cops. Once in a blue moon, one of them made it to the mayor’s office or city hall. Those ones were remembered the longest, them and the criminals. (The Bulger family—perhaps the most famous in the neighborhood—had raised one of each, a major politician and a crime boss.)
Ann Marie’s own brother, Brendan, had gotten caught up in it all. They called him a mobster in the newspaper, but it seemed an overblown word. He was only a baby, doing what he was told. They said he had helped Whitey Bulger murder a man, and maybe it was true. But when Ann Marie thought of him, all she could envision was a boy in short pants, sitting in the grass at Castle Island, with Boston Harbor stretched out in front of him, and the gray buildings of Southie behind. In her memory, he was eating a hot dog from Sullivan’s, his very favorite treat. His face was smeared with ketchup.
No one had heard from Brendan in twenty years now, at least as far as she knew.
From a young age, Ann Marie had vowed to marry someone from outside of Southie, someone with a bit of money in his pocket. She wanted to create a life with order and beauty to it. She was the first in her family to go to college, putting herself through St. Mary’s in the hope that she might find a nice Irish boy from Notre Dame. Patrick was exactly what she had wished for, and when she met him she worked hard to make him see that he needed her, that it was time to say good-bye to all the other girls.
When her mother met the Kellehers, she said they were lace curtain snobs as far as she was concerned, but Ann Marie ignored her.
Until recently, she thought she had done well. But the uncertainty of raising three children could wear on her, even now—especially now. When she thought about that unpleasant business with Little Daniel and his last job, when she thought about Fiona, she wondered if she was somehow to blame for all of it.
Where were her children at this moment? Were they wearing seat belts? Did they still believe in God? Did they understand not only how to keep house, but why? Had she done enough? Could a mother ever do enough?
She padded down the hall, careful not to make a sound as she passed by the door at the top of the stairs, even though she knew Pat could sleep through a tornado.
They hadn’t shared a bedroom since Fiona went off to college ten years earlier. At first, it had been a temporary thing: his snoring kept her up nights, and she wanted a break. But time passed and it felt comfortable, really, to be able to spread out, to not have to elbow him every hour and tell him to roll over onto his side. They went on that way, neither of them ever suggesting that they return to sharing a bed.
Ann Marie had seen an entire episode of Oprah devoted to the topic: What happens when a couple starts sleeping in separate bedrooms? But it didn’t bother her. That part of their marriage was done, that was all. She still loved her husband. They had a beautiful home and three wonderful children. They got along fine and had loads of friends to socialize with, and they never fought. That was better than a lot of people could say.
No one knew about the sleeping arrangements. They still slept together when the kids came home, though there had been one embarrassing incident when Fiona brought a couple of friends from Trinity for Thanksgiving, and found the bed in the guest room rumpled and unmade. Ann Marie improvised, and told them that she had spent a night in there the week before, when Pat had a bad cold.
“He insisted, so I wouldn’t catch it,” she said in a rush. “I can’t believe I forgot to change the sheets.”
“Watch it, lady, you’re really starting to slip,” Fiona said jokingly, suspecting nothing.
In the kitchen, Ann Marie flipped on the overhead light and ground up some coffee beans that a client of Pat’s had sent as part of a gift basket. She shook them into the coffeemaker, taking in the rich scent. She added water from the pitcher in
Ann Marie’s own brother, Brendan, had gotten caught up in it all. They called him a mobster in the newspaper, but it seemed an overblown word. He was only a baby, doing what he was told. They said he had helped Whitey Bulger murder a man, and maybe it was true. But when Ann Marie thought of him, all she could envision was a boy in short pants, sitting in the grass at Castle Island, with Boston Harbor stretched out in front of him, and the gray buildings of Southie behind. In her memory, he was eating a hot dog from Sullivan’s, his very favorite treat. His face was smeared with ketchup.
No one had heard from Brendan in twenty years now, at least as far as she knew.
From a young age, Ann Marie had vowed to marry someone from outside of Southie, someone with a bit of money in his pocket. She wanted to create a life with order and beauty to it. She was the first in her family to go to college, putting herself through St. Mary’s in the hope that she might find a nice Irish boy from Notre Dame. Patrick was exactly what she had wished for, and when she met him she worked hard to make him see that he needed her, that it was time to say good-bye to all the other girls.
When her mother met the Kellehers, she said they were lace curtain snobs as far as she was concerned, but Ann Marie ignored her.
Until recently, she thought she had done well. But the uncertainty of raising three children could wear on her, even now—especially now. When she thought about that unpleasant business with Little Daniel and his last job, when she thought about Fiona, she wondered if she was somehow to blame for all of it.
Where were her children at this moment? Were they wearing seat belts? Did they still believe in God? Did they understand not only how to keep house, but why? Had she done enough? Could a mother ever do enough?
She padded down the hall, careful not to make a sound as she passed by the door at the top of the stairs, even though she knew Pat could sleep through a tornado.
They hadn’t shared a bedroom since Fiona went off to college ten years earlier. At first, it had been a temporary thing: his snoring kept her up nights, and she wanted a break. But time passed and it felt comfortable, really, to be able to spread out, to not have to elbow him every hour and tell him to roll over onto his side. They went on that way, neither of them ever suggesting that they return to sharing a bed.
Ann Marie had seen an entire episode of Oprah devoted to the topic: What happens when a couple starts sleeping in separate bedrooms? But it didn’t bother her. That part of their marriage was done, that was all. She still loved her husband. They had a beautiful home and three wonderful children. They got along fine and had loads of friends to socialize with, and they never fought. That was better than a lot of people could say.
No one knew about the sleeping arrangements. They still slept together when the kids came home, though there had been one embarrassing incident when Fiona brought a couple of friends from Trinity for Thanksgiving, and found the bed in the guest room rumpled and unmade. Ann Marie improvised, and told them that she had spent a night in there the week before, when Pat had a bad cold.
“He insisted, so I wouldn’t catch it,” she said in a rush. “I can’t believe I forgot to change the sheets.”
“Watch it, lady, you’re really starting to slip,” Fiona said jokingly, suspecting nothing.
In the kitchen, Ann Marie flipped on the overhead light and ground up some coffee beans that a client of Pat’s had sent as part of a gift basket. She shook them into the coffeemaker, taking in the rich scent. She added water from the pitcher in
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