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Authors: Mary Carter

The Pub Across the Pond (19 page)

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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“You eejit,” Ronan said. Listening to him call her an eejit with that melodic accent and huge grin filled Carlene with an inexplicable sense of joy.
“I was ten,” Carlene said.
“And that was it?” he said. “No more lions in the Congo?”
“No more lions in the Congo,” she said.
“Then what?” he said. “What was the next dream?”
“A vet.”
“The nursing sick animals kind or the fighting bad guys kind?”
“Oh, the fighting bad guys kind,” she said. “Definitely.”
“Deadly,” Ronan said. “I can picture you with a gun strapped to your chest. Of course, you're topless.” She laughed, punched him on the shoulder. He grabbed that hand too, and now they were holding both hands. “So what happened?” he asked. “Did you drop your dog in the Cuyahoga River too?”
“I killed a hamster,” Carlene said. “I cried for six months.”
“What?” Ronan said. “You got a tiny scarf, like, and strangled the wee thing?”
“I fed him strawberry Slim Fast,” Carlene said. “He was kind of chubby and I thought the vitamins would be good for him.”
“How do you know that's what killed him?”
“Well, he didn't leave a note,” Carlene said. “But he died in a puddle of pink vomit.” She couldn't believe it, she still felt horrible about it. “What did you want to be?” she asked. Ronan looked away. She waited.
“A publican,” he said. “Like my father.” He pulled his hands away.
Great,
Carlene thought.
Nice question, Carlene. Perfect mood killer.
“And now?” she said before she could stop herself. He took his time making eye contact again, and when he did he held it for a long time. “Besides knight in shining armor,” she said.
“That's very American,” he said.
“What?”
“All that ‘what do you do' shite.”
“Sorry,” Carlene said. “You started it.”
“No. I asked you what you wanted to be when you grow up.”
“Well,” Carlene said. “I was just trying to ask you the same thing.” They slipped into silence. He pulled back slightly, but remained close. She liked looking at his face. He had a faint, thin scar above his left eyebrow. She wanted to touch it, lick it, skywrite with it. It was suddenly so quiet in the bar, she could hear them breathing. He was so beautiful. The muscles in his arms, the smell of his cologne, those gorgeous eyes. Should she tell him when she looked in his eyes, she thought primitive, and reptile?
“What?” he said.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. He looked at the wall and laughed. When she came back down, Ronan was standing on a stool in front of the wall, trying to pry it off with his bare hands.
“Ronan,” she said. “Don't.” He tore into it like a madman. He'd taken off his sweater. He stood in his white shirt undershirt, and the muscles in his back flexed as he pulled on the wall. With a loud, splintering crack, a tiny portion of the upper righthand corner came apart in his hands. He turned to her with the piece of wood in his hands. Sweat ran down his face. When he opened his palm and let the piece of wood fall, she saw drops of blood on his fingers. “Stop,” she said. “We'll get help.”
“I want it down tonight,” he said. Carlene pulled a stool over to him, stood on it, then reached for him. He stopped what he was doing. She put her hands on his face, ran them down his jawline. She moved in, and he let her. They stood on their stools and kissed, getting as close to each other as their balance would allow. After minutes of kissing, Carlene stepped down and held her hand out. Ronan took it, met her on the ground, and pulled her into him. He backed her up against the wall and kissed her with a gentler version of the passion he'd used to tear at the wall. She broke away, grabbed his hand, and started for the stairs. He stopped in the middle of the room.
“Come on,” she said. “Let's go to bed.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “Maybe we shouldn't.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe I'm not good at this,” Ronan said.
“Good at what?” she said. “Sex?” First, she doubted it, and second, she was surprised he would confess that kind of a fear.
“No, Miss America, not sex. Relationships.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Maybe it's all downhill from here,” he said. “You know—after the mind-blowing sex.”
“Maybe it is,” she said. “But maybe it's not. Maybe it could even be something great.” But he was already backing away. He went behind the bar, opened a cabinet she didn't even know was there, and took out a blanket and pillow.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I'm sleeping down here,” he said. “Until I can change the back locks and you get a security system in.”
