keep them in line. In the yard, the one with the freckles who kept shouting that he was going to climb the wall like a hairyman was jumping, trying to hold on to the wall, and then falling to the concrete floor. Sister Agnes noticed him, too. He would be still until she turned her back, at which point he would imitate her, his legs spread apart like a drunken cowboy. The one with the freckles—she could feel it, knew for sure that this gawky preadolescent with the broad shoulders, his eyes red with exhaustion, was Adrian. She saw her father in him, knew that her da would have gotten him the hell out of there, knew that he would have been loved by her da. She was falling in love with her son as well. She waited there until recess was over and watched without seeming to, she hoped. He was entertaining her with his silliness, and she felt—no, saw—something unmistakably familiar in his expressions.
Finally, Marian decided to enter the front hallway of this house of horrors to look for Sister Agnes.
“Can I help you?” Sister Agnes said as Marian glanced at some teenagers hanging off the stair landing on the second floor making grotesque gestures behind Sister’s back.
“No,” Marian said. “Well, I guess, yes, you can actually. I’m looking for someone.”
“Yes?” Sister Agnes said, folding her arms across her chest.
“Actually, I’ve been told that my son, whom I’d given up for adoption to America, is here in Dublin. I’m his mother.”
“You’re his mother but you don’t know where he is?” Sister Agnes said. “Do you know his name?” Sister Agnes said in what Marian
perceived to be a mocking tone.
“His name is Adrian Ellis.”
“Ah,” she said, flicking a tick off the sleeve of her robe. “Our dear Adrian Ellis. Yes, he’s one of mine. A bit of a Devil, too,” Sister Agnes said.
~ 8 ~
Marian took solace in the gard en as the light began to fade. Her favorite time of day, this period between light and dark, the twilight hour. She listened to the American tune “Lola” faintly coming from the O’Rourke’s open kitchen door. Marian gazed across the way and watched the girls helping Mrs. O’Rourke pin sheets to her clothesline.
“Can we go out with the ball and play with Margaret?” Jo suddenly asked Mrs. O’Rourke, noticing her friend from the neighborhood sauntering by.
Mrs. O’Rourke didn’t seem to hear her. Someone (must be O’Rourke home yet again) turned the record player on to Roy
Orbison’s hit, “Only the Lonely.” Marian listened as Mr. O’Rourke sang out from the kitchen.
“I don’t like this music,” Jo said to Anna. “My ma listens to this every day. Can we change it?”
I do not listen to music, period, it seems. Why say that, Jo? Marian thought about her son, brought up in a Dublin orphanage—raised so different from Jo—and yet, there was a similarity. A spunk, a spark (if Adrian’s mimicking Sister Agnes in the playground was any indication). They both seemed to be rabble-rousers. No doubt in their kids’ genes on both sides. No one tells you anything, or warns you except by way of joking, about the pre-adolescent years, Marian thought. Jo was right; she was like a bag of cats.
“How about Chubby Checker?” Rona said, putting on one she knew Johanna loved.
“Come on, girls, let’s see how handy we are with our feet,” Mr. O’Rourke said, coming out of the kitchen as Johanna skedaddled
toward the front of their house with their red dodge ball. “Let’s do
the twist.”
“You mean the mashed potato, Mr. O’Rourke!” Jo
Finally, Marian decided to enter the front hallway of this house of horrors to look for Sister Agnes.
“Can I help you?” Sister Agnes said as Marian glanced at some teenagers hanging off the stair landing on the second floor making grotesque gestures behind Sister’s back.
“No,” Marian said. “Well, I guess, yes, you can actually. I’m looking for someone.”
“Yes?” Sister Agnes said, folding her arms across her chest.
“Actually, I’ve been told that my son, whom I’d given up for adoption to America, is here in Dublin. I’m his mother.”
“You’re his mother but you don’t know where he is?” Sister Agnes said. “Do you know his name?” Sister Agnes said in what Marian
perceived to be a mocking tone.
“His name is Adrian Ellis.”
“Ah,” she said, flicking a tick off the sleeve of her robe. “Our dear Adrian Ellis. Yes, he’s one of mine. A bit of a Devil, too,” Sister Agnes said.
~ 8 ~
Marian took solace in the gard en as the light began to fade. Her favorite time of day, this period between light and dark, the twilight hour. She listened to the American tune “Lola” faintly coming from the O’Rourke’s open kitchen door. Marian gazed across the way and watched the girls helping Mrs. O’Rourke pin sheets to her clothesline.
“Can we go out with the ball and play with Margaret?” Jo suddenly asked Mrs. O’Rourke, noticing her friend from the neighborhood sauntering by.
Mrs. O’Rourke didn’t seem to hear her. Someone (must be O’Rourke home yet again) turned the record player on to Roy
Orbison’s hit, “Only the Lonely.” Marian listened as Mr. O’Rourke sang out from the kitchen.
“I don’t like this music,” Jo said to Anna. “My ma listens to this every day. Can we change it?”
I do not listen to music, period, it seems. Why say that, Jo? Marian thought about her son, brought up in a Dublin orphanage—raised so different from Jo—and yet, there was a similarity. A spunk, a spark (if Adrian’s mimicking Sister Agnes in the playground was any indication). They both seemed to be rabble-rousers. No doubt in their kids’ genes on both sides. No one tells you anything, or warns you except by way of joking, about the pre-adolescent years, Marian thought. Jo was right; she was like a bag of cats.
“How about Chubby Checker?” Rona said, putting on one she knew Johanna loved.
“Come on, girls, let’s see how handy we are with our feet,” Mr. O’Rourke said, coming out of the kitchen as Johanna skedaddled
toward the front of their house with their red dodge ball. “Let’s do
the twist.”
“You mean the mashed potato, Mr. O’Rourke!” Jo
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