sight. The beard was a bit misleading. Salt-and-pepper hair, the hair in his beard darker than the hair on his head. Nice eyes, funny how you noticed the eyes more because of the beard. Ten years ago, he must have been really handsome. Now he looked like he was turning into a cartoon version of himself, his face all droopy and jowly.
She kept having to remind herself that he was her cousin. It didn’t feel like they were from the same family. It didn’t feel like they were from the same species.
New Jersey, he was from. He seemed surprised that she didn’t know this about him.
“Spring Lake, New Jersey,” he said proudly. “Most Irish town in America.”
And she winced.
He looked puzzled.
“You don’t believe me!”
But it wasn’t that Addie was finding it hard to believe him. It was something he would never be able to understand. She didn’t want to believe him.
To Addie, Irish America was something you wanted nothing to do with. Irish Americans were fat people in check trousers and baseball hats who descended out of tour buses onto Nassau Street and waddled into Blarney Woollen Mills to buy Aran jumpers. They were red-faced people in sneakers who hung around the National Library trying to trace their family tree. They were people who attended fund-raising dinners in hotel ballrooms in Boston and New York and talked nonsense about the North. They spoke too loud and they pronounced all the place names wrong. The very thought of an Irish American in search of his roots was enough to make you squirm.
Of course Bruno was oblivious to all the negative connotations he was arousing. He had no idea of all the prejudices and petty resentments he was stirring up. He was under the impression that he had nothing to be ashamed of.
“My sisters were all champion Irish dancers,” he said happily. “My sister Megan still teaches at the Lynn Academy of Irish Dance in Audubon, New Jersey.”
And Addie cringed again, thinking, what have I got myself into?
“What are your plans for the day?”
“Do some work, I suppose.” God, she was a terrible liar.
“Seems a shame to be stuck inside while the sun is shining outdoors. Isn’t there any chance you could take the day off?”
Americans and their sense of endless possibility, it caught Addie off guard. She couldn’t think of a way out quickly enough. She didn’t want to think of a way out.
“Listen,” she said, “I’m an architect. I can probably take the whole year off.”
HE THOUGHT SHE was joking about the swim.
“Yeah, nice day for a swim,” he had said, laughing.
She had left him waiting in the car while she ran up to check on her dad. She had started the engine, so the heat would come on while he was waiting. Thoughtful of her.
He leaned forward to turn the radio on again. They were talking about the election. They had some guy from NPR on the line and they were talking about Wednesday night’s debate. Who won, who lost. CNN polls and CBS polls and they were saying Obama won, no question. McCain lost, he went over to the dark side and he lost. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll lose the election, said the presenter. And the reporter came back in. No, ma’am, all it means is that he lost the debate. The election is still anybody’s guess.
Bruno reached over and turned the radio off. He sat there in the buzzing silence and let the hot air blow over him. He breathed in through his nose, letting the air out again slowly. It was hard not to get upset about it. Even at this distance, it was hard not to get upset.
Why did Bruno care about it so much? Sometimes he hardly understood it himself. It had crept up on him, like everything else in his life. He wasn’t a political animal, never had he thought of himself as politically engaged. He had been brought up Democrat, just like he’d been brought up Catholic. But the idea of getting involved in politics repelled him. Bruno was not a person to wear a badge on his lapel, he was not a
She kept having to remind herself that he was her cousin. It didn’t feel like they were from the same family. It didn’t feel like they were from the same species.
New Jersey, he was from. He seemed surprised that she didn’t know this about him.
“Spring Lake, New Jersey,” he said proudly. “Most Irish town in America.”
And she winced.
He looked puzzled.
“You don’t believe me!”
But it wasn’t that Addie was finding it hard to believe him. It was something he would never be able to understand. She didn’t want to believe him.
To Addie, Irish America was something you wanted nothing to do with. Irish Americans were fat people in check trousers and baseball hats who descended out of tour buses onto Nassau Street and waddled into Blarney Woollen Mills to buy Aran jumpers. They were red-faced people in sneakers who hung around the National Library trying to trace their family tree. They were people who attended fund-raising dinners in hotel ballrooms in Boston and New York and talked nonsense about the North. They spoke too loud and they pronounced all the place names wrong. The very thought of an Irish American in search of his roots was enough to make you squirm.
Of course Bruno was oblivious to all the negative connotations he was arousing. He had no idea of all the prejudices and petty resentments he was stirring up. He was under the impression that he had nothing to be ashamed of.
“My sisters were all champion Irish dancers,” he said happily. “My sister Megan still teaches at the Lynn Academy of Irish Dance in Audubon, New Jersey.”
And Addie cringed again, thinking, what have I got myself into?
“What are your plans for the day?”
“Do some work, I suppose.” God, she was a terrible liar.
“Seems a shame to be stuck inside while the sun is shining outdoors. Isn’t there any chance you could take the day off?”
Americans and their sense of endless possibility, it caught Addie off guard. She couldn’t think of a way out quickly enough. She didn’t want to think of a way out.
“Listen,” she said, “I’m an architect. I can probably take the whole year off.”
HE THOUGHT SHE was joking about the swim.
“Yeah, nice day for a swim,” he had said, laughing.
She had left him waiting in the car while she ran up to check on her dad. She had started the engine, so the heat would come on while he was waiting. Thoughtful of her.
He leaned forward to turn the radio on again. They were talking about the election. They had some guy from NPR on the line and they were talking about Wednesday night’s debate. Who won, who lost. CNN polls and CBS polls and they were saying Obama won, no question. McCain lost, he went over to the dark side and he lost. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll lose the election, said the presenter. And the reporter came back in. No, ma’am, all it means is that he lost the debate. The election is still anybody’s guess.
Bruno reached over and turned the radio off. He sat there in the buzzing silence and let the hot air blow over him. He breathed in through his nose, letting the air out again slowly. It was hard not to get upset about it. Even at this distance, it was hard not to get upset.
Why did Bruno care about it so much? Sometimes he hardly understood it himself. It had crept up on him, like everything else in his life. He wasn’t a political animal, never had he thought of himself as politically engaged. He had been brought up Democrat, just like he’d been brought up Catholic. But the idea of getting involved in politics repelled him. Bruno was not a person to wear a badge on his lapel, he was not a
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