by Lori Saltis
Mom’s wearing workout clothes, so she must have just come from teaching a class on the Swift Step. I frown. She’s one of the masters of the art and because of her I’m pretty good at it, too. Thing is, she looks too pale and has got those dark circles under her eyes. She’s turning the pages of the magazine too quickly, like she’s not really seeing what’s on the page.
She nearly died when I was born. Later, she was diagnosed with some kind of heart disease that kept her from having any more kids. She isn’t supposed to exert herself too much, but she hates sitting around and loves teaching. Stress is what can really make her ill. I’m sure she knows what’s going on between Dad and Head Elder. Is it making her sick? If it is, why don’t the two of them cut their shit out?
Aaron glances up at me. He looks like a middle school version of Tony, right down to the critical frown. “Why are you standing there like that?”
Mom jumps up, the magazine falling to floor. “Have you seen your father?”
I nod toward the hall. “Yeah, he’s right behind me.”
Dad walks in. “We met in Head Elder’s office.”
Tony picks up the remote and turns off the TV.
“Hey!” Aaron cries out. Tony’s frown silences him.
Mom wipes her hands down her pants. “You saw your grandfather?”
“Yeah. He wanted to see my tattoo.” The patch of skin over my heart tingles. I scratch my leg. “He wants Dad to teach me the Dragon Shout, starting tomorrow.”
“What?” She turns to Dad, stuttering out her words. “But, but, I thought…”
Dad shakes his head.
Mom gives a short gasp. “No. There’s not enough time. He’s already missed too much school. I’ll tell my father.” She brushes past Dad, but before she reaches the doorway, she stops and turns.
My parents stare at each other without talking, not out loud, anyway. In Silent Speech, they’re probably shouting.
Tony herds Aaron and me out. We give each other wary glances before heading to our rooms. After closing the door, I flop on my bed and stare at the ceiling. A gecko stares back. It blinks once and goes back to searching for mosquitoes.
I wish I could confide in one of my cousins, but Aaron’s only twelve-years-old, and Tony… I heave a long sigh. If I admit to snooping, Big Brother will see it as his duty to report my misconduct. It’s weird how Tony, who’s such a cop, wound up with a father like Uncle George.
I reach under my pillow and slide out my drawing pad. Uncle George isn’t the only one with guilty secrets. This summer, I reread my favorite novel, Return of the Condor Heroes. At night, with the door closed, I’ve been drawing the characters.
I flip through the pages, quickly passing the bad starts and crappy stuff, and lingering on the decent drawings like the one of the giant eagle. I did okay with the feathers, but his beak and claws turned out pretty good. I keep flipping until I get to the hero of the novel, Yang Guo. I drew him with long, scraggly hair, dressed in patches and rags because he’s an outcast. He had it rough. Always misunderstood. Never good enough. Never what his elders want him to be. I know how that feels.
I turn the page. A girl dressed in a flowing white robe flies across the paper, a sword in her hand. Little Dragon Girl. Pretty, smart and brave. Just the kind of girl I’d like to date. I snort. Date. Yeah, right. I can only hope my parents keep their word and don’t arrange a marriage for me. Though their marriage had been arranged and they turned out okay. They seem to love each other.
Someone knocks. I slam the pad shut and shove it under the pillow. “Yeah?”
Mom leans in. “Your grandfather was pleased with your tattoo?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I pause. “Are you okay, Mom?
“Of course.” Her brow furrows. “Why?”
I shrug. “Just making sure. You take your medicine every day?”
Her strained smile softens. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She closes the door.
I reopen the pad to Little Dragon Girl. If only I can meet someone like her, someone who understands, someone whose family is as messed up and full of secrets as mine. Then I won’t feel so alone.
Chapter 3
Penny
I take off my jeans and tug on a pair of black bike shorts. Then I slip into my new skirt and twirl, watching the black and green satin shimmer in the bright beam of the study lamp hooked over the top of the desk. Nice lift without showing the goods beneath. I button up a matching satin blouse with gold flowers appliquéd down the front and finish off my costume with white ribbed socks that cover my calves.
