Free Of Irish Blood by Mary Pat Kelly Page B

inch. Good, but so rich. St. Bridget’s looked more like the devil’s food cake with white boiled frosting that Mam made for our birthdays. Delicious and you could eat more than one piece.
    So, Blessed Mother, I said, kneeling in front of the altar that displayed her picture as Our Lady of Perpetual Help. What do I do? The priest accused me of enjoying my sin and, well, I do. If I didn’t, there’d be no problem. Not proper, I suppose, to speak to you about carnal knowledge. But I’ve checked every statue in the place trying to find a “Holy Woman, neither Virgin nor Martyr” like the missal says. Such saints did exist, but most of them were queens, Elizabeth of Hungary and Bridget of Sweden and Elizabeth of Portugal.
    “Powerful women, girls,” Sister Ruth Eileen had told us during religion class at St. Xavier’s, “who served God and helped their husbands.”
    Most of them had hotfooted it into the convent as soon as their husbands died, but at least they’d been with men. They were saints and yet they might understand why what happened with Tim in that small room seemed so natural. So, well, pleasant. In fact, when Tim wanted to hurry through our encounters to get back to his horses or collect Dolly, it was me who tried to prolong our sessions. I wonder, was it the same for those noble ladies? The kings, their husbands, off to the cabinet meeting and them in the bed ready for more?
    I glanced up at Our Lady of Perpetual Help. A queen herself, outlined in gold and stern-faced with an oddly shaped infant Jesus sitting bolt upright in her arms. Greek, and the original painted by St. Luke, Sister Ruth Eileen had told me.
    And then the prayer jumped out of me. Oh please, Mary, give me the strength to leave Tim. That’s what I want! Get away from him. Sure now. I’m so tired of being a sinner.
    But then that Fairy Woman spoke up. What harm are you doing?
    Well, there’s Dolly, I said.
    That got a laugh.
    And I’m lying all the time. Living two lives.
    So. You earn good money, are your own boss, and have never done better work.
    True enough.
    After her marriage to John Larney, Rose left the studio and I acquired a staff of three girls to make patterns of my sketches and sew up sample dresses. I sat in my studio and sketched away, humming and singing, the pencil moving by itself as I drew skirts and blouses, added flounces and feathers.
    And I must say, I was easier to be with at home after my time with Tim. I stayed on at Hillock. Getting my own place as Aunt Máire had would have led to talk. Important not to arouse suspicion. We Kellys weren’t the only family of aging brothers and sisters in Bridgeport living together.
    Ten rosaries!, I thought. I’ll say them on the tram, I told Our Lady. Too quiet in here, too many voices.
    I stood up and noticed a box built into the altar rail with a sign that said, PETITIONS. Next to it, a stack of papers with a pencil tied on a string.
    Petitions. But what should I ask for? I remembered that the sisters at St. Xavier’s had an all-purpose category. “Pray for a special intention,” they’d say. So I wrote “Special Intention” on the paper and put it through the slit in the box. Not even sure what I wanted.
    As I had left the church I thought of another saint—Augustine. “Make me chaste, Lord, but not now.” Amen to that.
    But that winter I begin to take chances. Staying late with Tim after work, missing dinner, getting home at midnight.
    And then early one morning in January 1911, I found Henrietta waiting up for me.
    “Where have you been?” she asked.
    “I got inspired,” I said, “stayed in the studio, lost track of time.”
    “Inspired? Is that what it’s called nowadays? I saw you get out of an automobile. Whose?” Henrietta said.
    “The night porter gave me a lift home.”
    Actually I was driving Tim’s car, while he nodded off in the passenger seat. Proud of the driving skills he had taught me.
    “What’s his name?”
    “Martin Smith. He