. She smiled at every woman. If they were not on their way to work themselves, they were taking crabby children to school or they were walking their dogs around the city squares. Agnes herself walked Keaton around Rittenhouse Square every morning while Victoria prepared their breakfast.
She thought about her new project for Dr. Dixon at the War Department. Bored with her job as secretary to a pencil-thin bean counter who never addressed her by name, Agnes jumped at the chance to take the doctor’s examination. She scored third highest and Dr. Dixon plucked her from the secretarial pool. “Her mind works like a mousetrap,” he noted to Dr. Goldberg, his assistant, on her first day, “I can imagine no better mathematician than this red-headed balabusta.”
She had no idea what a balabusta meant, but the smile on his face reassured her. “Dr. Dixon, anything I know about mathematics comes from Sister Mary James. She drilled differentials and integrals into our heads during my last year at St. Patrick’s.”
The doctor told Agnes that a bespectacled Jewish relic like himself wouldn’t know anything about Catholic drills. “As long as you can solve the problems I give you, I don’t care if your education came from nuns, Buddhist monks, or a sacred Hindu cow.”
What fun to be going to work, and what a glorious morning to be doing it. She hummed Eine Kleine Nachtmusik to herself as she looked at the crystal blue sky and closed her eyes to breathe in the morning’s oaky scents.
Agnes greeted everyone she passed on the street, every businessman attired in a dark suit with a red, white, and blue tie, every doctor on his way to the hospital, every banker heading for a day of savings and loans, and every lawyer going for a day of courtly bickering. The men bowed and tipped their hats as she passed by. She smiled at every woman. If they were not on their way to work themselves, they were taking crabby children to school or they were walking their dogs around the city squares. Agnes herself walked Keaton around Rittenhouse Square every morning while Victoria prepared their breakfast.
She thought about her new project for Dr. Dixon at the War Department. Bored with her job as secretary to a pencil-thin bean counter who never addressed her by name, Agnes jumped at the chance to take the doctor’s examination. She scored third highest and Dr. Dixon plucked her from the secretarial pool. “Her mind works like a mousetrap,” he noted to Dr. Goldberg, his assistant, on her first day, “I can imagine no better mathematician than this red-headed balabusta.”
She had no idea what a balabusta meant, but the smile on his face reassured her. “Dr. Dixon, anything I know about mathematics comes from Sister Mary James. She drilled differentials and integrals into our heads during my last year at St. Patrick’s.”
The doctor told Agnes that a bespectacled Jewish relic like himself wouldn’t know anything about Catholic drills. “As long as you can solve the problems I give you, I don’t care if your education came from nuns, Buddhist monks, or a sacred Hindu cow.”
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Siobhan Limerick: Strangers
She watched Agnes come into the church behind the coffin, a stranger, this daughter she hadn’t seen in eight years. She walked with a steady, erect posture now, not the rambling girl at 6th and Pine. Halfway up the aisle she removed her hat and veil, handing it to someone in a pew, not the girl who shied away from having a sweet sixteen birthday party. Agnes stood out in the crowd of hundreds, the only person wearing white.
And she held the hands of two children, the eleven-year old Grace, Siobhan knew – but the little boy, she’d heard, the little boy Harold born in ’37, a six year old. She’d never met him. The coffin and the procession came closer to their pew in the front – Siobhan recognized Agnes’s mother-in-law, Victoria. Mr. Larney and Cristina were there, plus a group of people Siobhan assumed were Norman’s family. Strangers, every one of them.
“Good morning, Mama,” said Agnes, an alto depth in her voice Siobhan had never heard. Before today.
And she held the hands of two children, the eleven-year old Grace, Siobhan knew – but the little boy, she’d heard, the little boy Harold born in ’37, a six year old. She’d never met him. The coffin and the procession came closer to their pew in the front – Siobhan recognized Agnes’s mother-in-law, Victoria. Mr. Larney and Cristina were there, plus a group of people Siobhan assumed were Norman’s family. Strangers, every one of them.
“Good morning, Mama,” said Agnes, an alto depth in her voice Siobhan had never heard. Before today.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Victoria Balmoral: It's so simple
A knock on the door in the rhythm of the Westminster Chimes made Victoria jump in a flash of electricity through her body. It must be Mrs. Collingwood, she reasoned, only that busybody across the street would disturb her peace and quiet on a serene Monday when Agnes was working in the War Department and the children were at the Friends’ School. Victoria had looked forward to a day to herself, perhaps an afternoon walk in Rittenhouse Square. October’s leaves were just starting to turn gold.
