Page 4 of Irish Vice

“Why do you keep her locked in the attic?”

I swallow something that tastes like turned wine. “Look at her,” I say, jutting my chin toward the window. “She’s a danger to herself and to anyone around her.”

“Her?” Samantha has a right to sound skeptical. She doesn’t know Birte’s physical strength, the hard muscles of a woman who worked on a farm. She doesn’t understand Birte’s rage.

“You’ve seen what she can do. The fire, in front of my office.”

I see Samantha remember the blaze, the trio of altar candles and the stench of burned wood, the heavy scorched door hacked to pieces, after. That was the last time Grace forgot her duties.

No, notforgot.The last time Grace was so drunk that Birte escaped.

Samantha says, “Birte set the fire. Not Grace, like you said at the time.”

“Yes. Birte did it.”

“Why does she want to kill you?”

“I don’t think she does. I think she was trying to save me. Trying to save my soul, at least. I asked her, but she couldn’t explain. Or she wouldn’t.”

“What the fuck did you do to her?”

And now we’re at the heart of it. I take a deep breath and start. “Birte and I met in Dublin. She was just up from County Cork, first time in the city. And I was working for my da.”

I pause, praying Samantha will read between those lines. She knows what I do. What Da did. All the reasons a man might be in Dublin that he doesn’t want to say out loud. She gives a single, stiff nod, which I take as permission to go on.

“For Birte and me, it was a crazy kind of love. She was young and sweet and innocent, not like girls here in the States.”

Samantha rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t cut me off.

“I fell for her, hard. And when she said I wouldn’t get past her knickers without putting a ring on her finger, I was willing to take the leap.”

“That must have gone over well with your father,” Samantha says, like she’s watching a trite old movie, giving it two stars in a devastating review.

“I didn’t tell Da. Didn’t tell Madden, either. I figured I’d bring my bride back after all was well and done, and there was nothing either one of them could do.”

Christ. My voice breaks on that last word. All these years, and when I’m finally allowed to tell the story, I sound like a little boy who broke his Christmas toy before he ever got to play.

Of course Samantha hears. She’s softer now when she speaks. “What happened?”

“Birte wore her mother’s wedding gown. She hadwildflowers in her hair. It rained that day, all morning long, but that was supposed to bring us luck. I didn’t care that I had no family there, but Birte wanted to bring in American traditions. Her nephew, Finn, was our ring bearer. Her niece, Aiofe, was the flower girl.”

“Aiofe,” Samantha says. She looks toward the seat at the table, the one where Aiofe has sat for every meal we’ve shared as a family.

I nod, because that’s easier than saying the rest out loud.

“Grace told me,” Samantha says. “Finn was a year older than Aiofe. That he…what did she say? That he treated her like she was a daughter of King O’Hara. And Aiofe loved him like he put the green in shamrocks.”

“Then you know what happened.” I’m furious with Grace for sharing the story with anyone. But I’m grateful, too, that I won’t have say the words out loud.

Samantha shakes her head. “She was telling me. In the greenhouse. But you found us and sent her away.”

And tied me to an iron bench and ate me out till I came six times and begged for mercy.

She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to. We both know what happened that day. I sent Grace from the greenhouse. So I’m doomed to finish the story now.

“Birte’s parents were gone, but her brother told her not to marry me. Niall said I was a criminal. Said I couldn’t love her. Wouldn’t keep her safe.” Even after all this time, the words are ash in my mouth.

Samantha’s waiting. I have to go on. She has to know what happened. “Niall couldn’t poison Birte against me. So he did the only thing he could think of to stop our wedding. He showed up with a knife.”