Against the Wind

By Michele Carter

Aidan Malone was born in Kilcormac Ireland in 1905 when the cry for an independent Ireland peppers public and private conversations. Work is scarce, and the violent uprisings against the British army force many sons to emigrate to America. Aidan is one of those young men, but he willingly embraces his fate: he has fallen in love with Katherine Bennett, a lovely colleen who he believes is his true love and who has herself left for New York City. In 1924 he follows her across the Atlantic Ocean to discover “Kit not Katherine happily living out their youthful dream without him.” Kit is pursuing her dream to be an actress on Broadway, not a lover to a childhood friend.

Aidan must begin a lengthy and at times humorous journey through the America peopled with actors, playwrights, directors, and showgirls to be with his darling Kit. While he juggles part-time jobs and lingers around the margins of the theatre world, he tries to figure out his place in life. He embarks on a ten-year journey from Broadway to Hollywood during the ‘roaring twenties’ and ‘dirty thirties.’ He eventually pursues a career in acting as well, but is ambivalent about his choice: is he really an actor or an imposter? Is he truly an artist or a sad, rejected lover playing a role to impress Kit? He longs for connection to something: a woman, his place in the world, a sense of well-being, but only through leaving it all behind does he discover that his true vocation has been secretly calling to him all along.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michele Carter
• Release date: Mar 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9780968272824

Michele Carter

I was born and raised in Vancouver Canada. After graduating from the University of British Columbia with a Master of Arts Degree in English I taught English Lit for several years. I love writing, especially historical fiction that has a little humour for my entertainment and yours.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself. –W. B. Yeats

The cold midnight air chilled his breath as he lifted his head to listen. He heard the engine’s chug growing louder. His hazel eyes strained. Tons of freight dragged back of a low, white spotlight flooding the track, coming toward him. Boxcars, insulation from the cold, were coupled together and filled with wood and coal. They lumbered down the line behind their leader. He waited until the engine had passed before coming out of the shadows. He sucked in a deep lungful of air, kicked at the gravel, and sprang forward, running full out alongside a car. He never liked catching a train on the fly. His jump had to be timed perfectly to make it work.

The door was too high to reach. He aimed for the ladder. He had to catch it at the front where he could best judge the speed. He could grab hold, but he might not hang on. The freight was picking up its pace. The worst was being hurled against the side of the car. Better to retreat than reach for the back end. If he lost his grip there, the force would toss him between the cars like a can of peaches, drag him under the wheels, and flatten him.

He charged the last car, making a desperate leap. His foot slipped, but he caught hold of the ladder, and reached his whole body toward the lowest step. His right hand was too cold to cinch his fingers tightly round the iron rail. He barely held on. His right foot landed on the metal rung, but his hand was sliding loose. His heart beat time with the rhythmic strain from the engine as it clanged faster. Then his fingers gripped the rail and his arm tensed. He lunged against the ladder, and felt his heart inflate. A final push and his left foot scraped the lowest rung. The train picked up speed. His body slammed into place and bent against the wind. Holding tight, Aidan exhaled an icy breath as he wedged his suitcase against the train. The ends of its rope strap flapped in the wind. Beneath him, a mess of tracks crisscrossed until gradually only one remained.

A blast of excitement rushed through his body. Here he was alone and cold, but he felt exhilarated. He was almost there. He was anxious, and his heart told him to be wary, but he remained stoic in his resolve to see this plan to the end.

He stood against the hard side of the caboose braving the icy wind until Newburyport. When the train slowed, he leaped onto the snow and began his trek northward with snowflakes falling lightly on his face. Treetops froze tall, white, and splendid as dawn brightened the leaden landscape of northern Massachusetts, where lights began flicking on in distant farmhouses as people rose for their breakfast. The fresh winter air smelled of wood-burning stoves. A welcoming omen.

The morning breeze subsided, the sun settled behind a cloud, and the road ahead spread for miles into New Hampshire. He trudged through the deep snow toward Hampton. His breathing, the crunch of his boots, and his chattering teeth became his companions in the stillness. He thought only of taking the next step.

