Page 76 of Irish Vice

Now I’m the one who can’t talk. I can’t push words past the scarlet fire in my brain.

Ingram says, “Don’t wait too long, boyo. Or I’ll start t’ think yer wantin’ t’ leave th’ Fishtown Boys behind.”

“The Boys are mine, Ingram.”

The deep breath he draws sounds like oil sloshing in a barrel. “Will they stay yers, boyo? When they find ya’ve lost yer bollocks?”

“I haven’t?—”

“Today, boyo. Get rid o’ that skirt today.”

I nearly break my finger stabbing the call away. Aiofe and Birte are staring, eyes as big as Fairfax’s serving bowls. I snatch upThe Philadelphia Enquirerso I don’t have to speak.

I’m halfway through the front page before I realize I forgot to get tea. I’m willing to skip it, myself, but there’s no reason for Birte and Aiofe to go without.

I make the child’s first, pouring milk into a cup and adding just a splash of tea. The beige liquid slops into the saucer as I set it on the table. Aiofe frowns and pushes it away.

“Don’t start,” I warn her. She turns her attention to a sausage, as if she’s practicing brain surgery.

Back at the sideboard, I pour for Birte. I stir in her four spoons of sugar, grimacing at the thought of that much sweetness. “Careful,” I say, as I place it beside her plate. “It’s hot.”

“Hot, hot, hot,” she chants. “Fought, fought, fought. Rot, rot, rot.”

I gulp my own tea, black and bracing. It sears my lips like lava, scoring a gulley through my chest. The fire matches the burn of my scarred forearm, which hasn’t let up since Samantha set it throbbing hours ago. “Goddammit!” I shout.

Aiofe bolts upright. The look on her face is pure terror, which drives a stake through my heart because I’ve never raised a hand to the wean.

Birte reaches for the rosary that hangs from her belt and starts muttering over her beads. “I believe in God…”

I snatch my papers up from the table because I’ve lost all hope of reading in peace, and I’m not hungry, and I don’t wantmore tea, and breakfast isn’t right anyway without Samantha. That’s rubbish, though, because Aiofe and I ate together every feckin’ morning for seven years, and nothing should be any different now.

I shove my chair into the table, hard enough to make a peony fall from the bowl of flowers in the center. Samantha wore a skirt with peonies on it—the petals scattered across black silk, along with tulips and chrysanthemums. The last thing I want to see this morning is a peony. I snatch the flower from the tablecloth and crush it in my fist.

“Our Father—” Birte chants, her voice rising to match my rage.

“Shut it,” I tell her.

“—who art in heaven,” she continues, even louder.

I swipe at her beads, trying to snag them from her fingers.

“Hallowed be thy name,” she shouts.

“Dammit, woman!” I holler, raising my voice to cover hers.

Birte bellows, “Thy kingdom come…”

Aiofe squeezes her eyes shut and covers her ears, rocking back and forth in her chair.

“Fairfax!” I shout, but he’s already barreling through the swinging door.

“What’s all this foolishness?” he asks Aiofe, closing gentle fingers around her wrists. The instant he touches her, she freezes. “There you go,” he says calmly, easing her hands from her ears. “Be a good girl. Go on up to your room. Draw me a picture of Coinín before John Bell gets here. Can you do that for me, love?”

She stares at him like he’s an anchor and she’s a tiny rowboat tossed on stormy seas. When she nods, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

“Go on then,” Fairfax says. “Take a piece of toast with you. That one in the holder, already spread with butter.”

Aiofe grabs the toast without taking her eyes from Fairfax.