I couldn’t pretend slavery didn’t count for anything, which meant I couldn’t equate the Confederacy with Sinn Fein or 1916 as a way for us to get jolly and pally. I wanted the dog back, but not on those terms. Roddy Doyle had already pegged us as the blacks of Europe, and I wasn’t in the humor to hear how we were somehow also the rednecks of Europe. But hard as it was not to say anything, I wasn’t going to argue with somebody like this. We’d be at it for hours, and for no reason but to argue. I would let him talk himself out, then have him take me to Cody. “So the battle was an accident?” I asked quickly.
“Right,” said Alex, apparently failing to notice I hadn’t answered him. “Lee didn’t have maps of the area, and got entangled in the battle accidentally and that kind of caused the destruction of his army. But the historical thought is that had Stonewall Jackson been there, then the battle wouldn’t have happened as it did, and the South would have won the war.”
I said nothing. I sensed we were nearing the end of this.
“Now, if that had happened,” he continued, “in my humble opinion, it means that we would have had one country that was the northeastern states, another that was the southeastern states, and then a whole bunch of territories out in the West, that would have eventually formed their own country. We might have evolved like Europe, with smaller countries having wars every five years, for hundreds of years, until we came together and made a permanent peace treaty, just like in Europe.”
That wasn’t exactly how I remembered things from my history classes, but I wasn’t going to argue, because that would lead to more shite talk and all I wanted was to get through this part and then get the dog back.
“So in the larger picture,” he continued, “it’s good that the North did win the war—not because their way was better, just because the long-term, big-picture alternative would have made us more like Europe, and that would suck, don’t you think?”
Not that I’m a big defender of the EU or anything, but maybe he had already forgotten I was Irish? Or maybe he thought Ireland didn’t count as part of Europe? No matter, I continued to strategically keep my mouth shut.
“That said,” he continued ruefully, “the period of Reconstruction was very painful for the South. So. As I said. Was the Civil War about slavery? No. But at the end of the day, the winners write the history books.” He reached for the moonshine and took another large swig.
Then he gave me a meaningful look, and pushed it across the table toward me.
I stared at it. This would be like bungee jumping without the bungee cord. I drew a breath to prepare myself. It’s okay, I thought, it’s for a very good cause. I sipped a little bit—it went down smooth as apple cider, and oh, did I feel those wee alcohol molecules right off. Alex grinned at me.
I took a breath, brought the jar to my lips again, tipped my head back, and swallowed.
It burned like a flame all the way down into my gut. It was almost a religious experience.
“Wow,” I coughed, coming up for air.
“Yes, sir,” said Alex. He looked more pleased with me than he had since he’d started monologuing. “That’s the real deal. Didn’t know if you could handle it. Glad to see you can.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Because at first you said you didn’t drink at all, so it’s interesting to me that you crumbled under peer pressure and just downed it like that. I can’t help but wonder what that says about your moral strength.”
Taken aback, I felt my mouth drop open, and I deliberately closed it. “Seemed impolite to refuse a local custom,” I said, scrambling, praying my smile did not look like I was sucking up to him.
He mulled over this a moment, and then nodded. “Fair enough. Especially given, no offense here, you seem to be the ingratiating type.”
I felt myself redden. “Do I?” I said. If my mates could hear anyone ever say that about me! Rory O’Connor, ingratiating? Charming and persuasive, but ingratiating? Desperate times called for desperate measures, but still that was an insult. I couldn’t believe I had to sit here and take all this bollocks all for the sake of a dog.
“I’ve been saying some things that don’t go over well with most Yanks,” Alex was continuing. “I’ve been saying them deliberately. You can argue with me if you want to, y’know.”
Did he really think I’d fall for that? Alienate him when I needed his help? Anyhow, what’s the point of arguing with somebody so married to his own opinion? Maybe if we had nothing else to do for the evening, but I wanted to get to Step Two: Dog Retrieval. “I’m not a Yank,” I said, and gave him a friendly smile. “I have no argument.”
