As a young woman, Mrs. Brenane had left the Church of Ireland to marry a man of the Catholic faith, and her sister never forgave her for the religious conversion or for the unusual wealth that came with that Catholic husband. Mrs. Brenane, in turn, never forgave her sister for never forgiving her. Mrs. Brenane gloated when she heard that her nephew Charles had married a foreigner, reported to be a dark-haired Gypsy by the servants, and sired a swarthy son on a malarial island. Mrs. Brenane made it a point to visit us so that her sister would know that she knew.

Patricio, your grandmother Hearn despised me from the moment she learned about me, which was only days before you and I came to Dublin. That was when your father’s letter from Dominica had arrived at his family’s town house. Charles had not written to his mother about me or either of his sons before then. She, to this day, does not know about your brother, Giorgio, and his brief life on Santa Maura. When you first peeked your face around my skirt, she stared at you, as if you would pounce and attack her ankles. When you did not, she reached out and felt the small gold rings that you wore in your earlobes then. Her hands pulled back without even patting your head of curls or brushing your soft pink cheeks. Charles had instructed his mother to come to the wharf to meet us, and for me to hold a sheet of paper with “Hearn” written on it by the ship’s purser. From Dominica, Charles had sent the travel arrangements including the arrival instructions, via his letters to the butcher. I had asked the butcher to inquire about Old Iota. Charles wrote back that Old Iota would not be traveling with us. This was not a pleasure trip, he wanted the butcher to remind me. Charles was correct. There was no pleasure in the journey and certainly none at our destination.

Patricio, touch your earlobes. Can you still feel the little dips in them? Old Iota had pierced your lobes, as she did Giorgio’s, when you were just days old. It was the custom of my island and of hers. It was not the custom of your father’s island. Your grandmother made me take the gold rings out of your lobes while we were still inside of the carriage taking us from the wharf to her house. I pretended not to know what the woman wanted, but the carriage ride was too long for me to resist her fingers as they reached out again and again for your ears. I took the earrings out myself. I kissed them and crossed myself three times before I handed them to her. I knew she was cursing us. The holes in your lobes have closed, but the dimples that took their place, are they still there, my blessed second?