The Pub Across the Pond (30 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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C
HAPTER
36
Pulling Out the Punches
The day following the Americans from Hell incident, Carlene wasn't sure what to expect. Would she have any customers? She'd been awake all night, throwing covers on and off, turning this way and that, looking out the window and realizing she'd never been somewhere so dark—at home there were always streetlights even at night, but here the sky was cloaked in a deep cushion of black. Had she been in a better mood it would have been comforting; as it stood, it made her feel isolated and so alone. She obsessively replayed the events of the evening. Sally's torn wedding dress hung in her closet like a ghostly reprimand.
Carlene tried not to think about Ronan, but her thoughts kept returning to him anyway, like a homing pigeon returning to his perch long after his coop had been torn down. Ronan was so beautiful, and aggravating, and immature, yet caring, and funny, and every time he messed up he was too easy to forgive because you could tell he meant well. There was a softness to him, a vulnerability that Carlene wanted to leap in and fix, yet there was also a wall, which he would run and hide behind the second he felt she was getting too close. How much was he still gambling? Did any of them believe that he had really quit?
Carlene woke early the next morning and picked up the book on souterrains, just to get her mind on something else. She had just fixed herself a cup of instant coffee and opened the book when Ciaran's wife, Jane, burst in the door, followed by Ciaran himself, eyes firmly planted on his feet, like an infant discovering them for the first time. Jane looked as pretty and perky as ever, except for the large white bandage on her neck. Ciaran glanced up, mouthed “Sorry,” and returned his gaze to his fascinating feet. Jane barged up to the bar. Despite her petite frame, she looked perfectly capable of kicking Carlene's ass.
“Where the feck do you get off?” Jane said.
“Pardon?” Carlene said. Jane ripped the bandage off her neck. There, Carlene could clearly make out teeth marks.
“Ciaran,” Carlene said. “I didn't tell you to bite her neck.”
“You said follow her passions,” Ciaran said. “Her passions are fucking vampires. I thought she'd fancy a nip.” Jane put her bandage back on and shook her finger at Carlene.
“First Sally, and now this? I wish Joe McBride would have turned this place into a spa. At least then I'd be getting my nails done instead of slapping some sense into my husband. You won't be entertaining Ciaran anymore here. That's a promise.”
“I'm sorry,” Carlene said.
“Mind yer own business or I'll come back and mind it for ye,” Jane said. Then she stormed out. Ciaran stood in her wake.
“Ciaran,” Carlene said.
“I know, I know,” Ciaran said. He remained standing.
“I think you'd better go with her,” Carlene said.
“Right, right,” Ciaran said. “Listen. Can I just get a wee drink to take away?”
 
Carlene couldn't sleep that night either, so a little after one in the morning, she called her father. Maybe, for once in his life, he would comfort her. Maybe he had some great advice that would save her from all of this.
“What time is it?” he asked straightaway.
“It's one twelve here,” she said.
“You should be in bed.” Carlene heard water running in the background. It continued throughout the call.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I'm not well,” her father said. Carlene settled in and listened to his complaints. His joints were bothering him, his back ached, his hands were chapped, they were discontinuing one of his favorite cleaning products, and he was going to sell the gym. Carlene, who had been lying down, sat straight up in bed.
“Why?” she said.
“Because you were supposed to be here to run it,” her father said. “You were going to take over for me.”
“Since when?”
“I thought it was obvious. I was slowly giving you more and more responsibility. You had your own office.”
“It was a janitor's closet, Dad.”
“It was spotless, and that desk fit in there,” her father said.
“I don't know what to say. Sell if you want to sell.”
“Why don't you just come home?” Without waiting for her reply, he started in on the woes of running the gym. She was so deflated by the time he was done that she didn't even try to talk him into visiting. Just once, she would love to say, “How are you, Dad?” and hear, “Grand, grand. You?” in response.
And he didn't even know what a failure she was here. Maybe he was right. Maybe she should come home and run the gym. It didn't dawn on her until she hung up. He hadn't once asked her about her.
 
Carlene had underestimated Sally's influence. A week went by with only a few visits from Declan. He seemed so concerned for her, and she was grateful for his company and his assurances that things would get better. He did everything he could to cheer her up, including bombarding her with jokes. “Have you seen the Ballybeog cemetery?” he asked her.
“I have,” Carlene said.
“Did you know that nobody who lives near the cemetery is allowed to be buried there?”
“No,” Carlene said. “Why not?”
“Because they're not dead yet,” Declan said. His visits kept her sane. One day he saw her book on souterrains and started leafing through it.
“Why the interest?” he asked.
“I'm just . . . curious about all things Ireland,” Carlene said.
“Ah, right, right,” Declan said. Carlene felt a rush of guilt. Here was maybe her only friend left in Ballybeog, and she was lying to him. She couldn't help it; the souterrain was her secret, the one thing keeping her sane. “Remember you asked me if I knew who gave you this book?” Declan said.
“Yes,” Carlene said. “I'm sorry you didn't see her. She's the same woman I ran into at the Ballybeog Museum.”
“I reckon I know who you're on about,” Declan said.
“You do?”
“It sounds like Ellen,” Declan said.
“Ellen,” Carlene said. Why did that name sound familiar?
“She's Pat McGee's daughter. Stays in her room most of the time.” That was it—she'd heard the women on the bus to the cliffs talking about Ellen.
“Why do you think it's her?”
“She's a skinny thing with short dark hair. Very pale.”
“That's her. Well, that's great, right? It means she's coming out of her room.”
“I heard Pat McGee say so the other day. Seems she's been coming out of her room since you came to town.”
“Me?”
“You've got your own Irish stalker!”
“That's so great,” Carlene said. “I wish she was a paying stalker.”
“Don't you worry, pet. They'll come back.”
“Thanks, Declan.” He got up to leave, then stood by the door watching her.
“I love Sally like she was me own daughter,” Declan said. “But I've always known Ronan wasn't the man for her. She won't see it for a long time all right, but you did her a favor. And let me tell you, chicken. That home movie? That was some kiss. Some kiss, all right. I'd say Ellen isn't the only one you've lured out of hiding. I think if you played your cards right, you might just talk that boy into settling down.” Before Carlene could argue otherwise, Declan winked and was out the door.
 
