Outside my window

The bright sun woke Agnes up the next morning. Her head throbbed. Where was she? She turned her head away from the window and moaned. Good Lord, she wasn’t wearing a nightgown … how common to sleep, well, she couldn’t even think the word – without undergarments. She must be lying in Norman’s bed. She remembered yesterday – the quick wedding, dinner after the wedding, salmon and too much champagne. She’d fretted over the expense.

Agnes’s stomach lurched. She peeked out the covers and looked about the room. So orderly, even her clothes all folded nicely and placed on top of the dresser. Good, the door was shut – she could reach for her nightgown. Her breasts flopped over the covers and she had to expose her rear end. What if Mama could see her now? She’d simply die.

Shouldn’t her new husband be here beside her? Why’d he leave her alone, her and the baby she’d been carrying eight weeks? Agnes heard the sound of clanging pots from the other side of the door. Norman must be making her breakfast, how romantic! She rose from bed, but a sudden wave of nausea sent a breath of unpleasant air into her throat – and then the scent of bacon made her stomach lurch. To the bathroom, every second mattered!

This body

As Agnes expected, she reached Independence Park first. What a glorious morning for an outing with Cristina! A cluster of teenaged boys, shirtless and dirty, were leading a game of tag football on the far side of the park. A group of young mothers with baby carriages were sitting on benches, their colored maids chattering nearby.

Beyond the ebony and alabaster faces, she could see the chaos of another busy Saturday morning on Chestnut and Market Streets. She thought of the Reading Terminal Market uptown and its endless rows of produce, fish, meats, bakeries – and those Jewish delis. Everyone was doing something this morning – anxious, she thought, to get chores out of the way for yet another sparkling summer afternoon.

Her eye was caught by the sight of a lone man running on the north side of the park. Wearing navy blue shorts and a white, sleeveless shirt, he looked different from most of the men she knew. Athletic with prominent shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular legs, the expression on his chiseled face focused like a pointer. He turned the corner and before she knew it, passed directly by her without giving her a gentleman’s glance. Her eyes followed his muscular physique and, especially, his hairy legs. He passed the group of young mothers and they also turned their heads. He disappeared behind Independence Hall. No one ever exercised in public like that.

My recipe

“Ma, this is Agnes.”

“Don’t you look pretty. Let me wash my hands and I’ll come over to say hello. You sit down,” Mrs. Cassata said. The older woman elbowed her way past her husband cleaning out the fish guts, straight to the sink. Agnes sat down and placed her hands on the table. It felt like an ordinary table, didn’t it? It didn’t smell, did it, not even of fish?

Angelo displayed the day’s catch to his wife. “Cristina, look at the pesci. We’ll be having shad for dinner tonight.” He gave his wife a juicy kiss. She laughed and skirted away.

“Scoot away, Angelo, you’re all blood. Pop, I thought you were fishing on the Schuylkill. Aren’t the shad usually in the Delaware?”

“We changed our minds, principessa. Launched the little boat from the Jersey side.”

“Hah,” Cristina joked. “What recipe should I pull out for Camden fish?”

Mrs. Cassata dried her hands and came over to Agnes. She looked her in the eye, gave her a rock-hard handshake, and offered a warm smile. “Cristina’s told us all about you, all that beautiful red hair. You’re the girl who reads just like our little bambina. Would you like to have some wine? We were going to wait for the boys to clean the fish, but what’s the point in ever waiting for a man?”

A child frightened by something

Some mornings didn’t turn out as Agnes expected.

She tapped out the Mozart variations on her little piano when the chaplain from the Pennsylvania Hospital left. But she turned to look at Mama, whose back was to her – and she saw the shaking shoulders, her stooped head.

Mama came into the room, didn’t say a word, collapsed into the chair, a phlegmy mass in her loose robe, wild hair flowing down her back, eyeglasses askew, sniffling nose, red-rimmed eyes. Agnes stopped playing – and the room became silent except for Mama’s crying, blowing her nose, and alto moans.

Agnes went over to her mother and lay her head in Mama’s lap. She smelled the salty, pungent flavor coming from the handkerchief, could feel the shaking of Mama’s shoulders. She looked up – Mama’s chin, nose, and hair eclipsed the crystal chandelier overhead, and her head appeared shrouded in black darkness to Agnes.

The room closed in on Agnes and she felt very small, smaller than her eight years. She wanted to go back to the piano, but Mama clutched her tightly.

