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  “Oh, so they’re young. You haven’t seen their titties yet ’cause they don’t have ’em.”

  He swallows a laugh. “Why’d I want to see my sisters’ titties? That’s mad.”

  “Naw naw,” Joe insists. “Titties are amazing. They’re like milking a cow, except all soft and watery and nice to touch. Like a waterbed.”

  What the feck is a waterbed? But he don’t ask this. He asks something else.

  “You’ve milked a cow before?” City boy like Joe?

  “Yeah, once. At me uncle’s place in Wexford,” Joe says, nodding. “But forget cows, it’s about titties. They’re bleeding amazing.”

  Titties. Amazing. He thinks of the magazines Michael brings home, he’s seen a few of them stuffed under the bed. One of them fell open once and the big, stretched titties of a blonde woman gaped out at him. He didn’t really get how a woman could walk around with things that big hanging off her neck, and not get dragged down to the ground.

  “D’ya get hard thinking about titties?” Joe asks.

  He snorts for an answer. He should say yes, but that first blondie in the magazine sort of scared him. The look in her eyes was different from any way his mam or sisters or aunties would look.

  “You know you’re supposed to, or you’re a poof,” Joe says.

  “I’m not a poof.”

  “Well, you should start thinking about titties more, because they’re the bejesus.”

  He nods, like he’s agreeing.

  “You’ve touched ’em, yeah?”

  He shudders thinking about it.

  Joe snorts and laughs. “We’re supposed to! You touch a girl’s titties and then you’ll get hard, I swear.”

  They’ve rounded a corner now, aren’t nowhere near the school. Joe pulls him into an alley, and the cars whizz past.

  “How’m I going to get to touch a girl’s titties?” he asks. Claire is flat as a board, and Da would skin him alive if he ever tried to touch her.

  Joe laughs. “That’s why it’s good to have older sisters.”

  Joe takes out a pack of cigarettes and turns it around in his palm. The shiny plastic wrapping on the box flashes at him. “Here, me sister Helen, she’s sixteen. She’s got a savage pair on her. You can come over to me place sometime and look at her if you want.”

  What? How? He imagines Joe’s fancy home, shiny wood floors, a fridge full of Coca-Cola and ice cream. Him in there? Looking at a girl’s titties? No way.

  “You don’t mean that,” he says. They won’t never let a pavee boy in there.

  “I’ll let you,” Joe says.

  He doesn’t believe him.

  “I swear. On me mother’s fanny, I will,” Joe insists. “But ye’ll have to do something for me.”

  What could he do for this kid, who’s got everything?

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “I’m going to ask you for something, and then if you do it, I’ll let you into my house after school and I guarantee, I guarantee you’ll get to see me sister’s titties.”

  Gua-ran-tee. Joe says the word all posh and clear. He’s heard that somewhere before. Some slick man saying something on the radio once.

  “What d’ya want me to do?”

  Joe shrugs and smiles. “Dunno. Lemme think about it.”

  “What?” He’s never dealt with a buffer boy this slippery.

  Joe puts up his hand, putting on a holy show. “Sweeney, me man, just you wait. I’ll think of something. I will.”

  Joe claps a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good one for a pavee, you know?”

  No one likes it when buffers use the word pavee. But he says nothing.

  “Listen here, I gotta go. But this here is for you. Me mam gives me loads of these and I can’t eat all of them.”

  Joe hands him a chocolate bar, a little warm from his pocket, but it’s not been opened. A Lion bar, bright orange wrapper. He’s never had one of them before.

  He takes it and stuffs it in his pocket.

  “Gotta make it home for tea,” Joe says. “Me feckin family. Always going on about tea this, tea that. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

  Joe snorts, and is off, down the road.

  He watches Joe dodge between cars. Watches and fingers the crinkly wrapper of the Lion bar. Then he rips it off, crams half the bar into his mouth, and starts walking back.

  Them girls in the magazines at home. Have another peek, tonight.

  Maybe they’ll say something new to him.

