Grief Street

ister Roberta herself answered the frantic pounding at the back door. She had been enjoying a cup of tea at the kitchen table, and the one brief hour of the day when everybody in the house was gone—to work, or errands—-and Sister had time for such things as crossword puzzles or novel reading or writing letters to family in Ireland.
    At first, the pounding on the door had frightened her. She jumped in her chair and spilled the teapot, scalding a wrist in the process. But soon she would know better than to be frightened.
    She took a cold, wet dishrag from the sink and wrapped her wrist—probably the wrong thing to do; probably she should apply salve, and a warm compress—and called out to whoever was banging so urgently, “We’re coming, we’re coming!” She had the presence of mind to say “we,” reasoning that an intruder under the influence of darker angels might behave himself thinking it was not just one little old nun at home all by herself.
    “Who is it?” Sister said, a hand resting atop the police bar braced against the back kitchen door.
    “It’s I, Sister—Eoin Monaghan. Please—oh please, let me in!”
    There was no mistaking Mr. Monaghan’s voice. Sister’s stiff hands fumbled with the police bar, then the three dead bolts, then the chain locks.
    “Hurry! Please!”
    Finally, Sister opened the door.
    “What is it, Mr. Monaghan?”
    Her neighbor rushed past her, turned, and shut the door. He did not slam it.
    “They’re after me, Sister. It’s all so embarrassing. Really, good God, I’m terribly ashamed. I don’t know where to turn but to your own pure heart.”
    “After you? Whatever do you mean?”
    “Coppers.”
    “Dear God!” Sister slapped a hand to her mouth. She clutched at Eoin Monaghan’s cashmere woolen coat sleeve, pulling him across the kitchen floor, out through a pantry, and into the safety of a windowless dining room where she sat him down at a table. He always dressed so nicely, she thought, even frazzled as she was. The cashmere felt like butter. The gloves he wore—like the upper-class gents of Dublin, as she remembered from childhood—were even the creamy color of butter. “Now what’s this all about, Mr. Monaghan?”
    “I’d give anything to spare you this bother of mine, dear Sister Roberta…” Monaghan clasped his heaving chest with both hands. “But as I’m poor as the mice sharing my own quarters, I’m forced to appeal to your charitable view.”
    “The coppers are trying to run you out from your squat?” Suspicion unsweetened Sister Roberta’s face. “Is that what you’re saying?”
    “Aye, you’ve put it just right by today’s lexicon. Poverty’s always been a crime, and the wrong people are forever being held responsible.”
    “Tell me—who’s over there to your place now?”
    “A pair of coppers suddenly come snooping up front. Of course, they can’t get into the house that way. But they were ®aking a racket on the door with their nightsticks all the same, and waked me from a fine nap I was having.”
    “They’re still there?”
    “So far as I know. When they crept ’round the side alley, ht out from the back over to here. God, but I’m so embarrassed.”
    “Yes, you said that, Mr. Monaghan.”
    “Why do you never call me Eoin?”
    “I don’t know...” Sister was flustered. “You just seem so fine and all, like a right gent deserving of being called mister.”
    “I’m hardly so. Poor and idle, that’s truly me. A double reproach on society. I try hiding the poverty from others, and the idleness from myself.” Monaghan cupped his head in his hands. “Would you have any whisky in the house?”
    “I would. It’s good quality, nothing to be drowning self-pity.”
    “Your mercy will be appreciated. And you know better than I how you’ll be rewarded in eternity.”
    Sister fetched him a glass and bottle of twelve-year-old Glenlivit Scotch. She set these down on the table and said, “Feel better, Mr. Monaghan, but no more. I’ll be leaving you for a short time.”
    “Leaving...?” Monaghan’s voice became uneasy. “For where?”
    “I’ll just scoot over to have a word with these coppers.” Sister turned. Monaghan took her arm and stopped her, whirled her back around, took her hand and gave it a continental buss.
    “Dear God!” Sister’s face broke into a cherry flush. “There’s a thrill I haven’t known since girly days back on the other side!”
    “Here now—where’s your jar, Sister, and