Rain and Revelation (4 page)

Chapter Seven

It’s nearly ten o’clock when I get to Paddy’s pub to meet up with Fiona. The wind catches the door behind me, slamming it shut. Inside the pub, it’s warm and musty.

I expect to see the same people that I usually see on a Saturday night at Paddy’s. Except, of course, the Americans might come out. Even with jet lag, usually there are a few who can’t wait to experience the pubs and the locals.

Bobby Cunningham, Maeve’s husband, is playing darts in the corner with his mates. He looks up at me when I come in, tilts his head in greeting and then tosses a dart that misses the board. He laughs and slugs his ale.

I look around. No Mikey. At least not yet.

I walk past Mr. Murphy, the chemist, who’s sitting at a table with his wife. He sees me and says, “It was a nice day, hey?” I smile and agree. Mrs. Murphy arches her eyes and looks at me like she wants to say something, but she just looks down at the paper napkin she has folded into a small square. I tell them to enjoy their night out. Mr. Murphy says, “Couldn’t get any better.”

Fiona calls my name and waves from behind the mahogany bar. She’s filling her glass with a shot of Jameson. Paddy, wiping down the glossy finish of the bar, looks up and smiles. Tonight, he’s making sure things look good for the Americans that are expected but not yet seen. Fiona squeezes past him.

“Darling, I’m so sorry about your ma.” She hugs me with one arm, her glass held high in the other, and looks intently at me with her large fawn eyes that are heavily lined. “Let’s sit. I need to know everything.”

Fiona steers me past the old men playing canasta near the cast iron pot-bellied stove to a table near the front window overlooking Bridge Street. She asks in a low voice, “What the hell happened?”

“Just as I said.” I lean back with my hands tucked in my jacket pockets. “There’s nothing else to tell.”

“But
why
?” Fiona takes a sip. Her lipstick imprints the whiskey glass.

“How would I know?” My tone is sharp. Fiona looks wounded. Softer, I say, “Sorry. There wasn’t a note. Just her wedding ring on the kitchen windowsill. I have no idea what was going on in her head. I just found her. Now, she’s in Dublin at a hospital and won’t even see me.”

“That sucks.” Fiona takes a bigger swallow.

“She called that morning, and I didn’t even answer.” I look down. “I should have. Maybe I could have stopped her.”

Fiona reaches over and touches my hand. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“Am I? Helluva daughter if you ask me.” I reach over and take a gulp from her glass, which is nearly empty now. The whiskey warms my throat and soon the pub feels stuffy. I’m wearing jeans and a smart blouse that matches the silk scarf Ma gave me last year for my birthday. The scarf, wrapped around my neck, loosens and slips off when I take off my jacket.

“Nice hickeys.” Fiona lets out a smug laugh. “Are you gone in the head? He’s a fine thing, but did you forget why you broke up with him?”

Shaking my head, I rewrap the scarf around my neck. “It was a mistake.”

Fiona, the only one who knew the real reason I broke up with Mikey right after school ended, tilts her head toward the door. She says, “Well, don’t look now. The mistake is here.”

Mikey walks in, still wearing his work boots. He waves to Bobby. I get up and say to Fiona, “I need a jar. I’ll be right back.”

Fiona pushes her glass towards me. “Get me another.” She digs in her bag, pulls out a compact mirror, and reapplies her lipstick. She hollers as I walk away, “Make it a double.”

As I’m walking to the bar, Mikey comes over and puts his arm around my shoulder. His perspiration is mixed with cigarettes and an earthy smell from the potato farm he helps his father tend, receiving no wages. “Buying, love?” On the dole, he always looks to me—and to whomever is sitting on the next stool—for a drink.

I shake off his arm. In a voice that I think only he can hear, I say, “Buy your own. I’m not your ‘love’; and we’re forgetting what happened the other night, okay?”

He shoots me a wounded look. “Aw, but we were good together.” He smiles in a way that long ago used to melt my heart.

In a low voice I say, “No,
I
was good for you. You weren’t good for
me
. Didn’t we find that out? Or, have you forgotten about when you weren’t there for me.” My eyes dare him to forget the child we almost had.

“Jaysus, do you got to bring that up all the time. That was ages ago. I would’a married you if I had to.” He brushes my breast. “You have the best diddies.” He laughs and takes a peak to see if his buddies caught it.