  Flip flip flip, go the girls and their titties.

  *

  She’s never really understood boys, at least when it comes to the sexual part. Someone can seem like a great friend, someone to talk to about movies and politics, drink beer and joke with, and then, late at night, when you least expect it, they seem to want something else.

  Deceptive isn’t quite the right word. These boys are friends, after all. But sometimes a strange current seems to be running underneath it all, threatening to crack the surface, when the whole time she thought she was on solid ground.

  There is that one night late in June in Cambridge, after the school year has officially ended. She is hanging out with other Harvard students who have just completed their first year, and are working campus-based jobs over the summer: community service projects, admin work for the summer school. In the haze of these sticky New England summers, the dorms, once loud with parties and gossip and awkward hook-ups, are largely empty. The handful of first-years left will gather to picnic along the Charles, eat microwaved dinners paired with illegally acquired beers.

  She finds herself one night finishing off one of these dinners on the tiled floor of a dorm common room. She is with five other acquaintances she hardly knows. In the buzz of your first year at college, anyone can be your friend, another person to speak to and learn from. Two of these five are a couple, a red-headed girl from Illinois and a Latino boy from the Bronx, who sit with their feet touching as they perch on the window-sill of the room, overlooking the quiet expanse of Harvard Yard four floors below.

  Then it’s herself, a black boy from Texas, a Korean-American girl from California, and a white girl from Connecticut, who was in her Introduction to Anthropology class this past semester. They sit on the floor, swigging from bottles of alcoholic cider.

  “Let’s go to Herrell’s!” the Korean-American girl suggests. “I want to try their latest flavors.”

  Herrell’s. Ice cream. She isn’t too excited by that for some reason. On a Wednesday night in Cambridge, when not everyone has fake IDs, there is surprisingly little to do.

  But there is no urgent need to decide on any plan. The couple wander away, hand-in-hand, perhaps to some bedroom somewhere to touch more than each others’ feet. The remaining four sit talking about their classes last semester, what they want to take in the fall, what extracurriculars they’re involved in. She chats to Tom, the black boy, asking him about Texas and the long distances they have to drive in that part of the country.

  A summer breeze blows in through the window and crickets chirp from the Yard down below.

  “We’re gonna start washing these dishes,” the two other girls announce and they trundle off to the nearest bathroom.

  After a while, they don’t come back. She wonders where they went, but she and Tom are having an in-depth conversation about Fitzgerald and Hemingway at this point. He’s a nice guy, with interesting things to say. But likes Hemingway, whom she hates.

  They are alone, the two of them, and after a few minutes, Tom suggests giving her a back rub.

  “Really?” she asks. She hadn’t been expecting that.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like to give you a back rub.”

  So she lets herself sit between his legs, not too close, her back to him, as he kneads her shoulders with his hands. She feels no electric pulse; this boy is not someone she would consider as more than a friend. It’s just a platonic back rub.

  “It might be better if you lie down on your stomach,” he suggests.


  Does she find this odd? She stretches out on the bed, fully aware she’s never been given a back rub by a guy before, but there’s a first time for everything. Back rubs happen between members of the opposite sex, and they mean nothing, right?

  “Do you want to take off your shirt?” he asks.

  “No, that’s okay,” she says. “I’ll keep it on.”

  “Okay.”

  His hands, firm and masculine, work their way beneath her T-shirt, his fingers stretching the elastic straps of her bra, but still kneading the muscle underneath. To her, there is nothing romantic about this moment. Just a little unusual.

  “I like your bra,” he says.

  “What’s so nice about my bra?” she asks, realizing he can’t actually see it through the T-shirt.

  “It’s cute,” is all he says.

  He continues in silence, and she can’t say if she particularly enjoys it or not. It just feels different, having someone you don’t know touch your back like that.

  Eventually he stops. His hands stay resting on her back.

  “Thanks,” she says. There’s a slight pause and she sits up.

