the ground that night in spite of what the bastards tried to do, and when I have enough saved I’m going to get it repaired and move us all back—Ma, Paddy, you, and me—”
Frank’s laughter cut me short. He stood up and faced me.
“Will you listen to yourself,” he said. “Jesus, will you just listen to yourself. The great Eileen O’Neill is going to make the world right for all of us!”
“I’m serious,” I yelled.
Frank stopped laughing. His face turned dark despite the sunlight. He felt in his pocket and pulled out the stub of a cigarette and a match. He struck the match on the ground and lit the stub, inhaling long and hard and blowing the smoke into the air. He coughed.
“Well now, I have a surprise for you, miss,” he said, looking straight into my face. “The Yellow House belongs to me. Isn’t that a joke? Oul’ P.J. came and told me that being as I’m the oldest surviving son, it’s to pass to me when I come of age. That eejit Billy Craig’s father beyond at the bank is holding all the papers on it.”
“But… but you’re not even an O’Neill,” I blurted out. I was sorry the minute I said it, but the shock had knocked all sense out of me.
“No, I’m not. And that’s why I’ll be selling it as soon as I’m able. Good riddance to all it stands for.”
“No!” I cried. “Ah, Frankie, no. You can’t mean that.” I reached out my hand to his. He shook me off. “But what about the O’Neill legacy?” I said.
“I don’t give a shite about the O’Neill legacy.”
“But you used to,” I cried. “You believed in it as much as I did. We used to fight over who would make the best warrior. Remember? Remember?”
He said nothing and turned to go. I caught his arm and wrenched him to a stop. “You can’t do this,” I cried. “This is my dream. This is what keeps me going.”
“You’ll just have to find another dream, then, won’t you?”
He strode off toward the stables.
“Have you no loyalty?” I shouted after him.
He turned briefly. “None at all,” he said.
I sat on the wall and watched him go. My body felt heavy, as if I had been thumped and pummeled by some marauding animal. I did not think I could move again. I rode the emotions that flowed through me: anger, sadness, shock, pity, fear—I could take my pick. Eventually, I picked anger, and I turned it on P.J. P.J. had known about the house ever since Da’s death, yet he had let me blather on for months like a fool about how I would restore it and reunite us all. Now I understood why he had not wanted me to see Frankie. He knew the truth would come out. The fury gave me energy, and I jumped on my bicycle and pedaled across the grass, past the stables, down the avenue, and out the gate. I had to get away from that evil place. It was cursed. I pedaled down to the village, the rosebushes a blur beside me, the greetings of strangers unheeded. I marched into the pub and tapped P.J. on the shoulder.
“I’m ready to go now,” I announced.
P.J. did not press me. He knew by the look on my face what had happened.
“We’ll go home, so,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Take me up to Glenlea. I want to see the Yellow House.”
I SAT ON Calmor’s Rock, an outcropping halfway up Slieve Gullion, where Frankie and I played as children. Images of the small boy grinning in triumph after he scrambled ahead of me and claimed the rock for himself brought unwanted tears. How could I stay angry with him? I could not hate him for clutching the small staff of power that fate had handed him and lashing out with it at everyone who had hurt him. I would likely have done the same myself. But I also knew myself well enough to know that I could not give up my rage. Rage is what had fueled me all this time. If I let it go, what would become of me? Would I become like all the other women beyond at the mill—passive, powerless, destined for a life of slow, creeping despondency that even marriage and children could not cure? No.
Frank’s laughter cut me short. He stood up and faced me.
“Will you listen to yourself,” he said. “Jesus, will you just listen to yourself. The great Eileen O’Neill is going to make the world right for all of us!”
“I’m serious,” I yelled.
Frank stopped laughing. His face turned dark despite the sunlight. He felt in his pocket and pulled out the stub of a cigarette and a match. He struck the match on the ground and lit the stub, inhaling long and hard and blowing the smoke into the air. He coughed.
“Well now, I have a surprise for you, miss,” he said, looking straight into my face. “The Yellow House belongs to me. Isn’t that a joke? Oul’ P.J. came and told me that being as I’m the oldest surviving son, it’s to pass to me when I come of age. That eejit Billy Craig’s father beyond at the bank is holding all the papers on it.”
“But… but you’re not even an O’Neill,” I blurted out. I was sorry the minute I said it, but the shock had knocked all sense out of me.
“No, I’m not. And that’s why I’ll be selling it as soon as I’m able. Good riddance to all it stands for.”
“No!” I cried. “Ah, Frankie, no. You can’t mean that.” I reached out my hand to his. He shook me off. “But what about the O’Neill legacy?” I said.
“I don’t give a shite about the O’Neill legacy.”
“But you used to,” I cried. “You believed in it as much as I did. We used to fight over who would make the best warrior. Remember? Remember?”
He said nothing and turned to go. I caught his arm and wrenched him to a stop. “You can’t do this,” I cried. “This is my dream. This is what keeps me going.”
“You’ll just have to find another dream, then, won’t you?”
He strode off toward the stables.
“Have you no loyalty?” I shouted after him.
He turned briefly. “None at all,” he said.
I sat on the wall and watched him go. My body felt heavy, as if I had been thumped and pummeled by some marauding animal. I did not think I could move again. I rode the emotions that flowed through me: anger, sadness, shock, pity, fear—I could take my pick. Eventually, I picked anger, and I turned it on P.J. P.J. had known about the house ever since Da’s death, yet he had let me blather on for months like a fool about how I would restore it and reunite us all. Now I understood why he had not wanted me to see Frankie. He knew the truth would come out. The fury gave me energy, and I jumped on my bicycle and pedaled across the grass, past the stables, down the avenue, and out the gate. I had to get away from that evil place. It was cursed. I pedaled down to the village, the rosebushes a blur beside me, the greetings of strangers unheeded. I marched into the pub and tapped P.J. on the shoulder.
“I’m ready to go now,” I announced.
P.J. did not press me. He knew by the look on my face what had happened.
“We’ll go home, so,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Take me up to Glenlea. I want to see the Yellow House.”
I SAT ON Calmor’s Rock, an outcropping halfway up Slieve Gullion, where Frankie and I played as children. Images of the small boy grinning in triumph after he scrambled ahead of me and claimed the rock for himself brought unwanted tears. How could I stay angry with him? I could not hate him for clutching the small staff of power that fate had handed him and lashing out with it at everyone who had hurt him. I would likely have done the same myself. But I also knew myself well enough to know that I could not give up my rage. Rage is what had fueled me all this time. If I let it go, what would become of me? Would I become like all the other women beyond at the mill—passive, powerless, destined for a life of slow, creeping despondency that even marriage and children could not cure? No.
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