FROM THe DesK OF: Faith Miller

Playing With Fire

An excerpt from 'LOGIC PUZZLES' - a novel

Unraveling

I went into the house and found my mother and Liam sitting across the table staring ahead of themselves in silence. My mother's eyes were red and her skin was rough. They scarce seemed to notice me. They said nothing as I walked past them and poured a glass of milk.

There was a chill in the air, unwarranted, for it was mild outside. The silver bangle that hung on my mother's left wrist had come from Liam as had the blue cardigan she was wearing. I noticed one sleeve had begun unraveling.

I took my milk and went to my mother. She seemed bewitched. I stared from her to Liam. I'd not liked him at first, but he was good to my mother and kind to me and my brothers and sisters. He was a good man.

I kissed the top of my mother's head. She brushed me away as if I were a gnat.

"Ah, hello, Slaine," Liam said, his voice hoarse.

"How's things?" I asked, sipping from my cup.

"Things," Liam repeated and looked from my mother to me and away again at nothing. "Had you a nice evening, then?"

"Sure, it was great." I wanted to tell them my news, that I was going to leave home, that things were clear to me now. It didn't seem the best time.

"Ah," he said. "Good." His hands were folded in front of him. Big fleshy hands that were absolutely still.

I choked, something in the air. "Well." I looked at the frayed ends of my mother's sweater.

"Go to bed, Slaine." Her voice was low, but firm.

I got up and poured the milk down the drain. "Good night," I said and again, "good night, Mammy, good night, Liam."

But neither of them spoke as if they hadn't heard me, as if I wasn't there.

Postcards

There was silence in the house as if someone had died. Declan and Aidan dressed for school, grabbed a piece of bread, a drink of milk and left without a word. Michelle never spoke. She was in a special class four mornings a week. I dressed her, put on her red and white checked smock, buckled her sandals.

I was to be at work at eleven, stay until closing. I had time for the washing up, time to cut the meat and potatoes for a stew for our dinner. I had time to begin packing my suitcase. Only I didn't. I did the dishes and the start of dinner. I tidied up a bit, my room, and the sitting room. I plaited my hair which had grown long and put on a skirt and blouse for work. My mother was still in bed, still as the air. She'd not spoken in three days, not through the weekend, not yesterday, not at all. Not to me nor to my brothers. Like myself my mother didn't bother much with Michelle, not with talking anyhow. Sure what was the point?

At work I hadn't told them I was leaving. I hadn't said the words since I told myself and the moon and stars. Not a word to my mother nor to Declan. But I told myself it often. "You're away," I said. "Not long and away."

I crossed my fingers and prayed it to be true.

I helped Jean arrange the new stock. Crystal and china, postcards and cassettes, sweaters with Ireland written in orange on green and vice versa, Christening outfits and green teddy bears for the infants, plastic dolls attired in green "linen" for the girls. We carried a bit of everything, none of it really top of the line, most of it perfectly nice. Not t at. Our prices were good. Our service was good and as Miss O'Brien was apt to say, "Slaine understands the Americans.” To Miss O'Brien, and to Jean, the Americans were like some foreign species of squirrel. Scavengers by nature and not to be entirely trusted. I trusted them, allowed them to browse without breathing down their necks, let them think they'd struck a bargain when they got it for 5% off the marked price. They seemed happy enough, smiling those big smiles showing those good American teeth. Sometimes they'd send a postcard back to me in the shop. I taped them on the wall beside the register. Postcards they'd posted in Ireland: the Dublin GPO, a picture of the River Liffey, Stephen's Green, and a shot of the Blarney Woolen mills outside Cork City where Aishlin worked. I'd gotten some from abroad as well: the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Empire State Building in New York, a great huge tree from California. A red wood it was called and the trunk looked big enough to hold my whole family. I enjoyed the cards and the customers remarked upon them often. "We'll send you one, dear," they'd say jotting down the address in their books or on a piece of paper. I was always dead pleased when they did.