There’s a tap at the door. Bridie enters. She’s wearing a cap-sleeved dress with a fall-colored floral pattern that sets off her curly red hair and bright green eyes. People used to mistake us for sisters. Not anymore. She looks her age and maybe even older. It makes me sad. Does it make her sad? Her smile holds little joy. “Are you ready, darling?”
Darling. I hate it when she calls me that. She never did before we left the Crossroads to plant ourselves among the Bleaters. It reminds me of how fake my life has become.
Anger clutches my throat and I can’t answer. Bridie must see it snapping from my eyes because she steps away without a word.
I tug on my clogs and clomp around the room, shoving my gillies and penny whistles into a gym bag. As I snatch the D whistle off the dresser, I come face-to-face with the photograph taped to the mirror.
Two men stand together, arms around each other’s shoulders, both with spiky black hair, multiple piercings and leather biker jackets, as alike as twins, except one is Irish and the other Chinese. Gerry had blue eyes, though he didn’t pass them on to me — mine are as green as Bridie’s. Matthew’s eyes were brown and Kai’s have turned out hazel.
Both Kai and I have pale skin and thick, reddish-brown hair, but that’s where our resemblance ends. I have Gerry’s round chin and pointy nose and Bridie’s rosebud mouth. Kai got Matthew’s blunt nose and chin, high cheekbones and full lips.
When Bridie met Bleater Bill, she told him a fake tale of being abandoned by her baby daddies. My mouth twists into a bitter curl. The truth is staring right at Bill if he ever takes a good look at the photo. Bridie wants me to take it down, but I refuse. Instead, I promised to fake if he asked who they were, to lie about the two men who’d been my fathers and her husbands.
My throat aches. I swallow hard.
Bridie and Kai walk past my room, carrying their instruments. I sling the gym bag over my shoulder and follow them downstairs. It’s the only house we’ve ever lived in and it’s enormous. Upstairs has two bedrooms, an office and a bathroom. The downstairs has a kitchen, a living room, the master bedroom and two bathrooms. Why so many bathrooms? There was only one in our caravan for five people and we made it work.
As we head toward the garage, we pass Bill, who’s settled on the couch in front of the TV. He holds a beer in one hand and clutches the remote in the other. He’s in his fifties, I think, since he’s both graying and balding, and has a gut spilling over his belt. He’s a partner at an accounting firm, whatever that means, and doesn’t like to exercise or go places, though he does like watching sport.
He’d been married before to a lady who’d died in a car crash. They didn’t have kids. Bill doesn’t seem to have changed anything since she died, not the aging furniture, the discolored drapes or the fading wedding photos hanging above the mantel. It feels like we’re guests and if the dead wife returns, we’ll be asked to leave.
Too bad the dead can’t come back to life.
Bill mutes the baseball game and twists toward us. He ignores me and Kai, and eyes Bridie’s dress from demure scoop neckline to ankle hem before he speaks. “What time will you be home?”
Bridie kisses his forehead. “By eleven, darling. Enjoy your game.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Bill turns back to the TV.
We load the instruments into the boot of Bridie’s car. I don’t fight when Kai insists on the passenger seat. The back suits me. I don’t want to talk.
As we pull out of the driveway, Bridie announces, “We’ll open with ‘Raggle Taggle Gypsy’.”
Kai groans. “We always open with ‘Raggle Taggle Gypsy’.”
“It’s a good opener. You have to learn that, Son. Start with a song that has some excitement, but not all the excitement. You need to build your list. Ebb and flow.” We come to a stoplight. Bridie glances back at me. “What sounds good for your first dance? ‘Boys of Ballisodare’?”
“Okay.”
“Your skirt looks lovely, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I gnaw my lip. “Why don’t you wear the skirt I made you?”
“Well, you know, darling, Bill doesn’t like me wearing something so short.”
“It’s not that short.”
“Bill thinks it is.”
I clutch my elbows. Bridie always wore miniskirts before – my chest tightens – before everything went to hell. Now, pleasing Bill is everything. She can’t waste her Charm on things like skirt length. It’s a precise tool, to be applied at the right moment and with the right amount of pressure. Any enjoyment we get out of life now depends on that delicate silver thread.