Especially now. Walking toward the front door, she wanted to be alone, to adjust herself to the letter she’d read. Norman and Agnes planned to separate when he returned from the war in England. She couldn’t believe it – her younger son, a failure in his marriage, an adulterer who’d broken Agnes’s heart. They didn’t know she knew, but a mother always knows when her son misbehaves.
Marriage, so simple, really, just two people becoming one, merging for the greater purpose of love and God. Norman had never become one in his marriage – Agnes had tried, but Norman had never quite made it. And what would she, Victoria Balmoral, do? When Norman returned, she could hardly continue living with his ex-wife. She’d have to move. Yet again, the third time since she’d been widowed.
Victoria opened the door. Father Vernon, holding a piece of yellow paper, his face a wrinkled countryside of sadness. Her mouth went to jelly, her shoulders went slack, and she felt the lining of her stomach seize up. She spoke first in a soprano vibrato.
“Norman is dead.”
Her priest sighed. “I’m so very sorry for your trouble, dear Victoria. The telegram came this morning.”
“Tell me everything.”
He gave her the details, Norman decapitated by one of London’s blitzkriegs – she processed the knowledge, her baby dead, her insides began to convulse but she contained it all, shaking and stopping the shakes, shaking and stopping the shakes. Agnes will have to know, but how?
“Norman left explicit instructions, if anything were to happen, St. Mark’s would be notified first. So that we would tell you, not a yellow telegram.”
Victoria squared her shoulders. “You must go to the War Department now and tell Agnes she’s now a widow. I’ll have Grace and Harold returned from school at once.”
Especially now. Walking toward the front door, she wanted to be alone, to adjust herself to the letter she’d read. Norman and Agnes planned to separate when he returned from the war in England. She couldn’t believe it – her younger son, a failure in his marriage, an adulterer who’d broken Agnes’s heart. They didn’t know she knew, but a mother always knows when her son misbehaves.
Marriage, so simple, really, just two people becoming one, merging for the greater purpose of love and God. Norman had never become one in his marriage – Agnes had tried, but Norman had never quite made it. And what would she, Victoria Balmoral, do? When Norman returned, she could hardly continue living with his ex-wife. She’d have to move. Yet again, the third time since she’d been widowed.
Victoria opened the door. Father Vernon, holding a piece of yellow paper, his face a wrinkled countryside of sadness. Her mouth went to jelly, her shoulders went slack, and she felt the lining of her stomach seize up. She spoke first in a soprano vibrato.
“Norman is dead.”
Her priest sighed. “I’m so very sorry for your trouble, dear Victoria. The telegram came this morning.”
“Tell me everything.”
He gave her the details, Norman decapitated by one of London’s blitzkriegs – she processed the knowledge, her baby dead, her insides began to convulse but she contained it all, shaking and stopping the shakes, shaking and stopping the shakes. Agnes will have to know, but how?
“Norman left explicit instructions, if anything were to happen, St. Mark’s would be notified first. So that we would tell you, not a yellow telegram.”
Victoria squared her shoulders. “You must go to the War Department now and tell Agnes she’s now a widow. I’ll have Grace and Harold returned from school at once.”
Friday, November 11, 2011
Gracie Honeywalker: Honey
Gracie swept the floor of the barn and the chickens clucked an angry protest. “You be gone, there, back to your seed.” She never liked the chickens, but had to have them on the farm? The goats actually served a purpose she liked. They kept the grass cut out front, otherwise she’d have to pay Old Man Lacey to come cut the lawn. How could she afford that? Goats ate their weight in gold.
Ever since Lucy’d gone off to Jamestown to work for the Balls, she’d fallen behind on her morning chores. Even when the grandsons done come in spring to plant the fields and in fall to harvest the crops, the barn kept getting cluttered, the picket fence kept falling down, the buggy wheel kept falling off. Then there was the tree that fell down in the front yard last year – no money to have it taken away – and the broken leg on the dining room table – no money for a new table.
Gracie gave up on the barn. It was late afternoon, anyways. Time for the rocking chair on the porch, a glass of iced tea, and Honey. No matter what, she had her yellow Labrador. Would be nice, watching the sunset after this day, but looked like a storm was coming – and what was that noise out front? Sounded like a dying cow.
Nope, she peeked out the barn, a car with a man and a woman in it – back tires spinning around to no end. What were they doing way out here, two miles from the main road, visiting an old negro woman on a farm?
