A Slip of a Girl Read online

  and maybe take us in.

  I wake Nuala.

  It’s time to be away

  from this empty house,

  which looks lonely

  in the daylight.

  We need food

  to keep us going.

  Feed the fire,

  Da would say,

  before it goes out.

  And us with it.

  We walk through a village,

  pass the church,

  and a few houses nestled together.

  I peer in the small window

  of a grocery store

  and go inside.

  The shelves seem as empty

  as last night’s house.

  A man wearing a shapeless hat

  stands behind the counter,

  “Please,” I begin.

  I don’t have time for more.

  He waves his arms at us.

  “Tinkers,” he yells.

  “Out of here.”

  I want to tell him

  we’re not those people

  who wander around the country,

  strange and different,

  begging,

  and maybe stealing.

  A terrible thought:

  Will we come to that?

  A woman comes from a curtain

  in back.

  “Tom,” she says, and no more.

  She pours us milk from a jug.

  She presses brack, still warm,

  in our hands.

  We sit outside

  to eat the fruited bread,

  and drink milk

  that belonged to a cow

  an hour or so ago.

  Inside again,

  we give back the cups.

  The woman is gone.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The man shakes his head

  and turns away.

  But I’m strong again.

  There’s one less village

  to go through.

  The road circles and winds.

  Sometimes I walk on gravel

  that’s sharp between my toes.

  Sometimes I tread along dirt,

  with patches of water

  that reflect the sky.

  My throat is dry.

  I reach down,

  careful not to jostle Nuala,

  and pop a stone into my mouth.

  My tongue washes it clean.

  I sit on a rocky wall,

  and roll it against my teeth.

  It’s as good as a sip of water.

  Almost.

  People pass us,

  paying no attention,

  they have their own troubles

  to think about.

  A carriage comes by.

  I see a woman in a feathered hat.

  She has no problems.

  She has time to stare at us.

  I try not to pay attention.

  Instead,

  I think about the road

  in front of us.

  The Well

  LOST!

  A day wasted,

  veering east

  instead of south.

  Since yesterday,

  I’ve become a thief.

  I stole food from a field,

  and from a village store.

  We’re bone thin,

  skin bruised,

  my toes missing nails.

  How many days

  have we been on the run

  sleeping in sheds,

  or on the damp ground?

  How long have I carried Nuala,

  her arms wound around my neck,

  stopping to smooth down her hair,

  to tell her I love her?

  “Love Anna,” she says back.

  I count five.

  Five days?

  This morning,

  I see steps going down,

  running with water.

  Nuala points. “What?”

  I shake my head.

  “We’ll see.”

  We slide down the stairs,

  into a cave.

  In the center is a well.

  A statue of a woman

  leans over it.

  A poor statue,

  missing hands,

  her cloak green with mildew.

  “It’s a holy well,”

  I tell Nuala.

  “The statue is a saint,

  maybe to watch over us,

  but I don’t know her name.”

  Nuala doesn’t care about holy wells.

  She’s thirsty.

  We lie on the rocks

  and scoop water

  into our dry mouths,

  bathe our lips with it.

  Please, I whisper

  to the saint’s poor cracked face.

  She stares at the water

  with painted blue eyes.

  I look at Nuala,

  the sister I love.

  Water drips from her chin.

  She should be sitting by the fire

  on this cold and miserable day.

  She should be in the house

  built by Mallon hands

  four hundred years ago.

  I stand up,

  take her hand.

  I won’t give up,

  even if I have to walk

  a hundred miles,

  a thousand.

  I’ll get Nuala to a place

  that’s warm and safe.

  I nod at the saint.

  “Thank you for the water,”

  I say.

  Nuala adds,

  “Yes.”

  Outside,

  the glistening sun

  leads us.

  We keep going.

  The River

  IT’S warm today,

  and wind pushes us along.

  Black-faced sheep with curved horns

  chase each other in the field.

  Nuala takes her hand away

  from mine.

  She wants to twirl down the road,

  her arms in the air.

  The rims of her nails

  are crescents of dirt.

