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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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The monastery, complete with a soaring round tower, beckoned. It amazed Carlene that she could just walk up to this abbey without having to buy a ticket or wait in line. It was just out here, in the open, an accessible, twelfth-century ruined abbey. Carlene walked through an arched doorway and stepped into the open courtyard. The stones that made up the surrounding wall were chunky and set on top of each other in varying directions, leaving small gaps between them. She walked around the courtyard, imagining what it must have looked like back in the day.
It just wasn't fair. Why couldn't she have grown up here? She could have played ball in the courtyard, climbed the rock walls up to the second story, made out with teenage boys in the bell tower. The excitement of the roller coasters at Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio, paled in comparison.
Who had Ronan made out with here in the ruins of the abbey?
Carlene gravitated to the outline of a five-light window on the eastern side of the abbey, its stained glass long gone. It was at least ten feet high, set twenty feet in the air. Diamond-shaped cutouts showed where the individual windowpanes used to be. On the opposite wall, stone faces were cut into a soaring pillar. Beneath her feet was gravel and dirt; the sky was the roof. She crossed through a doorway and entered an even larger courtyard. The rain was heavier now, shrouding the ancient monastery in a cloak of mystique. Across the courtyard and to the left, a set of stone steps led up to what remained of the round tower.
The stairs were long and steep, and by the time she reached the top, she was out of breath. Here, a massive iron door stood guard to the tower, chained and locked. It was disappointing, but the view from the top was well worth the climb. She could see all the way to town. From here she looked over to a steeple in the middle of the abbey. Unlike the tower, the steeple could not be accessed by stairs. But suddenly, Carlene saw two heads poking out from the window of the steeple. Teenage boys, most likely. They must have scaled the walls. It was nice to know that even in these modern times, these boys chose scaling walls over the Internet or video games. Of course, now she could see they were smoking cigarettes, so maybe video games without cigarettes would be better for them after all. She walked down the steps thinking about the monks who once built, prayed, and lived in the abbey. She was so engrossed in her thoughts, she didn't see the two figures at the bottom of the stairs until she was nearly on top of them. She let out a little shriek.
Two short, slightly pudgy women in identical black rain jackets with the hoods pulled up blocked her path. It wasn't until she had a good look at their faces that she recognized the twins.
“Liz, Clare,” Carlene said. “You startled me.”
“How do you like our little abbey?” one of them said. Carlene was going to have to ask someone who was who, she couldn't always go on wondering.
“I'm sorry, I—”
“I'm Liz,” the one who had just spoken said. Carlene laughed, embarrassed to be caught.
“Don't worry,” Clare said. “We get it all the time.” They pulled off their hoods. Liz had short hair, cut in layers; Clare's hung just below her chin, making her face appear slightly longer.
“As long as you keep your hairstyles, I'll remember,” Carlene said.
“Did you know this was built in twelve ninety-one?” Liz said.
“It's remarkable,” Carlene said.
“Ireland's abbeys have a rich history,” Clare said. “A hundred monks flocked here to build this abbey. They were French and Irish, they were, but after a while the Irish ran all the French back home, and from then on it was only Irish monks.” The twins stepped farther into the courtyard. Carlene followed. They led her through the last doorway. Carlene stepped into the smallest room she'd seen yet. Against the back wall was a crypt. She followed the girls over. It was protected by a wall of iron bars. This section had both a roof and a floor. Inside were two tombs. On top of the closest tomb, a skeleton was carved on top of the stone crypt. “A White Knight lies here,” Liz said. Clare pointed to the right.
“There are more graves over there, but the headstones were destroyed. The town paid to have this fenced in to prevent damage to the crypts.”
“They're amazing,” Carlene said.
“We're lucky this is still standing,” Liz said. “Henry the Eighth ordered all the Franciscan monasteries destroyed.”
“Wow,” Carlene said. She wished she could think of something more sophisticated and intellectual to say, but nothing came to mind. She felt as if the girls were working their way up to telling her something, and it was making her nervous. “I'm glad it's still standing too,” she said.
