SONG CHOICES:
Motherless Children
by Steve Miller Band
& Eat Your Young
by Hozier

END OF SUMMER, 1959.      "EAT YOUR YOUNG"

☆

      When the door creaked open, Gene swung her gaze up from the laundry and barely batted an eye. "Oh, you're here already."

      Valerie chose not to roll her eyes, even though it was warranted. Instead, she tugged her suitcase passed the entrance. "Don't hurt yourself acting excited. You might give yourself a hernia." 

      Her older sister huffed, unamused, but she did come around the couch and help drag the luggage near the bottom step of the staircase. Promptly, she then whipped back around and returned to the slew of organized clothes sheathing half of the living room. The windows were all pushed open, curtains dancing mid-air with the breeze as a loyal partner. Gene wore a sleeveless shirt and a skirt, her red hair tied to the back of her head. "So...how was the bus ride?"

      Summer in Boston was no joke. It sweltered rapidly, the same way it did in New York, except the getaways to beaches and picturesque parks were farther and fewer in between. Valerie already anticipated this when she left this morning, preemptively donning a sundress despite how cold the interior of the public bus was. When she noted the details of her childhood home, immediately her eyes were drawn to the buzzing fan in the corner, but also on the oven in the kitchen that was obviously turned on. 

      "Oh, it was alright. Same old, same old. Lots of people coming home from vacations." The blonde answered, placing her hands on her hips and watching Gene sort through button-up blouses. Strangely, it felt awkward. She didn't know whether or not to help her out. More likely than not, she would end up getting swatted away. "Where's Tom?"

      "At work." sighed Gene, as if she asked something dumb. "Most people — normal people, Valentina — actually work during the day and don't spend their nights up like voyeuristic vampires." 

      "I understand how a day job works, Genevieve, and I'll remind you that I still have one at the Morningside Herald. In fact, I'm lucky enough to have a boss that doesn't mind my late night liaisons between me and a microphone." Valerie quipped easily. Just to piss her off, she planted herself on the arm of an accent chair and grabbed a basket of tousled socks. As she began matching them, she could see the muscles of Gene's jaw tightening, though she didn't say anything. 

      A few moments of silence passed.

      "The kids?"

      "Fiona and Aiden are running somewhere around here. I told them to help Mrs. Leary with her yard work, but I'm pretty sure they finished that an hour ago." explained Gene. "The others are playing baseball at Waterfront. Michael volunteered to supervise the little ones before his shift."

      Valerie hummed, rolling one sock into another. She glanced around, feeling like the house was emptier than what it was meant to be. Everything looked the same — dull wallpaper, cluttered nick-nacks, too many photographs, hanging Jesuses on red-splattered crosses — but there was a notable lack of a certain presence. 

      "Can I ask if Dad's at work with Joe, or are you gonna bite my head off for not knowing how some people work nine-to-fives on Fridays?"

      In spite of her teasing tone, Gene tensed immediately. As she reached across the table to the couch, her movements were stilted. Avoiding her younger sister's curious regard, she pushed herself up from the floor. "Joe's at work."

      That gave Valerie a pause. "Where's Dad?"

      "Do you always have to be so nosy?" She muttered, brattish, an attempt to be difficult and deflective, even if it was a poor one. 

      "Gene..."

      The other woman pushed herself up and began folding a thin sheet, corner-to-corner. "He's at Uncle Colm's, okay?" Feigned indifference pulled at her face unhappily. "You came at a bad time, clearly. I would have told you beforehand, so you wouldn't have wasted a trip, but he left late afternoon and Cher didn't bother to ring the house. It's not like I can predict his mood swings when I don't live here anymore."

      Uneasiness settled over Valerie like a constricting, heavy blanket. She tried to mimic her older sister's brisk and unbothered attitude, but suddenly, all of her effort for laundry drained. The inference that their father was "at Uncle Colm's" was both code and not code. Literally — physically — he was staying at his brother's house. He owned a beautiful townhouse in Jamaica Pond, just shy ten minutes from Brookline. Figuratively, it meant that Domhnall had sank into one of his "moods" or that he needed to "reassess" his priories or he had "fallen into bad times" or whatever garbled nonsense Valerie heard growing up to describe her father's abnormalities. Any nonsensical explanation or term was perceived to be better than spelling out the truth out-loud.

      Domhnall was depressed.

      It happened once in a while. Sometimes more frequently than not frequently. Outsiders might chalk it up to him losing his third wife when she was so young, but the fact of the matter was, he had always been depressed, even before Valerie's mother died. As a little kid, it had been terrifying at first, and more than a little puzzling, to have it told to her that her father was going away for awhile and would come back when he felt better. The first thought that had popped into her mind was that he was sick and that had just spurred her panic forward. However, from the pieces that she had picked up from her older siblings (who had more of an understanding than she did) and the other members of this family, there was nothing physically wrong with him at all. He was just really sad sometimes. 

      Knowing that had eased her anxieties, but did little to vanquish her confusion. During the period of time, before her mother died and Cher entered the picture, little Valerie thought that there was nothing to be too sad about. Nothing that justified spending days, or sometimes weeks on end, hiding away. As she got older, it just became one of those "things" that remained mind-boggling, but something she had to accept. Eventually, along with her brothers and Gene, she was able to pick up on the pattern.

      Randomly through-out the year, Domhnall would seclude himself little-by-little. Eventually, it would be announced, mainly through whoever his current wife was, that he had left early in the morning to stay at Colm's. Time would pass, and when he came back, he was chipper as ever. He'd go to work, and make jokes over dinner, and play games with the kids, and no one would have ever guessed a blackened mood had overtaken him. It was like nothing had changed, and if anyone asked Domhnall, he'd act dumb. 

      He'd never talk about his depression. No one wanted to talk about it either. Hell, that word wouldn't ever even be brought up. It was a filthy word in a Catholic town. In the eyes of a working class, immigrant parish, "depression" simply translated to "not trying hard enough". No one went around announcing it, least of all a Donovan. 

      It's been some time since Valerie's been home while her father's been away. She felt rusty about broaching the subject. Knowing Gene and her siblings, they would rather she not ask questions at all. But out of all of them, she had always been the most inquisitive. "Has Colm called yet?"

      Gene shrugged, "Not to me or Joe. Mikey hasn't gotten a ring either. If Cher did, I doubt she'd tell us."

      Sometimes, Uncle Colm would call to provide a brief update, which really meant just informing the household that his brother was alive. Like other parts of this family, Colm was a man of few words and possessed that apathetic tone that most older people had. If anyone asked what the hell was going on with Dom, his reply would always be: "We're drinking and I'm taking him fishing at the Emerald Necklace - don't worry, I'll straighten him out."

      Though the disappointment prickled at her skin — after all, she was looking forward to seeing her father after such a long summer with the Peldaros, and phone calls sometimes didn't cut it — what felt the most profuse was her anxiety. Everybody sunk into bad moods. That was normal. But Valerie had learned from an early age that her father's depressive episodes was more darker than that, enough to prompt concern widespread across the Donovan branches. There was always the child-like worry of: would he be coming back? She hated that that feeling was returning as an adult. 

      Valerie opened her mouth to say — well, she didn't know exactly, she just wanted to talk — but immediately, she was interrupted by the back screen door opening. Her younger siblings waltzed through, oblivious to her presence. Irene's hair was the first thing that caught her attention. It still possessed that velvet black color that bounced in her slim ponytail. Her pink skirt swirled and her white blouse remained wrinkle-less as she moved to open the fridge, the pristineness of it all a hallmark of her mother's influence.  

      Patrick, on the other hand, mimicked the boyish disregard for aesthetics or appearances right-on with his loose shirt and grass-stained jeans. The only clean thing about him was the lack of grim smearing his palms and his smoothed back hair. Judging by how lanky his arms looked, plus how the cuffs of his pants seemed baggy, he had grown an inch or two over the course of a few months. He met his twin on the opposite side of the kitchen table and without needing to speak or matching her gaze, he automatically slid an empty cup towards her. She was just about to pull out a quart glass of milk and immediately poured it half full. Another cup appeared before her; she filled that one as well and handed it to Patrick. They both drank small sips in unison, still quiet. 

      Watching them was always like seeing a magic show. They were so instinct, it was almost creepy. The whole twin telepathy theory that had been joked about for centuries never seemed far-fetched with the two of them. 

      Valerie felt warmth pour over her chest, tinged with a little gloom. There was no denying that she loved visiting them, but every time she came by, ever since she became an adult and lived on her own, they always appeared so much older than before. When they were born, she was eleven, and by the time she moved out, both of them were around the age of seven. There's a gap there that's not present in Valerie's relationship with her older siblings. She tried to make up for it as much as she could, but it's hard to do that while living a few states away. 

      Regardless, the twenty-seven year old knew they wished she would stick around longer. She wished she could stomach it long enough to make a lasting impression. 

      After a few seconds, Irene's head snapped up and she finally noticed her sister. Anybody with a working pair of eyes would have thought it was Christmas Day, the way her eyes lit up. Quickly, she cleaned off the white stain on top of her upper lip and sprinted over, "Valerie!"

      The blonde wrapped her arms around her skinny figure and hugged tightly. Irene had barely pulled away, before Patrick was swooping in to replace her space, his laughter light-hearted. The lack of enthusiasm Gene had  failed to demonstrate, and whatever hurt that may have inflicted, dimmed into nothing as Valerie felt their excited gazes solely on her. 

      "You didn't say exactly when you were coming." Patrick perked up, face stretching into a bright smile. "We figured it'd be after school started." 

      "I thought about it, but decided to come beforehand." She replied, "That way I have more time to spend with you guys, before your faces become permanently glued to your textbooks." 

