XVIII
Im seventeen, eighteen, going on nineteen, working away at Easons,
writing threatening letters for Mrs. Finucane, who says shes not long
for this world and the more Masses said for her soul the better shell
feel. She puts money in envelopes and sends me to churches around the
city to knock on priests doors, hand in the envelopes with the request
for Masses. She wants prayers from all the priests but the Jesuits. She
says,Theyre useless, all head and no heart.Thats what they should have
over their door in Latin and I wont give them a penny because every
penny you give a Jesuit goes to a fancy book or a bottle of wine.
She sends the money, she hopes the Masses are said, but shes never
sure and if shes not sure why should I be handing out all that money
to priests when I need the money to go to America and if I keep back
a few pounds for myself and put it in the post office who will ever
know the difference and if I say a prayer for Mrs. Finucane and light
candles for her soul when she dies wont God listen even if Im a sin-
ner long past my last confession.
Ill be nineteen in a month.All I need is a few pounds to make up
the fare and a few pounds in my pocket when I land in America.
The Friday night before my nineteenth birthday Mrs. Finucane
sends me for the sherry.When I return she is dead in the chair, her eyes
wide open, and her purse on the floor wide open. I cant look at her
but I help myself to a roll of money. Seventeen pounds. I take the key
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