“Oh, we've withstood a couple of tragic turns in our history,” Liz said. “But don't you worry, we're still here.”
“Absolutely,” Carlene said.
“No matter who blows in and tries to take us down, we eventually run them out,” Clare said. She laughed, which started Liz laughing. Carlene couldn't muster up so much as a smile.
“I see,” Carlene said. Liz and Clare moved on, back through the doorway, and took a left.
“This was where the monks took their meals,” Liz said. She pointed out a recessed aisle in the wall. “That was the old fireplace.”
“I'm so appreciative of this experience,” Carlene said. “We don't have sights like this in Ohio.” Thunder rumbled overhead, sounding as if the sky itself was cracking open, and it began to pour. The girls backed up until they were under a small roof that used to hang over the fireplace.
“In thirteen forty-nine the Black Death swept through Ireland,” Clare said. “It was the worst plague they'd ever seen. The Archbishop of the Franciscan Order was beside himself. Himself and his priests had been tending to the sick and dying day and night. Priests were falling sick as well, even in the midst of performing their duties. One night the archbishop returned to the monastery after a particularly deadly night. Weary with exhaustion, he went to the chapel, got down on his knees, and prayed for an end to the plague.”
“He prayed for a sign,” Liz said.
“Do you want to see the chapel?” Clare said. “It's enclosed too, but we'll have to run for it.”
“Sure,” Carlene said. They tore across the courtyard, over to where Carlene had first entered the abbey. They were back at the huge window with diamond-shaped panes. The girls stepped through the column and into a little enclosed chapel that Carlene had completely overlooked. Inside was a large Celtic cross. Clare crossed over to it and placed her wet hands on either side of it. Carlene was wet and shivering, and she wanted to go home. But she also wanted to hear the rest of the story, and she didn't want to offend the girls.
“That night the bishop fell into a deep sleep,” Clare said. “He was visited by an angel who told him if he wanted to end the plague, he must build a friary for all the poor friars of Ireland. He was told the location of the new monastery would be revealed to him when the time was right. The next day he gathered three of his most trusted priests, and they set out to find the sign promised to him by the angel in his dream. They began to have a walk about. Soon they found themselves by a river.” The girls gazed out, as if looking upon the very river. Carlene followed their gaze, mesmerized. Liz picked up the story.
“There sat three black swans, with flaxseeds in their bills.” The story stopped, and the twins looked at Carlene.
“It was the middle of winter,” Clare said. Carlene nodded, still not understanding.
“Flaxseed doesn't grow in the middle of winter,” Liz said.
“Oh,” Carlene said. “Well, there's your sign.”
“There it was all right,” Clare said. “Lush, and full in their beaks.”
“The swans rose into the air,” Liz said. The girls looked up, as if watching them go.
“They circled the river three times,” Clare said. “When they finally landed, the archbishop and the three priests ran to the spot. The swans were gone.”
“It was as if they vanished into thin air,” Liz said.
“But in their place, sprouting up from the frozen ground, was flax,” Clare said. “In full bloom.”
“A heavenly sign, just like the angel promised,” Liz said.
“And that's where they built the new monastery for all the poor friars of Ireland,” Clare said. “And true to the angel's word, the plague ended soon thereafter.”
“ 'Course the archbishop himself died from the plague before the monastery was ever built, so,” Liz said. Clare nodded and shrugged, à la, “What are you going to do?”
“Wow,” Carlene said. “And we're standing right here.”
“I'd say we're not,” Liz said.
“Nah, that might have been the Ross Abbey in Glengary I was on about,” Clare said. “This abbey was built much later.”
“Oh,” Carlene said.
“You should go there sometime,” Liz said. “There are so many places in our little country for you to visit.”
“Indeed,” Carlene said. Clare stepped up until she was only inches away from Carlene.