      A cluster of sharp sounds, namely the click-clacking of heels, interrupted their small bubble. The twins' mother strolled into the kitchen with perfected ease, barely offering a glance towards anyone else in the room. She heaved a large basket filled with sewing and knitting materials on the counter, practically overflowing with colorful threads. Two thick needles stuck out like dangerous knives. Valerie had the half-hearted idea to store them away in a hidden place in case Cher got crafty with her secretive, murderous intentions in the dead of the night. 

      "Kids, I need you to bring down the sewing machine from upstairs." Her stepmother said blankly. With barely any hesitation, the twins rushed to follow, though Irene lingered behind slightly, a yearning expression hinted across her face and directed at her older sibling. They had barely had any time to catch up and probably wouldn't be able to until after dinner. 

      Valerie allowed the tension to crackle with awkwardness for a few seconds until breaking it with a small smile. "Cher, how have you been?"

      The black-haired woman spared her a tiny and unimpressed glance, and continued to unpack her basket. "I'm fine, thank you." She sniffled a little, before adding with an even more apathetic tone. "I'd be even better if your grandma would stop scaring our neighbors and creating track marks in the backyard." 

      Her jaw clenched yet she said nothing. A snark reply or a defensive remark would simply start a fight, and to be honest, after a five hour bus ride with half of New York City's population, Valerie was too tired to engage. Plus, without her father here, it felt like she was treading on even more unwelcoming territory than usual. Judging from the way Gene kept glancing between them (subtly, but not subtly), she expected an argument to break out too. 

      Well — they weren't going to get one. Valerie could be even-tempered when she wanted to be. 

      "I'm going to go check on her." The blonde said, and she hurried through the backdoor without making it seem like she was running away. When the screen door slammed against the ledging and the hot temperature enveloped her, it instantly felt less claustrophobic.

      Across the backyard laid vibrant green grass and random spots of fresh weeds. The only thing that ruined the picturesque setting was the dilapidated wire fence squaring off the property along with the towering walls and roofs of neighboring townhouses that were only a few inches away. In the center was an old tree stump (that had inflicted more bruises on Valerie's skinned knees as a child than she could even remember) with a bed screen taken from a garden spread on top. A large cheesecloth covered the entire surface. Next to the entire display, with a tiny stature and a hunched back, was an elderly woman. 

      Fondness swooped down and planted itself inside of Valerie, making her vaguely feel like a little girl again. She approached the woman, shielding her gaze from the sun with the back of her hand, and called out-loud: "Ciao nonna!"

      Her grandmother spun around and the shadow of her mother was reflected in her wrinkled appearance. A grin didn't expand her lips and her eyes didn't illuminate, but her usually impassive being softened into something tender — a look that Valerie knew was reserved for her only, and maybe the little kids. Careful not to trip over any bumps in the soil, the other woman treaded slowly over and raised a thready palm to cup the blonde's cheek. 

      "Che carino," Ludovica cooed, her thumb stroking the hard edge of her jaw. "Quanto forte."

      Looking down at the other woman, Valerie could easily acknowledge how much older she was getting, but also how she still possessed the qualities of her youth. The vanilla hair she could recall her having decades ago had dimmed into a whiteish color. Whatever muscle she once owned had long since converted into fragileness. Regardless though, even if the days of her grandmother chasing the Donovan children around the house with a wooden spoon (with the threat of a good spanking if they didn't set the table for dinner) were long before her, she still seemed like one of the most capable people in their family. 

      Valerie remembered her mother and how people always mistook her quietude for shyness or passivity. Growing up, she always felt like she had to make up for that by being loud and unapologetic with her opinions. As an adult, she could see how strength evolved in different ways and her mother embodied that. Her grandmother now did as well.

      She grasped the older woman's hand and briefly squeezed it, grateful for the warm touch. Her eyes skimmed the tree trunk. Beneath the cheesecloth, through the threads, was a slew of half-cut tomatoes that had been dried and crippled in the hot radiation of the sun. It's naturally red color was gone and replaced with a dark currant hue. Valerie could already feel her stomach growl with hunger in anticipation of a hearty dinner later tonight. 

      "Vai a iniziare a stendere l'impasto," Her grandmother tapped her cheek and turned back to her tomatoes. "Sta riposando in frigorifero."

      Valerie nodded and turned around to head back to the kitchen, feeling lighter with every step. Ludovica had the magical ability, despite her melancholy, to always make her granddaughter feel more optimistic when she visited. 

☆

      "You'll kill your lungs."

      Patrick's head shot up, panicked. An unlit cigarette almost fell from between his two fingers. Valerie watched with swelling amusement as his cheeks became blotched with redness. "Oh! Oh, I didn't mean ― I was just holding it for ― I wasn't..."

      "Relax, this isn't an interrogation." She crossed the wooden floorboard of the porch and settled on the bench swing. Quite nonchalantly, she held up her own plastic packet of cigarettes and a silver lighter. "Being curious isn't a crime." 

      He gaped with wide-eyed trepidation as Valerie easily clasped her lips around the cigarette and inflamed the bottom end with a tiny blaze. She sucked in a few short breaths and released the smoke, before she could instinctively inhale. When she plucked the cigarette away from her mouth, she offered a small grin and gestured it towards her brother. 

      "I'd rather you try it with me than on your own," She explained, "Or with one of those brain-dead idiots from your school."

      Patrick only hesitated for a moment, before taking the burning stick, a few embers falling measly on the ground. He tried to mimic her previous movements, and yet only a few seconds later, he was coughing up a violent storm. Valerie chuckled unabashedly, still mindful of not making too much noise and alerting the people inside the house. Once the teenager settled down and his face was no longer a grey color, he sat right beside his sister. Despite how horrible the first attempt went, Patrick carried an extremely satisfied look on his face, as if he had just accomplished something really cool.

      "Thanks for letting me try." He said, genuinely earnest. He carefully handed the cigarette over, "But I don't think I like it."

      Valerie giggled, "That's a good thing. I'm not encouraging you to take on a bad habit. You'll save a lot of money ― not to mention lung capacity ― if you don't become addicted to these things." 

      "Then why do you smoke?"

      She cocked her head, attention zeroed in on the glowing ashes. Eventually, she shrugged, "I don't know. I guess, because I've been doing it since I was your age and now it's just a bad habit I can't be bothered to shake."

      Patrick hummed and scuffed the bottom of his sneakers across the hardwood floor. Her arrival day had gone by startingly fast thanks to how long prep for dinner and the actual cooking took. The actual meal itself commenced peacefully. Joseph had shown up with his wife Maggie and their brood of children, which made the evening even more chaotic and delightful. Her other brother Michael made an appearance very late into the night with a carefree grin and flimsy, nondescriptive excuses. He maintained his humor and blithe attitude even in the face of Cher and Gene's mutual agitation. It was hard for them to maintain their anger when there was so many other family members that demanded attention. 

      Outside, surrounded by the outskirts of their shabby South Boston neighborhood, was the dark outlines of neighboring townhouses and a surprising display of quietude. It wouldn't last long. Already there was echoes of dogs barking and faint voices coming from inside nearby homes. With it being the tail end of summer, parties of teenagers and children were bound to roam the streets, restless with energy and thriving off rebellion. Most would try to drift their way downtown, but others would stay within the boundaries of their home turf and inflict trouble onto the locals. 

      It's the reason why Valerie wasn't mad when she caught Patrick, at the ripe age of fifteen, trying to smoke. She remembered experimenting at that age with substances far more dangerous than nicotine and with people who weren't as concern with her well-being. She understood the anxiousness to try 'adult' things quite well. In a stunted neighborhood like theirs where only hard labor and church were put on pedestals, boredom was practically parasitic. Sometimes getting into trouble was the only way to have fun. Danger meant getting out of the house and away from your folks. 

      One day, when they were older, Valerie might share stories of her own teenage foolishness to Irene and Patrick to save them feelings of loneliness. She would withhold right now to save them from getting any clever ideas. 

      "What's been going on with you?" She inquired kindly, repositioning herself so that her back pressed against the arm-rail of the bench and her legs curled up together. When she took another puff, she tried to aim the dark smoke away from him. "Anything exciting over the summer?"

      Patrick shrugged, good-natured. "Not really. I've got this summer project for social studies that's due the week I get back, but I finished it last month. It's all about the Boston Tea Party, and how the Sons of Liberty dressed up as a bunch of Indians to oppose taxation, and it was very patriotic, and blah blah blah."

      Valerie snorted, "They told us that story too many times in school. I think they forget we grew up here and our fathers fish in Fort Point Channel. Not to mention how we used to play kickball at Fort Independence."

      "They focus way too much on the American Revolution." muttered Patrick, a smirk playing on his lips. "Plus I think Mr. Harris' just harps on about the evil of taxes so we'll just vote Republican when we get older." 

      She rolled her eyes, "The propaganda starts early."

     "No kidding." He scratched the tip of his nose. "We were suppose to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but the school board removed it from our reading list. It put Mrs. Rosemary into a tailwind, because now she has to rewrite the curriculum."

      "Why'd they ban it?"

      "Apparently, it was too vulgar for the female students," Patrick answered, becoming astutely pleased with the annoyance contorting his sister's expression. "And they didn't want us talking about race."

      "You know, that's the big problem with this country. It's becoming more and more apparent nowadays." Valerie pushed herself up from the swing and reached to angrily stub out her cigarette against the porch railing. The dewy air of the night brushed invitingly against her shoulders. "Land of the brave, home of the free, but heaven forbid we mentioned sex or curse words or anything of remote importance."

