by Leslie Meier
Lucy refused to be distracted and stuck to the issue. “I’ll be happy to present a request for the guidelines to the board. When do they meet?”
The sheriff clucked his tongue. “Now isn’t that too sad. They just met yesterday to finalize the parade, and they won’t meet again until April.”
That was interesting, thought Lucy, picking up on the sheriff’s admission that the board had met yesterday. “I understand the board reached out to some groups yesterday in a last-minute effort to recruit more marchers. Why couldn’t they include Rosie Capshaw’s puppets?”
“Ah, Lucy, it’s not as simple as it seems. Those groups had submitted applications in the past, and the board was merely following up to see if they had forgotten to file new paperwork but were intending to march, that’s all.”
“But you must admit the Hibernian Knights have been known to exclude some groups in the past, including Vietnam vets, gays, and nonwhites.”
“Ah, we mustn’t rake up old grievances. There’s no point, now, is there? The Hibernian Knights believe the parade should represent the entire Irish community, and the board recently voted to approve a policy that states exactly that. I believe we sent a press release containing the new policy last month.”
“I remember,” admitted Lucy. “So the only reason Rosie Capshaw’s puppets won’t be seen in the parade is because she didn’t file her application in a timely manner?”
“Absolutely. You have my word on it.”
“Okay. And thanks for your time,” said Lucy, wrapping up.
“I’ve got all the time in the world for you, Lucy,” he replied, ending the call.
Lucy immediately got to work and started pounding away on the keyboard, adding this latest development to the feature story she’d written previously. She included the sheriff’s statement that Rosie Capshaw had applied after the deadline, as well as the Hibernian Knight’s newly instated policy of inclusion, but also recapped past incidents in which groups deemed undesirable by the board had not been allowed to march.
She sent the revised story to Ted’s file for editing, but only after saving it in her own folder, just in case. Realizing it was nearly five, she shut down her computer and gathered up her things, intending to stop at the IGA on her way home to pick up a few things for dinner. She was cruising the aisles, searching for the walnut oil a new recipe for salad dressing required, and failing to find it with the regular oils or in the gourmet aisle. She was headed for the health-food section when her phone buzzed and she saw a text from Ted, informing her that he had posted the Rosie Capshaw story on the brand-new online edition of The Courier, which was the name he’d chosen for the combined Pennysaver and Gilead Gabber. The print editions would retain their own mastheads, for the time being, although the content would be shared.
She knew that Ted had long been frustrated by the limitations inherent in publishing a weekly paper and had wanted to give readers an online option with more up-to-date news. She agreed that it was frustrating when a big story broke on Friday, the day after the Pennysaver came out, which meant they would be giving readers old news in the next issue. And she couldn’t help feeling a little bit proud that her story had been chosen for the very first posting in the online edition. Unfortunately, she found the walnut oil and discovered that a very small bottle cost $12.99, and even though she was working harder, she wasn’t seeing any increase in her paycheck. She’d have to make that salad dressing with plain old canola oil.
Much to her relief, the salad got rave reviews at the Saturday night potluck at the Community Church, and so did her story about Rosie Capshaw. Everybody there seemed to have read the “Breaking News from The Courier” post, which popped up on screens throughout the county. Initially sent only to subscribers who had provided contact info, the story went viral as readers forwarded it to their friends and neighbors.
“So the Hibernians are up to their old tricks,” observed Reverend Marge, helping herself to a second serving of mac and cheese, which Lucy couldn’t help thinking she didn’t really need as her backward collar was growing a bit tight. “You just have to wonder what they’re so afraid of.”
“Losing control, I suppose,” said Rachel, who had chosen her own quinoa casserole. “They seem to have to say no every once in a while, just because they can.”
“Like two-year-olds,” added Sue, drawing on her experience as a preschool teacher, now retired. Her plate contained nothing but salad, and Lucy doubted she’d actually eat it.
