by Zeia Jameson
I say nothing. I have no idea what he is talking about or who he thinks I am. I try not to tremble. I try not to move at all because I am not sure if he’ll try to put his hands on me if I do so much as blink. I shift my eyes, and only my eyes, slowly down to his left hand that continues to clench and unclench into a fist. My breathing quickens because I am almost certain he wants to hit me, and I am completely clueless as to the reason. He’s breathing slowly and forcefully, as if he’s attempting to calm himself. Fear, and fear alone, brings a light mist of tears over my eyes and clouds my vision.
“Fuck,” he exclaims and immediately backs away, turning and wrapping his large left hand over the back of his neck. He squeezes and then paces, turning once and then again, looking down at the floor, saying nothing.
“Oh, Stella, good. You’re still here. I forgot to give you these Mrs. MacNamara enters the room at a quick pace, heels loud on the hardwood. She stops abruptly when she sees Padraig. I expect her to scream and yell for someone to call the cops because there’s an intruder in her house. Instead, she looks in my direction and rolls her eyes. “Stella, I see you’ve met my stepson, Padraig.” Her shoulders slump slightly and she exhales loudly. “Padraig, are you in here harassing my help?”
Padraig and I both snap our gazes to her simultaneously. Did she just fucking call me help?
He mumbles something under his breath while sneering his lip at her and then promptly charges out of the room. Once he’s gone, Mrs. MacNamara hands me a folder. “This has the seating charts and place card formats for the table. Remember, the place cards must be special ordered from—”
“Sherrods,” I interrupt. I felt the need to let her know that I am not a mindless flake who can’t remember the name of a print company.
A small squint of her eyes leads me to believe she is put off by me finishing her sentence. But she doesn’t reprimand me. Instead, she smiles an expensive shiny grin and simply says, “Good.” She turns and walks away without another word. I can’t get the fact that she called me the help out of my head. I don’t know how much longer I have to wait here for that damn taxi. I consider leaving and walking, but I’m not even close to downtown. Or a bus stop. I feel defeated, so I turn and drift my mind back to the garden until the taxi arrives and takes me out of this misery. Looking through the doors, I see a shocking surprise. Padraig is sitting out there on a white iron bench, arms stretched out on both sides, angling his face to the sun.
There must be another door that accesses the garden. Of course there is, dummy. It’s not like he hopped the six-foot brick wall. I should be terrified of this brute who only moments ago verbally attacked me completely out of the blue. But before I know what I’m doing, I’m pushing down on the ornate handle of the door to see if it’ll open. And it does. I open the door and quietly step out into the garden. I walk toward him, staring directly at the hair on his head. It’s a beautiful head of hair. I am imagining running my fingers through it when my heel catches something on the ground and my ankle gives way, causing me to stumble.
“What the . . . ?” I start, looking down, trying to also brace myself from falling completely. I notice the cobblestones and see I hit a dip with my heel. Cobblestones and high heels go together like cheesecake and brussels sprouts. I rub my sore ankle and right myself. I swear I nearly kill myself every time I’m in his vicinity.
“Aye,” he says. “The fuck? Get out of here, stupid girl! No one invited you!”
There he goes again, calling me stupid. I will tolerate this no longer. I march toward him, cobblestones be damned. I point my finger in his direction while I travel. “You listen here, whoever you are. I don’t know you, and you sure as shit don’t know me, but I will not have you lurking around town, calling me names when I’ve done nothing to deserve it!”
“Ha! I can call you whatever I want to in my house. My garden. And you’ve done plenty to be called stupid, you stupid girl!”
“Stop it!” I yell and stomp my foot. Not my finest adult moment. “If you are going to call me stupid, at least tell me why you think that.”
He snickers and rubs his hand through his luscious hair. I want to reach out and repeat the action, even though I am furious with him. He tilts his head back up to look at me and points to the door I just came through. “You plan the stupid fucking parties with that stupid fucking bitch in there with your fucking green champagne and shamrock-shaped hors d’oeuvres and your stupid, fake folk bands. You have no idea about Irish tradition. You put on a show for those fucking highbrow Americans who only attend to get pissed.”
I take some time to register what he’s saying. His accent is thick, so it takes me a moment. Then I think on him saying this is his house and Mrs. MacNamara introducing him as her stepson. Mayor MacNamara is Irish.
Light bulb.
I step toward him, gingerly going around to his side of the bench. “So, your dad is the mayor,” I state.
He nods.
“And that is your wicked stepmother.”
He smiles and nods again.
“And you’re upset because she’s being a stereotypical American, using St. Patrick’s Day as a day to pretend to be Irish?”
Another nod.
“And you think I’m stupid because I help her carry out all of these ridiculous, American, pseudo-Irish traditions?”
His eyes soften slightly. “That’s right.”
I take a deep breath. “Look, I don’t deny that I know nothing about authentic Irish heritage, but I didn’t realize the way we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day was so offensive to the Irish. Besides, your dad has written off on everything we’ve planned so far—this year and last year. He doesn’t seem to have a problem.”
“That’s because he’s always trying to please everyone, especially that hag of a wife of his. He’s not a fan of it either, but he’s in no position to express his true opinion. He’s a public figure—a politician. He has to stay in the good graces of his constituents.”