      "You've got that right." He added, though he looked a little embaressed that she used the word 'sex' in front of him. Mature or not, no fifteen year old boy wanted their big sister to say that word within earshot. "I tried to rent it from the library before the school banned it, but they had already removed it. You know they also got rid of The Wizard of Oz?"

      Valerie's eyebrows furrowed. She exclaimed: "What do you mean? That's a fantastic book! Now to mention, a pretty great picture." 

      He leaned forward, tone lowering, glancing around as if he expected hidden pairs of ears to peak around the corner, secretly eavesdropping. "Apparently, the moms from the congregation got in an uproar, because it promotes witchcraft by having a good witch."

      "I take it they didn't realize that in the fifty-nine years it's been published?"

      The boy shrugged, "They did, but they just need something to be pissed off about now." A sigh slipped from him. "Anyway, they approached the library and managed to remove it. It caused Moira to have an absolute meltdown."

      "Why?"

      "Because she overheard Joe and Mags talking about it, and somehow got the impression that the librarians were going to storm into their house and take her copy away." Patrick described, eventually dissolving into a string of laughter. "She practically kept the whole block awake with her crying, all night. Joe ended up having to take her to East Arlington, because they were re-showing the film at some theater."

      "Oh, poor little Moira," Valerie cooed, caught in a fight between her sympathy and mirth. "Well, I'll keep that in mind when it comes to birthday shopping. Maybe I'll buy her a puppet set, or really give Joe a stress ulcer and get a little terrier from the shelter."

      Patrick grumbled, "Better yet, give Charlene MacDonald a piece of your mind."

      Unintentionally, she tensed at the mention of her old high school classmate, but relaxed a split second later. There was something endearing about her brother's anger and that it always came out as meek, polite vexation. Even furious or frustrated, Patrick possessed the gentleness that most men didn't have and knew it was best to keep his indignation under a regulated lid. 

      Seeing an opportunity to lighten the mood, Valerie quirked an eyebrow and let a little playfulness dance with her words. "Off the topic of school, any girls I need to know of?"

      Whatever exasperation that lingered from their previous topic of conversation drained from his pale face. Replaced was pinkish-redness that blotted his neck and a sweet look of embarrassment. His head bobbed down, "Yeah, there's this one girl..."

      Valerie smiled brightly and joined his side back on the swing. As he began to talk, she pulled her knees high to her chest and lazily tossed her arms over them, basking in the easiness of their moments. "Her name's Riley. She's in my chemistry and she's, like, an absolute genius." He would barely meet her interested gaze, but nothing could hide the absolute gooeyness that dripped from his resonance. 

      "Every time I see her, I think of that one song — you know the one, it just came out — 'Devoted to You' by The Everly Brothers."

      Laughter erupted from the blonde. It was joyous, and non-mocking, and made her chest hurt just the right amount. The rhythm of her gaiety ended with a snort, and Valerie reached over to whimsically knock the teenager's head to the side. "You're such a dork."

      "I'm such a dork." admitted Patrick, shaking his head. "What do I do? I've thought about talking to her more, but every time I see her, she's with her girlfriends."

      She faltered, surprised. "You're asking me for advice?"

      "Well, yeah." He shrugged, looking at her as if the answer to her question was obvious. "I can't talk to Joe about it, because he'll just rib me all day, every day. It's not a secret that Mikey and Bonnie don't have a great relationship so asking him is out of the question. I can't talk to Gene...because I just can't talk to Gene. And Irene knows about Riley, because they share a free period together, but she's never had a boyfriend." 

      "Hmm, seems like you're lacking access to experts."

      "Exactly." 

      A part of her wanted to make a throwaway line about consulting an issue of Cosmo instead of Playboy and to avoid episodes of Bachelor Father. At the last second, she decided against it. Looking at the serious plea deepening his expression, Valerie was forcibly reminded of her Older Sister Responsibilities. It wasn't a long list — it had just a few more bullet points than her Fun Aunt list of duties. One important aspect of the list was acting as a mentor, of sorts; or at least being able to look like she knew what she was talking about. Demonstrating wisdom and all that. 

      Frankly, Valerie doubted Patrick would be comfortable coming to her if he knew just how messy parts of her life (and her early courtship with Mark) was, but there was no need to break his idealism. 

      "Well, you said she hangs around her girlfriends," She said, thoughtful. "Why don't you try to be friends with them?"

      His eyes widened fearfully, as if she had suggested he jump into a pool full of sharks. "Are you kidding? I can't do that!"

      "And why on earth not?"

      "Because — because they're scary!" exclaimed Patrick, squeaking in the very middle. "They're like wolves. Every time I come around, their demeanors change into something demonic; or worse, they look at me like I'm a half-bumbling idiot."

      "Well, do you act like a bumbling idiot around her?"

      "Sometimes, but they don't need to point it out!" Stressfully, he ran a hand through his tousled, black hair. He remarked despairingly: "Why do girls always have to hang around each other in packs?"

      Valerie exhaled a soft chuckle, "Because it's a defense mechanism. The world is scary, but it's even worse when you're traveling alone. A pack offers protection and friendship, even if an abusive alpha tends to be unintentionally created."

      He pondered for a few timid moments. "I guess I could take home economics. It's a class with a bunch of girls, but I don't think any of her friends are in there." A disgruntled huff left him. "It'd make me the laughing stock of the guys, but it's give us a chance to hang out." 

      She raised a brow, "Would you rather get laid, or be seen as cool by a bunch of half-brained boys?"

      It didn't take long to come up with an answer. "I'd rather get laid." Then, he sheepishly shrugged, carefully meeting her eyes as if she was gonna start teasing him again. "To be honest, I don't even really care about that. I really just wanna hang out with her at school. Maybe even afterwards as well, if she's willing." 

      Valerie stared at her brother, tenderness blooming. God, she really didn't know how he ended up being so sweet. It wasn't like their father wasn't sweet, but his personality was buoyed by a sense of humor and an untroubled attitude. Their brothers were sweet, but they could be dicks when they wanted to be and like most men, they could be loud, and headstrong, and opiniated (all the qualities that Patrick didn't strongly possess). The habit of being ignored by Cher, in favor of Irene, might have turned him timid, despite the fact that his mother was always complaining about how Patrick wasn't manly enough. 

      Ultimately, it didn't matter. Valerie couldn't profess enough about how her brother's gentle nature was such a precious thing. The same could be said for Irene, but with Patrick, it felt different somehow. Girls were encouraged to be thoughtful and sensitive, but boys weren't. The fact that he grew up to be so soft was practically a miracle; but Valerie would be lying if she said she hadn't feared, once or twice, of the possibility that the harsh and icy atmosphere of their neighborhood wouldn't one day snuff out his delicateness. A wicked city with too many hardships had the tendency to do that, gender roles be damned. 

      "That's okay, too." She replied gingerly, "I'm not even talking about sex. Look, if you wanna date her, or even just spend time with her, then you got to meet her on her terms. Maybe taking the home economics class is a smart idea."

      "So many guys are afraid to look 'girly' that they refuse to go to the same places that mostly women go to, or do the type of activities that they do." explained Valerie speedily. "They refuse to go shopping, they refuse to act in theater, they don't do brunch, they'll stare at cheerleaders but won't dare think about joining them. But the thing is — how do you expect to pick up a girl when all you want to do is hang out with guys?" 

      A few seconds were needed to comprehend, but once it did, Patrick's face flourished with wonderment and realization. It was the equivalent of gifting someone a map to the fountain of youth. "That makes total sense! I don't know why we've never thought about it like that before!"

      "Because you and your friends' are teenage boys," She smoothly responded, "And all of your brains are the sizes of peanuts. They're just rattling around inside your skulls, barely taking up space. Don't worry though, brains do eventually get bigger." 

      Patrick dopily grinned, and Valerie knew she had lost him for the remainder of the summer. All he'd be thinking about is getting back to school on the first day and rushing to the attendance office to squeeze home economics into his schedule.  

      "Another piece of advise," started Valerie, pushing herself up from the bench and taking a few steps towards the front door. "Maybe don't share your idea with your friends. If they know the secret to getting girls, next thing you know — half of the female population of your high school is gonna be locked down with plastic rings before graduation."

☆

      "Can I borrow your cold cream?"

      Valerie lifted her head up from the sink and met Irene's gaze through the mirror. She had just finished melting the mascara from her eyes with a bottle of Pond's. Her face was still damp and flushed from the warm water. "Sure thing."

      She shuffled until she was sitting down on the toilet lid. The upstairs bathroom of the Donovan house was tiny with only a sink, a toilet, and an oval-shaped tub. It really wasn't meant for more than one person occupying it at a time, but being raised with a father, a revolving door of mothers, and siblings, Valerie had learned how to make it work in a tight squeeze. 

      "Thanks." replied Irene, stepping through the doorway. The long, inky tendrils of her hair swayed as the teenage girl gathered it all upwards and tied it back with a large clip. She added a few bobby-pins around her forehead, trapping the baby strands.

      The few people remaining in the house were getting ready for bed. Everyone else — meaning the miscreant Donovans who used to live here, but don't anymore, but always find their way back here due to the draw of chaotic, clingy dinner scenes — had left with their sleepy children in tow. It was way past everyone's usual bedtime, but summer nights ran long and the heat had a tendency to keep everyone awake. 

      Valerie scrubbed her face aimlessly, already feeling the blinders of exhaustion shutter down around her. She grabbed the Olay container and squeezed a small amount of lotion into her open hand. Feeling the sensation of cold ointment sink into her pores made her shiver. God, she couldn't wait to go to sleep.

      "Hey, Val?"

      "Hmm?"

