by Cd Brennan
“I used to tinker with cars when I was younger,” Phil said. “What’s wrong with it?”
Gillian shrugged. “That’s the thing. I can’t figure it out. And there’s not too much to those old motors. No computers or anything to work around. I’ve replaced almost everything on the damn thing, and it still won’t go. It’ll fire up, but then it sputters out.” She’d pumped any extra cash over the last two years into the car. She’d eaten crap ramen noodles at college, created “casseroles” with cream of mushroom soup and saltine crackers, just so she could save to fix this fucking car. But she loved it, and she was determined. Plus, it was the last project she and Andrew had worked on together, and he’d want to see it finished.
“Plenty of gas?”
“Quarter of a tank.”
“Spark plugs?”
“New.”
“Air filter?”
“Check. Also, new.”
As if to engage her father again, Phil asked. “Have you taken a look at it yourself?”
“I’m a plumber, not a mechanic.” Her father rose, hiking up his pants. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a leak.”
When her dad was gone, Phil asked, “Still not taking it well, huh?”
Gillian kicked at the grass. “He doesn’t like to hear Andrew’s name spoken. Puts him in a bad mood. Seems wrong to me, but I’m just the daughter, so what do I know?”
“Men deal with things in their own way.”
She rolled her eyes. “I guess.” She thought of Padraig. She didn’t know the full story, but he was in some sort of denial as well. The pain meds. Only when he was away from the sport’s complex did he seem like another person. Almost happy. At least fun to be with and more lighthearted than when he was in rugby mode.
“Let me get under that hood and have a look.”
Gillian popped the lever on the inside and walked around the car to join Phil with the hood up. He wiggled the leads on the battery then asked for a socket wrench to remove a spark plug. Eyed it, then tightened it back in. He didn’t bother with the filter, but ran his hand down the hoses from the spark plug leads to the distributor, pinching along each one as he went. “Those look solid.”
“And new,” Gillian repeated.
He unclipped the distributor cap and removed the part, the cables still attached. “Ah, here is your problem.”
Gillian’s heart leaped out of her chest. “Seriously?”
“See this here.” He ran his finger on the inside of the plastic cap, showing her a thin crack spreading the width. “You have a cracked distributor cap. That’s going to interfere with your spark.”
“No way. We replaced that new.”
“Well, if it sat for a while in the elements, it could have cracked again.”
Her dad had walked out to join them at the front of the car, handing Phil an old rag. Gillian was ecstatic. “Phil here has figured it out!”
“I see that.” Her dad still seemed sad. The deep creases around his face, the dark circles under his eyes spoke of the pain he still held close. Only in his late forties, he had aged to a man twice that. “Why don’t you let me buy you that last part that you need?”
“Really?” She swallowed the tears that wanted to surface.
“I know you are working hard to get your practice going…”
She hugged him, a big squeeze around the waist. “That would be awesome, Dad.”
Chapter 16
As the team returned in pairs and groups back to the locker room, Del approached Padraig and swatted him on the back. “Not too bad of a game there, Irish.”
He grunted. What a lie. He’d played better when he was in secondary school.
“So are you coming along with me and Rory to the social?”
He looked over Del’s head for Gillian, but she had gone, most likely to rub down one of the lads in the locker room. The thought was enough for Padraig to bite his bottom lip, fuck slipping out on a forced breath.
Del turned to follow Padraig’s gaze, but there was nothing to see. Only the boys and their families, huddled together to collect folding chairs and coolers full of drinks and homemade sandwiches. He grabbed Padraig’s arm and started walking. “Be good for ya, mate, to get out and socialize with the team.”
It was the last thing Padraig wanted to do. “Maybe. We’ll see how I feel after a shower.”
“Nope, no time for a shower. We’re leavin’ in five. You can have a swim in the river when we get there.”
“Didn’t bring my togs,” Padraig said.
“Just wear your rugby shorts. No one’s gonna give a shit.”