“Okay, then back to me. Why are you bullying me? How did you even know I worked for your . . . uh, Mrs. MacNamara?”
“Don’t call her that. She doesn’t deserve my name.”
“What do you want me to call her, then?”
“The gold-digging whore bitch with no brains?”
“I’m not going to call her that. Back to the important part of the question—how do you know me?”
“From last year’s party. You’re all chummy with the gold-digging whore bitch with no brains.”
“Excuse me, but I’m chummy with her”—air quoting chummy—“because I have to be. She pays my boss, who, in turn, pays me. I have to play the part.” I’m defending myself against a man who harasses me because of my assumed relationship with his stepmother. I suddenly realize I owe him no explanation. “You know what? No. I’m not making excuses for myself. Here’s a life lesson, pal; don’t assume the worst in people, and even if you do, keep your damn mouth shut until you actually know someone well enough to make an appropriate judgment. What you did to me on the street the other day and the way you came at me today is cruel. You have some serious anger issues. Work on that!”
I turn to walk away.
“So this is just a job to you?” he asks.
I turn back. “Just a job.”
He nudges his head toward the door. “And what do you think of her?”
“Are you trying to get me fired?”
“No. General curiosity.”
“She’s very difficult. Almost impossible to please. And I didn’t really think too much on it until she called me the help a few minutes ago. I don’t appreciate that.”
“Technically, you are the help.”
“No. I’m an employee of a business that plans and designs social events.”
“You help people plan and design social events.”
“I don’t know why you hate her so much. You obviously think just like her.”
“Not even close.”
“I’m done with this conversation. Thin
k what you want, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me stupid out in public.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you weren’t working for her.”
“If not me, then someone else. What difference does it make?”
“I’d prefer to hate someone else.”
I’m confused by his statement, but before I can ask for clarity, Helga appears. “Miss Rosencourt, the taxi is here.”
Perfect.
It arrives at the exact moment the conversation becomes interesting, which will leave me in thought all day, no doubt. I nod to Helga and walk toward her.
“Fortune does not come from coin but from honor. Are you going to be her help, or are you going to do what is right?”
I don’t stop, don’t turn, don’t answer.
Because I can’t answer.
I toss and turn all night, thinking about everything Padraig said to me. About culture, about Mrs. MacNamara, about his father. “Fortune comes not from coin but from honor” kept floating through my mind. I am finally able to settle and drift off to sleep when I make what I think, at the moment, is the best decision in the situation. I would go see Padraig again and ask for his help.
I sit at my desk, tapping my foot, anxiously waiting for the tattoo parlor to open up. First thing this morning, I’d gone online to see if there was a site for the shop. There is and it conveniently states on the home page the hours of operation. I also happened to take a brief scroll through the artists’ section of the site. There were names only, no pictures of the artists themselves, just portfolios of their work. Padraig is not listed. Why would he be hanging out at a tattoo shop if he isn’t an artist? The mystery of that man scrambled my brain.
The shop opens at eleven o’clock, which isn’t for another twenty-three minutes. Being the punctual and pragmatic person that I am, I want to be there as soon as the doors open. Punctual and pragmatic is what I’m blaming it on. Not the fact that I have a compelling urge to see Padraig and ask him questions just to hear him speak. Then perhaps, I can touch his hair.
But I know that there is a possibility if I show up just as they open, I may annoy him, or someone else at the shop, which could ruin my chances of seeing him.
I arrive promptly at a quarter after eleven and make my way inside with my large project binder clutched to my chest. Every idea, thought, sample, and sketch I’ve ever had since beginning this job was in this thing. It was my life. The man who was at the counter the first time I came in was there again, donning another toothpick in his mouth . It must be a fixation thing. When he sees me, he rolls his eyes and places both palms on top of the counter.
As I get closer, he speaks. “I told you not to come—”
I held my hand up to interrupt, “I’m not here to cry. I’m here to see him. Is he here?”
Please say yes.
He gives me a long gaze with his head tilted down slightly. Finally, he turns and slips behind a curtain. I angle myself to the right a little to see if I can catch a glimpse of what is behind there. Does he have a shotgun? Is he calling the cops? I’m half tempted to bail, and my thoughts immediately go to how dumb of an idea this was. But just before I flee, he emerges from the curtain, and Padraig comes out behind him, looking at me with a slight grin that expresses mischief and . . . flirtation?
My heart flutters, and I feel my skin begin to flush. I need to compose myself and keep it together if he is going to take me seriously. I take a deep breath and puff out my bottom lip as I exhale, the push of air disheveling my bangs.
He remains behind the counter next to the other guy and crosses his arms over his chest. His tattoos flex, and I bat my eyes at them. I do not know what has come over me. And I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been gawking at his arms when he says, “Whaddya want?”
I take in his accent. His sentence sounded like one word, the t in “want” being nearly nonexistent. I move my stare from his arms to his mouth, and my mouth begins to water. I want to open my mouth to answer him, but I’m afraid that I would drool all over the counter. I clear my throat and attempt to be professional. “I came by because I wanted to show you some ideas that we have for the St. Patrick’s Day event for your dad, I mean, the mayor, and . . .”
