by Mary Carter
“Hello,” Carlene said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Ah,” said the priest in a booming voice. “You must be Carlene Rivers from America.”
“That’s me,” Carlene said. Was she supposed to wave? Shake his hand? Bow? None of them were possible while holding the tree.
“I’m Father Duggan,” he said.
“Hello, Father,” she said. She curtsied slightly, using the tree for support.
“What’s this now?” Father Duggan asked, pointing to the tree branch. The baby started to cry. Carlene could relate. Everyone was staring at her, awaiting an explanation.
“Well,” Carlene said. “I’m from Ohio. It’s an Indian name meaning ‘longest river.’ And the Native Americans had a tradition that whenever a baby was born, they would extend a branch to the parents. You know—as a way of welcoming them into the family tree.” There were murmurs all around. Joe crossed his arms, but said nothing.
“How lovely of you,” Father Duggan said. “Ah, isn’t that nice.” He looked around the room for confirmation. Several people nodded and said, “Ah, yes, ’tis, ’tis.”
“I shouldn’t have brought one so big,” Carlene said. “I’ll take it back.”
“I was going to suggest that m’self,” Joe said.
“No, no,” Father Duggan said. He tapped the baby’s father on the elbow and nodded at the branch. The young father and two other men stepped up and took the tree from Carlene, holding it in the middle and on both ends. They stood awkwardly and glanced about the shop, like men with a canoe and no river. The tree shook slightly in their hands and dropped a few leaves.
“Thank you,” the young father said. “Thank you very much.”
“Ah, it’s lovely,” the young mother said. “But where are we going to put it?”
“Why, in the wee fella’s room,” the father said. Carlene looked at the baby again. It was a boy? He looked like he was wearing a dress. She decided to keep this to herself.
“Why don’t you just set it in the back for now,” Joe said. “Until you have it all sorted out.”
“Ah, brilliant,” the father said. He and the men moved out to the back with the branch. The guests all parted to allow them through.
“Well,” Carlene said. “I’d better be on my way.”
“Will you be wanting mass times?” Father Duggan asked.
“Of course she will,” Joe said. “I’ll give her all the details. Right after we sort out some neighborly business.” He headed down the nearest aisle and motioned for her to follow.
Joe headed for the counter, situated against the back right wall. Behind him was a stool, a cash register, a newspaper, a plant, and a teakettle. Propped up on the counter was a cardboard cutout poster of a tanning bed. Across the poster in huge letters it read: I’LL BRING THE SUN TO YOU. Next to the tanning bed was a picture of a truck. Carlene stood awkwardly on the other side.
“Are you settled?” he asked her while tidying up behind the counter.
“I’m trying,” Carlene said. “I’ve had a few setbacks. Branches and leaves to clean up, a front door that no longer works.” Joe nodded as if that were all par for the course.
“You’ve got the Irish gift for blarney, I see,” Joe said. “I’ll give ye dat. A new branch for the newest member of the family tree.” He laughed. “Would you like a cuppa?” he asked. Carlene glanced at the kettle, which Joe immediately began fussing with even before she accepted his offer of tea. What she really wanted, what she would kill for, was a nice cup of coffee. Not instant, but freshly brewed, real coffee. She made a mental note to search her pub for a coffee machine. If they didn’t have one, surely one of the shops in town would sell coffeemakers? What was the Irish equivalent of Target? She had so much to learn.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” Carlene said. She vowed, no matter what, that she would never refuse a cup of tea in Ireland. It was surely bad luck to do so. While he fussed with the tea, she took in more of the shop. Even back here, shelves were built from floor to ceiling, and once again not a drop of space was wasted. When the tea was ready, Joe poured it into a china cup with red roses painted on the side, topped off with a gold rim. He served it on a tray with all the accoutrements: a tiny silver spoon, a sugar pot, and creamer. It was as if he was having tea with the queen. He pulled a folding chair out for her and opened a package of chocolate biscuits as she doctored her tea with milk and sugar. He waited for her to take the first sip. His gaze was so direct and patient, for a split second she was terrified he’d poisoned it.
