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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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“Never, not once, especially not after a burrito. Can you please help me up now?”
“What if you're midstream and someone walks in? You're full-on like Niagara Falls—”
“Midstream I keep going,” Carlene said. There it was again, that deadly smile of his. He had a dimple, just one, on the left side of his face.
“Thank you,” he said. He started to kneel behind her.
“Wait,” she said. He stopped. “Now you tell me a secret.” He loosened his grip on her, but didn't let go.
“Or what?” he said. “You won't let me pull you out of the mud?” All she knew was that she wanted to stall him, wanted him to keep holding her, wanted to keep feeling his laughter vibrate the base of her spine.
“Please,” she said. “Between Joe, and the tree, and the twins, and this defective wellie, I've had a stressful morning.”
Ronan's hands immediately dropped from her waist. “What about the twins?” he said. Oh no, why had she said that? The only thing worse than being the woman who swooped in and took over their family business, would be being the woman who tattled.
“That's just what I was calling my wellies,” Carlene said. “The twins.”
“You're a bit strange, Miss America. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“I believe you've covered that already. Now will you please tell me a secret?” Ronan settled behind her again, and soon she felt his arms wrap back around her lower body. She wanted to lean back on him, but she didn't want him to think she was snuggling up to him.
“See that empty patch up there?” Ronan stuck his arm out and placed his cheek against hers, so that when he moved his head to the left, he gently pushed hers in that direction. She could feel herself getting turned on again, and mentally told herself to focus. Up ahead she saw what he was pointing at, a bare patch of dirt, abandoned by the grass.
“Yes.” She hoped he didn't think she was shaking because of him.
“I used to have a pigeon loft there.”
“Like homing pigeons?”
“Racing pigeons. I trained them myself. Had them for years.”
“That's a secret?”
“No, Miss America, patience.” He waited, and this time she let go and leaned back into him, allowing him to hold her weight. He adjusted his arms and pulled her in tighter. She would show him patience, all right. He could recite
War and Peace
if he liked, and she would just sit there, feeling him, listening to him.
“I reckon those pigeons are the reason I've never settled down with a woman.”
Carlene sat up, forcing him to let her go. “What's that, now?” Was this just the famous Irish blarney, or was he going to turn out to have some kind of a fowl fetish? Oh why couldn't she just fall for the nice, normal guy for once in her life? She'd never heard of a fowl fetish, a penchant for pigeons, but you just couldn't count on anything these days.
“Pigeons are loyal,” Ronan explained. “Once they're trained that this is home, they'll do anything to get back to it. A fella I knew once gave me one of his racing pigeons when he moved away. The loft wasn't even there anymore, just one stump where it used to be. Every day that pigeon would fly back to it and just keep sitting on that stump, waiting for his original owner to come home.”
“That's so sad,” Carlene said.
“Every day I'd ride my bike over there and scoop him off the stump, tuck him inside my jacket, and ride back here with him. And every day, he'd go back. Pigeons will fight anything to find their way home. They'll battle storms, hunger, sickness, predators, fear, and still keep flying toward home. I once had a pigeon who was shot at, and he still made it back.”
“You are depressing the fuck out of me,” Carlene said. Ronan laughed and wrapped his arms around her again.
“That's not depressing,” he said. “It's loyalty. It's love.”
“So you're saying you haven't settled down because you haven't met a woman who's proved her loyalty by getting shot at, starved, or battling predators to make her way back to you?”
“I'm saying when someone loves you—really loves you—there's this invisible line connecting them to you. You think of each other as home base. And nothing in this world could keep you apart. You're never afraid to let her go, because you know she'll do whatever it takes to come back.”
Carlene was silent for a moment. “Who was she?”
“Who was who?” His voice was deeper now, edgier.
“The woman who left you,” Carlene said softly. Ronan tensed behind her. He tightened his grip.
“On three,” he said. It sounded like, “On tree.” She wanted to make a joke about it, but she'd already ruined the mood. He started to count, and then he pulled. Finally, Carlene's leg came up out of the mud. Unfortunately, her new boot did not.
C
HAPTER
17
Empty Kegs and Vampires
The next morning, Carlene awoke to a loud clanging noise. It sounded as if it was just outside the house. Was something happening in the shed where the beer kegs were kept? Carlene sat bolt upright in bed. Was it Wednesday? She'd barely slept two hours. Last night, after Ronan rescued her from the mud, she found Ciaran, Anchor, Danny, Eoin, Billy, and Riley circling her back door like stray cats. They just wanted a game of cards and a quiet drink. Couldn't she just let them in? She'd stayed open until four
A.M.
It couldn't be much more than six
A.M
. now. Was the beer man just delivering the kegs, or was she supposed to do something, sign something? She pulled on her jeans, which were lying on the floor beside her bed. Her clothes were always neatly folded and pressed at home. Here, she was still living out of a suitcase, and she loved it. There was nothing like simplifying your life. She pulled on a sweatshirt, slipped on her flip-flops, and went out to the shed. On the ground, in front of the shed, she saw circular impressions, like mini-spaceships, indented in the grass. Keg footprints. No, no, no. She counted six of them. The deliveryman had been here all right, and someone had stolen her kegs. Maybe there was some explanation. Maybe someone had already set them up for her.
