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Authors: Mary Carter

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“Great fillum, you eejits. Great fillum,” Danny said. He shook his head at Carlene, like, “Get a load of them.”
“Gay, gay, gay,” Ciaran said. “Yous all are gay. I'm not falling for fucking chairs and I'm not going to be sniffing after her either. So let's just change the fucking subject.”
“I agree,” Collin said. “You can't chase after a woman. She'll lose interest.”
“See?” Ciaran said. “I'll be the bollix who gets kicked to the curb for being sensitive.” He looked at Carlene. “Gay,” he said. “Very fucking gay.”
“You'll end up like Sally with Ronan,” Danny said. The rest grunted in agreement.
“Sally?” Carlene said. “Who is Sally?”
“You could do worse than being stalked by Sally,” Eoin said.
“Sally who?” Carlene said.
“Still, it's a turn-off,” Collin said. “When someone is that in love with you.”
“Got all those college chicks falling all over you, do you, stud?” Anchor said. He also looked conspiratorially at Carlene and rolled his eyes.
“There was this girl from photography class,” Collin said. “We worked in the darkroom together every day like.”
“That's what you want,” Anchor said. “A woman surrounded by darkness. When she comes out, she's like blinded by you.”
“Did you ride her or what?” Ciaran said.
“If he'd a known he was going to get a ride, he would've worn lipstick,” Anchor said. Carlene started to wonder if she should cut them off.
“Nothing happened,” Collin said. “You know why? Because I started paying too much attention to her. Totally screwed the pooch. You have to make a major effort to look like you don't give a shit,” Collin said. “You have to be careful.”
“I'm careful,” Danny said. “I change me address every three months.” Carlene lined six shot glasses up on the bar and poured whiskey into each one of them. She set them in front of her boys.
“What's this for?” Anchor said.
“Customer appreciation,” Carlene said. “Now. Who's Sally?” Before they could answer, Riley let out a shout. Behind him stood a man in a police uniform. He was tall and thin, with a thick mustache. He kind of looked like the man on the painted sign at Dally's Lounge, Undertaker, and Pub. Riley pointed to him.
“Does anybody else see the guard?” Riley said. “Or is it just me?” Carlene hurried over and turned down the music. The policeman, or guard as the lads called him, rubbed his ears.
“Are you Carlene Rivers, the new publican?” the guard asked.
“Yes sir,” Carlene said.
“I'm Michael Murphy,” he said. “We've had a complaint about the noise.”
“From who?” Anchor said. “A cow?”
“I'm so sorry,” Carlene said. “I'll keep it down from now on.”
“See that you do,” he said. “I won't write you up this time, seeing as how you're new in town and all.”
“Thank you,” Carlene said. “Would you like a drink?” She was about to suggest tea or a soda when he took off his hat, rubbed his bald head, and nodded.
“Just a wee pint,” he said. “I'm on duty.”
C
HAPTER
18
A Man Walks into the Kitchen
Some days, not an ounce of intelligent conversation floated around the bar, but Carlene could usually count on a couple of good jokes. Today, Eoin had one to tell.
“A man walks into his kitchen with a chicken under his arm. The wife is at the sink, doing the dishes. The man says, ‘I want you to meet the pig I've been fucking.' The wife turns around and sees the chicken. ‘That's not a pig,' the wife says. ‘That's a chicken.' The man looks at the wife and says, ‘I wasn't talking to you.' ”
Everyone laughed except Billy, who was playing pool by himself and didn't quite catch it. He stopped and propped his chin up on top of the pool stick.
“Say it again,” he said. “Man walks into the kitchen with a turkey under his arm, and what?”
“It wasn't a turkey, it was a duck,” Danny said.
“It was a chicken,” Ciaran said.
“Doesn't matter,” Collin said. “Could have been a turkey, could have been a duck.”
“What do you mean it doesn't matter?” Eoin said. “It was a fucking chicken.” He pointed at Billy. “Not a fucking turkey.” He pointed at Danny. “Not a fucking duck.” He leaned into Collin. “A chicken.”
“Fuck a duck,” Riley said. “I'm the baddest motherfucker in this bog.”
“Yes, you are,” Carlene said.
“I'm just saying that the punch line isn't contingent on what barnyard animal he had under his arm,” Collin said.
“Listen to the college boy,” Anchor said. “Contingent.”
“I know you said chicken. But the joke still works if it's a turkey, or duck, or whatever,” Collin said.