“We've seen plagues, we've seen famines. We've been invaded by the Vikings, and by Cromwell, and by the Black and Tans, and French monks,” Clare said. She looked at Liz and spoke as if the two were alone. “I suppose we can tackle the odd American girl who thinks she can run one of our pubs, so,” she said.
“Aye,” Liz said. “But it would make it a little easier on us if she wouldn't overstay her welcome, now wouldn't it?”
“Ah, it would, so,” Clare said. “Because she'll tire of it soon enough anyway.”
“And we'll still be here,” Liz said. “Just minding our own business.” Standing so close, Carlene noticed a thin mustache above Clare's lip. She didn't point it out.
“If I were you, I'd be looking out for black swans,” Clare said.
“Right, right,” Liz said. “Maybe they'll show you where to go next.” Then the girls straightened, smiled, and walked away.
“Have a grand day,” Clare called over her shoulder.
“Mind yourself,” Liz said. Carlene sat on the edge of the cross and waited until the girls disappeared into the mist.
C
HAPTER
16
Mud and Secrets
After her encounter with the twins, Carlene went shopping. She wasn't going to let their little warning get her down, not after how happy she'd felt that morning. Why was this happiness thing so weak, so fleeting? Why weren't the twins going after the one person they should really be angry with? Carlene suspected they weren't comfortable expressing anger toward their brother, so she was the next best target. Black swans, flaxseed, and angels. Well, she was here to stay, even if swans did circle over the pub three times. She would simply take it as a sign that she was where she was meant to be. That was the thing about signs, they were open for interpretation. Meaning was in the eye of the beholder.
Carlene was excited to check out her yard and test out her new red rubber boots. She entered the property from the back and surveyed her land. She was blessed with a whole acre behind the pub. The first step she took onto the soft ground startled her. It made a slurping sound like it was a thick, frosty shake and her boot the straw. Carlene yanked her foot up, but the patch of ground had already started to give. Or rather, take, for she felt the earth pulling on her boot, claiming it as its own. She lost her balance and lurched forward, driving her foot even deeper into the muck. What a shock, how quickly the Irish earth could swallow a red rubber boot.
Down, down, down she sank until she was buried up to her knee. She cried out, and for a second was embarrassed at the desperate bleat of her voice. She sounded like a sheep.
Please,
she silently pleaded, as if it would help, as if she could strike a bargain with the gods.
Not now
. Her pub was so close. She wanted a hot shower and a glass of wine. She wanted to mull over her encounter with the twins. She could see her back porch just over the hill. Maybe the woman at the shoe shop tricked her. Maybe there was some kind of concrete sensor in the bottom of this boot, designed to sink intruding Yanks. The shop woman seemed so friendly, so inquisitive. Carlene found herself telling her she was the pub winner, without hesitating, and the woman seemed happy for her, excited even, yet maybe it was all an act. Carlene glanced down at her free leg, and despite everything, admired her boot.
Carlene had purchased them in siren red, liking the idea that she would be easy to spot, even at a distance, even through the mist.
She looked at her boot again. Be honest. Who wore a red boot up to her knee unless she wanted to get noticed? The mysterious blond woman in tall red boots.
So much for getting anyone's attention now. Her only company was a giant cow twenty feet away, chewing its cud, openly studying Carlene with an almost human curiosity.
“What?” Carlene said. The cow blinked, lowered its head, ripped off another patch of grass, and resumed chewing. Panic, she thought as she took in her surroundings, would not do her any good, would not help rescue her leg from the deep, wet mud.
At least it was no longer raining. The countryside was certainly green. The morning air carried a floral-manure scent across the field. The cow, most likely the one responsible for the manure portion of the morning smell, stepped a few feet closer. He seemed mesmerized by the boot. She could see him wearing four tall red boots—it would look smashing against his black-and-white coat. “Help,” Carlene said. She'd bought a cell phone in town, but she didn't have any local numbers. Was 911 universal? Or did Ireland use other numbers? Was it fair to call 911 to ask for a hand out of the mud? Were cows ever dangerous? Aggressive?
