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Mairin lifted the lid of the Hills Bros. coffee canister and replaced it, the way she always did at the end of every workday.

Only this time, she had nothing to put into the can, because she’d given her wages to Fiona. Mairin just needed her mother

to hear the sound of the lid and hope she didn’t check.

“That you, Mairin?” Mam called from the basement.

“Yep.” Mairin took out a jar of Tang from the cupboard, then opened the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of water. Then she took

an ice cube tray from the freezer and stood at the sink, trying to pry some cubes from the battered aluminum tray.

“Get your good self down here, then, and help me with the wash.”

Mairin sighed and gulped down a glass of water without the Tang. Mam didn’t like being kept waiting. She clumped down the

stairs, ducking her head under the rafters. “Hiya, Mam,” she said. “How’s tricks?”

Her mother flashed a brief, tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Mairin wondered if she was worried about Liam, but she

didn’t bring it up. Not yet. Mam was in no mood.

“Let’s get the towels pegged out first,” Mam said, ignoring the question. “They take the longest to dry.” She handed Mairin

a wire basket loaded with damp towels from the wringer.

When it came to laundry, Mam was all business.

Sometimes Mairin found herself wishing her mother would remember to crack a joke—or even a smile—every now and then, the way Fiona’s mom did.

But Mam never seemed to have much to smile about.

She had married Colm Davis soon after Dad was gone—not because it made her happy, but because, according to Liam, she was scared she wouldn’t be able to provide for herself and her two kids.

Mam had met Colm at the union hall one night, and he started coming around to check on her.

Mairin still remembered her confusion when Mam put on lipstick and fixed a Sunday roast and told her and Liam to be on their

best behavior, because she and Colm were getting married. Married . It was weird to see her mother fluttering around as she made room in their lives for a strange man. Colm would give Mairin

packets of Sugar Babies, and he’d offer to play a game of catch with Liam, but he would never replace Dad. When Colm came

around, Mairin tried to make herself very small. Liam spent more time in his room, listening to records and talking on the

new extension phone.

The wedding was a brief, quiet ceremony presided over by Father Campbell on a chilly Saturday morning. Mairin’s patent leather

shoes slipped and slid on the icy walkway, and Liam took her arm to keep her from falling. Colm’s two brothers, who had nine

kids between them, drove over from Rochester, and the kids eyed Mairin and Liam suspiciously. Mam’s two best friends from

the Catholic Women’s League did the flower arrangements and dabbed at their eyes when the vows were said. Afterward, there

was a fancy meal at the Castle Restaurant, and then they all went home together.

Turned out Colm wasn’t such a good provider, either. He went to work most days, but he usually came home by way of Kell’s

Pub.

Mairin hurried to the yard and pegged the towels, folding the top of each one just so over the clothesline and clipping on

the clothespins. Then she hurried down to the basement and touched her mother’s shoulder. “Let me,” she said, taking a handful

of damp clothes from Mam.

Mam stepped back and rubbed her hands on her apron. “You’re a good girl, Mairin,” she muttered. “I’ll go see about supper.”

Her feet trod heavily on the cellar stairs. Then there was the creak of the swivel rocker and the rasp of a match being lit,

and Mairin could exactly picture the flame being held to the tip of a slender white Parliament cigarette.

Mairin and Fiona had tried smoking a time or two but they hadn’t liked it. Smoking looked cool when some kids did it, but it made Mairin feel silly and self-conscious, and the smoke tasted like burning leaves.

After her mother left, Mairin switched on the GE radio. Mam always had it tuned to the news reports—war, protests, and politics—but

Mairin navigated away from the news, listening to the crackle as she dialed in her favorite station. She took care to keep

the volume low so Mam wouldn’t yell at her for listening to “that noise.” A few minutes later, she was humming along with

the Stone Poneys, wondering how Linda Ronstadt’s voice could sound like water flowing over rocks, so effortlessly pretty.

She sang softly as she fed the clothes through the wringer, taking care to fold the shirts around the buttons so they wouldn’t

be crushed between the rollers. She’d learned this technique the hard way. When Mam noticed three broken buttons on her school

uniform blouse, it had earned Mairin a smack upside the head and no TV for a week.

