“We gotta make a video, you say?”
“I...I think so...?”
“We can have Ursula sing the jingle I wrote.”
Jed cringed. “Yeah, I guess so...”
“Hmm! I was gonna yell at you some more, but now I don't know what to do. That might be a good idea. I don't know. Lemme ask Louella what she thinks. She and Ursula would have to go on TV with us. And you know how Lou always wanted to be a movie star.”
So the next day they made the video and sent it off. A week later they were told they had been rejected. Jed had cried as he deleted the email.
But now...! It was true, the show would be difficult. They regularly ridiculed businesses. It was a much harsher version of Shark Tank and Dragon's Den, more like the Gong Show. Instead of, “I'm out!” the catchphrase to entrepreneurs they didn't want to back, the Killer Investors yelled, “Get lost!” The female one always said, “Get lost!” apologetically, but the others weren't so nice.
Jed lit a second cigarette, then a third. Then he went back into the kitchen. The house seemed strange, different. As if another presence were there. Muffins yelped from upstairs. Alarmed, Jed tried to make his way through the kitchen, but the Baileys was working its magic and it seemed a chore to maneuver through the stools and the chairs and around the island. And then Muffins came bounding down and raced towards Jed. She was skittish and jumpy and seemed as if she were eager to tell Jed something. But Jed, of course, couldn't understand what the dog was trying to say, though he had once seen Dr. Doolittle, the original with Rex Harrison, not the Eddie Murphy one, with Ursula and the kids at a drive in back in the days when they had them and had quite enjoyed it. Then the front door rattled, and Ursula came flouncing in.
“Jeddd!” she squealed with glee, racing towards him. She flung her purse to the counter and raced to him, arms wide. Jed took a step back in alarm. She smothered him as she jumped up and down. Jed almost toppled over. “Ye'll never credit it, Jed! I've just won $1000 at the bingo! I kyanny believe it!”
She let him go and beamed at him, eyes shining with delight.
“On a Stamp and Four Corners, it was!” She flipped open her purse and tugged out wads of money. She threw them in the air.
“Wow!” Jed said, watching the bills flutter onto table, the floor and the drying beef strips. “That's fantastic! And, double wow! You know what else happened, honey? Someone pulled out of Attack of the Killer Investors! They asked us to take their place. Tomorrow!”
“Ye're joking!” Ursula squealed with glee.”Och, Jed! Marvelous, so it is!”
She wailed and grabbed his hands, just as the twanging opening bars of Anne Murray's “Could I Have This Dance”came from the radio.
“And Jed! It's wer song!”
Jed was shocked. It was their song! They sang it on stage at karaoke together every second Friday at the roadhouse down the rural route. Lightning was striking right, left and center. But this was good lightning. Anne Murray began to sing.
“Och, it's perfect,” Ursula whispered, her lips close to his right earlobe. “It's a sign from the Lord, Jed. Things are gonny be alright.”
Jed looked down at her and smiled. Ursula wrapped her arms around his bulk. He slid his right arm around her waist, took her left hand in his right and held it up. And they slowly waltzed there on the kitchen floor atop the tens and twenties. It there had been more lighting in the kitchen and if the angles had been just right their wedding bands might have sparkled.
Jed sang the chorus when it came. “Could I have this dance...for the rest of my life?” He sang baritone. Tears welled in Ursula's eyes. Her heart flooded with love. Her heels scraped against the tiles. Muffins scratched at their feet. Ursula gave the dog little kicks. Could she have that dance for the rest of the song at least? But the dog kept scratching. And then she barked. And kept barking. And then she ran away.
The song ended. An ad for panty liners began. Jed and Ursula parted. They smiled. They knew a memory had been made, filed away to be taken out again and again, forever. He would have told her he loved her, but she already knew. She didn't need to hear it. Jed turned to the beef jerky. Ursula stooped to pick up her winnings.
“Och, Jed! I'm trembling with that much excitement about that program! What am I gonny wear for the telly? And Slim and Louella are to be coming with us, aye?”
“Yeah.”
“I should ring her so we can coordinate wer outfits.”
“They should be here soon. I called them to let them know the good news. We have to practice our pitch.”
