and Mrs. Harrington is generous with the tip. But shes gone and
Mr. Harrington answers the doorbell. His eyes are red and he sniffles.
He says, Are you Irish?
Irish? What else would I be standing there on his doorstep in Lim-
erick with a batch of telegrams in my hand? I am, sir. He says, Come in.
Put the telegrams on the hall stand. He shuts the hall door, locks it, puts
the key in his pocket and I think,Arent Englishmen very peculiar.
Youll want to see her, of course.Youll want to see what you peo-
ple have done to her with your damn tuberculosis. Race of ghouls. Fol-
low me.
He leads me first to the kitchen where he picks up a plate of ham
sandwiches and two bottles, and then upstairs. Mrs. Harrington looks
lovely in the bed, blond, pink, peaceful.
This is my wife.She may be Irish but she doesnt look it,thank God.
Like you. Irish.Youll need a drink, of course.You Irish quaff at every
turn. Barely weaned before you clamor for the whiskey bottle, the pint
of stout.Youll have what, whiskey, sherry?
Ah, a lemonade will be lovely.
I am mourning my wife not celebrating the bloody citrus.Youll
have a sherry. Swill from bloody Catholic fascist Spain.
I gulp the sherry. He refills my glass and goes to refill his own with
whiskey.Damn.Whiskey all gone.Stay here.Do you hear me? Im going
to the pub for another bottle of whiskey. Stay till I come back. Dont
move.
Im confused, dizzy from the sherry. I dont know what youre sup-
posed to do with grieving Englishmen. Mrs. Harrington, you look
lovely in the bed. But youre a Protestant, already doomed, in hell, like
Theresa. Priest said, Outside the Church there is no salvation. Wait, I
might be able to save your soul.Baptize you Catholic.Make up for what
I did to Theresa. Ill get some water. Oh, God, the door is locked.Why?
Maybe youre not dead at all? Watching me. Are you dead, Mrs. Har-
rington? Im not afraid.Your face is icy. Oh, youre dead all right. Ill
baptize you with sherry from bloody Catholic fascist Spain. I baptize
thee in the name of the Father, the Son, the
What the bloody hell are you doing? Get off my wife,you wretched
Papist twit.What primitive Paddy ritual is this? Did you touch her? Did
you? Ill wring your scrawny neck.
I I,
Oi, Oi, speak English, you scrap.
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