Misses Rogers, Brogan, Mary discussed on The New Yorker: Fiction
Is that your brother the bishop, ethno duggan, who knew well that it was, asked misses Rogers concerning the potato faced cleric over the fireplace. Unknown to herself, Mary had traced the letter J on the dust of the picture glass earlier on, and now they all seem to be looking at it, knowing how it came to be there. That's him poor Charlie, misses Rogers said proudly, and was about to elaborate but brogan began to sing. Let the man sing, can't you, O'Toole said, hushing two of the girls who were having a joke about the armchair they shared, the springs were hanging down underneath, and the girls said that at any minute the whole thing would collapse. Mary shivered in her lace dress, and another thing the sleeves were dipping into everything. The room smelled cold and damp, even though Hickey had got up a good fire. There hadn't been a fire in that room since the day de valera signed the autograph book. When brogan finished, O'Toole asked, if any of the ladies would care to sing. There were 5 ladies in all, misses Rogers Mary Doris ethna and crystal o'meara, the local hairdresser, who had a new red rinse in her hair, and who insisted that the food was a little heavy for her. The goose was greasy and undercooked, she did not like its raw pink color. She liked dainty things, little bits of cold chicken with beetroot and sweet pickles. Her real name was Carmel, but when she started up as a hairdresser, she changed to crystal and dyed her brown hair red. I bet you can sing a tool said to marry. Where she comes from, they can hardly talk, Doris said. Mary felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. She would not tell them, but her father's name had been in the paper once, because he had seen a pine marten in the forestry plantation, and they ate with knife and fork at home, and had a plastic cloth on.