by Mary Carter
The lingering promise of—this could be it. This could be the one that changed his life. If he won big on this, he would change. He would. He would stop gambling altogether. Just one big win to carry him home. He would save the pub, pay off Uncle Joe, fix the ceiling in the church, mend fences, literally, with yer one, and maybe, just maybe think about settling down. He couldn’t live above the pub forever, could he?
He had a tip that was “guaranteed to send shock waves through the Killarney Races.” Howards End. Heard it from Racehorse Robbie himself: This young horse was going to go nuclear on the track. This is it, Ronan, you’re a right eejit if you don’t listen to me on this one, take everything you’ve got, I mean fecking everything because this horse is going to be talked about for the next two hundred and fifty fucking years.
Ronan visualized Howards End flying past the finish line. Saw the sleek curve of his neck, the whip of his mane, heard the roar of the crowd as his horse tore first across the finish line. Ronan rehearsed it over and over again in his mind. He imagined shock and awe spreading through the crowd. The men who bet on him shouted, pumped their fists, and grabbed the birds next to them and kissed them like they were coming home from war. Men who lost tore at their chests, threw punches, fell to their knees in agony—Our Bookmaker, Who Sure Aren’t in Heaven, Howards End Be Thy Name—
Ladies fanned themselves and jumped up and down, boobs bouncing as far as the eye could see, and a few in very short skirts fainted, spread-eagled in front of him. Ronan saw lightning bolts shooting from the hooves of Howards End. Howards End would do it; he would come in first. He would be the horse that saved Ronan’s life. Ronan would name his first son Howards and his second son End. Ronan had to scrape up every quid he could and throw them on his horse. Guaranteed to send shock waves through the Killarney Races! Only a few lads knew about it. They would keep their bets low until the very last betting second to keep the odds in their favor. Howards End would win. He had to. Otherwise Ronan was sunk, and so was the pub.
“Hello there, how ya keeping?” a female voice rang out. Ronan was so fixated on his upcoming win, he’d forgotten that he was walking right past the Collinses’ hardware shop. Sally Collins stood outside smiling and waving. Petite, raven-haired, and perky. She was wearing a green jacket with rhinestones, a white cap with rhinestones, and jeans with rhinestones. Ronan was on such a high he had half a mind to swoop her up and give her a good-luck kiss, but knowing Sally, she would take it as a sign that he was madly in love with her.
“Grand, grand,” Ronan said without slowing down. “What’s the craic?”
“Damn all,” Sally said.
“You’re awful sparkly today,” he said with a wink. She smiled. Every time she looked at him like that he’d think: ovulating.
Nod and smile, just nod and smile. Sally Collins had been chasing him since they were kids. She was seven years younger, but still, getting up there. He really thought she would have married someone else by now. Instead, she was waiting for him. And waiting, and waiting, and waiting. She held on to any sliver of attention he showed her, even innocent things that were never intended as a romantic gesture, like the “romantic love letter” he’d left in the abbey when they were fifteen. He’d told her plenty of times to forget about him. He’d been nice about it. He’d been an ass about it. He’d avoided her. Now, he had to admit, he was slightly worn down. He couldn’t help but admire her pluck; he couldn’t help hating her for being so damn sure she wanted him. It was starting to confuse him.
“How does a June wedding sound?” Sally said.
“Expensive,” Ronan said.
“September?”
“I’ll get back to ye,” he said.
“Any month will do,” Sally said. She twirled a strand of dark hair with her finger and smiled. That wasn’t fair. A guy could take advantage of that. She didn’t know how lucky she was that he never had. He gave her a quick salute and headed on. Her disappointment trailed after him like a wet, smelly dog.
The pub beckoned like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. A good walking distance from Main Street, the pub and Joe’s shop were surrounded by land. Ronan thought it was the best of both worlds, even if some customers were too lazy to make it out here. As he bounded up to the door, he heard the lads coming up behind him. Anchor’s tractor was parked underneath the enormous ash tree that stood guard in front of the pub. Eoin, Collin, Billy, Ciaran, and Danny were coming up the walk. They all had newspapers and betting cards out and they walked on autopilot, feet heading steadily for the front door. Ronan prayed none of them would bet on his shock wave; he couldn’t afford for the odds to decrease. He had to get the dough from the bar and run to the bookmakers.
