The Pub Across the Pond

by Mary Carter

  “Hey, Dad,” she said. “Guess what? I’m an honorary aunt!” She sat down in the one chair across from her father’s desk. She kept her hands where he could see them. He pushed over a box. She took a pair of rubber gloves from the box and put them on. She was taking the picture of Shane out of her purse when her cell phone rang. She held her finger up to her father, then slipped outside to take the call. He didn’t allow cell phones in his office—he thought they caused brain cancer. The squeak of tennis shoes on the gym floor and sounds of the punching bags being hit made it hard to hear the caller. He had an Irish accent. Her first thought was—Brendan.

  Even two years later, her heart caught in her throat at the thought of him, and even after the caller introduced himself as someone else, it took a while for the hammering in her chest to stop. When it did, and she could make out what the caller was saying, she was full sure somebody was pulling a prank on her. This was “hidden camera,” this was “you’ve been punked,” this was Becca doubling over with laughter and screeching, “You should’ve seen the look on your face.”

  The man was still speaking. He said something about Ballybeog, and Dublin, Ohio, and the Irish festival—and it wasn’t until he said “raffle” that it hit her. And then she felt as if her heart was suspended in her throat again, a sensation that remained for a very long time, long after he repeated the words—“I told ye, ye looked lucky to me all right. Congratulations, you just won a pub in Ballybeog.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Leaving Home

  When the news of her winning the pub reached Cleveland, reporters came out in droves. Her father paled under the spotlight. Cameras snapped like turtles, microphones were shoved in their faces, and they were both asked way too many personal questions. It literally made her father sweat, and only Carlene knew that the handkerchief he used to pat the perspiration off his brow had been ironed no less than a hundred times that very morning. Yet somehow, they got through it all; somehow, no matter how many times her father begged her to stay, Carlene remained steadfast. Becca threw a small going-away party for her that her father didn’t attend. But the day of her flight he held out a small jewelry box. Inside was a pair of teardrop emerald earrings.

  “These belonged to your grandma Jane,” he said. “And then she passed them on to your mother.” Carlene held her breath. Her father rarely mentioned her mother. “She planned on giving them to you on your sixteenth birthday,” he said.

  “But I’m thirty,” Carlene said. Her father just looked at her. “I love them,” she said. She turned away as she put them on; she didn’t want him to see her cry. When she turned back, she sported a huge smile and air-hugged him. What she would give to be able to actually touch him again, skin to skin, like she could when her mother was alive. She touched the earrings instead. Earrings her mother had worn. “I’m going to make you proud,” Carlene said. Her father didn’t reply. She touched the earrings again. You too, Grandma Jane, she said silently. And you, Mom, always you.

  A six-year-old remembers her mother. She remembers her smell. Renee Rivers always smelled like laundry fresh from the dryer; something you couldn’t wait to wrap your arms around and inhale. She remembers how she would stand at the stove stirring her famous stew while talking on the phone. A chunky yellow rotary tucked into the crook of her neck, the spiral cord stretching tantalizingly from the wall. Carlene would sit on the floor underneath the bouncing cord, and when she could resist no longer, she would reach up and tug the cord down to the floor, then release it and watch it bounce. She would do it until her mother yelled at her to stop, which was usually after the third yank.

  She remembers carefully cut peanut butter sandwiches with just the right amount of jelly, and glasses of milk in tall coloredplastic glasses, and being sat in front of the television to watch cartoons. She remembers good-night kisses, and bedtime stories, and soft hands on her forehead when she had a fever. She remembers happy birthdays and cakes with candles, and Christmas celebrations. She remembers drives in the car to see Grandma Jane, her mother’s elbow resting on the ledge of the passenger seat window, her gaze outward and slightly sad, as if she were leaving something behind. She remembers how the hugs and kisses Renee Rivers gave her father were different from the hugs and kisses she gave Carlene. Her mother always kissed her father longer, but she squeezed Carlene harder.