“Well, good for you, Lucy, for a neat bit of investigative reporting,” said Bob Goodman, Rachel’s husband. “And what an honor that your story was the first on Ted’s new online Courier.” Bob’s plate was overloaded; he probably hadn’t had time for lunch and was making up for it.
“Gee, thanks,” she said, blushing. “I am kind of pumped about it.”
“Well, you should be,” he insisted, heading for a table. “It’s something to crow about.”
Or not, thought Lucy, thinking it would be wise to maintain a low profile at work. She suspected Rob would interpret any success by her as a personal slight, and she figured he would do whatever he could to tear her down in order to preserve his sense of superiority.
He was already on the attack when she arrived at the office on Monday, complaining to Ted that she had poached on his assignment, which was to interview the grand-marshal candidates. “I didn’t want the stupid parade story in the first place, but you insisted,” he said, facing off with Ted in front of the coffeepot. “All Lucy was supposed to do was write a cute little feature, which I gave her, about Rosie Capshaw. And now she’s turned it into a big story, which should be mine. She stole it . . . it’s unethical . . . it’s unsporting.”
“I was only . . .” began Lucy, attempting to defend herself when she was interrupted by Ted.
“It’s a heck of a good story,” said Ted, calmly spooning sugar into his coffee mug. “That’s what a good reporter does, follows the story where it leads.”
Lucy hung her jacket on the rack and went to her desk, where she powered up her computer and waited for Rob’s retort.
“Well,” he sniffed, “as far as I’m concerned, she can follow it from now on. She can write all she wants about the parade and the stupid grand-marshal thing. She can have it all.”
Lucy didn’t like the sound of this, which meant adding three interviews to an already full schedule, and she was quick to protest. “Don’t forget I’ve got the selectmen this week, and the elementary school’s Valentines for Vets is this afternoon.”
Ted nodded, added some powdered coffee creamer, and resumed stirring. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t follow up on Lucy’s story by questioning the grand-marshal candidates about the decision to block the puppets. That would have added a new dimension to your story, which I’m still waiting to see.”
“Are you insulting my work?” demanded Rob, bristling with anger and bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“What about the interviews?” asked Ted, taking a sip of coffee. “Have you started?”
“I’ll get to them.” Rob was defensive. “I’ve been doing background research . . .”
Ted was incredulous. “What’s the problem? I thought you were a gung-ho sort of guy, eager to show us how to improve our local news coverage.”
“I am. That’s why I’m here. But this sort of little popularity contest isn’t newsworthy.”
“I think you’re mistaken, considering the response we’ve gotten from the online posting. I can fill the ‘Letters to the Editor’ page with that topic alone. Everybody seems to have an opinion.” Ted went over to his desk and set his coffee down. “I think you’re right, though . . .”
“What?” protested Lucy.
“Lucy should take over covering all aspects of the parade, including the grand-marshal candidates.”
Before she could say a word, Rob jumped in. “And I‘ll start working on the lack of candidates for local positions. I see it as a series of stories, a real investigat
ive report.”
“Uh, no. You’ll cover the selectmen’s meeting.” Ted sat down at his desk, his back to Rob. “Nothing says local like a selectmen’s meeting, and don’t forget the Valentines for Vets at the elementary school. Take plenty of pics. Readers love cute photos of kids.”
“It’s a big deal; the kids take it quite seriously,” said Lucy, trying not to smirk.
Rob didn’t reply but grabbed his jacket and briefcase and marched out the door, letting it slam. The little bell jangled behind him. “I don’t think that boy understands local news,” Phyllis said, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “I hope he doesn’t stumble into something he shouldn’t and find himself in a whole mess of trouble.”
Chapter Six
Lucy didn’t reply. She figured the sooner Rob decided to go back to the big city, the happier she’d be. Right now, she had to get started on her interviews of the candidates and decided to call Eileen Clancy first, aware that the dance teacher would no doubt be busy with classes when school got out later in the day. She was correct, it turned out, as Eileen was quick to agree to an interview, saying, “I’m just here in the office catching up on my paperwork.”
