Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  He made comforting, cooing noises. And finally Ursula's tears dried somewhat. Jed drove the rest of the way to the hospital.

  Ursula sat outside Slim's hospital room on an uncomfortable yellow plastic chair. She had placed her handbag on the little table beside her, on top of a wrinkled copy of People magazine that had coffee rings around...she looked at the caption, Orlando Bloom's smiling young face. She didn't who he was or what he did. She felt drained. Her eyes ached, her heart more so. She was glad she was spared more of Louella's glares of accusation. Her sister-in-law had gone home to feed some animal. Ursula had decided to let Jed and Slim battle it out amongst themselves. She had other things on her mind. Inside, she heard Slim roaring away at her husband:

  “Are you an idiot, Jed? Tell me again! You gave away how much of our company?”

  “I got him down from 85%. That's what he wanted first. I countered with 70, and he agreed at 82.5.”

  “What? Eighty-two point five percent of our company? You valued our company at, at, at...at $181,818! All the work we did! Gone! Just like that!” She heard the snapping of fingers as she tugged another tissue out of her handbag. Tears were welling again. “For a measly $150,000!”

  “I tried to call you, but—”

  “This is all your fault, Jed! You and your damn gambling!”

  “You'll see, Slim. I was disgusted with the offer at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I think it's going to take us into the big time. Come on. How far do you think we really would've gotten with the one radio commercial we recorded? I know it's a shock, but you gotta agree, with Haverton on board, we'll sell millions more. Do you know the contacts he has? He can get us on shelves everywhere! And we were struggling just to get the jerky in the mom and pop stores around here. He can get us into the chains!”

  “I never even heard of the dang guy!”

  “He owns Blanely's Bagels, and Eat-So-Yum, and Scanty Secrets.”

  “When me and Lou have to sell our house, when our kids wonder why they can't come home for Christmas no more, and I tell them they can't because their mom and pop live in a trailer down at Golden Sunsets with all the druggies like that Randaleen...who's responsible for putting me in here, if I can remind you, and I certainly didn't invite that junkie into my life, and by the way, do you know how much my insurance deductible is gonna go up because of all this?”

  “I'm sorry about that, but—”

  “Anyway! Off the damn point! The point is, can we get this guy, this Halveringston or whoever he is, to give us back some of our company? Or to give us more money?”

  Family and money. Money and family. The curse.

  It was turning Ursula's stomach. Literally. She was feeling as queasy as she was mentally drained from the shocking news of young Dymphna's death. She couldn't listen to any more. And she had to make reservations for a flight to Belfast. It was a shortish bus ride from there to Derry. It was sure to be expensive, both the flight and the bus ride, if she remembered UK prices well. She wondered if they would be able to afford it. Probably not. She tried to dismiss from her mind the thought that she wished Dymphna had waited until they had the $150,000 in their bank account before she had taken the overdose. She wondered what type of drugs it had been. Marijuana? Could you overdose on that? Ecstasy? Crystal meth? She had seen enough of the damage that did here in Wisconsin. Were they selling it in Derry now? The way she hoped they'd be selling Slim Jed Jerky at the Top Yer Trolly?

  She wrenched herself up from the seat and wandered down the antiseptic corridor. She saw a young woman in an outfit of some sort.

  “Excuse me, wee girl. Does there be anywheres here I can access the Internet?”

  “What?”

  “The Internet. It's like...like, the entire world, but on a computer.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “I know what the Internet is.”

  “Then why did ye—?”

  “You speak strange. I couldn't tell what the hell you were saying. On the ground floor there's a visitor's center. Maybe you can use it there. But you gotta pay.”

  Money. Again.

  Ursula did her best to smile. “I'm well aware...”

  But she was speaking to a retreating back. She went to the elevator.

  Ursula had tried to find a flight for under $1000, but at such short notice, it was proving difficult. Head banging, she surfed a few funeral websites, clicked a few buttons, and then finally went to her email. She wanted to write to Paddy, demanding to know why he—her own brother!—hadn't felt it necessary to inform her—his own sister!—that his daughter—her own niece!—had died. Though Ursula was softening a bit towards Paddy. Maybe he was stricken with embarrassment. If her daughter, her own daughter, had died of an overdose, Ursula wasn't sure she'd be contacting all the branches of the family tree and spreading the news.

