by Mary Carter
“We could make special cocktails,” Carlene said. “I’m also thinking of getting some nice bottles of wine for the pub.” She whispered it, just because she didn’t want to hear the men say “bollix” any more today.
“When can they come?” Carlene said.
“Leave it to me,” Sally said. “I’ll get it sorted.”
The next night, a series of loud bangs woke Carlene from a deep sleep. It wasn’t Wednesday. Since the keg incident, she’d never missed a drop-off. The driver, who at first said as little to her as possible, was now quite friendly, and had even taken to helping her roll the full kegs to the shed. There were a series of other deliveries as well: mini-bottles of soda, liquor, ice, napkins, you name it. But none of them came in the middle of the night, and none of them made this kind of racket.
It sounded as if someone was hammering right downstairs. Carlene crept out of bed and inched her way across the floor, afraid to make any noise. It was ironic, how quiet she was trying to be for the very loud person who had broken into her pub and was banging on something.
There was definitely someone down there. She was afraid to open the door. She grabbed her cell phone, opened the little window in her bedroom, and climbed out on the slanted roof. She slid about a foot before getting a grip. Her hands shook as she dialed. Please answer, she thought. Please, please answer.
“Hallo.” He shouted into the phone. Carlene could hear loud noise in the background, voices, music, glasses clinking. He was at a pub. Somebody else’s pub. For a second, she was irrationally furious, and almost hung up.
“Ronan,” she said. “It’s Carlene.”
“Are you okay?”
“No,” she said. “Somebody’s downstairs with a hammer,” she said.
“What?”
“I can hear someone downstairs—it sounds like they’re hammering something.”
“Somebody broke in just to hammer something?” Ronan said. “That’s gas.”
“Please,” Carlene said. “I’m kind of scared to death.”
“You in your room?”
“I’m on the roof.”
“Jaysus,” he said. “Don’t jump. I’ll be right there.”
“Be careful,” she said. “Take a taxi.”
“Bye awhile,” he said.
She stayed on the roof, hugging her knees, listening. It seemed quiet now, and she thought she heard the sound of a car door opening, then closing, then pulling away. She stayed on the roof anyway and wondered how things had come to this point. She had been joking the other day when she called herself a damsel in distress, but here she was on the roof, shivering, shaking, waiting for Ronan to once again come rescue her. How did someone get into her pub? Did the whole town have keys to the place, or what? She was going to have to think about getting an alarm system, which seemed like a very paranoid, very American thing to do. It was so hard to believe that her attack kitten just wasn’t enough to keep people away.
“Jaysus,” Ronan said. “You really are on the roof.” He stood in the yard, just below her.
“Where were you?” she said. She sounded like a hurt wife, but she couldn’t help herself. He was swaying slightly and grinning.
“Did you miss me, Miss America?” he said. “Is that what all this is about? Purposefully getting yourself stuck in bogs and up on roofs, making up some shite about hammering, just because you’re dying for a piece of this?” Carlene laughed, then started to slip.
“Whoa,” he said. “Steady.” Carlene tried to inch herself back up, but she slid even farther down the short, slanted roof.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” she said. Her feet pattered furiously as she slid, her palms scraped against the roof. And then there was the edge, and the grass, and Ronan, all staring up at her. It was a small house, and a short fall. She landed on her side. Instead of soft bog, she managed to slam into a patch of hard ground. Ronan didn’t move an inch, didn’t even make an attempt to catch her. He was laughing. He was laughing! Carlene was once again furious. A knight in drunken armor—some help he was. Was she hurt? Was anything broken?
“That was fucking brilliant,” Ronan said. He bent over at the waist, laughing, trying to catch his breath. “I wish I had a video of that,” he said. Carlene sat up and patted herself down. She moved her legs, wiggled her toes. She was alive. She stood, brushed herself off.
“Thanks a lot,” she said. She headed for the porch. Ronan grabbed her, pulled her back. His arm slid around her waist, his mouth found her ear.
“Wait,” he said. “There’s a madman running around these parts fixing things up while beautiful women are asleep,” he said. Carlene laughed.
“I heard a car pulling away,” she said. “I think they’re gone.”
“Maybe they’ll be back with a screwdriver,” Ronan said.
“Funny.”
They crept down the dark hallway toward the main room. Carlene wanted to show him how she fixed up the back porch, but Ronan wouldn’t let her turn any lights on. Despite his earlier teasing, he was deadly serious now and made sure she stayed a good distance behind him. He stopped midway, and she bumped into him. He put his hand out protectively.
“I smell sawdust,” he whispered.
“I do too.” They crept forward again, stopped where the hallway ended, and listened. Their eyes were already adjusted to the dark, and it didn’t take long to spot the new addition to the pub. There was now a gigantic plywood wall where the entrance to the bathrooms used to be.
“What the hell?” Carlene said. She ignored Ronan’s arms, trying to keep her back. She marched in and turned on the lights.
“I told you to wait,” Ronan said. “Fuck,” he whispered when the lights came on. The wall covered up the entrance to both bathrooms, and whoever had done it had used about a million nails to hammer it in. It would not be quick or easy to take down. Sawdust gathered on the floor below the handiwork. Splashed across it, in bright red paint, it read: GO HOME, YANK.