At his hesitation, Del added, “I’m sure Gillian is going to be there. In a bikini. All the boys gettin’ a good view of—”
Padraig glared him down. “All right, I’ll go.”
Del nodded his head in a knowing matter, a smirk on his face. “Okay, so let’s go.”
Instead of heading toward the big lake, they headed inland. Padraig wasn’t about to ask but was glad when Rory did. “Where’s this place at?”
“On the river. A bunch of the old boys bought a cabin for the club’s use.”
“I think they’re called cottages here,” Rory said from the backseat. He had unbuckled and leaned forward between the two front bucket seats.
“So if they have a second house, they call it a cottage, while the rest of the world, their cottages are their houses.” Padraig hmphed.
“And then they travel way over to Scotland and Ireland to visit our cottages, as if it was the best shit they’ve ever seen.” Rory laughed.
“Don’t be too hard on the Yanks, they’ve got their hearts in the right place,” Del defended as he turned left off the main road. He held up a piece of torn paper with scribble on it, and Padraig realized he was following some sort of directions. “Look for a sign that says River Pitch.”
“I thought we were going to Spider Lake?” Rory asked.
“Mate, I’m just reading the directions that Shano gave me. Said it was on this road.” The road was narrower but still paved with woods closing in on both sides. The smell of earth and green was fierce, the air thick with oxygen that filled Padraig’s lungs as he took a deep breath.
Although not entirely sold on Traverse City, he could see the beauty in this part of Michigan. Small houses, or cottages, periodically broke out of the trees, a mailbox on a post at the end of the drive, or a cabin or house name on a painted board.
When Del slammed on the brakes, Padraig lurched forward, Rory half in his lap from the back seat. “This is it.”
He took another sharp left and they trundled over a set of railroad tracks, and immediately after the bumpy dirt came to a T-junction, a house visible to the right and a longer road filled with potholes on the left. They took the one on the left, Del barely slowing to accommodate for the rough terrain. Padraig’s head hit the roof of the car at each howl of delight from Rory as they dipped and jolted back up again.
No number of growls or swear words at Del could slow him down. He was on a mission for the drink.
The cabin was actually a couple buildings, a small main house and another low rectangular building off to the side. Cars were parked haphazardly in the grassy area in the middle of the circular drive. Del did the same, driving the car into a spot in the middle, barely cramming the junker in between another vehicle and a large wooden sign of some sort. The area surrounding the clearing was heavily wooded. Birch, Padraig knew, from when Gillian had pointed out some of the different trees in the area.
When Padraig opened his door, it smacked against the sign post.
“Hey, don’t hurt my girl,” Del snapped.
“Well, you didn’t exactly leave me much room.” Padraig squeezed his large frame out of the wedge the open door had created, his knee banging painfully against the metal edge as he tried to hop on one foot to maneuver the other leg out. When he closed the door, he came face to face with a memorial plaque dedicated to Blues players. He scanned it briefly, then came to an
abrupt stop. Andrew Sommersby. Any relation to Gillian? What were the chances? Perhaps an uncle since Padraig knew her father was still alive, but she hadn’t been forthcoming about much of her past now that he thought about it. Actually, they almost always talked about Padraig.
“C’mon, let’s have a quick look around.” Del pointed to a small narrow building on the left with a sign that read Blue’s Clubhouse. “Must be the real deal.”
Padraig dipped around the post to follow Del. A couple young kids came running around the corner of the main cabin, squealing at the top of their lungs. The one in front carried a rugby ball, the other chasing, a determined look on his face.
Rory waved him and Del off and continued to a covered barbecue area, a wood box beside it with flamingos painted on the front. Coach stood with tongs in hand that he waved precariously close to Josh’s face as he spoke animatedly with the young flanker. Smoke billowed from the barbecue, and the pleasant smell of burning wood and cooking meat drifted over to Padraig with the shift of wind.