By five o’clock, still trembling from the cold, he had walked as far as Hampton. A railroad man at the station was just closing the door. Aidan squeezed through the opening. The man had thinning white hair and large ears peeking out from his cap. His dark eyes watered from being outside, and his stooped shoulders seemed to lean further forward as he sent Aidan back into the snow.

Keep moving. Can’t stay here.

Aidan sighed and turned to leave. The man drew closer and lowered his voice.

There’s a car house up the tracks. It’s small but dry. He removed his cap and scratched the back of his scalp, disturbing his white hair. It’s against orders to let anyone in. You gotta be careful nowadays. Mind you, sometimes the guy in charge gets careless, forgets to close the window. He winked at Aidan. Heck, anyone could sneak in.

Aidan nodded and thanked the man for the tip.

When he reached the car house, he threw in a few pieces of wood and crawled through the open window. A table below the window collapsed under his weight. He had lost close to twenty-five pounds in the last three months and knew, at a hundred and fifty pounds, his lanky, six-foot frame would be perfect for the movies, but he preferred not to focus his mind on appearances.

He repaired the break in the table and started a fire. He removed his shoes, his extra pair of pants, which he hung over the stove, and set his socks beside his coat. Light from the fire brightened the room, and the heat melted the monotony of cold. He opened his suitcase and brought out his book of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and lay awake on the hard floor, finding comfort in the lyricism and profundity of love.

Trains rumbled past his shanty throughout the night, keeping him awake. He heard his father’s words repeating quietly in his head. Whatever you do lad, don’t get lost in the furor of America. He absently fingered the telegram he had received that morning at the Boston post office. Bert had been brief: "Brothers want you home mid March." This was extraordinary news, and he examined the telegram as if it contained within the lines the answer to his question. The second telegram from his brother Shane was also extraordinary in its brevity: Father died February. Heart.

Lying on the wooden floor, he settled his head into his folded coat and listened to the howl and whine of the wind and the growl of his stomach. A blast of light from a passing train illuminated his shack, and he opened his eyes wide to study the seedy aspect of the squalor. Gone was the Park Avenue apartment with the black silk cushions and the naked women. No more cocktails with movie stars. He burned the image of scarcity to memory, knowing he may one day retrieve the reality for a good use. His mind, beginning to relax, wandered into earlier memories, which he greeted and encouraged, unaware of their unconscious power. The news of his father’s death and the dark enclosure of the shack reminded him of the day of his birth, the day he became lost for the first time.

Moments before Aidan’s birth in the town of Kilcormac, a bang at the window caused the widow Flanagan to bolt from her chair and rush to the front door. She had been at Mrs. Malone’s bedside to help with the delivery, and when she heard the commotion half expected to find gypsies in the front garden coming to steal the baby, so she raised her fist. Instead she saw the doctor pick up his black medical bag from the dirt and head for the door. Dr. Brown had arrived on his bicycle so fast that the front tire had hit a rut in the road, and his black bag had flown out from the basket, striking the parlor window. His strong fingers grasped the handle of the bag while droplets of sweat gathered above his bushy eyebrows and dribbled down his round, pink face.

The baby’s coming, doctor. Quick.

He hurried past the widow and down the hall to the bedroom so fast that all she saw of him was his long nose and round head of thick, gray hair. Dr. Brown had been to the Malone’s for four previous births and well knew the way.

Young Johnny Drury, who had been sent to fetch the doctor, was stumbling along the road, trying to catch his breath as he reached the house. The widow Flanagan gave the boy a shilling and sent him off just as a baby’s cry rang through the house. She hurried back to the bedroom.

You’ve got another lovely child of hardy stock, Mrs. Malone, said Dr. Brown. A healthy boy.

He’s a beautiful boy, said the widow Flanagan, wiping away a tear. What’ll you be calling him Mrs. Malone?

The mother lifted her head to see the baby. Aidan, she said quietly and then let her head drop back onto the pillow.

