An Irish Christmas

by Melody Carlson

  “It’d probably be quicker,” she said as she handed me a large brass key. “You’re in 302 and I’m in 304. And there are no phones in the rooms.”

  “How about TVs?” I joked. Even our big hotel in Dublin didn’t have televisions in the rooms.

  “I think I’ll put my stuff away, then check out the town,” I told Mom as I unlocked my door. “How about you?”

  “I might take a little walk,” she said. “Maybe mail my postcards. And I’d like to find a bookshop since I finished my paperback.”

  “Want to meet up for dinner?”

  “Yes, that sounds good. How about 6:30 in the lobby downstairs? Maybe one of us will find a promising restaurant by then.”

  I tossed my bags into the room, then closed and locked the door. “See ya,” I called as I headed for the stairway. I wanted to check out that pub, the one with the live music sign. Hopefully I could talk Mom into going there tonight. But, even more than that, I wanted to find someplace with a piano. Maybe there was a music store in town. Or maybe one of the pubs would have a piano. Perhaps I could offer to play for a Guinness. I laughed to myself as I hurried down the street. Or maybe they would offer me a Guinness to quit playing.

  The wet sidewalks were steaming in the afternoon sun, and the temperature felt warmer than it had in days. But it was the air that got my attention. It smelled so fresh and good, breezing in right off the sea, I thought that if a person could bottle this and sell it, they would soon become rich.

  I ducked into the first pub and looked around to see if there was a piano in sight, but no luck. I checked several others, but again no luck. Even the one with the live music sign was pianoless.

  “Whad’ya ’ave?” the man behind the bar asked.

  “A piano?”

  He laughed. “Is that some fancy American drink?”

  I shook my head, then pantomimed playing a piano. “No, I was just looking for a piano that I could practice on. Is there a music store in town?”

  He scratched his head. “Aye, but I don’t tink O’Toole’s got any pianos in his wee store.”

  “How about the pubs?” I persisted. “Do any have pianos?” Now his eyes lit up. “Up at the Anchor Inn is a nice grand piano.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Ya take the beach road an’ ya go on up past the yacht club and a bit beyond there and you’ll see a tall brick building with lots of windows, that be the Anchor Inn. The menu’s a bit pricey, but the food’s good and there’s a nice view up there, if ya go afore dark, that is.”

  I thanked him and started walking toward the sea, figuring that must be the right direction for the beach road. It took about an hour to find the place, but sure enough there was a nice grand piano sitting in the corner of the restaurant. Other than a couple of old guys sitting at the bar on the other side of the room, the place looked pretty deserted.

  “Might I be of some help to ya, laddie?” a middle-aged woman asked. Her curly hair was the exact same color as Bozo the Clown.

  “I was looking for a place where I could practice piano,” I told her.

  She studied me closely. “Ya sound like an American.”

  I nodded, then smiled. “Yes, that’s right. My mother and I came to Ireland for Christmas.”

  She smiled back at me now. “Well, I s’pose ’twouldn’t hurt to let ya play a bit. Since there’s no one much about.” She nodded over her shoulder. “’Ceptin’ for the old lads having their stout, and I doubt they’ll pay you much mind. Just keep it down, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  I waited for her to leave before I slowly approached the piano. I knew that Ireland was a damp climate; hopefully this piano was in tune. I ran my fingers over the smooth wooden surface of the wood, then sat down, almost reverently, on the padded seat. Then, after stretching my fingers a little, I started to play. It felt so good to feel the ivory keys beneath my fingers again. To start with, I played the piece I’d been working on at home, back in the warehouse. Then I did some variations on it, giving it what I liked to think was an Irish flare, and it really seemed to work. I played for about an hour before the orange-haired woman returned. To my surprise, she started to clap when I finished my final song.

  “That was absolutely lovely,” she said. “Ya come on up here and play anytime ya like. Bring your mother too.”