      "Do you think we could go shopping tomorrow?" Irene asked, momentarily pausing the gentle movements of her fingers. Both cheeks were already covered in a thick layer of cold cream. "I don't have an outfit for the first day of school yet, and there's sale at the mall."

      The blonde flashed her a smile, wiping the excessive lotion off with a nearby dish towel. "Yeah, absolutely. Might as well spoil you rotten while I'm here." 

      A grateful look crossed her heart-shaped face. Irene continued to press the cream into her skin as she watched Valerie pick up a blue-colored tin from her makeup bag. Her brows knitted close together, "What's that?"

      "Emollient balm." answered Valerie. Her fingers dipped into the tin and smoothed the thin gel around her eyes, pulling the skin back and straight near the corners. She shot Irene a look filled with dry humor when she saw that her puzzlement lingered. "It prevents wrinkles, supposedly. Not something you need to worry about right now." 

      She twisted the cap back on and tossed it into the bag. The brunette didn't say anything, but her regard lingered on the brand name. Her attention eventually returned to the mirror, but the next words that came out of her mouth sounded more rigid. "Mom says that I already have stress lines."

      Valerie's bearing twisted,  "Where?"

      "Here." She gestured her index finger around the circumference area of her mouth. Briefly, she smiled to showcase the slight deepening of lines that appeared with the movement. "See em'?"

      Immediately, her older sister rolled her eyes. "Those aren't wrinkles, those are laugh lines. They don't count. It means you're happy."

      Irene dropped her hand, still appearing perturbed. "Well, they're not exactly attractive, now are they?" The reflection of herself stared back as she pulled her head forward once more. "And my skin's all oily. Just a few days ago, I got a fat pimple on my nose. I had to cake myself in mom's powder just to hide it."

      "You're fifteen years old and your hormones are all out of whack. It's natural for you skin to be oily and acne-ridden. Healthy, even, depending on how you're looking at it." Valerie glanced up and frowned at Irene's demeanor. "If it's really bothering you, we can buy you some soap and a big jar of Noxzema. That will balance out the oils real quick."

      "Okay." She nodded, jerkily. "It's just...I don't understand why it's only happening to me and not my friends." 

      The other woman couldn't help, but chuckle. "Oh, babe, trust me, it's happening to everyone at your age."

      "Then why can't I see it?"

      "Because your girlfriends are probably doing what you do and stealing their mothers' makeup to cover up the evidence. They're probably not talking about it, because they're embaressed too." Valerie reached behind her for a brush and started combing the bristles through her hair, feeling the wetness leftover from the shower. "You ever notice the boys and how they have pimples too?"

      Irene's nose scrunched, "I just thought that was, because they're boys...and boys are gross."

      She grinned, "Well, that's true, but they're going through the same thing you and the other girls are going through — they just smell worse. They don't have the luxury to hide it, because God forbid men wear makeup and care about their skin." 

      Automatically, Irene giggled. "It's funny to think of a man in makeup."

      "Oh, I thought so too, but it's not the strangest thing in the world." Valerie stood up and wrapped her red, fuzzy robe around herself tighter. "You know, there are clubs and restaurants in New York City where men dressed up as ladies and perform theater acts. It's called a drag show." 

      If the fifteen-year-old was in the middle of a sip of water, she would have spluttered the fluid everywhere. She damn near almost choked on her own spit. "You're joking!"

      "One-hundred-percent, dead honest. It's actually quite normal." The blonde's shoulders twitched and she corrected herself. "Well, to people like me who roam the streets at night. It's still illegal."

      "Have you been to these shows?"

      "You betcha!"

      "Can you tell me everything!" 

      "Well —"

      "Please — !"

      A knock rattled against the wood. The door swung open.

      Cher appeared. Her thick, ebony hair, which was an exact replication of her daughter's, was already styled with tight rolled, white curlers. Sorbet-colored, oversized pajamas replaced the black and pristine number she wore for the entirety of the day. With attire like this, Valerie might have been fooled into believing she was just a regular step-mother who baked chocolate chip cookies all day and didn't have a vendetta against all of the children she inherited from her husband's previous marriages. 

      Valerie was willing to bet that if her father was here, Cher would be wearing a less comfortable and more sexy nightie. 

      "I heard giggling." The older woman announced. Somehow, her smile seemed too thin and humorless for her pale face.

      Irene turned a bright red. Valerie crossed her arms, "Is that a crime after ten o'clock?"

      Her blue eyes narrowed, "No, I was simply curious. Making sure nothing bad was going on." She turned her judgement onto her youngest, full-blooded daughter. "You haven't done your hair yet." 

      "Oh!" squeaked Irene, hands reaching up to quickly untangle the clips. It seemed like she had forgotten her hair was left like that. "I got distracted..."

      "Go put the hot rollers in. I've still got the heat running." Cher said softly, gesturing to the closed bedroom door at the very end of the hallway. Despite the gentleness of her tone, it was still very much a command. 

      Without enough word, Irene skirted off in that direction, her puffy and white nightgown flowing behind her. When the sound of the door opening and clicking shut, Cher returned her scrutiny onto her step-child.

      "Thank you for helping with dinner, by the way." She said stiffly, focusing on slowly tying the strings of her robe. "Your grandmother did an excellent job." 

      Valerie said nothing and nodded. It was no secret that Cher disliked her grandmother, or any family member related to any of Domhnall's previous marriages. Still, she knew better than to outright insult Ludovica. When Valerie's mother was alive, the old woman lived with them for a while and when she passed, she moved over to her other daughter's home. Regardless of differing living situations and a new martial status, Domhnall had always possessed a soft spot for his former mother-in-law. That's why she was allowed to cook whatever she wanted in their kitchen (and backyard) and could come over whenever she wanted. 

      No one could deny her homecooked meals were splendid, though. Not even Cher, who's own parents came from Sicily. 

      "Just letting you know, my sisters and their friends are coming over tomorrow afternoon. We're having a hostess party. Maybelline and the such." Cher barely blinked, watching Valerie's reaction. "It starts at noon and will last for a few hours."

      That was code for be out of the fucking house by eleven-forty-five or I swear to God type of talk. If she was expecting an argument or a complaint from Valerie, she sure as hell wasn't going to get one. "That works out actually." She replied coolly. "I was planning on taking Irene downtown for some shopping. A little girls' trip. Patrick can tag along if he likes, but I'm sure he'd rather be out with his friends while the sun's still out."

      "As long as they're both outta the house, it's fine by me." said Cher, disdain coating her words. "I can't stand it when the twins are cooped up in the house all day long." 

      That's because Cher wanted the house to herself and didn't like it when the kids were around all day long without school keeping them occupied. It's the reason why she kicked them out right after breakfast and wouldn't let them back in until the sky was becoming dark. It was standard practice for most of the kids in this town, but that didn't mean Valerie liked it, or the resentful attitude behind it. 

      Still, she said nothing. 

      If Midge was here, she'd be getting a masterclass in patience. 

      Cher's eyes dragged down Valerie's figure. "Is that what you wear to bed, honey?"

      The blonde looked down at herself, "Sometimes, yeah."

      She paused, and then let out a merry little laugh, like Valerie had just done something unintentionally funny. "Well, I suppose when the husband's gone, there's no need to keep up appearances. I sure hope you never dressed like this in front of him."

      Valerie was wearing her favorite pajama set of all time. The short-sleeved button-up and long pants were matching; it was mainly lime green with skinny, vertical white stripes. It had been a wedding present of-sorts from Midge and Joel. Valerie had received the green set while Mark had gotten an identical one that was a light blue. At a celebratory party they hosted shortly after they announced their engagement, Midge had said this was the perfect gift for soon-to-be-married couples to demonstrate they were now an "adjoined" pair. 

      After opening the gift boxes, both Valerie and Mark had to sneak away to the bathroom together. She could still remember how boisterous and infectious their shared laughter was, and how terrible it was to try to be quiet due to the influx of guests in their apartment. The two of them were in total agreement — couples in matching outfits were beyond ridiculous. Almost offensive to the eyes, quite frankly. Then they came to the realization that the Maisels probably wore complementary pajamas at bedtime and that kicked off another round of hysterics. 

      In spite of their severe reaction to the gifts, it didn't stop them from eventually wearing them. A few weeks after the party, all of the washers and dryers from their building broke down. Neither of them wanted to spend the money on a dry cleaners or laundromat. So they had to wait for their tenant to fix everything. In the meantime, since on that particular day it was laundry day, they had to wear their only clean clothes — Midge and Joel's pajamas sets. 

      The visual was strikingly silly, but much to both of their surprise, the clothes were spectacularly comfortable. Valerie remembered thinking that she had never been in something more deliciously warm and doughy in her entire life. They spent that day lounging on the couch with Valerie sprawled on top of her fiancée and Mark watching the television over her shoulder. 

      That was years ago. One too many cycles in the wash had caused the top to shrink a little, causing a sliver of her belly to be exposed. Loose thread dangled from the end of one of her leg cuffs. She had nightdresses in her closest that were made of silk and far more visually appealing. 

      Still, it was her favorite pajamas. And she would never get rid of them.

      Instead of crafting a remark made of whit or defensives, something inside of Valerie pushed for plain old sincerity. It might have been the fondness stemming from the memory of her husband. "Mark loved these actually." She smiled widely, feeling overwhelmed with gooeyness all of a sudden. Come tomorrow, she would have zero clue about what came over her. She'd probably blame it on Patrick and his outwardly naive, dumb, poetic heart. "He once told me that there was nothing sexier in the world other than two things: a woman in her thirties and a woman in pajamas." 