That’s a lovely name, said the widow.

You have a sleep now, Mrs. Malone. Mrs. Flanagan will see to the babe, said Dr. Brown. Before leaving the house, the doctor wrote the date, November 3, 1905, on the birth certificate and signed it. I’ll go over to the school and let her husband know the good news.

Thank you, doctor. He’ll be so proud.

The widow had gently lifted the tiny babe and carried him into the next room where she placed him atop a towel on the dining room table. She turned to get a washbasin, but noticed the gifts for the baby that the neighbors had recently dropped off: three bottles of whiskey standing tall and full, like soldiers ready to serve their country. She took down a glass from the China cabinet, thinking a wee shot would do a world of good for her nerves. She poured herself a full dose, swallowing the drink in one long gulp. She smacked her lips and waited for the liquor to do its work. Another one would top things off nicely. By the third drink, she hunted for a bigger covering for the baby. She opened the right hand drawer in the China cabinet and saw a tablecloth. That would do just fine.

Mr. Malone had left the schoolroom when his students were busy with their sums. He rushed across the street to his home and immediately went to his wife. She was sleeping soundly, so he chose not to disturb her. He glanced around the room and then checked his wife again to see if the baby was beside her, but the baby was not in the bed. Dr. Brown had said all was well, so he saw no need to panic, but where was his son? He stepped across the hall into the parlor and saw the widow Flanagan kneeling on the sofa, praying to the drapes.

He held her arm and helped her get settled on the seat. Mrs. Flanagan. Where’s the baby?

She sucked in her lips and blinked before slumping over and passing out. The baby had been born close to an hour before. What had she done with him? He tried to wake her, but she would only moan and whimper. He left her and began to search for his newborn son.

He looked under chairs, behind curtains, in the kitchen, and the dining room where he saw the opened bottle of whiskey. He flew upstairs to the children’s rooms, searching under their cots and even in the closets. He ran back downstairs to Mrs. Flanagan. He tried to shake her awake, but her eyes remained shut and her head lolled on her neck. Her breath reeked of whiskey. He was about to pour cold water on her when he thought he heard a faint cry. He dropped the widow and listened. He heard it again. The sound was coming from the dining room.

In one stride he crossed the few feet from the parlor. He listened, but heard nothing. Instead, his eyes caught a shadow near the China cabinet. He instinctively turned, hoping no mouse was loose in the house. He stared in disbelief as he saw something moving. He leaned forward and gaped. From a tiny opening in the right hand drawer he saw one baby finger then another until he saw the whole wee hand. Before he could reach over and open the drawer, the hand lengthened to an arm and the opening expanded. His baby was trying to free himself from the confines of the drawer.

His panic replaced his wonder and he pulled it open. There inside, wrapped in a lace tablecloth was his son. He lifted him, draping the cloth around him to keep him warm. The baby seemed unharmed and was narrowing its eyes from the sudden light. He kissed him on the forehead and rubbed his cheek against the tiny soft face before returning to his wife. She awoke and smiled at her husband. Within minutes, Aidan was eating his first meal at his mother’s breast.

Later that night, Aidan’s father joined his neighbors at McCaffrey’s saloon and regaled them with this wondrous tale about how a mere babe with his tiny fingers was able to push open a heavy drawer.

Let to his own, the wee lad would’ve got out clear and clane, he said.

Shamus O’Leary was heavily built with a ruddy complexion that brightened like a sunrise with the promise of an argument. He and his brother Dick were both plain men with lower jaws that thrust forward, ready for confrontation. The story inevitably drew them to the subject of Ireland’s troubles.

Independence is a birth-right, said Shamus lighting his pipe. We’re born free men, every one of us. The wee lad was claimin’ his God-given birth-right. Like we all should be doin’.

Aidan’s father sighed. The conversations always steered to politics. No matter. He knew his son had done something extraordinary.