Then I'm never getting one,
she thought.
“You can sleep upstairs. With me.”
“No,” he said. “I can't.”
“We don't have to have sex,” she said. “We can just sleep.”
“There's not a chance of me getting in that bed with you and not having sex,” Ronan said. “Now go on with ye, get upstairs.”
What a fool she was. Throwing herself at him. Now here she was, alone, while he was right downstairs, underneath the pool table. Here she went again, falling in love with someone who knew how to pull her in with one hand while pushing her away with the other. She was so forward, he must think she slept around a lot. Oh God, was that what he thought? Did he have a small penis, or was he too drunk to get it up? Or was he just not that into her either? She wasn't going to turn into Sally, pining after a man who clearly didn't want her.
That settled it. She would never do this again. She was glad he said no. She would not go downstairs and slip in next to him, press up against him, kiss the back of his neck, slip her hands down his chest, kiss him all over, work her lips down his body. And even if he'd totally rejected her, it was still good to know he was nearby, keeping an eye out for her. Even so, it took forever to fall back asleep, as if a vital part of herself had been torn off and was sleeping downstairs underneath a pool table.
C
HAPTER
22
They're Called Sheep
Word spread about the wall. Declan was the first to arrive. He stood back, photographed it, examined it, and then did his best to distract Carlene. He made her a cheese toastie. He poured her a pint. He called her pet, and darling, and chicken, and luv a hundred thousand times. Next, Mary McBride arrived. She hugged Carlene and made sympathetic noises, fussed with her hair, drank tea, and fussed over Carlene some more. Then the half dozen arrived. They brought cookies, steak pie, and bags and bags of crisps. Clare and Liz paid her the most attention of all, and Carlene wondered if Ronan had spoken to them despite his promise.
Father Duggan was next. He prayed over the wall. He assured Carlene that he would mention this atrocity at mass, insist that whoever was intimidating her would immediately cease and desist. She agreed to come to mass soon.
Then people from the town, armed with food and sympathy, spilled into the pub. Nancy came bearing cappuccinos. The schedule for tearing down the wall was delayed, and delayed, because everyone wanted to have a gawk at it. It was great for business, and suddenly women were in the pub too. Unfortunately, it meant they had to traipse upstairs to use her personal bathroom.
 
Over the next few weeks, business continued to be so good that Declan started to pitch in along with Sally. Ronan, she noticed, wasn't coming around as much, but Carlene was too busy with customers to obsess. Even Joe stopped in now and again to assure her he had nothing to do with putting up the wall. He did, however, inquire whether it was legal for customers to use her upstairs bathroom. He was quickly tossed out by a few eavesdropping drinkers.
Mike the guard arrived one day. He photographed the wall, stayed for a wee drink, and as he said, “documented everything.” Sue Finnegan, owner of the little pub Carlene had been meaning to check out, came, along with a few other pub owners in town, making a speech that all publicans needed to band together. Carlene was shocked how quickly everyone rallied around her. Whoever had been vandalizing her had actually done her a huge favor. She hoped, whoever they were, they had learned their lesson.
Finally, a date was set to take down the wall. A band was hired, and Declan arranged catering from several women in town. The place was packed. The band played Irish music while her regular lads prepared to begin the destruction. At the last minute, Eoin suggested they cut doorways into the wall for the bathrooms, but leave the rest of the wall up. He wanted to turn it into a mural, and Carlene loved the idea. They painted “Mna” and “Fir,” the Irish words for Male and Female, above the respective doorways. “Go Home” was painted over and replaced with “Stay,” so that the wall now read: STAY, YANK.
Eoin, to Carlene's surprise, was a fantastic artist. Over the next few weeks, he painted a beautiful mural of the Irish countryside on the plywood wall, complete with rolling fields, a stream, and towering trees. Then the people of Ballybeog were encouraged to stop in and sign it. It was a living petition, a town apology, a public stand against the begrudger who wanted her gone. Carlene had never felt so happy, and so welcome.