      If Cher was taken aback, she didn't show it. She started to turn around, but stopped herself half through. That smile — the same one that held fake niceness and a razor sharp offensive stance — cracked her face. "You know, sometimes you being here is such a fresh breath of air. It's nice for Irene and Paddy to have a friend."

      Valerie had to stop herself from visibly seething at that comment. The words from her Christmas visit didn't echo in her mind; they had been burnt into her skin. A simmering scar that was still a little bloody and prone to reopening whenever she scratched it. Some people are built selfish. But I do believe it you were to stay gone and not come back for a long time, he would eventually get over it. 

      Her step-mother hardly ever attacked with yells or direct insults. No, she was kind of like one of those yellow-skinned pythons on National Geographic. This species of snake kills their prey languorously. It curls around the defenseless prey and continuously squeezes over a long period of time until the prey dies from asphyxiation. Every time the animal moves, the snake curls tighter. The air supply is slowly cut off. While most snakes don't do this, the python prefers it, because the hunting and the torture is sometimes more fun than the actual killing. 

      Valerie almost wished Cher was direct with her hatred. If she was, she wouldn't have to deal with the emotional whiplash that Cher had been putting her through for years now. At Christmas, she made no effort to conceal the fact that she wanted Valerie gone, just as she's said countless other times. Now, she was plastering that faux smile across her face and being passive aggressive about how nice it was that she was visiting. Every time she flipped the switch, it made Valerie feel more and more crazier, and she was pretty sure Cher liked it that way. 

      She didn't get angry. She refused to get angry. Instead she kept her voice strong and her gaze unwavering. "I'm not their friend, Cher. I'm their sister."

      The older woman barely paused. She just pursed her lips and nodded shortly, in one of those manner where a person doesn't agree, but they don't wanna fight. "Sure." 

      With that, she walked away. Valerie heaved out a long breath and rubbed her forehead, careful not to disturb the lotion. Her feet padded across the floorboard, but before she could enter, another group of footsteps joined her. 

      Patrick walked up the stairs, yawning heavily in his blue shirt and jogging pants. His sister resisted the urge to yawn too, "Going to bed?"

      "Not yet. I wanna stay up for a little while." He flashed an issue of Archies Comics. "I gotta catch up."

      "Suit yourself." Valerie shook her head and was about to open a door when a sparkling idea hurtled to the forefront of her already diminishing thoughts. "Hang on!"

      Her brother came to a stop.

      Valerie entered her bedroom and made a b-line for her bed, where her suitcase was stretched out. She searched through her clothes and underthings. After a minute, her hands bumped against a paperback. When she reentered the hallway, she tossed the book at Patrick.

      He caught it and flipped it around to see the cover. "Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsburg." He questioned with confusion: "Who's Allen Ginsberg?"

      "A beatnik from San Francisco. He writes about American society; about rebellion, capitalism, religion, freedom, intimacy." Valerie hesitated for a moment. In her mind, she skimmed through the verses that alluded to homosexual sex and communism. She pondered whether it would be too much, and quickly dismissed it a second later. She refused to shield him from this sort of stuff, because she knew everyone else around him, parents and teachers included, already did so. She thought of herself at fifteen, and how the only way she learned about the world outside of Boston was through confronting topics that were deemed forbidden to her. 

      "The author got in a lot of trouble. There was an obscenity trial a couple years ago and thankfully, he wasn't convicted. There was a judge overseeing the case that thankfully had more common sense that half of the Supreme Court justices." The blonde shrugged, "Maybe you like it, maybe you don't, but the point is, this is one of the most banned books nowadays and I guarantee you, you will not be talking about it in school." 

      Patrick turned it over in his hands. He clutched the edges carefully and with devotion, acting as if the torn edges were somehow treasured gold. The appreciation in his  eyes glowed. "Thanks, Val!" His expression turned shy. "I'm kind of a slow reader. I don't know if I'll be done with it, before you go home."

      Valerie smirked, "Keep it, it's your new copy. I finished that one on the bus ride here."

☆

      For a Saturday morning, Jordan Marsh & Co was blissfully not busy. The flagship department store in Downtown Crossing, a mere nine minutes outside of the South Side, was usually overflowing with shoppers. It was the B. Altman of Boston after all. Most people in Valerie's native neighborhood went to Bradless in spite of the fact that it was a longer drive to Braintree and had a significantly less nice selection of clothes. The important part was that it was cheaper. Regardless, the comedian refused to go there in fear of bumping into old classmates, or old teachers, or fellow churchgoers, or anybody that could possibly know that her last name was Donovan.

      Valerie was willing to spend more money (that she didn't really have) if it meant not speaking to anyone. 

      The main priority of the two sisters' as they entered the mall was to find a bath and body store. Irene, the poor girl, looked around at the advertisement posters of models plastered across the walls and followed her older sibling around like an anxious puppy, clinging onto every word.

      "First thing's first is that you need a good bar of soap." instructed Valerie, regard firm as they maneuvered through the aisles. The tables, shelves and display vanities that lined the store were almost entirely made of glass. A white light glow illuminated underneath the structures, heaven-like. 

      "One for your face and face only! Not your body. That's separate." A cardboard box with the brand name Laszlo printed across caught her eye. "Hmm, this is a good one."

      It was handed over to Irene, who scanned the pictures. Her nose scrunched, "It's black."

      "That's because it's made from charcoal and sea mud. Don't worry, it's not gonna make you look dirty. It's just gonna make you less oily." At the teenager's skeptical look, Valerie elaborated. "Marilyn Monroe uses that soap."

      Instantly, Irene became intrigued. "Really?'

      "Really!"

      She barely wasted a second. She threw the box into the paper bag. "I'm sold!"

      Valerie huffed, amused. She continued to walk around, "Well, if you're impressed by that, I can suggest a few more products." They stopped alongside shelves full of creams. The aroma was fruity yet also medicinal. "Oh! This is a must!"

      A tiny box of Vaseline was shaken in front of Irene's face. The blonde tapped her polished nail against the emboldened tagline 'So pure you can eat it' with enthusiasm. "Marilyn also uses this underneath her foundation. It's why she always looks like she's glowing. Plus, if you apply some in the winter time when the air gets really dry, it will stop your lips from cracking." 

      "That's neat!" Irene exclaimed, eyes bright. She acted as if this was top-tier, prime level education she was receiving. After a moment, her brows furrowed. "How'd you know Marilyn uses this stuff?"

      "I read about it in a tabloid." said Valerie, examining a ruby-based, oval-shaped salve. "Confidential or something. It might have actually been Life magazine, now that I'm thinking about it."

      "You're a journalist," Irene questioned. "Aren't you suppose to hate dirty rags?"

      Her sister glanced at her, "Well, journalists run dirty rags too. They've just traded their morality for fast and easy cash. But tabloids serve their purpose too. If you want to hear summaries about the kitchen debate between Nixon and Khrushchev, read the New York Times. If you want to hear the latest goss about if Laurence Olivier will divorce Vivian Leigh, then read a tabloid."

      "Good to know. I didn't realize that." Irene's gaze caught onto some of the massive photographs stapled to the walls. Hollywood starlets with short, elaborate pompadours or blow-out waves stared back seductively. The Michael Ochs poster with Aubrey Hepburn looking off into the distance, hair cropped to the neck and tiny bangs kissing her forehead, took up the most space.

      She sighed, stricken. "I hate my hair." 

     Valerie looked at her, intensely confused. "What are you talking about? Everybody loves your hair."

      "Exactly! Everyone loves it, but I hate it." scoffed the brunette. She swatted a few strands off her shoulders, agitated. "It gets in the way of everything, it takes forever to brush, I shed like a bear in the shower and clog the drain." 

      "It's like you have a vendetta." teased Valerie. Her humor dropped when Irene shot her a half-hearted glare full of seriousness. "A girl's not suppose to hate her hair. It's her best friend."

      "Well, my hair and I are going through a rough patch." Irene muttered. She browsed the the blush selection absentmindedly, the sulkiness of her pout remaining. It didn't remind Valerie of petulant teenage behavior though. Quite the opposite, actually. "Mom likes my hair and that's why I'm not even allowed to cut it half-an-inch. She treats me like I'm a doll or something."

      For a minute, her older sister stayed silent. Valerie had always struggled when it came to her younger siblings' conflicts with their biological mother. On the one hand, it was no secret that there was zero shared love between Valerie and Cher. Any compliment she tried to pay towards her step-mother would just be a blatant lie, and the last thing she wanted to be was dishonest to Irene. However, Valerie made a very conscious and determined decision not to speak badly about Cher in front of either of the twins. 

      It was already bad enough that sometimes Patrick and Irene witnessed the vapid arguments that would brew between Valerie and their mother. The blonde was very much aware of how formidable their perspectives were at this age and the last thing she wanted was for their views of their mother become distorted due to Valerie's hostile history with her. Growing up, her older siblings made an effort not to talk badly about Serafina, her own biological mother, so Valerie tried her best to extend the same courtesy now that she had a step-mother.

      "I'm sure she doesn't mean to make you feel that way." She replied softly, finding it difficult to meet Irene's doe eyes. 

      The weak reassurance didn't do much to boost Irene's spirits. "At least if Dad was home, he could make some sort of stupid joke about how his sight is going and that he keeps confusing me with Elizabeth Taylor."

      Valerie snorted quietly — it was such a dumb yet tender joke — but her humor was tinged by the same overlaying somberness that had been hanging above the Donovan household. Their father's absence hadn't been talked about, but in a way, it could be keenly felt. Everyone put on a brave face and acted as if there wasn't an empty chair at the dinner table, but Valerie knew better. The twins walked around the house with more slumped shoulders and downtrodden looks than usual.

      "How have you been dealing? Since Dad left?"