England’s got no right to make our laws, said Dick. We’ll set up our own Irish Council. Then Irish courts, a stock exchange, a civil service. Then autonomy. The bloody British Parliament. Dick spat. "It’ll wither away without our support. We’ll get right out of the Empire. Griffith calls the policy Sinn Fein. Ourselves alone. We rely on ourselves jist like the wee lad. He raised his pint. Here’s to wee Aidan, the future of Ireland."

By the end of the evening, the entire saloon was remarking on how the baby might one day remove obstacles, inspire people’s hearts and, perhaps, open the doors to Irish freedom.

They all agreed he was destined to do more great things. Over the next fifteen years they watched him grow, waiting for marvels, but none appeared. Throughout his entire childhood, he acted like a normal boy, except for those rambunctious spectacles, as Father Ned called them, when he performed on the stage of the Town Hall. The priest suggested he be less spirited and more devout. Aidan ignored him and relished every opportunity to don a costume and strut to and fro bellowing a soldier’s call to arms or recite a dramatic soliloquy as the village audience rustled and whispered in the darkened hall.

He’s quite a character, said his neighbors. He’ll do great things. Don’t you know, he showed tremendous power on the first day of his precious birth.

Aidan never performed another amazing feat with his hands, except for that sexual escapade in Fowler’s barn with Katherine Bennett. That lapse of judgment led to his banishment to the north, where he managed to elude capture by the British soldiers and escape to America. The opening drawer had remained his father’s favorite story about his son: it showed a determined will and an independent spirit. Aidan believed a babe lost on the day of his birth foretold a lad destined to be adrift without purpose, and he once said so to his father.

Ach, Aidan, don’t be breaking your shin on a stool that’s not in your way.

He now missed hearing his father’s sage advice.

Twenty-eight years after that first day on earth, after a fitful sleep next to the train tracks, Aidan wrote in his notebook, Friday, March 3, 1933Hampton. Father died last month. Without a watch, he had no idea what time he awoke in the car house. His next thought was of his stomach; it ached from hunger. He’d have to beg a breakfast soon. His socks were still damp. He opened the suitcase to get another pair, and then put on his black topcoat before climbing out through the window.

He tramped through the snow for twenty minutes until he got a lift from a household supplies salesman in a Ford coupe. The man wore his fedora so low Aidan wondered how he could see the road. The salesman spoke with a southern drawl.

I’m a man who knows what women want. Yes, sir, whatever the woman needs, I got it. Now, I’m not talking about supplies of a sensual nature, but spices, soap, baking soda. Our baking powder makes the best biscuits in the entire United States of America.

The man’s head twitched at the end of each sentence as if to confirm its veracity. Just the mention of biscuits made Aidan’s mouth water. After inquiring if Aidan had eaten and hearing he had not, the stranger gave him twenty-five cents and dropped him in Portsmouth.

Inside a Greek café, Aidan ordered pancakes from a stocky, dark-haired man with a perpetual frown. He appeared to be deep in thought. Tiny wrinkles formed between his black eyebrows. A slender, blond man with a bold confidence sat down beside him at the counter. Aidan guessed he was a few years younger than himself, maybe twenty. He smiled at Aidan and commented on the rigors of the road.

Can’t be easy out there on a day like this.

Dreaming of summer helps, replied Aidan.

The young man nodded. His round face, marked by dark circles under the eyes, pinched his features together. He looked as if he had spent a week of late nights nursing a sick relative. He leaned forward with his shoulders hunched over the counter, sighing deeply with the burden of a personal misery. He and the cook seemed to share the same dour countenance.

Our leaders lied to us didn’t they, Jimmy? said the young man.

The cook poured him his coffee and replied with an accent. The bastards knew the truth. I believe that.

Of course they did, replied the young man. He poured two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. They’ve wrecked the spirit of America. Tried to convince us 1929 was just a terrible nightmare. He turned to Aidan. The crash was predicted you know. They could’ve prevented this. And they tell us it all happened on that one day. Well, it’s not true. Hell, it’s not as if there was any great prosperity before that. He sipped his coffee. Prosperity, he snorted. Two million men unemployed. How’s that add up to prosperity?