Ronan slipped behind the bar and fixed them both a drink. Carlene didn’t argue. She watched him work, easily reaching for glasses and bottles, stumbling only when he reached for something she’d moved to a new spot. Suddenly she felt guilty for changing the sign, and the porch, even though she had every right. He looked so at ease behind the bar, and the familiarity with which he touched everything touched her. He made her a drink with Jameson and ginger ale. She loved it. He leaned across the bar, smiled at her.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“In my pajamas,” Carlene added.
“In your fucking pajamas,” Ronan said. Carlene looked at the wall. Ronan kept his eyes on her.
“Joe?” she said. Ronan shook his head.
“Not his style,” he said.
“He climbed my tree and cut off a huge branch,” Carlene said. “Ruined my front door.”
“In broad daylight,” Ronan said. “In front of everyone.”
“True,” she said.
“And I don’t think he intended on the branch falling into your door,” Ronan said. “I think his eyesight and aim were a little off.”
“Okay, okay,” Carlene said. “Then who?”
“Hey,” Ronan said. He was still leaning on the counter, his face close to hers. “Hello,” he said when she met his eyes.
“Hello,” she said. He slid his hand across the counter and took her hand in his.
“You have the softest hands,” he said. I have a mushy heart too, she thought. Especially when I look at you.
“I used to wear a lot of gloves,” she said. He looked at her funny, and she laughed, and then before she could stop them, hot tears filled her eyes.
“It’s okay,” Ronan said. “I have that effect on women.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just miss my dad.”
“I miss mine too,” Ronan said. How dumb of her to say such a thing; she hadn’t been thinking.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Me too,” he said.
“I feel like I know him,” Carlene said. “From all the pictures, and all the stories, and I don’t know, it’s just like I can feel him here.” They were still holding hands, and Carlene was holding her breath, hoping he wouldn’t pull away.
“What’s your oul wan like?” Ronan said. Carlene didn’t know how to answer. She didn’t want her father to be defined by blue rubber gloves, and pacing, and ritualistic knocking. But she didn’t know how to talk about him without that. Did she tell him that in addition to a packed lunch he used to send her to school with industrial-sized bottles of antiseptic?
“He’s a character,” Carlene said. Ronan didn’t pry any further, and she was grateful.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” he asked.
“A National Geographic photographer and journalist extraordinaire,” she said.
“What happened?”
“I dropped my Polaroid camera in the Cuyahoga River,” she said.
“You what?”
“I was eating cheese fries, and my fingers got so greasy the camera slipped.”
“You eejit,” Ronan said. Listening to him call her an eejit with that melodic accent and huge grin filled Carlene with an inexplicable sense of joy.
“I was ten,” Carlene said.
“And that was it?” he said. “No more lions in the Congo?”
“No more lions in the Congo,” she said.
“Then what?” he said. “What was the next dream?”
“A vet.”
“The nursing sick animals kind or the fighting bad guys kind?”
“Oh, the fighting bad guys kind,” she said. “Definitely.”
“Deadly,” Ronan said. “I can picture you with a gun strapped to your chest. Of course, you’re topless.” She laughed, punched him on the shoulder. He grabbed that hand too, and now they were holding both hands. “So what happened?” he asked. “Did you drop your dog in the Cuyahoga River too?”
“I killed a hamster,” Carlene said. “I cried for six months.”
“What?” Ronan said. “You got a tiny scarf, like, and strangled the wee thing?”
“I fed him strawberry Slim Fast,” Carlene said. “He was kind of chubby and I thought the vitamins would be good for him.”
“How do you know that’s what killed him?”
“Well, he didn’t leave a note,” Carlene said. “But he died in a puddle of pink vomit.” She couldn’t believe it, she still felt horrible about it. “What did you want to be?” she asked. Ronan looked away. She waited.
“A publican,” he said. “Like my father.” He pulled his hands away. Great, Carlene thought. Nice question, Carlene. Perfect mood killer.
“And now?” she said before she could stop herself. He took his time making eye contact again, and when he did he held it for a long time. “Besides knight in shining armor,” she said.
“That’s very American,” he said.
“What?”
“All that ‘what do you do’ shite.”
“Sorry,” Carlene said. “You started it.”
“No. I asked you what you wanted to be when you grow up.”
“Well,” Carlene said. “I was just trying to ask you the same thing.” They slipped into silence. He pulled back slightly, but remained close. She liked looking at his face. He had a faint, thin scar above his left eyebrow. She wanted to touch it, lick it, skywrite with it. It was suddenly so quiet in the bar, she could hear them breathing. He was so beautiful. The muscles in his arms, the smell of his cologne, those gorgeous eyes. Should she tell him when she looked in his eyes, she thought primitive, and reptile?
“What?” he said.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. He looked at the wall and laughed. When she came back down, Ronan was standing on a stool in front of the wall, trying to pry it off with his bare hands.