  Now that gave me an idea. “Could I make a reservation for dinner tonight?” I asked eagerly. “For my mother and me?”

  “’Twould be my pleasure,” she said.

  So I gave her my name and told her we’d be there around seven.

  “Jamie Frederick,” she said, sticking out her hand to shake mine. “’Tis a delight to make your acquaintance. And I am Kerry McVee, and ta sole proprietress of the Anchor Inn, left to me by my late husband Bobby, God bless his soul.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. McVee.”

  “Just call me Kerry.” She smiled. “So I’ll be seeing you and your mother at seven then?”

  “And would it be okay if I played the piano tonight? Maybe just a song or two?”

  “Ya can play the whole night long if ya like, laddie. If it were my busy season, I’d even offer to pay ya for your music. Unfortunately, ’tis the slow time o’ year and I’m barely able to make ends meet.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t want to be paid.”Then, excited about my spur-of-the-moment plan, I decided to let her in on it. “You see, my mother doesn’t even know that I can play piano. This will be her first time to hear me.”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  I shook my head. “She knows that I play guitar, but I took up piano a couple of years ago, and I never told her.”

  “Isn’t she in for a lucky surprise.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.”

  “Mum’s the word.” She put a forefinger over her lips and winked. “And I won’t mention it to your mum either.”

  I hoped that would be the case as I retraced my steps back to town, making it to the hotel just as it was getting dusky. I wasn’t sure if Mom was back yet, but just in case she was resting or immersed in a new book, I decided not to disturb her. I wrote a note on the hotel stationery, telling her about the reservations for dinner at the Anchor Inn, then slipped it beneath her door.

  My plan was to play for her, maybe between dinner and dessert, giving us both time to relax and enjoy the evening. And then, after playing, I would lay my cards on the table and tell her the truth about dropping out of college. I knew this would be a tough conversation. And in some ways, I’d just as soon avoid it altogether. But I also knew that music was a huge part of my life, and I didn’t want to hide it any longer. Besides, I had several things working in my favor. First, I would be breaking this news in a public place so that Mom wouldn’t be able to get too angry since she never did like to make a scene; and second, Mom and I had been getting along better than ever these past couple of days and her sympathy levels should be good; and finally, Mom actually liked good music and hopefully she’d be proud of what I’d done and this new direction I’d taken. At least that’s what I hoped. It seemed to make perfect sense.

  Even so, I was incredibly nervous as I waited for Mom to join me in the hotel lobby. I hadn’t been this uptight since Jamie and the Muskrats had made our debut at a high school fall formal back in ’61. I nervously stood near the stairs, pretending to study the small rack of tourism information while I waited. I even stuck one of the fishing excursion pamphlets into my pocket. I’d already asked the desk clerk to call a cab for us since I knew that it would be too far for Mom to walk, plus it was dark out now anyway. He told me there weren’t any cabs in Clifden, but that he could get us a Hackney car. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but if he thought it would do the trick, it was fine by me.

  I’d even dressed carefully, putting on the new tweed jacket that Mom had gotten for me, along with a clean white shirt and a striped tie. I wasn’t too sure about the stripes with the tweed, but I’d only bro
ught along a couple of ties and this one seemed to work the best.

  “Jamie,” Mom said as she emerged from the geriatric elevator. “Don’t you look handsome.”

  I grinned at her. “You look nice too.” Mom had on her blue suit, complete with matching hat and gloves. I think that suit was made by some famous designer with a name like Coco Puffs or something I could never quite remember. But Dad had always liked how it brought out the color of her eyes.

  I held the door for my mom. “I think our Hackney car is out here.”

  “What?” she asked curiously.

  So I explained about the cab situation and where we were going. “This place has an amazing view of the ocean in the daytime, and the lady who runs it is really nice,” I told her as I helped her into the car.

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “Just asked around,” I said casually.

  The wind was picking up a little as we went up the walk toward the restaurant. “I hope our good weather isn’t about to blow away,” Mom said as she kept her round, little blue hat from going airborne. “It was so nice out this afternoon.”

