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.
No comments:
Post a Comment