Do I? Do I? Well, Id rather be a messenger boy than the likes of
Laman Griffin oul drunkard with the snotty nose and his loft and peo-
ple climbing up there with him.
She walks away from me and I follow her upstairs to the small
room. She turns, Leave me alone, leave me alone, and I keep barking at
her, Laman Griffin, Laman Griffin, till she pushes me, Get out of this
room, and I slap her on the cheek so that tears jump in her eyes and
theres a small whimpering sound from her,Youll never have the chance
to do that again, and I back away from her because theres another sin
on my long list and Im ashamed of myself.
I fall into my bed, clothes and all, and wake up in the middle of the
night puking on my pillow, my brothers complaining of the stink,
telling me clean up, Im a disgrace. I hear my mother crying and I want
to tell her Im sorry but why should I after what she did with Laman
Griffin.
In the morning my small brothers are gone to school, Malachy is
out looking for a job, Mam is at the fire drinking tea. I place my wages
on the table by her elbow and turn to go. She says, Do you want a cup
of tea?
No.
Tis your birthday.
I dont care.
She calls up the lane after me,You should have something in your
stomach, but I give her my back and turn the corner without answer-
ing. I still want to tell her Im sorry but if I do Ill want to tell her shes
the cause of it all, that she should not have climbed to the loft that night
and I dont give a fiddlers fart anyway because Im still writing threat-
ening letters for Mrs. Finucane and saving to go to America.
I have the whole day before I go to Mrs. Finucane to write the
threatening letters and I wander down Henry Street till the rain drives
me into the Franciscan church where St. Francis stands with his birds
and lambs. I look at him and wonder why I ever prayed to him. No, I
didnt pray, I begged.
I begged him to intercede for Theresa Carmody but he never did a
thing, stood up there on his pedestal with the little smile, the birds, the
lambs, and didnt give a fiddlers fart about Theresa or me.
Im finished with you, St. Francis. Moving on. Francis. I dont know
why they ever gave me that name. Id be better off if they called me
Malachy, one a king, the other a great saint. Why didnt you heal
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