  She had just signed into her email, and was wondering what she would write when she jumped at the sight of the newest email in her inbox. It was from Moira, Dymphna's older sister, and the family outcast, chased away from Derry to Malta, just as Ursula had been chased away to Wisconsin. Whereas Ursula's sin seemed to be not sharing the lottery money equally to all the the many throngs of her family who thought they were entitled to it by virtue of their birth, Moira's sin was lesbianism. And writing a fictional account of Ursula's struggle with the family, Lotto Balls of Shame. It hadn't sold many copies, but Ursula was hoping for a sequel.

  Not only was it shocking to get an email from Moira right after Ursula had heard Dymphna's news, just as shocking was the email subject: DYMPHNA!

  It must be about the death. Ursula quickly clicked it open, heart racing, finger trembling. She read:

  Dear Auntie Ursula,

  Have you heard about Dymphna? I think it's absolutely brilliant! About bloody time, I say! She deserves it.

  Ursula reeled. Moira and Dymphna had always been close. At least that's what Ursula had thought...? She read on in growing confusion, then horror:

  I know it's been ages since we've been in touch, and I'm sorry about that, but after hearing about our Dymphna I just had to write. I don't know how the family feels about it, they're probably not turning cartwheels, but there's one thing I'm sure of: you must be soooo delighted! She told me once what you said you thought about her and her prospects for the future, and I think it's that conversation that eventually led her to go through with it. You should feel so proud! You should pour yourself a glass of wine and have a special wee celebration for yourself! :)

  Ursula had never been slapped in the face by an email before. Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled to force herself to read further. Was this sarcasm gone mad? She wondered briefly if Fionnuala could have somehow hacked into Moira's email account and written the message. But Fionnuala having such finesse seemed...unlikely. What, though, had Ursula ever done to Moira to deserve such contempt? She hoped there wasn't worse to come in the email. But:

  I'll take you into confidence here, Auntie Ursula, and reveal my true thoughts to you. I'm so envious of our Dymphna. I wish I had been the lucky one, the first of us to take the plunge. I'm the oldest, after all, so you'd think that would be the most natural. But, no. I've no need to spell it out for you, Auntie Ursula; you know my sexuality, and so I'm going to let you in on a wee secret now that not many non-lesbians know: it rarely happens to us. Or if it does, it's horribly short-lived.

  Tendrils of cold fear crept through Ursula's fingers and spread throughout her body. The room seemed to reel. She had sudden visions of lesbians cursed with eternal life, never dying, quasi-vampire and zombie-ish members of the Third Sex trolling the Earth. This was taking the entitlement of minorities to a deranged extreme, lesbians thinking they were spared the grief of dying. As much as Ursula now wanted to hate her niece, she was more filled with unease. She feared for Moira's sanity. Had Malta made her deranged? She forced her eyes to focus through the tears and read on:

  And, in fact, as you probably know, for years it was actually illegal for us. But th
anks to the liberal laws of the EU, we've finally now joined the rest of the human race. Yay! Not many of my friends seem to want to go through with it, though. But two of my friends did, two of the lucky few! And one of them did it twice in as many years! But as far as I'm concerned, I'm almost certain it will never happen to me. I appear to be cursed. I pray, yes I do, but, and maybe it's my upbringing, I have a feeling God thinks I'm a sinner and so he won't allow it to happen. Though if it ever happened to me, however unlikely that may be, there's one thing I do know: nobody in the family would be happy. Except maybe you.

  Where did all this hatred, this passive aggressive vileness, come from? The last time she had seen Moira in Derry, the girl had kissed her on the cheek. Now Ursula rubbed that cheek where Moira's lips had touched it; the flesh felt soiled. She knew Moira was a good writer, but she never thought one day her pen would be a dagger aimed at her own heart. It felt like it was bleeding.

