looks so helpless I put my arms around him and help him off the swing. He hugs me. I won’t tell your story anymore. I won’t tell Freddie about Coo, Coo. I want to laugh but I can’t because the twins are crying in the pram and it’s dark in the playground and what’s the use of trying to make funny faces and letting things fall off your head when they can’t see you in the dark? The  Italian  grocery  shop  is  across  the  street  and  I  see  bananas, apples,  oranges.  I  know  the  twins  can  eat  bananas.  Malachy  loves bananas and I like them myself. But you need money, Italians are not known for giving away bananas especially to the McCourts who owe them money already for groceries. My mother tells me all the time, Never, never leave that playground except to come home.But what am I to do with the twins bawling with the hunger in the pram? I tell Malachy I’ll be back in a minute. I make sure no one is looking, grab a bunch of bananas outside the Italian gro- cery shop and run down Myrtle Avenue, away from the playground, around the block and back to the other end where there’s a hole in the fence. We  push  the  pram  to  a  dark  corner  and  peel  the  bananas  for the twins.There are five bananas in the bunch and we feast on them in the dark corner.The twins slobber and chew and spread banana over their faces, their hair, their clothes. I realize then that questions will be asked.Mam will want to know why the twins are smothered in bananas, where did you get them? I can’t tell her about the Italian shop on the corner. I will have to say, A man. That’s what I’ll say.A man. Then the strange thing happens. There’s a man at the gate of the playground. He’s calling me. Oh, God, it’s the Italian. Hey, sonny, come ’ere. Hey, talkin’ to ya. Come ’ere. I go to him. You the kid wid the little bruddas, right? Twins? Yes, sir. Heah. Gotta bag o’ fruit. I don’ give it to you I trow id out. Right? So, heah, take the bag.Ya got apples, oranges, bananas.Ya like bananas, right? I think ya like bananas, eh? Ha, ha. I know ya like the bananas. Heah, take the bag.Ya gotta nice mother there.Ya father? Well, ya know, he’s got the problem, the Irish thing. Give them twins a banana. Shud ’em up. I hear ’em all the way cross the street. Thank you, sir. 32