Tir na Nog—It might have been Hannegan’s back then—was near empty, sunk in uremic light. Pat almost backed out but was soon on a stool facing bottles in front of a mirror. On the TV the local weather guy was pointing to a satellite shot of a tropical depression forming southeast of the Dominican Republic. It was forecast to become the fastest-moving hurricane since the Yankee Clipper in 1938. Pat wanted a Bushmills, but the bartender looked like a Fenian, so he ordered a Tullamore, and drank a toast to the storms of his youth.

“Hold it steady.”

Pat’s mother, Hannah, chewed on two box nails while trying to hammer the one between her fingers and thumb. Galloping past the Jersey shore, the storm was still south of the Bronx and the city, and they were boarding up the windows to the Malone grocery on the corner of 135th Street and Willis Avenue. Each swing of the hammer summoned Hannah’s anger and annoyance. Pat’s father had been missing since ten in the morning. “Off to the bank” was the excuse, but the bank, the whole neighborhood, was now shuttered, with no sign of Jack.

One last drive of the nail and Pat let go of the board now fastened in place. He watched his mother tap each nail for insurance.

“All right, Paddy boy—if we blow away, we tried.” A wild, raw breeze tunneled down Willis Avenue. The skies were slate gray and wind picked. The pressure was dropping and the air felt heavy, almost tropical. “Let’s board the door and we’re done.”

“Is the hurricane gonna break the windows?”

“I don’t think so, love. I’m more worried about after the storm. People go nuts, Paddy, for no reason. And the police will have their hands full.” Hannah had said enough to scare the child and stepped back. “Now, don’t worry, nothing bad’s gonna happen. Just a little protection from something blowing in and to keep the crazies moving past.”

They boarded the glass in the door, and Pat followed his mother back inside the grocery. She threw the dead bolt, but Jack had a key. They gathered candles and Tommy, the guard cat, who had already hunkered down behind the baking soda and was in no mood to be disturbed. He scratched and hissed at Hannah, but she ignored this and carried him up the stairwell.

“Knock it off, Tom-cat. Paddy, check the back door.”