Clare grew up during a time when men worked in factories, women were homemakers, and children obeyed. When the shop whistle blew at quitting time, her father punched his card, walked out through the guard station gates, and routinely stopped for a beer at the Red Rose Club. On Friday nights, he lingered longer, stumbling up the alley to the backyard of the house. Those were the darkest of nights when fear for just how drunk he would be, clung to the inside of the window panes like coal furnace soot. On Saturday mornings, he headed to Jokey’s where he gambled his pay on pinochle. Sundays, he dropped off the wife and kids for 8 a.m. mass, then drove to the bar for a drink to steady his nerves and try to recover his losses from the day before. Sometimes he’d forget the hour, and the wife and kids made the long walk home. This is a story about Clare, but she wouldn’t have this story without the drink.