“So,” he said. “Why do you want to own a pub in the middle of nowhere for?” The tea burned the top middle of her throat and she fought to swallow it.
“Oh,” she said with forced enthusiasm. “Who wouldn’t want to win a pub in Ireland?” She left out the “middle of nowhere” because she didn’t like the pub being in the middle of nowhere, when just ten miles or so out was a very nice stretch of somewhere. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime,” she said. What she didn’t say was that sometimes she was so sick of Cleveland, Ohio, and the endless, mindless repetition that her life had become, she would have been thrilled even if the raffle had been for a Popsicle stand in Siberia. She kept this to herself; you never knew how the locals were going to take something. Joe nodded, sipped his tea. She nodded, sipped her tea. He nodded, sipped his tea.
“You like being around drunks?” Joe asked.
“I like being around people,” Carlene said.
“Sloshers?” Joe said.
“That’s not exactly—”
“ ’Cause that’s what you’ll be dealing with. If you get any customers at all.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“Ah, no worries,” Joe said. “ ’Tis miserable weather, ’tisn’t it?” A light rain had been falling all morning. Carlene barely noticed it.
“I don’t mind,” she said.
“Ah,” Joe said. “ ’Tis gonna be lashin’ out of the heavens all week.” Carlene turned her attention to the wall behind the counter. It was the only space in the entire shop not filled with shelves. Instead, cuckoo clocks were hanging on the wall, all shapes and sizes. They appeared to be hand painted and made out of bronze. Carlene spotted motorcycles, cars, houses, and tractors.
“Those are great,” Carlene said. “You must really like clocks.”
“I like tinkering with time,” Joe said.
“You made these?”
“Ah, I did indeed,” Joe said. “With me own two hands and one heart.”
“They’re great,” Carlene said. “I don’t have many talents.”
“Well, you’ll soon be a publican. Or so you ’tink.” The parting comment was tagged on in such a soft voice, Carlene decided to ignore it.
“I should get going,” she said. “I just want to know what you’re planning on doing about my front door.” Joe gestured to his wall of clocks.
“Pick one,” he said.
“Thank you,” Carlene said. “But I’d rather have my door fixed.”
“Ronan will fix the door,” Joe said. “That was our agreement.” Carlene wasn’t sure she heard him right.
“Ronan knew you were going to cut down the branch?” she said. Joe just looked at her. “Was it his idea?” Carlene couldn’t think of why this would be, but something in her believed it, knew it to be true. His reptilian eyes flashed in front of her. He blamed her for losing the pub. Joe gestured to the clocks again.
“Ah, now, would ye go on and pick one?” When she didn’t make a move, he plucked one off the wall and handed it to her. It was a yellow bulldozer with a clock face.
“Really,” Carlene said. “I couldn’t.” Joe took her hands and set the clock in it. “It’s very unique,” she said.
“How much did that raffle ticket cost you?” Joe asked.
“I—”
“Twenty American dollars?”
“Yes.” It seemed a lot of folks around here had a habit of asking her questions to which they already knew the answer.
“Well, that clock will be worth ten thousand euros to ye,” he said. Carlene knew she was looking at the bulldozer a little too hard now—it was a nifty piece all right, but hardly worth ten thousand euros.
“You won’t find gold in her,” Joe said. “But by the time you give her back to me, I’ll give you ten thousand euros.”
“I don’t understand,” Carlene said.
“For the property,” Joe said. “When you’re ready. They raffled it off just to get my goat. This town doesn’t need another pub.” He pulled the advertisement for the tanning bed into his body. In the picture, the sun was shining. “ ’Tis miserable here, ’tis. You’ll see for yourself. You’ll be wantin’ a bit of the sun, ye will. This town doesn’t need another pub. They need Tan Land. They were fully expectin’ Tan Land. Nobody thinks you won that pub fair and square. They might not be saying it, but you can believe me, they’re all thinking it.”
“I see,” Carlene said.
“You’ve got nothing but a bog in the backyard, did ye know that?”