I push him away. “Thank the saints, we avoided that mistake. Now I’m avoiding another. Hump off.” As I stride toward the bar, I hear him curse me, and the door slams shut. I breathe easier.

Paddy winks at me as I approach the men hunched on the bar stools with their hands gripping their drinks.

Paddy is standing behind the bar his grandfather carved. On the tobacco-stained walls are pictures of sports players and teams that Paddy, and his father before him, supported over the years. Several of the pictures are of Paddy and Da in their rugby uniforms.

“Hi sweetheart. The usual?” He flips the white towel over his shoulder.

“Yeah, but Fiona wants a double.” I look back at Fiona. She’s dressed in tight black trousers, high heeled leather boots and a fitted jacket that accentuates her ample chest and narrow waist. She’s waiting, looking out the window.

Paddy reaches back for the bottle of Jameson from the shelf behind the bar. “I’m going to make her pay for them someday.” He then pours me a pint of Harp and slides it to me. It tastes cool and goes down too smoothly.

Paddy refills it. “You okay?”

“Sure. Everything is grand.” I force a smile.

“Finally got rid of that freeloader?” Paddy then leans in. “You know,
you
can do better.”

“Where’s the better? I sure as hell haven’t seen any.”

He is about to say something when a chorus of loud voices bursts through the door.

The Americans.

All eyes turn to them. Two women enter wearing bright jackets and looking remarkably alike in their short blonde hair and blue eyes. There are two men with them. The tall, lanky man has dark, shiny hair pulled back into a ponytail. The other one, stout with pocked skin and a stomach protruding over low-slung trousers, says, “Is that bacon I smell?” He looks around. Spying the stove, he squeals, “Oh look, it’s that peat stuff burning. Cool.”

Fiona jumps to her feet and follows them to the bar. “Hallo,” she says mostly to the ponytailed American. He just grins with teeth brighter than any I’ve ever seen. She whispers to me, “Yummy.”

Paddy bellows, “A fine welcome to Paddy’s Pub.” He motions to the men on the stools to move aside. They grunt, but move to a table.

Striding up to the bar, the women coo, “What should we get?” The pudgy American says, “You’re
supposed
to get Guinness.” Turning to Paddy, he pulls out his wallet. “A round, please.”

“Half pints for the ladies and pints for the lads?” Paddy starts pouring the pints. Fiona runs her manicured nails through her short-cropped brown hair. Her jacket opens, revealing her low cut sweater.

“Naw, make them all pints.” He whips out his money and turns to his friends. “It’s cheaper than two half pints.” The women nod, but the ponytailed man’s dark eyes linger on Fiona.

The Americans share their story, similar to ones we hear each year when the students arrive from Minnesota to stay in the cottages for the semester. It’s their first time abroad, and they want to see the Emerald Island and experience new people and a new culture.

Paddy boasts about the dances he will start next weekend. Just for them. The short guy buying the drinks tells us that he is Henry. The one with the ponytail is Tom. They ask where they can get some food at this hour, as nothing is open that they could see while walking through town.

“I know just the place,” Fiona says. “There’s a chipper in Westport. And a great pub nearby with fantastic music.” She grabs her bag and buttons her jacket. “I’ll drive.”

“I read about fish and chips in the guidebook.” Henry drains his beer. “Awesome.”

Fiona leads the Americans out. For only a moment, I debate whether to just go home.

There must be more than this. The thought of entertaining the Americans as we do each year has lost its appeal. They will stay for three months and then leave. I will still be here. Mikey will still try to get in my pants until he finds someone better. Maeve will still try to get Bobby to come home and be with her and the kids instead of staying at the pub until closing time. Da will still drink, fish, and pretend he’s working when he’s not on his stool talking to Paddy. I will still be working for Granda and saving my money to do nothing in particular.

The thought of being home alone suffocates me. I grab my coat and follow Fiona and the Americans.

As I walk out of Paddy’s, I nearly run into Da, who’s on his way in. Earlier in the day, we made small talk as we got the Americans settled, and we tried to figure out something to eat. He now asks if I’ll be home later. This is the first time he’s asked me this. I just shrug and catch up with Fiona.