“Why didn't ye tell me? The state of me hair! And I've to run meself a bath.”
“You know you have to sing the jingle before the millionaires, right?”
“Aye, I'm well aware. I'm heartscared, but, and only because I feel like a daft eejit singing it. All them cameras! Still, there be's piles more people jammed into that church on Christmas Eve when I be's singing in the choir. And what's all this palaver about a pitch? Doesn't that be about baseball?”
“Me and Slim have to make sure our numbers are in order. We need to offer the Knights a percentage of the business that makes sense based on our projected earnings for the next three years, taking into account that the money we ask for will cover all the extra expenses we need to pay for what we plan to make the business more successful. To branch out, future lines and all that. It needs to be enough of a percentage for them to be interested, but not enough so that we'll lose the desire to wake up each morning to run the business.”
Ursula's jaw was slack.
“I'm sorry, Jed, but I haven't a clue what ye're on about. Anyroad, it's gonny be ye and Slim what does all the talking. Sure, nobody understands a word I say here in the States, and I haven't a head for numbers in any event. After I sing, Louella and me's just to stand there and smile, aye? Can I help ye in some manner, way or form right now?”
“No. I've just got to wait for the timer to go to turn the jerky around.”
“Right. I'm away off to run me bath, love. I think I'll use them special bath salts from the Dead Sea ye got me for me last birthday. Today be's a special day!”
She smiled. She reached forward and pinched Jed on the behind. He yelped, but he was happy. And then she left the kitchen.
The ads segued into “Elvira,” but Ursula was still humming Anne Murray as she made her way through the living room.
She loved Slim, but didn't know about this jingle of his. It seemed silly, but maybe that was she was used to singing hymns. But maybe Americans liked this type of thing. Who could say? She didn't know what Americans might like. She had lived amongst them now for almost more than half her life, and along the way she had bits of American culture she had embraced, ice cubes, for instance, and hot summers. With air conditioning attached. But this strange jingle? Would the investors like it? She'd soon find out!
Ursula frowned at some noise from upstairs. It sounded like a clanking with some panting and grunting. She shrieked as she stepped on what she thought was a human hand, but it was only Muffins' rubber bone. And then Ursula wondered what was wrong with the dog, and where she had gone. She stood and listened. She could hear nothing. Maybe it had been one of the raccoons. She passed the coffee table, then headed down the corridor. She placed her hand on the post, then climbed the stairs.
—and shrieked at the sight of Randaleen, halfway up the stairs, hands stretched up the wall, reaching for another ceramic head, a gym bag bursting with loot at her side.
“Jedddd! She's here!”
Randaleen pushed Ursula to the side and raced through the living room. All Ursula could think as she panted there on the stairs was that Randaleen's greasy hair didn't move an inch no matter how fast she was running.
In the kitchen, Jed shrieked at Randaleen as she shrieked at him, both just as scared of each other. Jed grabbed the bowl and threw it at her. The marinade sailed through the air and spattered on her back. She flung herself out the door and down the lawn. Ursula was at Jed's side as he roared
at Randaleen through the door. Randaleen reached the gate, jumped on her motorcycle, revved up, sped off down the road, and Ursula still marveled at her stiff hair—
and then there was a squeal of rubber and a scream from Ursula and a gasp from Jed as Randaleen crashed into Slim's Ford pick up as it rounded the corner.
CHAPTER 17
When Fionnuala had dragged her matted bleached locks from the greasy pillowcase, Paddy's side of the bed was empty, a tangle of slightly soiled bedsheets. He had risen two hours before to get to the plant. Her throbbing head was aware that she was facing the new gray dawn alone. She had two unexpected traitors to tackle: Lorcan and her body.
All these years, she had trusted them both to behave as they should. She had long ago given up expecting her body to defy the passage of time—a glance in the mirror, however scuffed, sufficed to let her know this had not happened—and decades of heavy drinking and sucking down the carcinogens and shoveling down carbohydrates, fats, both trans and saturated, preservatives and additives galore had slowly taken their toll. But, until yesterday, her body had always been able to function properly, just as Lorcan had always jumped at her every command. How things changed from one day to the next! Now Lorcan was abandoning her, and there was a horrid mystery illness attacking her from within. Her body was betraying her just as much as her beloved son. Both had to be dealt with. Lacking seven years of medical training, she would have difficulty tackling her body. Lorcan would be easier. But how? Her brain cells trundled.
