Leaving the church, she felt the wind rise, felt the pinprick of pebble and
grit against her stockings and her cheeksthe slivered shards of mad sunlight in
her eyes. She paused, still on the granite steps, touched the brim of her hat
and the flying hem of her skirtfelt the wind rush up her cuffs and rattle her
And all before her, the lunch-hour crowd bent under the April sun and into the bitter April wind, jackets flapping and eyes squinting, or else skirts pressed to the backs of legs and jacket hems pressed to bottoms. And trailing them, outrunning them, skittering along the gutter and the sidewalk and the low gray steps of the church, banging into ankles and knees and one another, scraps of paper, newspapers, candy wrappers, what else?office memos? shopping lists? The paper detritus that she had somewhere read, or had heard it said, trails armies, or was it (she had seen a photograph) the scraps of letters and wrappers and snapshots that blow across battlefields after all but the dead have fled?
She squinted against the sunlight on taxi hoods and bus windows, heard the rushing now of air and of taxis, wheezing buses, and underneath it all something banginga loosened street sign, a trapped can, a distant hammerrhythmic and methodical. The march of time.
And then George approaching, his hand stuck to his hat and the hat bent into the onslaught. She went down the steps just in front of him, drawn more by forward momentum than by any desire to meet up with, or to avoid, her brothers latest best pal.
The cold wind made it difficult to breathe, as if it could snatch your next breath before you had time to swallow it, and she bent her head, too, hand to her hat, submerged in wind and beginning to imagine herself slowly losing ground with each step forward, slowly beginning to stall, and then to sail backwarda quick scramble to regain ground and then another sailing backward. In church she had prayed for contentment. She was thirty, with no husband in sight. A good job, an aging father, a bachelor brother, a few nice friends. At least, she had askedso humbly, so earnestly, so seriouslylet me be content.
And now a slapstick windstorm fit for Harold Lloyd or Buster Keaton.
It was either Gods reply or just April again, in the wind tunnel that was midtown Manhattan. The scent of it, the Easter scent of April in the city, all around her, in the cold air itself as well as on the shoulders of the crowd; the smell of sunlight and dirt, something warming at the heart of it all.
And then she felt his hand on her shoulder and he shouted, Mary Rose, which bound him forever to her brother and her father and her life at home since nowhere else did she tolerate the double name. His head was still lowered, his hand still on his hathe might have been waiting for the right opportunity to doff itand he peered around at her from under its brim as if from under the rock of another life.
And she, her hand on the back of her own hat, did the same.
Hello, George, she said. She could feel the crunch of city grit between her back teeth.
Some wind, he said. He had one eye closed against it, the other was watery.
Youre telling me, she said.
They walked together to the corner and as they stepped off the curb, he suddenly reached up and took her raised elbowthe one that led to the hand she held against her hatand kept it between his fingers as they crossed. She thought he must look like a man attached to a subway strap. At the next corner, he did the same; a gesture that was either brotherly or proprietary, but awkward either way, as if one of them were blind or doddering, or as if both were involved in some odd, raised-elbow folk dance. At Forty-sixth, the light was against them and the wind paused enough for her to take her hand off her hat while they waited with the crowd.
Excerpted from After This by Alice McDermott. Copyright © 2006 by Alice McDermott. Published in September 2006 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.
Blood at the Root
"A gripping, timely, and important examination of American racism."
- PW Starred Review
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