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Authors: Mary Carter

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BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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And Carlene really would die to win a pub in Ireland. Unlike Becca, whose entire family, both maternal and paternal, had come from Israel, Carlene actually had Irish heritage. Her maternal great-great-great-grandmother, Mary Margaret, came to America from County Mayo when she was only sixteen. The Troubles were in full swing when Mary Margaret's mother passed, and her father joined the IRA. Mary Margaret was sent to Philadelphia to live with a cousin. Carlene's maternal grandmother, Jane, who lived four years longer than Carlene's mother, used to sit with Carlene drinking tea and regaling her with stories of far, far-away relatives who were from a magical place the Good Lord had blessed with soaring cliffs that hovered over the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and rolling hills with a thousand shades of green.
Sometimes, Carlene's grandmother would put an album on the record player and sing along with an Irish ballad—“Danny Boy,” and “The Fields of Athenry,” and “The Rose of Tralee”—and Carlene would be transported into another world. A world of fiddles, flutes, harps, guitars, pianos, and tin whistles. Haunted windswept voices sang of life, land, beauty, death, drink, regret, mothers who were still alive, and hills with a thousand shades of green. There were days when her grandmother would refuse to sing because she “didn't have the pipes” or the pipes were leaking, so Carlene would try to sing along instead. When songs spilled into her grandmother's tiny, dark sitting room, Carlene's chest would fill and expand as if it were about to burst. On rare occasions, Carlene's grandmother would get up and dance.
Carlene loved these moments with her grandmother, but above all, it was her stories she cherished the most. When it came to hearing about her long-lost relatives, Carlene was a bottomless pit, constantly begging for more. There weren't nearly enough stories for Carlene to hold on to, so she would often replay the same ones in her head, adding and deleting details, until she could no longer separate fact from fiction. Stories about her great-great-great-grandmother walking to Catholic school and passing Protestant children who would yell out, “cat lickers, cat lickers,” to which they would respond, “prote-stinkers, prote-stinkers!”
Or stories about James and Charles, the twins. Those great-great-great-uncles were black sheep, her grandmother said, but they still had hearts of gold. They must be something, Carlene thought, for like Mary Margaret from County Mayo, her grandmother said James and Charles were “great” three times in a row. Carlene wondered if she would ever do something so remarkable that she would be great times three. The twins were drinkers, and gamblers, and wickedly handsome. They moved to Atlantic City, and died, one week apart, at age thirty-three. The exact cause of their mysterious deaths, if her grandmother knew, was never articulated, but Carlene always assumed it was due to their wickedly handsome ways.
“You're Irish too, you know,” her grandmother often said. Oh, Carlene knew. She knew it the way her lungs almost burst just listening to her grandmother play those songs on the record player. She knew it the way she could close her eyes and feel herself standing on a windswept cliff, see the ocean pounding the rocks below, or feel her small body rolling down the rolling hills with a thousand shades of green.
Becca made a fist and knocked on Carlene's forehead. “Anybody in there?”
“Sorry,” Carlene said. “I was just thinking about Ireland. My great-great-great-grandmother was—”
“Wouldn't you just die?” Becca said. There it was, she wasn't really listening.
“I couldn't even imagine,” Carlene said.
“Imagine, running my wine bar in Ireland,” Becca said.
“It's not a wine bar, Becca. It's a pub.”
“It doesn't have to stay a pub. It would be my place. I could change it into a wine bar.”
“I don't know if it's a big wine country. They do seem to like their pints.”
“I was in Dublin, the real one, remember? And I'm telling you, it's a very sophisticated city. They're, like, so European now.”
“They've always been European,” Carlene said. Carlene had never been to Europe, or Asia, or Australia, or the Middle East. Becca had been everywhere.
“You know what I mean.”
“This pub isn't in Dublin. Near Galway, didn't he say?” Carlene said. Becca shrugged.
“Did you know there's a large Jewish population in Cork City?” Becca said.
“I did not know that,” Carlene said.