The face of a corpse (Photo #1)

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Stein was still chattering, but Agnes wasn’t listening. She saw the men leave the parlor and the women go inside. Ten minutes later, the women left. Was Granny alone in there? That was forbidden at an Irish wake. Agnes rushed in.

She saw Mrs. O’Toole sitting on a chair in the distance. “Good, Agnes, you’re here. I’ll leave you alone with Annie Kate. Your family will be back shortly and you can have time with her before we close the front window.”

She stood by the coffin a moment, feeling the cold breeze rush in from the window. Granny was dressed in white lace, holding her red rosary beads with her hands, her gold crucifix around her neck – all white, like Granny’s face, except for her red hair. She’d kept her hair red right up to the end. But the face shocked Agnes. Its right half seemed turned up at an angle, the chin, mouth, eyes, even the eyebrows, all of it. The hemorrhage must’ve occurred on that side. It pained Agnes to realize friends would see Granny with that frozen expression on her face. All at once she hated the tradition of allowing people to view the body. She touched Granny’s fingers and pulled them back, guilt washing over her. She should’ve first kneeled to pray for Granny’s soul.

Two minutes later, she rose from her prayer and looked again. She felt the tides shifting inside and knew she’d have to cry. Thank God. She wanted to sob until she could sob no more. She forced herself to touch Granny’s hands and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. Ah, Granny, she thought, expecting the sobbing to start at any moment, what a lovely treasure you’ve been. But the tears didn’t come.

A bottle

Uncle Collin took the silver flask out of his pocket and drank a swig. Agnes could smell the whiskey from the opposite side of the dinner table.

“Father Doherty, even if Prohibition’s been over two years,” Norman said, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t drink spirits at my table.”

Uncle Collin glared through his thick black-framed glasses at Norman.

“Young man,” he baritoned, “you are most impertinent. What you’ve done with this girl, I shudder to even think about. As for your soul, I can only advise you to repent and speak with your priest about penance. But my niece, she must first admit that what she did was a sin.”

Keaton sat at Agnes’s feet, shaking and pleading with sad eyes to her, please let me jump up on your lap. Or take me for a walk.

“Uncle Collin, please quiet down,” said Agnes, glad that Grace was upstairs taking her nap. “You’re frightening the dog. And this is Mama’s last dinner here before she moves away, so please. Can’t we all just get along?”

The sky

She emerged to dark clouds clashing in the sky. The wind had died down, the air now still as if waiting for something to happen. Two blocks later the sky opened up and a maelstrom poured into the streets of Philadelphia. The downpour soaked Agnes to the bone. Her shoes squished in the sudden flooding and her hair clung to the sides of her head. The rain poured down her face. It cleansed her of the dust, grime, and perspiration she’d accumulated during the day. She didn’t care.

A thunderclap changed her mind and she ran for cover at Longacre’s Music. Mr. Longacre and two assistants were making a cackle with stacks of messy papers. She’d always felt at home here. It’d be the best of all places to wait out the storm.

“Good afternoon, Agnes. A little wet outside, wouldn’t you say?” he said.

“May I use the ladies’ room? I’ve been outside most of the afternoon.”

“You know where it is.”

Ten minutes later Agnes came out of the bathroom, her hair combed and her face dry. “We’re doing inventory,” Mr. Longacre said as he squeezed by her with a stack of papers, “in advance of the sale. So it’s a bit cluttered.”

“Are you having a sale?” She made a note to stock up on Schumann and Debussy.

“Not as you think,” he said. “I’m selling the store. We’re moving to Florida.”

Nothing sounded more revolting – a state with wild alligators, mosquitoes, and humidity that made this afternoon feel like a spring breeze? Why would anyone do such a thing?

In the center of the room

Uncle Collin didn't look her in the eye. “Agnes Mary,” he said in a stale monotone, “a blue dress? What is it the neighbors will be saying?”

She squirmed just as she’d done when she’d done something wrong at school.

One by one, they lined up for the coffin. It took an eternity - her aunts, her uncles, her cousins. They all prayed by Granny’s coffin, made signs of the cross, then kissed her. Patrick, Mama, and Uncle Collin stood last in line. When they reached the front, Norman came into the room with the baby and retreated to the back by Granny's piano. Her piano now, Agnes thought.

The tears finally burst forth. She sobbed into Norman’s shoulder and the baby began to wail. All eyes turned to them. No children were ever allowed at an Irish wake. Patrick clutched Mama’s arm and said, “Is this the child?”.