I want to blurt out the truth so bad. Will Bill be so generous if he finds out his submissive wife and her children are Gypsies?
When we reach Clement Street, Bridie pulls into the loading zone in front of the Auld Sod. It’s an Irish pub with two Republic flags hanging on either side of the front door in case the name isn’t obvious enough. We’ve performed here almost every Thursday since we arrived in the U.S. We could have performed more if Bill would let us.
Inside, the usual punters line the bar, mostly Sharpers of the traveling variety. The Auld Sod is a Crossroads crib, and good thing, too, or it’d be out of business like a lot of the local shops. The Crossroads has its own economy and ways of earning gelt. The ups and downs of the Bleater world don’t affect us much. Which is another reason Bridie shouldn’t have married Bill. Even skilled Bleaters can’t find work lately. How does she think she’s going to make any money outside tips?
A cheer rises as we enter. Bridie’s face lights up and she calls out greetings to the Strowlers she knows by name. A whole family of Wrens has shown up, along with a Snipe, a Tern and a couple of Warblers. She looks so alive, so much like her old self. The crack in my heart becomes more jagged.
She stops, full on, causing me to bump into her.
At the other end of the bar stands a man wearing a bulky black and silver Raiders jacket over a pair of faded jeans a size too small. His meaty hands grasp the backs of two barstools as he stares at the bartender pulling down a tap to fill a pitcher.
I grit my teeth at the sight of his shaved head and ruddy, weathered face. Why does he have to be here?
Bridie continues walking at a normal pace. As we approach the man, he turns out, blocking our way. His flint eyes fix on Bridie and he tilts his head. “Well, well. Look who we have here.”
The sound of his voice with its long southern drawl makes me want to kick something.
“Good evening, Mr. Kingfisher,” says Bridie.
“Now, Bridie, how many times do I have to tell you? Everyone calls me Kingfisher.”
“Kingfisher, then. Good evening.”
If only we could tell him to bugger off, but he’s the Upright Man, head of the Strowlers in San Francisco, and like it or not, we have to acknowledge him and be polite.
We head for the refuge of the stage at the back of the bar, little more than a raised platform against an exposed brick wall that’s hung with a green and gold banner proclaiming, “It’s the Craic!” Except it’s the exact opposite of the craic with Kingfisher here. He’s like Bill: he sucks the fun out of the room.
While Bridie and Kai tune their instruments, I sit on the top stair and lace up my soft-soled gillies. In front of the stage, there’s a small wooden dance floor surrounded by tables. As usual, Kingfisher settles himself front and center with a pitcher of beer. While he slurps through the suds, he keeps his beady eyes fixed on Bridie, like he’s in stalker heaven. If Gerry or Matthew were here, they would dump that pitcher over his head and toss him out the door, Upright Man or no. It’s a good thing Bill isn’t here. Kingfisher would show even less respect to a Bleater than a Sharper and chat up Bridie right in front of him. And then Bill would forbid us from performing ever again.
The thin, leather lace snaps as I tug it too tight. “Bugger,” I mutter. I yank it out and reach for a new one in my bag. If only I could dump that pitcher over Kingfisher’s ugly pate, but it would only make things worse. Bridie would have to apologize, making her obliged to Kingfisher. Who knows what he would ask of her. No, scratch that. I know exactly what he would demand. The new lace almost snaps between my fingers.
The tables and standing room around the stage fill up, though Kingfisher remains solitary. Other Sharpers walk over to him and shake his hand or linger to talk, but none sit with him. None dare, not without invitation, and Kingfisher isn’t inviting.
At eight o’clock, Bridie and Kai strap on their guitars and I pick the high D penny whistle from my bag.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Bridie says into the microphone at center stage. Then she strums the opening chords to ‘Raggle Taggle Gypsy’.
The crowd, especially the Strowlers, breaks into applause. Kingfisher whistles and pounds the table. The pitcher shivers and the beer sloshes.
Bridie stops strumming and sings the first verse a cappella, her high, clear voice sweet, though with a sly edge that suits the lyrics.
“There were three gypsies a come to my door,
And downstairs ran this lady, O!
One sang high and another sang low,
And the other sang bonny, bonny, Biscay, O!”