She had slurped two cups of sweet and milky tea alone in the cold, damp kitchen, practiced a croaky, frail voice from the top of her throat for a few moments, then dialed Zoë Riddell's number to call in sick. No amount of pitiful theatrics down the line about a head hitting the concrete, children, infants and a toddler left defenseless in a deadly area of town, or a barrage of tests and blood samples could chip at Zoë's granite heart, so went Fionnuala's thinking.
“Mrs. Flood, Mrs. Flood, Mrs. Flood,” Zoë sighed down the line in an I've-got-the-patience-of a-saint manner. “Your daughter called in with a similar mystery illness just yesterday.” Each clearly articulated 't' of the woman's West Brit accent was like an awl in Fionnuala's ear. “You know your colleague Una's on holiday, and Rory is unable to cover your shift. He has a special seminar on in Belfast, something to do with database development. And if you recall, my dear, you yourself phoned in with a similar excuse the week before last. In much the same voice.” Fionnuala growled inwardly. She had forgotten her and Paddy's anniversary two Thursdays ago, and they had overindulged in the whiskey. She still couldn't find her belt. “Don't forget, Una will be back tomorrow, and then you will have three free days. Which coincide with the wedding, Do please have a sense of responsibility, dear. And speaking of responsibility, how is the wedding cake coming along? You haven't shown me anything yet, and, as I'm sure you know, everything else has been ordered and has arrived and been inspected and is ready to go. In my mind, though, there's only an outline, somewhat vague and perplexing, about what this cake should be, rather like a black hole, if you will. I must remind you there are only two days left to the big day. I'll feel more secure if I know at least what flavor the cake is meant to be. And I'm quite concerned about the wedding gown you insisted on taking for these mysterious alterations. You have me so scared about it. Please, please, Mrs. Flood, handle it with extreme care. It's a Vera Wang, as I've told you many times, very delicate and you've no idea how exclusive. As I've said all along, I'm quite willing to pitch in if you find yourself struggling. But if you are struggling, and do please listen to me, darling, I don't think shirking your job, the one reliable source of income you possess, is helping the matter any. Now, I'm afraid I have to be at a meeting, so I must dash. But I think perhaps we should meet up. I'll take you out to lunch and we can discuss everything. Please, though, do go to your work.”
“I'll be there,” Fionnuala barked into the little holes of the receiver.
And here she was indeed, behind the counter of Amelia Earhart's Exploreworld Interactive Centre, with nothing to smile about, though her lips were stretched into an upward configuration she hoped was welcoming. From the bottles of water clutched in the hands of the family of four walking through the door, and the peculiar cut of their flash clothes, she knew they were American tourists. Fionnuala had experienced a moment of confusion because they weren't staring down, captive, at expensive iPhones, as they all seemed to do nowadays. But now they were smiling back at her, the parents at least, and from the look of those teeth Fionnuala knew they could only be Yanks.
She had slammed down the phone on Zoë, taken a whore shower (a quick swipe of the armpits and private areas with a damp rag), used the loo—because a quick look at the instructions told her she could—guzzled a third tea, then arranged her ponytails. Worried about that third tea, she had twisted the mammoth red plastic jug, along with Dr. Chandrapore's harrowing instructions, into her Celine Dion/Titanic satchel and trudged, scowling, down the town to work, mortified at the way the top of the jug poked out of the top of the satchel and pressed against her upper arm and a rib. That's how big the flimmin jug was! Exposed for all the world to see! She was mortified.
She now turned to what she supposed was the mother. Probably the step-mother, she thought, as all Yanks seemed to be divorced. Heathens! But rich heathens ripe for the fleecing. And now that her elaborate scheme of faking Dymphna's death to pry funds from Mrs. McDaid had failed, Fionnuala needed money. As Zoë had pointed out, another day at the interactive center was another day to earn money. But she would earn more than her paycheck. Much, much more, if the family's teeth were anything to go by. She had seen a program on the telly about how expensive dental work was in the States. Now Fionnuala's returning smile was genuine. If wily.
