Forty-Seven Cobwebs

Set during a heatwave wake, this story confronts the violence that families learn to live with and the moment when silence becomes more dangerous than speech. Contains depictions of domestic and sexual abuse.

Maureen pressed her palm against the kitchen window and immediately regretted it—the glass was hot enough to brand cattle. Thirty-eight degrees according to the thermometer, though it felt like God had left the oven door open and buggered off for a long lunch.

"The begonias are finished," she announced to no one in particular, watching her prize flowers surrender to the apocalypse. "Forty pounds at the garden center and they've lasted three days. Seamus would've had something to say about that."

Behind her, Siobhan was constructing sandwiches with the grim determination of someone building a sea wall against disaster. "Should we maybe open a window, Mam? Just a crack?"

"Absolutely not." Maureen's tone could have frozen the Thames. "Half of Stretford will hear every word, and you know what gossips they are. They'd have us selling tickets."

Her sister Bridget snorted from her position at the biscuit station. "As if they don't already know everything worth knowing about this family. Mrs. Patterson next door could probably write our biography."

"That's precisely why we're keeping the windows shut." Maureen adjusted her black cardigan despite the heat. Protocol was protocol, even if it killed her—which, in this temperature, it very well might.

The doorbell chimed, and voices drifted through the hallway like smoke. Maureen straightened her spine, transforming from sweating widow to grief-stricken matriarch in one practiced motion.

"Remember," she hissed to the other women, "dignity. Whatever else happens today, we maintain dignity."

"Right," Bridget muttered, "dignity. Because nothing says 'dignified' like hosting a wake in Satan's armpit."

The sitting room filled with the usual suspects, all looking slow-cooked in their funeral attire. Mrs. Patterson arrived with a casserole that had clearly suffered in transit. Father McKenna appeared with his Bible and what looked suspiciously like a hip flask.

"Dreadful weather for such a sad occasion," Mrs. Patterson observed, using her funeral program as a fan.

"Seamus always ran hot," replied Uncle Declan. "Proper furnace, that man. Could heat a room just by walking into it."

Maureen's jaw tightened. Her late husband had indeed been good at heating things up—rooms, tempers, and the back of her head with his palm.

"Makes everything worse, doesn't it?" added Mrs. Chen, fanning herself with a takeaway menu. "Heat brings out the worst in people."

"Does that," agreed Maureen, thinking of thirty years married to a man who'd used her as a punching bag whenever United lost—which had been distressingly often.

Tommy slouched in the corner like a balding ghost, his left hand tapping an erratic rhythm against his knee that seemed to have nothing to do with anything.

"Your dad was a character," someone said.

"He counted backwards from ten when he was angry," Tommy said, still tapping. "Sometimes he got to zero. Sometimes he didn't."

Father McKenna cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should begin?"

"Seamus would have wanted us to open the bloody pub," Bridget muttered.

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter went through the room—the kind that happens when someone says what everyone's thinking but no one's supposed to acknowledge.

"Now, Bridget," Maureen warned, though the heat was making her feel unhinged, like a teapot with a blocked spout.

"What? I'm saying the man liked a drink. Nothing wrong with speaking truth at a wake."

Mrs. Patterson shifted uncomfortably. "The heat does make everything feel intense."

"Shall we begin with a prayer?" Father McKenna suggested.

As heads bowed and hands folded, Maureen found herself studying the assembled mourners through her fingers. All of them sweating through their respectability, all of them pretending this was just another funeral instead of the end of a thirty-year reign of terror disguised as marriage.

"Lord," Father McKenna began, "we gather today to remember Seamus O'Malley, who has gone to his eternal rest..."

"Probably the first proper rest he's had in years," Bridget whispered to Siobhan. "All that drinking and shouting must have been exhausting."

Maureen shot her sister a look that could have melted steel, but Bridget was apparently past caring. The heat was having a similar effect on everyone—loosening tongues and fraying nerves like old rope.

The prayer concluded with a damp "Amen," and Father McKenna launched into familiar territory about resurrection and peace. His collar had wilted completely.

"Seamus O'Malley was a devoted family man," the priest intoned.

Tommy's tapping stopped abruptly. "He kept Sarah's diary in his sock drawer. I found it when Mum sent me to get his funeral socks."

The silence that followed was deafening. Maureen's face went very pale.

"Devoted," Uncle Declan agreed. "Devoted to United, devoted to the horses, devoted to his pints..."

Tommy resumed his tapping, a different pattern now. "The horses never won though. That's why Mum hid the grocery money in the flour tin. Because horses don't know they're supposed to win."

