Free Mercy of St Jude by Wilhelmina Fitzpatrick Page B

can’t sit silent any longer. “For Christ’s sake, Aiden, there’s a youngster involved here.”
    Aiden whirls on her. “Mind your own goddamn business, Annie.”
    â€œNo, I won’t. Pat’s right. You should have done the right thing.”
    â€œListen to you,” he mocks, “picking up for a Griffin.”
    â€œWho happens to be raising a kid without a father.”
    â€œFucking Griffins are all sluts and homos and liars. Just ask Dad – he’ll tell you.” Frank Hann had nursed a particular disliking for Sadie ever since she’d accused him of stealing from the church. “Like mother like daughter, I swear to God.”
    â€œNot like you at all, eh?” Pat jumps back in. “Hand always on the zipper, then not man enough to own up to it when it comes back at you—”
    â€œShut the fuck up, the two of you. I’m sick of your sanctimonious bullshit. As for you, Pat, I’m glad Aunt Merce got me off your stinking boat. And even if she did what you said,” he continues, his voice tight with warning, “you knows it wasn’t me she was after. So in the end, whose fault was it?”
    Annie hears a noise from down the hall. “Okay, that’s enough. The last thing Mom needs is you two going at it.”
    Aiden walks to the sink and pours a glass of water. He looks at if for a moment then turns and raises the glass high. “To Mercedes. May she finally rest in peace.” Only his mouth smiles.
    Pat, looking relieved, gives in easily. “Good old Aunt Merce. Dead as a doornail and still pissing off the world.”
    Lucinda comes in, followed by Joe and Dermot.
    â€œNever known a woman harder to toast than Mercedes,” says Dermot. “She’s like just-baked bread, she is - keeps getting stuck in the toaster until it finally catches fire.”
    Lucinda rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “What are you like, Derm? A couple of belts of whiskey and out comes the philosophiser.” Her hand clasps his where it rests on her shoulder. “Speaking of bread, I got to get some from the freezer for tomorrow’s sandwiches. Wouldn’t want you crowd having nothing to soak up the suds.”
    She bustles off, yelling back for someone to go keep an eye on the coffin.
    â€œI’ll be right in, Mercedes,” Dermot calls out as he reaches under the sink. “Stay where you’re to till I comes where you’re at.” His hand reappears holding a paper bag. He winks at them all as he heads back to the living room.
    Pat and Aiden start to follow when Lucinda calls out from the basement. “Will one of you boys come down and give me a hand? This door is jammed again.”
    They stop in mid-stride and glance back at Annie. They shrug guiltily, as if they’ve been caught in the act of doing, or planning to do, something forbidden. Annie is reminded of when they were kids, they with no sisters and her in a family full of girls. A furtive flash here, a quick glance there, always imagining Lucinda or Aunt Kitty looming over their shoulders. Or, God forbid, Mercedes. But how else were they to know what the other half looked like? Her father locked a newspaper over the fly in his pyjamas if he was in the same room with his daughters, and Pat and Aiden only knew their mother’s underwear existed because she hung it in the furnace room to dry; Kitty Hann would never hang her brassiere outside on the clothesline. When it came to s-e-x, there wasn’t a book to be found until high school, and then it was a beet-faced Sister Angela reading it out to them, tight-lipped, cheeks bursting.
    Aiden heads down to help Lucinda. Several minutes later, he returns and places a mickey of rum on the table. Joe’s eyes light up.
    â€œYou’d find booze in a nursery,” says Annie. “Better not let Mom see that.”
    Pat is nodding. “Remember out in Bay D’Esprits. We’d be