  Mine are too.

  I have to do something

  to clean us up.

  I pull her along

  to the river’s edge.

  It’s wild and deep.

  White curls on top

  blow in the wind.

  We dip our hands and feet

  into the swirling water.

  “Cold,” Nuala says,

  splashing herself.

  A policeman comes near,

  swinging his club.

  But we’re days from prison,

  just two girls taking a rest.

  Still I turn my head away,

  and feel my heart ticking.

  Market day in Athlone, County Westmeath

  (This image is reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland L_ROY_02921.)

  Lough Ree

  CLOUDS are mirrored

  on the silver water.

  Athlone is down the road,

  with houses

  sistered together,

  split by a gravel road.

  I ask about Ethna at a shop.

  The man wipes his hands on his apron.

  He goes to the door

  and points the way.

  We’re almost there.

  The road is hard packed earth.

  Sheep graze in a fie
ld,

  their sides splashed with blue,

  their owner’s mark.

  We come to the Aunt’s door

  as the sun falls over the land.

  Inside, a dog barks

  and Nuala hides her face

  in my waist.

  I want to hide my own face.

  Instead, I raise my chin,

  shake out my blaze of hair,

  and knock on the closed door.

  Nothing happens.

  No one comes.

  I peer through the cracks

  at a slice of hearth

  with burning peat.

  A lighted candle flickers

  on a table.

  And oh!

  The Aunt, wearing a white cap,

  sits at a small loom:

  the loom Mam’s great-grandfather built.

  Her back is straight

  as a blackthorn tree.

  She pays the dog no heed,

  so I pound.

  My knuckles are raw.

  The dog scrabbles at the door

  to get out to me.

  That brings her to her feet.

  I step back

  as if I haven’t been peering in

  at her and her loom.

  She opens the door

  and eyes me.

  “You needn’t make that racket,”

  she spits out.

  If it weren’t for Nuala,

  I’d go on.

  But a surprise.

  Nuala, the shy,

  the fearful,

  holds out her arms.

  The old aunt,

  spider thin with a sting,

  her face lined,

  her upper lip like cat’s

  whiskers,

  reaches out and takes her.

  She turns back to the loom

  with Nuala hanging on.

  “Sit, Madra,” she tells the dog.

  There’s nothing I can do,

  but follow,

  stepping around the dog

  who stretches out

  on the floor.

  The Loom

  THE Aunt sits herself

  on the rush-seat chair.

  With Nuala on her lap,

  she runs one hand

  over the even lines of wool

  on her loom.

  “Nuala,” I whisper urgently.

  Her head turns toward me.

  She smiles a crooked smile,

  but nestles closer in

  the Aunt’s arms.

  I bite my lip,

  take a chunk of my thumbnail.

  I can’t start feeling sorry

  for myself.

  The dog watches me,

  one ear up,

  the other down.

  His tail thumps uncertainly,

  until I run my hand

  over his rough head.

  He moves closer

  to my feet.

  I’m family now.

  At least the dog thinks so.

  I’m dizzy for food.

  I glance at the hearth.

  An iron pot swings

  to one side.

  Is there anything in it?

  A quick look at the Aunt’s table:

  cones of wool lay there,

  instead of food.

  But maybe the cabinets hold

  a jug of oats,

  or greens for soup.

  “We’ve come a long way,”

  I say,

  to remind her of manners.

  No matter how poor we were,

  we always gave something

  to strangers at our door,

  if only a cup of water boiled

  with a little chickweed.

  She pays no attention to me.

  Nuala hums one of Da’s songs

  to herself.

  I see Da’s face,

  those faded blue eyes.

  I feel his strength.

  I will not ask for food

  for myself,

  but I have to do it

  for Nuala.

  “My sister needs…”

  I begin.

  The Aunt doesn’t answer.

  I start again.

  “She has to have…”

  Then I realize:

  the dog, Madra,

  barked loud enough

  to raise the thatch

  off the roof.

  I pounded at the door

  bruising my knuckles.

  The Aunt can hardly hear!

  I step around in front

  of her.

