by Mary Carter
Maybe she should run next door and get Joe. He would probably laugh at her excitement, tell her it was an old—what? What was this thing? Ireland didn’t have basements. And it couldn’t be called a cave, this was definitely man-made. Was this the beginning of a trench someone had dug to drain the water from the bog? But it wasn’t a trench; it was a tunnel, a passage. What if it was some kind of monument from the Stone Age, or some druid temple? The kitten mewed, a pitiful sound designed to pity her into getting her the heck out of this hole. “All right, Columbus,” she said. “We’re going.” Columbus, the discoverer; Columbus, the capital of Ohio; Columbus, her kitten. It was set, she had a name. And she had a secret passage just waiting for her to grow brave enough to explore.
After her third full hour of obsessing, it dawned on Carlene that maybe she could learn something about her property at the Ballybeog Museum. She stood in front of the museum door and said a silent prayer before entering. Her positive thinking must have worked—the door swung wide open. She paused in the entry. “Hello?” She heard the ticking of a clock, the squeak of floorboards. It smelled musty and somewhat lemony. She stepped in. It was a one-room museum, two hundred square feet of memorabilia. Carlene felt as if she were standing in her grandmother’s attic. She was alone in a space cramped with objects she could actually pick up and touch, if she so dared. This was what museums should be, not standing in line with a hundred seventh graders to look at something behind six-inch Plexiglas. Most museums left Carlene feeling overwhelmed, overstimulated, and totally useless because she knew all the facts, names, and dates she had just jammed into her brain would disappear the minute she stepped into sunlight. But here, she could breathe; here, she might even be able to remember.
Carlene stood irresolute, unsure what do first. Commandeering the center of the room, and the only thing under glass, was a model of the town. On the walls were photographs, mostly black and white, of Ballybeog throughout the years: IRA soldiers, businessmen, schoolchildren, and families. Shelves ran the circumference of the room, littered with artifacts: coins; bomb casings; keys to who-knew-what (keys to the castle?); old liquor bottles untouched, the alcohol coagulating inside the dusty bottles; medallions; small, defective toys, such as a china doll with long blond hair but only one blue eye.
The room also contained a small desk. Shoved in the farthest right corner, it was cluttered with books and papers, and a chair. On the chair sat a purse. Someone was around and would be back any second. They were the trusting sort, either that or they were convinced no one would come in while they were gone. It must be nice to live in a place where you felt free to leave your purse open on the chair. Carlene was disappointed. Being alone in here made her feel like she was trespassing, and she was hoping to find someone around to tell her if they knew anything about underground structures in Ireland. She had to be careful; she didn’t want anyone to know she’d found one on her property. It was her delicious secret for now.
Unfortunately, the folks in Ballybeog seemed to have an insatiable curiosity for every move she made. She would have to proceed carefully with the chitchat, or “chin-wagging,” as Riley called it. She stepped over to the model of the town and read the placard. BALLYBEOG, 1592. She loved the miniature replica of the walled town, showing all four original “gates” or entrances. A brochure next to the model provided the basic information she already knew: The town was invaded by the Normans, the Vikings, Cromwell, and the Black and Tans. And like the twins had informed her that day in the abbey, French priests. They truly had survived it all. Carlene was thrilled there was still so much of the medieval town intact.
The castle still stood in the center of the town, along with the remains of the abbey, and the still-standing Bally Gate. The model showed that in the original town square there was a church with a large Celtic cross. The original church must have been destroyed, for Saint Bridget’s was now on the outskirts of town. Carlene had visited the church on several of her explorative walks. It was a gorgeous place of worship with a soaring steeple, exquisite stained glass, and a cemetery in the back with a mixture of new and old graves.
For some reason, Carlene assumed she would find only ancient graves, as if in her mind nobody in this sweet little town was still dying, still being buried. The new graves saddened her, the older ones fascinated her. Carlene turned her attention back to the church shown in the model. According to the brochure, the town square was where residents used to gather to buy butter, hay, and potatoes, as well as catch up with the news and gossip of the town. Carlene peered down at the model. Sure enough, down a small alley just off the center of town was a public house, Ballybeog’s first pub. Carlene wished she could go back in time, walk into that pub.