  The Anchor Inn was well lit inside, complete with a crackling fire in the big rock fireplace. I noticed now that there were even sprigs of holly about, hanging over pictures and across the mantel. A nice bit of Christmas cheer, understated but charming. Mom should like that. Also, there were candles lit, one in each windowsill. A nice touch and great atmosphere. And there, just as it had been earlier today, sat the grand piano, the dark wood gleaming as if it had just been polished, almost as if it were waiting for me.

  “Welcome,” Kerry said as I introduced my mother. “I hope you’re enjoying your visit in Ireland.”

  “We’re both falling in love with your beautiful country,” Mom said as Kerry led us to a table not far from the piano. There were a couple of other parties here tonight, but most of the tables were vacant, and I could understand the concerns about lack of business. It was a wonder the place even stayed open.

  Kerry smiled brightly. “That’s what we like to hear from our neighbors across the sea. One day we hope to have a bustling tourist trade here in Ireland.”

  Dinner turned out to be very good, and despite the high prices Mom seemed completely pleased with my choice of restaurants. Our quiet but attentive waiter, Dolan, introduced himself as Kerry’s younger brother. But other than that bit of info and bringing us our food and drinks, he kept to himself.

  “Dessert?” he asked as he cleared our dinner plates.

  “Sure,” I said quickly, worried that Mom might try to get the check before I had a chance to do my mini concert. “What do you have?”

  Dolan went over a short list, and Mom chose the custard and I went with chocolate cake. Then I excused myself to “the men’s room.” And I actually did go to the men’s room, but it was only to take some deep breaths and to calm myself. Then I went out, walked straight to the piano, and sat down. I was within plain sight of my mother, but she wasn’t looking that way, which was just fine. It gave me another moment to compose myself and to focus. And then I began to play, glancing at Mom but focusing on the music.

  To begin with, she didn’t even look my way. She appeared completely absorbed by her cup of tea. And then quickly, almost as if she’d heard a gunshot, she turned around and just stared at me with wide eyes. I couldn’t quite read her expression. It seemed a mixture of astonishment and horror, which really made no sense. Good grief, it wasn’t like I was dancing on a table; I was simply playing the piano. Feeling even less at ease, I diverted my eyes but continued to play.When I finished my first piece, the small group of diners actually clapped. Even my mother clapped, although I could tell by the mechanical way that she moved her hands back and forth like a stiff marionette that she was still in some kind of shock. So I decided to play another piece. Then another. I suppose it was a delay technique, buying myself enough time in the hope that the next phase of my little dinner show might proceed a bit more smoothly. Finally, I stood up after the fourth piece. Once again I was pleased to hear the applause, even more enthusiastic than before. Even Kerry and Dolan and workers from the kitchen were clapping.

  “Well . . . ,” my mom said when I rejoined her.

  “Well?” I studied her face. It seemed unreasonably pale, and I couldn’t figure why she was reacting like this. My intention had been to please her with my musical skill. It was no secret that my mother enjoyed music, particularly piano, although her leanings were more to classical and light jazz. But I had hoped to gain her approval with my performance and then to gently break the news about what I’d been up to these past couple of years. It had seemed the perfect ploy.

  But she just slowly shook her head, and her brow creased as if she were deeply troubled about something. She kept twisting the linen napkin between her fingers, something she often told me not to do, and her untouched dessert was pushed away to the side. “Wherever did you learn to play like that?”

  Now it’s possible that she didn’t mean those words to come out the way that they sounded to me, but it was hard not to feel just a little offended. “Like what?” I said crisply, suddenly on the defensive.

  She waved her hands, as if searching for words. “Well, it’s a different sort of style,” she said carefully, as if weighing each word. “Not the sort of thing one hears every day.”

  “So, you didn’t like it?” I demanded.