She opened the shed. The old kegs were still there. Crossing her fingers anyway, she went over and tipped one. Light as a feather. Even though she knew the outcome, she took a turn tipping each one. They were all empty. And since there was nothing else to do, she went back to the first keg and kicked it. A hollow sound rang out. Even empty, it hurt her foot. Still, pain was better than festering frustration, so she went ahead and kicked every single one of them. Oh, if her regulars could see her now.
She completely forgot that she was supposed to have carried the empty kegs out to the front of the road for the delivery guy to pick up. He was supposed to remove them and leave the full kegs in their place. She was supposed to find someone to help her roll the kegs to the shed. Why didn't someone remind her? And what exactly happened?
It was too early to play detective. However, a few things were apparent. The beer man had indeed arrived at some ungodly hour. Instead of leaving the full kegs by the side of the road, did he roll them down to the shed for her? Doubtful. Otherwise, wouldn't he have checked inside the shed and taken away the empty ones? Good Samaritans usually go all the way, don't they?
So she was dealing with three factors. Beer man arrives, and finding no empty kegs, dumps the full ones out by the side of the road.
Good Samaritan rolls all six kegs down to the front of her shed.
Bad Samaritan comes along and steals her kegs. Unbelievable. Who was involved? Ronan? Joe? The evil twins? Little boys playing pranks? Alcoholic cows?
It didn't matter, she had to fix this. Why couldn't she just have one morning where she woke up, drank coffee in her underwear, and read the newspaper? Was that really too much to ask?
She called the beer man to see if he would take sympathy on her, redeliver the next morning.
“Sympathy,” he said, “comes between ‘shit' and ‘syphilis' in the dictionary.” She would have to wait a full week before he could deliver again.
 
Carlene's regulars would have to survive a whole week without beer on tap. As a consolation prize, she offered the lads twofor-one bottles of beer. Riley, however, wouldn't switch. Instead, she had to lure him with whiskey, generous shots of Jameson that he drank in quick gulps.
“Big daddy,” he said as he shuffled to the bathroom. “You're the baddest motherfucker in this bog.”
Her regulars. Ciaran, Danny, Anchor, Eoin, Collin, Riley, and Billy. Billy was thrilled the tree was still there and was back to practicing his log roll. Anchor was by the jukebox, playing every heavy-metal song he could find. Carlene didn't understand how loud screaming could be considered music, but the lads loved it. They banged their heads and played air guitar, and even if she did have a splitting headache by the end of the day, the customers were always right. Today Collin's T-shirt read: I
CAN ONLY PLEASE ONE PERSON A DAY
. T
ODAY IS NOT YOUR DAY
. T
OMORROW DOESN'T LOOK GOOD EITHER
.
Carlene tried to balance looking busy behind the bar with socializing with the customers. She was starting to get a feel for when they were talking to each other versus when they were including her in the conversation. At the moment, Eoin was treating her to a long list of platitudes, and she was happy to lean on the bar and listen. “There's only two things you really need in life,” Eoin said. “A good pair of work boots, and a good mattress. Because if you're not in one, you're in the other.” Carlene smiled and nodded, even though she owned neither a good pair of work boots nor a good mattress.
Gradually, she was learning something about each and every one of them. Collin was studying at the University of Galway. Danny was a farmer and aspiring songwriter who still lived with his mother. Eoin and Ciaran were married with kids. Anchor was Ronan's best friend. Billy was afraid of dogs. Carlene was also getting used to their drink orders and arrival times, and so she started to make a game out of having their drinks ready so that by the time their butts hit the stools, she was already sliding the first of many over to them.
Conversational patterns were also becoming predictable. It often started out slow. A simple, How ya, What's the craic, What's the story, Damn all, damn all. Then it would shift to a few comments about the weather. If it wasn't raining, it was a grand fresh day; if it was raining, Ah, 'tis miserable, sure.
When the conversation switched to sports, Carlene had to flee. She had no idea who the players or teams were, or what sport they were even on about. There were too many to keep track. Hurling, and rugby, and Gaelic football, and road bowling, and football—which was American soccer—and sometimes American football, and whatever it was, they analyzed it in great detail and with even greater passion. Once, when Carlene made the mistake of casually asking a question during one of their sports discussions, Eoin immediately whipped coasters, straws, glasses, and salt shakers from the bar and set up an elaborate demonstration, after which a wall of expectant faces stared at her until she gave a hearty reaction. She made the appropriate noises and exclamations, but all Carlene really learned was that the salt jumped over the coaster and headbutted the pepper before knocking down the red straws. She never asked for clarification again, although she knew if one of the lads was in a particularly sour mood, more often than not it had to do with one of his teams losing.
Carlene would listen carefully when they started in on local politics, trying to soak up as much as she could about the way things worked in Ballybeog. She was a little more lost when it came to Irish politics, and the scapegoat whenever they discussed the United States. They asked her so many questions about President Obama, it was as if they regarded her as his long-lost cousin.