He grimaced. “Well, that’s disappointing, I have to tell you. You probably think I was just running my mouth off—”
“Oh, no,” I said. He ignored me.
“But I told you that this evening was about sussing you out, and that’s what I’ve been doing, and I hate to report it, sir, but I’m not finding much to suss. You’re giving me nothing. You’re opaque.”
“Opaque.”
“Yes, sir. I trust transparency a lot more. See, that’s what I always liked about Jonathan. He thought my ideas were all wrong, but he liked me for stating them honestly. We’d have some truly awesome debates. We’d get drunk and shout at each other. Don’t know that we ever changed each other’s mind about anything, but we got the honest measure of each other, and I respect that in a man.” He gave me a searching look, a challenging look, a you-are-such-a-loser-Rory look. “Can you respect that in a man?”
Oh, fuck me. I’d gotten it exactly backward. And I would never be able to simply outdrink him to make up for it. I was screwed. I felt like a character stuck in a Beckett play. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Well, at least I was getting that right.
That moonshine, man. What a lovely buzz. It felt so fucking good, and I suspected now that I would not be feeling good again for a while. Possibly ever.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Rory?” Alex said, perfectly friendly, like a coach explaining why he had to bench me.
“You’re saying you find Jay to be a fine upstanding gentleman and I am full of shite.”
“Well, sir, that’s awfully harsh if by ‘shite’ you mean ‘shit.’ Jonathan’s not exactly upstanding, but at least I know what he’s made of. He’s passionate; he genuinely believes Sara did him wrong and he’s just getting his own back. Whether I agree or not isn’t the point—the point is I know his position. I’m not saying you’re a bad man, don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying I don’t know that you’re a good man because frankly, sir, I’m not seeing any evidence that you’re a man at all.”
“I drank the moonshine,” I said bitterly, almost under my breath.
“Even ladies drink moonshine,” he said, light as a breeze. “Unless they declare themselves nondrinkers. In which case they don’t drink anything. Which I respect, because they’re sticking to their principles. You didn’t do that here.”
I was almost in tears from the pressure of keeping my cool while feeling the heat of the drink in me. “Are you saying I’ve flopped? Is that the bottom line? Are you telling me I’ve failed and you’re not going to help me get the dog back?” This last sentence came out furious staccato, like a machine gun.
“I was never going to help you get the dog back,” said Alex, as if this should somehow be comforting. “I was going to decide if you deserved a shot at helping yourself to get the dog back.”
“And you’re saying I don’t,” I said, still staccato because I was so close to losing the plot. “You’re saying: fuck you, Rory, and to hell with Cousin Sara. Jay keeps the dog, end of story, because I like how he behaves when we get drunk together.”
He gave me a surprised look. Remarkably, that might have been the first time I’d cursed in front of him. It helped!
“Well, I’m not passing definitive judgment yet,” he said. “But I have my doubts.”
I took a deep breath and released it as slowly as I could—which wasn’t slowly at
all—trying to calm myself. “I have to get the dog back,” I said, trying to sound calm.
“Or else you lose your green card,” Alex said, with a sympathetic nod. “I figure that’s what this is really about, you have to get her dog back or you lose your work permit.”
“It’s not that simple!” I snapped, and then pursed my lips hard to keep them from trembling.
Alex shrugged comfortably. “Seems pretty simple to me. Sara would help out anyone, she’s a bleeding-heart liberal to beat the band, but the one thing that would piss her off is losing her dog. It’s real clear: you get her dog back to her or she goes to the feds and rescinds the green card and your ass gets deported. I get it. How well do you two even know each other, really?”
I stared at him, so enraged I didn’t trust myself to speak without murdering him. “We’re married,” I said.
“For a green card,” he reminded me, as if it were a private joke between us.
“We’re in love,” I said, feeling the tendons in my neck standing out about a foot.
He shrugged. “If you say so, brother. I can’t vouch for that ’cuz you’re giving me nothing here. I’ve given you about seventeen chances to show me you have some passion or personality, and from what I can tell, you don’t!” He laughed in a no-harm-done sort of way. “You’re probably a lovely guy back home, but I don’t know you from shinola.”