      "What?" Irene's head shot up, her large gaze pinned with shock. "I've been totally fine." 

      She spun towards the right and made her way towards the perfumes. Valerie followed trepidatiously, the paper bag in her hand bumping against her knees lightly. A daunting part of her felt nervous about approaching this topic, but there was this sense of determination as well. She was the older one between the two and it felt like a responsibility to try to get Irene to talk about this. 

      "I remember when he would go away when I was a kid." She said, hoping to come off as nonchalant as she gripped random, scented bottles and pretended to read the labels. Fruity aromas filled her nostrils as she tried to combat the discomfort that settled heavily on her shoulders. Valerie dreaded talking about this stuff. Somehow, she pushed through it. "It would always make me so upset, because there was no return date."

      Irene listened with apt attention. It was doubtful that any of their other family members, especially their older siblings, had expressed sadness over Domhnall's runaway antics. She stayed silent for a while, keeping her eyes razor sharp on the celebrity endorsements of the perfumes. Eventually, after gnawing on her bottom lip for a while and looking contemplative, she reverted her focus back onto Valerie. There was a renewed boldness in her tone. "Is Dad depressed?"

      Valerie was in the middle of reaching for a sample, but her hand skirted to a stop midway. She looked back at her sister, saw the strong ascertainment straining her expression, and looked away. A distant voice coming from the back of her head said she ought to regret bringing this up. "Dad's been...struggling with depression for years. For decades now, even before he had kids from what I've picked up on."

      "Why is he depressed?" questioned Irene, a little more rapid now. Once the gates holding back a river were unlatched, there was no stopping the flood.

      The blonde cleared her throat. It felt dry all of a sudden. "I don't know, to be honest. It just sounds like he's always...had it, and it's never completely gone away." 

      Irene bit the inside of her cheek. Her emerald eyes appeared so innocent and lovely. "Do you think it has anything to do with Grandpa Casey?"

      Grandpa Casey was Domhnall's father who had been dead for decades now, long before he had even immigrated to America. He wasn't spoken of much, not even by his children, but a few details were well-known. He was a farmer from Galway and had bad lungs due to the moldy haw. He smoked a pipe, but it was his wife who liked to drink, not him. He may have had an affair with a post office lady, but that was never confirmed; and on New Years' Eve, when Domhnall was around ten years old, he shot himself. 

      That haunting narrative was only ever brought up by Dom's older siblings, who only ever mentioned it when they brought up the fact that afterwards, he had to drop out of school to help with the farm. Other than that, no one spoke of it, minus a morbid joke Valerie can recall someone making when she was a child about how Donovans shouldn't handle rifles. She remembered that line, perhaps spoken at a party with the family, and how it made her tremble horribly. 

      Truth be told, Valerie didn't like thinking about Grandpa Casey for that exact same reason. Thinking of him meant thinking of his death and it felt far too ghastly to even touch. From time to time, she would wonder if her father thought about him even though he rarely ever talked about him. There were short-lived moments where Valerie would watch the curtain of dejection shield her father's face when he thought no one was looking and felt certain that he did. 

      "It might be, yeah." answered Valerie. "It's a pretty awful thing that happened. But I don't know for sure." 

      The brunette turned to face her fully, forgetting the beauty products surrounding them. Not far from where they were standing, Valerie could hear a gaggle of girls laughing about their weekend plans to go to the cinema. "Do you think Dad resents having to take care of me and Patrick?"

      Valerie felt her eyes nearly bug out of her skull. "No, it's gonna nothing to do with that!" She implored passionately. "Why on earth would you think that?"

      Irene shrugged, shame-faced. "Because you, and Gene, and Mikey, and Joe are all so much older and out of the house. Maybe he's upset that he's still stuck with kids at the house."

      "Oh, baby — no, no, no, you and Paddy have nothing to do with Dad." She stuttered a little, trying to find the right articulation to express how vehemently she disagreed with Irene's suspicions. "He loves you guys so much. In fact, I'm pretty sure if he could have ten more kids at his age, he'd jump at the chance! The man loves being a father a little too much, it's clinical insanity!"

      Thankfully, that got a little chuckle out of Irene, albeit weak. Valerie kept her words strong and confidant, "Look, I know it's hard to understand — it's hard for me or anyone to understand — but this is just something Dad's always dealt with. It's never mattered which wife he had, or how successful his job was going, or if a holiday was around the corner. He's just...it's just always been there."

      There was a split second of self-hating panic that struck Valerie at the notion of fucking up this conversation. Even to her own ears, she sounded like she didn't know what she was talking about. However, after a moment of absorbing her words, Irene's face cleared slightly of the cloudiness. She jutted her chin with a firm nod. "Okay."

      Relief rushed through Valerie. Her muscles relaxed, and she was welcomed with the sudden sensation of needing to shake away all of the discomfort clinging to her bones. Just as she thought she was well-within the safety zone, and they could go back to talking about fashion or something equally silly, Irene's anxiousness rose again. "Do you think we're gonna end up like that? Like it passes down or something."

      The flats covering Valerie's feet sunk into the tiles of the store. The peripheral sounds of the mall, from the chattering customers with the cashier to the groups of teenagers rushing to the cafeteria in the corridor, became more muffled. She replayed Irene's question over and over in her head, quickly. Uninhibited, she couldn't help, but coast through her own childhood memories. 

      A lot of them lacked color. Most of them shortly after her mother's death, which wasn't shocking. But a lot of them took place, before the cancer snuffed her out. There were a lot of days, as a small child, that her anxiety would stop her from leaving her bedroom. During breakfast, someone would be sent up upstairs to drag her out of bed. Everyone would also just cite it as her playing a joke or being lazy.

      Some days, she could remember being so disconnected from everyone else. She refused to go outside to play, or hated going to school, or just laid on the floor in her room and stared up at the ceiling. Sunday mornings would come around, and she would be afraid of going, because all she could look at was the large replica of Jesus on the cross, the nails piercing his palms and his mouth half-screaming in anguish. Substitute priests would come around and speak about how God knew everyone's intentions, vocal or not. He could detect anyone's sins. They spoke of hellfire and punishments. 

      It only made her more frightful of everything she could do wrong.

      As a teenager, she grabbed at anything that could make her feel better, more alive. She looked forward to the messy and sticky fumblings with boys she went to school with, the parade of endorphins overwhelming her body and mind with nothing, but light. She would sneak out at night and meet up with friends to do all sorts of reckless things: wait for a train in the middle of the tracks and jump at the last minute, drink and yell out of windows while they cruised I-90 freeway, sneak into clubs downtown and not leave until the sun was out. It was so reckless — so unbelievable and stupidly reckless — but the adrenaline made everything worthwhile.

      Sometimes it was hard to leave the cool and shallow comfort of her bed. Sometimes being inside that house felt grueling for no reason. Sometimes the apathetic and cruel nature of Cher made everything worse. 

      Sometimes she would think: why bother?

      What was the point in —?

      No.

       No.

      She wasn't going down this train of thought. 

      Not even for Irene.

      "Kid, the only thing you've got to worry about when it comes to genetics is whether you're gonna develop a kinship with Jameson on the rocks," Valerie teased, forcing the lightness in her voice. She didn't care if it felt grating to pretend. "Other than that, you'll be fine."

      Irene erupted into laughter, and Valerie moved on to the eyeliners.

☆

      "Okay — who brought the booze?"

      Gene winced at the boisterous tone and followed with an elaborate eye roll. From her purse, she pulled out a freshly bought bottle of red wine. Michael's excitement immediately drained as he grasped the neck of the bottle and turned it to view the label. "I realize that maybe I should cut you some slack given how old you're becoming, but I specifically requested liquor, not wine."

      Valerie stifled a giggle. Gene reached out to violently swat at their brother's arm, who grimaced in the midst of his laughter. The eldest of the four merely watched them with exasperation. He chose to start in on the appetizer platter rather than join in. 

      "Fucking picky, the both of you." Joe eventually spoke up, in the middle of chewing on a scone slathered in jelly and butter. "Who cares what kind it is? If there's alcohol, it's adequate."

      Gene's eyes narrowed, "Some of us have taste."

      "By all means, keep arguing and wake the kids up," Valerie interjected while reaching over for a cracker. She smiled wryly at both of her siblings. "Nothing gets a party going more than fussy five year olds."

      The four of them were hiding out in a relatively well-kept and spacious sun shed in Gene's house, a few blocks from their childhood home. It was octagon-shaped with glass panels lining the irregular walls. Overgrown weeds and dried out flowers decorated the window boxes, victims of the unforgiving heat. The combination of the hickory aroma and the crickets chirping in a quiet symphony made the environment so lovely, so peaceful. 

      Which was important — the Donovans were loud enough as it is.

      "How's Maggie liking the new job, by the way." Valerie asked, stretching her arms above her head as she curled up in her chair. The warm air was making her feel fuzzy and pleasantly drowsy.

      Joseph tousled his hair, "She seems to be liking it so far. It gets her out of the house sometimes while the kids are at school. Only problem is dealing with the fucking assholes who work in billing. They're giving her a rough time."

      "Well, Margaret's a tough woman. I'm sure she's showing them who's boss." smirked Valerie. She accepted the cup of wine her sister passed over to her. "Let me know if she needs back-up. I can always swing around."

      He snorted, "I'm sure that'd be a good show to see. Like Superman and Lois Lane fighting the Wretched Hive of the Southside." 

      A pause. "Am I Superman in this scenario?"

      Gene chimed in, "You both are acting like she's facing off the Red Army. It's a dentist office filled with nail-filing housewives, not a warzone." 