When Lucy arrived at the dancing school, Eileen gave her a big welcome. She was a trim woman in her late fifties, with a blazing head of red hair, and carried herself with a dancer’s poise. Dressed for work, she was wearing tights and a leotard, with a wrap skirt, along with a comfy-looking pair of well-worn fuzzy slippers. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, leading the way through the lobby into a tiny office. “I usually have one about now.”
Following her, Lucy noticed the dozens of photos on the foyer walls, all picturing posed groups of step-dancers, ranging in age from toddlers to high schoolers, in their heavily embroidered, stiff costumes. “Thanks, that would be lovely,” said Lucy.
There were more photos in the office, along with a large desk covered with an untidy mass of papers, a couple of potted shamrock plants, and numerous figurines of leprechauns. “All gifts from my students,” said Eileen, setting down a couple of mugs bedecked with shamrocks. “Do you take milk or sugar?”
“No, thanks,” said Lucy, flipping open her reporter’s notebook. “I’m a simple girl with simple tastes.”
“I find a little sugar picks me up,” admitted Eileen, stirring her mug. “I suppose you’re here to ask about my nomination for grand marshal of the parade, right?”
“Right you are,” agreed Lucy, taking a cautious sip of the hot tea. “So why do you think you should be grand marshal? Do you think you have a chance?”
“I think I have a very good chance of being chosen,” said Eileen. “For one thing, they’ve never had a woman, and I think the Hibernian Knights are becoming a bit more open-minded and realizing they have to change with the times. I also think they want the parade to accurately reflect Irish-American culture, and step-dancing is a big part of that tradition.”
“As I understand it,” began Lucy, “step-dancing is much more popular here than it is in Ireland. Is that true?”
“Perhaps,” replied Eileen, with a shrug. “I have taken my students to Ireland to participate in contests there, and they’ve done very well against some very stiff competition. I think the dancing is a treasured part of Irish culture on both sides of the Atlantic. You know why the dancers must hold their torsos so rigidly, don’t you?”
“Actually, no,” said Lucy.
“So it wouldn’t seem as if they were dancing, which was not approved by the church, you see. It’s actually derived from Spanish flamenco dancing, but without the sinuous upper action.”
“Made it G-rated,” said Lucy.
“Exactly,” agreed Eileen, with a big smile.
Lucy was thoughtful for a moment, considering her next question. “So how exactly would you define Irish-American culture? What makes it unique in our multicultural society?”
“I’m glad you asked, because I’ve been thinking about that and doing a bit of research to prepare my presentation to the Hibernian Knights’ board of directors. This is what I told them: there are three qualifiers. First off, Irish-Americans must have Irish ancestry; that’s a given.”
“So you don’t believe those ‘Everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day’ buttons?”
“Well,” admitted Eileen, “an awful lot of Irish emigrated to America, and they didn’t use birth control, so there certainly are a lot of us, and I recently saw a statistic that about half of those DNA genealogy tests reveal some Irish ancestry.”
“So half of us are Irish?”
“Have Irish genes, I guess, but it takes more than a few genes, or a grandma from Limerick. A true Irish-American is a practicing member of the Roman Catholic Church and is militantly pro-life. We’re very strong on that; we believe that life is a precious gift from God, and only He can give it or take it away.”
Lucy took a rather long drink of her tea and swallowed slowly. “But nowadays a lot of American Catholics practice birth control. Does that make them not Irish-American?”
“Cafeteria Catholics,” snorted Eileen. “I don’t believe you can pick and choose what tenets of the faith you want to practice. It’s all or nothing for me, but I’m not one to judge what others do in the privacy of their homes.”
Lucy was curious, wondering about Eileen’s life experience. “Are you married, and do you have children yourself?”
“Alas, no. I was not given that gift. Poor Mr. Clancy died shortly after our wedding; he was a roofer and had a terrible fall that broke his neck.” She shook her head sadly. “No one compared to him, so I never remarried.” She paused. “Of course, I have all these lovely little dance students. I really think of the little darlings as my own.”
