The Carnival at Bray by Jessie Ann Foley Page B

he’s always trying to pit me against my own children! And it works every time! Because of course, whose side is a teenager gonna take? Her mother’s, or her twenty-six-year-old rock star uncle’s, who sends her care packages every once in a while?” She pointed a dirty spoon at Maggie. “And let me just say that if you are mad at me or Colm—if you blame us for
any
of this—then you’re being incredibly unfair.”
    â€œI’m being unfair?” Maggie could feel the hotness at the back of her eyes.
“You’re
the one who—and
Colm’s
the one who practically
killed
him—” She stopped and looked up at the timber-slatted ceiling. She would never forgive herself if she started to cry now. It seemed that whenever she was gaining ground in an argument with her mom, she burst into helpless tears.
    â€œHe didn’t start that! And you know it!” Laura was standing behind Colm now, her hands pressing into his thick shoulders.
    â€œWell, we can all sit here and fight,” Nanny Ei interjected, “or somebody can drive out to the airport and see if we can go get him. It’s only 11:00, he surely can’t have left yet.”
    â€œOh, let him go,” Colm said, pushing his plate away. “He doesn’t want to be here, that’s his business. Why do ye always lethim ruin things? That’s why he does this shit, because somebody always runs after and tries to fix it. He’s twenty-six fuckin’ years old! He ain’t a fuckin’ cripple is he? He ain’t a retard, is he? So let him be!”
    â€œStop yelling!” Ronnie shouted, and then ran off to her room, her blue nightgown trailing behind her.
    â€œWho cares what
you
think?” Maggie slid back from the table and stood facing her stepfather. “You think you’re part of our family now? You’re just some guy my mom met at a bar.”
    â€œMet and married,” Colm said. “I think that counts for something.”
    â€œYou were just the first one to come along who was dumb enough,” Maggie snapped.
    â€œMargaret Marie!” Laura lifted the dishrag to her eyes.
    â€œMom, I didn’t mean—” She looked down at the table full of empty plates. She had intended the words to have an effect, but she hadn’t exactly meant to make her mother cry.
    â€œSweetheart, your uncle is a bleeding fuckin’ druggie.” Colm smiled at Maggie, a mean smirk that showed the top row of his white, square teeth. “Thought you should know that. So at least when you stand here and defend him, you know what you’re defending. Or haven’t you ever looked at the crook of his elbow? No wonder he’s such an admirer of Kurt Cobain. He’s just like him, except for the talent part.”
    Maggie shook her head. Suddenly, it all made sense: the bulging eyes, the boiled-out skin, the emaciated frame. Self-destruction had a look, a smell. He wore his addiction like a loose cape, as close to the surface as blue veins. That’s what had scared her so much, under the garish lights of Harry and Rose’s, not his quitting the band. She felt both enraged and impotent. She hated that all her good days had to be followed by bad ones, and she was furious, too, because she knew that Colm was right—that loving Kevin meant always having to defend him. She felt a hand, cool and dry, on her bare shoulder.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have told her that,” her mom said quietly.
    â€œI already knew,” Maggie said quickly, shaking Laura’s hand away. Maggie would be damned if she’d let Colm think that he could tell her something about Kevin that she didn’t already know herself. “I’d still pick him over any one of you, any day of the week.”
    She walked out of the room and into Ronnie’s bedroom, where her sister cried softly under her blankets, her Christmas ruined. Maggie sat at the edge of