Call him by his real name

“Don’t worry if it spills over. The patrons like it that way,” Mary Gannon explained to Breda. Mary was the Whiskey Island dance hall owner who called herself Calypso. She was teaching Breda the art of pouring ale. “’Tis better than filling the glass halfway, which induces the men to complain that they didn’t get their money’s worth.”

“Are you satisfied with just working the bar, Breda?” Calypso asked as Breda practiced. “Most of my girls make their living entertaining men."

“I’m not much of an entertainer,” Breda said. By now, she recognized Calypso’s coded terms.

Calypso offered a good-natured laugh. “I find it beneficial to keep one unspoiled beauty behind the bar. Some of my girls are hard as nails,” she said. “But pretty young girls keep the men coming. It gives them something to work for.”

Breda never imagined she’d be working as a barmaid. Then again, she wasn’t supposed to be in Cleveland. First, she was on the run from her British landlord. Now that she had made it from Ireland to Ohio, she was hiding out from her brother, John. Several weeks ago, she stole his money and left with the children. In Breda's custody was her eleven-year-old brother, Michael. Also Nan, her cast-off toddler niece, who ended up on a steamship to New York because no one else wanted her. Breda had to feed and house herself and the children—so bartending it was.

Breda changed the subject. “The bar is quiet tonight,” she said, pouring an ale for one of the few customers.

“Well, it is Sunday,” a man’s voice interrupted.

Breda looked up at the man, round-eyed. He laughed.

“You must be new here,” he said. “I can see you’re wary of the Bohemian ambience.”

“Bohemian?” she repeated.

“Our patrons,” the man said, revealing a faint accent—it could be a Dubliner accent. On the other hand, it could be lowbrow British. Breda had trouble placing it.

“This establishment attracts Bohemians. Intellectuals. Men who enjoy art and music, without being hindered by religious neuroses,” the man continued. He was effortlessly handsome, with perfect dark features that stopped just short of appearing foreign. If Breda had to guess, she’d assume he was Mediterranean—which didn’t align with his accent.

Breda was too embarrassed to tell him she had no idea what he meant.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “May I get you a drink, sir?”

“I play the piano in between onstage acts. I will teach you whatever you seek to learn.” He raised his glass, and an eyebrow, to her. “You’re Irish, I see. It is such a shame your Pope wants you to stay ignorant.”

Now that, Breda understood.

Calypso swept past, her round, fleshy body pressing into the kegs. “Don’t you try to corrupt her, Willie,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “I know what you’re like.”

She found the bottle marked W-H-I-S-K-E-Y, proud that she could read it, no matter how simple the word. After her brother Michael fell asleep each night, Breda studied from his schoolbooks and practiced writing on the handheld slate with chalk. She might be too old for school herself, but she was proud she had insisted Michael attend school. It gave her the opportunity to teach herself.

As the lights dimmed, she slipped onto the piano bench beside the dark, handsome man.

“People call me Black Willie,” he said to her. “And you? Are you Mary or Bridget?” He smirked. “Or perhaps your name is Mary Bridget.”

Breda blushed, realizing he was making fun of the Irish. “Breda,” she said.

“Bray-da!” Black Willie exclaimed, pronouncing it correctly. “I must confess I’ve never heard that name. Your mother must enjoy bucking the order.”

Breda smiled. If only you knew, she thought, thinking of her eccentric mother and her reputation as a witch. “My baptismal name is Bridget,” she said.

“Ah. The world makes sense again,” Black Willie said. “Well, you’re as lovely as a porcelain doll, but you have a lot to learn.”

Breda huffed. “I am a tenant farmer’s daughter from the West of Ireland,” she said. “Of course I have a lot to learn.”

“And you can learn,” Willie said. “You didn’t receive a formal education, but you come from good stock.”

Breda silently recounted all the times she’d been told she came from “bad stock.” Her alcoholic father, her eccentric mother, her family’s poverty, and her many dead siblings who didn’t survive infancy—all were cited as proof of inferior blood.

“Good stock? Me?”

“Yes, you,” Willie said. He gently turned her cheek so she was facing him. “You know how I know?”

“No. How?”

“Your blonde hair and your snow-white skin,” Willie said. “With features like that, I presume you have Viking blood.”

Breda laughed at the absurdity. “I have red hair,” she said. “The summer sun is hotter here, and it bleached it...” Her voice trailed off.

