sit down and talk.”
Jerry didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she was. Jacinta had been out for the weekend, and, for the first time, his mother let them spend the night together. She told them that she felt they were almost ready to become a married couple again.
Jerry resented that but couldn’t complain—even when Granny used Jacinta as a skivvy, having her fetch and carry from the shops as well as doing the weekly wash. On the way back to the hospital Jacinta had encouraged him to be patient.
**
“She won’t live forever but in the mean time we just have to be nice and go along with her. She’s just old and wants everything to be her way. And don’t you be fretting about me. I’m just happy that I can get out every weekend.”
The doctor had told her that Granny had spoken to him about how well she was doing; how she seemed so much better and how Granny was beginning to depend on her—now that she was a bit poorly. The doctor also told Jacinta that, if she kept it up, they would see about letting her out for good.
“We can’t mess that up now—after all we’ve been through.”
Jerry wrapped his arm around her shoulders as the rain began, pulling her closer to him and steadying her umbrella between them. He didn’t look at her face—at the desperation in her eyes. She would do anything to get out and his mother would see that she did.
But it was probably for the best. He couldn’t look after his mother and Danny. He could barely look after himself. When Jacinta moved back they could be a family again, and, maybe by then, his mother would finally give them some credit for that.
When they got to the gate Jacinta squeezed his arm and turned away before her eyes welled up.
“Wait,” he called after her. “Gimme a kiss before you go.”
Jacinta came back and pecked his cheek. “Now go on and catch Danny’s match; it’ll mean the world to him if you’re there. It’ll be the proudest day of his life.”
Yes. It was better to go along with things for now and not rock the boat. Maybe his mother might even leave them some money, so that they could go on being a family after she’d gone.
***
Bloody Sunday was the day that changed everything, Jerry decided as Danny strummed a few new chords. That’s when the entire population of Ireland got off the fence. An angry mob razed the British Embassy and the IRA blew up an army barracks in Aldershot, killing a bunch of ordinary people, mostly women—and a Catholic British Army chaplain.
And his own mother spent her time in front of the TV, cheering them on all the way.
Jerry tried to explain that his mother was sick and that she didn’t mean to say all the terrible things she was saying, but Danny told him it was okay. He said he wanted to hear what Fr. Reilly would have to say about it, first. They could talk about it afterwards.
And when they all went to Mass the following Sunday, to ask God for forgiveness, and to take care of the matter for them—unworthy as they were and prone to lusting for vengeance and all other kinds of sins, Fr. Reilly had denounced it all.
“Love your enemies,” he pleaded with them. “Our Savior asked this of us and what do we do? We go out in mobs and behave like the savages they accuse us of being. We had a chance to prove we were worthy of God’s love by turning the other cheek but we failed. We failed because we put our pride in country between us and God’s power to forgive. I’m ashamed to call myself Irish. We’re no better than the English and they barely have any religion at all.”
Half the congregation had walked out muttering that they wouldn’t return “until the damn young fool apologized.” They even threatened to march on the Bishop’s Palace and demand that the young curate learn to keep a civil tongue in his head and not be berating those who had always stood by, and supported, the Church. It wasn’t for the likes of him to be telling them how they should
Jerry didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she was. Jacinta had been out for the weekend, and, for the first time, his mother let them spend the night together. She told them that she felt they were almost ready to become a married couple again.
Jerry resented that but couldn’t complain—even when Granny used Jacinta as a skivvy, having her fetch and carry from the shops as well as doing the weekly wash. On the way back to the hospital Jacinta had encouraged him to be patient.
**
“She won’t live forever but in the mean time we just have to be nice and go along with her. She’s just old and wants everything to be her way. And don’t you be fretting about me. I’m just happy that I can get out every weekend.”
The doctor had told her that Granny had spoken to him about how well she was doing; how she seemed so much better and how Granny was beginning to depend on her—now that she was a bit poorly. The doctor also told Jacinta that, if she kept it up, they would see about letting her out for good.
“We can’t mess that up now—after all we’ve been through.”
Jerry wrapped his arm around her shoulders as the rain began, pulling her closer to him and steadying her umbrella between them. He didn’t look at her face—at the desperation in her eyes. She would do anything to get out and his mother would see that she did.
But it was probably for the best. He couldn’t look after his mother and Danny. He could barely look after himself. When Jacinta moved back they could be a family again, and, maybe by then, his mother would finally give them some credit for that.
When they got to the gate Jacinta squeezed his arm and turned away before her eyes welled up.
“Wait,” he called after her. “Gimme a kiss before you go.”
Jacinta came back and pecked his cheek. “Now go on and catch Danny’s match; it’ll mean the world to him if you’re there. It’ll be the proudest day of his life.”
Yes. It was better to go along with things for now and not rock the boat. Maybe his mother might even leave them some money, so that they could go on being a family after she’d gone.
***
Bloody Sunday was the day that changed everything, Jerry decided as Danny strummed a few new chords. That’s when the entire population of Ireland got off the fence. An angry mob razed the British Embassy and the IRA blew up an army barracks in Aldershot, killing a bunch of ordinary people, mostly women—and a Catholic British Army chaplain.
And his own mother spent her time in front of the TV, cheering them on all the way.
Jerry tried to explain that his mother was sick and that she didn’t mean to say all the terrible things she was saying, but Danny told him it was okay. He said he wanted to hear what Fr. Reilly would have to say about it, first. They could talk about it afterwards.
And when they all went to Mass the following Sunday, to ask God for forgiveness, and to take care of the matter for them—unworthy as they were and prone to lusting for vengeance and all other kinds of sins, Fr. Reilly had denounced it all.
“Love your enemies,” he pleaded with them. “Our Savior asked this of us and what do we do? We go out in mobs and behave like the savages they accuse us of being. We had a chance to prove we were worthy of God’s love by turning the other cheek but we failed. We failed because we put our pride in country between us and God’s power to forgive. I’m ashamed to call myself Irish. We’re no better than the English and they barely have any religion at all.”
Half the congregation had walked out muttering that they wouldn’t return “until the damn young fool apologized.” They even threatened to march on the Bishop’s Palace and demand that the young curate learn to keep a civil tongue in his head and not be berating those who had always stood by, and supported, the Church. It wasn’t for the likes of him to be telling them how they should
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