“Right,” Ciaran said. “I see where you're coming from.”
“What about a pig, smarty pants?” Eoin said. “It couldn't be a pig.” He nodded at Carlene.
“You're right,” Collin said. “It couldn't be a pig.”
“Why not?” Danny asked.
“Because when he says, ‘I want you to meet the pig I've been fucking,' the missus would just turn around and say, ‘Oh hello,' ” Collin said.
“Right, right,” Danny said. “It couldn't be a pig, so.”
“If I was screwing a pig, the missus would have a lot more to say about it than ‘Oh hello,' ” Riley said.
“I still don't get it,” Billy said.
“That's because they've made a complete bollix out of me joke,” Eoin said.
“You've got to build to the punch,” Danny said.
“I'll give yous a punch,” Eoin said.
“Whatever the yoke is under his arm, the point is, he's calling his wife a pig,” Collin said.
“Look at Carlene's face, like,” Ciaran said. “I think we're effing and blinding too much for her.”
“You could clean it up,” Danny said. “You could say—the turkey I've been screwing.”
“It's a fucking chicken!” Eoin said.
“The bird I've been riding,” Danny said.
“It's the pig I've been fucking,” Eoin said. “The Yank can take it. Can't ye, Yank?”
“At least the wife is doing the dishes,” Billy said. After that, Carlene gratefully lost track of the conversation.
Dear Becca,
Thank you so much for your letter, it meant so much to me. I'm so glad baby Shane is doing well. I showed his picture to all the lads at the bar, and even though they didn't come out and say it, I could tell they thought he was cute. They saw your picture too and had no problem saying how cute you were! It's hard to believe Shane can start Irish dancing lessons so young! How does that work, since I assume he's not even crawling yet? (Sorry, just curious.) And that's sweet that you've been playing him “
Danny Boy,
” I'm sure he'll enjoy it that much more when he comes for a visit. Can you believe I've almost been here a month? I think I'm really starting to get the hang of being a bartender. I feel like I'm part waitress, part psychologist, part babysitter, and part eye candy. The boys do like to flirt, and of course I flirt right back—and it's not even for tips because they don't tip in Ireland! I didn't remember that until after the first week of no tips, and I thought, God, they must really hate me. But they don't, they love me, and even though they cuss a lot, it's not much different than working at the gym. Still surrounded by sweaty men, except the only exercise these ones are getting is lifting their pints. Actually, though, they're funny, and smart, and interesting. I'm starting to think of my regulars like turtles—they carry their stories on their backs!
The worst part of the job is cleaning the jacks—that's bathrooms for you Yanks—it's the one time I become a little bit like my father, with rubber gloves, and masks, and ritualistic cleaning. Yesterday Billy threw up behind the pool table. That was pretty disgusting—but it's all part of the job. He said it must have been something he ate. Not the twelve pints he drank, mind you.
I can't believe how much they can drink here, but they really seem to hold it well. Riley isn't so good on the whiskey, makes him talk to himself. He likes to say, “Big Daddy, you're the baddest motherfucker in this bog.” It's kind of funny, but it also makes me kind of sad. Could be the rain. It has a way of dragging you down. That said, the sun was out all day the other day and I felt like I was on heroin, it was such a high. No, I've never done heroin—but I can imagine how it feels now!
Both the men and women here have a habit of calling me pet, or chicken, or bird—which kind of put me in a fowl mood at first, ha-ha (remind me to tell you a joke about a man who walks into his kitchen with a chicken under his arm)—but now I kind of like the endearments.
There are a few about town who aren't so crazy about me, and the neighbor cut down a beautiful tree in my front yard, and someone stole my beer kegs, and I think I was slightly threatened by the McBride twins—but it's really not as bad as it sounds.
I'm going to try to get a computer and Internet connection in here, and when I do I'll make sure to send you some pictures. The food here is delicious, but thank goodness I do a lot of walking, because it's not exactly the macrobiotic diet Dad follows. Speaking of which, I know he'd love to see the baby—and I know it's a pain getting rubber gloves to fit such a tiny infant, but if you do get around to visiting him, I'd really appreciate knowing how he is. I've talked to him a few times on the phone, but it's just not the same. I'm trying to talk him into coming for Christmas but he just keeps saying,
“We'll see.” You and little Shane and Levi are welcome during the holidays too! Although there's no room to sleep at the bar, but plenty of B&Bs.