  She remembers her last day with her mother. They took a trip on the city bus. They went to see a doctor. Her mother needed some vitamins. Carlene sat in the waiting room, swinging her feet off a padded chair. There was a pretty lady sitting at a desk. She kept smiling at Carlene and even gave her a piece of gum from her very own purse. After the doctor’s they went to a pharmacy where her mother was given some pills in orange plastic bottles. She remembers the bus ride home, although it’s the one thing she wishes she could forget, it’s the memory she plays over and over again in her mind, and because of what happened on that bus, when they got home, Carlene was sent to Grandma Jane’s. Her mother didn’t tell her that was why, but Carlene knew it. Carlene didn’t get to come home that night. Her mother needed her rest.

  She remembers coming home from Grandma Jane’s the next morning. She remembers her father sitting up straight on the couch, all dressed up in brown linen pants and a white buttondown shirt instead of what her mother called his “house shorts.” She remembers the look on her father’s face.

  “Your mother,” he said. He choked. It was the first time she’d ever seen her father look as if he were about to cry. It was also the last time she would ever see her father’s hands free of the blue rubber gloves that would soon encase them. “Had a weak heart,” he whispered. He held out his hands to her. Carlene didn’t budge. Grandma Jane knelt behind her, wrapped her arms around her.

  “She’s in heaven watching over you,” Grandma Jane said. “She’s our angel now.”

  They wouldn’t open the lid and let her see her. She wanted to see her. They were tricking her. If she couldn’t see her, maybe she wasn’t really dead. Maybe she’d run away. Maybe she was mad at Carlene for what happened on the bus. But then they buried the box and threw dirt over it, and her father cried—loud, gulping sounds that came from his throat. That was when she knew for sure that her mother was really dead. Her mother was in a box. They put her in the ground and threw dirt over her. Wasn’t she going to be lonely down there? Wasn’t she going to be afraid? How could she rather be down there than up here with them?

  Hot spikes of guilt pulsed through Carlene whenever she thought about that day on the bus. And she thought about it a lot. She ached to tell someone what she’d done, but every time she thought of telling, a huge ball of sick would land in her stomach and turn, and turn, and turn until she changed her mind about telling. If she told them, they would know what she’d done. They would hate her. They would leave her just like her mother left her.

  A six-year-old remembers. Shadowy memories of a mother’s love. But what she remembers most was that it was all her fault. Carlene was the one who was responsible. Carlene was the one who made her mother’s heart weak. And flawed or not, her father was the only family she had left. She’d already broken her mother’s heart; she could only pray she wasn’t about to do the same thing to him.

  CHAPTER 7

  Air We Ever Going to Land

  Irish Accent Voted Sexiest in the World

  A recent poll of thousands of women from all over the world has decided: The Irish accent is the sexiest in the world. Thanks in part to actors like Colin Farrell and Liam Neeson, women from all over the world, even French women, are in agreement. Irish men have the sexiest accent in the world. They even beat out the Italians, who used to make them swoon with a simple “Ciao, bella.”

  Carlene finished reading the article, shaking her head and smiling all the way through. So she wasn’t the only one who swooned like schoolgirl at the sound of the Irish brogue. She used to say that she could get turned on listening to Brendan read the “fecking phonebook.” Becca constantly pointed out how
much Brendan cussed. Although Carlene couldn’t deny it, it didn’t bother her. He said the F-word like it was simply an adjective, or a part of speech like “a,” “an,” and “the.” Sometimes, he even said the C-word; not to describe women, usually a fella he was annoyed at. This one completely jarred Carlene’s sense of right and wrong, and despite his attempts to defend the way the Irish he knew used it, she begged him to stop. But the difference between how he said “fecking this” or “fecking that” and how Americans said it was huge. It was all in the attitude. He rarely used it in anger—it wasn’t a tirade, it was simply an additive, like a food coloring—something to spice up the fecking phonebook.