“Oh yes. I learned all about it when we toured Cork. Apparently, when the Jews were fleeing to America during the war, the boat stopped in Cork, and when the captain, or like whoever, yelled out, ‘New Cork,' a lot of the Jews thought they said ‘New York' and they disembarked.”
“Wow,” Carlene said.
“Do you have any gum?” Becca said. “God, I hate this baby. I need something in my mouth all the time.” Carlene stuck her hand in her pocket. She pulled out a couple of crumpled bills.
“What do you know,” Carlene said. “Two dollars.” She held the money out to Becca. Becca grabbed both of Carlene's hands and squeezed them so tight, Carlene wondered if she was in labor.
“You know I didn't mean it. You know I do not hate this baby.”
“Of course I know that,” Carlene said. “I never believed you for a second.” Again, she held out the two dollars.
“Forget it,” Becca said. “I'd rather you owe me.” She looked at her watch. “Do the Irish eat sauerkraut? I've got a yen for some sauerkraut.”
Carlene laughed. “Sauerkraut is German,” she said. “But I'll bet we could find some cabbage.”
“That's what I meant,” Becca said. “Corned beef and cabbage.” Carlene stood. Becca remained sitting. Finally she stuck her hands out and allowed Carlene to pull her up off the chair. Becca bought corned beef and cabbage and Carlene bought a beer, and they watched children ride ponies with green saddles. Becca reached over and took Carlene's hand.
“I hope this isn't making you think of Brendan,” she said.
“Not at all,” Carlene said. “Not at all.” But even as the words were coming out of her mouth, Carlene could feel herself tense up. Becca was crossing a line, using her condition to talk about Brendan, something that she had already agreed not to do. Brendan was a long time ago, Brendan was in the past, and she didn't need anyone reminding her.
“Good,” Becca said. “You deserved so much better.”
“I know.”
“Can you imagine if you won the pub in Ireland, and you ran into him, like?”
“Wouldn't that be something.” Seriously, condition or not, she was pushing it.
“Or you fall in love with some other Irish man,” Becca said.
“Never again,” Carlene said. “They are the best of men, they are the worst of men.”
Becca held up her soggy sandwich. “I'll eat to that,” she said.
Carlene clinked her beer bottle with Becca's corned beef. “Cheers,” she said.
 
Carlene worked at Jabs, her father's training gym for professional boxers. Her father, Michael Rivers, was an ex-boxer himself. When he failed to rise to the ranks of a professional, he opened the gym—just a few months before he met Carlene's mother. Growing up, Carlene spent more time at the gym than she did in their two-bedroom apartment above it. Now she managed the day-to-day operations. Her father had OCD, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and instead of growing out of it, as he always promised he would, he was just getting worse. Compared to the over-orderly, sanitized world her father lived in, Carlene loved the smell, sounds, and sweat of the gym.
She loved the squeak of tennis shoes on the linoleum floor, the patter of boxers' feet, the grunts and groans accompanying their jabs. She loved the ropes that hung from the ceiling, thick twisted vines that she would swing on when no one was looking, she loved the punching bags she would pummel with her fists, she loved the practice ring she would crawl into when she was all alone, punching and jumping and ducking. She loved the sound of whistles being blown, and sweaty men with towels thrown over their muscular shoulders. She loved it all. Her motto in here was “let 'em see you sweat.” When it first opened, the gym was all men. Carlene used to sit on a stool near the ring, hold their towels, and suffer through teasing, hair ruffles, and play jabs. Her small fists would bunch up in imitation of theirs, and she'd strike at phantom enemies in the air.
Carlene knew that had she grown up with her mother, she would have missed out on all of this. But Renee Rivers died from a weak heart when Carlene was only six. Carlene was raised in the gym, and she wouldn't have missed it for the world. She wondered if it made her a horrible person to think such thoughts, but she just couldn't imagine her mother allowing her to be around all those grown men, all the swearing, all the sweating, all the punching. She probably would have taken ballet or tap-dancing class with the other little girls her age, maybe only allowed an hour a week at the gym, such as Saturday afternoons when her mother needed some retail therapy, or her hair done, or a mani-pedi. At least that's how Carlene always imagined it.