You'll be happy to know I found a little café here, run by an adorable woman named Nancy—every other sentence out of her mouth is “Not a bother!” and she really means it. She makes the best cappuccino in town—I dare say it even rivals the Cleveland Cup. Although I do miss hanging out there with you.
Love you!
Carlene
P.S. To answer your questions: No, I'm not married to an Irishman yet. And no, I'm not getting any. And yes, I do have kind of a crush on someone, the one man around here I shouldn't have a crush on, and I haven't even seen him for a few weeks, and he's mad to gamble and probably has a string of girlfriends—oh, I know what you're thinking, another Brendan—you'll never believe it but I got totally wasted at my welcome party and ended up telling him about Brendan—among a few other things, but that confession will have to wait for a face-to-face!
 
 
Dear Dad,
Thank you for your postcard. I think it took longer to arrive because of all the plastic. Business is going well, and I really love it here in Ireland. It's so green. How is the gym? Please say hello to the boys for me! Hope you're still putting some thought into coming for Christmas.
Love,
Carlene
At first, Carlene loved having “her men” to herself, but now it was really starting to bother her that no women came into the pub. She knew women in Ireland went to pubs—they had hen nights, and ladies' darts and cards, and girls' nights. But they weren't coming here. Besides Nancy, whom she'd already invited, and the half dozen, who probably found it too painful to come, Carlene needed to meet more women. Maybe she should check out this Sally girl the regulars had mentioned. She loved her regular lads, but she needed a little estrogen to balance out the place. The conversation had grown stale lately as well.
He's getting it on with the Clancy girl, the missus doesn't know—
The missus doesn't want to know—
Me mam's in the hospital again—
Me father's tipping away—
She hadn't seen or heard from Ronan in weeks, and it was driving her mad. Where was he working now? Was he out gambling away his life? Was he seeing anyone? Thank goodness Becca couldn't read minds—she would have arrived in a flash, performing some kind of intervention. No more Irish men, she reminded herself every night as she fell asleep. No more Irish men.
C
HAPTER
19
When One Door Closes
Something was underneath Carlene's dresser, scratching, clawing madly away at the wood. She ran out of the room, slammed the door, and flew down to the bar, where she picked up the phone and then slammed it down again because she didn't know whom to call. She ran next door where she found Joe and Declan standing in front of the shop.
“Are you okay, pet?” Declan asked the minute she ran up.
“There's something underneath my dresser,” Carlene said. “Scratching.”
“Scratching?” Joe said. Declan scratched his head. Carlene scratched her head. Joe scratched his chin.
“It sounds like a squirrel or a rat. I really hope it's not a rat. I cannot handle a rat.”
“Let's go take a look,” Declan said. To her surprise, Joe also followed them over. The three of them stood inside the bar and looked up at her bedroom door. “Do you have anything to catch it in?” Declan said.
“Like what?” Carlene said. Declan held up his hand and then disappeared down the hall. He came back with a broom and a box. Joe stood studying the wall where the bathrooms were located. Declan headed upstairs. The minute he opened her bedroom door, something furry darted between his legs and headed for the stairs. Carlene screamed as the thing flew down, a tiny, dark whirling ball. At the bottom, it skidded, tried to get its balance, and slid across the mopped floors until it came to a stop underneath the pool table.
“You know,” Joe said. “I think this wall is actually on my property line.” Declan ran down the steps. Carlene thought her chest was going to explode. She waited for the thing to come out. When after a moment it didn't, she kept her distance, dropped to her hands and knees, and looked underneath the pool table.
“I'll get it, chicken,” Declan said. He waved the broom.
“Wait,” Carlene said. “I think it's a cat.” She crept closer. It was indeed a tiny black trembling kitten. Carlene cooed, and whispered, and coaxed until the poor thing stopped quivering. She reached in, plucked him out, and held him up to her chest. Declan tried to hand her the box.
“No thanks,” she said.
“Black cat,” Declan said. “Bad luck, isn't it?” Carlene kissed the kitten's tiny head.
“I only believe in good luck,” she said.
“I'm going to have to get the property deed out and have a look at this wall,” Joe said. “If I'm right, you're going to have to move the pub about three feet to the right.”
 
Ballybeog's Department of Planning Commissioner, or whatever his title was, paced the wall with the property deed in his hand, measuring and muttering. Mike, the guard, was also present, along with Joe.
“I don't know,” the commissioner said finally. “You could argue that a small portion of the wall is exactly on the property line, but if you took it all the way to court, the judge could go either way.”