Maureen could feel perspiration gathering like accusations. Her carefully planned speech sat in her pocket, every word crafted to navigate between honesty and social suicide.

"Perhaps Maureen would like to say a few words?" Father McKenna suggested desperately.

This was it. The moment she'd prepared for since the doctor pronounced Seamus dead three days ago—heart attack brought on by whiskey, fury, and forty-degree heat.

Maureen stood slowly. The speech crackled as she unfolded it, paper damp with sweat.

"Seamus was..." She looked around at the expectant faces. The words swam in the heat like mirages.

"He was a bastard," she said suddenly.

The silence that followed was so complete you could have heard a pin drop, assuming pins could survive the temperature.

"Maureen," Father McKenna said carefully, "perhaps the heat—"

"No, the heat's got nothing to do with it." She was surprised by how steady her voice sounded. "Well, not entirely. The heat just makes it harder to pretend, doesn't it? Makes everything feel more... urgent."

Tommy stopped tapping and looked directly at her. "Why didn't you say bastard when he was here, Mam? You said it in the mirror sometimes. I heard you practicing."

The observation hit like a physical blow. Maureen stared at her son, seeing him clearly for the first time in years.

"He was a bastard," Maureen repeated, finding her rhythm again. "A drunken, violent bastard who made our lives miserable for thirty years."

Uncle Declan's mouth fell open. "Maureen, love, you can't just—"

"The bruises were always in places clothes would cover," Tommy said suddenly, his fingers now drumming silently on his knee. "Very careful about that. Professional, almost."

"Can't just what? Tell the truth? He's dead, isn't he? Can't hurt us anymore." She shrugged off her cardigan violently. "Christ, it's hot. Like sitting in hell's mouth."

"Language, Maureen," Mrs. Patterson whispered, more fascinated than scandalized.

"Oh, bugger language. I've watched my language for thirty years. Standing in a furnace talking about what a wonderful man my husband was to people who called the police on him."

Mrs. Patterson looked embarrassed.

"That's right, I know it was you. Should have done it myself, but we keep our dignity, don't we? Even when dignity's all we've got left."

Father McKenna was looking increasingly desperate, like a man watching his pension fund evaporate. "Perhaps we could open a window? Just for some air?"

"We're going to sit here and sweat together and talk about Saint Seamus. Like how he could clear a room faster than a fire alarm."

Bridget was grinning. "Tell them about Christmas when he threw the turkey through the window."

"Boxing Day 1987. Turkey went through Mrs. Henderson's rose bushes."

"The time he locked Tommy in the coal cellar?" Siobhan added.

Tommy flinched. "Siobhan—"

"What? We've all been tiptoeing around it for decades."

"Six hours," Maureen said quietly. "Six hours because you spilled squash on his newspaper. You were eight."d his many virtues. Like how he could clear a room faster than a fire alarm. Or how he never met a problem he couldn't solve with his fists."

Bridget was grinning now, the expression of someone watching a dam burst in slow motion. "Tell them about the Christmas when he threw the turkey through the kitchen window."

"Oh, that was a good one," Maureen agreed conversationally. "Boxing Day 1987. Turkey went straight through Mrs. Henderson's rose bushes. She never did forgive us for that."

"What about the time he locked Tommy in the coal cellar?" Siobhan added helpfully.

Tommy flinched. "Siobhan—"

"What? It's not like anyone here doesn't know what he was like. We've all been tiptoeing around it for decades."

"Six hours," Maureen said quietly. "Six hours in the coal cellar because you spilled orange squash on his newspaper. You were eight years old."

The room was silent except for the sound of breathing and the distant hum of someone's air conditioning unit—a sound that had taken on the quality of mockery.

"But we don't talk about these things. Because that would be undignified. Because what would people think?"

"They'd think you were better off without him," Mrs. Chen said suddenly. "You think we didn't notice the bruises? We're not blind."

"Then why didn't anyone say anything?" Tommy's voice was raw.

"Marriage is private," Mrs. Patterson replied defensively.

"Private when he threw me down the stairs? When he hurt you too," she said to Tommy. "In ways that'll take more than a funeral to bury."

Tommy's hand went to his temple, rubbing in small circles. "Sarah used to bleed after he visited her room. I asked her why, and she said some games hurt more than others."

Several people made small, involuntary sounds.

Father McKenna was clutching his Bible like a life preserver. "The Lord teaches us forgiveness—"

"Does He now?" Maureen's voice was dangerously quiet. "Well, the Lord will have to forgive me for starting with honesty, won't He? Because the truth shall make you free—that's in your book too, Father." She looked directly at him, and he had the grace to flush. "Funny thing is, the Church seems to spell forgiveness differently than Jesus did. Spells it s-i-l-e-n-c-e."

