“But afterward, he was so heartbroken that I…” Kendra sighs, the smile fading. “I decided it was right that I should give something up, too.”
God. Aislyn has to swallow, hard, to muster words. “You never told Dad?”
“Why would I?” So many answers wrapped up in that one. Why would she tell a conservative, son-hungry man that she’d aborted his baby? Why tell a husband that it was his fault for forcing her to choose between one dream and another? And then there is the matter of how he would have reacted.
Aislyn shifts again, realizing she’s drawn back from her mother a little. She didn’t mean to. It’s just… a lot.
But her mother isn’t done. “So I hoped you would make it out. I thought at least one of us should, I don’t know, see the world? Try new things. It’s why I sent for those brochures from colleges in the city.” She grimaces a little as Aislyn stares at her again in shock. Aislyn had gotten in so much trouble for those brochures. Her father had assumed she’d requested them. He’d ranted for most of the night about how terrible the city was, and how much he’d sacrificed to keep her safe, and how it was her choice of course but he expected her to make good choices. A week later, she’d enrolled in the College of Staten Island.
“Jesus Christ,” Aislyn mutters—and then she winces, realizing she’s forgotten herself. Her mother has always grumbled about blasphemy when her father says the same thing.
“Yeah, that was a real shitshow, wasn’t it?” her mother says. Okay, Aislyn’s going to stroke out any minute now. “Sorry.”
Finally, though, her mom gets to her feet and turns to Aislyn. All at once Aislyn finds herself imagining a different version of her mother: still the same woman, still limned by the distant light of the city—but wearing a stylish little black dress and with her hair elegantly coiffed instead of just a fraying bun at the back of her neck. The way she’s seen concert pianists dress on TV. There would be fewer lines in her face, Aislyn decides, considering this stranger who has been her mother for thirty years. Lighter circles under her eyes, if any. And her eyes would be just beautiful, instead of beautiful and tired and sad.
Then the moment passes, and Kendra is just Kendra again.
“Don’t stay here,” she says to Aislyn. “Just don’t… if the city calls you, Lyn, listen to it. And go.”
Then she pats Aislyn on the shoulder and heads for the roof access door. Aislyn sits there for a long hour more, staring not at the city, but at the door that her mother passed through.
As Aislyn comes downstairs, she realizes someone else is in the dining room with her father. That’s unusual enough; Aislyn’s father doesn’t like intruders on his territory. But when she leans around the door to see who it is, she is surprised to find her father sitting at the dining table with a man of about Aislyn’s age whose entire appearance screams antifa. Or commie, or weed head, or any number of other things that Matthew Houlihan has called young men who look like this. The young man is wearing perfectly rectangular black-rimmed glasses and a conspicuously old-fashioned mustachio, curled and waxed at the tips. His arms—mostly bare; he seems to be wearing only a short-sleeved button-down with suspenders, the kind of outfit her father has called “gay” on other men—display unimpressive biceps and such a profusion of tattoos that Aislyn cannot make any one of them out. He sits close to Aislyn’s father, kitty-corner at the table edge, showing him something on a tablet computer; they’re both snickering at whatever it is, like small boys at CCD lessons on Sundays. Her father, a broad man even up to his balding pate, is literally twice the younger man’s size. It’s like watching a bulldog snicker at a dachshund’s jokes.
Then they both look up, and Aislyn is caught staring. Her father immediately beams and beckons her into the room. “Hey, yeah, Apple, come on in. I want you to meet a friend.”
Aislyn comes in, trying not to frown so that she can be polite, but… her father does not have friends. He has “guys from work,” who are cops as well—and to judge by his comments about them, her father regards most of those as rivals for the rank of detective, which he has been striving to achieve for most of Aislyn’s life. He goes drinking and occasionally to ball games with them, however, and this apparently serves as enough of a substitute for friends that he’s never sought anything else. And yet here is her father, grinning as he says, “This is Conall McGuiness—” And then he laughs, as Aislyn cannot help widening her eyes at the name. “Good Irish name, right? Always liked that one.”
Conall laughs, too. “Blame my father.” Matthew chuckles and slaps him on the back, while Conall regards Aislyn. “Very nice to meet you, Aislyn. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Um, hopefully all good,” Aislyn banters by rote, trying not to squirm. She’s gotten better at this since she was a child, when she would simply stand before strangers without speaking, having frozen up—but she’s still not good at it. Usually, her father knows this and gives her plenty of warning before he brings a stranger home, for her sake. “Nicetomeetyoutoo, thanks.” And to her father, just because the curiosity is killing her, she adds, “Is this, ah, somebody else from work?”
“Work? Eh, no.” Her father’s still smiling, but all at once Aislyn knows that he’s lying. But what is the lie? Conall doesn’t look like a cop. He doesn’t feel like a cop, although Aislyn’s cop-dar is understandably limited in its scope. But maybe Conall is a friend of cops, in general. “We’re just working on a thing together, kiddo.”
“A hobby,” Conall adds, and then he and Aislyn’s father dissolve into boyish snickering again. Aislyn has no idea what’s so funny.
When they recover, Conall is the picture of pleasantry. “Apple, huh? That’s cute. I figured you’d have a nickname based on Aislyn. Dreams, dreamer, dreamy, you know.”
That’s the meaning of Aislyn’s Gaelic name, which Aislyn looked up in a book once when she was a child. “You really are a true son of Ireland, huh.”
Conall grins. Aislyn’s father nods approvingly and adds, “Apple ’cause she’s my little apple, here in the Big Apple. I started calling her that when she was little and she loved it.”
Aislyn has always loathed this nickname. “Do you, uh, need anything to eat or drink, Conall? Dad?”
“We’re good, kid. Hey, but, Conall, Aislyn’s a great cook. Even better than her mother. Kendra!” It’s a sudden bellow that makes Aislyn jump, but for once, her father isn’t angry. Kendra appears immediately, and Matthew gestures vaguely toward the back of the house. “Make up the guest room, babe, Conall’s going to stay with us for a couple of days.”
Kendra nods, nodding again to Conall in lieu of a greeting. Then she hesitates. “Lyn and I already ate, though.” And the leftovers are already put up for the night, if Conall’s hungry. It’s also a commentary on the fact that Matthew came home later than usual tonight.
Matthew’s smile vanishes almost instantly, and Aislyn’s belly clenches almost as fast. “Did I ask when you ate?”
She is relieved when Conall straightens a little, drawing both her parents’ attention back to himself. “Thank you for looking after me,” he says to Kendra, and flashes a charming smile. “Wow, Matt didn’t lie, Mrs. Houlihan, you really are beautiful.”