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anything else just wore her out. Mary churned out six kids in eight years—a regular hump machine, staring at cracks in the wall as he rutted over her. Her husband was her father in every respect. Only this one knew better. He feared Mary. And so the beatings were that much worse.
    She’d set up the closet when her oldest was twelve. It had a sliding black bolt on it, some pillows, and a blanket. The kids would hear him on the stairs late at night and show up at the bedroom door, eyes lit by a cold, vacant light. She’d walk them down the hall and stuff them all in the closet. She’d go in last and slide the bolt across. Then they’d sit. The first time he clubbed his fists against the door. The old boards shuddered and paint cracked and fell off in thin, curling pieces. But the door held. One of the middle girls started to cry and Mary put an arm around her and wiped the tears dry with the back of her hand. On the other side of the door, her husband pulled up a chair and talked to his family. Each, in turn. The girls were whores. The boys, faggots and fairies. Their mother? She’d sucked his dick the first night they’d met. In an alley just off Oak Square. She’d sucked and he’d watched her suck. And now her children knew and how did that feel? Mary could have told him it didn’t feel like anything at all. But he already knew that. And one day it would kill him.
    She took a final drag and crushed out the cigarette with her thumb, watching memories fade and die in the coal red ash.There was a tread on the stairs outside. She got up slowly and shuffled to the back door just as it opened. Her grandson, Kevin, was there, gray eyes catching hers in sketches of early morning light.
    “Hi, Gram.”
    “You want some tea?”
    “I gotta get going.”
    “Sit down for a minute.”
    The boy took a seat at the kitchen table. She could already feel the sadness in him. It rippled through the generations. Some seemed immune, the stony ground of their souls reflected in the hard, flat planes of their faces. And then there were ones like him. Mary felt the familiar tightening in her chest, a squirming bag of fears in her gut. A new generation would be served. And she was powerless to stop it.
    “Are you working today?” she said.
    “I was gonna ride with Bobby.”
    “Let me guess, you want to drive?”
    “Bobby said you wouldn’t mind.”
    “Is that what he said?” Her chuckle turned into a hacking cough. They both waited while it ran its course.
    “Is it okay, Gram?”
    “Take one of the old cabs. And for cripes sake, don’t hit anything.” She got up to fill the kettle.
    “Are you going over?” he said.
    “I’ll probably go in for the morning and see how I do.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing. Just don’t get old.” She pulled out a box of wooden matches, struck one, and lit a burner on the stove. “You win last night?”
    “Yep. We’re in the city final.” He held up his glove. “Got practice at eleven.”
    The water was still hot and the kettle began to whistle almost immediately. Mary pulled out a box of Red Rose tea and dropped a bag in a mug. Tea was her constant companion—a cure-all for whatever brand of heartache came traipsing through the door. Everything about it, from the ritual of boiling the water to fixing the accompanying toast, calmed and soothed her. She knew it was crazy, but the world always seemed to make a little more sense when you considered things over a cup of tea. At least that was her opinion and the hell with anyone who disagreed. The water spit as she poured from the kettle, and she set the tea in front of her grandson. Then she poured a cup for herself. He stirred in milk and sugar. She got out the butter and began to fix the toast.
    “Mom made corn muffins.” Kevin pulled a white napkin from his pocket and unwrapped it.
    “Oh, all right.” She sat down again and picked at the muffin, tapping the side of her foot against the table in an urgent, anxious rhythm.