I could feel tears of rage and despair clinging to the roots of my eyelids. I was shaking—could actually see my own body shaking, as if I were something separate and apart from it. Impulsively, I grabbed the moonshine and took another mouthful. I wanted to fall into that fucking jar. “This is like lemonade compared to the poitín my uncles used to make back home,” I said, which was childish, I admit, but felt good anyhow. I wanted to pay him back for all the insults.
“Good to know,” said Alex. “I’d love to go to Ireland sometime and maybe I can look ’em up and drink with them. Or with you, since you’re likely to find yourself back there. Perfectly happy to get to actually know you, sometime when you’re up for showing me what you’re made of.”
“You’ve got me wrong,” I said, and rubbed my hands over my face. How lovely it would be if I could just pull the skin off and then reattach it to be somebody else.
“Whatever you say,” he said sympathetically.
I looked morosely around the room. I was half locked already and there was no reason not to just fall all the way—at least I could escape myself for a couple hours. Nothing to lose now. I’d failed to demonstrate character. How fucking ironic for an actor—failing to show character! The room was starting to spin a little, pleasantly, and the buzz of the refrigerator and overhead lights was muffled by a more internal buzz. In the corner, by the hallway leading to the back rooms, were two objects I somehow didn’t notice before: a banjo, leaning against the wall. Beside it, a fiddle case, lying open, with a fiddle right inside it. The only thing that felt familiar in the universe right now.
“You play?” I asked.
“Banjo? Since high school,” he said. “Part of why I wanted to move to North Carolina. Tommy Jarrell country, man.”
“Can I . . .” I was too depressed to even feel I had the right to ask. “I play a little, do you mind—”
He gave me a skeptical look. I realized I had slurred that request into almost a single syllable. I was drunker than I realized—damn, that happened fast. I could tell what he was thinking: Not only a cad, but can’t even hold his liquor.
Alex picked up each dog in turn, and with a kiss on each nose and a brief lisping apology, set them down beside his chair so he could raise his bulk to standing. He crossed to the banjo and grabbed it round its slender neck. The dogs, apparently used to a certain nocturnal banjo-and-moonshine routine, looked at each other in disappointment and then waddled side by side over to a little dog bed beside the door, climbed in, and lay down, pressing up against each other. In unison, they sighed.
Alex sat and reached for a peg to tune the banjo, gently plucking the first string, which made a plunky sound. “I’m in G,” he said. “Or I will be in a moment. I play old time, not bluegrass so much. What’s your pleasure?”
“Actually I meant the fiddle,” I said, trying to make it more than one syllable, which made me sound so drunk I almost started laughing at my own patheticness.
“Fiddle’s new for me,” he said. “Still getting the hang of it.”
“But. I. Play,” I said, carefully. “The. Fiddle. May. I. Play?”
He looked at me a moment and then burst out into one of his alarmingly loud laughs. “Brother, you are wasted,” he said. “You have the tolerance of a squirrel.”
I took a breath, paused, and then willed myself to enunciate. “I’d like to play around with the fiddle.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let me get it for you, I don’t think you can stand up.” He set the banjo on the table, got the fiddle from its case, and offered it to me, with the bow.
“What are we starting with?” he asked, grinning, watching my jerky, uncoordinated moves, amused at the prospect of what a disaster this would be.
“‘Sailor’s Hornpipe’?” (Everyone knows this tune. It’s the most-played hornpipe in history. The moment you hear it, little cartoon sailors start dancing about in your head. Even if you aren’t on moonshine.)
I tightened the bow, wishing I were sober, took my time rosining it and tuning to his middle G. A fiddle in my hands, the roughed-amber texture of the rosin and the pressure of the strings, these were all reassuring, but it was an unfamiliar fiddle and I wouldn’t have a chance to make friends with it. My only choice here was to go for broke. Oh, boy.
