the wrist, and they ran the rest of the way.
Big Tom said that if people weren't buying from the Cahills, they were buying from someone else. A few had the courage to go out with their own nets, and to these, Big Tom said, he wished best of luck. No one had access to those blackwater pools like Big Tom. The Cahills had been taking fish from the river since before Big Tom was born, before his father was born, and before his father as well.
Each spring, when the bailiff first knocked on the Cahill door, it sounded to Greta as if he and Big Tom were reading from cards, the way they do at school when they put on a performance. The two men had the same conversation every year.
"Now, John," Big Tom said when the bailiff came to the house in the spring of 1957. "I know what you're after and I'm telling you, you won't find what you're looking for here. It's Grady who has the idea in his head."
"Sure, I know it, Tom. And I also know that river is big and full to the brim. There's enough fish in that river to feed all of Ireland. And how are the boys?"
Big Tom shrugged, reached up to pry something from between his teeth. He clamped his hand on the man's shoulder. "Can I get you anything? A drop of
poitin
on this cool night?"
John Hogan looked around, and as Greta listened and Johanna
watched from the cracked kitchen door, the house seemed to hold its fishy breath.
"I would, if it's in it. Mind you, just a drop now, Tom."
Mr. Grady was another story, and when any of the Cahills saw him coming on the road, they were to tell Big Tom or Lily immediately. If someone in the family was out, whoever was home was to tie a handkerchief on the knob of the front door as a warning. Jack and Padraic could handle themselves, and Mr. Grady never bothered with Little Tom. He liked to get the girls, alone if possible, and there was an often-repeated story about Johanna, at four years old, announcing to Mr. Grady what a fine, big fish her Pop had caught the day beforeâhow if the fish had feet and were to stand up, he'd be almost as tall as herself. Big Tom had had to give up the net for weeks.
Lily tried to keep the girls away from him, but they had to go to school, their chores took them far from the house, and there were plenty of opportunities for Mr. Grady to catch them on their own. Lily accepted this and worked on Greta in particular.
"What did you have for supper last night?" Lily asked. Mr. Grady would never start so bluntly, but it was an exercise. First, Lily warned, he might make conversation about what he ate the day before. He might even mention that salmon were in season.
"Rabbit," Greta said.
"And lunch?"
"Only a piece of brown bread."
"And did I see your father and brothers go out the house late last night? No trouble, I hope?"
"Last night? Sure they were asleep in their beds from eight o'clock on."
"Good girl, only don't blink so much. And don't fidget with your hair. And don't you dare put that knuckle in your mouth when he's talking."
Â
Greta's sight wasn't perfect, but it had improved tremendously. After only a few weeks she'd stopped feeling nauseous. She'd even stopped putting her hands to her face every few seconds. Despite her improved
eyesight, Lily knew that people still saw something wrong with Greta, as if they'd decided something about her so long ago that a change as simple as glasses could do nothing to alter that opinion. The old goosi-ness had not disappeared. At nine, Greta walked and sat and listened the way she always had, out of habit. The heavy black-rimmed glasses added a kind of last stroke, a final ingredient to the whole concoction. People thought she was slow, simple, and Lily knew this was why, out of all of them, Mr. Grady would want to put his questions to her; like most people, he thought Greta was too innocent to lie.
One morning in late spring, just after dawn, Mr. Grady surprised Greta as she was walking from the henhouse back to the cottage. He came up behind her and wished
Big Tom said that if people weren't buying from the Cahills, they were buying from someone else. A few had the courage to go out with their own nets, and to these, Big Tom said, he wished best of luck. No one had access to those blackwater pools like Big Tom. The Cahills had been taking fish from the river since before Big Tom was born, before his father was born, and before his father as well.
Each spring, when the bailiff first knocked on the Cahill door, it sounded to Greta as if he and Big Tom were reading from cards, the way they do at school when they put on a performance. The two men had the same conversation every year.
"Now, John," Big Tom said when the bailiff came to the house in the spring of 1957. "I know what you're after and I'm telling you, you won't find what you're looking for here. It's Grady who has the idea in his head."
"Sure, I know it, Tom. And I also know that river is big and full to the brim. There's enough fish in that river to feed all of Ireland. And how are the boys?"
Big Tom shrugged, reached up to pry something from between his teeth. He clamped his hand on the man's shoulder. "Can I get you anything? A drop of
poitin
on this cool night?"
John Hogan looked around, and as Greta listened and Johanna
watched from the cracked kitchen door, the house seemed to hold its fishy breath.
"I would, if it's in it. Mind you, just a drop now, Tom."
Mr. Grady was another story, and when any of the Cahills saw him coming on the road, they were to tell Big Tom or Lily immediately. If someone in the family was out, whoever was home was to tie a handkerchief on the knob of the front door as a warning. Jack and Padraic could handle themselves, and Mr. Grady never bothered with Little Tom. He liked to get the girls, alone if possible, and there was an often-repeated story about Johanna, at four years old, announcing to Mr. Grady what a fine, big fish her Pop had caught the day beforeâhow if the fish had feet and were to stand up, he'd be almost as tall as herself. Big Tom had had to give up the net for weeks.
Lily tried to keep the girls away from him, but they had to go to school, their chores took them far from the house, and there were plenty of opportunities for Mr. Grady to catch them on their own. Lily accepted this and worked on Greta in particular.
"What did you have for supper last night?" Lily asked. Mr. Grady would never start so bluntly, but it was an exercise. First, Lily warned, he might make conversation about what he ate the day before. He might even mention that salmon were in season.
"Rabbit," Greta said.
"And lunch?"
"Only a piece of brown bread."
"And did I see your father and brothers go out the house late last night? No trouble, I hope?"
"Last night? Sure they were asleep in their beds from eight o'clock on."
"Good girl, only don't blink so much. And don't fidget with your hair. And don't you dare put that knuckle in your mouth when he's talking."
Â
Greta's sight wasn't perfect, but it had improved tremendously. After only a few weeks she'd stopped feeling nauseous. She'd even stopped putting her hands to her face every few seconds. Despite her improved
eyesight, Lily knew that people still saw something wrong with Greta, as if they'd decided something about her so long ago that a change as simple as glasses could do nothing to alter that opinion. The old goosi-ness had not disappeared. At nine, Greta walked and sat and listened the way she always had, out of habit. The heavy black-rimmed glasses added a kind of last stroke, a final ingredient to the whole concoction. People thought she was slow, simple, and Lily knew this was why, out of all of them, Mr. Grady would want to put his questions to her; like most people, he thought Greta was too innocent to lie.
One morning in late spring, just after dawn, Mr. Grady surprised Greta as she was walking from the henhouse back to the cottage. He came up behind her and wished
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