Ever since Lucy’d gone off to Jamestown to work for the Balls, she’d fallen behind on her morning chores. Even when the grandsons done come in spring to plant the fields and in fall to harvest the crops, the barn kept getting cluttered, the picket fence kept falling down, the buggy wheel kept falling off. Then there was the tree that fell down in the front yard last year – no money to have it taken away – and the broken leg on the dining room table – no money for a new table.
Gracie gave up on the barn. It was late afternoon, anyways. Time for the rocking chair on the porch, a glass of iced tea, and Honey. No matter what, she had her yellow Labrador. Would be nice, watching the sunset after this day, but looked like a storm was coming – and what was that noise out front? Sounded like a dying cow.
Nope, she peeked out the barn, a car with a man and a woman in it – back tires spinning around to no end. What were they doing way out here, two miles from the main road, visiting an old negro woman on a farm?
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: Painting of the rose
She stopped dead in her tracks, feeling the rough marble stones under her soft shoes.
“Norman, honey,” Cristina said. “Look at this painting.”
Norman continued to stride forward. “This way, Cristina, to the Piazza della Republica. Lunch will be served at the hotel. We don’t want to be late.”
Let him have his promenade, she’d admire the painting in the Duomo – so delicate, a faded red rose and its translucent green leaves, like an angelic cherub about to claim its wings and fly to Heaven. But Cristina looked closer, the pinkish red petals about to fall off, the dark brown leaves surrounding the petals signaling the flower’s demise. Not an angelic cherub at all – rather, a wispy soprano long past her prime.
She turned to look at the marble fresco of the Madonna and child, and thought about the baby she wanted to have, a little girl, when Norman finished at the Politecnico di Torino and he returned to her in Philadelphia – a whirlwind, these four weeks in la bella Firenze. She’d go back in two days. Four months, he told her, and he’d be returning to their home town.
She turned back to the rose. Like The Picture of Dorian Gray, she could swear a petal had fallen, but perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her.
“Norman, honey,” Cristina said. “Look at this painting.”
Norman continued to stride forward. “This way, Cristina, to the Piazza della Republica. Lunch will be served at the hotel. We don’t want to be late.”
Let him have his promenade, she’d admire the painting in the Duomo – so delicate, a faded red rose and its translucent green leaves, like an angelic cherub about to claim its wings and fly to Heaven. But Cristina looked closer, the pinkish red petals about to fall off, the dark brown leaves surrounding the petals signaling the flower’s demise. Not an angelic cherub at all – rather, a wispy soprano long past her prime.
She turned to look at the marble fresco of the Madonna and child, and thought about the baby she wanted to have, a little girl, when Norman finished at the Politecnico di Torino and he returned to her in Philadelphia – a whirlwind, these four weeks in la bella Firenze. She’d go back in two days. Four months, he told her, and he’d be returning to their home town.
She turned back to the rose. Like The Picture of Dorian Gray, she could swear a petal had fallen, but perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Norman Balmoral: The Competition
“How dare you compare your stupid piano recital to my profession. I went to school five years, plus a year in Italy, to earn my degree. I’m a licensed professional, Agnes, not a housewife dabbling in a hobby with a googley-eyed effete.”
“Not a recital, Norman, a competition. It’s a competition.”
How typical of Agnes, he thought, correcting him on the details when he was making a point. He provided for this family – his wife, Grace, Harold, the house she’d insisted they bought the very minute he acquired a position – despite his urging, they move slowly on a house, a private school for Grace. To be sure, they used Agnes’s inheritance to buy and furnish the house, but he bore all the burden of paying its expenses.
“What does it matter? I’ve requested that you withdraw from the silly event, and you haven’t done it. A man has a right to loyalty from his wife.”
“That’s right, Norman, I’m your wife. Not an indentured servant.”
Loyalty. It’s behavior like this that drove him back to Cristina for a month’s fling. She’d better be more respectful of his position as head of the household, he thought. Otherwise, he’d just have to find another woman to spend his time with. Not Cristina this time – too dangerous, too close to Agnes’s smothering eyes.
“Not a recital, Norman, a competition. It’s a competition.”
How typical of Agnes, he thought, correcting him on the details when he was making a point. He provided for this family – his wife, Grace, Harold, the house she’d insisted they bought the very minute he acquired a position – despite his urging, they move slowly on a house, a private school for Grace. To be sure, they used Agnes’s inheritance to buy and furnish the house, but he bore all the burden of paying its expenses.
“What does it matter? I’ve requested that you withdraw from the silly event, and you haven’t done it. A man has a right to loyalty from his wife.”