“I haven’t quite had time to check it out,” Carlene said.
“It would cost you a lot of money to fix up that swamp land back there. You’re not going to make that kind of money running a pub. Ah, but sure, try it. You’ll see what I mean soon enough. When you’re ready, give me the digger and I’ll know you’re wantin’ to sell. I’ll give you ten thousand euros, and we’ll have a solicitor draw up the contract. It’s not a fortune, mind you, but you won’t get any better offers, I’m tellin’ ye. Not with the old bog in the back. Ten thousand euros for twenty American dollars, now that’s a beauty of a deal, if you know what I mean.”
“I think it’s a beautiful piece of land,” Carlene said. Joe gave her a look that could only be translated as: You would.
“Americans. They like the promise of something for nothing, don’t they?”
“Thank you for the tea,” Carlene said. “And the clock. But I’m afraid you won’t be getting it back.”
“In time,” Joe said as she headed out of the store. “In time.” On her way out, Carlene stopped once again by the young parents, family, and friends, gathered for the christening. They were putting on coats, hugging each other, preparing to leave.
“Please come next door for another toast,” Carlene said. “The first drink is on me.”
“Ah, we couldn’t,” the young father said.
“You’ve been too kind already,” the mother said.
“I insist,” Carlene said.
CHAPTER 15
Three Black Swans
The next morning, Carlene’s first act of business was to hang an Opening Soon sign on her pub. She made it out of a rectangular scrap of wood she found on the back porch, along with a can of red paint. She sat on her little back porch, painting the simple words on the sign, excitement building with each curve of the paintbrush. When was the last time she even worked with paint? Grade school? This felt good, this felt right, maybe they were onto something in elementary school, maybe they should have warned her there would come a day when she would stop painting, and coloring, and cutting out shapes, and she wouldn’t even realize how much she needed the simple, creative pleasures in life. Maybe her third-grade teacher should have grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “Never stop doing this, do you understand? Do not stop.” Then for good measure, given her a good shake. It might have scarred her in the short term, but perhaps she would have been a famous artist by now, or at the least, a little bit more in touch with that warm, calm, floating feeling she was experiencing right now, in her slightly damp, woodsy, yeasty, paint-smelling porch.
In addition to simply making her feel good, she hoped the sign would build suspense, garner interest in the change of ownership. She thought about adding the phrase “Under New and Improved Management” just to piss off Ronan, but in the end she decided against it. She honestly didn’t know whether Ronan was in cahoots with Joe. She’d seen Ronan’s face when they spotted Joe up in the tree, and he’d looked just as surprised as she did. She was going to have to be careful as to whom and what she believed from now on.
The group from the christening the other day weren’t big drinkers, but they brought loads of sandwiches in with them and showed Carlene where her teakettle and accoutrements were. It was strange to think that everyone in town knew her pub better than she did, but she found it endearing that they were more than willing to show her the ropes.
She learned the young father was a solicitor and the mother worked in the hair salon in town. James was their first baby. The couple had courted in Joe’s shop, which was why they wanted to hold the last bit of the ceremony there. They stayed for several hours, and when they left Carlene was happy to have met new folks, but utterly exhausted. Despite it only being early afternoon, she’d fallen into bed and slept all the way through until this morning.
It was so nice to wake up without a hangover. She hummed as she came down the steps in her pajamas. Riley was sitting on his stool. She broke it to him as gently as he could that she wasn’t going to be open for a few days, and when she did open, it would be at three P.M., and not a second earlier. Riley slunk away like a child who was just told that Christmas had been canceled that year. She was going to have to survey the entrances to the pub; obviously, it had been too easy for him to get in.
Carlene made herself a cup of tea. There was something cathartic about encountering a barrage of the new and simple. Filling up an electric kettle, plugging it in, setting up the teacup, spoon, and saucer. When would this no longer be novel and beautiful? When would she simply do it with her eyes closed and forget there was once immense pleasure in watching a tea bag steep in a cup of hot water?