It’s been tough for a lot of good people, said Aidan.

The young man nodded. Jimmy, give the man here a couple of fried eggs with his pancakes. He handed the cook thirty cents.

Thank you, said Aidan. That’s very kind. Already I’ve enjoyed an abundance of generosity today.

Been on the road long?

Not long.

My guess you’re out of a job thanks to these wrong-headed leaders. I’m right aren’t I? We just want the truth. We’re not children. What’s wrong with a fella wanting to hear a little truth?

I’m afraid I’m not well versed in the economics of the crash, but I do read the papers. My impressions aren’t worth much though, I’m afraid.

We’ll decide that, won’t we Jimmy?

The cook nodded as he attended to the eggs and pancakes frying on the grill.

Go ahead, said the young man. What do you think about this mess they got us into?

Aidan tried to piece together an answer. When his stomach was empty, his head felt much the same, but one aspect of the road he had begun to enjoy was the chance for lively conversation.

I read one report that said the newspapers had written a lot of reverential drool about the American banks. They weren’t asking the right questions.

The young man’s eyes flickered for a moment and he drew himself up.

Reverential drool. He nodded his head and grinned. Couldn’t say it better myself.

The press thought their silence would prevent a panic, continued Aidan. But now they’re admitting that the banks’ record before the crash was humiliating, even shameful.

This is what I’ve been saying, said the young man. What else?

The phrase ‘sing for one’s supper’ slipped into Aidan’s head, but he shook it loose. The young man was also an enthusiast of intelligent conversation.

It was all a financial muddle. From what I’ve been reading, they attribute it to America’s extravagance. Aidan was relieved when the cook placed his plate of food on the counter.

The poor people had no enjoyment of this extravagance, said the cook.

The leaders spent too much time pussyfooting around the problem, added the young man. Didn’t give a damn about the regular guy working hard for every penny he can scrape together to feed his family. Hell, they lied to us. Hoover standing up there giving us a lot of reverential drool about the American banks, telling us businesses were on a sound and prosperous foundation. Said they couldn’t fail. Remember that, Jimmy? Sound and prosperous. His very words. Everything appears fine, he said. What was he looking at? Good thing we got rid of him.

Maybe Roosevelt can fix this mess, said the cook.

Big inauguration tomorrow, said the young man. He sipped his coffee. You know what Roosevelt should do? He should distribute the wealth, so we all have a good standard of living. We don’t need to be millionaires. All these taxes. Hell, they’re strangling us.

Roosevelt might bring back wine and beer, added the cook. I heard that.

Aidan wiped his plate clean and washed down his breakfast with a fresh cup of coffee. He sat up, eager to thank the young man. Times aren’t good, but more often than not I meet good people like yourselves. Your kindness goes a long way when you’re on the road alone. He stood and put on his coat.

Hell, an intelligent man like yourself shouldn’t have to live like this.

Maybe Roosevelt will turn things around, said Aidan.

The young man shook Aidan’s hand. It was a pleasure talking with you. Anytime you’re back this way, drop by the café. We’ll remember you won’t we, Jimmy?

You bet.

He buttoned his coat and slipped the rope strap handle of his suitcase across his chest. Thanks again.

He smiled through the window at both the cook and the young man and headed toward the Portsmouth library. The snow had stopped falling, and a cheery beam of sunlight peeked through the clouds. The food and sunshine had lifted his spirits, so he allowed a familiar memory of her to drift into his head.

We have to go to America, she had explained, crouching beside him in the cherry tree.

I’m willing, he had said. How do we get there?

Her eyes locked onto his, and she whispered across the miles of love he felt for her.

We plan.

He looked at her and frowned. That’s all?

What’re you saying, Aidan? Planning’s the whole thing. She faced the open sky and raised her hand. We fill the air with our dreams. I know it sounds daft, but we have to start there. That’s how you get what you want, by dreaming clear, and knowing in your heart it’ll all come true.