Geography was another favorite topic, especially for Anchor. He would spit out trivia questions about this or that island, river, country, or capital, and Carlene would scurry away as fast as she could, busy herself in absolutely anything else so they couldn't accuse her of being one of those Americans who couldn't find the Middle East on a map. She made a mental note to start studying maps.
Danny loved to talk about music, and songs, and celebrities. They all liked to flirt with Carlene and fired numerous questions at her about her life, as if she was a puzzle they were trying to put together piece by piece. She often side-stepped these questions as well, it was best to keep any possible rumors at bay.
It wasn't until after the first few weeks of getting to know her regulars, that really personal information started to leak out of them. Ciaran was the first to start an all-out confession, and Carlene was thrilled to try out the psychologist role of bartender. He was in a mood, drinking twice as fast, and it had something to do with his wife, or “herself” as he referred to her. Carlene prodded him and plied him with drinks until he finally started to talk.
“For fuck's sake,” Ciaran said. “It's herself. She's reading about some vampire. Everything is ‘Edward this' and ‘Edward that' and ‘He's so passionate' and ‘He's all over her like,' and whenever this chick in the book needs him he's like, ‘there in a flash.' ” Ciaran stopped and sipped from his bottle. The other lads were listening too, even though some of them were staring elsewhere, as if lost in their own thoughts. Carlene was dying to say something, but she held back, and sure enough, Ciaran kept talking.
“And he's beautiful, and his fecking eyes change color or some shite, and I'm some unromantic bollix who can't measure up to a fecking vampire.” A few of the lads nodded in agreement. Riley scratched his chin and frowned. “I mean, what's so romantic about sucking on someone's neck?” Ciaran said. There were a few chortles, which Ciaran cut down with a look. “Feasting on their blood, for fuck's sakes.”
“I once cut off a chicken's head in front of a bird and she didn't speak to me for an entire week,” Danny said. Ciaran kept talking as if Danny hadn't spoken.
“And I donated last year when that fucking blood drive van came around, and do ye think she appreciated that? No. I didn't even get a fucking cookie. Just orange juice that tasted like shite. Throw me out a couple of bottles, will ye, Yankee Doodle?”
“Before he bites you on the neck,” Anchor said.
“I read that book,” Carlene said. She popped the top of a bottle of Budweiser and slid it to Ciaran. She took his empty bottle and threw it in the recycling bin.
“Oh, that's just fecking great,” Ciaran said.
“It's not the bloodsucking that's romantic,” Carlene said. “It's the thought of a man giving you undivided attention.”
“You've got my undivided attention, luv,” Eoin said. He held up his half-full beer.
“I can only imagine what would happen to that attention if I ran out of beer,” Carlene said, serving him another, even though he wasn't finished with the one in front of him. Eoin threw his hands over his ears. Ciaran leaned over and put his hands over Eoin's eyes. Danny flew over an empty stool to slap his hands over Eoin's mouth. Eoin pushed them all off, and they laughed.
“Did ye cop on?” Eoin asked.
“Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil,” Carlene said.
“She's not as dumb as she looks,” Riley said.
“Not the dullest knife in the drawer,” Ciaran said.
“Not the dimmest bulb in the bunch,” Anchor said.
“Just a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal,” Carlene said. They just stared at her. “Never mind.”
“Any time I try to pay her undivided attention, she just rolls over,” Ciaran said.
“That can be good too,” Eoin said. “Back-door loving.”
“Watch it,” Ciaran said. “That's my wife you're talking about.” Anchor shouted at her to turn the music up. His head was bobbing up and down so fast she was afraid it was going to fly off.
“I can do that?” she asked. “How do I do that?”
“While you're at it, would you dim the lights too? I don't really want to see what these wankers look like,” Eoin said. They showed her how to turn up the music, a small dial set into the back of the bar, and another one to control the lights. Carlene didn't know she had so much control. Every discovery was delicious, like finding you had additional rooms in your house you didn't even know about. Although she still didn't like heavy-metal music, and every time she inched the volume up a notch, Anchor jerked his thumb in the air. Louder, louder.
So much for the live bands she pictured playing traditional Irish music. She was going to have to ask around and find local musicians to come and play. Anchor sang at the top of his lungs. She couldn't understand how he could understand the words. She turned back to Ciaran.
“I wasn't just talking about attention in the bedroom,” she said. “I'm talking about showing a passion for her life, her dreams, her wishes. I'm talking about physically missing the scent of him when he's away.”
Collin jerked his head up. “Him?” he said.
“Yeah,” Eoin said. “Whose smell are you on about?” He leaned over and sniffed Collin on his right, then Ciaran on his left. They all laughed. Carlene hoped her face wasn't as flushed as it felt.
“Her,” she said quickly. She'd been thinking about Ronan, the scent of him. Suddenly, she hated him, hated him for always smelling so good. Why else would you wear such nice cologne unless you were trying to torture someone?
“You have to love her fucking chairs,” Danny said. Everyone just looked at him.
“Premonition?”
he said. “John Travolta? Gets struck by lightning and gets all psychic, like, and falls in love with this woman who makes chairs, you know what I mean?”
“No,” Anchor said. “We haven't a fucking clue.”

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