The Walking People

  "My God," he heard her say. "Oh my God."

  "Greta," they said together, then Johanna alone, then Tom alone, then together again. They shouted the word at her, as if they were telling her her own name. He heard Eavan and James emerge from their hiding places, stand together in view of the door, where they'd be seen and acknowledged.

  "Come in," Greta said in a strange voice. "Please. Is it raining? I didn't realize it had started raining. You're pure soaked. Let's get you tea. Let's get you dry. Let's get you something to eat."

  Raining, Michael repeated to himself, tapping his fork against the rim of his bowl. That was it. That was the sound of running water he'd been hearing since the party ended. He held his breath and listened for it. Water charged through the gutters of the house, down the pipes, raced out to the sewers on the street with the speed and din of a great rushing river.

  "Aren't we well used to the rain?" Johanna asked, and Michael listened to the click of her heels as she took a few steps inside the house.

  "Michael?" Greta called to him. "Are you there?"

  He got up from the table to join her.

  Acknowledgments

  I SOUGHT OUT a number of people and organizations for help while writing this novel, and I extend my thanks to the Irish Centre for Migration Studies for their Breaking the Silence project, which added new dimensions to those narratives I'd heard all my life; the staff at the National Library of Ireland for their guidance and, most of all, for their assistance with the microfilm; the M.F.A. faculty at the University of Virginia for their support and encouragement even after I graduated from the program; the Alumnae Association of Barnard College for the AABC fellowship; the men of the New York City Sandhogs' Union (afternoon shift, August 2006, Thirtieth Street and Tenth Avenue), particularly Chris Fitzsimmons, for allowing me down into the tunnel and for answering my questions.

  In addition, I must acknowledge the following sources, each of which rounded out my knowledge of the period and helped me imagine what these characters were up against: Irish Travellers: Culture and Ethnicity, published in 1994 by the Institute of Irish Studies, The Queen's University of Belfast; Nan: The Life of an Irish Travelling Woman by Sharon Gmelch; Irish Travellers: Racism and the Politics of Culture by Jane Helleiner; and The Quiet Revolution: The Electrification of Rural Ireland, 1946—1976 by Michael J. Shiel.

  I'm very grateful for the support of the following people: my agent, Chris Calhoun of Sterling Lord Literistic — I could not have found a better advocate; Mary Gordon, for help both tangible and intangible; my readers, Marty Hickey, Eleanor Henderson, and Callie Wright, whose feedback kept me on track through the early drafts; Jane Rosenman, for her editorial feedback on the later draft; Adrienne Brodeur, for shuttling The Walking People toward publication with so much care; my parents, Willie and Evelyn, and my sisters, Annette and Catherine.

  Finally, and most important, thank you to Marty. You are the one person I know I could not have done this without.