“That’s right, Norman, I’m your wife. Not an indentured servant.”
Loyalty. It’s behavior like this that drove him back to Cristina for a month’s fling. She’d better be more respectful of his position as head of the household, he thought. Otherwise, he’d just have to find another woman to spend his time with. Not Cristina this time – too dangerous, too close to Agnes’s smothering eyes.
Annie Kate Limerick: The salt shaker
Annie Kate went into the kitchen on Tuesday morning and put her hands on her hips like an Irish teacup. She felt the weight of the day’s job on her shoulders and it made her feel tired already. Packing after thirty years, leaving the home she and Andrew had bought back in ’79. After he made his first $1,000 on the City Hall contract, all that marble and stone that bought them George Taylor’s house at 6th and Pine.
What would she take with her? What did she have to leave for Siobhan? She opened the cabinets, she opened the drawers. She had to leave the Limoges, she knew that. The Sterling silver with the sloping L insignia, that too. It was a tradition the English had forced on the Irish – all the fine china and silver passed from father to oldest son. And now Annie Kate found herself, six months after Andrew died, packing up to leave. And to surrender the house to Martin and his wife. That religious fanatic, Siobhan Doherty.
All right, Annie Kate said aloud as she began dividing up her kitchen into Mine and Siobhan piles. Siobhan might be her daughter-in-law and she might’ve given her a happy pink grandson, but she’d lost four babies before then. Four disappointments, and who knew whether she’d carry her current baby to full term? Another three months to go. Hopefully this would be a girl – a healthy baby girl to make the new decade happier than the last.
The Limoges would stay, the Sterling would stay, but what of the periphery? She’d keep the everyday china. That would go with her to Chestnut Hill. She saw the Sterling salt and pepper shakers – they had to stay, she knew it. Or perhaps Siobhan hadn’t even noticed them. Those were gifts from Andrew, back in ’77 before they moved into this house. The first Sterling he bought for her, before he could afford a complete set of monogrammed silver.
She remembered his square-jawed face, the day he gave them to her. Six children running around their two rooms on the third floor of Mrs. O’Toole’s house. How she treasured that square jaw … now gone, six months. Who knew it’d go that fast? She packed the salt and pepper shakers in her box. Siobhan wouldn’t miss them anymore than she missed her father-in-law.
What would she take with her? What did she have to leave for Siobhan? She opened the cabinets, she opened the drawers. She had to leave the Limoges, she knew that. The Sterling silver with the sloping L insignia, that too. It was a tradition the English had forced on the Irish – all the fine china and silver passed from father to oldest son. And now Annie Kate found herself, six months after Andrew died, packing up to leave. And to surrender the house to Martin and his wife. That religious fanatic, Siobhan Doherty.
All right, Annie Kate said aloud as she began dividing up her kitchen into Mine and Siobhan piles. Siobhan might be her daughter-in-law and she might’ve given her a happy pink grandson, but she’d lost four babies before then. Four disappointments, and who knew whether she’d carry her current baby to full term? Another three months to go. Hopefully this would be a girl – a healthy baby girl to make the new decade happier than the last.
The Limoges would stay, the Sterling would stay, but what of the periphery? She’d keep the everyday china. That would go with her to Chestnut Hill. She saw the Sterling salt and pepper shakers – they had to stay, she knew it. Or perhaps Siobhan hadn’t even noticed them. Those were gifts from Andrew, back in ’77 before they moved into this house. The first Sterling he bought for her, before he could afford a complete set of monogrammed silver.
She remembered his square-jawed face, the day he gave them to her. Six children running around their two rooms on the third floor of Mrs. O’Toole’s house. How she treasured that square jaw … now gone, six months. Who knew it’d go that fast? She packed the salt and pepper shakers in her box. Siobhan wouldn’t miss them anymore than she missed her father-in-law.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Gracie Honeywalker: My clothes
“Lord a mighty, Miz Agnes, I ain’t seen this dress since my Lucy was a baby. That was going on fifty years, now, I reckon.”
“Gracie, It’s very kind of you to let us use it for Grace.”
“Ain’t no matter. It’s just sitting in the box with all the kids’ things. They done all moved out and on to their own lives. My Lucy – she never got married, so she had no use for these things. And you done named your baby for me, Miz Agnes. Never done had a mother name her baby after me.”
“You did a good job, Gracie. You saved my life.”
“Did nothing of the kind. I’m not gone to take credit. You done it all yourself. Now let’s take this dress and put it on the baby. Go on, do it yourself.”