Carlene scrubbed the floors. She polished the bar. She polished the brass rail at the foot of the bar that she always forgot about because she was always on the other side. She polished the tables and the chairs. She cleaned windows inside and out, mopped and swept the floors, and walls, and pictures, and shelves, and knickknacks. She played all of her favorite songs from the jukebox. She played a game of pool by herself. Then darts. She lost both. She cried. She danced. Every morning she crawled thirteen steps into the souterrain and back. She played with Columbus. She rearranged the furniture on the back deck and picked fresh wildflowers every morning. Ronan called several times, but Carlene didn't call him back.
On her sixth day of solitary confinement, Ronan showed up at her door carrying a computer. It was an older model, a dinosaur by most standards, but she was so thrilled to see it, she had to refrain herself from dropping to her knees and clinging to his legs. Ronan cleared a space in the back of the bar, and within a few minutes, she was hooked up and online.
“I didn't know I could get Internet,” Carlene said.
“I installed a satellite,” Ronan said.
“When did you do that?” Carlene said.
“A few days ago,” Ronan said. “You were out.” It must have been on one of her walks. She'd been taking long walks into town and around the abbey. Ronan looked around the empty bar.
“How ya keeping?” he said.
“Grand, grand,” Carlene said. She turned away so he wouldn't see her tears. She hated crying. She'd been doing a lot of it lately.
“It will all settle down,” Ronan said.
“That's what Declan said,” Carlene said. Ronan started for the door, then stopped.
“I would have told her,” he said. “I was planning on it that night. It's why I had the newspaper article in my pocket. I've no excuse for dragging it out—other than I'm not very good at facing up to things, I guess.”
“I believe you,” Carlene said. “But you and me. I don't know—”
“Right, right,” Ronan said. “No bother.”
“Wait,” Carlene said. “There's something I want to show you. It's out back.” Ronan's cell phone beeped. He flipped it open and read the message.
“Can we do this another time?” he said. “I have to run.” Carlene nodded. “Bye awhile,” he said.
 
Why did she let him do that to her? The minute he left, Carlene felt as if a huge hole had opened up inside her. It wasn't a blessing to find someone who made you feel so alive, it was a curse. She had been so looking forward to finally showing him the souterrain. Where was he going in such a hurry? Was he dating someone else? Was he gambling? And which, she chided herself, would bother her more? She was too restless now; she had to do something.
In the shed, Carlene found a bag of sand and a long piece of rope. Carlene tied the sandbag to the rope, borrowed a ladder from Joe, and hung it from the wood-beamed ceiling. Voilà, she had her own punching bag. She worked out for about an hour, going through all her old boxing drills. It felt great. On the third day of this routine, she felt someone at the window watching her. Two middle-aged women stood in her front yard, looking in. Carlene waved. At first, they just stared, then slowly, they lifted their arms and waved back. They started to walk away. Carlene ran to the door and threw it open.
“I'm open,” she said, hoping her perspiration wouldn't drive them away. “Are you here for a drink?”
“Actually,” one of the women said, pointing at her, “we'd like to do that to ourselves.”
“What?” Carlene said. What had she done to herself?
“Boxercise,” the other woman said. She looked down at her body. “We need to get in shape.”
“The annual Ballybeog Talent Show is coming up, you see,” the first woman said. “I'd like to be fitting into me dress by then.”
“Boxercise?” Carlene said. “Both of you?” They nodded in unison. “Well then,” Carlene said. “What time can you be here tomorrow?”
 
The next morning, six middle-aged women and one sixteenyear-old girl showed up for boxercise class. Carlene was impressed with their outfits—they were new and trendy. Carlene put on some upbeat music and took them through her routine. They loved taking turns on the punching bag. It seemed there were a lot of women in Ballybeog who just needed to hit something.
“You own a boxing gym back home in Ohio, is that right?” one lady asked her.
“My father owns the gym,” Carlene said. “Although he might be selling it.”
“You wouldn't want to go home and run it?” another asked. There was no malice in her voice, only curiosity.
“I'd rather make a go of it here,” Carlene said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew it was true. This was her home now; at least, she wanted it to be.
“So you grew up boxing?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” Carlene said. “I even married a boxer. Well, semiprofessional anyway. He was Irish too.” She was feeling so good, endorphins flying through her body, her mouth just didn't know when to stop. She didn't even realize what she'd said until she'd noticed that her class had come to a dead stop.

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