IT WAS TOO cold outdoors for the thin coat Mifalda had taken. But the stinging dry air felt good after the humidity of the kitchen. For one reckless moment she wanted to run, to see if she could still go as fast as she had when she was a child. But she was not a child anymore, and she was wearing shoes meant for a grown woman who had six children. Besides, even when she was a child, the nuns hadn't let her run free—that was not allowed for a girl who had to be extra careful not to draw attention to herself. A girl who must not ever do anything that would remind anyone of her shame.

The park was only three blocks away from her house. Mifalda reached it quickly and then gave a little cry of dismay. The path that ran through it was still covered with snow. She could walk on it—the snow had been packed down—but if the city hadn't sent people to clean the pathways, there was a chance that the big pond in the center of the park hadn't been shoveled off. That pond was her destination. After she'd finally made her escape it would be too mean of God to let it be covered with snow. She ran down the slippery path.

The pond had been cleared off! She scanned its frozen surface eagerly. For a moment she thought God had decided to be mean after all and that there was no one there, but then a girl skated out onto the ice. She was wearing a red dress that came to her knees; the collar and the edge of the skirt were trimmed with white fur. A little red hat with more white fur protected her ears from the cold. Mifalda was too far away to see her face, but she knew from other times that the girl's eyes were blue, her nose turned up, and her hair was carrot red. It was a typical Irish face, and in her mind, Mifalda called her the Irish Girl.

The Irish, she had learned when she first came to America, had been in the country longer than the Italians. They ran the Catholic churches and the parochial schools, and they lorded it over the newcomers from the Mediterranean. The newcomers responded by hating them heartily. But no matter what bad things her husband said about them, Mifalda knew in her heart that the Irish, who put butter on their bread instead of olive oil, were more American than she and Carmine were. It was no surprise to her that the Irish Girl knew how to ice-skate.