      "Oh, I don't know if I'd go that far," Michael added, strutting from the doorway to the table and plopping down with exaggerated ease. His long legs crossed each other. "Housewives are the scariest species out there. Just ask our mothers!" 

      Everyone began to laugh, even Gene who lightly hit his arm yet couldn't hide the blooming smile on her lips. From that point on, the conversation sailed smoothly with their little shed coming alive with light mockery and boisterous tones. With how much difference laid between each of the siblings and with how hard their respective parents made it be sometimes, Valerie had almost forgotten how much she enjoyed these moments alone.

      It reminded her fondly of the better parts of her childhood. None of them, besides Gene and Michael, spent every day together due to the divorces. Joe always spent half the week with his mother as did Gene and Michael. Valerie always yearned for the scheduled days where they would sleep overnight at Domhnall's. Despite the love she had for her mother and father, everything felt less critical with her older siblings around. Her brothers always enveloped her with levity and warmth, like a security blanket. Having Gene around, prior to their fall-out after the tour, was like having a best friend or better yet, a soulmate. 

      Each of her siblings felt like an added limb. They couldn't be separated from her. 

      The loneliness would always prevail when they would have to return to their mothers' homes. Things got better when Irene and Patrick arrived, because Valerie could focus on bonding with them. Still, due to them being younger and that age gap, the relationship felt different. It was only natural for Valerie to view her older siblings different from her younger ones. 

      Thinking of little Irene and little Patrick ― growing up too fast and paying attention to their surroundings too keenly ― put a slow damper on her joyous mood. Namely, Irene's saddened expression during their shopping trip and the worry lines that accompanied it. Even Patrick, who so often kept his head down because there was safety in staying silent, wore his woe on his sleeves. 

      Valerie could understood. She could harken back to threads of her youth where she would look up at all of the adults in her life and see all the things they tried to hide from her. Everyone simplified children to their ignorance and facile capabilities, but the truth of the matter was that most kids were more observant than given credit for. An argument could even be made that at times children were more observant than adults. It was easy to see things subtle or concealed when no one expected you to notice in the first place. 

      Dad may try to hide away his depression by running away to his brother's in the name of a fishing trip, but that didn't change the fact that his depression was there. The Donovans, and the Pescatellis, and the Carusos, and the rest of the extended broods via destroyed marriages may not want to acknowledge Domhnall's issues, but that didn't mean the kids didn't know they were there. Valerie was beginning to see the flaws of her family's designs. 

      The blonde slouched in her chair, balancing her half-drunk glass of cabernet on her bent knee. Cautiously, she looked between her three siblings, who were caught in mid-ramblings about baseball. Something desperate crawled up her chest. 

      Benito's words echoed through her mind. You are enough. You have always been enough.

      While trying not to sound abrupt, Valerie asked: "Anybody hear from Dad?"

      All three pairs of eyes turned on her. Anxiousness itched at her palms, which she tried to ignore by bringing her wine to her lips and taking another sip. To her diagonal-right, Joe shifted in his seat. "I phoned Uncle Colm to check in this morning. Apparently, him and Dad caught three bass in one hour. I think that's code for 'everything's going great.'"

      Michael tapped his knuckles against the table, "Well, clearly if they've got time to fish, then everything's a-o-kay!"

      "Fishing and drinking. That's Dad's cure." commented Gene, laced with surefire confidence. "Best to leave Colm to deal with him, like all the other times. He'll straighten him out and then he'll come back, better than ever."

      Valerie pursed her mouth, letting the quietude settle for a minute. "But that's not necessarily true, is it? He doesn't come back better than ever; because eventually, he'll get the blues again and leave."

      The trio of people shared looks with each other, before down-casting their regards to random spots. A bedspread stitched with discomfort and apprehension was beginning to overlay the shed. Valerie didn't let it deter her. "I mean, maybe he'll only stay gone for a day next time, but no matter what, he'll still leave. Haven't you guys ever found that odd?"

      "Most men in this town drink too much." Her red-haired sister said instead of answering. Something made of conviction was making her dark eyes harden. "Or they hit their wives, or they bow out entirely. Every man has a vice and dad's is very minimal."

      "Most Dads don't leave every time they get too sad."

      "We should just be grateful he comes back." retorted Gene. Her words bordered on snappish, but she was doing good overall to keep her tone composed.

      Michael cleared his throat, and clearly sensing some fierce opposition from Gene, tried to keep his attitude light. "Look, this is just the way it's always been. No sense in trying to change it or understand. Besides ― we're Irish-Catholic. If we're not depressed at least once a month, there's something wrong with our DNA!"

      Joe chuckled, albeit pinched, and it rumbled through his chest. "Depression and anger. It's what keeps us alive. Oh, that and shepherd's pie." 

      "Why have you started caring so much all of a sudden?" Gene precipitously questioned. From how sharply it cut into the mirthful air that the brothers were trying to infuse into the conversation, it sounded more interrogative than anything. "I thought the whole point of living in New York City was that you didn't have to concern yourself with what goes on up here."

      "That's not why I moved down there and you know it." The blonde replied calmly, refusing to match that rise of anger that was already building in her big sister. The last thing she wanted was a fight. "And I'm bringing it up, because it's affecting Irene and Patrick."

      "Affecting them?" scoffed Michael. "Affecting them how?"

      "Well for one,  they're withdrawn." Valerie explained, "Second, Irene's got it in her head that it's somehow her fault that Dad's depressed. I've got no doubt that Patrick's thinking the same train of thought."

      Joe's hands waved around. "Wait, hold on a minute — maybe I can believe that Irene's been taking it hard, but Patrick's doing absolutely okay. Sure, he's shy, but he's always been shy. Nothing abnormal than that, other than it's not the most manly thing in the world."

      She tried not to glare too harshly, "Just because he's quiet doesn't mean there's nothing wrong. Same with Irene. It doesn't help that Cher's not guiding them through this."

      "What's there to guide through?" Her other brother interposed, ebullient. "He gets sad once in a while, he leaves, he come back — end of story. Nothing groundbreaking. Nothing worth the violins."

      "None of our mothers had to talk us through it." argued Gene.

      "Maybe they should have." 

      "Let's drop this!" interrupted Joe, sharing his strong regard, full of that brotherly authority, between the pair of sisters. "Nothing's wrong with Dad, nothing's wrong with the twins. And you know what, Dad needing to leave once in a while will make both of them tough."

      "Agreed." Gene muttered underneath her breath. She ignored Valerie's soft look and drank more of the Cab Sauvignon.

      Everyone went timid for a moment. Valerie stared down at her leftover food and drink, finding herself unable to muster enough appetite or effort to finish it. Her expression had smoothed into unaffected coolness. Inside, she could feel shame sink into her skin and attach to her bones like a sticky undercoat.

      Michael blew air loudly through his lips and smacked his hands against his jean-clad legs. Like everyone else, he could sense the awkwardness. "Well, since this seems like the appropriate time to bring up the serious shit...I have some news."

      Heads swerved towards him. 

      Another dramatic pause. "I lost a bet and now have to work Labor Day weekend."

      Joseph barked a laugh, "Geeze, you nearly had me. I thought you were gonna announce something awful, like you had cancer —"

      "Or proposed to Bonnie." interjected Gene. She added dryly. "I think I'd rather you have cancer than marry that girl."

      Michael wasted no time in grasping a fistful of chips and throwing them at their sister. Outraged remarks were made, more laughter commenced, and the conversation returned to its normal, non-confrontational rhythm. Valerie was left watching it happen with a dull, faux smile. It was as if she was outside of her body. 

      The only sensation that remained without an impression of numbness was the feeling that she had been rejected. 

☆

      Valerie packed the last of her folded clothes and snapped the hood of her suitcase shut. A sigh was released from her lips as she climbed the bed and sat on the hard, textured exterior. Her weight helped the two shells close together and made it easier for the comedian to lock the clips. Even when her luggage was secure, she didn't move. The hollow craters in her that echoed with emptiness didn't make it easy. 

      Her gaze dragged up the olive green walls of her bedroom. The morning sun peaking through the lace curtains cast a wide-spanning glare. The light illuminated the silver crucifix the most, enlarging the spread arms of Jesus and the angular, sharp corners. Even as she scanned the rest of the room, noting the staples of her childhood through dusty books and high school memorabilia, her attention kept going back to the cross. It commanded power.

      Likewise, it made her feel small. This whole room, a replica of an old life, made her feel small. Why was that?"

      Movement downstairs startled her. Valerie huffed once again, before pushing herself off the suitcase. One hand snatched the bus ticket lying on the nightstand with the bold statement "DESTINATION: NEW YORK CITY" paraded across the top. It was astonishing how much profound solace was tied to those words. Boston may hold a familiarity that offered comfort, but it also emitted strong tremors of anxiety. New York was none of those things. New York was adrenaline, and harmony, and where she was meant to be. There was a pull between herself and that city. 

      Her Brooklyn apartment and the comedic underbelly of Greenwich Village was exactly what she needed after this trip. 

      It's not like she could complain greatly. All in all, it was a decent trip. No big blow-ups with Cher, or Gene, or any other family member. She had a lovely time with her little siblings and her nieces and nephews. It was a nice reprieve from what was a chaotic summer in the Catskills with the Peldaros and the Maisels.

      Still, her late-night dinner with her other siblings left her tingling with bitterness. Even when she woke up this morning, immediately she was greeted with embarrassment. It was enough to stay under the covers for a little bit longer and contemplate whether to get a cab to the station rather than letting Michael drive her. She didn't want any of her siblings to look at her and be reminded of how she behaved last night, of how she opened herself up to only get shot down seconds later. 

      She felt so silly, looking back on it. 

