C
HAPTER
29
The Half TreeâPresent Day
The David's Interlude
“Wait,” The David said. “This is what you call a love story? He is going to marry the sparkly Sally woman for the money? She is going to know this and she is going to let him?”
“We never said it was a simple story,” Katie said. “People are complicated. Love is complicated.”
“Love is shit,” The David said. He held up the rope and nodded. “This story is shit.”
“We're not finished with it yet,” Katie said.
“Just tell me now. What about this American girl? Did she ever crawl into the hole? Did she ever tell Ronan she loved him? Does she still own this pub? Why isn't she here tonight? Is she home counting those green of beans things?”
“They're coming,” someone said. The door opened. Sally swayed in glittering like a walking chandelier. Guests greeted her with cheers and claps, and hugs and kisses, and complimented her radiance.
“Where's the old chain?” someone said.
“Are ya saying I'm the ball?” Sally said.
“I'm saying he's a right fool to let you out of his sight today,” the man said with a wink and a raise of his pint. The David reached for his rope, but it was gone. Katie touched him on the arm.
“Look,” she said. Sally was the center of attention. She literally and figuratively glowed in the center of the room.
“She is acting very happy,” The David said.
“She is,” Katie said.
“I am so confused,” the German said. “Where is the groom?”
“I told you we didn't have time to tell this story,” Liz said.
“We'd better get the cake,” Siobhan said.
“We baked it ourselves,” Anne said.
“Six tiers,” Katie said.
“I know we are not on an island,” The David said as they headed out the door. “But I was voting for the Yankee Doodle girl.” It was true, The David was sad for the American girl, but he was happy to be part of the story. The Irish culture was new to him, but he liked it. He stared at the bride as he passed. She was dancing by herself, with her eyes closed to the world. He obediently followed the girls to the shop next door to get the cake. He didn't have anything better to do, and he wanted to hear the rest of the story, whatever it was. And, for the first time in the past twenty-four hours, he forgot all about his rope.
C
HAPTER
30
A Few Stiffies
Carlene stood in front of Finnegan's like a married woman standing in front of a hotel, contemplating whether or not to meet a potential lover in his room upstairs. She'd heard so much about this pub, which had been in Sue's family for generations. It was on the main street in town, and Carlene liked the black-and-white façade with a gorgeous wooden door marking the entrance. It was raining outside, but like she'd heard several regulars in her pub say, “It never rains in a pub.” She'd called Sally and insisted she work for her tonight, not once letting on that she knew about her engagement. To her surprise, Sally agreed. Apparently getting engaged had done wonders for her disposition.
Carlene would confront Sally later, maybe after a good dose of liquid courage. Speaking of which . . . She took a deep breath and walked into Finnegan's Pub.
It was three times as big as her pub. To the right was the main room consisting of an L-shaped bar and floor space with built-in booths and several freestanding tables and chairs. There was a corner with two video poker machines across from an area to play darts. To the left was another section of seating, at least six booths, past which was a hallway leading out to the restrooms and an outdoor patio and backyard. It was more like a house, and Carlene would soon learn why. Sue and her husband and five children lived thereâtheir rooms were above the pub, and their kitchen and living room were through the door behind the bar. In fact, when customers sat at the bar, they could see into the Finnegans' kitchen; the door was always open, making way for the kids to easily come in and out, which they did with great frequency.
It was dinnertime now, and Sue was standing behind the bar peeling potatoes. The smell of lamb curry wafted out into the pub. Carlene felt instantly at ease as she headed for an empty stool at the bar. There were a few old men sitting nearby watching a horse race on a television hanging in the corner, above the spot where Sue was peeling potatoes. The walls, like most pubs in Ireland, were littered with memorabilia. There were a ton of horse-racing pictures, hurling posters, Gaelic football posters, family pictures, old Guinness signs, a hurling stick, a soccer jersey, and several trophies that upon closer inspection were won by playing ladies' darts. The back counter of the bar was well stocked. The same tiny soda bottles that Carlene had in her bar, only three times as many. She also had snacks Carlene didn't have, bags of Taytos, Bacon Fries, and salt-and-vinegar nuts. Carlene made a mental note that she should expand her offerings of snacks as well.
Sue looked up when Carlene took her seat, and smiled. They had only met briefly, the time the publicans came to show Carlene their support when the wall had been slapped up. Carlene had been too busy to chat with her and was happy to finally have the chance. Carlene had forgotten how nice it felt to be on the other side of the bar. All she had to do was sit, drink, and chat. Sue was a tall woman who looked as if she'd have no trouble tossing drunkards out on their ears single-handedly, but at the same time there was something very soft and feminine about her face, a glorious mix of tough and tender. Her hair was cut fashionably short, with spiky layers held in place with gel, and colored a dark shade of red.