Anchor was the first to smack into the door. The rest rammed into him like a six-car pileup. They grunted and swore, then swore some more, then stepped back, stared at the door, and swore some more.
“Christ,” Anchor said. “The door’s closed?” Declan always left the door open. Said it made it easier for the lads to saunter in and stagger-wobble out.
“Well, open it, you eejit,” Eoin said. He had a wife and kid waiting at home; he was always hurrying people along. He stepped forward and gave the knob a rattle. Then he pushed on the door. It didn’t budge. They all looked at Ronan. A vague worry flickered through him. He still had three weeks to pay off Uncle Joe. He put his shoulder against the door and heaved. The others joined in, adding their strength to the effort. Maybe Declan was upstairs sleeping off a bender. Soon their throats were sore from shouting, which reminded them that they were thirsty.
“Who wants to give the old window a smash?” Anchor said. He rolled up his sleeve.
“Don’t even think about it.” Ronan whipped around. Siobhan stood in front of him, hands on hips. Behind her the rest of the estrogen gang stood in a defensive line. What were they doing here? He didn’t have time for another row, he had to place his bet. Siobhan reached into her handbag and whipped out a wad of dough wrapped in a rubber band. “Looking for this?” she said. He’d recognize that bulge anywhere. Ronan reached for his money. Siobhan snapped it behind her back.
“That’s mine,” he said.
“Not on your roll-of-the-dice life,” Siobhan said.
“Can ye unlock the door for us while yous have your discussion?” Eoin said.
“No,” Siobhan said. “The pub is closed until the new publican takes over.”
“Declan quit?” Ronan said. When did this happen? Why was he being left out of everything?
“Declan didn’t quit,” Siobhan said. “But it will be up to the new owner whether or not he stays.”
“What new owner?” Ronan said.
“We’re raffling off the pub,” Katie said. “To Americans.”
“You’re what now?” Ronan said. He knew his tone wasn’t nice. But this went beyond fucking with him. Katie stepped forward.
“It’s for the best,” she said. “It was my idea.”
“What in the world are you on about?” Ronan said.
“Remember how Guinness used to raffle off a pub every year?” Katie said.
“No,” Ronan said.
“Oh. Well, they did. It’s kind of like an auction, only you buy a ticket,” Katie said.
“Property sales are such shite now, a lot of people are doing it,” Liz said.
“It’s win, win,” Clare said. “They get a chance to win a pub for twenty dollars, we get thousands of rich, desperate Yanks throwing money at us.”
“Somebody better start making some sense here or I’m going to fucking lose it,” Ronan said.
“Starting tomorrow, Irish festivals all over America will start selling raffle tickets,” Siobhan said. “Twenty American dollars apiece. We only have to sell five thousand tickets to make our hundred thousand.”
“I’ll bet we make even more,” Katie said. She brought something out from behind her back and held it up. It was a poster. Stunned, Ronan moved in to look at it. It was a photo of all six girls standing i
n front of the pub. They were wearing tight, low-cut dresses and smiling like they had just jumped the cameraman.
“You’re joking me,” Ronan said. He grabbed the poster and started tearing it into tiny pieces that he let fall to the ground like an unattended ticker-tape parade. The girls didn’t make a move to stop him. “How could you even think of showing yourselves looking like this?” he said. Siobhan stepped closer.
“Looking like what?” she said.
“Like, like . . .” Ronan’s hands moved vaguely around his chest, not knowing where to land or how much he could get away with saying.
“It’s already done,” Katie said. “The posters are on their way across the pond as we speak.”
“You cannot be serious,” Ronan said.