  I raise my voice.

  “My mother was a Rogers,” I say.

  She peers at me with old eyes,

  milk over blue.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  she says.

  “Rogers hair,

  red as…”

  She doesn’t finish.

  She begins again.

  “My mother, my grandmother.

  The color of rusty nails.”

  She raises her eyes

  to the ceiling.

  I’ve often thought it myself.

  But, “My father thinks it’s lovely,”

  I say.

  She shakes her head.

  “My sister needs something

  to drink,” I manage,

  ignoring my own manners.

  “You see I have my arms full.

  The child needs care,”

  she says as if I don’t care

  for Nuala.

  Miserable old woman!

  Nuala pats the Aunt’s face.

  She pats Nuala’s.

  “I need to find water for my sister,”

  I say.

  “In the pot on the hearth,”

  she answers.

  “But I’d give her milk

  from the cow.”

  A cow!

  “Milk cools under the house

  in back,” she says.

  “A rock marks the place.”

  A Brown Cow

  OUTSIDE, I walk around

  the house,

  weeds high,

  my head bent to see

  underneath.

  In an open shed,

  a cow waits patiently

  for night to be over.

  I pat her broad back,

  and step away

  from her swishing tail.

  Near a pointing rock,

  I find the jug of milk,

  its metal sides cool.

  If we stayed,

  Nuala would have milk

  every morning,

  all from that one cow.

  Maybe there’d be hens

  who’d lay eggs

  for her to eat.

  I’d watch her grow strong,

  her cheeks growing round,

  her arms less like sticks.

  If only we could stay

  for a while.

  I try not to think about my hill,

  about my house,

  and the hearth.

  Is it all still there?

  Did the bailiff tumble it

  to the ground?

  Are our bits and pieces gone?

  And Da!

  Is he alive somewhere?

  I try not to think about Liam.

  I’ll never see him again.

  I touch the book at my waist.

  “Horse,” I whisper for comfort.

 
But that’s not for now.

  Now is for Nuala.

  Now is for milk.

  Back inside,

  the Aunt points to a rack

  with a few chipped cups.

  I take only one and pour.

  Cream rises to the top.

  I long for a sip.

  But, “Both hands, Nuala,” I say.

  She reaches for it,

  still on the Aunt’s lap,

  and gulps the milk down.

  I look away.

  The Aunt twitches one bony shoulder.

  “Is it a saint you are?”

  She glares at the ceiling,

  where a cobweb floats gracefully.

  I’m no saint.

  I pour a scant cup for myself,

  and sip it slowly, making it last.

  Thank you, saint of the well.

  The Aunt points to the room

  below the hearth.

  “I suppose you could sleep there.”

  I can hardly keep my eyes open.

  I reach for Nuala.

  Hair flying,

  she shakes her head.

  The Aunt almost smiles.

  “There’s room for the child

  in my bed,” she says.

  I take the empty cups,

  wipe them out,

  then go into the small room,

  to sleep alone,

  without a sister.

  I allow myself a few tears.

  But the dog climbs up,

  and warms my feet.

  I whisper his name

  gratefully.

  “Madra.”

  Days

  THE days pass like beads

  on a string.

  The first day,

  I watch the Aunt milk the cow,

  with Nuala leaning over her.

  Milk spurts into the pail.

  “I’ll do this from now on,”

  I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  The second day,

  she brings six chicks inside.

  “I’ll feed them from now on,”

  I say.

  She puts a chick in Nuala’s hands

  and looks away from me.

  Every day I sweep.

  Please see that I’m a worker.

  I know she notices.

  Nothing escapes her,

  except the sound of words,

  the clucking of hens,

  the moo of the cow,

  the bark of the dog.

  My voice.

  She doesn’t have much to eat.

  But she shares what she has,

  without a word.

  One morning, I walk around

  to the shed…

  and jump!

  A boy.

  I’ve seen him before

  in the next field,

  tending to his sheep.

  He has the beginning

  of a messy beard.

  His sleeves are ripped.

  Strings hang from his jacket,

  where buttons used to live.