The Whipping Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

parents. Please.”
              Marian looked down at her swollen ankles. “Not so perfect now, huh?” she said.
              “I’ve loved you from the start, Marian. Don’t worry about them,” he said. His parents were going at it still, just audible from where they stood. “My mother’s all talk, but she’ll come around.”
              “You promise me you’ll marry me, and you’ll love me and no one else, so help you God?” Marian said.
              He grinned at her in that shy way of his. “I promise.”
              “I’ve been wanting to tell you something, Ben.”
              “Yeah?”
              She put her hands in his pockets, and he drew her close.
              “I’m going away with my uncle, Father Brennan. You’ve heard me talk about him.”
              “Sure. The priest.”
              “Right.” The fabric of his shirt felt soft against her skin and she leaned into him.
              “What do you mean by it, Marian?” Ben asked.
              Marian bit her lip. “Ring me later. We can talk about it then.”
              “But where are you going?”
              “It’s a rest I’m going for. A lovely rest.”
              She laid her head on his shoulder. She would do the right thing, she thought. She’d not force him into it; she’d not rush him. They weren’t ready to take on anymore than what they had. They’d all be better off, even him; she had decided now that it was a him. In her mind, she placed their baby somewhere far away from here, far from this street corner, far from the winding streets of Little Jerusalem, from Dublin, from the western mountains, far away from Ireland all together. She imagined him somewhere full of light and warmth where he would have a better life. This would be her gift. Someday he’d thank her for it. She slipped out of Ben’s arms and walked toward home.

2 ~ 1967
     
    Yarmulke caps rested with the Easter eggs in a cut crystal bowl, fabric swatches beside painted curios. Ma rian rearranged the assortment and then dusted the photograph on the mantelpiece of Johanna as a toddler, petite and smooth-skinned, a bow in her silky hair, a golliwog doll in her arms. In the phone cradled to Marian’s ear the school principal admonished the girl. Marian agreed to Mr. Hinckley’s request for an afternoon conference and hung up the phone with an audible sigh. She brushed the image of her daughter’s face. This was only her daughter’s third year and already she had been called in twice on account of her antics. Why was Jo acting out? Marian listened to the tap, tap, rap of her pumps against their oak floor as she shouldered the swinging door into the kitchen. Through the bay window, the wisteria cascaded over the iron railings enclosing their backyard. She took a moment to admire the effect; she had interlaced the waif-like vines back in the first week at their new home. So much had changed since marrying Ben Ellis in 1957. For the better—though she wondered if anything would ever shake the graying veil over Dublin.  
              “ Póg mo thóin, ” she spoke aloud. “Kiss my ass.” She slapped her butt at an imagined Principal Hinckley and folded her dust rag into a perfect square. Nothing will be perfect. Not for me. Not for anyone. Not ever.
              Marian swiped the Loreto Church of Christ Mass cards her ma had taped to the fridge and put them in the junk drawer. She took a cigarette from Ben’s Players pack and went to smoke it underneath the white trellis in the garden. She stared at the frozen spot where an extravaganza of zucchini and tomato plants, scallions and parsley, might grow later in the year. For a few moments, she felt something dead inside her,