The cow, apparently bored of her, was strolling away. “Hey,” Carlene yelled. “Help.” The sight of the cow leaving filled her with a profound sense of loneliness.
Cow ass. I'm stuck in the mud staring at cow ass.
How long before a human stepped into this field? Would Joe come out for an afternoon stroll? Did people stroll in Ireland? If she had all these green, misty fields, she would certainly stroll.
Although look where it had gotten her.
Birds flitted through the patch of trees just ahead of her, bolstered her, offered her a tiny ray of hope. How bad could things be if they were so chirpy? Carlene's good leg was starting to hurt from supporting all her weight. She put her arms out to her side and slowly lowered her butt to the ground. That was better.
No, it wasn't. Now her ass was wet, and muddy, and slightly sinking. Maybe the ground would swallow her up, bury her.
American woman dies in bog behind pub. Yank swallowed by swamp.
Carlene leaned back and pulled her leg as hard as she could. It loosened slightly. “Thank you,” she said to the universe, or the cow, although she feared neither was listening. She scooted back a smidge and prepared to pull again. But this time, her leg sank deeper into the ground.
The first vestiges of panic grabbed hold of her. She would not die here with her leg stuck in a mud pit, or a bog, or whatever the hell it was. She would not die before making a go of her pub. She would not die before making love to Ronan, just once.
A growl interrupted her thoughts. It came from behind her, off to her right side. Goose bumps prickled her arms. She was terrified to turn her head. Did cows growl? A dark patch invaded her peripheral vision. It was a dog, a killer dog, and not only was he emitting a loud, long belly growl, he was baring teeth. Watch out for the bog, the woman at the wellies shop had called out to her as she left. But what if she'd misunderstood the accent? Perhaps she'd said “dog.” Watch out for the dog. Either way, this couldn't be good. The cow was nowhere to be seen, Joe apparently did not take afternoon strolls, and even the chirpy birds had flown far, far away.
“Nice doggie” would be a ridiculous thing to say. He was certainly not nice. Obviously, the Irish charm did not apply to their canines. Don't show fear. Was she supposed to look at the dog, or not look at the dog? Don't look at the dog. She was in the submissive position, cowering on the ground. Wait a minute, wasn't she supposed to pretend to be the alpha dog? How could she be the alpha dog if she was cowering on the ground? “Fuck you,” she said softly. No reaction. She said it a little bit louder. The growl increased.
“Morely. C'mere.” The dog bolted toward the male voice in the distance. She heard his paws smacking happily in and out of the bog. Why wasn't the damn dog sinking? She'd probably stepped on the one and only spot on the property where you were guaranteed to get sucked under.
She heard his approach. Thick boots sloshing in her direction. Heavy boots; boots equipped for a bog. She saw his jeans. Tall, sturdy legs. His rain jacket, long. His baseball cap pulled over his thick, wavy hair, green-gold eyes looking down at her. He didn't speak. He stood over her, staring. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said finally. There was definite sarcasm in his tone, and more than a flicker of amusement. It was astounding, like the number of stars in the universe, the nuances carried in his Irish accent.
“What are you doing here?” she said. He knelt down so that they were eye to eye.
There is so much beauty in this,
she thought, staring into his eyes.
Just looking, quietly, up close, into another person's eyes.
“Is that really what you want to say to me?” Ronan said.
No. I want to say you're beautiful. You smell good. I'm not married. I'm mortified that I said I love you. Obviously I don't love you, I don't even know you. But there's something about you I think I could love.
“About the other night,” she said. “I was drunk and I said some things—”
“Forget about it—”
“I'm not married.” It felt good to blurt it out. Ronan stared at her for a moment as if she were a safe he was trying to crack.
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“So you lied? Because most people tell the truth when they're pissed.”
“I wasn't pissed. I was just drunk.”
Ronan threw his head back and laughed. “Pissed means drunk,” he said. “You'll catch on. We've got a million words for it. Pissed, langered, rat-arsed, gee-eyed, blotto, bollixed, ossified, paralytic, plastered, wasted—”
“I get it, I get it.”