“How ya,” she called to Carlene.
“Grand, grand,” Carlene responded. She was starting to not only pick up the local lingo, but like it as well. It was like learning a foreign language, she was always looking for the opportunity to speak like the locals.
“You okay?” Sue asked. Carlene knew this was simply the opening to ask her what she'd like to drink, but when Carlene opened her mouth to say she'd have a pint of Stella, she heard a wail come out of her mouth instead, and instantly she was crying. And not a pretty cry either, it was definitely more of the poor-me type, which Carlene loathed herself for, but once the floodgates opened she couldn't stop. She didn't belong here. She loved this place. It was so much nicer than her pub, and Sue knew the business, had grown up in the business, and was Irish, for fuck's sake. Who did Carlene think she was fooling? Who cared if some great-great-great-can of beans was Irish? Whoever her ancestors were, they certainly didn't leave her a pub. And what kind of idiot falls in love with a man who has trouble tattooed on his forehead? And what kind of father wouldn't answer his phone at any other time than 8:12
P.M.
? And what kind of daughter hated her own father for his disabilities? And why was she so afraid to crawl through the passage?
The tears wouldn't stop. Sue wiped her hands on her apron and tilted her head back toward the open door to her kitchen.
“Kate?”
“Yeah, Ma?”
“Bring me a bowl of the lamb curry.”
“No bother.” Sue took a blue bottle of the wall, filled a shot glass, and slid it over to Carlene. Carlene wiped her eyes and tried to smile.
“What's that?” Carlene asked.
“It's a stiffie,” Sue said. “I tell the fellas who come in they have to bring their own, but I always give 'em to the girls.” Carlene laughed. Then she started to cry again. “Drink up, lad,” Sue said. “The lamb is on its way.” As if on cue, Kate, Sue's oldest daughter, appeared with an overflowing bowl of heaven. The girl was tall like her mother with the coltish body of a fourteenyear-old and fresh freckles all over her face. She set the bowl in front of Carlene with a shy smile. “Get some brown bread and butter, luv,” Sue told Kate. Carlene drank the shot. It was so smooth, with a hint of blueberry. It was easy going down.
“No bother,” Kate said and disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later she popped back out with a plate of brown bread and butter. Carlene bit into the thickest, softest, sweetest bread she'd ever tasted. Sue refilled Carlene's stiffie. Two hours and countless stiffies later, the bar swelled with customers, and Carlene was having the time of her life. She threw darts, sang “The Fields of Athenry” at the top of her lungs with a group of oldtimers, and pledged her love to Sue, her lamb stew, and her stiffies. She was the center of attention, and loved the way the Irish immediately swept you up in conversation, and not the typical “What do you do for a living” bullshit Americans were always so fond of. This was hanging out, this was shooting the breeze, this was living in the moment and having a good time. This was something that Carlene never even knew existed, but now that she did, she realized she'd been missing it, craving this kind of connection all of her life.
“Have you ever been to New York City?” an old man next to her asked.
“No,” Carlene said. She'd never been anywhere.
“I used to live in the Bronx,” the old man said.
“I hear they have a nice zoo,” Carlene said.
“How many windows does the Empire State Building have?” the man continued.
“I have no idea,” Carlene said.
“Six thousand five hundred,” the man said. “Can ye imagine cleaning dat?”
“That's a lot of Windex,” Carlene said. The man threw his head back and laughed. Not a fake or polite laugh. Not a shy laugh, even though when he opened his mouth it was obvious that several of his teeth had uprooted and left, but a genuine, inthe-moment belly laugh. Carlene felt so happy. She felt liked. She felt witty. She was going to break out in a rendition of “I Feel Pretty” if she didn't slow down on the stiffies.
“You're all right,” the old man said. He signaled Sue to buy her a drink.
“No, thank you,” Carlene said, but the drink was already in front of her.
“What do ye think of our little town so far?” the man asked.
“I love it,” Carlene said.
“Yer man next door,” the man said. “He's a bit of a bollix.” Carlene figured he was talking about Joe, next door to her, but she didn't comment. Luckily, she was saved by the band, who somehow appeared and set up without her even knowing they were there. They played traditional Irish music. Carlene loved every song they played, and the crowd did too. The locals knew all the words. How many songs did Carlene know all the words to, songs she could belt out in a crowd? Not counting pop songs, not many. Whenever she was in a bar in Ohio, she couldn't remember a single time where the entire place raised their voices together in song.