“So, no matter whether or not you are grand marshal, you will have a big presence in the parade. How many of your students will be marching?”
“Oh, every one, and I’ve got a hundred and forty-odd kids.” She chuckled. “A big family.”
“Very big,” said Lucy, with a laugh. “Good thing you don’t have to feed them, or buy them shoes.”
“Indeed.” Eileen smiled. “So will you be watching the parade?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Lucy. “I wonder if you saw my story about Rosie Capshaw and her puppets. She wanted to have them in the parade, but the Hibernians denied her application. Do you have a comment?”
Eileen looked a bit confused. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard about it. Is this Rosie Irish?”
“I didn’t think to ask,” admitted Lucy. “She does have puppets of Irish characters, though. Fabulous, giant figures of St. Patrick and Mother Jones, banshees, leprechauns. They’re pretty impressive, but the board said she didn’t apply in time, and so they can’t be in the parade.”
“Well, the Hibernians have their rules,” said Eileen, cautiously, “but I really don’t want to go on the record without knowing more about it.”
“That’s entirely understandable,” said Lucy, crossing out part of her notes. “Sometimes it’s best not to say anything.”
Eileen looked at her appraisingly. “And are you perchance Irish yourself. You’ve a bit of the green in your eyes, I see.”
“Not that I know,” admitted Lucy, closing her notebook and standing up. “But those DNA tests do come up with some surprising results.”
“No, no way.” Eileen clucked disapprovingly. “If you’re Irish, you’d know it. If you don’t know for sure, you’re surely not Irish.”
Lucy was slightly taken aback, but smiled graciously. “Thanks for the tea and the chat,” she said. “And good luck with the Hibernians. If you ask me, it’s high time they chose a woman for grand marshal.”
“We’ll see,” said Eileen, with a dismissive shrug, escorting Lucy to the door. “You know I was the Rose of Tralee, back in 1990, so I know a bit about representing the Irish community.”
Lucy paused. “Rose of Tralee? Is that a beauty pageant?”
“No, not a competition at all. It’s a gathering
of young women from all over the world, all of Irish descent, in the little Irish town of Tralee. It’s a kind of homecoming. We share our stories and perform a party piece, a song or a poem, some little bit of entertainment, and one rose is chosen to represent the far-flung Irish community. Do you know that only five percent of Irish people actually live in Ireland? The rest are scattered over the globe.”
“I had no idea,” said Lucy.
“Though I think they went a bit too far with that rose whose father was Zambian,” sniffed Eileen, lowering her voice as she continued. “That’s in Africa, you know.”
Lucy was thoughtful, thinking. “Would you have a photo of yourself as the Rose of Tralee?” she asked.
Eileen pointed to a large framed photo, hanging by itself between two windows, that Lucy somehow hadn’t noticed. It showed a young Eileen in a green chiffon evening gown, smiling broadly as a tiara was placed on her head. “Winning isn’t the point,” she said, taking the photo down and handing it to Lucy. “The prize is being part of the festival.” She paused. “It’s a bit sad, really, that we all had to leave Ireland. But no matter where we are, we’re all still Irish.”
“Well, thanks for your time. I’ll make sure you get the photo back.”
“No problem. It might turn the tide in my favor.” She opened the door for Lucy. “Have a nice day, now.”
* * *
Back in the car, Lucy called James Ryan, one of the other grand-marshal candidates, catching him in his office at the bank. He was free at the moment and invited her to come right over, explaining that he was due at a Rotary Club lunch at twelve.
Lucy made it to the bank in ten minutes and was immediately shown into Ryan’s office, which was tucked away through a door behind the teller’s counter and down a short, carpeted hall. The office occupied a corner of the building, with windows on two sides, and was well-appointed with tasteful draperies, wallpaper, and plush carpet. Ryan himself was seated at a huge mahogany desk, but he stood up when Lucy was announced.