Now there were plenty of women who trained at the gym. It had been Carlene's idea. First, she suggested women's boxing for fitness. She convinced the cutest boxer at the time to teach the class. It was a huge success. She added self-defense, then private boxing lessons, and then, slowly, the professional female boxers came to train. She'd doubled their membership. But on this day, she just didn't feel like working.
It had been one month since the Irish festival, and weighing in at a whopping ten pounds, twelve ounces, Shane Weinstein had been born the night before. Carlene had just come from the hospital. She'd never seen Becca so happy. Watching her friend hold her son in her arms was joyous. It also brought unexpected feelings of jealousy to the surface. Carlene was thrilled for Becca, but something ached inside her when she saw that fat baby, when Levi reached over and stroked Becca's cheek, and when the three of them just sat, and smiled, and breathed in the silence of what they had just become. A family. Carlene was a long, long way from being a mother herself, if it ever happened. In order to do that, she'd have to find a relationship she could sustain for more than a couple of months.
Carlene approached the door to her father's office. She paused, hoping just once she'd open it and find his desk littered with papers and coffee cups and loose change. She'd give anything to see her father sitting in the middle of clutter. She knocked four times, then paused, counted to four, and once again knocked four times. It was the only way he'd ever answer.
“Come in.” She opened the door. Her father was sitting behind his desk. It was clear and polished. He wore blue rubber gloves. The tiny, immaculate room reeked of Lysol.
“Hey, Dad,” she said. “Guess what? I'm an honorary aunt!” She sat down in the one chair across from her father's desk. She kept her hands where he could see them. He pushed over a box. She took a pair of rubber gloves from the box and put them on. She was taking the picture of Shane out of her purse when her cell phone rang. She held her finger up to her father, then slipped outside to take the call. He didn't allow cell phones in his office—he thought they caused brain cancer. The squeak of tennis shoes on the gym floor and sounds of the punching bags being hit made it hard to hear the caller. He had an Irish accent. Her first thought was—Brendan.
Even two years later, her heart caught in her throat at the thought of him, and even after the caller introduced himself as someone else, it took a while for the hammering in her chest to stop. When it did, and she could make out what the caller was saying, she was full sure somebody was pulling a prank on her. This was “hidden camera,” this was “you've been punked,” this was Becca doubling over with laughter and screeching, “You should've seen the look on your face.”
The man was still speaking. He said something about Ballybeog, and Dublin, Ohio, and the Irish festival—and it wasn't until he said “raffle” that it hit her. And then she felt as if her heart was suspended in her throat again, a sensation that remained for a very long time, long after he repeated the words—“I told ye, ye looked lucky to me all right. Congratulations, you just won a pub in Ballybeog.”
C
HAPTER
6
Leaving Home
When the news of her winning the pub reached Cleveland, reporters came out in droves. Her father paled under the spotlight. Cameras snapped like turtles, microphones were shoved in their faces, and they were both asked way too many personal questions. It literally made her father sweat, and only Carlene knew that the handkerchief he used to pat the perspiration off his brow had been ironed no less than a hundred times that very morning. Yet somehow, they got through it all; somehow, no matter how many times her father begged her to stay, Carlene remained steadfast. Becca threw a small going-away party for her that her father didn't attend. But the day of her flight he held out a small jewelry box. Inside was a pair of teardrop emerald earrings.
“These belonged to your grandma Jane,” he said. “And then she passed them on to your mother.” Carlene held her breath. Her father rarely mentioned her mother. “She planned on giving them to you on your sixteenth birthday,” he said.
“But I'm thirty,” Carlene said. Her father just looked at her. “I love them,” she said. She turned away as she put them on; she didn't want him to see her cry. When she turned back, she sported a huge smile and air-hugged him. What she would give to be able to actually touch him again, skin to skin, like she could when her mother was alive. She touched the earrings instead. Earrings her mother had worn. “I'm going to make you proud,” Carlene said. Her father didn't reply. She touched the earrings again.