Carlene moved away from the model and turned toward the door. A mannequin stood in the farthest corner of the room. It was terribly thin, even for a mannequin, and dressed in rags. It must represent a famine victim, Carlene thought. Ballybeog had a gorgeous public park dedicated to the victims of the famine. It was memorialized with a stone monument, underneath which was a mass grave. Carlene stared at the mannequin as she made her way out. It gave her the creeps, and little pinpricks of fear sprang up and down her arms. As she passed, the mannequin moved its eyes. Carlene screamed.
“I frightened ye, did I?” It was the palest, skinniest woman Carlene had ever seen. She had caved-in cheeks and dark hair peppered with gray, and a brown dress that hung on her body as if it were draped over a mop. Carlene couldn’t answer—she was still trying to catch her breath, her heart was still in her chest. The woman had almost given her a heart attack.
“You certainly did,” Carlene said. “I thought you were a mannequin.” She shouldn’t have said that. It just popped out of her mouth. Although it was better than what she’d been really thinking—I thought you were a famine victim. The woman looked almost pleased for having scared Carlene to death. “I just mean, you’re so still, and thin—which isn’t a bad thing—in America everyone wants to be thin, which is ironic, I know, since you think we’re all so fat. We are. A lot of us are. But we have anorexics too and they’re very popular. I’m not saying you’re anorexic, I’m just saying you would be very popular in America. Do you know Calista Flockhart? Never mind. She’s very, very skinny and she’s married to Harrison Ford, so there you go. You know? Raiders of the Lost Ark? Sexy, absentminded professor cum swashbuckling tomb raider? Speaking of tombs,” Carlene stepped forward, “I’m doing a little research project on underground passages. Do you have any information on that sort of thing?”
Now that she was closer, Carlene noticed a bruise on the woman’s face. It was faded, but there was a thin green line sunk into the skin below her right eye, casting a haunted shadow on that side of her face.
“There is an audio presentation that accompanies the model of the town,” the woman said. “Would you like to hear it?” Carlene so did not want to hear it. She wanted out of this room. She wanted out in the fresh air, she wanted to breathe without this woman staring at her, she wanted to run to Nancy’s and buy this woman a dozen doughnuts.
“Of course,” Carlene said.
“Would ye like a cup of tea?” If there was ever a time she should refuse a cup of tea in Ireland, now would be the time, for if there was ever the sort of Irish person who needed every drop of sustenance for herself, it was this woman.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” Carlene lied.
The tea was bland, a perfect accompaniment to the audio presentation. Carlene drank and listened to the monotone recorded voice for forty-five excruciating minutes. “Thank you,” Carlene said the second it ended. “I’d better be going.”
“It’s souterrains you’re interested in, is it?” the woman said.
“Souterrains?”
“Underground caves, passages, shelters,” the woman said.
“Yes,” Carlene said. “You’ve heard of such things?”
“Of course I have,” the woman said. “Ireland has a wealth of mysterious places underground. Some
of the caves date back to the Bronze Age. But most of the structures are man-made. Nobody knows exactly why, or even when some of them were built. Some say they’re more recent—bomb shelters built by the IRA, but others say the IRA simply found these underground structures already built. Which could mean they were made by the Vikings, or the Normans. Others think they date much later in time and were simply constructed during the famine as cold storage to preserve food.”
“Wow,” Carlene said. “Are there a lot of them?”
“I had a book somewhere,” the woman said. She moved over to the desk. Carlene couldn’t help but notice that she almost floated instead of walked, as if she were so light she was carried by the air. She glanced around at the desk, then looked at the ceiling. Carlene looked at the ceiling. It was a very low ceiling. In fact, she was starting to feel claustrophobic, as if they were already in an underground structure. “It’s probably up there,” the woman said, continuing to stare at the ceiling.