Little Grace howled a screechy protest at being imprisoned in the pink cotton – her first dress in the two weeks since she opened her eyes.
“Gracie, I’m just getting her all upset.”
“Here, Miz Agnes, you let me help.” Gracie had the baby in the dress in nothing flat – and a few velvety words, the baby’s crying quieted to a murmur.
“How’d you do it, Gracie? She just howls in my lap.”
“That’s why I’m the midwife, Miz Agnes, and you’re the math whiz.”
“Gracie, It’s very kind of you to let us use it for Grace.”
“Ain’t no matter. It’s just sitting in the box with all the kids’ things. They done all moved out and on to their own lives. My Lucy – she never got married, so she had no use for these things. And you done named your baby for me, Miz Agnes. Never done had a mother name her baby after me.”
“You did a good job, Gracie. You saved my life.”
“Did nothing of the kind. I’m not gone to take credit. You done it all yourself. Now let’s take this dress and put it on the baby. Go on, do it yourself.”
Little Grace howled a screechy protest at being imprisoned in the pink cotton – her first dress in the two weeks since she opened her eyes.
“Gracie, I’m just getting her all upset.”
“Here, Miz Agnes, you let me help.” Gracie had the baby in the dress in nothing flat – and a few velvety words, the baby’s crying quieted to a murmur.
“How’d you do it, Gracie? She just howls in my lap.”
“That’s why I’m the midwife, Miz Agnes, and you’re the math whiz.”
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: An apology
“Please listen, Agnes, please listen!” Cristina began to cry, holding onto the rickety banister. “Ain’t like that at all!”
“How can you stand there and deny me? We’ve known each other thirteen years.”
“Don’t know what’s happening, Agnes, what’s gotten in to you.”
“Just the truth! I admit I blocked it from my head, but I should’ve figured out you and Norman had an affair, the way the two of you barely spoke. I should’ve recognized the sparks.”
Cristina wondered how she’d found out. “Agnes, you’re wrong! You’re so wrong.”
She looked at her best friend, best at least until now, and figured it out – Florence, 1929. Agnes had found the pictures from her trip with Norman. But that happened two years before Agnes walked into the picture. Surely Agnes didn’t know that she and Norman had resumed their affair back in ’40?
“Quit lying, Cristina! There’s no other way. You’re the woman he was with at that restaurant in ‘40. The only way you would’ve known about his broken gold watch is if you’d been there. Admit it, Cristina, admit the truth!”
The bottom fell out of Cristina’s world. Agnes knew it all. “All right, all right, you have it! It’s all true, so what’s it to you? You had your husband, you had your children, and you had your big house just off Rittenhouse Square. Now get out of my house.”
“You could’ve told me the truth at the beginning, but you didn’t. I would’ve understood before I’d married Norman. But marriage, Cristina, marriage is a sacrament, an oath to God.”
How would she handle Agnes? Cristina had always been able to steer her insane imagination away from the truth in the past, but not this time. Hopefully, Agnes wouldn’t tell her husband. That would be terrible, if Angelo found out.
“How can you stand there and deny me? We’ve known each other thirteen years.”
“Don’t know what’s happening, Agnes, what’s gotten in to you.”
“Just the truth! I admit I blocked it from my head, but I should’ve figured out you and Norman had an affair, the way the two of you barely spoke. I should’ve recognized the sparks.”
Cristina wondered how she’d found out. “Agnes, you’re wrong! You’re so wrong.”
She looked at her best friend, best at least until now, and figured it out – Florence, 1929. Agnes had found the pictures from her trip with Norman. But that happened two years before Agnes walked into the picture. Surely Agnes didn’t know that she and Norman had resumed their affair back in ’40?
“Quit lying, Cristina! There’s no other way. You’re the woman he was with at that restaurant in ‘40. The only way you would’ve known about his broken gold watch is if you’d been there. Admit it, Cristina, admit the truth!”
The bottom fell out of Cristina’s world. Agnes knew it all. “All right, all right, you have it! It’s all true, so what’s it to you? You had your husband, you had your children, and you had your big house just off Rittenhouse Square. Now get out of my house.”
“You could’ve told me the truth at the beginning, but you didn’t. I would’ve understood before I’d married Norman. But marriage, Cristina, marriage is a sacrament, an oath to God.”
