The Pub Across the Pond (34 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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C
HAPTER
41
Sunny Days
At the following week's boxing class, Carlene was so engrossed in the routine that she didn't see the man staring in the window. Mrs. Mahoney, who was standing closest to the window, constantly checking her reflection, noticed him first. Carlene was contemplating buying window shades so Mrs. Mahoney would stop staring at herself. She yelled at her to concentrate. Mrs. Mahoney said she couldn't help it; she was delighted with her weight loss since starting the class, not a whole stone lost yet, but certainly a pebble. The second Mrs. Mahoney spotted the Peeping Tom, she alerted the rest of the ladies with a scream that emanated from the depths of her bowels. Carlene hoped she would remember to tell her to save that kind of screams for her kicks.
“Jesus,” Mrs. Mahoney said. Additional screams echoed through the room. The man's face disappeared from the window. Carlene ran for the front door, quickly followed by the entire class. Even though they could only see the back of him, it was easy to recognize Joe McBride, hightailing it back to his shop. The women, who seemed too tired when Carlene asked them to speed shadow-box in between sets, suddenly surged forward after Joe. Maybe she should add “chasing perverts” to the routine. He didn't stand a chance of reaching the safety of his front door. Sensing he might be crushed underneath a dozen sweating women, he halted, frozen in space.
“Ye wee pervert!” one woman yelled.
“I'm thrilled to bits,” the woman closest to Carlene leaned over and whispered. “I've never been noticed by perverts before.”
“I wasn't looking at yous like that,” Joe said, sounding genuinely horrified. “I was waitin' until you were done jumping about the place so I could tell you ladies, who are looking trim and slim by the way, all right, I was jest bidin' me time to tell ye all about the benefits you may wish to reap from a gorgeous, golden tan.” He thrust up a flier that showed a picture of a very tan, bikini-clad model.
“Boxercise isn't just about looking good,” Carlene said. “It's about owning your power. Right, ladies?” The women gathered closer to the flier.
“Jaysus,” one woman said. “I'd love to look like her.”
“And you can, ladies,” Joe said. “You can all have a natural glow.”
“Tanning beds cause cancer,” Carlene said.
“So does drinking, and smoking, and eating tuna fish with mercury, and stress, and genetics, and darn near breathing,” Joe said. “But at least with tanning you get a nice brown glow out of it.” The woman began passing the flier around.
“Well, where is it?” a woman asked, looking around. “In the shop? You won't find me lying there in my skivvies while folks are picking out their potatoes in the next aisle, you can betcha,” she said. Joe gave Carlene a look. See?
“But would you be willing to tan in the pub—if say there was a privacy curtain around ye, and it was offered after your jumpingaround class when there 'twasn't a fella to be seen?” Joe said. Right so, the women said. They might be willing to do it then.
“Joe,” Carlene said. He held up an index finger.
“One tanning bed,” he said. “For now. All the profit goes my way.”
“That sounds like a win, lose proposition,” Carlene said.
“I'm not finished. If ye do this, I'll stop consulting my solicitor about the shady nature of ye winnin' that raffle.”
“There was nothing shady about the raffle,” Carlene said. “I got lucky. For once in my life, I got lucky.”
“Just one tanning bed,” Joe said. “For now. See how it goes.”
“It's a pub,” Carlene said.
“Looks like it's also a gym now,” Joe said. “That probably violates the conditions of your business license, so.”
“Unbelievable,” Carlene said.
“A spa, ladies,” Joe said. “Am I right? And what the feck is a spa without a tanning bed, I ask ye. And did ye know a good tan reduces the appearance of ungainly cellulite?” And with those words, Carlene knew she would soon be running a pub slash spa.
The Half Tree. A good place to drink and die, and meet yer Maker with a heavenly tan.
 