  I'm on a deadline, so I'll love you and leave you. Are you going to Derry? I can't make it (and I don't know what type of reception I'd get, and you might feel the same; we're neither of us in with the family any more, you because of the money and me because of my book about it ), but I think this is the time for everyone to put their differences aside and join together in what should be the biggest celebration our family's had in years!

  Ursula could only gawp at the XOXOXO Love, your niece Moira at the bottom of the email. Why send such a hateful thing and have the cheek to add kisses and hugs? What sort of drugs was Moira taking over there in Malta? For all her banging on about lesbians being immortal, Ursula was sure the girl wasn't long for a drug overdose—or a least a mental breakdown!—herself!

  Confused, angry, grief-stricken, unable to find a cheap flight, her own head deranged, Ursula didn't know where in her cluttered mind the sudden idea sprang from. She dried her eyes, honked her nose, rose and with slow, heavy steps of determination, or like those zombie lesbians Moira was going on about, approached the elevator. She pressed a button and got out on the correct floor. She walked down the hallway until she found the right room.

  Ursula looked up and down the hallway. Deathly deserted at this time of the night. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the door and prayed it wasn't locked. She pressed down. She heard the lock click in the tumblers. The door creaked open. She peered into the darkness. There was only the soft, rhythmic beep from some machine the patient was hooked up to. Ursula crept over to the only closet in the room. A Degas print, three ballerinas in pink tutus, hung crooked on the wall. The glass had a crack in it. Ursula held her breath as she slid open the door. She was surprised. It seemed well-oiled. There was not a sound. A pair of panties and some smelly stockings were folded on the top shelf—there didn't seem to be a bra—a pair of jeans and a grubby t-shirt were on the second. On the third, there was a battered purse. It looked like a fake YSL. The straps were frayed. Beside it was a scant pile of jewelry. A purple Swatch with a deformed band, a garish ring. And...Aye! There ye are! C'mon back to me!

  Ursula rolled her eyes towards heaven in thanks. She silently scooped her pearl drop earrings into her palm, then slipped them her into her pocket. She tiptoed back out of the hospital room as Randaleen heaved her peculiar grunt-like snores, and Ursula pressed the door shut. She smiled.

  CHAPTER 28

  Fionnuala stormed through the field of weeds that was her front garden and threw open the door. She made to shrug her satchel off her shoulder and fling it in the corner of the hallway, but of course she couldn't. It was in police custody.

  Her heart was racing still, her temples throbbed, but she was relieved at the silence of the house, comforted by the familiar filth of it, the smell. The wanes were still in school, her mammy was probably at the bingo, Paddy at work, and Lorcan, who knew? The blood pounded through the veins in her temples. She needed a cup of tea. She marched to the kitchen, grabbed the kettle with a shaky hand and shoved it into the mound of tomato sauce encrusted plates and bowls in the sink, secured an abyss for it under the tap and filled it up. Waiting for it to boil, she went to the larder, flung open the door and grabbed Paddy's bottle of whiskey. She guzzled down what little was left, then tossed the empty bottle in the bin overflowing with carrot detritus and potato peels. She wanted more, needed it, but didn't have the time, the energy, or the funds to drag herself to the off license for another bottle. The few drops that were now trickling down her intestines, making their way to her stomach lining, would have to do. Until one of the wanes came home and she could send them to the corner to get 'their daddy' another bottle.

  She stood there on the tatty linoleum next to the overflowing sink, her hand palms down on the sticky counter-top. She stared at the boarded up window before her as if seeking redemption or a sign from the Lord that her life wasn't in vain. She got none. She thought about the harrowing ordeal she had just been through. She wondered if the police would link the satchel and the credit card inside to her. Thankfully, they probably wouldn't. It was strange how in Derry it seemed everyone knew everyone else, except the Filth, who needed to know everyone but didn't. It was like they shipped the coppers in from some foreign country. Just like the doctors.

  All Fionnuala wanted was a rest, but she had so much to do, and just thinking of it made her exhausted. She was too old for all this. She stood like that for a long time. She heaved deep, labor-like sighs in an effort to calm herself. Finally she felt the whiskey working its magic on her. She wondered why she didn't drink Paddy's whiskey more often. She understood now why he did it every night he came home from work.