How would she handle Agnes? Cristina had always been able to steer her insane imagination away from the truth in the past, but not this time. Hopefully, Agnes wouldn’t tell her husband. That would be terrible, if Angelo found out.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Collin Doherty: Their voices
The room began to sway and his voice became a tinny, far-off whisper. Siobhan sat at next to Agnes, listening to the rant about Anthony Balfiglio. Collin wasn’t sure, but he heard in Agnes’s Eleanor Roosevelt vibrato an accusation he’d never thought anyone would make – but the damned boy had confided in his niece after all. He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, circled the table, and looked at each of them around the table.
Norman Balmoral, the heretic Protestant who’d nailed Agnes and got her pregnant. Then made her leave the Church to marry him. He sat at the head of the table, his velvet hypocrisy smirking its way toward Collin. Patrick, the nephew who’d always looked up to him, every statement he was making sounding like a question. He sat across from Agnes, looking at her, looking up at Collin, the tone of voice clearly in his eyes, What is she really saying, Uncle Collin. He’d be ruined if he knew the truth.
Next to Patrick, his own Siobhan. She couldn’t fathom the concept of what had transpired between him and the Balfiglio hellion. His sister wouldn’t understand the needs of men – she’d been a widow eighteen years, after all, and had never had a man other than Martin Limerick – and the importance of punishment for bad little Catholic boys. He looked at Siobhan, and then at Agnes – a younger version of her mother. He looked from one to the other, and he chose. He chose his sister over his niece.
“Siobhan, we’re leaving now. Patrick, you too. Not another word to this woman. From this moment she is dead to us.”
They rose to leave and Siobhan cried as they left the room. “My daughter is lost to me, Collin. Lost.” The moan from the base of Siobhan’s voice pierced his heart.
Norman Balmoral, the heretic Protestant who’d nailed Agnes and got her pregnant. Then made her leave the Church to marry him. He sat at the head of the table, his velvet hypocrisy smirking its way toward Collin. Patrick, the nephew who’d always looked up to him, every statement he was making sounding like a question. He sat across from Agnes, looking at her, looking up at Collin, the tone of voice clearly in his eyes, What is she really saying, Uncle Collin. He’d be ruined if he knew the truth.
Next to Patrick, his own Siobhan. She couldn’t fathom the concept of what had transpired between him and the Balfiglio hellion. His sister wouldn’t understand the needs of men – she’d been a widow eighteen years, after all, and had never had a man other than Martin Limerick – and the importance of punishment for bad little Catholic boys. He looked at Siobhan, and then at Agnes – a younger version of her mother. He looked from one to the other, and he chose. He chose his sister over his niece.
“Siobhan, we’re leaving now. Patrick, you too. Not another word to this woman. From this moment she is dead to us.”
They rose to leave and Siobhan cried as they left the room. “My daughter is lost to me, Collin. Lost.” The moan from the base of Siobhan’s voice pierced his heart.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Brian Larney: The instructions
He sat at the café table just across from the Carlyle, drinking a cup of coffee and having his morning’s bagel. He breathed the early April air that Saturday and watched the pedestrians walk down 76th Street toward Central Park. Waists were lower this year, he noticed on the Gibson girls walking by – and men’s collars were higher. Ever since Teddy Roosevelt had become president, fashion had zoomed forward. But it hardly mattered to a nineteen-year old pianist just finishing up his Carnegie Hall recital.
Last week Mrs. Houlihan sent him up to New York with a long list of instructions and he’d done exactly as she wanted. Stay with my friend, Julia Doherty. Arrive with a bouquet of roses. Take her to dinner at the Carlyle one night. Practice your program at Carnegie Hall an hour each day before the performance. Do not practice your program on the morning of the big day, just do scales and arpeggios. Breathe while you play, roll your shoulders before the performance, don’t think about the audience. The list went on.
This afternoon he’d take the train back to Philadelphia and give Mrs. Houlihan a full report about his recital. He’d show her the review in the Times. He smiled at the review – all good, all full of promise, they’d said about his playing. So he enjoyed the crisp Spring day, nothing to do except wait six hours for the train. And then the man walked by, blond hair, sharp eyebrows, chiseled chin, eyes that penetrated him and made his insides go all squooshy. And then a change came upon him. He didn’t know why. His penis had never gotten hard and ricocheted up his shorts when a man had looked at him. But a man had never looked at him in this way.
Mrs. Houlihan hadn’t given him any instructions for this, but Brian Larney knew exactly what to do. Without actually knowing it.
Last week Mrs. Houlihan sent him up to New York with a long list of instructions and he’d done exactly as she wanted. Stay with my friend, Julia Doherty. Arrive with a bouquet of roses. Take her to dinner at the Carlyle one night. Practice your program at Carnegie Hall an hour each day before the performance. Do not practice your program on the morning of the big day, just do scales and arpeggios. Breathe while you play, roll your shoulders before the performance, don’t think about the audience. The list went on.
