Upstairs, her brother, Liam, was taking two empty jam jars out from under his bed. Youve to go in one, and Ill go in the other, he told his sister.
I can fill them both, said the girl, Im bursting now.
Just do the one.
She went off towards the bathroom. Then she was back. Whats it for, Liam?
For when the Brits come along by the side window, down the alleyway, he said, pushing the cardboard box back under his bed.
Hearing her daughter fumbling with the bathroom lock the mother called up the stairs. For Gods sake. No ones coming in to watch you peeing, Aine. Weve got a television.
The father was standing near the kitchen with his hands out, dripping water, shaking them just a little, waiting for his wife to show him the dishcloth.
Kathleen was bent in front of the television, tending to it. In her thin nightdress, her body was long, spare curves. The drone of the TV made a sudden acceleration, jumping from hum to chatter. The picture filled the screen; the outside world sprang.
Copyright © Louise Dean, 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Blood at the Root
"A gripping, timely, and important examination of American racism."
- PW Starred Review
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