  They are sitting next to each other on the bed, and she wonders why the conversation has stopped. She has the feeling she’s wandered into unknown territory. What previously was just a casual conversation has become some kind of ritual she doesn’t quite understand. Unspoken codes and implicit silences. She wonders if she’s supposed to do or say something.

  But then, Tom leans in close to her, as if to kiss her. Kiss her. Surprised, she pulls back.

  Tom sees the look on her face and starts to crack up. His face twists into a grin, as he shakes his head in disbelief.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, suddenly embarrassed. “I thought we were just hanging out.”

  Did he actually expect them to kiss? The thought comes as a complete shock to her. So this is how people hook up…

  They both laugh awkwardly.

  “Come on,” he says, standing up. “Let’s go find the others.” And he pulls her to her feet and they wander out the dorm room, down the empty stairs, to the darkened, green pathways of Harvard Yard.

  After that encounter, she realizes how naive she must have seemed.

  But looking back on the incident, analyzing it in her rigorous academic manner, she could detect no trace of sexual frisson on her part. It was just a conversation with a random guy. How could she even imagine kissing someone she hardly knew?

  She is glad she didn’t kiss Tom that night. Why waste your first kiss on someone you didn’t want in the first place?

  But she is slowly becoming aware of some kind of unspoken language, barely audible, but most certainly there. The way dogs can pick up on sounds beyond the human range of hearing. She wonders why she is so deaf to this language, and what is so wrong with her that she can’t hear it. Maybe she should listen more closely next time.

  *

  He is eleven when his parents finally split. Michael isn’t surprised at all, thinks it’s better off this way, but then again, Michael is hardly around these days. He’s in and out of that jail for kids half the time.

  He’s lonely without Michael. There’s no one at home to really speak to. His sisters are up to their girly things, Da’s out working and when he comes home, he’s drunk and rowing with Mam. Which means they’ll all get a lamping when he’s done with Mam.

  Lately, he’s started spending time with the other boys in the Traveller sites. He don’t have a very good mind for remembering faces and names. But everyone seems to remember him.

  “You’re the little scrapper. Mick Sweeney’s young son, right?” And he’s always a little proud to hear this. They all remember Michael, too. What he gets up to. “Here, when’s your older brother coming back from inside?”

  So he comes home one day. Dinner is quiet and dull, some beans on toast, swallowed down with that lemony squash that makes the back of his throat sting. Michael’s been in jail for a month. Claire is washing up the dishes, and he hopes she don’t use up all the water, to save having to go to the pump again.

  And Da, instead of fucking off as usual, is hanging around. Seems kind of tense, and he and Mam are trading sideways looks all the time. Better than rowing, at least. When Claire’s almost done with the washing up, Mam reaches a hand to her.

  “Leave that, now, Claire darling. Come over here. We’ve something to tell you.”

  He gets excited at first. Maybe it’s something like they’re getting a new caravan, bigger, with doors that aren’t half-broken. But then, when he looks at Mam and Da’s faces, he knows it won’t be any good news. Been a long time since Mam ever seemed happy about anything.

  “What is it?” Claire asks. She sits by Mam, who strokes her hair.

  Mam is about to say something, but looks at Da instead. “Mick, are you starting?”

  Da grumbles, but leans forward and clears his throat. “Look, children… It looks like your mam and me will be…”

  He hesitates, Mam glares at him, and he continues.

  “We’ll be living in different places from now on.”

  Claire is shocked, and he is too, but he don’t show it on his face. Claire starts to tremble and cry. He rolls his eyes. Girls. Always whinging.

  “What do you mean?” Claire asks.

  “Well, ehm…” Da begins. “Ehm, it means—”

  “It means we are going to be living separate lives from each other,” Mam cuts in.

  The way she says it like that, so blunt, shocks everyone. Mam, who normally is so soft and sweet with Claire (but not with him), cutting it straight, the way she might slice through a hard loaf of bread.

  “But, why?” Claire asks, her eyes all filling with tears.

  Mam and Da look at each other again. Mam angry, Da looking kinda sorry.