This afternoon he’d take the train back to Philadelphia and give Mrs. Houlihan a full report about his recital. He’d show her the review in the Times. He smiled at the review – all good, all full of promise, they’d said about his playing. So he enjoyed the crisp Spring day, nothing to do except wait six hours for the train. And then the man walked by, blond hair, sharp eyebrows, chiseled chin, eyes that penetrated him and made his insides go all squooshy. And then a change came upon him. He didn’t know why. His penis had never gotten hard and ricocheted up his shorts when a man had looked at him. But a man had never looked at him in this way.
Mrs. Houlihan hadn’t given him any instructions for this, but Brian Larney knew exactly what to do. Without actually knowing it.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Siobhan Limerick: Reflections of trees in water
Siobhan acquired a fondness for walking alone. Springtime in Rock Creek Park, especially, allowed her to get away from the cramped apartment she shared with Patrick. After her son left for the Commerce Department, she sat at the kitchen table and looked at the window at Dupont Circle, and finished her tea. The dead quiet always went right to her bones. After tea, she’d go walking, always down to Rock Creek Park.
Halfway, she always sat on a bench in front of a pond. Winters, the pond stared back at her like gray glass. Summers, she saw the reflections of chlorophyll-filled trees and bushes from the other end. Spring and fall were always the hardest. She’d lost Agnes on Mother’s Day, dead to her with that husband in Philadelphia – the refrain kept echoing in her head, my daughter is lost to me – and she’d lost her own husband the day before Thanskgiving, so many years ago. And now she lived with her middle-aged son in a small apartment in a strange city she didn’t know. Except for this bench in this park in front of this pond.
Halfway, she always sat on a bench in front of a pond. Winters, the pond stared back at her like gray glass. Summers, she saw the reflections of chlorophyll-filled trees and bushes from the other end. Spring and fall were always the hardest. She’d lost Agnes on Mother’s Day, dead to her with that husband in Philadelphia – the refrain kept echoing in her head, my daughter is lost to me – and she’d lost her own husband the day before Thanskgiving, so many years ago. And now she lived with her middle-aged son in a small apartment in a strange city she didn’t know. Except for this bench in this park in front of this pond.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Annie Kate Limerick: Good news!
“Child, I’m going to tell you a story you’ve never heard, but you’re old enough to hear it now. Maybe it’ll help you decide what to do.”
Annie Kate knew she’d told Agnes this story many times, but this version had a different ending, the story how Annie Kate O’Grady, born 1852, the year the Great Famine ended, had married Andrew Limerick back in Trim on the River Boyne at the foot of Tara Hill. County Meath, Ireland. Escaping poverty and despair in the fall of ‘70 with Andrew and little Martin, sailing from Queensland to the States, Annie Kate already four months into her second pregnancy, shielding Martin from the angry waves on the six week journey to New York, Andrew determined to make a life for them in the New World.
Annie Kate found it difficult to remember that far back – more than sixty years – but she had a purpose in telling Agnes now. Secrets even Agnes’s mother didn’t know.
“When we arrived, we wandered the streets of New York for eight hours in a cold rain. I’d lost five pounds even though I was expecting your Uncle Daniel. Your grandfather thought I would collapse from fatigue, hunger, thirst, but then he met Mr. Adams coming out of the Union League. He asked, did we need help?”
Granny resumed her knitting. She’d never mentioned Mr. Adams before. “I don’t remember how we came about to stay with them. I was quite ill. Young Mrs. Adams nursed me back to health, a good Christian woman she was. They let us stay until your Uncle Daniel was born. Mr. Adams told your grandfather about his brother’s masonry, how their business on the west side of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River was booming and his brother was looking for men willing to work. That’s when we came to Philadelphia and settled at old Mrs. Toole’s house where you took piano lessons all those years.”
“Adams was a Protestant, Agnes, and he was English. He didn’t care we were Irish Catholics. He only cared that your grandfather was willing to work hard. If it hadn’t been for them, I’d have died on the streets of New York. Your grandfather wouldn’t have had the opportunity to start his own business.
“So when your mother and Uncle Collin vilify Protestants, I think about Mr. and Mrs. Adams. What I most remember about those six months in New York was how much I wanted a home for your father and my babies. That’s all I cared about. I’d have given up anything to be with them. It’s family that counts, not any church, not any job. Everything comes second to family, sweetheart.”