“Oh,” Carlene said. “I don’t see anything.” Nothing could have prepared Carlene for the shock of the woman’s laugh. It wasn’t exactly a warm sound, but Carlene didn’t think her capable of it nonetheless. The woman walked over to the farthest wall and pointed out a small string hanging from the ceiling.
“There’s a storage space up there,” the woman said. “But it will take me a while to go through it.”
“No problem,” Carlene said. “Maybe if you come across it, you can drop it into the pub.” And I’ll feed you a hundred cheese toasties.
“I’ve never touched an alkie holic drink in me life,” the woman said.
“I can give you a mug of tea,” Carlene said. And a hundred fucking cheese toasties.
“I’ll let ye know,” the woman said.
“Please do,” Carlene said. “I’m really anxious to read the book.”
“And why would that be?” the woman asked. Carlene was surprised by her bluntness.
“I’m having a trivia night at the pub,” Carlene said. “I’m hoping to stump them with unusual questions about the landscape of Ireland.” The minute it was out of her mouth, Carlene knew she had to do it. The lads would love a trivia night, and it was the perfect cover to ask a million questions.
“I see,” the woman said. “I’ll have a look for it, then.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Carlene said. The woman smiled, although it never reached her eyes.
“Mind yourself,” the woman said as Carlene went out the door. Eat something, Carlene thought.
“You too,” she said instead.
CHAPTER 24
Trivial Matters
Dear Becca,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Of course I haven’t drowned in the Irish rain, nor am I “sinking into a bottle.” And no, I don’t need any of my buddies in the gym to come and kick some Irish ass, but thanks for the offer. I’ve just been very busy. Yes, still loving the bar business. Congratulations, that’s wonderful news about Shane, I had no idea there was such a thing as Baby Menses.
Love,
Carlene
P.S. How’s my dad? Have you seen him? Talked to him? It’s been so hard to get him on the phone!
Dear Carlene,
It’s Baby Mensa, not Menses. Obviously you were never a candidate, ha-ha! Sorry to nitpick, but I just can’t have you going around saying that! I don’t know what to say about your dad, I think he’s kind of lost without you.
Love,
Becca
Riley was in a chatty mood. Apparently, he’d recently come across a Scottish man in a kilt, although where or when, Carlene couldn’t quite understand. Riley was slurring his words more than usual lately, even before finishing his first drink. “They have to have drawers under them kilts,” he said. “What if they’re going over a hill and there’s a big wind?” Carlene nodded in agreement. She did a lot of nodding and smiling these days.
She still hadn’t seen Ronan, but she wasn’t obsessing over him. She visited the underground passage almost daily. She’d yet to make it more than a few feet into it. Every time she tried to crawl farther, she was absolutely seized by a feeling of terror. Was that how her father felt most of the time? Terrified? Was that the demon he tried to chase by counting, and pacing, and preparing? The next time she talked to him, she would bring it up, see if they could talk through their fears. She would tell him she loved him, try to get him to commit to a visit. She really wanted him to come for Christmas, even though he’d mentioned her coming to Ohio to celebrate. She felt guilty, but there was no way she was going to miss her first Christmas in Bally-beog. She still had a few months to work on him.
Even Sally seemed in good form lately. She had dropped all veiled threats about Ronan. And, as usual, the regulars were—well, regular, and always good company. Things were changing too. Carlene had booked a trad band for Sundays as well as instituted quiz night on Thursdays. Last Thursday had been the first one, and although it was just a small group, as predicted, the lads loved it.
They were good at trivia, and competed passionately for the prize—Carlene would rip up the bar tab of the winning team. In addition to tidbits from local newspapers, Carlene collected the trivia questions from an Irish pub way down south in County Kerry. They posted their past quiz night questions on their website for free. Geography, sports, history, music, and Dumb Things Americans Do were their favorite topics. Carlene always asked the questions; it was a surefire way of getting out of answering them. Even so, some of the boys found ways to dig at her, especially Anchor, who was a whiz at geography.