  She cried out at a sudden piercing sound and braced herself, ready to kick the coppers she imagined were barging through the kitchen door. But it was only the kettle; she had forgotten she had put it on. Eejit, she thought to herself, shaking her head in disbelief. She made herself a cup of tea and spooned in the sugar. She looked in the fridge but they were out of milk. Without the whiskey she would have been raging, but now she was just irritated. She took a sip, and cursed as she burnt her lips. And then she knew what she had to do, what she had been putting off for weeks. The whiskey was giving her the strength, the tea a bit less. She turned and strode purposefully into the hallway, her clogs clacking.

  She pulled open the door of the cupboard under the stairs and dragged out her sewing machine. She couldn't trust the coppers, couldn't trust her family, the only ones she could put her faith in were the Lord and her Singer 1725. She winced at the pains shooting through her wrists as she hauled the sewing machine into the kitchen. She pushed aside all the rocks and plastic cases and empty packets of cereal and dirty tea mugs and overflowing ashtrays on the table and sat the sewing machine there. She went back to the cupboard and tugged out the big black rubbish bin she had shoved Dymphna's gown into weeks before, and the smaller rubbish bin with all the accoutrements she was going to add to it to beautify it.

  Dymphna and Rory had looked down in shock when Fionnuala's head popped up at the hatch of the chip van, her body in a pose more befitting a lady, sweat lashing down her purple face, and she demanding to be cut free. They hustled her inside, protected her hands with old rags, and set to work on the plastic handcuffs with all the implements at their disposal, knives and oven lighters and grease. When she was freed, (they had finally burned them off, and for the recent cutbacks of the PSNI they were grateful, for the handcuffs weren't the impregnable ones of old), they let her use the loo, then Dymphna demanded to know what had happened. But it was a secret Fionnuala would take to the grave. Dymphna kept asking, and Fionnuala kept ignoring her, rubbing her wrists and demanding a meat and potato pie, a battered sausage, a portion of chips and a cup of tea. Rory got the fryer going, and Dymphna made the tea, and then the girl had gone on and on about the gown and the cake, as if they were the most important things in the world. The selfish cow! But she kept repeating something which Fionnuala's brain had been refusing to believe was true: the wedding was in two days. Two short days. Where had the time gone? As Fionnuala bit into
the pie, which was not beef and potato but beer and veal, she had promised she would get to work on the cake and hand over the gown that evening.

  Weeks ago in the sewing section of the Top Yer Trolly, Fionnuala had come across a treasure trove of items to snazz up Dymphna's wedding dress. All at 50% off! She rummaged around in the bag and pulled out the first of these, two yards of purple, pink and green beaded fringe, an inch long, in a zig-zag pattern that reminded her of the wallpaper at the Indian takeaway down the Strand. There had been plastic and glass, but Fionnuala had chosen glass. Only the best for her daughter. Of all people! The perennial flop on her lists! Fionnuala wanted to make it the wedding gown of the season. It wasn't for Dymphna's sake, it was for her own. If she made a disaster out of it, had Dymphna trudging up the aisle in some hideous creation, it would put the family in a bad light. Word would spread throughout the Moorside. Fionnuala would be mortified, no longer able to hold her head high, so, no matter how much it pained her, and it did, she fought to make her least favorite child's gown a thing of beauty and wonder. And considering what Zoë had handed her, the bland gown, it would be an uphill struggle. Fionnuala had been surprised. She thought Zoë Riddell was supposed to have taste.

  Fionnuala snipped into the fringe with the scissors and cut it into halves. She would sew these onto the backs of the arms of the gown, so that they would jingle and dance every time Dymphna moved her arms. She was already imagining the spectacular display they would make as Dymphna twirled on the dance floor at the reception to “Mambo No. 5,” which the DJ was sure to play. She positioned the fringe and the right arm of the gown under the needle and the sewing machine began to click click clack. Fionnuala knew the gown proper was chiffon—Zoë had said it often enough!— but she didn't know what the material of the arms was, something sheer and see-through, as if Dymphna would be walking down the aisle with her arms draped in white tights. The fringe would look much better.