12
eighteenth birthday, and my father still squirmed like he was
being poked with a hot iron every time I stepped inside our fam-
ily-owned bar. A place he considered respectable for everyone
but his only daughter.
“Willa, go back upstairs,” Da snapped. “You still have matters
to discuss with your mother and Father 2’Sullivan. We’ll take
care of this.”
The tick in Da’s cheek, and the trickle of sweat tumbling down
Nick’s ginger-tinged hairline, said they had no idea how to handle
the situation.
A do]en blinking eyes watched from the rickety wood stools.
“Mind yer own business or get out,” Da barked in their di-
rection. The men bowed their heads, favoring drink over the
commotion happening next to the bar.
Blood continued to seep through the cloth as Paddy wobbled
on his feet. Da peeked under the thin rag he used to wipe up the
suds from an overpour. He took a deep gulp, his face whiter than
the sour milk Mam used in her soda bread.
ȊLooks like the tips of two of his fingers are gone.ȋ He spoke
more in the direction of Nick than me.
Blood pounded in my ears, its beat louder than the strum of
the nearby guitar. Why weren’t they doing anything to help him?
“Hurts,” Paddy mumbled in between rough gasps.
Da reached over the bar and popped the cork out of a bottle
of whiskey. He shoved the bottle to Paddy’s lips, watching him
take several deep swallows.
“Told you he was no good with a knife,” Nick grumbled. “But
no, you said ‘Sure, go on and have the lad chop up the vegetables
for the soup.’”
My ga]e moved to a spot behind the bar. Blood pooled on