Carlene didn't think she was going to have to babysit the tanning bed, but she realized her mistake the day Riley wandered over and fell asleep in it. His body was fine since he'd gone in with all his clothes on, but his face was redder than usual. He had the ruddy nose and cheeks of an alcoholic, but now he also had a blistered forehead and chin. From then on Carlene made sure to unplug the tanning bed and keep the curtain open so that nobody else could sneak in for a “nap.” The lads thought it was great, and were not at all happy that they weren't privy to use the spa. Sally came back that day, and although Carlene prepared herself for a fight, Sally told her the hardware shop sucked and quietly asked for her job back. Carlene took her to the back porch to talk.
“I know what you're going to say,” Sally said. “You're worried I'm mental. You think I'll go psycho on you.”
“Given the circumstances,” Carlene said, “I just don't see how it would work out.”
“Because of Ronan?” Sally said.
“Mostly,” Carlene said.
“I know you're still seeing him,” Sally said. “I've accepted that.”
“I just don't feel comfortable—”
“Just give me a chance, will ye? You were right. What was it you said I should do again?”
“Become the man you want to marry,” Carlene said. It was actually a slogan she'd seen on a feminist postcard, but it was good advice nonetheless.
“Right, so,” Sally said. “I need to become the man I want to marry. Ronan was never in love with me. I've been holding on to a fantasy.”
“I'm glad you recognize that—and you're a lovely girl—”
“Are ye gonna give me my job back or aren't ye?” Sally said. Carlene wanted to say no. She wanted to warn her that Ronan had been coming around a lot lately. She didn't want Ronan to feel uncomfortable either. But Sally looked so depressed. And she'd been extremely helpful to Carlene when she first hired her. It seemed wrong to turn her away.
“We can try it out,” Carlene said. “See how it goes.”
“Brilliant,” Sally said. “And you've nothing to worry about. I hate men—especially Irish men.”
“They are the best of men, they are the worst of men,” Carlene agreed. If Sally got the reference, she didn't comment on it.
“One more thing,” Sally said. “Does the job include free boxercising classes and unlimited use of the tanning bed?”
 
It had been four days since their passionate lovemaking in the souterrain, and no sign of Ronan. Carlene wanted to blame Sally; maybe somehow he'd heard she was back and he was afraid to come in.
It wasn't true, and even if it was, who wanted to date such a coward? No, it was Ronan being Ronan, performing his wellhoned disappearing act. Maybe he was off gambling, maybe he was with another girl, maybe he'd found a proper job and was so busy growing up that he just didn't have time to visit. Or call. Or text. Or send a homing pigeon. Maybe, after making love to her, he was done with her. Or maybe he'd dropped dead replaying it over and over again in his mind like she'd been doing. Or maybe it was so amazing that he was terrified. She was terrified too. How could they ever follow that one up? It had been real; it had taken lovemaking to a whole new level, one she never even knew she could reach. If they could do that in a damp little cave, think of what they could do with roses, champagne, and a proper mattress. But now he'd disappeared. What a talent she had. Like a slutty magician. Sleep with a man and make him disappear.
But what if something terrible had happened? What if Racehorse Robbie was after him to pay up, and he was out doing something stupid? Carlene wasn't going to call him any more; it might trigger the obsessive dialing she went through during her breakup with Brendan. Besides, she had another tool on her hands, seven of them, in fact. The McBride women loved her. Carlene decided she would go to mass, and if they didn't invite her back to breakfast again, she could at least casually ask about Ronan. Just because she wasn't going to obsess on him didn't mean she wasn't going to casually check out whether or not he was okay.
C
HAPTER
42
Goats Will Eat Anything
Carlene wasn't religious, but she loved the inside of the Catholic church. She loved the old wood, the stained glass, and the people of Ballybeog who came to sing and pray. Mary McBride was indeed in attendance, but only Katie was seated next to her. Carlene took a seat toward the back; she didn't want to crowd them during the service. She would wait until it was over to say hello. Just the fact that they were here was a good sign; if anything was terribly wrong they probably wouldn't be here at all. And, Carlene suspected, had anything tragic happened, she would be the first to hear about it given that the pub bred gossip like stagnated water bred mosquitoes. It would have been heavenly if not for the fact that several people seemed to be intently studying her, only to look away as fast as they could when she returned their gaze. Was she still persona non grata in Ballybeog, or was it all in her head?
She waited for Mary and Katie outside the door. It was a rare, sunny morning. At first, the McBride women didn't seem to notice her, and were already several feet past her when Carlene called out to them. Mary's face immediately broke out in a smile, and she reached for Carlene with both hands.
“How lovely to see you again,” Mary said.
“Me too,” Carlene said. “Hi, Katie.” Katie stepped forward and hugged Carlene. She wanted to cry, and was immediately ashamed that she was so starved for affection.
“Where's the rest of your gang?” Carlene said. She tried to sound cheerful, and not at all like she was checking up on Ronan.
“I tell ye,” Mary McBride said. “It's a great shame that I can't get them all here every Sunday. But they all have their own lives now, I suppose.”
“Unlike me, right, Mam?” Katie said. She winked at Carlene and linked arms with her mother.
“Speaking of busy lives,” Mary McBride said, “we're on our way to Siobhan's house. But it was lovely to see you.” Normally, Carlene would have received an invitation. She tried not to take it personally. They turned and walked away. Carlene couldn't help but notice it was at a pace so brisk that she would have had to run to keep up with them. No more advice, no more questions, no more answers. She wasn't going to worry about Ronan one more second either. It was her own fault—she knew Irish men were their own breed, the kind that could draw you in and then inflict significant pain once you realized they were never going to live up to their charm. Ronan McBride wasn't hers, and he never would be. It was time Carlene started focusing on what mattered; her pub. At least she still had that.
 
