Finnián Nechtan has survived three things no man should survive twice: British rule, Newark traffic, and six daughters with opinions sharp enough to skin a fish from across the room.
Nothing frightens him anymore.
At least, that is what he believes—until his little chat with ten-year-old Whitley Austin, a neighbor of his great-grandson, Nolan McGuire. The three-year-old cannot yet plan his daily routine very far into the future; thankfully, however, he has the girl—known here in East Orange, New Jersey, as Zippy—to do it for him.
Little Whitley Austin marches across the yard with Finnián Nechtan’s great-grandson balanced on her hip like a sack of potatoes, she loves with religious conviction.
The boy clings to her as if she—in person—invented safety.
His blond curls spill over her shoulder. One tiny fist grips the fabric of her blouse. Nolan rests his cheek against her with the solemn peace of a prince carried through Rome after conquest. Every few seconds he presses closer, burying his face beneath her chin while Whitley pats his back with grave maternal authority.
Finnián watches from the porch. He smiles.
At the moment, at least!
This is not the first time that he has seen both together.
Nor the second.
Truth be told, the boy has started refusing to come to anyone else unless Whitley approves the transfer.
Now Whitley lowers herself onto the porch swing with all the exhaustion of a widowed farm wife in a dustbowl tragedy. Nolan curls into her lap. She smooths his hair back from his forehead.
Finnián narrows his eyes.
“Well now, little one,” he says with paternal care, “you’re taking real good care of my grandson there.”
Whitley beams.
“Yes, Mr. Nolan’s grandfather.”
“And he seems attached to you.”
Another proud smile spreads across her face, bright as stained glass.
“Yes, sir. At that age, he’s still putty in my hands. I gotta take advantage of it.”
Finnián blinks.
The porch creaks beneath him.
“What,” he asks after a long silence, “do you mean by that?”
Whitley sighs.
Not the sigh of a kid.
No.
The sigh of a tired divorcée who pays taxes and distrusts accountants.
“The competition is fierce, Mr. Nolan’s grandfather. Life’s hard. Not easy like back in your day.”
Finnián stares at her.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.
A garbage truck groans past like a dying beast.
The old Irishman opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Whitley continues in a low, troubled voice while Nolan sucks his thumb against her shoulder.
“The competition never sleeps.”
Her eyes narrow toward the neighboring houses with the cold suspicion of a mafia don studying rival territories.
“And between you and me…” She leans closer. “Nolan’s a real catch.”
Finnián feels fear for the first time since 1957.
“I'd better stay alert,” Whitley warns. “Imagine if the neighborhood little hussies found out you made him sole heir.”
The old man’s jaw falls open.
“Sheesh.” Whitley shakes her head. “Those girls’d move fast.”
“Those girls,” Finnián repeats weakly, “are eight.”
“That's right—and I'm already ten, so I have to watch out that a younger one doesn't cut in!”
Nolan yawns.
Whitley adjusts him with expert precision.
“But I think I trained Nolan well enough already,” she says with quiet confidence. “He’ll stay put.”
Finnián’s mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
The man looks like a fish attempting theology.
Then realization crashes into him.
His eyes widen so far that the wrinkles on his forehead almost vanish.
“Hold on.” He points at Nolan with alarm. “You mean you’re raising my great-grandson the way you’d raise your future husband?”
Whitley smiles like she just beat the house in Atlantic City.
“Yes.”
The answer arrives at once. No shame, nor hesitation.
“I’m raising him how I want him already. Smart, right?”
Finnián grips the porch railing for spiritual support, "And you think that will work?"
Whitley smooths Nolan’s curls.
“Watch this. I got him trained already. ”
Finnián stares at her in mute horror.
Whitley turns toward the toddler in her lap.
“Well now, little guy,” she says, good-natured, “who’s Nolan’s one true love?”
The boy blinks up at her with heavy-lidded devotion.
“Zippy.”
Whitley beams.
“That’s right, baby.”
Finnián grips the porch railing.
Hard.
“And who’s little Nolan gonna marry when he grows up?”
Nolan smiles sleepily.
“Zippy.”
Whitley kisses the top of his head as though this confirms years of careful investment strategy.
“Very good. Here, take your cracker—you’ve earned it. ”
Nolan smiles and reaches for the cracker with both little hands.”
Finnián looks ready to call a priest.
“If you wait too long,” Whitley explains, “All the good ones get taken and you’re stuck with whatever’s left. ”
She pats Nolan’s head.
Nolan gazes up at her with complete devotion.
The child would invade Poland if she asked.
“And when I’m a pop star,” Whitley continues with her head in the clouds, “the big bucks’ll roll in, then Nolan and I’ll live happy ever after.”
She grins from ear to ear.
Finnián stares at her as if witnessing the birth of organized crime.
“And… what if Nolan doesn’t obey later?”
Whitley looks offended by the question.
“By then, I’ll have raised him. He’ll know younger people gotta listen to older people.”
Her brow furrows.
Then she waves the concern away.
“I’ll still be older than him.”
Finnián goes silent.
The old man understands at once why certain Irish saints abandoned civilization and fled into caves.
Nolan lifts his tiny hand toward Whitley’s face.
She kisses his fingers.
The boy sighs with bliss.
Finnián watches this horrifying little domestic tableau in stunned silence before muttering toward heaven:
“Mother of God… she’s kidnapped my bloodline.”