“Carlene wouldn’t want to answer that question,” he’d say. “It involves Asia. We know Americans don’t learn about the world in school.”
“And you did?” Carlene said.
“Try me.”
“What’s the capital of Ohio?”
“World geography,” Anchor said.
“Wrong,” Carlene said. “It’s Columbus.” And then, because she couldn’t think of any world geography questions to stump him with, she moved on to the next round of questions. “Which has the highest mountain: Earth or Mars?” Carlene blanched. She didn’t even know Mars had a mountain. Although she would have guessed Mars anyway, because that’s what you do when you’re faced with such a question, you pick the most outlandish answer, and she was right, of course the answer was Mars. She had to come all the way to Ireland to learn there was a mountain on Mars. Damn her American education! The next question, thanks to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, she would have gotten right. Who was the Godfather of Soul?
“James Brown,” all the lads shouted at once, disgusted at her for such an easy question. The third one was also a winner. Thanks to his sexcapades, Carlene knew Tiger Woods’s real name was Eldrick. “Which country is bordered by both the Atlantic and Indian oceans?” Both teams wrote the answer easily. Carlene silently cursed her American upbringing. A slew of geography questions followed, and she felt smaller with each one. Which country had eight of the ten highest mountains, which area in the Pacific means “many islands,” which country beginning with a “T” has a shoreline on the Andaman Sea?
Sometimes she knew the trivia questions when they didn’t. “On which street did Bert and Ernie live?” Stares all around. “Sesame Street!” She said it with great snobbery, pride, and one of those little fist pumps she’d often see golfers do after a great shot. Danny knew Elvis died in 1977. Carlene learned it took the famine ships four or five weeks to reach America from Ireland. Snooker was invented in India by British soldiers. The two teams were tied. Anchor grabbed the list and turned the questions on her.
“Clean, jerk, and snatch are terms used in what activity?” he asked.
“Bartending,” Carlene answered. She got several laughs, Anchor got claps on the back.
“We can guess who clean and jerk are,” Ciaran said, jabbing his thumb first to Collin, and then to Anchor. “But I’m afraid, pet, you’re the only one with a snatch in here.”
“Are ye
fecking saying I look like a bloke?” Sally said. She was perched on her usual spot behind the bar reading a magazine. She spread open her legs and rubbed her hand on her thighs. Carlene was grateful she was wearing jeans.
“Fine,” Ciaran said. “My apologies. Two snatches in the room.”
“Don’t ye fucking call it a snatch,” Sally said. “It’s a fanny.”
“What?” Carlene said. “Fanny means ass.” Sally laughed.
“Ah right,” she said. “I forgot you Yanks call it that. We call our—snatch—a fanny. You call your arse a fanny. I met these Yanks once and one turned around and showed me her arse and asked me if her fanny looked big. I was like—‘Turn around and let me have a look at it.’ ” Sally covered her mouth and rocked back and laughed and laughed. Carlene and the lads had no choice but to laugh with her.
“How many terms are there for the female genitals?” Eoin asked. “Not as many as for men, do ye think?”
“Let’s make a list,” Danny said. They were off and running. Pussy, vagina, cunt—which launched a discussion about how Irish men often called each other cunt, which had nothing to do with a woman, and how offended Americans were by this, but it was the intention, and their intention was simply an affectionate slag on each other—snatch, fanny, gee-bag (which Carlene had never heard of and didn’t interrupt for clarification), beaver, love tunnel—
They got stuck and switched genders. “Go,” Danny said. Pecker, dick, cock, sword, rod, penis, pole, willy, staff, pencil—
Carlene took the time to wash the glasses, leaving them to their male bonding, although Sally would often join in with a new addition, said loudly and proudly at the top of her lungs. Apparently, it was still a tie.
“One more question,” Collin said. Collin wasn’t holding the list of questions. “For the tie-breaker,” he added.
