Christmas 1886 Chicago, Illinois

“Happy Christmas, Mary Agnes.” Aunt Margaret hands her a letter. “From your people.”

Mary Agnes perches on a settee in the parlor, dressed in her best green dress and new boots, her first purchase in America. She borrowed two dollars from Helen for boots after hers wore straight through the sole, promising to pay Helen back when she got her wages. She still does not have eyeglasses, the boots more dire. Her hair, which is now approaching her ears, is topped with a green ribbon tied in a bow at her neck and cascading half-way down her back.

And what a treat today is! She can hardly wait for Christmas dinner, roast goose and all the trimmings. She thinks of her gram and granddad at home, lucky to have a piece of salted fish today.

Everyone—top to bottom—has the day off from the Rutherford house, even Cook. It’s the one day of the year Mrs. Rutherford and the girls take over the kitchen as if they deserve a prize. But Mary Agnes doesn’t begrudge a day off. And it’s a Saturday. She’s to have tomorrow off, too, a whole Sunday, before she heads back to the big house tomorrow night.

Mary Agnes turns the letter over in her hand and wishes for eyeglasses. Soon I will have enough saved up for them, too. She opens the letter carefully and squints to read.

Shame on your head forever—

Shame? But why? Forever? She checks the envelope again to see if it is indeed her mother’s spidery hand. It is, misspellings and all.

My fears were well-fownded. Ya’ve not only ruwined ruined our family name, but yer gross immortality immorality has now cawsed your dear grandmother to enter her Eternal Reward far too soon. When she heerd heard the news, it was the deth death of her. May God have marcy mercy on ya. Ya don’t deserve it.

Anna Coyne

Mary Agnes’s hands feel clammy. Her heart races and vision blurs. She struggles to find a breath.

“What ails you, lass?” Aunt Margaret asks.

Mary Agnes wordlessly hands the letter to her aunt. Gram.

“God bless her soul.” Her aunt hands the letter to Helen, who skims it, her lips moving wordlessly.

“Whatever does she mean?” Helen asks.

“It were nothing,” Mary Agnes answers. “My half-brother came at me one night and my mam said it was my doing. It wasn’t! I swear!”

Aunt Margaret bristles. “Did he—”

“No! Nothing of the sort. I clobbered him on the arm right away, I did. He didn’t touch me again.” Lie.

“But did he—”

“No, he didn’t sully me, if that’s what you’re after. Got a handful of . . .” She touches her chest.

“Good heavens!” she says. “Your very own brother.”

Mary Agnes notices a curtness in her aunt’s voice. Am I right about Uncle Fiach? That he fathered his sister’s child? Is that why he left Ireland all those years ago? Does Aunt Margaret know? Suspect?

“Half-brother, Aunt.” And I wish he were dead, forgive me, Father.

“Speak up, girl. I can’t hardly hear you.”

“I said, I’m glad to be thousands of miles away from him now. Although I do miss Tommy and the other boys.” She thinks then of her dear gram, her keen eyes and gnarled hands, and the shawl that must have been painstaking to make. Dear Gram.

In a rush of thought, Mary Agnes tries to piece together the puzzle of why this news—and false!—would have been the undoing of her gram but it doesn’t all fit. Her gram knew right away that Fiach accosted her in the lane.

Whatever can Mam mean that I ruined the family name? If anyone ruined the family name, it was Mam. Gram would never blame me.

Aunt Margaret punctures Mary Agnes’s thoughts. “I thought today would bring happy news. Your mother and father coming to Chicago. With all the boys.”

Mary Agnes chokes on a cough.

“Are you ill?” her aunt asks.

Mary Agnes shakes her head. “No, ma’am. My family? Coming to America?”

“I was saving the news for Christmas,” she says. “I thought you would be pleased.”

Not Mam. Not Da. Not Fiach.

“Will Granda come, too, do you think? Now that Gram is gone?”

“I think not. He would never leave Ireland.”

Gram. Gone. Mary Agnes shakes her head to clear it. But Tommy! In Chicago! Won’t he love the streetcars! And Sean, the imp. I’ll save up jokes for him. We can go, all of us, Ferris and Eamon, too, to the park and fly kites . . . Her mind spins as she thinks of all her brothers, all except Fiach, that is. “When will they arrive?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Aunt Margaret says. “Although for now, we should pray for your gram’s eternal rest.”

And that Fiach stays behind.