“We’re dead serious,” Sarah said. “We’ve even contacted RTÉ. They’re coming out to interview us today.” RTÉ, Ireland’s national television and radio broadcaster. This could not be happening. Ronan looked at Anne, the only one so far who had remained silent. Divide and conquer. Anne returned his gaze.
“We all agree,” she said.
“You’re saying some Yank is going to win our pub?” Ronan said. Surely, when they heard it said, out loud, like, they would come to their senses.
“It’s better than watching it turn into a shake and bake,” Sarah said.
“You can thank me for that,” Anchor said. “I came up with the fallback.” He smiled and flashed the horns.
“Did it ever occur to you that Uncle Joe would’ve taken fifty thousand, you eejit?” Ronan said. Anchor stopped smiling and shrugged.
“Yes,” Siobhan said. “Some Yank will win the pub.”
“What if they don’t even run it?” Ronan said. “What if they turn around and sell it?”
“We can’t control that,” Siobhan said. “But George said that probably wouldn’t happen.” George was their trusty solicitor. Ronan couldn’t believe they’d been consulting George about raffling the pub behind his back. “Most Americans are naïve,” Siobhan continued. “To them winning a pub in Ireland is a dream come true.”
“Wait until winter hits,” Ciaran said.
“You can’t do this behind my back,” Ronan said. “You can’t raffle the pub without my signature.”
“True,” Siobhan said. She removed a set of documents and a pen from her purse. She thrust them at Ronan.
“No,” he said. “I still have three weeks.”
“Two weeks,” Anchor said.
“And what’s your bright idea?” Siobhan said. Siobhan waved the money in his face. “Going to win big again, are ye?”
Ronan stepped forward, lowered his voice. “I have a tip,” he said. “From Racehorse Robbie.” Siobhan stared at him. He curled his hands up near his head as if trying to grasp something. “Shock waves,” he said. “They’re going to be talking about this horse for the next two hundred and fifty years.” He was trying to whisper but could already hear the lads behind him madly speculating about which horse he was on about. He stepped even closer to his sisters.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I fucked up and I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I’m a right eejit, and you have every right to hate me. But this time—it’s the real deal. And not for me. For you. I’ve scraped up every quid I could, and the odds are in my favor. If he wins—when he wins—it’s going to pay off big. We’ll get to keep the pub. No Uncle Joe, no tanning beds, and no fucking Yanks. It’s my last bet. I swear to you, it’s my last bet. Once more chance. Just give me one more chance, will ye?”
Siobhan looked at the cash, then looked at the rest of the estrogen gang, then looked at her brother.
“Ronan Anthony McBride,” she said. “If we give you this money, and you put it on your ‘shock wave,’ and you lose—do you promise, do you swear on all of our graves, that you’ll sign these documents and let us hold the raffle?”
Ronan looked at his sisters. He looked at the money. He looked at the documents.
“I still have three weeks,” he said.
“Two weeks,” Anchor said.
“It’s a yes or no,” Siobhan said.
“Deal or no deal,” Anne said.
“That’s my money,” Ronan said.
“And this is our pub too,” Liz said. “Or did you forget that when you were throwing it out the window like it meant nothing to us, like . . . like we meant nothing?” Her words were a rusty, dull knife to the heart, twisting, twisting. She was right. He’d taken more from them than they had from him. And he could still win. He could win and this ridiculous raffle would never go through.
“All right, all right,” he said. “I promise. If Howards End doesn’t win, then I’ll sign the papers and you can hold your raffle.” One by one the girls nodded their consent. Siobhan tossed the money. It hit Ronan square in the chest.
“I’m going to win,” he said. “A fecking Yank running the pub. Over my dead body.”
“That can be arranged,” Siobhan said. Suddenly, a familiar blast of dread-cold air ran through Ronan. He looked behind him. Anchor was still there, but the rest of the men had vanished.
“Where are the lads?” Ronan said.
“They took off,” Clare said.
“The minute you said Howards End,” Anchor said.