The property was in the bend of the waterway with the cabin facing one shore with the other beach off the parking lot, overgrown trees and shrubs along the edge that connected the two. Dick-n-Mouth were getting into oversized black tubes, like the ones for large lorries, or semis as they called them here. Damian squealed like a baby at the temperature of the water when he dropped his bum into the center of the tube and immediately shot out into the middle of the stream. He was lost from sight behind the trees. Where the property turned from mowed grass into untamed bush, there was a green road sign with one direction that read Forwards, the other Backwards. How ironic.
Del said, “You should give it a go later.”
Padraig shrugged. “Maybe.”
At the “clubhouse,” Del opened the door to a long room dominated by a pool table. A UFC match was broadcasting on an old-style telly, bulky on a metal stand just inside the door. Framed posters and team flags covered every inch of the rest of the walls, rising with the angle of the roof. On the far side of the room was a small bar and stools where the scrum-half, Mitch, was pouring a pitcher of beer out of a refrigerator keg, the young fly-half, Kevin, on a stool at the bar, a full pint in front of him. They greeted Del as they entered, but only nodded to Padraig.
He had to admit the clubhouse was a great space for after the matches. Triangular pendants hung high on the walls, and old rugby balls were stacked over the doorway to the bar with a framed red jersey above.
Mitch poured Del a beer. “One of the lads that played for the Blues now plays for the Eagles and donated his last World Cup jersey back to the boys. Pretty awesome, eh?”
Padraig nodded and Del said, “Nice.”
“Through there”—Kevin pointed out the back window beyond the bar where a small wooden shack with a door had been added to the building—“is the sauna. Va-va-voom.”
Intentionally leaving his face deadpan, he responded. “Not bad.” Not bad at all, actually. They should have something like this back home, a place where the team could hang out with no bother.
Del headed to the pool cue stand on the wall next to the bar stools. He pointed out the Steinlager All Blacks flag that was backdrop to the sticks, but Padraig had already noticed.
“Want to shoot a game? Just you and me. Mono-le-mono.”
“I think you mean mano a mano.”
Del waved his hand, dismissing Padraig’s correction. “Whatever.”
“Maybe later.”
Once outside, they followed the noise around the front of the cabin via the deck. A huge fire pit was holed out of the ground, long benches on either side. Chairs and people, family and friends of the players Padraig didn’t recognize, populated most of the deck and benches. As a woman with a small boy on her hand came out the sliding glass door from the cabin, Padraig craned his neck for any sign of Gillian but didn’t see her through the crowd.
Some of the chatter lessened as Padraig and Del approached the fire pit. It wasn’t his imagination. A few of the boys nodded, but luckily the awkward silence was filled by music blasted from a cabin window. Someone had propped an old radio in the sill, getting the party started.
A cold beer can nudged Padraig’s hand. He looked down to see Austin offering him up a beer from the cooler, dripping water, chips of ice still set in the rim. Padraig nodded. “Cheers.”
Another sweep of the lawn area in front of the river and no sign of Gillian. And her car wasn’t here. Unless she had ridden in with some of the other lads, which aggravated Padraig to think about, but it wasn’t like they were exclusive, or that anything had been determined between them at all. He could go inside, take a wander around as if he was having a peek at the cabin to see if she was there, but decided against it. He wasn’t needy.
Instead, he followed Del down to the water, popping open the lid on the can as he did. For a small club, their sponsors were generous. He doubted the club would survive without them. Where money wasn’t a worry with the clubs back home, unless you were renegotiating your contract for a bigger payout, here, the lack of funding seemed as much a priority as the game. A pity it was a concern at all.
But it didn’t seem to get any of them down. The camaraderie of the team was solid, even better than the professional teams he’d played with in Ireland, he had to admit. Remove the cash incentive and it only left passion. And good will. Rugby was a competitive sport back home, like the American’s football or basketball, players getting ready for selection since their youth. Here, the sport was still young, and with it came endless possibility.