“My point is, the Vikings—the men of the north—invaded Ireland in medieval times,” Willie replied. “They were brilliant seamen, as well as fierce warriors. They were pagans, like all the wisest ancient men, including the Greeks and Romans.”

Willie played an overture on the piano. “The Vikings spread their seed throughout Ireland,” he continued. “The virile Viking men ravished the native Irish women. Many had hair just like yours—red, blonde. Do you know the name of one of the most legendary Vikings?” He paused to raise the drama. “Erik the Red, named for his flame-colored hair.”

Breda smiled. “So, what about yourself?” she asked. “I hear your accent, but I can’t place it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Willie said, suddenly sounding irritable.

Willie reached under the piano. Near his feet sat a globe, a dazzling orb with a to-scale map of the earth. Breda had never seen such a thing.

“If you can find my birthplace on a globe, I’ll tell you my real name,” he said. “But for now, it’s Black Willie to you.”

Breda reached out and touched the globe. She placed her finger on Ireland. “May I look at this on my own, when I’m not working?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. I just want to learn all the things I never learned,” she said. Then she turned to him, almost afraid to look into his dark eyes. He clearly didn’t like answering questions about himself. “Would you take offense if I asked you what ‘Black Willie’ means?”

He smirked, taking a good long moment to answer. “’Tis a sexual reference, my dear,” he said. “But I take it you don’t know what that means.”

Unbeknownst to her, Breda shared a birthday with the United States of America. By July Fourth of that year, shortly after the end of the Civil War, she was spending every evening with Black Willie. She also had competition in the form of Oonagh, one of Calypso’s hard-as-nails girls who provided upstairs entertainment.

Calypso and some of the other girls baked Breda a birthday cake, topped with a sparking firecracker. The only one of Calypso’s girls who refused to celebrate was Oonagh, who lingered near the bar, hanging on Black Willie’s arm.

But that night, as fireworks still thundered in the distance and girls were taking men to their rooms, Oonagh swept by Breda and grabbed her arm in a friendly gesture.

“Bridget, l am so sorry I missed your party,” she said. “Come to my room, will ya? I don’t want to let your special day pass without giving you a bit o’ a gift.” For perhaps the first time ever, Breda saw Oonagh smile.

“Oh, but of course, Oonagh,” Breda said with a shy smile. “Thank you.”

Breda followed Oonagh to her boudoir. Oonagh shut the door behind them and locked it. In the shadows of the room, Breda saw Black Willie and another man sitting on the scarlet coverlet of the bed, smoking pipes and drinking.

“Didn’t your mudder teach you to share?” Oonagh said coyly to Willie, reaching for his bottle. She pressed it to her lips. To Breda’s surprise, Oonagh did not recoil from the bite of straight liquor.

“What kind o’ drink is it?” Breda asked. “It must go down easy.”

Oonagh passed the bottle. “It’s not liquor.”

“What is it?”

Oonagh smiled again, an expression that looked unnatural on her witch-like face. Breda realized her incisor teeth were pointed and sharp, like fangs.

“My dear girl, this concoction might as well be the nectar of the gods,” Oonagh said. “Two swigs will make you feel like you’re leaping between clouds. Any bad thing that ever happened to you, ‘twill vanish like the details of an insignificant dream just before waking.”

It seemed like a tall claim. Then again, maybe that was why Oonagh was smiling for once. Breda had a brief flash of a memory of Lord Andrews crumpled on the floor after she bludgeoned him with a fire poker. He had no doubt deserved every bit of it—but Breda still punished herself in her dreams, berating herself as a killer.

Any bad thing that ever happened...

Breda took it and drank.

“Whoa there!” Willie said, snatching back the bottle. “Go easy. You have no tolerance.”

“What is it?” Breda asked again.

Willie smiled at her, and his smile looked cold and unnatural. “Opium,” he said slowly.

Breda blanched. But by now, it was too late—the liquid opium was already settled in her stomach.

A few minutes later, she felt a blissful haze settling over her.

“Was I wrong?” Oonagh said. Breda giggled, having lost her shyness. She walked over to the oval mirror above Oonagh’s dresser, the one she stared into as she combed out her long black hair. Breda stared at her own reflection. Her skin looked unnaturally pale, and her irises were huge—the black dots in the center like pin pricks. Oonagh came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re pretty,” Oonagh said. “Willie and me, we can’t understand why you don’t capitalize on it.”

“I’m wary of men I don’t know,” Breda replied with a shrug.

“Ah, I see. Well, you know your loverboy Willie is no virgin,” Oonagh said. “For now, he’s intrigued by you. But he won’t wait around forever. Why don’t you gain some experience?”