When my phone rings the next morning, I’m buried under the blanket, still in my clothes. I don’t remember getting into bed. I vaguely remember the fish and chips and the chatty Americans. My phone is on the chair across the room. I grab the phone just before the call goes into voicemail.

“Do you have my bra?” Fiona’s voice croaks in my ear.

“Why would I have your bra?” I mutter, slipping back under the warm covers. The sun looks fully up.

“Well, I seem to have come home without it. Or misplaced it. I thought you might know.”

“How unfortunate. They can be quite expensive. You really should keep better care of your undergarments.”

“You don’t need to be so cheeky.” Fiona’s voice has the whiney tone she uses to get what she wants.

“Sorry. My head feels like it’s going to explode.” I grab a pillow and put it over my face. The room spins. I flip the pillow and feel the coolness on my cheek. My stomach lurches. “I’ll call you back.”

I barely make it to the bathroom before vomiting. Some hits the toilet. Some hits the floor. Some hits my sweater. It tastes foul. I rest my head on the cool porcelain tub.

“Need a little hair of the dog?”

Da is standing in the door in his waders and flannel shirt. As he holds out a chipped cup and saucer, his hand shakes.

I groan and put my head down.

“Heard you come in. That Fiona knows how to make those tires squeal.” When I don’t say anything, he says, “Paddy’s fit to be tied that you took the Americans somewhere else instead of patronizing his fine establishment.”

“He’ll get over it.” The room stops spinning, but I’m afraid to move for fear it will start again.

“Aye, he will.” Da doesn’t leave. He just looks at me. Then he scrunches his face and asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be training?”

I close my eyes and mutter, “You giving me advice?”

“No. Just a message.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “Doc’s son, Ryan, called this morning. I wrote his number down here. He said he has your scarf.”

Chapter Eight

The things I have done with Fiona. You’d think I’d learn.

I can’t even remember what Doc’s son looks like. I remember he’s young and I remember his strength as he carried Ma from the car. He saved her. The last thing I want to do is call him.

I stagger back to my bed. Pulling the covers over my head, I curl into a ball. When I was a wee girl, Ma used to come into my room and rub my hair and my back when I was sick. She’d sing songs that she couldn’t remember the full lyrics to. It didn’t matter. I’d fall asleep, and later, I’d feel better.

Da hollers, “I’m going to Galway with Paddy to get some new gear. Can you manage?”

I groan, “Yeah. I’m fine.” Rolling over, I look at the clock. It’s nearly noon.

When I wake again, it’s only because the home phone is ringing. It’s nearly two o’clock now. I scramble to the wall-mounted phone in the kitchen. My voice croaks when I answer.

“Eliza.” It’s Mr. Walters. “I was wondering if you’d like to come over for tea today. That is, if you have time.”

“Okay, but I have to get a run in first.”

“Ah, yes. I heard you were doing the Tri-Burgh triathlon in June. How’s the training going?”

“Excellent,” I lie.

“Come by after four. Johnny and I will go on our bike ride and be back by then.”

I agree to stop by, then hang up.

While the thought of running curdles my stomach, I remind myself that I deserve this. I’m about to get ready to go out when I see Ryan’s name and number scrawled on the back of an envelope.

I call Ryan’s number hoping for voicemail, but he answers. I stammer, immediately self-conscious of my voice and what might have happened last night. “Hallo, this is Eliza Conroy. You…”

“How nice of you to ring back.” It sounds like he’s outside in the wind.

“Um, Da said you called and have my scarf.”

“You left it in the pub.” He begs my pardon and talks to someone. When he returns, he says, “I would love to see you again. Maybe finish where we left off? Dinner tonight around eight at Dunning’s?

“Grand.” I try to sound perky.

“I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like your friend Fiona,” Ryan says.

“She’s one of a kind,” I say.

“I almost pissed my pants when she took off her bra, stood on the table, and yelled, ‘Going to the top bidder!’”

“Fiona can get gee-eyed after too many.”

Ryan laughs. “The tubby American was dense to pay that much, if you ask me, but he seemed pleased with himself when he wore it on his head.” He pauses. “It was unexpected.”

He has no idea.

After we confirm the plans to meet and say goodbye, I collapse my head in my hands and try to remember anything from last night.