You too, Grandma Jane,
she said silently.
And you, Mom, always you
.
 
A six-year-old remembers her mother. She remembers her smell. Renee Rivers always smelled like laundry fresh from the dryer; something you couldn't wait to wrap your arms around and inhale. She remembers how she would stand at the stove stirring her famous stew while talking on the phone. A chunky yellow rotary tucked into the crook of her neck, the spiral cord stretching tantalizingly from the wall. Carlene would sit on the floor underneath the bouncing cord, and when she could resist no longer, she would reach up and tug the cord down to the floor, then release it and watch it bounce. She would do it until her mother yelled at her to stop, which was usually after the third yank.
She remembers carefully cut peanut butter sandwiches with just the right amount of jelly, and glasses of milk in tall coloredplastic glasses, and being sat in front of the television to watch cartoons. She remembers good-night kisses, and bedtime stories, and soft hands on her forehead when she had a fever. She remembers happy birthdays and cakes with candles, and Christmas celebrations. She remembers drives in the car to see Grandma Jane, her mother's elbow resting on the ledge of the passenger seat window, her gaze outward and slightly sad, as if she were leaving something behind. She remembers how the hugs and kisses Renee Rivers gave her father were different from the hugs and kisses she gave Carlene. Her mother always kissed her father longer, but she squeezed Carlene harder.
She remembers her last day with her mother. They took a trip on the city bus. They went to see a doctor. Her mother needed some vitamins. Carlene sat in the waiting room, swinging her feet off a padded chair. There was a pretty lady sitting at a desk. She kept smiling at Carlene and even gave her a piece of gum from her very own purse. After the doctor's they went to a pharmacy where her mother was given some pills in orange plastic bottles. She remembers the bus ride home, although it's the one thing she wishes she could forget, it's the memory she plays over and over again in her mind, and because of what happened on that bus, when they got home, Carlene was sent to Grandma Jane's. Her mother didn't tell her that was why, but Carlene knew it. Carlene didn't get to come home that night. Her mother needed her rest.
She remembers coming home from Grandma Jane's the next morning. She remembers her father sitting up straight on the couch, all dressed up in brown linen pants and a white buttondown shirt instead of what her mother called his “house shorts.” She remembers the look on her father's face.
“Your mother,” he said. He choked. It was the first time she'd ever seen her father look as if he were about to cry. It was also the last time she would ever see her father's hands free of the blue rubber gloves that would soon encase them. “Had a weak heart,” he whispered. He held out his hands to her. Carlene didn't budge. Grandma Jane knelt behind her, wrapped her arms around her.
“She's in heaven watching over you,” Grandma Jane said. “She's our angel now.”
 
They wouldn't open the lid and let her see her. She wanted to see her. They were tricking her. If she couldn't see her, maybe she wasn't really dead. Maybe she'd run away. Maybe she was mad at Carlene for what happened on the bus. But then they buried the box and threw dirt over it, and her father cried—loud, gulping sounds that came from his throat. That was when she knew for sure that her mother was really dead. Her mother was in a box. They put her in the ground and threw dirt over her. Wasn't she going to be lonely down there? Wasn't she going to be afraid? How could she rather be down there than up here with them?
Hot spikes of guilt pulsed through Carlene whenever she thought about that day on the bus. And she thought about it a lot. She ached to tell someone what she'd done, but every time she thought of telling, a huge ball of sick would land in her stomach and turn, and turn, and turn until she changed her mind about telling. If she told them, they would know what she'd done. They would hate her. They would leave her just like her mother left her.
A six-year-old remembers. Shadowy memories of a mother's love. But what she remembers most was that it was all her fault. Carlene was the one who was responsible. Carlene was the one who made her mother's heart weak. And flawed or not, her father was the only family she had left. She'd already broken her mother's heart; she could only pray she wasn't about to do the same thing to him.
BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
5.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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