After that, things quieted down until Sally came through with the hen night. The girls were already drunk when they arrived. All ten of them were decked in fancy dresses and outlandish headpieces. Everyone, courtesy of Sally, was bedazzled, including Carlene. She felt foolish, wearing a headband with a giant blue crystal in the middle of her forehead, but she was learning to go with the flow. Roisin, the bride-to-be, wore a wedding dress that had been cut off way above the knees, neckline plunged low. She also wore a bedazzled veil that was longer than the dress.
The women immediately swept Carlene up in the fun and demanded she keep up with their drinking, shot for shot. Luckily, Carlene had suspected this was coming and had already doctored up a bottle of whiskey for herself that actually contained ginger ale. Sally was in unusually good form, touching Carlene's arm or giving her a little hug around the waist whenever she was near. It could have been the presence of all that crystal, or it could have been the bottle of Jägermeister she sipped from the entire evening.
There wasn't a band, but the girls played the jukebox, and drank, and danced, and swore, and joked, and gossiped, and swayed their hips to the music. Carlene watched them, once again mesmerized by their ability to let go and have fun without giving life a second thought. They laughed loud and often. They shrieked. They touched each other all the time; a hand on the shoulder, a hand on a hand, a hand on a knee, an overflowing display of connection and affection. All done with ease, without a second thought. None of them, Carlene noted, wore gloves.
Carlene felt like a phony, an observer, a reporter. She didn't remember all of their names, didn't know what they did for a living, where they lived, who they loved, or what their secrets were. But she was thrilled to have women in the pub. It was a start.
“We need men,” one of the hens shouted. She was a tall girl with dark hair piled on top of her head, held in place with a tiara that read: BITCH. She had beautiful light blue eyes lined in heavy green eyeliner. She grabbed Carlene and tried to stare into her eyes. She couldn't focus for long, and she shifted her weight from one gold stiletto to the other, as if trying to keep her balance. “Where are all the men?” she said. Between her accent and her slur, it took Carlene a few tries before she understood her.
“It's just us girls tonight,” Carlene said. She looked to Sally for support. Sally was holding a shot glass in one hand, and a crystal and superglue in the other. She stuck the crystal on the shot glass, then watched as it slid down, leaving a smear of glue like the trail of a slug.
“Bollix,” Sally said before trying it again.
“I know,” Miss Tiara said. “We should call you-know-who over here for Sally.” Sally looked up from her shot glass and smiled.
“Oh yes,” Sally said. She came out from behind the bar holding the bottle of Jägermesiter. She leaned against the bar, slid the bottle down to her crotch. “Yes, yes, yes.” The girls howled with laughter, but Carlene was slightly appalled. She'd never seen girls act like—well—guys.
“Oh, Ronan,” another girl shouted. “I love your big cock.”
“Have ye bedazzled it yet, Sally?” Roisin yelled. Sally threw her head back and laughed. Then she guzzled straight from the bottle. When she came up for air, her eyes landed on Carlene and stayed there. Carlene suddenly felt as if the room was closing in on her. She felt someone's hands wrap around her waist from behind.
“Have you met Ronan McBride yet?” the girl whispered in her ear.
“Of course she has,” Sally said. “He's been spending a lot of time over here lately, hasn't he, Carlene?” Carlene didn't answer; she tried to move away, busy herself behind the bar. Miss Tiara stopped her.
“Maybe it's to see you,” Miss Tiara said. She poked Carlene's chest a few times.
“He's gorgeous, isn't he?” a pretty blonde said to Carlene. They all looked at Carlene, as if demanding her answer.
“He's very good looking,” Carlene said. She felt heat rise to her face and she tried not to look at the pool table where he'd slept just the other night, she tried not to think about his mouth on hers, his voice and breath in her ear, his arms around her.
“He's off-limits to you,” Roisin said. She swept over to Sally, whipped her bridal veil off, and put it on Sally. “Sally and Ronan are soul mates,” she said. “It was written on the abbey walls, right, Sal?”