  Or maybe it was just the accent. It sounded fecking good, helped out the rhythm of the sentence—Hamburger Fecking Helper. Sometimes it was with the “eh” sound, and sometimes with the “uh” sound. She questioned him about it once, apparently the “eh” sound was an attempt to be a little more polite. And although not all Irish swore, just like not all Irish people drank, or could Riverdance, Carlene had always wanted to take a year off, travel Ireland, and study the numerous forms and uses of the F-word. Fuck, an in-depth exposé.

  At the bottom of the article, Becca scrawled: Go get ’em. Unfortunately, she added: Don’t forget Brendan. It was capitalized and underlined and followed by multiple exclamation marks. For the first time in what felt like hours, Carlene’s smile faded slightly. There she goes again, bringing up Brendan. Brendan Hayes. As if forgetting him was an option. She could still see him standing in the doorway of the Irish pub in Boston, grinning at her.

  “Ten-dollar cover, gorgeous,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. She was just off the plane and had arrived at the pub where Becca had arranged for them to meet. Becca had just met Levi, who was going to Boston University, and she had been visiting him as often as she could. This was Carlene’s first time in Boston, and, as usual, she wasn’t exactly flush with cash. The gym brought in decent money, but her father was so nervous they would spend it all that most went into savings and bonds and retirement accounts. Carlene was surprised Becca would pick a place with a cover. She knew Carlene’s situation with money.

  “For the band,” the man said. His smile looked like an apology. He was cute, wearing a soft brown scarf that matched his eyes. She thought he looked familiar, but she couldn’t think for the life of her why. And she wasn’t going to come out with “don’t I know you from somewhere,” so she didn’t say anything. When he spoke, it sounded like a thousand flutes.

  “I love your accent,” Carlene said.

  “T’ank you,” he said. “I’ve been practicing it a long time.” He winked and she flushed. She dug in her purse and took out a tenner.

  “Are they any good?” she said.

  “Let’s see,” he said. He held the bill up to the light. She laughed.

  “I meant the band.”

  “Ah right, the band,” he said. “They’re fucking brilliant.” A line was starting to form behind her. She smiled again, and then before common sense could stop her, she snatched the money back and wrote her phone number on it before heading into the bar. Becca was already there, and soon they were so caught up in conversation, Carlene didn’t even think about the guy at the door until someone asked the bartender when the band was going to start. She’d never forget the look on the bartender’s face.

  “What band?” he said. “There’s no band tonight.” As his comment echoed down the bar, a rush of people, mostly men, headed straight for the Irishman at the door. Carlene got to the window in time to see him bolting down the street with at least five men after him. When the men came back to the bar, still fuming, she knew they hadn’t been able to catch him. To this day, it made her laugh. If only it had been the last time she’d ever laid eyes on Brendan Hayes. If only she hadn’t given her phone number to a con man. If only she hadn’t remembered why he looked familiar. If only, when he called her a few days later, she had hung up.

  Carlene put the article back in her purse and looked out the window. She wouldn’t think about the past. Although she was dying to tell Brendan Hayes that she’d just won a pub in Ireland. Some craic, eh Brendan? Just to see the look on his face. Just so he knew that something so wonderful had happened to her that even the worst memories of him couldn’t wipe the grin off her face.

  Her seatmate, a man in his fifties, leaned over. “Do you mind me asking what you’re so fecking happy about?” The question startled her.

  “What?” Carlene said.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” he said. “But ye haven’t stopped smiling since takeoff. At first I thought maybe there was something wrong with ye. You know, like off in the head. But I’m starting to think there’s more to it, and for the life of me I’ve never seen someone smile for five hours straight, especially on Air Lick Us or Kill Us, and it’s kind of annoying me, if you don’t mind me saying.” Carlene laughed. He shook his head. “Are ye on drugs?” he said. “I’ve never been a fan. But I might make an exception for whatever you’re on.” Carlene looked at him.

  “I won something,” she said. “I’ve never won anything in my life. I mean anything.” She leaned into him. “Until recently, I was the unluckiest girl you could ever meet.”