Sometimes when I was bored, when things were quiet and Miss O'Brien had slipped away for a nap or a pint or for whatever else she did, I pulled the postcards off the wall and looked at the stamps, looked at the writing, the messages from the strangers who'd been kind enough to mail me pretty pictures of places. Sometimes I'd imagine myself there, traveling about, in Paris or New York or Cork City. Sometimes I'd want to rip the card right in two and toss it away. I was furious that all I was getting of life was coloured pictures.

Playing With Fire

My mother never spoke of Liam so none of us did either. Aidan turned nine and I brought him a toy truck and a T-shirt from my shop. I got it for cheap since the ink had run. Michelle took to sucking her thumb, sitting in a corner, stinking of piss. We paid her no mind.

Declan was with the Jesuit Brothers, thirteen now. He was smart, but seemed uninterested in school. He was always in the town and that leaving Aidan and Michelle alone.

One day they nearly burned the house down, playing with matches they were, but my Aunt Mary happened by and called the fire brigade. She rang my mother who left work.

"You feckin' eejits," she said, rearing back to slap Michelle and Aidan simultaneously. Their faces were red for hours and she took a belt to them once the fire was out. Silence, then the sound of the belt against their bottoms. Again and again. Aidan was crying out, but Michelle was silent. I had come home seconds before my mother did. Miss O'Brien had seen the engine speeding by and called up to inquire. She let me go early with pay. Good of her since the house had been saved.

My mother whipped the children until her hand grew tired. I should have done something, but without Declan there to back me, I did not. When she was done my mother hung the belt back up. It was an old one of my father's black leather, soft to the touch. She washed her face and scrubbed her hands, then left the house.

"Where are you going?" I called, but she neither turned around nor answered

"Slaine," Aidan said, pulling at my hand, "it hurts."

I lay him on the settee, pulled his trousers and pants down to check the damage. He was red, but there was no blood. "You'll be fine," I said. "I'll fix you a bit of soup, will I?"

"All right," Aidan said, snuffling a bit, pulling his trousers up.

Michelle was sitting in the corner, smelling of piss as usual.

"You okay there?" I asked, not venturing too close.

She said nothing.

I went on fixing the vegetable soup, cutting chunks of bread, pouring out the milk. I wanted them gone to bed before my mother returned. The phone kept catching my glance and I thought of calling someone. Someone to track down Declan to send him home to us. Someone to get a message to Aishlin. My father.

"Right, come on," I said, putting the food on the table. "Aidan, Michelle, get yourselves some supper now."

Aidan came readily enough. Michelle stayed put.

I sighed. "Michelle, come on now, pet."

She regarded me with wide open cold eyes.

"Come on now," I said, my impatience growing. "Now, Michelle."

Aidan stopped eating to stare at me. "Leave her alone."

"Shut up then, Aidan," I said. "You should've stopped her playing with matches. You're meant to be the normal one. Tis all your fault." I put down my spoon and strode over to Michelle with a bowl. "Eat this, then." I forced a spoon into her hand. The smell made me nauseous. "All right there, Michelle?"

She regarded me blankly. Aidan had wandered over and we stood there staring at her. "Slaine," he said.

"What's wrong with you?" I reached out and grabbed Michelle's shoulder. She whimpered.

"Slaine," Aidan whispered. He was shaking.

"Michelle," I said gently, kneeling down to look into her face. "Come here, pet."

I pulled her towards me, but she resisted. "Aidan, go outside, see do you see Declan."

I hadn't to ask him twice. He was out the door in a flash.

"Michelle," I said again, soft, my hands soft, as I reached to touch her hair. "Pet."

She covered her eyes with her hand. Her mouth frozen in stone.

I drew her towards me, lifting the dress up, trying to lift the dress, but it wouldn't come up. It was stuck to her backside. Stuck like it was glued with the piss. With the blood. While Aidan's skin had been welted only, unbroken, Michelle seemed to have no skin left as I inched the fabric away from her.

She did not make a sound. I held her in my arms, the tears rolling down my cheeks.

I was like that still, sometime later, when Declan came in and then he knelt down and joined us. I cried and he cried and Michelle remained dry-eyed.

"I wish we had burned the house down," Aidan said.

And I dared not tell him that I wished the same.

The Changeling Child

Off into the woods, living with the little people, no need for words. Useless they were. Happy, she was. Dancing to the sound of a flute only she could hear. Her eyes were blank when they looked at us, but sparkled when, alone, she heard the music and danced.