“Not on the walls,” Sally said. “He left me a note in the wall,” she added.
“Really?” Carlene said.
Don't let them get to you,
she told herself. Thank God she was drinking ginger ale, and yet she still felt sick.
“They were fifteen years of age,” the blonde said. “What did the note say again, Sally?”
“Be mine,” Sally said. They all looked at Carlene.
“Oh,” Carlene said. “That's very. To the point.” She understood what this was now. An intervention. Stay away from Ronan. Maybe Sally was the one who'd put up the wall. After all, she had motive and access to the tools. “So,” Carlene said. “Why aren't you two together now?”
“Irish men take forever to commit,” Roisin said. “I've been after Martin to marry me for the past eight years.”
“But when they do commit, it's for life,” the blonde said. “We don't have ‘drive-by divorce' like you Yanks.”
Carlene thought about her marriage. A hit-and-run. Guess he was the exception to the life sentence.
“So you think he really wants to be with you, Sally?” Carlene said. “You think he's just, what? Playing hard to get?” Carlene told herself to shut up. After all, these women were tough and drunk and could definitely kick her ass. But she wasn't going to let them gang up on her either, not without defending herself a little.
“I wouldn't have such strong feelings for him if it wasn't mutual,” Sally said. “That's just not possible.”
Carlene could tell from Sally's intense expression that she believed what she was saying. She felt a rush of pity for her. Carlene had once thought the same thing about Brendan. How was it possible to have every cell in your body light up around a particular man if they didn't feel the same way?
“But he doesn't call you?” Carlene said. “Ask you out on dates?”
Does he hold your hands and stare into your eyes and ask you what you want to be when you grow up? Does he ask you to tell him secrets and rescue you from bogs and roofs? When was the last time he pushed you up against a wall and kissed you until you saw stars?
Roisin staggered up to Carlene. She looked her up and down. Then she turned her back on her.
“All right, ladies,” Roisin said. “Enough of this fucking talk about fellas. This is my hen party. Who wants to do shots off my stomach?”
“I've known him since I was five years old,” Sally said. “We've done loads of things together. Our families do loads of things together. Jane's right.” Carlene glanced at the blonde, whose name she now knew was Jane. “You don't know a thing about Irish men,” Sally continued. “You will never get them like we do. Even if they get crushes on American girls—”
“Or Eastern European girls,” Jane said.
“Or whoever the feck,” Sally said. “The relationships never work out because at they end of the day, they know they can't do better than an Irish wife.”
“Maybe so,” Carlene said. “But in America, if he's not pursuing you, we'd say, ‘he's just not that into you.' I know it hurts, but when you actually get the concept it can be quite liberating.” The women just looked at her. “Become the man you want to marry,” Carlene said, trying to muster up a peppy voice.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Sally said.
“Sounds like a load of shite,” Roisin said. It looked like the swear jar would work equally for her female guests. Carlene was going to have to get started on that. She could have thousands in there already.
“They're all the same,” Miss Tiara said. “All men are babies who want a mother in the kitchen, and a Madonna taking care of their babies, and a whore in the bedroom. And it's all because their Irish mammies treat them like they're gods. I am not going to raise my son that way. I am going to break the cycle. God, I fucking hate men. I wish I'd never gotten married. I wish I could be a selfish man who thinks of no one but myself and comes to the pub every night to tell the same stupid jokes to other sweaty, smelly men who are too cowardly to go home and be good to their wives and kids.”
Carlene was starting to think the shots were a bad idea....
Miss Tiara stumbled up to Roisin. “I just wish one person would have wrenched me aside before I said ‘I do' and told me how much marriage can drain the fucking life out of you,” she said. Her tiara slipped slightly. She pushed it back up, only managing to slide it to the other side. Roisin staggered back, as if struck by Miss Tiara's words, then suddenly dropped. She sat slumped over on the floor holding her bottle of whiskey. Mascara ran down her cheek. Her hair was filled with static and several strands were sticking straight up as if crying for her veil.
BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
6.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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