“Welcome, all, to Amelia's Exploreworld!” she said over the swing music that always blared in the center. She knew the charm of her accent would endear her to them, it would be like shamrocks and pots of gold spilling out of her mouth to them, no matter what lurked in her brain. “Are youse a wee bit hot there? We've a cloakroom here,” she suggested, motioning behind her and hoping they wouldn't see it was only the office. “A coat check, I believe youse all call it in yer land. Youse can make use of it if need be.”
“Oh, that's great,” said the father, wriggling out of his jacket. “It is a bit...stuffy in here.”
The mother and teenage boy and girl did likewise, gratefully, and Fionnuala kept smiling as she snatched up the belongings and clutched them, captive, in her hands.
“That's £5 per item.” She said it with the same smile.
As they exchanged looks, taken aback, the husband reached reluctantly for his wallet. Fionnuala turned and entered the office, tossed the jackets and coats onto the floor, then came back out, hand outstretched for the twenty pound note.
Though the day was turning out to be unseasonably warm, very un-Derry-like, the first thing she had done when she opened up the center was turn up the heat. Full blast. And it wasn't to increase Zoë's heating bill, though that was an extra perk.
“And I must take yer handbag and all,” she said apologetically to the mother, having grabbed the twenty. And then the first sudden urge hit her in her bladder. She faltered slightly, and fought to ignore it. “A-and them backpacks of the wanes, the, erm, the children, no, the teens.”
“Do you want us to pay for them too?” asked the father, a vein throbbing on his forehead.
“Och, naw. Free of charge, it is. Youse looks wile respectable, so youse do, but we've hordes of thieving gits in and out that door since the very day we opened, so it be's now company policy not to let in bags of any sort. Ye've not a clue what them knackers has had the bold face cheek to lift from wer museum! A display of Amelia's favorite breath mints, gone. Them X-rays of her broken ankle from when she was nine, ripped from the wall. Disgraceful, so it was. But that's filthy knackers for you. The town be's heaving with em. And, of course, youse must know wer town's history, and ye
never know who might be lugging around a bomb with them. There still be's bomb scares, ye know, even after all these years.”
The woman looked suddenly fearful as she handed over her bag.
“Are we in any danger in this part of town?” she asked.
Fionnuala snatched the bags and backpacks and hid them behind the counter. She'd root through them later. The urge to urinate was getting stronger. She cursed herself for having drunk all that tea. She knew what the doctor's orders were, what she had to do today. And that now, thanks to Zoë, she had to do it away from the privacy of her own home. But she couldn't live without tea. She focused on the woman's plucked eyebrows.
“Only after dark, when the pubs let out. Like the Troubles never ended, them streets be's at that time, a no-man's land of wild packs of lads up to their eyeballs on E and armed with bricks and ready fists and I dunno quite what, rocks flying through the air for no reason that I can fathom, and right bladdered gangs of scantily-clad tarts roaring abuse at all and sundry and spewing up loads of sick whichever way their necks are turned. Now, the entrance fee be's £15 each—”
“But the online guide said—”
“Cash only, like, and an additional £10 if youse want to take some photos. We've marvelous things inside, so we do, so youse'll probably want to snap away as if there was no tomorrow. Ye'll find not only a three-quarter scale mock up of yer woman's plane, the Friendship, a Lockheed Vega 5B, so they say it is, but half a real propeller from the same type of plane and all, and then ye've got her lavatory, sections of the fuselage, several cartons of her type of fags, Lucky Strikes, real ones from the 1930's, I don't mind pointing out, and piles of scarves and goggles what was worn by similar female fliers from the same time, aviators, they was called, what few there was, ye understand, females ones, I mean. And for the two of youse,” she nodded at the horrible teens, “There be's video games where youse can sit on a seat similar to the ones on yer woman's plane and make like youse are flying across the Atlantic back in 1932. Which of youse what hits the fewest birds and clouds goes and wins. And, best of all, there be's a life-sized cutout of the famous woman herself ye can pose with. Wonderful for the Christmas cards, so it is. Ye can actually wrap yer arms round her shoulders like she was yer mate. I could take one of all of youse surrounding her if youse'd like? ”
Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4) Page 15