It didn't take long for Joe to pay another visit to Carlene's boxercising class. This time Mrs. Mahoney didn't scream, she just waved and wiggled everything she was working so hard to whittle down. Carlene spoke to Joe outside, insisting that the ladies didn't want him in their space. His profit on the tanning bed was dwindling; after several of them had burned, they weren't keen on using it anymore. Carlene was about to point this out when he interrupted her with his own agenda.
“I'm going to bring ye three more beds,” he said. “So the ladies don't have to wait.”
“No,” Carlene said. “In fact, I wanted to tell you that it's not working out.”
“That's because they don't want to wait in line,” Joe said. “Three more beds, for now, and they'll be less of a line.”
“There's something wrong with the tanning bed,” Carlene said. “It gives everyone a sunburn. Nobody wants to use it.”
“Nonsense,” Joe said.
“I'm sorry,” Carlene said. “I want it out.”
“You want part of the profit, is that it?”
“No,” Carlene said. “I don't want it at all. It's just not going to work out.”
“I hope you're not going to force me to speak to a solicitor.”
“Go right ahead,” Carlene said. “Because you're not turning my pub into Tan Land, and I've been very nicely trying to tell you that your product is defective.”
“The three new beds won't be—maybe the women have the dial turned up too high—”
“It doesn't matter. I don't want it in the pub anymore.”
“I see. Well, you'll be forcing me—”
“Do what you have to do,” Carlene said. “Because I won the pub fair and square. And you made off with a hundred thousand euros.”
“Made off? Talk about fair and square, I won that hand fair and square.”
“Maybe you did. But you won it from your nephew who has a gambling problem. Didn't that bother you at all?”
“Doesn't it bother you at all to be knockin' boots with that same gambling man?”
“Good day, Joe. If you don't get your tanning bed out of here by this time tomorrow, I'll have some of the lads deposit it in your front lawn.”
 
“Gone,” Carlene said.
“What do you mean gone?” Becca said.
“I don't know. He's just disappeared. From my life anyway.” There was silence on the other end. Carlene half expected Becca to say “I told you so.” To her credit, she didn't.
“Have you seen my dad?” Carlene asked.
“Levi, Shane, and I had dinner with him last week,” Becca said.
“How is he?” There was another moment of silence. “You have to tell me, Becca. Is he okay?”
“He had little baby-sized gloves for Shane.”
“Of course he did.”
“He seemed . . . smaller,” Becca said.
“What?”
“I know it sounds weird. He just looked . . . little.”
“Like a shrunken old man?” Carlene said.
“Something like that,” Becca admitted. “I think you should come home.”
“What?” Carlene said.
“I hate to say this, but I don't think he can survive without you.”
“Are you kidding me here?”
“Carlene, I'm dead serious. I know you don't want to hear this, but I really think you should come home.”
“Becca, don't. This is my time, remember? My chance?” Carlene waited for Becca to agree, but she was met with silence. Carlene thought she was going to lose it. She didn't know whether to cry or scream. She'd been so homesick, so excited to talk to Becca; now she just wanted to get off the phone. Becca was saying the very things Carlene was deathly afraid of—that she was selfish, that her father would suffer without her. Why couldn't Becca just tell her what she wanted to hear? Just once? She was supposed to come running home because her father looked smaller? Maybe Becca was just jealous. She'd always been jealous of Carlene—she couldn't stand not being in the spotlight every single second.
“Jesus,” Carlene said. “My whole life you've been telling me to get out from under my father's illness, and now that I have, now that I'm actually making a life for myself—one not many people get a chance to experience, by the way—you're telling me to give it all up and come home?”
“I always thought you were exaggerating about his . . . peculiarities, but after seeing him . . . I just really think you should come home for a visit,” Becca said.
“He can visit me.”
“You know he won't.”
“It's his own fault.”
“You're right, you're right,” Becca said. “I just felt sorry for him, I guess.”
“He has that effect on people. I'm sorry I got so angry.”
“No sweat. But listen, I gotta go. Shane has a piano lesson.” Riley yelled over to Carlene for another beer.
“He's still only four or five months old, right?” Carlene said.
“He's not playing yet, but I have him listening to Chopin. He loves it.”
“I'm sure he does.” They said their good-byes and pretended to totally make up, but they were both putting on an act. Carlene could hear it in their voices, feel it in her stomach. Anchor came out of the bathroom holding his nose. He jerked his thumb toward it.
“You're going to have to do something about the jacks,” he said. “It's deadly in there.”
 