Michelle went to stay with Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary knew her duty and did it. Michelle helped out in the pub. Michelle danced in the wood. Michelle ran away when she saw my mother coming.

"Tis only to be expected," my aunt whispered to me.

I nodded. I was tempted to run off myself when I saw my mother coming and the boys steered clear as well. My mother had the same cold blank look in her eyes that Michelle did.

I'd stop by on my way home from work with a sweetie for Michelle or paper dolls or some crayons. Something. She often wouldn't touch what I brought. I wondered if she held me accountable for the pain she'd felt when the doctor lifted the dress off her and applied the salve and the bandages. I wondered what she thought that had no words.

She was different. Wilder and more fey as the weeks passed. It grew chill and still Michelle ran about barefoot in the meadows; she seemed not to feel the cold.

There was no word from my father.

"Michelle," I called, willing her to me. She hung back, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. She looked older. A different spirit inhabiting her. "Michelle." I held out the yellow lolly to entice her.

Wary and graceful as a faun she approached and plucked it from my hand. I grabbed her and drew her to me, felt her breath against my arm, her fear as she froze, trying to attract no notice. I held firm, plaiting her long hair, rubbing her thin shoulders, singing rebel songs to her. She stayed still just so long and then was away.

When I left, she was dancing again, moving to the sound of a flute I could almost hear.

A Fire Burning Somewhere

"Da's here," Declan told me.

I was after being late home from work. I'd stopped in the pub with Jean for one and stayed for three. John Joe was after inviting me out again. "Will you, will you, why won't you?" He asked, handing me a bag of crisps and not charging.

"I might do," I said and tossed my hair which had grown long and wild.

"I won't wait forever," John Joe said.

He sounded so serious that I stared at him for a moment, then nodded. I hadn't decided whether I wanted another boyfriend.

"Da's here," Declan said again, tugging at my arm.

"Aye, I heard ya, no need to be shouting at me."

"I wasn't shouting," he said. "Will we go inside?"

"Where's Aidan?" I looked around.

"Inside." Declan looked towards the house, but his feet didn't move.

I took a deep breath of the country air. I had my bags packed I could leave at a moment's notice, go with my Da. The air was crisp, acrid, a fire burning somewhere. "We'll go in," I said, forcing my feet forward. Declan dragged his own, following me.

It was cold in the room despite the fire. Aidan was nowhere in sight. My mother and father sat at the table, neither looking up when we came in. There was a bottle of beer in my father's hand and my mother held a crumpled white linen handkerchief. I stared from one to the other; they glanced up but there seemed to be no recognition.

"Hullo," I finally said, when the silence seemed so strong it would break me.

"Ah," my father said, with a feeble attempt at a smile, "Slaine."

They'd gotten old somehow, my beautiful mother and my handsome father. Old and beaten down. "How's it going?" I asked, walking past them to put the kettle on. "Declan," I said, "get out some bread and butter." He rushed to do it and I made the tea, put the mugs down on the table. 'Twas like we'd switched roles, them the children now. "Have some," I said, touching my father's hand and then my mother's. It had been a good while since I'd last touched my mother's flesh, afraid of its poison, and it surprised me now that it was smooth and warm. I'd expected reptilian chill.

Obediently my father buttered a slice of the bread then reached all the way over the table and took my mother's hand and she smiled at him, young again. Everyone looked rosy in the light and happy and safe. 'Twasn't till much later I realized the fire had gone out.

Never Touching

Leaving

I was on the boat to Holyhead. I'd made it to Dublin, out to Dun Laoghaire and onto the ferry without losing my resolve. I had left in the morning, left a note. I had all I cared about in my rucksack and carrier bag. I had three hundred pounds with me. I had a couple photographs. I had some clothes, the jumper from Aishlin. I had a Cadbury flake to eat and a bottle of lemonade. I had my logic puzzles.

I had escaped.

Most of the passengers were families, heading to the Welsh holiday camps, children scrambling and fighting. The mothers chatting away. The fathers off to the ferry's pub. A familiar enough scene. There were others my age, mostly in groups, a couple young fellows alone, headed, for London probably. I supposed I would head for London too. I didn't mind living hard.