“Whaddya have there?” he asks, straight-faced, pointing at my binder. “A coloring book?” The guy beside him chuckles, and Padraig elbows him to stop.
I immediately go on the defensive. “No, this is my design binder. Like I said, I wanted to show you some things about the design of the event and see if maybe you had some ideas that could . . . elevate the Irish experience for the attendees.”
“The first thing you can do is take everything you have in that book regarding St. Paddy’s Day and chuck it.”
He’s rejecting me. I came here with a legitimate inquiry for his help, and he is patronizing me. I need him to take me seriously. I don’t want to dishonor the traditions of Ireland anymore. I want authenticity if I can get it. I want to make this right.
“Listen, Padraig, I am sorry about yesterday. If I’d known that I would have offended you so badly by coming into your home to plan something inappropriate with your name attached to it just for the sake of entertainment, I want you to know I never would have come. In fact, if I had known any of what you told me yesterday, I would have never agreed to work on the event at all.”
He shifts his weight to his left leg, lowers his head, and runs one hand over his scruffy chin. But he says nothing. After a few seconds, I concede. “Okay, I was only trying to salvage the party. But if you don’t want to help, I understand. I can tell my boss that I’m not working on it any longer.” I shift my binder in my arms and walk away.
“Why?” he asks.
I look over my shoulder. “Why what?”
“Why are you willing to quit just because of what I said to you?”
I turn all the way back around to face him, but I do not move closer. “I’m not going to blatantly disrespect your heritage. Even if I don’t know you that well. Even if you are an asshole. I prefer honor over coin.”
Without a word, he motions me with his hand to follow him, and then he disappears behind the curtain. I walk hastily behind the counter, and just before I pull back the curtain to go through, the other guy says, “I’m Luca, by the way.” He makes a quick tilt of his head and shifts his eyes toward the opening that the curtain covers. “Impressive. You’ve managed to charm the viper. Go on back. At your own risk.” He smirks. I roll my eyes at him and proceed.
Behind the curtain, I turn a corner to an open, dimly lit area. There is a twin bed pressed against one wall and a plain, four-legged desk, with a reading lamp, perpendicular to the bed. Padraig stands by the desk and taps a hand on its top. “Let me see your . . . book. Show me what you’ve got.”
I hesitate and wonder if he is doing this just to mock me more. I unclench my binder and lay it on the table. I flip through page after page of swatches, panels, lace, and cutouts. I should have been more prepared and bookmarked my St. Patrick’s Day party section.
“What the fuck is that?” he asks, pointing to the currently open page.
“It’s a sketch I drew for a ballroom with a vampire brothel theme. It was for a Halloween party.”
He ogles the men strapped into chairs that look like thrones and the women standing over them with whips and handcuffs, blood dripping from their exposed fangs. All of the characters scantily clad in leather and studs.
He raises an eyebrow at me. I continue to flip the pages until I reach the part I came here for.
“Bloody Christ,” he exclaims as he peers over all of the design ideas. “Waiters dressed as leprechauns?”
I laugh. “Yes. Mrs. MacNamara . . .”
Padraig groans.
“Victoria,” I correct, and he nods at my change, “wanted me to do that last year, and I told her I couldn’t make it work on a classy level. She agreed to go with just the accent of green bow ties with the regular black-and-white uniform.”
“Thank fuck
.”
“I agree. It’s difficult, but I can usually talk sense into her when it comes to some of the ridiculous ideas she comes up with.”
“Hmm,” he says with a satisfied grin.
“So, how about I point to things and you tell me if it’s shit or acceptable?”
“It’s all shit. Well, most of it.”
“Okay, how about we save time and you tell me what isn’t shit?”
“Shamrocks are acceptable, but sparingly.” He points to some other items on the page. “The color green is a staple, of course, but not everything has to be green, you know? It’s tacky. Guinness definitely should be available, but don’t forget about other Irish beers such as Harp.”
I nod.
“And this.” He pulls a patch from a corkboard hung above his desk. “This is me family crest. You should use it. I think it would make Dad happy. Proud.”
I take the crest from him and run my finger over the embroidered lettering. “May I hold onto this? I promise to keep it safe and return it in pristine condition.”
“Aye,” Padraig says, staring into my eyes just long enough to make me uncomfortable. He focuses his attention back to my binder.
“But this green cocktail shit, these ridiculous ‘Kiss me I’m Irish’ trinkets, and the pots of gold are rubbish.”
“Noted.”
“And the menu last year was crap. You can’t dye a mini quiche green and call it Irish.”
“The fact that you know what a mini quiche is blows my mind,” I remark.
He points to last year’s menu. “I remember them from last year. They looked disgusting. They could have tasted excellent, I don’t know. I couldn’t fathom eating one.”
I recall that menu. Our standard caterer didn’t like the idea of dying everything green just to call it Irish, either, but Victoria insisted and hired a new caterer on the spot. She was adamant about all of the food being green. I had convinced her otherwise this year, stating that there were guests complaining all evening about having green-stained fingertips from the circulating finger foods.
