Colm returns with the next round of pints from the bar and takes his seat on the wooden bench beside you, where you sit watching the hurling game on television. It's Galway playing the team from Tipp. Everyone's rooting for Galway, because that's where you are.
Colm is a good tour guide and he has been filling you in on the last 2,000 years of Irish athletic history. "This is the fastest game in the world after ice hockey. Mad dangerous too. Someone's always getting clobbered."
One afternoon not long after, she hears music rising from the room and enters it expecting to see one of her daughters at the piano. (Any excuse to avoid their other studies.) Can’t believe what she sees. What she hears. Before the moment can overwhelm her he hits another chord, tinkles out another melody. Hands flashing everywhere.
They had to keep Percival McGann's casket closed for the wake. And nothing the mortician did – not the airtight sealing of the gold-embellished pine box or the wreaths made from woven palm fronds, hibiscus and hydrangeas – could mask the stench of the burnt corpse inside. Scores of mourners, mainly old cronies, distant relatives and current plantation workers in their wide-brimmed hats and stained overalls, stood in line to cast their eyes on what would be the last trace of the McGann way of life.
I played innocent. But I started to wonder if I’d been found out. It wouldn't have been the first time. Um-ma had many eyes in Bupyeong. A few weeks ago she found out that I stole a bicycle outside of town to joyride with the T-Shirt Alley boys. The Drunk, Stinky and Kim Soo were homeless and had nobody to answer to. But I got the end of the broom for that one. Last night I was careful. I was a true slickyboy, lifting a mug of Makali rice wine from an Ajjoshi at the local Korean bar. Running all the way to the bridge without being seen by any of Um-ma's spies, and without spilling a single drop.
From the moment Ana saw Isabel slip into Mama’s favorite dress, she knew that her sister wasn’t planning to return. Stealing that dress was like cutting Mama’s heart open with a toothpick. Isabel was tired of Mama controlling their lives and wasn’t about to let anyone get in her way from being with el guardia, the man Isabel called- El amor de su vida.
Dolores Reyes was amazed at how much shit a body could expel. She cleaned up after her mother again, only this time she removed Pilar’s nightgown without replacing it with a fresh one. All concerns for modesty fell away as the old woman lay nude beneath pale blue sheets and a snowdrift of blankets, wearing nothing but a Depends diaper and a simple silver cross. The beaded chain with the tiny silver crucifix had been dropped off last week by Tessie DeLeon, her mother’s closest friend, one of a handful of women in Pilar’s prayer circle.
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