It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 85: Chapter VIII (Cont'd)

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

Around three o'clock that afternoon, as the first and second rounds of libations were taking effect in the male occupants of Apt. 33, (Vera only nursed a beer, thinking that being in a state of inebriation would not be an appropriate beginning to a her future with Lee), Niamh arrived home, rather more chirpy than she usually was upon returning from work at the diner. She made no familiar comments as to the laziness of her family, and even when Colin whined for his dinner, she bit her tongue and preferred to disregard his remark all together. Instead, she only asked the grouping, 'would anyone like to help me?'

The usual silence followed the inquiry, but as Niamh looked from face to face, she was surprised to find her youngest staring back at her.

'I'll help...if you want.'

'Oh...' said Niamh with a frown. They, pigheaded daughter and obstinate mother, had barely spoken a word since the confrontation with Mrs. Fitzgerald, Niamh not knowing what to say, and Vera thinking herself righteous and ever-waiting on an apology. 'Um...Bud, what about ya?'

'Do I have to?'

'Well, no, but it might be nice—'

'I don't mind,' said Vera.

'Oh...um...right. Well—sure. Why not?'

Stony and uncomfortable silence followed the mother and child into the kitchen and kept the pair at arms length, only occasionally punctuated by a random order or request from Niamh. 

'Would ya mind settin' the table?'

'How many?'

'The usual.'

'What about Alanna, is she coming?'

'I don't think so.'

'Did she call?'

'Yeah, she's stuck at work again,' said Niamh, dancing around the sore subject of her eldest. Alanna never came for home anymore. She was always working or busy. Niamh's favorite, Niamh's best, the example of excellence hadn't shown her fat face in St. Gregory's going on four years. But Niamh always held out hope, futile as it was.

They went back to that silence then, until an hour or so later as Niamh bent over the oven to check if the turkey had been sufficiently blackened and shrunk, she looked up suddenly and said, 'Vera?'

'Huh?'

'Ya look nice today.'

'Oh...thanks.'

'Is that a new top?'

'No—sort of. It's Lee's. She gave it to me awhile back to try out.'

'She's got nice style.'

'Yeah...You...um...you look nice too, Ma,' said Vera, because she didn't know what else to say. It had been a spur of the moment decision to volunteer to help, one that Vera now regretted. She had thought that perhaps being alone with her mother might lead to some discovery of common ground, some renewal of their lost affinity, but all they seemed to be able to manage were banal comments. Nothing was said that could penetrate the thick and thorny wall that had grown and been fortified countless times over between them.

What Vera wouldn't give to tell her mother the truth...If only she could have gone back in time to that moment—'But what should I have done?' she asked of her brother in her last years. 'She wouldn't have understood. You didn't understand! None of you would—none of you cared. It wasn't worth the fight!'