Tell me what to dream.

America, she said as if invoking an ancient deity to rise and whisk them away to a far off land.

Theirs was not idle conversation, but cool calculation fired up with the strength of her desire. Sometimes Aidan found Katherine’s words confusing, but he never confessed his state of mind for fear she would think him weak willed. She preferred that he share her faith and dedication to the goal of America, so he always expressed a similar delight in the voyage, but he would have preferred less talk and more kissing and stroking.

She rested her cheek against his shoulder and accepted the kiss he placed on her head, making the whole experience of being beside her even greater than the daily anticipation of seeing her. He knew that soon she would return to her house and he to his, and their plans would have to grow secretly from within their hearts. These hours with her differed from the time spent with his brothers and sisters when the day would lag. With Katherine, time hurried from moment to moment, and after she ran home, he was left with the dread that she would leave for America without him and this thought circled his head continually.

From the table in the Portsmouth library, Aidan reviewed this memory and searched for pertinent clues but, finding none, chose instead to read Wordsworth. As the poetry wandered through his thoughts, in the hush of the library, another image emerged, and he heard the murmur of her laughter close to his ear. He could see the meadow behind his house, their donkey Prince nibbling on the grass. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of her. Lovely Katherine Bennett. He was fifteen, curious about his rising sexuality, and ready to risk everything for the woman he loved.

CHAPTER TWO

She was tall for her age and had a womanly giggle that had charmed him from the first day he spoke to her. He had fallen from his bike and landed next to her feet. Her full lips had opened and, like the sound of clear water cascading down a hillside, her giggle had calmed him.

Her dark green eyes came close as she helped him to stand. He lowered his defences as she remarked on the ease with which he had successfully manoeuvred the roughest part of the path. Something in her voice stirred a jolt of recognition that suggested she was the girl of his dreams and would love him forever. He forgot to breathe as he walked his bike beside her.

At fifteen, he was long legged and thin. His nose seemed too big. Another year and it would settle into the handsome landscape of his slender face. He had his mother’s hazel eyes and full mouth. Eventually, he would grow as tall as his father with the same unruly dark hair, small ears, and slender fingers. Katherine Bennett loved his hands. She had noticed them as he held the handlebars of his bike.

You’ve got piano fingers.

Before he could respond, she was placing her finger over her lips, telling him to be still. She pointed to a fence a few feet away. A lark lifted off and circled above them before flying to a low branch off the path. They lingered, watching the bird. When they stepped carefully on their way, they seemed to drift like sleep walkers until small, gray stones along the path confused Aidan’s feet. He bumped against her shoulder. She leaned toward him and flipped her long, auburn hair behind her.

He wondered how long she had been living in Kilcormac and if she made a habit of stopping other boys to admire their hands. She seemed to come from nowhere, appearing just in time for him to fall at her feet, but she said she was born in Belfast.

She led him onto another path that led to Trout Creek. A once familiar trail now emerged as a secret, forbidden road to adventure. Aidan tried to keep his wits.

Have you ever fished the creek? he asked.

I like to come here to cool my legs.

But don’t you fish?

She shook her head. She skipped over to the stone footbridge and twirled once. She danced onto the grassy edge on the other side and reclined among the clover. He heard his bike fall against a shrub as he dropped down beside her.

His eyes rested on the rocky creek bed. The water was clear and only a few feet deep. The mild current wafted along as the two new friends spoke of plans and dreams. Aidan picked a daisy and held it in his hand, unsure if she would accept his gift.

I’m going to be an actress. I’ll be Kit Bennett. I think that’s better than Katherine, don’t you?

I’ve been on stage. At Christmas, my Da was the Lord Mayor of London, and my brothers and sisters and me—

"I mean a real actress, not a pretend one."

"I was a real actor. Practically everybody said I did a brilliant job." Aidan cleared his throat to calm himself. He didn’t want to sound conceited, but he knew he had performed well.