They walked over to Mama, next to Granny’s coffin. “Mama,” she wailed, “this is our daughter. We named her Grace Victoria.”

“A beautiful creature, just like your father. Let me hold her. Collin, look at this child. May I?” she asked Norman, without looking at him.

He handed Grace over to Mama and she rocked the baby in her arms. Norman stepped backward and stood by the window.

“Agnes,” Uncle Collin directed. “Take care of this at once.”

“Norman, it’s bad luck to stand between the coffin and an open window. You’d better come back from there.”

The smell of sadness

“Hurry up, Agnes!” Norman yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “You’re always running late, and we have to be at the restaurant in an hour!”

Agnes sighed. Top of the Warwick was only five blocks away, Norman walked faster than anyone she knew, and they had an hour for a ten-minute walk. Why couldn’t she dally in the bathroom if she wanted? She went to her dresser, rinsed her mouth, and spit into the basin.

And then she opened her bottle cologne – lemon verbena sachet. She breathed in its scent and let it penetrate the far reaches of her respiratory system – her nose, her throat, her mouth, and her lungs felt the pleasant tang. But it brought a tear to her eyes –

“Agnes,” Norman repeated, “come quickly. Two minutes and I’m going to the restaurant by myself.”

… for she remembered Granny, her widow’s black lace dresses. Granny wore them more than twenty years after Grandpa Limerick died, the last dozen also for Daddy, the last two also for Uncle Daniel. But she colored her hair flaming red and wore the perfume – the last indulgences left to her, Granny said.

So Agnes spritzed the cologne onto her wrists, her cheeks, and headed down to her husband. One step at a time, in no particular hurry to give him what he wanted.

No moon, but urgent stars (Agnes Limerick)

Agnes crept about Rittenhouse Square on a dark, dank night. August was always her least favorite month in Philadelphia, the collective humidity, smut, and dirty grime from the city finally getting to her after two months of hot summer. Not like May and October, when the city just sparkled.

But she didn’t really care whether it was soupy outside or snowy. She and Norman had had yet another terrible argument, this time over the kitchen wall colors. Agnes wanted blue walls – a white ceiling, dark blue between the counters and the cabinets, light blue everywhere else.

“Agnes,” Norman had said, that steely note of husbandly disapproval in his voice, “kitchens are always white. We can’t do that, just ridiculous.”

She’d pleaded and argued, she’d moaned and groaned. But Norman would not be dissuaded. No – she’d given in to him on everything else. Not this. So she bolted out of the house into the black darkness.

Disgusting (Agnes Limerick)

“Mama, this oatmeal tastes just awful,” Patrick exclaimed. He banged his spoon on the table and plopped his chin on his fist.

Mama creased her brows behind her glasses. “Now don’t complain, son, and eat your breakfast like little Agnes over there. We don’t want to be late for mass. Uncle Collin will be annoyed.”

Agnes squirmed in her seat, mesmerized by the sight of her big brother eating his cereal. She could barely contain herself, but when Patrick took another mouthful and spit it out, she burst out laughing.

“This is dog food,” Patrick yelled, “and Agnes put Racer’s food in my bowl!”

Agnes hyperventilated. It was so funny, so creative, so cute that everyone had to appreciate her cleverness! But Mama and Patrick weren’t laughing. Patrick picked up his cereal bowl and threw it at her. The dog food and milk streamed down her church dress. Mama groaned.

“Agnes,” Mama said. “I’m disappointed in you. What would your father say?”

On the table (Agnes Limerick)

He patted her hand, still clutching the letter, and caressed it. They looked at each other for a long moment. They rose for a hug – and held it. She began to feel the spark – and held onto it. Norman’s beard nudged her on the side of her neck. She ran her hands through his hair, stroking his jaw. Whether driven by acceptance of defeat, an instinctive revulsion to being abandoned, or desperate insanity, she still felt that electric jolt in his touch – and wanted his body, against her better judgment.

“Agnes, my lover. This is the only thing we want from each other.”

She felt that familiar wetness between her legs. Agnes placed her hand between his legs and discovered he was aroused, too.

“Norman Balmoral,” she said, hearing herself from far away, “stand still.”

She fell to her knees, unclasped his belt, and pulled his pants down. He stood directly in front of her, fully erect. He moaned when she took him inside her mouth. He removed his shirt, exposing the muscular chest and glistening hair that’d always made her tremble, and began thrusting inside her mouth.

