Page 5 - My FlipBook

rose from the pub. The terrifying sound rattled the walls like the
small earthquakes that frequently shook our tiny apartment.
“Was that Paddy?” I asked.
Da and Father ’Sullivan fro e in place. Mam locked eyes with
me. Her lips went so tight I thought they might shatter.
“Don’t you dare, young lady. Your da can go and see what’s
happening downstairs.”
Before she could reach out and stop me, I jumped from the
chair and escaped out the door. I hopped down the first step and
took the rest of the stairs two at a time. nce through the solid
oak door connecting the first floor lobby to the pub, I batted my
way through a foggy ha e of cigarette smoke in desperate search
of my brother, Paddy.
The room bu ed with early evening revelry. The twang of the
fiddle beat against my ears as the folk band played yet another
rendition of “Molly Malone” to a crowd of ironworkers fresh off
their shift at the half-built bridge spanning the Golden Gate.
I raced through the ma e of bar stools and tables. Swirls of
dancing men and women spun around me, their limbs loose from
pints of ale and good music. With each step, my saddle shoes
popped up from the floor, the wood planks sticky from the beer,
whiskey, and bourbon spilled over the course of a long day.
More than a few drunk men tipped their hats in my direction.
“Good day, Willa,” they murmured as I rushed to the end of the
mahogany bar. nce there, I found Nick, one of my four brothers,
holding a blood-soaked cloth over Paddy’s hand.
“What happened?” I asked doing my best to keep the quiver
from my voice.
Da rushed past me. His face twisted as I stood amid the noise
of clinking glasses and voices raised in song. Weeks past my

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