“So you're not married and you're not divorced. I believe I'm missing part of this story, Ms. Shakespeare.”
“If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it while I'm stuck in the mud.”
“Fair play.”
“Can you pull me out, please?”
“That's what I thought you wanted to say.” Ronan sat down on the ground in front of her.
“I stepped in the one and only spot where you can sink, didn't I?” Carlene said.
“Nah,” Ronan said. “There's a few more.”
“Great. Are you just going to sit there smirking at me, or are you going to help me up?”
“Do I really smirk?”
“Oh yes. You are a big smirker.”
“I did not know that.”
“Well, now you do.”
“I'm learning all sorts of things from you.”
“Please. I'm really stuck.”
Ronan rubbed his hands together. “All right, all right. I'll sort ye out.”
“Thank you.”
“But it's going to cost you.”
“I'm not giving you back the pub.” Carlene hadn't meant for it to come out so harsh. Maybe her encounters with Joe and the twins had affected her more than she thought. But Ronan didn't seem offended; in fact, it elicited another laugh.
“Fair play to ye,” he said. “How about a secret?”
“A secret?”
“Tell me something about you that nobody—I mean nobody—knows.”
“Why?”
Ronan shrugged. “That's just the going price for helping a lady out of the muck, what can I tell you, Carlena?” She flushed at the nickname, and a rush of warmth spread through her body. He was smirking again, as if he could read her mind, as if he knew without touching her that that her body was reacting to him. She tried to concentrate on his question. A secret. She could tell him about her father's OCD. Or her awful wedding. She could tell him about the orange rabbit—but she'd already confessed that little gem to the dog bowl–obsessed man on the plane. She thought about telling him any number of things, yet instead, something flew out of her mouth that she had never expected to say.
“I can't pee in public.”
“That's not a secret. You're a girl.”
“No—not like that. If I'm in a public restroom—or even at a house party—and there's a line of people waiting—I can't go. It's called bashful bladder syndrome.”
“What?”
“Bashful bladder syndrome.”
“It's hard to hear out here.” Carlene yelled it. Ronan was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking. “Sorry,” he said. “I actually heard you perfectly the first time.”
“It's not funny. It's a serious affliction.”
She thought it was the end of the subject, but he was fascinated, wanted to hear all about it. She told him how mortified she was when it first happened. She was ten, at a slumber party. The bathroom was right next to the living room where the six girls were laid out in their sleeping bags. They'd been drinking grape soda all night. They all made a mad dash for the restroom. Carlene reached it first. She remembered the girls giggling and pounding on the door, yelling at her to hurry up. She couldn't go. Not a drop. Her bladder was bursting one minute and just—frozen the next. She knew she still had to go, but her body just wouldn't cooperate. She had to wait until all the girls were fast asleep, until she verified that each one was breathing deep and not faking it, and even then, even running the water and visualizing each girl's sleeping face in her mind, it took her forever to go. And unfortunately, it continued to happen; it still happened.
What kind of person couldn't pee in public? There was a name for the condition, she'd Googled it. Not bladder-block, or tinkle-phobia, or the golden freeze, as Ronan happily suggested, but BBS, bashful bladder syndrome—a mild anxiety disorder, or according to the Internet, “The inability to initiate urine while in the company of others.”
“It said that?” Ronan asked.
“It said that,” Carlene said.
“Who talks like that?” he said. “Have you ever heard anyone say, ‘Were you able to initiate urine?' Ah, the bollix. Did ye take a piss? That's what you'd hear.”
Carlene laughed. “Nature calls. And even though I'm standing right in the phone booth, I can't answer.” This time they laughed in unison. It was cathartic, somehow, shouting about her pissing problem while stuck in the mud.
“Is it only number one, or is it also—”
“I have never gone—would never
contemplate
going number two in a public place! Ever!”
“Never, not once? Not even after a burrito?”

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