Annie Kate knew she’d told Agnes this story many times, but this version had a different ending, the story how Annie Kate O’Grady, born 1852, the year the Great Famine ended, had married Andrew Limerick back in Trim on the River Boyne at the foot of Tara Hill. County Meath, Ireland. Escaping poverty and despair in the fall of ‘70 with Andrew and little Martin, sailing from Queensland to the States, Annie Kate already four months into her second pregnancy, shielding Martin from the angry waves on the six week journey to New York, Andrew determined to make a life for them in the New World.
Annie Kate found it difficult to remember that far back – more than sixty years – but she had a purpose in telling Agnes now. Secrets even Agnes’s mother didn’t know.
“When we arrived, we wandered the streets of New York for eight hours in a cold rain. I’d lost five pounds even though I was expecting your Uncle Daniel. Your grandfather thought I would collapse from fatigue, hunger, thirst, but then he met Mr. Adams coming out of the Union League. He asked, did we need help?”
Granny resumed her knitting. She’d never mentioned Mr. Adams before. “I don’t remember how we came about to stay with them. I was quite ill. Young Mrs. Adams nursed me back to health, a good Christian woman she was. They let us stay until your Uncle Daniel was born. Mr. Adams told your grandfather about his brother’s masonry, how their business on the west side of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River was booming and his brother was looking for men willing to work. That’s when we came to Philadelphia and settled at old Mrs. Toole’s house where you took piano lessons all those years.”
“Adams was a Protestant, Agnes, and he was English. He didn’t care we were Irish Catholics. He only cared that your grandfather was willing to work hard. If it hadn’t been for them, I’d have died on the streets of New York. Your grandfather wouldn’t have had the opportunity to start his own business.
“So when your mother and Uncle Collin vilify Protestants, I think about Mr. and Mrs. Adams. What I most remember about those six months in New York was how much I wanted a home for your father and my babies. That’s all I cared about. I’d have given up anything to be with them. It’s family that counts, not any church, not any job. Everything comes second to family, sweetheart.”
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Victoria Balmoral: Halloween
Agnes sat in the parlor with her mother, but Victoria couldn’t bring herself to go downstairs that Halloween afternoon. At least Siobhan Limerick still had all of her children. None of them had been taken away from her. She wanted to go down there and smack the woman silly. After ten years, she still complained that Agnes had left the Catholic Church to marry Norman. Who the hell cares, Victoria fumed. At least Agnes was still alive. Her Norman was not.
She hadn’t left her room since coming back after the funeral yesterday. Agnes had refused to see Norman’s body after the train arrived with the naval guard – straight to the church for the funeral, straight to the cemetery for burial. But Victoria had insisted, and she was the only one who’d seen him, lying in the coffin.
Victoria had prepared herself for the worst, but the Navy’s morticians had done a good job. It was obvious Norman had died in the London bombing raid – they’d covered the top of his head with a brown wig, and he lay in dress grays under a blanket that hid what the bombs had done to his body -- but at least Victoria could recognize his square jaw and his cheekbones. The rest looked unnatural, but Victoria knew that would have been the case. Cornelius had died exactly two years ago and she’d been shocked then by her husband’s immobile face.
She thought about Agnes, a new widow like herself. And Siobhan Limerick. Agnes’s mother sat in the parlor. They hadn’t seen each other for eight years, but Siobhan had come to Norman’s funeral despite their falling out. Good for her, Victoria thought. Life’s too short to bicker over stupid things like religion.
She hadn’t left her room since coming back after the funeral yesterday. Agnes had refused to see Norman’s body after the train arrived with the naval guard – straight to the church for the funeral, straight to the cemetery for burial. But Victoria had insisted, and she was the only one who’d seen him, lying in the coffin.
Victoria had prepared herself for the worst, but the Navy’s morticians had done a good job. It was obvious Norman had died in the London bombing raid – they’d covered the top of his head with a brown wig, and he lay in dress grays under a blanket that hid what the bombs had done to his body -- but at least Victoria could recognize his square jaw and his cheekbones. The rest looked unnatural, but Victoria knew that would have been the case. Cornelius had died exactly two years ago and she’d been shocked then by her husband’s immobile face.
She thought about Agnes, a new widow like herself. And Siobhan Limerick. Agnes’s mother sat in the parlor. They hadn’t seen each other for eight years, but Siobhan had come to Norman’s funeral despite their falling out. Good for her, Victoria thought. Life’s too short to bicker over stupid things like religion.
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