And this wasn't
American Idol,
it didn't seem to matter here how off-key or off-color you sang, nobody made a move to stop anyone from singing; all voices were welcome. On fast songs, men got up to dance. They kept their bodies still, tucked their hands behind their back, moved their feet to the rhythm of the music. Sue's son and younger daughter wandered in and out and to watch the festivities or ask their mom about something. Every corner of the bar was filled and in use from the pool table to the back patio, where smokers chatted beneath the gray cloud of their exhalations. And just when Carlene thought she had seen it all, and was contemplating taking her leave, here came her favorite musician, with his swagger and pair of spoons.
God, she loved Johnny. He played as if he'd been born with not just one silver spoon, but two. He played them on his wrist, he played them up and down his arm, he played them on his knee. He jerked as he played, his head and shoulders accompanying the spoons. When the song was finished, the crowd rose to their feet and cheered. “Johnny Spoons, ladies and wankers,” the lead singer and banjo player called out. Laughter spilled forth. Carlene stood on her stool.
“I love you, Johnny Spoons,” she said. “I love you.” More laughter and cheers, and maybe another stiffie would be good right about now. She felt a tug on her jeans.
“Down you go,” Sue Finnegan said. “Or you're going to give them all stiffies.” Carlene had forgotten she was wearing a short skirt. There were several boos when she came down from the stool.
“Love you, Johnny,” Carlene said again. The music played on. The television stayed on. Darts were thrown. But suddenly, everything inside Carlene stopped. She felt the sensation of slowing down, cold water splashed in her face. She looked up. Ronan was standing in the doorway. Whether or not true love or love at first sight existed, energy between people did. Chemistry. She felt him before she saw him. And now, when their eyes met, a current ran between them, as sure as a live wire. A current that gambling, or threats, or even an engagement couldn't shake. Was that what made life and love tragic? Something so powerful being placed in careless hands? He remained in the doorway, watching her. Carlene's head was beginning to throb. She took a step back and stumbled.
“Easy now,” someone said. Hands wrapped around her waist to steady her. Ronan was at her side in a flash, replacing the stranger's hands with his own. His grip was strong, his gaze was steady, and he was wearing that cologne that smelled so good she wanted to throw him down and bury herself in his neck. “What in the name of God,” he said, bringing his mouth close to her ear, “are you doing?” She spun around. She felt good again.
“I don't know if I believe in God,” she said. “I didn't go to church growing up, did you know that?” Ronan didn't answer. “Of course you didn't, because we don't really know anything about each other, do we?”
“How much have ye had to drink?”
“Are you taking a poll?”
“You're embarrassing yourself.” Carlene looked around. Nobody was paying any attention to her.
“I might be embarrassing you,” Carlene said. “But nobody else seems to mind.”
“You don't know the Irish way,” he said. “Believe me, they'll be talking about you over tea.”
“I don't care,” Carlene said. “I'm having a good time.”
“You have a pub of your own,” Ronan said. “Or have you forgotten?” Carlene removed his hands from her waist.
“You have a fiancée of your own,” she said. “Or have you forgotten?” He stared at her for a moment as if he was searching for something in her. Then he looked away. Carlene felt the beginnings of a dull ache in her chest. She didn't want to cry in front of him. “When were you going to tell me?” she said. “At the wedding?”
“It's complicated,” Ronan said.
“I think this is what the twins meant when they told me to watch out for the black swans. I think you're the black swan.”
“What are you on about?”
“It doesn't matter.” The band started playing a haunting song. When Ronan went to speak again she gently placed her finger on his lips. Then she moved past him and closer to the band. The most beautiful song she'd ever heard was being sung. It was called “Black Is the Color.” One line struck Carlene like lightning:
And I love the ground on which she stands.
That was how someone felt when they loved you, she thought. They loved the ground on which you stood. A later line proclaimed he'd suffer death a thousand times for her. Carlene wanted to cry again, for herself, for never having felt love like that. She was still pitying herself when Ronan touched her elbow and led her onto the dance floor. He pulled her into him and they danced. It didn't matter that the song was about a woman with black hair and she was a blonde, she imagined it was Ronan singing to her, and she rested her head on his chest, just below his neck, where she could feel his heart beat. When the song was over, Carlene pulled back and looked into his eyes. They were both breathing harder than usual. They were alone in a room full of people.