CHAPTER 5
The Good Woman
If there was anything Dublin, Ohio, knew how to do well, it was throw its annual Irish festival. Like Ireland, except smaller, their website bragged. Carlene Rivers thought the festival was just an excuse to eat, and drink, and drink, and eat some more, but to disguise that fact, the hundred thousand or so visitors who came through each year were also treated to Irish music, Irish dancing, Irish dogs (canines with credentials), sand castle–building contests, dart-throwing contests, whiskey-tasting contests, jigs, sheep herding (spelled h-e-a-r-d-i-n-g), and more green crap for sale than Carlene had ever seen in her life.
To be fair, the festival was always a fun day out. The food was delicious, the music was both live and lively, the people watching couldn’t be beat, and the dogs could do some pretty awesome tricks. Parents were placated by plastic mugs of green beer, and children were bombarded with activities just for them. On Wendy’s Wee Folk Stage, Skelly the Leprechaun emceed contests for children with the reddest hair, greenest eyes, and most freckles. If Carlene wasn’t blond with blue eyes, and her best friend, Becca, wasn’t a brunette, Becca would have been screaming ageism and dragging them up onstage.
The festival was held in the summer because Ohio in March was too unpredictable, and nobody wanted his or her shamrockriddled tents flapping in the wind. Carlene and Becca, friends since they were in kindergarten, had been coming to Dublin’s Irish festival since the summer they turned thirteen. Rebecca Weinstein was the only Jewish person Carlene had ever met who regularly wore Kiss Me I’m Irish T-shirts. She was wearing it today, of course, along with her plaid skirt, which was actually more Scottish than Irish, Carlene thought, but she kept this to herself. Carlene wasn’t a physician, but she believed in their creed. First, do no harm.
Becca was pregnant and due to pop in less than a month. She was here to have a good time and “distract herself from her alien stomach.” Carlene thought if she wanted to distract herself, wearing what amounted to a kilt and a tight T-shirt over her bulbous stomach wasn’t the way to go, but once again, she kept this to herself. No good would come of belittling either her outfit or the Irish festival to Becca—she would defend every bit of it, down to the grown men who wore giant leprechaun ears and painted Irish flags or four-leaf clovers on their hairy beer bellies. Becca was thirty going on thirteen. She was also deliriously happy, so in turn, Carlene pretended to be deliriously happy, although she drew the line at wearing anything with a leprechaun, pot of gold, or shamrock. Most of these festivalgoers, Carlene thought, put the sham in shamrock.
They ate their way down the street. Bangers and mash, shepherd’s pie, curry chips, and salt-and-vinegar chips, and chips with mayonnaise, and chips with cheese,
or just plain old chips with tons of salt. Chips, of course, weren’t American potato chips, which the Irish called “crisps,” they were big, fat French fries. Becca was yammering on about getting Irish soda bread when a man at a nearby tent called out to them.
“CmereIwancha,” he said. Carlene stopped. In the entire festival, it was the first real Irish accent she’d heard. Becca kept walking. Carlene, drawn in by the man’s lyrical voice and generous smile, walked into his tent. It was empty except for a large folding table on which sat a small white box. Beside the box was a poster of a little white house with a thatched roof. Six women in flashy low-cut dresses stood in front of the house, smiling seductively at the camera. WIN A PUB IN IRELAND, it said. Carlene was still studying the poster when she felt a huge stomach poke her in the back. Please don’t let it be a beer belly, she thought.
“I was totally talking to myself for, like, ten minutes,” Becca said.
“Sorry,” Carlene said.
“How would you lovely ladies like to win a pub in Ireland?” the man said.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Becca said. “Win a pub in Ireland?” She bent down as far as her protruding stomach would allow and looked at the poster. “Is it a pub or a strip club?” she said.
“It’s a wee pub,” the man said. “In Ballybeog.”
“Oh my God,” Becca said. “I’m totally game.”
“Twenty dollars,” the man said. Becca immediately dove into her purse and pulled out a twenty. The man handed her a slip of paper. “Name, digits, address,” he said. “The drawing will be held in a month’s time. Good luck to ye.”