  “So what’d you win? The lottery?” he asked. She didn’t want to rush her story. It was too fun to tell. So she told him how whenever she reached for pennies dropped on the ground, someone else would get them first. She told him she never won the milk-line lottery in kindergarten, where you’d get to line up first on break and get the chocolate milk before they were all gone, and how in the third grade she entered a raffle to win a giant, ugly stuffed rabbit.

  Yes, he was bright orange, and wore a blue suit, and he was absolutely twelve feet of hideous, but she was madly in love with him. She scraped up twenty dollars—a fortune in those days—and she bought as many tickets as she could. Bobby Meijers, a ninth grader, won the rabbit. He immediately placed Mr. Orangey (as she had already named him) on the wheel-a-round on the playground and set him on fire. Carlene would never forget the smell of stuffed flesh burning. It even prompted her to start KETSA, Kids for the Ethical Treatment of Stuffed Animals. Nobody joined except Becca. Good old Becca. Her seatmate’s eyes were glazing over; apparently, he didn’t care what an unlucky girl she used to be.

  She could have told him the real bad luck she’d had in life. Her mother’s death, her father’s obsessive-compulsive disorder, Brendan Hayes, the things he’d done to her, the things she’d done for him—

  “I won a pub in Ireland,” she said.

  “What now?” Her seatmate was interested again. So she told him about the Irish festival. She told him about “CmereIwancha” and the table with the little white box and how she almost kept walking. She told him how when the call came that she’d won, she didn’t believe it. She made the man give her his number. She hung up. She called him. His story didn’t change. They’d just held the drawing in Ballybeog, and hers was the name they picked.

  “Didn’t I tell ye luck could change like the weather?” the man said. She still didn’t believe him. She called Becca. Becca didn’t believe her. She told her father. He didn’t believe her. She Googled Ballybeog, and sure enough she found newspaper coverage on the raffle, and the drawing, and there it was again, a teensy, tiny picture of her pub. It was adorable. White with blue trim, and an actual thatched roof. She saw her name. Carlene Rivers from Cleveland, Ohio.

  Then the call came in from the pub itself. She could barely hear the girl—it was hard to understand her accent on the phone, and there was so much noise in the background. She started to believe it. The girl said she would receive paperwork in the mail from their solicitor. It would take some time, and there were forms she had to fill out, including the application for the work visa, but the solicitor had done as much of the legwork as he could on their end and they would talk her through every step, and would she mind doing a few interviews for RTÉ? And then, then she started to think it was real.

/>   Now here she was, a month later, on a flight to Shannon, and she couldn’t stop grinning. Her father said she was breaking his heart, and Becca teased that she was entitled to a percentage of the pub because of the two dollars Carlene had to borrow. And it was still in the back of her mind that this just couldn’t be happening to her, because she wasn’t that lucky, but even through her doubts, she couldn’t stop smiling. Her jaw was starting to ache. The overhead speakers crackled and the pilot’s voice filled the cabin.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our descent into Shannon. If this is home, welcome back. If you’re just visiting, allow us to fill up your hearts and empty your pockets.”

  If this is home. Carlene turned away from her seatmate and placed a hand on either side of the little oval window. Through a parting of the clouds, she caught sight of the ground below. Not as green as she’d imagined, but real Irish ground. Iconic images of Ireland flooded her mind. Majestic cliffs rising above the ocean, her grandmother leaning back to kiss the Blarney Stone, ancient castles (the only castles they had in Ohio were White Castles), soaring cathedrals, Barry’s tea, Father Ted, and sheep.

  She saw the Claddagh ring her grandmother bought her when she was seven, her first birthday without her mother. She saw lines of people Riverdancing, she saw pubs, she saw edgy young musicians in need of a dollar and a shave playing on the street, she saw drunken fisherman singing at the top of their lungs. Even bars of Irish Spring soap floated through the conveyor belt of her mind. She’d be seeing leprechauns on the wing of the plane next. Before she knew it, her eyes had filled with tears. She could feel her grandmother and great-great-great-grandmother, and those wickedly handsome twins, and her mother sitting beside her. Welcome home, something inside her said.