Instead of my usual path along Clew Bay and then to the river, I take the road into town. With the wind to my back, past rock fences and grazing sheep, I focus on putting each foot in front of the other. Too early in the season for tourists; there are only a few cars that pass me. It’s flat. Even so, my breathing is labored.

My legs, still tight, carry me along the sidewalk lined with empty kegs. I wave at Fiona’s mother sweeping the sidewalk in front of the grocery store. Even though I’d love to stop, I keep running. Fiona’s car is taking two spots. Drapes remain drawn in her family’s home above the store.

I end up walking on the way back, clutching my side. The run never got easy.

The breeze off the water is warm and salty, like the tears I’ve shed the past days. The bump on my head is down, but my head throbs from too many pints. Looking down, I see a patch of dandelions. Da calls them “piss in the beds.” Ma said they were her favorite flowers. I’d pick bouquets of dandelions and put them in a juice glass. When they wilted too soon, I’d cry.

My throat constricts and it’s hard to see the road. I stumble on a rock and nearly fall.

Shortly after four o’clock I walk up to Mr. Walters’s door, past the three-wheeled bike parked under the four-paned windows. He answers in a frayed cardigan sweater.

“Come in. Come in.” He swings the door wide open. Inside, I smell cinnamon. On the table, there is a pan of Irish bread pudding and a plate of cucumber sandwiches. The table is neatly set for two with place mats and cloth napkins.

Johnny jumps on my leg until I bend down to pet him and then he licks my hand. Mr. Walters hobbles to the table, pulls out a chair, and motions for me to sit.

“Help yourself while I get the tea.”

Sitting down, I look around. I’ve never been in a former teacher’s house. The living room has more furniture than fits comfortably. It smells like the windows haven’t been opened much over the years. Stacks of papers clutter the end tables and upright piano in the far corner. He pours me tea and adds milk. I don’t tell him that I drink it black.

“So, Eliza. I imagine this is most distressing and quite a shock.” He pushes the plate of sandwiches toward me. They are cut into squares with their crusts removed.

I take one and sip my tea. It’s lukewarm and bitter, even with milk. I don’t see a sugar bowl on the table.

“Any news?” He peers at me over his thick glasses and filmy blue eyes. “Have you talked to her?”

“No. She won’t see me. Or Da.” I look down at the sandwich and focus on chewing until it dissolves. As I do, I can feel him looking at me.

Sighing, Mr. Walters says, “I suppose she has her reasons, but…” He pauses and looks out the window at the dimming sky. “I’ve known her since she was a wee girl and always worried about her.”

I stop chewing. “Why?”

“Oh, she was different.” He closes his eyes and says, “I’ll never forget her beautiful voice.”

I scrunch my forehead.

Mr. Walters looks at me kindly. “You didn’t know? Well, she was self-conscious, perhaps.” He scoops out some pudding onto a delicate china plate and slides it towards me. “Do
you
sing?”

“Hell, no! Oh, sorry. I…” I can feel my face flush.

“It’s fine, dear.” He laughs, which was something I never heard him do as a teacher. “Other than the eyes, you don’t resemble her.”

“We don’t have much in common,” I mutter and take a bite of the pudding. It doesn’t taste anything like the kind Ma made. Too dry. Too sweet. A lump forms in my throat. My eyes swell with tears. Blinking, I try to stop them, but they flow down my face. I wipe them away with my sleeve without putting down the spoon. They don’t stop.

Mr. Walters scoots his chair closer. Digging in his pocket, he pulls out a monogrammed linen handkerchief and hands it to me. I can smell the cigar smoke embedded in his wool sweater.

Sobs convulse my body.

I haven’t cried this hard. Ever. Not even when I found Ma.

Eventually I pull myself together, apologize, and tell him that I have to get going. Mr. Walters has a sad expression on his craggy face. The dog wags his tail and follows me to the door.

As I’m leaving, Mr. Walters says, “You’re always welcome here, Eliza. Johnny and I always like company.”

It’s half past eight and there’s no sign of Ryan McCullough at Dunning’s. I crane my head toward the door as people walk in. No one looks familiar. The waitress refills my Diet Coke and asks if I want to order. When I shake my head, she looks at me in a pathetic, knowing way. I keep pulling out my phone, looking for a text message from him even though I’ve never given him my number. It’s something to do.