Liam’s Pink Floyd T-shirt was next. All the older kids were obsessed with Pink Floyd’s woozy, psychedelic music, with the

haunting guitar riffs and wailing voices. Mam swore it sounded like a plague o’ banshees, and she refused to let Liam play

the record album anywhere near her. Mairin wasn’t quite sure Pink Floyd was her cup of tea, either, but she did like all sorts

of music, especially the kind her mother forbade her to play. Now that Liam had to go into the army, he wouldn’t be allowed

to wear a shirt featuring a rock group. And he’d have to shave off all his nice red hair. Mairin shuddered, fearful that her

brother would become a stranger.

Donovan and the Beatles got her through the rest of this tedious chore. She’d never understood why the laundry room had to

be in the dank, lightless basement, anyway. Doing laundry was bad enough without feeling like you were being sent to a dungeon.

She brought the next load of clothes up to the yard and finished hanging them on the line.

The backyard of the tall, narrow house was small, which Mairin didn’t mind, since she was the one who had to mow the grass with the push mower.

When she was little, her dad did the mowing, and the smell of fresh-cut grass always reminded her of him.

There was an apple tree and a tall sycamore in the corner for shade, making the garden feel like a small sanctuary enclosed by a weather-beaten wooden fence.

She couldn’t see the McCutcheons or the Spinellis on either side, but she could hear them when they fought.

Tenacious wildflowers and stubborn weeds clung to the edges of the yard. Mairin kept a garden patch, untidy but productive,

yielding the beans and potatoes and tomatoes that were part of every meal in the summer, along with sweet corn from the farmers

market. She was good at growing things, the way her dad had been. Mam was indifferent, but her dad had taught her to love

digging in the soil, tending the crops, and bringing in the harvest.

When she finished, she went inside. Walter Cronkite was on the TV blustering about the election. No one Mairin knew cared

much about the election anymore, not since Bobby Kennedy had been shot dead early in the summer. If a Kennedy wasn’t going

to be president, Mam and her friends swore they wouldn’t even bother to cast their votes. Mam was still in mourning for JFK,

and now for Bobby. She couldn’t seem to get over the destruction of Camelot. Sometimes Mairin thought her mother grieved harder

for JFK than she did for Mairin’s dad.

Mam was in the kitchen at the table, under the framed portraits of the Pope and President Kennedy. She was busy shucking the

sweet corn for dinner. Mairin’s mother had never been much of a cook, but it was hard to ruin fresh corn. People said the

best sweet corn in the whole wide world was grown right here in western New York. Mairin wouldn’t know, since she’d never

been anywhere, but she believed it had to be true. At the end of summer, just before the leaves started to turn, a fresh ear

of sweet corn was the most perfect food she could imagine eating. That burst of juicy sweetness, enhanced with just a bit

of butter and salt, was a pleasure like no other. She sat down next to her mother, set a Loblaws bag in front of her, and

got to work, letting the husks and silk fall into the bag.

“Liam told me today,” Mairin said, slipping a tentative glance at her mother. “About getting drafted.”

“Aye.” Mam kept working without looking up.

“Did you know?”

“Of course I know. And amn’t I the one who warned that he should enlist before they came for him? But no, he wanted to roll the dice, bettin’ his number wouldn’t come up.”

“I’m scared for him,” Mairin said. “Aren’t you scared for him?”

“War is a scary business, and that’s a fact.”

“Well, you’re Irish, right? Can’t Liam go to Ireland and be Irish until the war’s over?”

“There’s nothing but trouble in Ireland,” Mam said. “Just as much fighting there as there is in Vietnam.”

“Is that why you came to America, then?” Mairin asked her. “To get away from the fighting?”

“I came to find...” Mam paused, cleared her throat. “I found a better life here, with your da.”

Mairin always had a feeling in her gut that Mam kept things hidden, but she couldn’t force her to talk much about the old

days in Ireland, or to explain why Mam never received letters or long-distance phone calls from any family over there. She

went into the living room and turned off the TV. “Enough of the bad news, okay? Sing me a song, Mam. One of the old songs

from Ireland.”

“Ah, Mairin.” Mam sent her a brief smile. “ Is ceol mo chroí thú .” You are my heart’s music.

“Just one,” Mairin cajoled, knowing she’d get her way. “We’ll harmonize.”

Her mother’s posture softened, and she hummed a bit, and then sang “Black Velvet Band,” a family favorite about a man led

astray by a woman.

Good, thought Mairin as they concluded the ballad, their eyes meeting and their lips smiling. Mam’s sour mood had turned slightly

sweet. Maybe now was the time.