“Let me just try a few scales,” I said uncertainly. Starting at high C, I played a very wobbly scale down to middle C, as on-the-edge-of-wrong as a rank beginner. Alex winced, embarrassed for me as I teetered through it. “I suppose I’m pretty drunk,” I said ruefully. He nodded, cringed. Looked appalled. At C, I hesitated, then played D again, a little sharp, then pushed up to E—
—and then flew into “Flight of the Bumblebee” at a nice clip (if you don’t know it, that’s the classical piece made up of chromatic scales played so fast it sounds, well, like a bumblebee. Obviously!). This was my favorite old busking trick. I’m no virtuoso, and I only knew about twenty measures, but I’d spent my otherwise misspent youth practicing them until I could almost literally play them in my sleep—and being a good Irish musician, I could definitely play them drunk. Not with any artistic finesse, Isaac Stern would be spinning in his grave. But it always did the trick. As it did now.
Alex gaped, astounded. I gave him a sweet smile and closed my eyes. After a dozen or so measures—about where Rimsky-Korsakov starts using all those fucking accidentals—Alex absolutely hollered with the laughter, which gave me an excuse to stop playing just as I was running out of notes anyhow. The dogs jumped up and checked in with each other again before looking up at him for directions.
“Sorry?” I said blearily, as if I were too drunk to understand him.
“All righty!” he said, applauding. I took a breath. Maybe this would be okay in the end. “Christ, man, you can do that on moonshine? I gotta keep you around a while.”
“Alas.” I shrugged the same cheerfully complacent shrug he’d been subjecting me to all evening. “I’m already booked.”
He looked at me with the sudden possibility of maybe, just maybe, finding me respectable. “So Sara wasn’t bullshitting me? You do this stuff for real?”
“Well, they gave me a television show,” I said. My God, that quadrant of my life seemed impossibly distant at the moment.
He strummed his fingers across the banjo strings, looking very pleased. “All right, then. Let’s see what happens when Redneck meets Paddy.”
“Mick, if you please,” I said.
“Awesome,” he said. “I’ll take it off you.”
So I started in on “Sailor’s Hornpipe,” decorating it with trills and grace notes. Alex snorted. “That’s
sissy playing,” he said. He joined in, immediately driving the tempo so hard that I stopped decorating it. “That’s better,” he approved. “See, here in America we play it for folks to dance to.”
“Oh, well, now, in Ireland, we play it so it’s good,” I retorted. Again he hollered with approving laughter.
And that was what it took. Now we were mates.
Chapter 21
Two hours and several swigs of moonshine later, we were still playing.
“‘Hop High Ladies’!” Alex suggested.
“Don’t know it,” I said.
He started to play a familiar melody.
“That’s ‘Miss McLeod’s Reel,’” I said scornfully, in a tone I’d never have used earlier. “Learn the fucking name, you ignorant cracker.”
He bellowed a dachshund-alarming laugh. “Brother!” he hollered, and faster we played.
He capo’d up to A for a while, for “Old Mother Flanagan,” “Red-Haired Boy,” and “Old Molly Hare” (which I wanted to play in F, but the bastard was too lazy to retune).
When we were bored with G, we moved to D. Started with “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” one of my favorites. “Boys of Blue Hill,” “Rickett’s Hornpipe,” “St. Anne’s Reel”—it was great crack. It was strange and different playing with an old-time banjo, there was a rough-and-ready, primitive quality to the music, but it was thrilling, with the driving beat to make you want to dance with abandon while you were playing. And, combined with moonshine consumption, it provided an excellent environment in which to breed insults, name-calling, and all kinds of slagging. And Alex was a fantastic musician. Under other circumstances, I’d have played with him until my fingers bled.
But these weren’t other circumstances. It was late—so late it was early, and I’d been up twenty-two hours straight—and I was actually here not to have a bromance-jam with Sara’s cousin, but to get her dog back as quick as possible. I had to get some decent sleep, which hadn’t happened in a couple of days. Alex looked like he could have continued to play without pause for several hours, so I’d have to lull him. You can’t lull much with old-time music.
Stepdog Page 20