Suddenly he pulled her away from him. “Not so fast. You always wanted to do this on the kitchen table. Now’s your chance.”

When they were finished, their clothes scattered on the floor beside them, they drank a bottle of wine and scavenged through the remains of their dinner. With disregard for the mess in the kitchen, she looked outside of herself at the scene in front of them – Agnes and Norman Balmoral, ending their marriage with intercourse on the kitchen table. Was there a better way to end a marriage? She began stroking Norman’s crotch once again. He became engorged. She led him upstairs to the bedroom for an intense, uninhibited night. She wanted it to be their last.

Chopped (Siobhan Limerick)

Siobhan drank her Coca-Cola and munched on dried peas. Yes, all they could afford now that the trust fund had dried up. Patrick gone to Washington, looking for work, Agnes married to that Episcopalian, Annie Kate gone to Heaven to join Martin and Andrew, and Collin busy at St. Patrick’s. No one left in the big house but her – and her Coca-Cola, and her dried peas. Not even money in the bank. What had happened, that everyone had left her, her life all chopped up into pieces, none of them in this house?

Behind the curtains (Cristina Rosamilia)

The ceiling dripped water on Cristina’s buttocks just after they finished having sex.

“Blasted pensione,” Norman said, looking over Cristina’s bronzed shoulder. “We’d better get a new camera.”

Cristina turned her back to him and got out of bed. The last thing she wanted her muscular boyfriend to see was her flabby tummy when she sat at the edge of the bed. “Not before we have dinner, Norman.”

They returned from dinner at the Piazza della Republica to the addetto at the front desk, who informed them with pursed lips that he would be most glad to give them another rom, as Mrs. Alden had complained about the noise coming from their room yet again.

“Mary Alden again,” Cristina exclaimed. “It feels like she lurks behind the curtains. She should go back to her grandchildren in Manchester and leave us in peace.”

The plan (Collin Doherty)

Collin massaged the side of his neck. It'd been hurting since he and Deacon Bernard had moved the bed from the basement into his bedroom at the rectory. Nor did Collin care sharing the hard mattress with the deacon. When he was growing up, he'd had to share a bed with Julia and later Siobhan, but they'd been petite compared to the bearish deacon. After they spent time together evenings, Collin wished the deacon would go back to his own room, but he usually spent the whole night until just before the housekeeper came to work mornings.

He wondered if Mrs. O'Toole noticed the heavy bags under his eyes at 8 a.m. mass. She'd been the only person to come every day to mass, and he had to pause a moment -- she hadn't missed a day in, how many years? Yes, since Jimmy had died of leukemia back in '16. More than five years now. Collin had presided over that funeral, heartbroken and angry. He spouted platitudes of children coming unto God and having faith in God's plan for us -- but he could find no reason in his heart why God would take a 12-year old boy who smiled and laughed with everyone.

Collin remembered his own childhood. His mother had always said he smiled and laughed, just like Jimmy, he supposed -- but now Collin found himself looking in the mirror, unable to smile or laugh at the gray-haired man who stared back at him, even after a warm night with Deacon Bernard, the moonlight streaming into the bedroom.

Allow me to introduce myself (Jim Wood)

My back gave out just before I hooked the last strand of crystals onto the chandelier -- 204 attached, and my back chooses to scream a loud and penetrating NOOOOOOO at final strand number 205. Thank God I clutched the streamer of twelve 97-year old crystals in my left palm before agonizing my way down the ladder and convulsing in pain on the piano. Ah, the Steinway -- how I wish Nanny and Granddad could hear me play it for them. And now their ancient chandelier stands guard above it, minus that one strand of crystals. But it's the penalty of being in my late 40s, I suppose. Old enough for God to remind me, "You're old!" but too young to admit that it's true. Denial's a river in Egypt yes, but oh -- it's so much more.

Don't know how my writhing body will make it through the next week. Have to drive that 500 miles to Republicanland and help my balloon-egoed brothers close down my parents' house. The parents finally went into assisted living and we sold the house. Got to pack up everything and bicker, moan, and divvy up the photographs and cheese knives. While they're still alive, no less. But the chandelier, got it two months ago because no one wanted it. Except for me. I miss Nanny and Granddad.

Crystal chandeliers, spasming backs, dead grandparents aside - the Daily Write's where you lay it all on the line. Expose your warts and fart so everyone can smell it. The more honest you are, the better your writing will be.