Finally at nine o’clock I pay the tab and leave. I just want the day to be over.

It isn’t until I’m nearly at Louisburgh that I notice the car behind me. It flashes its bright lights and follows closely, turning when I turn. When I reach our cottage and stop, it pulls in beside me. I don’t recognize either the car or the person getting out.

Then I do. It’s the vet who saved Ma.

Ryan McCullough walks toward me, looking smart in his jeans and leather jacket. “You probably want to give it to me for standing you up.”

“It’s fine.” My tone is too sweet, too casual. I notice we are the same height.

There is no moon or even stars to cut the darkness. “I can’t believe I didn’t think to get your number. There was an emergency at the clinic. Then I had to go home and change.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say.

We stand awkwardly near my car. Cool air blows my loose-hanging hair. I brush a strand away and pull my jacket in tighter.

“I got there just as you were leaving and tried yelling, but you didn’t hear me.” He stands a few feet away, holding my scarf. I hold my hand out.

Ryan hands me the scarf and says, “I don’t suppose you want to go get something to eat now?”

I shake my head. “It’s been a long day.”

He looks toward the cottage with an impish smile. “I promise not to stay long.”

I invite him in, and we walk to the door. It’s dark inside except for the glow of a smoldering fire. After flipping on the light, I walk to the fireplace and toss on more peat. Wind rattles the panes. I close the drapes and move Da’s tackle box from the table. “Have a seat.”

“This is so quaint.” Ryan walks toward the fireplace and warms his hands.

I roll my eyes and head into the kitchen. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink. Peering into the fridge, I say, “I have Diet Coke if you’d rather that over tea, but not much else.”

“Tea’s grand.”

Ryan looks at the scattered pictures. “Love your hair, especially in this picture where it’s sticking straight up.” Then he sits on the overstuffed couch and, with his arm stretched over the top, he looks back at me. His cowlick highlights his boyish face.

When I hand him the cup and saucer, Ryan says, “Your friend is quite the spark plug.”

“She’s that.” I sit on the chair opposite him.

“I was hoping we could talk. Especially after our dance.” He sips his tea. “I’m afraid I was a bit taken aback when you kissed me.”

I gasp.

“You don’t remember it, do you?”

I cover my eyes with my hands. “Shite. I made an arse of myself.”

“Nothing else happened, if that’s what you’re wondering. I wasn’t that daft to realize you might not be yourself. I wanted to bring your scarf back and check in. Just to make sure you’re alright.”

I can’t think of anything to say, but think a dark hole to fall into right about now would be nice.

The only sound is the wind. Ryan breaks the silence. “So tell me about yourself—something I don’t know about you. Did you go to university?”

I shake my head. “No. Maybe someday. Right now I just help my granda run the B&B. He owns these holiday cottages, too.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Not really, but it’s money. What do you do when you’re not working?”

“Well, you heard me play my guitar at O’Grady’s last night. My mates talked me into joining them years ago. It’s good fun, good
craic
. Other than that, I’m an outdoor nut. Bike, run, surf. You name it. If there’s a race, I do it.”

“I’m doing the Tri-Burgh this year. First time.”

“Really? How’s training?”

When I tell him that I have started, he pounds me with questions about my program. How many miles do I run each day? What strength training program am I following? What cross training regime has worked best?

I tell him that I run, but haven’t given much mind to the other things. Not yet.

He says matter-of-factly, “I hope you won’t take this wrong, but what you put into your body is as important as the miles you log. You probably should watch the drink.” He reaches for his tea that he set down when we started talking about training. He adds, “If you’re serious.”

I feel my body stiffen. “You just saw me on a bad night.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I drink every now and then. I’m just saying that if you’re serious about training, like you say you are, then every pint will set you back. That’s all.”

I want to throw my cup of tea at him. “After everything, I just wanted some craic.”

“Oh, please don’t think I’m judging you. I want to help. Maybe we could even do a run or ride together sometime?”

“Maybe. Obviously I need to start training.”

My sarcasm isn’t lost on him. He slaps his leg and tells me he has to get back to Westport. Before he leaves, he asks me for my email address. He tells me that he will email the training programs that we talked about. I scribble it on a piece of paper. Neither of us asks the other for a cell number.

We walk to his car, making small talk about the weather. Then I watch his taillights fade away.