Of Irish Blood by Mary Pat Kelly

customers might buy a “Paris creation” for a very special occasion. Complicated though.
    Since Rose left, Susie Hanrahan works out the patterns. A young one from Bridgeport, ambitious but courting, she probably won’t be working with me much longer. Though she told me she intends to keep on here even after she married, and said her mother could look after her babies. “My Frank will understand. He’d better!” Good luck to her.
    Now Susie grabs the sketch and begins pulling out bolts of fabric. “Marshall Field sends buyers over to the Paris fashion shows,” she says. “They buy the real thing for their rich society lady customers. Why couldn’t we give our women a good copy?”
    Mr. Bartlett is intrigued when we show him the sketches. “All right, Miss Kelly. A one-off for the spring catalog and we’ll see what response we get.”
    Susie and I stay late wrapping each other in fabrics.
    “I suppose Dolly would never lend us the dress itself,” Susie says as I pinch and pleat the swathes of satin I drape over her. “You being so friendly with her and her husband.”
    “He’s not her husband,” I say. “Her manager.”
    Susie says nothing. Does she know? Does everyone? Over. It’s over.
    *   *   *
    Tim is stretched out on the bed naked when I let myself in the next day, Tuesday. Late. Six o’clock and the Angelus ringing at Holy Name. No sheets. Only the dirty mattress.
    I have my speech all ready. We had a good run of it, I’ll say. We’ll part as friends, and on and on. But under all the calm words I’m frightened. I think of how he took me by the shoulders, shook me. So ugly when he said, “I could ruin you.” Careful. I’ll be careful.
    I’ve always welcomed the isolation of this dim room. The courtyard-facing window lets only the barest bit of light in through its grimy cover. A space apart, the Fairy Woman’s cave.
    But now I feel trapped. No big speeches, Nonie, I say to myself. A few words and skedaddle.
    Tim’s half asleep, the heft of him like some reclining giant. Balor of the One-Eye, the villain in so many of Granny’s stories. And I can’t let the sleeping giant lie. No, I start talking, trying to make him understand, to justify the last eight years to him and to me. I sit on a chair next to the bed and go on about our great passionate love that just couldn’t be. “Apologize for your behavior at the wedding, and then I’ll go.”
    “Shut your gob,” he says.
    “What?”
    “Dolly’s going to Paris. Leaving on the train for New York tomorrow morning,” he says. “I’m staying. She’ll be gone a month. You’ll move in here. Time I started getting more out of you. Sick of your high-hatting family. You’ll come with me to the casino at night.”
    “No. No, I won’t. Didn’t you hear me? It’s over between us.” How could he think I would want to be seen with him?
    “Take your clothes off. Hurry up. I’m meeting a fellow at the casino at seven.”
    I stand up. A dignified good-bye and I’ll be gone.
    “I’m leaving, and won’t be back,” I say.
    He grabs my skirt, jerks me back down onto the chair, clamps one big hand on my arm and holds me still as he sits up and leans toward me.
    “Didn’t you hear me? I said strip.”
    “If you think I’m going to…”
    “You want me to smack you right in the puss?”
    “Are you drunk?”
    He gets out of the bed, picks me up, and flings me down onto the mattress. When I try to sit up he shoves me back down.
    “God, Nora, the way you cover everything with palaver. A woman’s a place to park my pod. I’ve taken more trouble with you than any man should have to. At first I liked making you holler. The little virgin begging for more. But now…” He holds my chin and turns my face toward him. “Lines around your eyes, Nora. Getting old. Be glad I still want you. Start unbuttoning.”
    “Tim, I’m not, I…”
    And he slaps my face. Hits me with his open hand, a hard blow.
    I scream and turn away from him.