      Valerie scrubbed her neck until it felt raw with redness and picked up the handle of her luggage. She didn't toss another glance towards her old bedroom as she left and treaded downstairs. It didn't matter — it would always be there with her old posters, creaking bed, and innate magnitude, reminding her of the past. It wouldn't change from now until her next visit.

      When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she lowered the suitcase onto the floor near the front door. A couple of rattling noises came from the kitchen. Valerie approached, figuring it was Michael ready to go and grabbing a bite to eat beforehand. Except when she crossed the line between the living room and the kitchen, the blonde stopped in the middle of her tracks, paralyzed. 

      Her father stood in the room. Domhnall was hunched over the steaming stove, the sizzling of eggs mixing with his humming. His overcoat and leather shoes were carelessly deserted by the table, leaving the older man in a crumpled shirt, dark slacks, and ridiculous-looking, grey socks. With his back turned to her, she could see a few more streaks of white in his blondish-brown hair. It made her heart hurt to see the signs of aging in him. 

      Nevertheless, warmth spread down her chest and practically vaporized whatever humiliation or shame she felt from the night before. It was absurd to even care about last night when her father was standing, alive, in the kitchen. He was back. 

      "Dad!" exclaimed Valerie, a little too loudly. The shock permeated her stilted voice.

      He flipped around. An easy grin sprouted on his wrinkled face. "Valentina, good morning. How'd you sleep?" He briefly turned back to face the stove. From the little movements he made, she could see that besides the eggs, there was also a pot of baked beans cooking. The aroma began to cover the room corner to corner.

      "How'd I — fine, I slept fine." Against her will, her own smile was starting to grow and match her father's. Her skin strained with how wide it was. "How have you been? How do you feel?"

      Domhnall shrugged, casual-like. "Oh, I feel wonderful. Brand new, even. Me and Colm hunted for some trout, and manage to get a good find. Everyone's gonna hate me for it, but we'll be eating fish until the end of the week. I won't waste a single inch of it."

      "Good! I'm glad." replied Valerie. There was an urge that rattled against her better instincts to peer even further into his absence, to figure out if he really was in a better place. Subconsciously, she knew it wouldn't do her any good, but she was so surprisingly overwhelmed with gratitude to see him that it almost overtook her basic understandings. 

      She wanted to say more. The words had crawled up her throat, but nothing came of it, though the grin remained. At some point, her arms had become awkwardly outstretched, too caught up in the shock to control her movements acutely. She wanted him to hug her so badly. 

      After a moment, he finally noticed her tense and unwieldy demeanor. He must have. His untroubled expression withered slightly, donating a preview of vulnerability that lasted for half a second. It tugged down on his frown lines and dim the natural sparkle in his round regard. Valerie could only count on one hand the amount of times she's see her father with that look — the ghost of a man, the one he had almost mastered into hiding from his family — and it unnerved her the same way it did as a child. 

      From a distance, the front door swung open then closed. Gene's voice came closer, along with heel-clicking footsteps. "Valerie? I'm taking you to the station, because Mickey got caught up at work. Is that your suitcase up front?"

      Valerie glanced behind her. Her red-haired sister barely looked at their father, as if he had always been there and had never left. "Yeah, it is. I've got my ticket too." 

      "Good, I'll put it in the trunk." Gene smiled at Domhnall, but barely met his eyes. "Dad, Tom's bringing the kids over for breakfast. They'll be here in five minutes."

      "Perfect!" said the man. He retreated back to the stove. "It'll be ready in time."

      Gene shot a stern look at Valerie, "I'll see you in a minute?"

      She didn't wait for a response, and walked away. Valerie shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, trying to loosen the knot of tension that was tightening her back. She turned her stare onto her dad's back and waited for — something. She wanted something from him. The same something that Benito gave her in the Catskills. "Dad?"

      "You should probably get going." Domhnall announced, stirring the steaming pot. He hadn't yet turned around again. "I'd hate for you to get caught up in traffic."

      "Well, I can stay for a few more days! My boss won't —"

      "No, no, no, no need. It's bad time anyway with the twins about to go back to school." It wasn't an argument or a command, but it tittered on that edge. He was shutting down. Valerie could sense it a mile away, even if she wasn't watching the strain of his back. "We'll see each other again whenever you get more free time."

      Confusion fulfilled Valerie. Underneath it was the sharp hurtfulness imprinting itself against her like a tattoo. The blonde had trouble moving her mouth coherently, "Dad —"

      "Don't keep your sister waiting." Domhnall said, and it aligned with the authority of a father without the need for yelling. Valerie could read in between the lines, sense the verbal cues. He was done with the discussion. She was dismissed. 

      Just because it was expected by her didn't make it any less painful. 

      From outside, a car honked loudly. 

      Valerie had no choice, but to abide by it and walk out the door. 

☆

AUTHOR'S NOTES.

⋆ This was by far the worst and most demanding semester of nursing school so far, in case anyone was curious as to why I was almost three months late to updating. Unfortunately, school got in the way of my plans to keep the updates for this story frequent and finals being this week didn't help. Thankfully, Monday's my last day until winter break and that will provide me with ample free time to work on this story (which I'm honestly looking so forward to since I need to focus on something other than school).

⋆ In more exciting news, Dear Valentina officially surpassed 20,000 reads!! Thank you guys so much for supporting this story. As I've said before (and don't mind repeating), this is the best story that I've ever written. For the most part, this is due to how much positive and engaging feedback I get from the readers (which are you guys, duh). Anyone who's an online fanfic writer will understand how important it is to receive affirmative feedback, whether that's simply voting on a chapter or commenting a one-worded sentence. It really does mean the world, because I put a lot of time and effort into crafting this story. Again, thank you guys so much!

⋆ I know this chapter isn't the most exciting, because not much happens in terms of plot. It's really an interlude just dedicated to Valerie trying to break the familial cycle of generational trauma and failing. Who hasn't been there once or twice, you know 🤷🏽‍♀️Still, I hope it was still an interesting chapter. Hopefully everyone got more insight into the dynamics of Valerie's family and how she was raised. 

⋆ Obviously, the discussion of depression in this chapter isn't the best in terms of understanding it or even being compassionate towards it, but keep in mind, this is the 1950's. Not only are we dealing with an era filled with misconceptions and ignorance surrounding mental illness, but we're specifically focusing on an Irish Catholic perspective. Even today, the cultural belief in a lot of religious/ethnic groups is to repress emotions and to not discuss things like mental illness. This may not be reflective of your beliefs or your cultural beliefs, but this is the sentiment shared by a lot of other people, past and present.

⋆ My apologies if the Italian is terrible. My only education is Google Translate.

⋆ Sidenote - the line about Mark finding woman in their thirties and pajamas is one of my favorites. It comes from two different inspirations. One is my father, who always told me mom that he found her sexier the older she got (specifically when she went from her twenties to thirties) because as women age, they become more confidant. Two is Community (one of my favorite comedy shows), where Donald Glover's character Troy reveals that he finds women in pajamas sexy, because he likes knowing that they're comfortable

HISTORICAL NOTES.

⋆ Fort Point Channel is a river in downtown Boston that goes into the Boston Harbor. Famously, the Boston Tea Party (event where American colonists were rebelling against the British Empire for imposing unfair taxations on them) occurred there

⋆ Fort Independence is a military fort in Boston, specifically located on Castle Island, where it was originally a refuge for British solders during the American Revolution. However, the Siege of Boston happened, Washington led the Continental Army towards victory, and caused the evacuation of the British.

⋆ The novel The Wizard of Oz by Frank L. Baum was banned in libraries in Michigan and Florida in the 1950s. Complaints did include the promotion of witchcraft by having a character named the "good witch"

⋆ The novel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain was banned (and continues to be banned in the United States today) in the 1950s due to discussions of race in the book. Just to add my own little note - I don't like this book and I understand the criticisms against it, but regardless of whether you find a book offensive or bad, book banning/censorship is wrong. Furthermore, the book is historically significant and has had massive influence over the literary world so it's important to talk about it. 

⋆ Bachelor Father was a sitcom that aired on CBS, NBC, and ABC from 1957 to 1959. It focuses on an attorney who's forced to raise his niece after her parents die, but it also explores teen issues with that niece character, who's a high school student.

⋆ Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsburg is a massively influential collection of poems that was highly controversial during the time it was published. It did become the subject of an obscenity trial in 1957 due to claims that it was indecent and immoral. A judge in California later ruled that the poem(s) were not obscene. Truth be told, I don't like Allen Ginsburg as a person, but I do think his work is good and important.

⋆ Pond's Cold Cream is a type of cleanser that removed makeup and prevented blemishes. Whenever we see Midge in the show having white cream on her face, this is basically what she's wearing. It's still sold today and apparently, it's pretty good. Olay is obviously a popular brand today and was being used in the 1950s as well as lotion. Emollient balm was also used to supposedly prevent crow's feet. Noxzema was a pretty popular brand, still used today, for acne.

⋆ Jordan March & Co was an actual department store that was pretty popular across the country. It's headquarters was located in Boston. It's no longer open today.

⋆ Bradlees was a discount department store in Massachusetts. All stores closed in 2001.

⋆ The kitchen debate between Nixon and Khrushchev refers to a series of debates between translators for President Nixon and Premier of the Soviet Union Nikita Khrushchev in Moscow in July of 1959. The debates were recorded and broadcasted in both countries. A lot of the debates surrounded labor.

⋆ Laurence Oliver and Vivian Leigh, two of the most famous actors during this era, were married but unfortunately, divorced later on due to infidelity and mental health issues

⋆ The Red Army refers to the Soviet Union/Russia's military, namely during World War II