She planned on going to a grocery store later and buying instant coffee. It would have to do until she bought a coffeemaker. She wandered around her pub with her tea, checking every nook and cranny. She felt a little guilty, especially when it came to looking at photographs of smiling strangers. She felt like a voyeur, a stranger who had swooped in on a foreclosed house and taken it over with the previous owner’s possessions still sitting where they’d left them, where they’d lost them.
This was not my fault, she reminded herself. Someone had to win the pub, why not her? She would make the best of it. At least her intentions were good—she wanted to make her pub the best it could be, she wanted to fit in with the locals, she wanted to create a space where people felt welcome.
And she wanted Ronan right by her side, running the pub with her—
She didn’t know where that thought came from, and she didn’t like it. It was probably guilt, or sexual attraction, or fear of not being able to make it on her own, or loneliness. She did not need Ronan by her side. Although she wouldn’t mind looking at him up close every day, learning the nuances of his expressions, unraveling exactly what kind of man he was—
That was enough daydreaming. She had work to do. After finishing the sign, Carlene headed for the stairs with a skip in her step. She stopped dead near the pool table. Lying across it, like a body she thought she’d buried, was the tree branch. Yesterday, Joe had insisted the young father take it with him. By the time they left the pub, they’d apparently forgotten all about it. Either that, or they really didn’t want a tree in the wee fella’s room. Go figure. She would just have to deal with it later. For now, she wanted to explore the town while there was a break in the rain.
It was a grand fresh day, as she’d heard some locals say. The air was indeed crisp, smelling as if it were on the verge of rain.
Carlene loved that smell. She loved the scent of fresh grass and damp earth. Birds chirped and twittered all around her, and she could have sworn that even they had an Irish lilt. She didn’t quite have a plan worked out, other than to head down the road toward the main street and take in the sights. Major shopping might have to wait until she had a car, or maybe a wheelbarrow, but she could pick up a few bits and bobs in town. She wanted the folks of Ballybeog to see her face about town, to get used
to her as someone who shopped, ate, and waved, like everyone else. She’d show them she wasn’t a typical Yank, whatever that was.
Maybe she would buy a new outfit, since she’d brought so little with her. She could even get some new knickers.
Knickers, she’d said knickers. She’d barely been in Ireland and she was already picking up the lingo. Maybe she truly belonged here, although it might take more than saying “grand fresh day” and “knickers” to convince everyone else of that.
Rain boots, she would definitely buy some rain boots, her tennis shoes weren’t going to cut it. What did they call those boots? Wellies! Wellies and grand fresh knickers.
She waved to the cows and sheep in the fields, she waved to the farmer hauling pails out of his barn, she waved at a car whizzing by. The cows and sheep simply stared, the farmer lifted his head in a nod, and the driver honked. She was happy. Even the stones at her feet were exotic and new. She’d grown up across from a gravel pit in Ohio, and she’d never once found the stones exotic. Here in Ireland, everything was nicer than she’d ever known. She wanted to touch everything, memorize everything, love everything. Like the sky with its slapped-up patches of blue and gray, the purple flowers spilling over the hedges on the side of the road, and the miles and miles of limestone walls that bordered the rolling fields.
It was a pleasant walk and soon she was nearing the arched entrance to Main Street. Bally Gate, as she remembered from her reading—the only one of the four original gates that remained of the walled town. Did the folks who lived here know how lucky they were? How cool this was? Would her countrymen have torn down the soaring stone gate and replaced it with McDonald’s? Yellow arches for a stone arch? She hoped not, but it was a shameful possibility.
Passing through the gate, Carlene marveled at the history contained within its walls. They were the same stones that stood during the Norman invasion, and Cromwell, and the Black and Tans, and the potato famine, and yet here it was, still standing. She could touch it, feel its history beneath her fingertips, caress the wet, historic stone. She moved down the street, thrilled to be there, happy just to walk about and see the shops up close. Just ahead, she spotted Nancy’s Café. She was starving, and maybe she could get a cup of coffee. Just like at Joe’s, a little bell tinkled as she entered the café. She wondered if she should get a bell for the pub. If nothing else, she should put a bell on Riley.