The river ran a lazy swirl around two of the lads standing midstream, Jimmy with one of those corny hats that held cans on either side of his head, a straw contraption leading down to his mouth. And the other prop, Dave.
Both boys weren’t worth a feck for lifting.
Pulling off his shirt, Padraig then tossed it on a beach chair set up at the edge of the water. He stepped timidly down the bank onto one slimy moss-covered rock and then another, half submerged into the water. Cold. He waited a moment, getting used to the river’s temp up to his ankles, then stepped gingerly into the riverbed. Sand and muck oozed between his toes as he joined the others center stream.
“Hold this for me, Del, wouldya?” He handed his can of beer to Del, then dipped his arms into the water, rinsing up each limb and splashing over his shoulder onto his back. And then with a backward plunge, he submerged himself completely, rubbing his hands with vigor over his face. As his head breached the surface, a large object splashed right next to his head. He turned to see a rugby ball drifting quickly down the river, chased by Dave.
He looked back to the crowd of lads in the chairs, but only a few laughed. Del slapped him on the back. “Maybe they feel a bit threatened, too, mate.”
The ball sailed over his head and Del leaped to catch it in an awkward sideways swan dive. He popped up and shook himself off like a dog, then threw it back to Jimmy, who caught it with ease, then lobbed it forward like an American football. Only then did Del offer Padraig’s beer back to him, now full with river water.
“No worries, mate, it’s still drinkable. No alcohol abuse here.”
Padraig smirked, grabbed the beer, and proceeded to dump it into the river.
“Oy!” yelled Del.
Dave chimed in as well. “Not into the river. What ya trying to do, pollute our bee-you-tee-ful water ways?”
Padraig threw back over his shoulder. “What? You don’t pee in it?”
Jimmy had a sheepish grin on his face like that was exactly what he was doing.
When Padraig turned back toward Del, he had stepped farther downstream and had raised the ball above his head as if he was going to throw a lineout. In an instant, Jimmy and Dave raised Padraig out of the water, one on each leg. Del tossed the ball directly at him. In reaction, he tightened his leg muscles, which threw both the boys off balance, and he teetered forward as the ball passed over his head. Face first, he fell into the river on a belly flop.
He came up gasping. “What the feck are ye playin’ at?” He swung around and directed his rage at Jimmy and Dave, both wearing huge grins on their faces.
“It’s because you don’t trust ’em, Irish,” Del said from behind him.
Dave nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. Jimmy did the same in echo.
“Let’s try it again,” Del said.
“Fuck this.” Padraig waded toward the bank, but Del’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“O’Neale, that’s not a request.” His voice had turned serious, deep and unquestionable. Any trace of the light-hearted Del was gone and a different man stood in his place, the rugby ball cradled by his arm at his side. “Do it again.”
Padraig squared off with Del, his hands on his hips, water dripping from his soaking shorts down his legs to join the force of the river as it swam around him. Who was going to give? As a veteran player, Padraig knew you always followed your captain. That was what they were there for. But this was fucking ridiculous. As if Del could read his mind, he said in the same stern voice, “It will hurt a lot less to fall in the water than practicing the same move on the pitch.”
Pain. And less than a week of meds left. “Fuck it. Rory get us some beers for this shite.”
Rory loped off back to the cooler. Del’s face broke into a broad grin, his white teeth showing stark against his darker skin. And with that, Del was back, and Padraig was glad of it.
“Heads up!” Rory shouted. Out of the sky, beer bombs rained down into the water.
Two landed by Padraig, an echoing plop on each side of him. He dove his hands into the river, wrestling with the slippery cans but came out victorious. He readied to toss one to the other lads, but saw they had cans of their own. At least Del and Jimmy, Dave was still rooting his second out of a tangle of tree roots and foliage at the bank. When he finally rose with the second in his hand, Del cracked his open with a loud kish and raised it in the air. “The first one goes down fast, mates.”
