“Great. Fine. That guy gives me the creeps.”
“Forget him,” Faye said, to herself as much as to Maeve. “Wieners and beans for lunch. And I thought I told you not to wear that shirt. It’s inappropriate.”
Maeve shrugged, headed down the stairs ahead of Faye. “I like it. And, by the way. Locks don’t stop rats, you know,” she said over her shoulder. “They squeeze in through cracks.”
The next day, Center Street was lined six-deep with spectators spangled in stars and stripes, parents craning for children performing, tourists covered in cotton candy and waving their flags. Faye and William stood with Thomas along a sawhorse barrier while Maeve and her friends perched on a nearby curb, ignoring adults with teenage precision. The grand marshal on the back of an open convertible led the procession, followed by antique cars and fire trucks and Shriners in clown cars, festooned floats for the garden club and the rotary club and Friends of the Lobstermen. Queens and princesses and sea goddesses waved like royalty. Sailors in dress whites escorted the Bath Iron Works float, which elicited big whoops from Thomas and William. Right after the high school marching band passed, Faye spotted the dance studio’s homemade banner, girls in green dresses and Mary Janes with ankle socks behind it. She nudged William and pointed. “Here they come!”
Only nine children took step class, and Molly, the smallest, was positioned at the point of theV, lead goose with her chin high, red springs bouncing around the white ribbon Faye had found buried in a drawer, and a grin that could bring ships home. Molly’s arms were stiff at her sides, feet crossed, toes pointed as piped-in music from a nearby float started playing. The older dancers were in perfect sync, while Molly and the other two littlest girls did a basic jig step.
“Looking good, Pix!” Maeve, standing now, yelled. Molly let herself get distracted for a moment, waved at her family, and they all waved back, charming the crowd even more. Mission accomplished. Her bounces got bigger, her toe-kicks higher. She was having a ball.
A voice drifted across the crowd from the other side of the street, chanting, “Good golly, Miss Molly! Good golly, Miss Molly!”
Conor O’Kane was half in the road, clowning an Irish dance. Faye could tell from the looks of him that he’d already been in the whiskey. When Molly saw him, she stopped in her tracks. Arms that were supposed to be stiff at her sides shot up to her waist, and the girls dancing behind had to stop with Molly in the way. He made an exaggerated gesture, his mouth in a circle, hands up to the sides of his head. Faye gripped William’s arm. She read Conor’s lips, an “Oh, shit!” followed by guffawing laughter. Glenda backhanded him then pulled him toppling into the crowd, setting off a stumbling chain reaction.
Molly, lost for a moment, stared at Faye and William.
William patted Faye’s hand. “You got it, Pixie!” he shouted as the dance teacher got her back in step. They marched by, and Molly kept her eyes only on her family, her steps slightly muted now, but the smile back on her face. Livestock brought up the rear, followed by street sweepers, the final act. The crowd dispersed, and O’Kane loped across the street toward them.
“I stopped by yesterday to see you, Will,” Conor said, panting a cloud of stale alcohol.
“So I heard.”
“How’ve you been?”
“Maeve!” Faye shouted. “Will you please go find your sister?”
Glenda fluttered her fingers, and Faye raised her hand dismissively. She had no interest in yet another conversation with Glenda ... something. Faye didn’t even know her last name. Mostly, she wanted to throttle Conor.
“Gladly,” Maeve said.
“Why don’t I catch up with you all by the bandstand?” William said, squeezing Faye’s shoulder. “I want to talk with Conor alone.”
A taunting look passed from Conor to Faye, as if they were children again, as if Conor were daring Fiadh, the other Fiadh, to say a dirty word, to lift her skirt, to secretly row a boat out into a bay.Ooooh, what do you think I’m going to say, Fee? Who’s going to stop me, Fee?Faye had a look for him too.Don’t test me, Conor O’Kane.
Over blueberry pie and strawberry ice cream, and with the girls out of earshot, William told Faye and Thomas what Conor was cooking up. “Says he’s collecting money to send to Ireland, to the IRA. He figured we’d be in a mood for revolution and independence today, me and your dad. Apparently, Glenda’s got brothers back home all wrapped up in The Troubles.”
Thomas dropped his paper plate on the grass, wiped his mouth with his fingers. “My guess is he’s not trying to send money. You hear things, down at Kelly’s. Fellas in Boston and New York, connected.” Thomas tapped his nose twice. “Been sending ArmaLites for years. Conor is the right fool to think gun running is like cigarette running. Feds are on those guys.”
“Guns, William? The IRA? Please, tell me you didn’t give him money!” Faye said. “He’d only come back for more.”
“Faye. No. I humored him but made it clear that I want nothing to do with his stupid schemes. He’ll wind up in jail or dead, mark my words.”
Maeve wandered over for seconds. “Claire’s dad says the IRA are terrorists.” She cut a slice of pie from the tin perched on top of a picnic basket and plopped it on her plate.
“Stay out of it, honey,” Faye said.
“Does he now, and what would he know?” William asked. “Here we are, celebrating America’s independence from the British. Does Claire’s father think our revolution was won with sweet talk and daisies? Perhaps Claire’s dad, the Loyalist, would like to go back to living under British rule here as well. Is he here then?” William asked, looking around mockingly. “Flying the Union Jack?”
“Sheesh,” Maeve said, eyes rolling. “I was trying to participate? In the conversation?”
“Are you going to continue to argue Irish politics with your high schooler, or can someone get an old man more pie?” Thomas asked, nudging his empty plate with a flick of his finger.
“Sorry I snapped at you, Maeve. Sensitive subject,” William said. “I told him to beat it, and him and that goofy woman of his took off. Maybe that’s the last of him.”
“Your mouth to God’s ear,” Faye said. “What a blessing that would be. Really, there’s not much here for him with Jean—with my mother—gone.”
Molly wiped a ring of berry juice off her lips with her wrist. “Are you talking about Fonzie? We saw him.”
