“Have you ever been that desperate? Begging, begging . . .”
She didn’t wait for an answer; I had none. She stared up at the ceiling as if watching the story on a screen.
“My wild black curls fly around my head in the cold, my thin, transparent skin turns red in an instant. I step out onto the stoop, open my mouth to call or scream for Richard, but only hollow sounds come from my throat. I see no one; emptiness as wide as the world from end to end rises within me. I remember then an ancient proverb I’d been told—what fills the eye fills the heart. Then footsteps come from behind and I turn to Da. I scream at him.”
Maeve stopped talking, her hands flailed through the air. “Da, Da . . . Da!” She sat up with a jerk.
I grabbed her arm. “Maeve, it’s Kara. . . .”
She stopped, looked at me. “I know you’re Kara. I’m not daft, dear one. Let me tell my story. Then my da grabs my elbow, pulls me into the house, tells me that the problem across the lane is none of our concern. I holler that what is across the street is not a problem, but a family, a boy I love. He tells me, ‘Maeve, don’t let your mother hear you scream. You are already the wildflower in our family.’ Da pulls me toward him. I push him away, ask if Richard is dead, when Mam’s rose fragrance washes over me; I lift my head to hear her tell me, ‘It is as I’ve told you, Maeve. That family is trouble. Always was. Now look what they have brought to the lane—fear and death.’
“Mam’s hands hold rosary beads, and she rolls them between her fingers: one by one. Her lips move in the familiar cadence of the Hail Marys that surely my mouth memorized even when I didn’t know what I was saying. ‘God rest their souls,’ my mam says. I grab her. ‘What do you mean, their souls?’ I lunge forward. My shawl falls to the wood floor; the fringe lands in the fireplace. My voice lifts higher and higher until I am screeching at Mam. ‘What do you mean their souls?’
“My mam closes her eyes and tells me: Richard’s parents have passed on. My legs crumble beneath me. I fall to the wooden floor. Pain spikes through my knees as I ask what happened.
“My da places his hand on top of my head, and anyone who saw us might have thought he was a priest who had come to bless the child. He tells me, ‘They were caught up in the trouble at the pub in Galway. Someone recognized their eldest son who was with them.” I calculate backward from Richard, the youngest, to the fifth and oldest child, who was in his twenties and widely known to have been involved in the Easter Rising.
“I stumble to stand. ‘Where’s Richard?’ I ask, and move toward the door. Mam grabs my wrist, hisses, ‘Don’t you dare go out there and let the neighbors think you are . . . part of this, that you are involved with the family. The Garda Siochana—the Irish police—will come question us, involve us. Stay in the house.’
“ ‘What will they do with Richard?’ I cry when Mam steps forward, places her palm on the side of my face. ‘Maeve, you know we have Industrial Schools.’
“I push at Mam’s hand, run for the front door, shove it open and spring across the street faster than I believed I knew how to run. The cart sits flat and cold, angry and black underneath my hand as I run into it, stop myself with an open palm. The cart rocks against my weight.
“A garda emerges from the other side of the hearse, his club raised high, his face angry and red, splotched and faded around his nose. When he looks at me, he lowers his club, then leans down to me. ‘Child, go back to your home. This you do not need to see.’ I straighten my shoulders. ‘Where is their youngest son? I need to see him.’
“The garda nods toward another long cart, wet and glistening like the humpback of a whale just rising from the sea, one that had blended into the waves until someone pointed it out. ‘All the sons are taken care of—don’t you worry about that. He will be safe. Much safer than he was with his ma and da.’ But