“Joe,” Carlene said. “This is so silly. If you want tanning beds so bad, why don't you just expand your own store?”
“You can't expand into a bog,” Joe said. “This is the perfect place for Tan Land.”
“Well, take me to court, then, but I think we're done here,” Carlene said.
“In the meantime,” Joe said. “I reckon I should charge you rent for the walls.”
“You've got to be kidding me,” Carlene said.
“Mike? Can I do that?” Joe asked. The guard looked at the commissioner. The commissioner flicked his eyes between Joe and Carlene and then finally shook his head.
“You'd have to go through a judge,” the commissioner repeated.
“Is she allowed to have animals in this establishment?” Joe said. The kitten was sitting on top of the bar, licking himself.
“Oh my God,” Carlene said. “You just won't quit, will you?”
“That could indeed be a health violation,” Mike said. The kitten had its leg straight up in the air, giving them a full-on on shot of its crotch. Carlene had no idea if it was male or female. Female, she hoped, since there were so few of them in the bar. Carlene lifted the kitten off the bar and set her down.
“I think members of the guard would be more respected with a tan,” Joe said. “Feared even.”
“You reckon?” Mike said. He lifted his pale face as if searching out the sun.
“People would think you've been someplace warm. Like the tropics, or Mexico, or 'Nam. Someplace violent and warm.”
“I disagree,” Carlene said. “A pale face says you can handle the cold. It says strength. Siberia.”
“Siberia,” Mike said. He pushed out his chest.
“What about the cat?” Joe said. “Is it a violation? I mean it was just up on the bar flashing everybody its hoo-ha.”
“Unbelievable,” Carlene said.
“It was obscene,” Joe said.
“You know,” Carlene said. “Cats need things. Toys, food, litter. Maybe a little kitty bed. You have all those things at the shop, don't you?” Joe didn't respond, but his lips were moving as if he was totaling up her purchases in his head. She turned to Mike. “I'll keep him out on the back porch,” she said. Mike nodded.
“The porch would be all right, so,” he said. He looked at Carlene's front door, which was still walled off with plywood. “This, however, is a clear violation. Blocking an exit.” He took out a pad of paper and jotted something down.
“I'll have it fixed today,” Carlene said. “I promise.”
“It's too late,” Joe said. “He already said ‘violation.' I suppose you'll have to shut her down?”
“What do you think you're doing, Uncle Joe?” Startled, Carlene turned to find Ronan standing behind her.
“You heard the guard, it's a violation,” Joe said.
“You're lucky she didn't press charges,” Ronan said. “I'm pretty sure cutting down the tree branch was a violation—not to mention the damage it did to the door.” He turned to Mike. “I'm going to fix it today,” he said. “And we've plenty of witnesses to prove that yer man here is the reason this doorway is blocked.” Mike took Joe aside, and he must have had words of wisdom, for shortly thereafter Joe took his leave. But not before looking at the kitten, who was once again curled up in Carlene's arms. Joe pointed at it.
“Is that thing old enough to be away from his mother?”
“Are you?” Carlene said. She couldn't believe it had just come out of her mouth. Joe shook his head and walked out the door. Ronan laughed and laughed. It was a deep, joyous sound, which lasted long after Joe was gone.
 
Ronan had instructions for her, along with a list. She was to go to the hardware shop in town and pick up supplies. Anchor and Eoin were coming over to help install the new door. It was from a pub in town that had closed down years ago, a beautiful, sturdy, arched wood door with a brass handle and little yellow window at the top. Carlene loved it. She stared at Ronan, who stood, hands on hips, intently studying the door. He caught her staring at him.
“What?” he said.
“Why are you always just showing up here right when I need you?”
“Why are you saying it like it's a bad thing?”
“I'm starting to feel like I owe you. What does rescuing a damsel in distress go for these days?”
“Free pints,” Anchor said.
“Hear, hear,” Riley said. He was sitting on his stool, watching the lads prepare to work. Ronan passed by Carlene as if reaching for something behind her.
“I'll get back to you on that,” he whispered.
 
I'll get back to you on that.
Carlene played the comment over and over again in her head, and each time it made her shiver. But she would not spend the rest of the day obsessing on it like some kind of schoolgirl. Where had he been for the past few weeks anyway? She didn't know where he was living or what he was doing with himself, or where he was working, or where he slept, or absolutely anything, really, about the man at all.