Katherine sat up. I’m going to act in a real theatre. In America. My uncle Edward lives in New York, and he said I could come visit any time I like. And he said he’d take me to the theatre. It’s called Broadway and it’s very big. They always need actresses there.

When are you going? He reached out the daisy to her, but she had leaned forward to brush a blade of grass from her leg.

When my parents say so. It’s practically squared away. Just a few loose ends. I’m going to be famous. I just know it.

He clutched the flower for a brief second before crushing it and throwing it into the water. You wouldn’t catch me going near Broadway.

Why not?

Sounds pretty far to go to be an actress.

What about you? What do you want to be?

I thought about being an actor. I was also going to be a soldier like my brother Shane, but I saw a man shot once and decided it was too dangerous.

Shot?

In Dublin. I was there with my Mam.

My Aunt Minny lives in Dublin.

We stayed at the Shelbourne Hotel. It’s a big, red brick building on St. Stephen’s Green right near the post office. I was only nine but I remember everything. We were there to send off Shane. He’s ten years older. He was on the dock, dressed in his military uniform. He smacked me on the shoulder and told me to take care of our mother. She wasn’t happy when the ship pulled away. All the Irish soldiers standing on the upper deck, waving. She said she could understand America and its wonders attracting her son, but hated that a war might take him and kill him.

Did he die?

Not at all. He’s healthy as can be. He’s over in Canada. Got homestead land from the government. He’s living in the freezing snow, wearing bundles of coats and big snow boots. He says it’s lovely.

That’s good he didn’t die.

But I was telling you about Easter time when Shane went to war and I saw a man shot. We stayed the night at the Shelbourne. The women there dress in feathers and lace and pearls.

Very posh.

The next day my Mam packed our bag, and we stood outside the hotel waiting for our rented car. I thought I heard firecrackers, and I looked over at the building across the way. British soldiers were running along the street, looking up. I looked up, too.

What did you see?

I saw a man on the roof of the third story firing a rifle at the soldiers below.

Oh my lord. Were you scared?

It all happened too quick. More firecrackers went off from both sides of the street. A woman screamed and rushed past us. The boom and dust and glass shattering everywhere; it all just started happening. I thought it was a celebration. My heart was pounding. Then I heard the pop pop pop sounds again and knew it was gun fire. I pushed my mother as hard as I could into the lobby. People were running along the street, yelling and covering their heads. I squeezed between two old men in the lobby and peeked out the window.

Oh my lord. You were there? At the uprising? My brother says Patrick Pearce is a saint. He said the British bastards shot a saint. She turned toward Aidan, curling her legs under her. What else did you see?

Aidan paused before continuing; he instinctively knew to lower his voice for dramatic effect. I saw the man with the rifle. He pointed. Up there on the third story roof. Excited. He suddenly jumped from the top of the building. Slower now and almost a whisper. But then, I knew he hadn’t jumped. He’d fallen. He’d been shot.

Oh my lord. She had inched closer. The fragrance from her long hair was sweet as apples.

Aidan shook his head. He never got up. Pause, turn and look into her eyes. He was dead.

Her delicate fingers covered her mouth and then her hand rested on his. You were there Easter Monday in Dublin? During the killing? You saw that?

I only saw that one man die. He held her hand. My mother pulled me back from the window before I could see more. But later, my Da read to us that the bastard Englishmen killed hundreds of Irishmen during that struggle. I’m thinking to myself, here’s my brother going off to fight in the Englishman’s war and the next day they’re killing our people. My Da said it was an outrage. So, instead of being a soldier I’m going to be a rebel and join the Volunteers.

She snuggled against him. I’m not supposed to say, but my brother Frankie runs messages for the Volunteers. He hides them in laurel hedges. My mother’s sick with worry he’s going to prison.

Aidan nodded. Chris McSween’s brother got sent to Newbridge prison in County Kildare for helping the rebels ambush the English vans. He went for two years. Had boils on his neck when he came out.

They sat overlooking the brook, forming a wall of intimacy in back of them, keeping the rest of the world sealed off from their talk. They continued to