Excerpt from Chapter One:
May There Always Be Mullingar

Out the door I go and away into the night, tearing through the streets of Mullingar. Straight for the church I make, and there I hide amongst the graves. The dead ask nothing of a man, and amongst them I find a bit of peace.

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After a while, I set off on foot. Mullingar is quiet now, with only the sounds of a spring evening about it. The waters of the Royal Canal are bubbling along. Down the lanes I hear the neighbor women call after their childer to get their little arses into bed. Cattle low somewhere off in the distance.

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Then I hear it. The train. Ah, sure, I never tire of that sound. ’Tis the chug of her along the rails and the great strength of the engine that gives a wonder to the whole thing. A man could go anywhere at all on a train. Mullingar behind him and God only knows what ahead.

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I make me way down Castle Street towards the Royal Canal. Me face throbs fierce from the thumps I’m after taking. To tell God’s honest truth, I’m in no humor to see another soul. But there, out by the canal, who should I spot but Timmy and Jimmy, the Duffy twins. Timmy and Jimmy live just a bit down the street from me own family, and they have ten brothers besides themselves. Their house is a complete madhouse from morning till night. Their Da passed away a few years back, and their Mam does be yelling all the hours of the day. Even if she only says a civil hello to you, she roars it at the top of her voice. She’ll say, "HILLO PETE! WHAT IS IT YOU’RE WANTING, AND WHICH OF THESE GOMS ARE YOU HERE TO SEE?"

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Timmy and Jimmy are out on the streets as much as ever they can be. Lookit, who could blame them? With a screech of a Mam and the whole pack of brothers crowded like herrings in a barrel in that small house, I’d be out of the place as much as possible meself, so I would.

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There’s nothing the pair of them love better than making up rhymes and riddles about anything God ever put upon the earth. They rhyme about Mams, the lakes about Westmeath, handsome girls. Surely, nothing at all is safe from them, except Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Each is forever trying to get the better of the other. When I’m in better humor, I like well enough to join in the sport. I’ve no heart for it this night, and I’m near turned about before they spot me.

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“’Tis Peter O’Reilly!” Jimmy strikes up right away. “May your heart be as light as the song.”

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Timmy comes in after him without missing a beat. “May each day bring you happy hours that’ll stay with you all your days long.”

They let a great laugh out of them at that. “Arah, you big suckie calf! Who is after beating your face? It looks redder than a trollop’s arse,” says Timmy.

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I spit onto the path. “Ah, sure, you should’ve seen the other boyo. I put him up against the whitewashed wall and gave him fierce thumps to the head. I gave the poor devil a terrible battering, so I did.”

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“By God, it sounds like you put your toe so far up his hole he’ll be shitting leather for a week,” says Jimmy, giving me a wink.

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“That’s about how it went, surely,” I say. I give him a nod but keep me eyes on the ground. We stand there on the path then, the silence heavy between us. They look at me bruised jaw, then look away. Two lads who’ll make sport of anything under God’s heaven but know well enough when to leave a man's troubles alone.

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At last, Timmy speaks. “Pete,” says he. “Are you for getting out of this place altogether?”

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“I am,” I say. I stare only at the black water of the canal.

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“Well,” says Timmy, “you know our Danny. Number six in the great mob of us. He’s after getting himself a grand job on a vessel bound for America. A steamer called the Tarifa.” He gives the name a moment to hang there. “Tarifa. Would you listen to that? Sounds like some faraway kingdom, so it does. Sure, I’d never tire of saying it.”

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“Get on with you,” says Jimmy.

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“I am getting on with it! She’s a great iron ship, Pete, and she sails for America later next week. Danny goes down to Queenstown and works his passage as a laborer aboard her. Across the ocean and back again, and they pay him for the privilege. The ship puts in at Boston, and Danny gets himself ashore there. Says he drinks his fill and chases the American girls. He has the time of his life before climbing aboard again for home. He comes back with a power of money in his pocket, so he does.”

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“Ah, America,” says I. “That sounds a grand thing, lads, but sure, I haven’t the price of it.”

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“Pete, you gob, you don’t need the price of it,” says Jimmy. “Danny can get you aboard. Slip you past the officers and hide you away somewhere. He’s done the very same for his friend Seán on the last voyage, and Seán never came home at all, the lucky dog.”

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“Never came home?” says I.

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“Not once.”

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“Think on it, Pete,” says Timmy. “You could be quit of this place altogether. No more Da and the priesthood. Go off to America and find yourself a fine wife.”

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“Aye,” Jimmy cuts in, “and have lots of fat American babies. Never a hungry belly among them.”

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“Will you shut your gob?” says Timmy.

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“What? The man wants childer,” says Jimmy.

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Despite meself, a laugh comes out of me. Then I look away again.

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“America,” says I. The very word has something in it. America. I look off into the dark Mullingar lanes and wish to God I could do the thing they’re after putting into me head. To cross the whole blessed ocean. To step off in a place where not a soul knows Bernard O’Reilly or gives a damn whether his son wears a priest’s collar. Faith, what a thing that would be.

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Continue Peter's journey in The Family Mosaic.