Brendan had been like that. He'd sweep in like a tornado, exciting, fast, and utterly devastating, always leaving his destruction behind for her to clean up. And she'd done it, like a fool, she'd come to give him special allowances, knowing if she wanted him in her life at all, she'd have to bend the rules for him, let him get away with things that she wouldn't have accepted from an American man. It shamed her now, how much she let him get away with. Little lies she believed, weeks without a call, then suddenly he was there lavishing her with round-theclock attention, romantic gestures, little gifts, and talks of the future. Their sex life was lacking, but Carlene chalked it up to his drinking. He swore he didn't have a problem—“it's just the Irish way”—he'd say whenever she would urge him to get help.
So she made excuses for him. He drank too much because it was so accepted in his culture, he practically grew up in a pub, and Americans were too judgmental about drinking. So what if she found him passed out in front of her apartment door more than once? So what if sometimes he didn't remember their conversations the next day? So what if he married her during a blackout? Maybe her grandmother had cursed her when she regaled her with stories of James and Charles, the wickedly handsome black sheep.
Brendan Hayes, professional boxer from Northern Ireland. On their first date, she realized that's why he looked familiar, she'd heard his name mentioned and seen a few posters advertising his fights. It was uncanny, meeting him at a bar in Boston, and not at her father's gym. Coincidence? Curse? Luck of the draw? Brendan swore it was fate. She swallowed that notion too, along with all his other crazy ideas.
We should get married.
...
Never again, wasn't that what she told herself? Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of lesson learned from the pain you went through? Otherwise, you were little more than a hamster on a wheel, endlessly spinning but never getting anywhere. The days she spent crying, and worrying, and pacing, and turning down decent men who asked her out, just because she had a tiny, tiny dredge of hope that he might come back. But life didn't have to be that way. No more Irish men, Carlene reminded herself. No more obsessing about Ronan McBride.
 
The hardware shop was in the middle of town, right next to Finnegan's, a little pub she'd been meaning to check out. The exterior of the pub was white, and trimmed in black. It had a little storefront window displaying Laurel and Hardy figurines. Finnegan's also had an off-license, which Carlene had come to learn was a liquor store. But she'd have to pay a visit to the pub another day; today she had a list, and a purpose.
Carlene entered the hardware store. Like Joe's shop, it was bigger than it looked on the outside. And like Joe's, the shelves were crammed, every available space in use. Carlene stood irresolute, more than a little overwhelmed. Suddenly, a petite girl with long black hair and breasts too large for her little frame popped in front of her. She was dressed in jeans, a long man's work shirt, and a brown apron. But the macho look stopped there. She was covered head to toe in sequins and crystals.
“Are you looking to get rid of a pest?” she said. Her voice was surprisingly strong for such a small girl.
“Pardon?” Carlene said.
“You got a rat, lad?” The girl pointed to the shelf behind Carlene. Carlene turned to find she was standing in front of mousetraps and rodent killing products.
“Actually,” Carlene said. “I need an axe. Among other things.” The girl's eyes widened.
“Kind of cruel, don't you think?” she said.
“It's not that kind of rat,” Carlene said. “This one walks on two legs.” The girl studied her as if she was contemplating calling for help. “I'm putting a new door in,” Carlene said. “I don't actually have a rat. Just a kitten. Who I adore, by the way, and no harm is going to come to him, of course.”
“Oh,” the girl said.
“You looked at me like I was Lizzie Borden or something,” Carlene said. The girl's unwavering stare continued. “You know. Lizzie Borden took an axe, gave her mother forty whacks? And when she had seen what she had done, she gave her father forty-one?”
Guess that one didn't make it across the pond,
Carlene thought, since no recognition, only deeper suspicion grew in the girl's eyes.
“Maybe you should speak with me father,” the girl said. “He handles the tools.”
“I like your sparkles,” Carlene said. “Hi, I'm Carlene.” Bingo. The girl smiled. “Sally,” she said. “I'm a bedazzler.”
“A bedazzler?”
“A year ago I ordered Bedazzle Me from an infomercial. Since then I've kind of been unstoppable, like. I bedazzle everything I can get me hands on. Rhinestones, crystals, studs. This is my father's shop. He thought I was absolutely useless until I started bedazzling the birds who come in. I bedazzle their purses, T-shirts, trousers, trainers, sunglasses. Even their knickers.” This last bit was imparted with a smile and a barklike laugh. Carlene laughed too, although she was fighting to get the image out of her mind of this girl and Ronan, lying together on a blinding, bedazzled bed.
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