  Da for once seems unable to talk his way out of this one. “Your mam—” he starts, but Mam butts in.

  “Your da needs to stop the drinking, else it won’t be a good place for you all to live.”

  He sees a strange look on Da’s face. A look he only saw once before when Da went to pick up Michael from the jail.

  “So… so Da’s leaving the rest of us then?” Claire asks. He can see, almost, a small gleam of hope in Claire’s eyes. Like this is what she wanted all along. And if she did, he hates her for it. Claire with all her whinging and moaning. When she was younger, she used to cower in the corner and bawl whenever Da came home plastered. That’s probably what caused it then. Mam, seeing how scared Claire was. That’s what’s making her send Da away.

  “Ehm, not quite, darling,” Mam is saying. “Da and your older brothers will be going away from us. You and Bridget and Sean will stay with me.”

  Silence then. So him and Da and Michael will be living as one family then. Who’s gonna cook? And wash the clothes? He hopes it won’t be him, but he’s the youngest, and he can’t imagine Da or Michael will want to do it.

  Claire starts crying some more, and Bridget, who don’t understand what’s going on, starts crying too when she sees Claire like that. Mam seems flat and empty, like a balloon when you let the air out. Da turns to him.

  “So, Johnny, what do you think of the new … arrangement?”

  He looks up at his da. No whiskey on his breath for once.

  “It’s grand,” he says. They won’t have to deal with none of this crying from Mam or Claire no more.

  Mam is looking at him like she’s going to cry now, and he squirms and he don’t want to be there.

  “My wee babby,” she says, and reaches out to draw him to her.

  He wriggles out of her grasp. “I’m not your babby anymore, Mam,” he says, keeping his voice hard. “You’ve got Bridget and Sean, and sure, Claire cries enough to be a babby.”

  Mam looks at him for a moment, blank, then turns her face away.

  Da puts an arm on his shoulder. For once, his touch is soft. “Your mam was only trying to comfort you.”

  He grips Da’s arm, harder.
“I don’t need no comforting. I’m grand.”

  Da gives him a strange look, turns back to look at Mam and Claire, both crying. A savage miserable scene, this. Him and Da and Michael will be glad to be rid of them all.

  “When we splitting off?” he asks Da.

  “Well, we’ll wait until after your cousin’s wedding. Michael’ll be getting out before then, and we’ll have a massive knees-up before we part ways.”

  He nods, his mouth firm, the way he’s seen Da do.

  “And where we going?”

  Mam turns back to look at Da. Her eyes are red.

  Da is tapping his fingers on his thighs. “I’m after going up to Belfast.”

  “Belfast?” he asks. He’s been there once or twice, but can’t remember much of it. They speak funny up there, he remembers Da complaining about paying in pounds. Wandering on empty streets. Walls painted all colourful with big pictures on them.

  “We’ve some cousins up there,” Da explains. “There’s some good work up that way.”

  He likes the idea of somewhere new. None of these buffer lads calling him a knacker, throwing stones at him, shouting at him because of his brother. Maybe Michael won’t be in and out of jail so much. Maybe there’s more richer people up there to nick from.

  Mam gets up, she’s not as weepy anymore, and she gets down next to him. Hands on his shoulders, looking into his eyes. The tears have left some muck in the corner of her right eye.

  “Ye can come down and see me whenever you want,” she says.

  “You’re not coming up to Belfast to see us?” This comes out angrier than he wants.

  Mam pauses. “I’ll have Bridget and the babby and all. It won’t be as easy.”

  He looks at her. Nods again.

  Mam strokes her hand against his right cheek. “Be a good boy for me,” she says. “Don’t take after your brother so. Make me proud.”

  Before he can do anything, she swallows him in a hug. Arms clutching desperate at his back. “You’ll promise that to your mam, will you?”

  She says this into his neck, and he don’t know what to say.

  “You’ll promise?”

  He nods, hoping that’s good enough. But she keeps clutching at him.

  “Promise,” he finally says. “I’ll be good.”