Oonagh bowed her head and kissed Breda’s neck. Breda could feel the warmth of her breath as she moved up to her ear, tracing her tongue on Breda’s earlobe.

“I’ll make you comfortable.” Oonagh began unhooking Breda’s satin top while kissing her neck and shoulders. Willie and his friend looked on hungrily, like dogs waiting for their owner to drop a scrap of food from the dinner plate. Breda was speechless, paralyzed. Whether it was the opium or the shock of being kissed by another girl, she couldn’t say “no.” The “no” got stuck in her throat and stayed there.

Now Breda was bare from the waist up, with Oonagh naked except for her stockings and garter belt. She pushed Breda down on the bed and yanked off her skirt. Oonagh started kissing her body, from her throat to her navel. Turning her head slightly, Breda saw Willie unbuttoning his pants.

“Stop,” Breda said, which seemed to encourage Oonagh to press down harder. “Kiss me,” she said in a breathy voice. Breda didn’t have the chance—Oonagh forced her mouth onto hers first. She smelled like ale.

Then, suddenly, Oonagh sat upright, regaining her hard demeanor in an instant.

“See, Willie, she fancies girls,” Oonagh snapped.

“Good,” Willie said. “Now let me have her a minute.” He slid his pants off his feet and cast them aside, revealing his long, lanky, white legs covered in black hair.

Breda pushed herself off the bed. “I must be goin’ now,” she said, making haste for the door.

“Oh no, you’re not,” Black Willie said. “What’s wrong with you? We’re just getting started.” He pushed Breda back down on the bed.

Breda made one last attempt to wriggle free.

“What’re you doing?” Willie asked. “You ain’t going nowhere, unless you want this whole place knowing you fancy girls.”

“I don’t fancy girls.”

“This establishment will be the judge of that, when I tell them how I watched you kiss your lover,” Willie said.

Oonagh scoffed and turned away. “I’ll amuse myself with your mate, then,” she said.

“Please do, woman,” Willie said. “’Twas all your idea in the first place.”

Then Black Willie wrapped his hands around her neck until black dots blurred her vision.

Breda awoke the next morning in her own room, re-dressed by someone who’d done a poor job of it. Her brother Michael was gone, having left for school as he always did. It was little Nan’s cries that woke her up. Nan stood at the door, reaching for the handle. She was hungry. Breda cursed herself for her drunken escapades the night before.

Then she remembered: I didn’t drink.

“Come with me, Nan,” she said, scooping up the little girl. She followed the horseshoe shape of the second floor to the room where Black Willie had stayed last night. As Breda expected, it was empty, though in disarray. The table was overturned. The couch where Willie had forced her down was a mess, with the cushions strewn about the floor.

Then something intact caught her eye: a package wrapped in brown paper. She stepped toward it.

She couldn’t read the name penciled onto the package at first sight, but she could sound it out.

“His name isn’t Black Willie,” she said aloud. She shoved it into her waistband.

The door opened behind her, hitting the wall with a resounding thud. “What are you doing?”

Breda whirled around.

“Those are some nasty bruises about your neck,” Willie said with a faint smirk. “You better leave your hair down lest you scare the child.”

Breda grabbed Nan’s hand with her own, subconsciously guarding her from this man. She felt like she was staring at a stranger now, the dark features looking shadowy and sinister.

“If only you’d thought o’ that before you put them there,” she said, raising her chin to him. He grinned at her.

“You’re mad.”

“Willie—or whatever your name is—you…”

“Did you hear me? Everyone thinks you’ve gone mad,” Willie repeated. “Not that you had much mind to start with, but you’re slowly losing it anyhow.”

Breda turned to the window, gazing out at Lake Erie. There were grey crowds gathering in the distance, making the horizon difficult to see. It would storm later on today.

“Willie, what color is that water?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer, please.”

“It’s blue,” he replied with a scoff. “All open water appears blue. Doesn’t take a scholar to determine that.”

“Right,” Breda said, turning to him. “You wouldn’t hope to convince me it’s green, would you?”

He stared back at her now, letting his mouth settle into a line. She kept her eyes on him as she inched toward the door.

She felt for the piece of paper in her waistband, knowing it had Black Willie’s full name written on it. She couldn’t read it at first glance, but someday soon she would. She remembered what Black Willie had told her the first night they met: I will teach you whatever you seek to learn.

What he didn’t know was that she was already teaching herself.