Carlene lay in bed thinking about her father, and even though she couldn't stand how guilty it was making her feel, it was still better than thinking about Ronan. Columbus jumped up and began kneading her chest. It took her several tries and multiple turns before she settled her little body down to sleep. Carlene stroked her head and reminded herself as she fell asleep to the rain beating down on top of her that she was still a very lucky woman.
 
Carlene awoke to the sound of a bleating goat. She rubbed her eyes and looked out the window. It was still raining, a light mist, but she couldn't see whether or not there was a goat in her backyard. There had to be. He sounded way too close. She padded downstairs and headed for the kettle. It was funny how used to instant coffee she'd become. And it was no longer something she just tolerated, she actually looked forward to it. She was so groggy she almost didn't see the goat standing in the middle of the pub.
He bleated again. Startled, Carlene looked up, saw the goat, and screamed. It wasn't that she was afraid of goats, she just wasn't expecting to see one by the pool table. Life, she realized, was all about expectations. Apparently, the goat wasn't expecting her either. He took one look at her and ran. “I have that effect on men,” Carlene called after him.
Unfortunately, he didn't have much room to run, and he smacked straight into the closed front door. Oh God, she didn't know they were that stupid. Panicked, the goat turned around and stared at her as if it were her fault. Somebody had gotten in again. Somebody had deposited a goat in the middle of her pub. Somebody was definitely trying to drive her mad. Did goats bite? Should she approach it? Call for help? Was this Joe? The tanning bed was still there—she was going to have to ask the lads to take it over and dump it on his property. She hated stooping to his level, but she'd already warned him.
“Do you mind if I fix myself a cup of coffee before I deal with you?” Carlene said to the goat. He didn't mind; he was too busy gnawing on the doorknob. She should probably just go over, open the door, and let the goat out. But where would he go? He obviously belonged to someone. She couldn't chance letting him go only to find out at some later point that he had been run over. Her reputation had taken enough of a hit, and she wasn't going to add goat killer to the list. Should she call Ronan? She'd resisted thus far, not wanting him to think she was clingy or desperate, but wasn't a goat in your pub reason enough to call? She could say, “Hey, when you worked and lived here did you ever wake up to find a goat in the middle of the room?” And, “Do you know if you startle a goat, it'll smack into a door?”
It was too early to call anyone. Maybe she would just keep him. That would show whoever had done this. She would make a little pen for him out back and pretend she was thrilled to have a goat. He would be a good lawn mower too. Usually a boy from town did her mowing, but the kid probably wouldn't mind a little help. The goat didn't like the sound of the kettle screeching either.
He must come from a very quiet farm,
she thought as she made her coffee.
She had barely taken a sip of her coffee when there was a pounding at the door. Both she and the goat jumped, although she was the only one who was scalded. The goat began to wander around the pub. Carlene pulled her robe around her and went to the door. There stood Mike Murphy and his sidekick, the same one who had gone down into the soutterrian in search of the skeleton.
“Good morning,” Murphy said. Carlene remembered Ronan had called him Mike, but since she didn't think it was appropriate to call an officer by his first name, she didn't use it.
“Good morning,” Carlene said.
“May we come in?” the shorter one said. She didn't know his name, and he didn't offer it. Carlene stood aside and allowed them to enter. They began walking briskly toward the bar when the goat bleated. The two of them halted, then looked at the goat. He was chewing on the cord to the tanning bed.
“Damn it,” Carlene said. She ran over. The goat, startled once again, ran away from her, slipping on the recently mopped floor. Carlene picked up the chewed cord, which thank God had been unplugged, and rolled it up. Mike, she noticed, had removed a notepad from his pocket.
“There's one violation,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Carlene said.
“I'm afraid having barnyard animals in a pub is a public health violation,” he said.
No shit, Sherlock,
Carlene wanted to say. Oh, why couldn't they have at least let her finish her first cup of coffee?
“He's not mine,” Carlene said. “He certainly wasn't invited.”
“Come again?” the one who wasn't Mike said.

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