At the chorus, her fingers move to the guitar strings. Kai and I step forward to join in. Dancers step onto the wooden floor, blocking Kingfisher from view.
I tap my foot to the beat as I play the penny whistle. It feels so right, how things should be: my family on stage, surrounded by an audience. All that’s missing… my throat tightens. I lower the penny whistle and cough. I have to stop thinking about my fathers. They’re dead. This is my life now, a shadow of what it had been. Is a shadow worse than nothing at all?
I swallow to moisten my mouth and put the whistle to my lips. Bridie finishes the final chorus and strums to the end of the song.
Applause and cheers fill the pub. Bridie bows her head. “Thank you. If you’ll be so kind as to clear the floor, we’ll play a jig and my daughter, Penny, will show you some real Irish dancing.”
I step off the stage and onto the floor. As the crowd moves aside, I find myself facing Kingfisher. Foam drips down his shirt as he swigs his beer. I wish I’d worn my hard shoes so I could somehow “accidentally” kick him in the bollocks. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. He isn’t worth the consequences. I have to forget about him and focus on the music or my timing will be off. I look over my shoulder. Bridie tucks her fiddle to her chin and Kai holds the bodhrán. I nod. They nod back and begin playing ‘The Boys of Ballisodare’.
Arms at my sides, I step to the beat of the jig, lifting my legs into high kicks that bring cheers from the crowd. Dancing in front of an audience is the best because I forget myself and become another person: the dancer, an otherworldly girl who knows a fairy secret shared by few others.
As the jig finishes, I bow. Applause dances across my skin, making me smile. My hands brush down my skirt. It must have looked nice as it swung along in time to the music. I should make another using the same pattern. I return to the stage without a glance at Kingfisher, willing his vile presence to blend in with the rest of the crowd.
We perform for another thirty minutes. Bridie alternates between guitar, fiddle and mandolin while Kai plays the guitar or the bodhrán. I play penny whistle or the bodhrán and dance two more jigs. When we finish our last song, Bridie leans into the microphone and says, “Thank you. We’ll be taking a short break and be back to pla
y another set.”
I follow my mother into the ladies’ room. Bridie goes straight to the mirror, sets her purse on the counter and takes out her compact. As she powers her face, she says, “Darling, your skirt is gorgeous. I should wear that one you made me. It would look marvelous with my suede boots.”
I almost agree, until I think of Kingfisher’s eyes on her. My arms cross as I lean against the counter. “Why does he have to be here every time?”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
She applies a fresh red coat of lipstick and smacks her lips. “He’s the Upright Man. We can’t get on his bad side. Just smile, regardless of what he says.” She avoids making eye contact in the mirror.
I shrug. No way would I smile at that bounce.
We reenter the bar and Kai is sitting at Kingfisher’s table. Fear spreads across my chest. Has he done something to offend the Upright Man? I suck in my breath and turn to my mother. The tight line of her mouth curls upward.
“Here come the ladies.” Kingfisher’s jovial drawl doesn’t match his hard gaze. “Thought I’d buy the boy a pop.”
Kai sits on the edge of his chair, straw in his mouth. He looks up at me and rolls his eyes.
“How sweet,” Bridie exclaims. “Son, did you thank Mr. Kingfisher?”
“Just Kingfisher. Have a seat.” He pushes out the chair next to him with his foot. “What can I get you ladies?”
Bridie perches. “Just water. I have to save my voice.”
“Nothing,” I say as I sit between my mother and brother.
Kingfisher turns toward the bar. “Two waters over here.”
My shoulders tighten. I don’t want to be obliged to him, not even for water.
Kingfisher reaches over and rubs the top of Kai’s head. Kai pulls back and glares. “Quite a little spark plug you have here, Bridie. How much does that Bleater husband of yours know about these kids and their dads?”
Fear returns, only this time it burrows into my gut. After we arrived in San Francisco, Kingfisher showed up at our first gig at the Auld Sod and already seemed to know everything about us. Our “shame” is common cackle among the Dublin Strowlers. All I can figure is one of the rakes Bridie turned away had leaked to Kingfisher out of spite.