I took a bite of my chocolate and shut my eyes. For a second I pictured my mother opening the note, seeing that I had gone. I couldn't see was she happy for it or saddened. I didn't much care. It was when I started imagining Aidan and Declan's faces when she told them the news, that I felt pangs.

Hunger pangs, I assured myself, and spent some of the money on a dry cheese sandwich on stale bread. I stood out on the deck, breathing in the sea air, looking away from Ireland and towards England. Not once did I give into the urge to look back.

The Face of An Angel

I noticed this one fellow, gorgeous he was, with shoulder-length brown hair that framed a face that could have belonged to an angel. I watched as he chatted with a group of school girls, watched as he managed to get an auld fella to buy him a pint, watched him as he lit a cigarette and stared out towards Wales as determinedly as I did. Dublin, I decided, or the suburbs, not Kerry country like me. I felt country on the boat, although I was in plenty of company, I felt like someone who'd never been to the town although I had lived in New York for nearly two years. I went back to my seat, working on my puzzles, puzzling over this fella. Going off to become a fillum star maybe. He had the looks for it.

I was hungry, despite the sandwich and the candy, thirsty despite the warm lemonade. I thought about buying a hot meal or another sweet or at least a Coke or something. But I thought it best to save my money.

I put the book face down across my lap and shut my eyes. I was half asleep, jarred awake at his voice, "Howyeh," he said. Pure Dublin.

I opened my eyes and stared at him. Gabriel maybe. Or Lucifer. "Hi."

"I'm Brendan," he said. He reached out and took my hand. His skin was soft as Michelle's, and he took my hand caressing each finger before gently placing my hand back in my lap.

"Slaine," I said.

"Kerry?" He asked.

"Aye. Dublin?"

He smiled. His teeth were as perfect as the rest of him. "Howth."

I nodded.

"You heading for London?" He draped himself across the seat facing me as easily as my sweater fell across my shoulders. "I am. Nothing in fucking Ireland." His green eyes met mine.

I smiled, committing to nothing.

"Not for me anyhow. Fucking cunt of a country."

I hated that word, uttered too easily by too many Irishmen. I scowled.

"The language?" He laughed. "Not me good looks."

"I hadn't noticed."

He laughed again, the white teeth showing between ruby lips.

I wondered what he was after, why he was sitting there talking to a country girl like me. One who clearly had no money. One who had no big breasts. One who had nothing, at least nothing he knew of, to offer the likes of him.

Logic Puzzles follows Slaine Murphy from peaceful, rural County Kerry to tour the bustling streets of New York, Dublin, and London. In 1970, Slaine and her father leave Ireland for a new life in New York. But by 1971, she’s back in Ireland, caught in a web of family loyalty, emotional scars, and unrelenting tension. As the eldest of five children, Slaine becomes the protector of her siblings, trying to shield them from their mother’s volatile temper and their father’s absence. Yet, no matter how hard she tries, Slaine watches her family dissolve. Even as she battles her way out, the family ties that bind her seem unbreakable, even as they threaten to tear her apart.

Can Slaine ever rid herself of her past or will she be trapped forever?

Despite the adversities she faces—lies, betrayals, and broken bones—Slaine remains determined and her spirit unyielding.

Logic Puzzles leaves no holds barred. Like the characters in Normal People, Brooklyn, and Small Things Like These, Slaine and her family reveal every facet of their lives to the readers. Fans of Sally Rooney, Colm Toobin and Claire Keegan will recognize an Ireland where there are no truly happy families and the pictures sold to the tourists in Killarney fail to show what’s really happening despite the bucolic picture.

Faith Miller has been publishing her short stories for over twenty-five years. Her fiction has appeared in literary magazines including Hanging Loose, Chicago Quarterly, Prism International, and the Mississippi Review. Her recent publications include Libretto, A Door is A Jar, and Bull. Currently Faith is pursuing a master’s in fiction at the Naslund-Mann Graduate School at Spalding University where she was awarded an Emerging Writer scholarship. She is an Assistant Student Editor for their literary magazine, Good River Review. She lives in New Jersey, but dreams of moving to Ireland.