  “No . . . that’s not it, Jamie.” Her eyes looked slightly misty now. “I just wondered where you’d learned to play like that. That’s all. One might think you’d taken music classes somewhere.”

  The time had come. I knew I might as well get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. If she took it badly, there wasn’t much I could do. I cleared my throat. “There’s something I need to tell you, Mom.”

  9

  Colleen

  I stared at Jamie as if staring at a complete stranger. How had this happened? What was the meaning? The whole thing was unsettling, disturbing, eerily haunting even— almost like seeing a ghost. Yes, that was exactly what it was like! It was as if I’d seen the ghost of Liam O’Neil just now, sitting there at the piano and playing like that. Of course, Jamie had no idea why my reaction to his music was so irrational, so unlike me. And, while I felt badly for catching him off guard and putting him on the defensive, I also felt that I was maintaining rather well not to have fallen out of my chair.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he was saying and I was attempting to focus, but at the same time thinking, No, Jamie, there’s something I need to tell you. Still he continued, the words poured out quickly, in the form of a confession of sorts.

  “I didn’t graduate from business college,” he said. “I used the money that Dad sent to take some music classes at

  Berkeley. Then I quit school completely, supporting myself and my band with the tuition money while I seriously pursued music. I had meant to tell you guys. But then Dad died and I didn’t want to upset you. And time passed and the lie just kept going.”

  “You didn’t graduate?” I said, trying to absorb this new fact. Perhaps even using it as a distraction from the emotions that were raging through me—memories of Liam and how he once played like that.

  He nodded. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know I should’ve told you. But there just didn’t seem to be the right opportunity.” Then he smiled, that same little half smile that he’d used on me since he was a toddler. “But I love music. It’s all I want to do and—”

  “How long had you been lying about school, Jamie?” I knew my words sounded harsh, and much colder than I meant them to be, but it was as if all my emotions had risen to the surface, hammering to get out, and I didn’t even know where to begin. Focusing on Jamie seemed the easiest route.

  “It was winter term in ’61 that I quit.”

  “And you kept this a secret the whole time?” I frowned as I considered how this would have hurt Hal. “You never told your father?”

  “I t
ried to once, Mom. But he was so insistent that I’d take over the shoe store. All he wanted was for me to get my business degree and start selling shoes. I didn’t want—”

  “But you continued taking his money?” I stared at my son, seeing how much he looked like his birth father, and feeling shocked by this. But I made myself believe that my shock was because he had deceived us and that we had never even suspected. “That whole time you kept taking his money and pretending that you were going to school? What else were you keeping from us?” I could hear the venom in my voice, and yet I felt helpless.

  He pressed his lips tightly together, as if he were biting his tongue, holding back the words he probably wanted to say. And his hands were curling into fists, as if he wanted to pound them on the table, to make his point. Instead, he just stood. “I know you’re angry, Mom. And I don’t blame you for that, but somehow I thought—” He looked longingly at the piano now. “I thought that maybe if you understood how much I love—” Then his voice broke.

  “I’m sorry,” he said then turned and walked away. Heading straight for the big carved door, he slowly opened it and, without looking back, walked out.

  Suddenly my anger seemed foolish . . . and, in some ways, even selfish. And now I felt desperate. My son had laid his heart on the table, confessed to his deception, and I had treated him like a criminal. I knew I had hurt Jamie deeply, and I didn’t know what to do next. I glanced around the quiet dining room, curious as to whether or not we’d made a spectacle, and yet not really caring either. But the other diners seemed fine, as if they hadn’t noticed a thing. Or perhaps they were simply being polite.

  “Everything all right?” asked the owner, the woman with bright orangey-red hair that had to have come out of a bottle. I couldn’t remember her name.

  “I, uh, I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I think I’d like the bill, please.”

  Then she left, I assumed to tell Dolan to bring the bill, but a few minutes later, she was the one who returned. With the bill in her hand, she sat down across from me, the same spot where Jamie should’ve been sitting right now.