“Ronan,” she said. “Don’t.” He tore into it like a madman. He’d taken off his sweater. He stood in his white shirt undershirt, and the muscles in his back flexed as he pulled on the wall. With a loud, splintering crack, a tiny portion of the upper righthand corner came apart in his hands. He turned to her with the piece of wood in his hands. Sweat ran down his face. When he opened his palm and let the piece of wood fall, she saw drops of blood on his fingers. “Stop,” she said. “We’ll get help.”
“I want it down tonight,” he said. Carlene pulled a stool over to him, stood on it, then reached for him. He stopped what he was doing. She put her hands on his face, ran them down his jawline. She moved in, and he let her. They stood on their stools and kissed, getting as close to each other as their balance would allow. After minutes of kissing, Carlene stepped down and held her hand out. Ronan took it, met her on the ground, and pulled her into him. He backed her up against the wall and kissed her with a gentler version of the passion he’d used to tear at the wall. She broke away, grabbed his hand, and started for the stairs. He stopped in the middle of the room.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe I’m not good at this,” Ronan said.
“Good at what?” she said. “Sex?” First, she doubted it, and second, she was surprised he would confess that kind of a fear.
“No, Miss America, not sex. Relationships.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Maybe it’s all downhill from here,” he said. “You know—after the mind-blowing sex.”
“Maybe it is,” she said. “But maybe it’s not. Maybe it could even be something great.” But he was already backing away. He went behind the bar, opened a cabinet she didn’t even know was there, and took out a blanket and pillow.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I’m sleeping down here,” he said. “Until I can change the back locks and you get a security system in.”
Then I’m never getting one, she thought.
“You can sleep upstairs. With me.”
“No,” he said. “I can’t.”
“We don’t have to have sex,” she said. “We can just sleep.”
“There’s not a chance of me getting in that bed with you and not having sex,” Ronan said. “Now go on with ye, get upstairs.”
What a fool she was. Throwing herself at him. Now here she was, alone, while he was right downstairs, underneath the pool table. Here she went again, falling in love with someone who knew how to pull her in with one hand while pushing her away with the other. She was so forward, he must think she slept around a lot. Oh God, was that what he thought? Did he have a small penis, or was he too drunk to get it up? Or was he just not that into her either? She wasn’t going to turn into Sally, pining after a man who clearly didn’t want her.
That settled it. She would never do this again. She was glad he said no. She would not go downstairs and slip in next to him, press up against him, kiss the back of his neck, slip her hands down his chest, kiss him all over, work her lips down his body. And even if he’d totally rejected her, it was still good to know he was nearby, keeping an eye out for her. Even so, it took forever to fall back asleep, as if a vital part of herself had been torn off and was sleeping downstairs underneath a pool table.
CHAPTER 22
They’re Called Sheep
Word spread about the wall. Declan was the first to arrive. He stood back, photographed it, examined it, and then did his best to distract Carlene. He made her a cheese toastie. He poured her a pint. He called her pet, and darling, and chicken, and luv a hundred thousand times. Next, Mary McBride arrived. She hugged Carlene and made sympathetic noises, fussed with her hair, drank tea, and fussed over Carlene some more. Then the half dozen arrived. They brought cookies, steak pie, and bags and bags of crisps. Clare and Liz paid her the most attention of all, and Carlene wondered if Ronan had spoken to them despite his promise.
Father Duggan was next. He prayed over the wall. He assured Carlene that he would mention this atrocity at m
ass, insist that whoever was intimidating her would immediately cease and desist. She agreed to come to mass soon.
Then people from the town, armed with food and sympathy, spilled into the pub. Nancy came bearing cappuccinos. The schedule for tearing down the wall was delayed, and delayed, because everyone wanted to have a gawk at it. It was great for business, and suddenly women were in the pub too. Unfortunately, it meant they had to traipse upstairs to use her personal bathroom.
Over the next few weeks, business continued to be so good that Declan started to pitch in along with Sally. Ronan, she noticed, wasn’t coming around as much, but Carlene was too busy with customers to obsess. Even Joe stopped in now and again to assure her he had nothing to do with putting up the wall. He did, however, inquire whether it was legal for customers to use her upstairs bathroom. He was quickly tossed out by a few eavesdropping drinkers.
Mike the guard arrived one day. He photographed the wall, stayed for a wee drink, and as he said, “documented everything.” Sue Finnegan, owner of the little pub Carlene had been meaning to check out, came, along with a few other pub owners in town, making a speech that all publicans needed to band together. Carlene was shocked how quickly everyone rallied around her. Whoever had been vandalizing her had actually done her a huge favor. She hoped, whoever they were, they had learned their lesson.
Finally, a date was set to take down the wall. A band was hired, and Declan arranged catering from several women in town. The place was packed. The band played Irish music while her regular lads prepared to begin the destruction. At the last minute, Eoin suggested they cut doorways into the wall for the bathrooms, but leave the rest of the wall up. He wanted to turn it into a mural, and Carlene loved the idea. They painted “Mna” and “Fir,” the Irish words for Male and Female, above the respective doorways. “Go Home” was painted over and replaced with “Stay,” so that the wall now read: STAY, YANK.
