Connell come on their porch to pick up their daughter Moira for the freshman dance. Not because he was Italian or German or, God forbid, Puerto Rican, not because he was too poor or addicted to alcohol or sexually suspect or pockmarked by acne. No. It turned out his family was from
the wrong part of Ireland
, Abbie’s friends patiently explained to her afterward. The Connells were from Mayo and the Sheehans were pure Kilkenny. “D’ya get it now? He’s the wrong county; the Sheehans won’t have a Mayo boy on their doorstep.” Their faces shiny with concern, emphatic that she should understand the intricacies of Irish-American dating.
“Yep,” she’d told them. “I get it now.”
Inside, she’d thought,
Looks like I can forget about getting a datein high school
. And she’d been right. Her raven-black hair, which was only accentuated by her pale skin and sky-blue eyes, her long-dead drug-addicted mother, and her unknown father had doomed her to a life as an outsider in the County, where ancestry was everything. She remembered the moment as the beginning of her disastrous romantic history, and probably her sharp tongue, too.
That had been in the nineties. Things were different now, people said. There were even a few blacks and Latinos sprinkled among the County’s population, though you never seemed to see them walking the streets. Maybe they carpooled for safety and conversation.
But some parts of the neighborhood never changed. The clannish logic. The hostility to outsiders. The secret, ancient warmth. The alcoholism.
As her partner, Z, said whenever someone from this part of the city did something completely inexplicable or self-destructive: “WATC.”
“We are the County.”
No other explanation necessary. Or possible.
CHAPTER TWO
A BBIE CROSSED S OUTH P ARK A VENUE . W HEN SHE GOT TO M C K INLEY AT the corner of Bishop Timon High School, she turned the wheel right and two minutes later was standing in front of the house on Orchard Street. It was a two-story wood-frame house, with fresh light green paint on the front and and a newish Big Wheel in the front yard. She grabbed her notebook and went in.
The wooden front door was open. Abbie pulled open the screen door and saw to the right a bean pole of a cop with a large beak for a nose, standing with his hands behind his back as if he was guarding the tomb of the unknown soldier. Had to be McDonough. When he saw her, he nodded and tilted his head to the right. As Abbie stepped onto the tan shag carpet, she saw the arm of a couch, and then two legs in a pair of sweatpants, a Notre Dame T-shirt, and then the rest of Patty Ryan. She was sitting mutely, tissue clutched in one upturned and closed hand that rested in the palm of the other. She looked up.
She’d been pretty, once. The face of the high school girl slowly being submerged in fat. She looked about thirty-eight, ten years younger than her husband.
“Mrs. Ryan?”
Patty Ryan nodded, staring at her.
McDonough stepped into the silence. “Patty’s husband Jimmy hasn’t been home for two days and hasn’t called. His cell phone is going straight to voice mail. She says he—”
“He’s dead,” Patty said. “I know he is.”
“I hope that isn’t true,” Abbie said, “but we need to figure this out. Can I sit?”
You couldn’t say “may I” in the County or they’d look at you like you’d just arrived from Buckingham Palace. And spit in your eye.
Patty was about to say something, but she stopped. Her dark blue eyes bored into Abbie’s.
She’s probably never asked an outsider for help before
, Abbie thought.
Doesn’t know how it’s done
.
But need overruled everything else. Patty gestured robotically toward a corduroy-covered recliner. Abbie walked over, lifted a plastic truck from the seat, and sat down, placing the truck by her right foot.
“When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”
“Monday.” Patty stared straight ahead at a point over Abbie’s right
the wrong part of Ireland
, Abbie’s friends patiently explained to her afterward. The Connells were from Mayo and the Sheehans were pure Kilkenny. “D’ya get it now? He’s the wrong county; the Sheehans won’t have a Mayo boy on their doorstep.” Their faces shiny with concern, emphatic that she should understand the intricacies of Irish-American dating.
“Yep,” she’d told them. “I get it now.”
Inside, she’d thought,
Looks like I can forget about getting a datein high school
. And she’d been right. Her raven-black hair, which was only accentuated by her pale skin and sky-blue eyes, her long-dead drug-addicted mother, and her unknown father had doomed her to a life as an outsider in the County, where ancestry was everything. She remembered the moment as the beginning of her disastrous romantic history, and probably her sharp tongue, too.
That had been in the nineties. Things were different now, people said. There were even a few blacks and Latinos sprinkled among the County’s population, though you never seemed to see them walking the streets. Maybe they carpooled for safety and conversation.
But some parts of the neighborhood never changed. The clannish logic. The hostility to outsiders. The secret, ancient warmth. The alcoholism.
As her partner, Z, said whenever someone from this part of the city did something completely inexplicable or self-destructive: “WATC.”
“We are the County.”
No other explanation necessary. Or possible.
CHAPTER TWO
A BBIE CROSSED S OUTH P ARK A VENUE . W HEN SHE GOT TO M C K INLEY AT the corner of Bishop Timon High School, she turned the wheel right and two minutes later was standing in front of the house on Orchard Street. It was a two-story wood-frame house, with fresh light green paint on the front and and a newish Big Wheel in the front yard. She grabbed her notebook and went in.
The wooden front door was open. Abbie pulled open the screen door and saw to the right a bean pole of a cop with a large beak for a nose, standing with his hands behind his back as if he was guarding the tomb of the unknown soldier. Had to be McDonough. When he saw her, he nodded and tilted his head to the right. As Abbie stepped onto the tan shag carpet, she saw the arm of a couch, and then two legs in a pair of sweatpants, a Notre Dame T-shirt, and then the rest of Patty Ryan. She was sitting mutely, tissue clutched in one upturned and closed hand that rested in the palm of the other. She looked up.
She’d been pretty, once. The face of the high school girl slowly being submerged in fat. She looked about thirty-eight, ten years younger than her husband.
“Mrs. Ryan?”
Patty Ryan nodded, staring at her.
McDonough stepped into the silence. “Patty’s husband Jimmy hasn’t been home for two days and hasn’t called. His cell phone is going straight to voice mail. She says he—”
“He’s dead,” Patty said. “I know he is.”
“I hope that isn’t true,” Abbie said, “but we need to figure this out. Can I sit?”
You couldn’t say “may I” in the County or they’d look at you like you’d just arrived from Buckingham Palace. And spit in your eye.
Patty was about to say something, but she stopped. Her dark blue eyes bored into Abbie’s.
She’s probably never asked an outsider for help before
, Abbie thought.
Doesn’t know how it’s done
.
But need overruled everything else. Patty gestured robotically toward a corduroy-covered recliner. Abbie walked over, lifted a plastic truck from the seat, and sat down, placing the truck by her right foot.
“When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”
“Monday.” Patty stared straight ahead at a point over Abbie’s right
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