A few people shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.

"Forgiveness is different from honesty, Father. And what exactly would the Lord have me forgive him for?" Her voice rose with each word. "For the broken ribs when I was pregnant with Sarah? For Tommy's nightmares that lasted until he was sixteen? For teaching my daughter that a man's love comes with bruises? For the Christmas morning when he split my lip because the turkey was dry?"

Father McKenna opened his mouth, but Maureen wasn't finished.

"For making me lie to the doctor about how I got those black eyes? For Sarah running away to Australia rather than spend another Christmas in the same room as him? For thirty years of walking on eggshells in my own home?" She paused, breathing hard. "The Lord knows I've tried to forgive him in my heart, Father. But if that means pretending a spade isn't a spade, then the Lord will have to forgive me for just being honest."

She threw open the nearest window violently. Cool air rushed in like salvation.

"Let's have some air. And some truth."

"The man's dead. Can't we let him rest in peace?" Uncle Declan said weakly.

Tommy looked up from his invisible drumming. "He never let us rest. Always listening at doors. Always watching. Even when he was asleep, his eyes followed you."

The image hung in the air like smoke.

The words settled over the room like dust.

Tommy began tapping again, this time with both hands in different rhythms. "Australia is the opposite side of the world from here. Sarah looked it up. The furthest you can get and still be on the same planet."

The silence stretched like taffy, broken only by the blessed sound of air moving through the room.

"Jesus," Bridget breathed.

"Indeed," said Father McKenna faintly.

Maureen sank into her chair, exhausted. The decades of rage deflated, leaving her hollow.

"Your devoted family man. Your loving husband and father." Dark laughter escaped her. "Devoted to keeping us under his thumb."

"Why didn't you leave?" Mrs. Chen asked gently.

"Where? No money, no job, three children. And he wasn't always like that. Could be charming when he wanted something. Made you think it was your fault."

Tommy's drumming slowed to a funeral march. "The nice days were the worst. You never knew if it was real nice or if he needed something. Like Christmas morning before he'd had his first drink."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Patterson said suddenly. "We should have done more."

"Yes, you should have. But here we are, pretending what a good man he was because that's what we do. We keep up appearances."

She walked to the mantelpiece where Seamus's wedding photo smiled down at them. Handsome then. Charming. Full of promises.

"I'm not sorry he's dead. Widow's supposed to grieve, but mostly I feel relieved. Like I can finally breathe."

"Complicated grief," Father McKenna offered weakly.

"Straightforward, I'd call it. I'm glad he's dead. Glad he can't hurt anyone anymore."

Tommy's hands went still completely. "I dream about him sometimes. He's not angry in the dreams. Just sad. Very, very sad."

The room seemed to exhale collectively—a sound like air leaving a punctured tire.

The room had grown cooler as the afternoon wore on, the blessed breeze carrying away some of the oppressive weight that had settled over them all. But the emotional temperature remained high, crackling with thirty years of suppressed truth.

"So what now?" Uncle Declan asked eventually. "What do we do with all this?"

Maureen considered the question, looking around at the faces that had witnessed her unraveling—or perhaps her reconstruction.

"Now?" she said. "Now we bury him properly. Not with lies and platitudes, but with the truth. He was a violent, abusive man who damaged everyone he touched. And we survived him. That's something, isn't it?"

"It's everything," Siobhan said softly.

As the afternoon faded into evening, the mourners began to drift away—not with the formal farewells of a traditional wake, but with the quiet solidarity of people who'd shared something profound and uncomfortable. Some looked shaken. Others looked relieved. All of them looked different than they had when they'd arrived.

Mrs. Patterson lingered at the door. "If you need anything, Maureen. Anything at all."

"I know where you are," Maureen replied, and for the first time in years, it felt like a promise rather than a threat.

When the last guest had gone, Maureen sat in her garden as the sun set and the temperature finally began to drop. Tommy and Siobhan joined her, the three of them existing in comfortable silence as the world slowly cooled around them.

"What happens tomorrow?" Tommy asked eventually.

"Tomorrow we bury him," Maureen said. "And then we figure out how to live without him. Properly, this time. No more pretending it's not hot when it bloody well is."

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—not threatening, but promising. Rain was coming. Change was coming. And for the first time in thirty years, Maureen O'Malley was ready for it.

She pulled off her funeral shoes and wiggled her toes in the cooling grass. The heat wave would break eventually—they always did. But some truths, once spoken, could never be taken back.

And that, she thought as the first drops of rain began to fall, was exactly as it should be.