by Nicole James
“We’re all sinners, aren’t we, Ma?”
“Yes, Michaela. That we are.”
Nineteen
Sly—
We load up and Michaela carries the list of addresses, directing me to one of our destinations. A few minutes later, I pull up to the first home. It’s a rundown clapboard house on the edge of town. Empty beer cans lie abandoned in the yard.
I park at the curb, eyeing the place, hating to think of Michaela and her brother doing this alone if I hadn’t offered to come along. “Ever been to this house before?”
“No, this is a new family.”
We climb out.
She double-checks the list. “The Carsons have two children.”
I grab the box of food, and Michaela and Ryan grab the bags with the Easter baskets hidden inside. We approach the door, and I balance the box on my hip while Michaela knocks.
A boy of about eight answers the door. He’s skinny and dirty, but his eyes light up when he sees the box of food I hold.
“Hello there,” Michaela greets the child. “Is your mother or father home?”
The sound of boots approaching carries to us, and the boy cowers back.
A big, gruff-looking guy fills the doorway. His eyes sweep over us, and he barks, “We don’t take charity!”
I realize he’s about to slam the door in Michaela’s face. Oh, hell no. I ram my shoulder to the door, stopping him. My gaze darts from the man’s surprised eyes to the hopeful ones of his son, and something trips inside me. That poor kid is stuck in this desperate family at the mercy of this man, wanting nothing as badly as the gifts we’re bringing. I want that kid to have this food and the Easter basket, and I’m not about to let his jerk of a father keep him from getting this gift.
I meet the father’s eyes. “This isn’t charity, it’s a gift.”
“We don’t need it.”
“Look, man. Don’t make your family suffer for your ego. Take it.”
He storms past me, jumps in an old car, and barrels back out of the driveway. When he’s gone, a tired and worn-out woman with a baby on her hip comes to the door.
“I’m sorry about my husband. Clyde’s been out of work for a while. He’s pretty touchy about handouts.”
Michaela holds out one of the bags. “For tomorrow morning when the Easter bunny comes.”
The woman takes it, feeling through the bag for what’s inside, and nods as her eyes fill with tears. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means.”
I carry the box into the house and set it on the kitchen table for her.
Ryan carries another bag.
Michaela hands the woman a greeting card in an envelope. I know there’s a gift card for the grocery store inside. She wishes them all a Happy Easter, and we pile back into my truck. As I pull from the curb, I see the little boy in the window waving to us.
I swallow around the lump in my throat.
We drive to the next house. This one’s a mile farther out of town. I turn onto the gravel drive and up to an old single-wide trailer. Clothes hang out on a line, flapping in the breeze. Although it’s just a trailer, the place is neat and kept with no trash or rusted broken items lying in the yard.
I climb out and lift a box from the bed of the truck. “How many kids?”
Michaela checks the list. “Maria Gonzalez is a single mother with three children.”
We walk up the wooden stairs, crowd together on the landing, and I rap on the metal door. A boy of about six opens it.
Michaela bends down, smiling. “Hello, is your mother here?”
His eyes are big as he turns and excitedly calls for her.
A short, round woman comes to the door, wiping her hands on an apron. She’s smiling, but there’s confusion on her face. She begins speaking Spanish. I don’t understand a word, and I can tell Michaela doesn’t either.
The little boy acts as translator.
“She says ‘hello.’”
Michaela smiles. “Tell her this is a gift. Happy Easter.”
The boy translates for her, and then back again. “She says ‘this is a gift from God. Thank you.’”
An older brother, maybe ten, comes to the door, a toddler girl behind him. I hold up the box. “A gift.”
His eyes get big and he turns to his mother. “Madre, comida!”
She nods, tears running down her face. She wipes them with her apron. “Gracias! Gracias! Por favor, entra.”
She steps back and we go inside. I set the box down on the small table in the kitchen area.
The little boy is euphoric. He’s jumping around like it’s Christmas morning. Then he flings himself at me, clutching my legs as I try to leave. He won’t let go of my leg. It’s like I’m Santa Claus and he doesn’t want me to go.
Michaela hands the woman the envelope and gives her a peek at what’s inside the black bags. The woman nods, understanding, and hustles them back to probably a closet or bedroom to hide them.
I grin. I doubt those bags last an hour before the boys find them and tear into them. That’s okay. They’re happy, and that’s what matters.
We head outside and pile into the truck. As I back up and head down the gravel drive, I glance in my rearview mirror. The mother is on the porch, crying and smiling, waving us off.
I turn out onto the blacktop highway and run a hand down my face. Relatively speaking, it was not an excessive gift, but to those boys and that woman, it meant everything. This experience is touching shit deep inside me that I haven’t felt in years, and I know I’m not going to forget it for a long time, maybe never.
Twenty
Michaela—
I stand in my office, open-mouthed, as the inspector from the county health department rips off a copy of his report and hands it to me. He peers through his round glasses, his mouth moving under his walrus mustache.
“You’re shut down until further notice. Get these violations corrected, then call to have the establishment re-inspected.”
With that, he hitches his pants up his round belly and waddles out.
I follow him, watching while he tapes the order on our front door.
Luckily, we only have one customer at the bar. I walk over to him and quietly explain. He wipes his face with a napkin, throws it on his lunch plate, and takes off without paying his bill. I lock the door behind him.
“Did I hear you right?” Phil asks. “Did you just tell that guy we’ve been shut down?”
I nod. “I’m afraid so. Until we can get the violations corrected.” I glance down at the report. There are eight violations. I slump against the door. I want to cry, but I have three employees staring at me. “You all might as well go home. Meet me back here at eight tomorrow morning, and hopefully, we’ll be able to fix most of these in a day. The refrigeration issue will require a service call. I’ll arrange that now.”
While I’m heading to my office, I can hear them all grumbling as they leave. I plop down at the desk and twirl through my father’s old Rolodex until I find a repair service for the kitchen equipment. I make the call and set up an appointment for their earliest available slot, which isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. After hanging up the phone on the desk, my hand lingers on the receiver while I wonder if I’ll have enough money to fix whatever needs repairs.
It’s all too much, and I suddenly need air.
It’s a warm day, so after deciding to take a walk, I lock up the back door and wander down the street for several blocks until I see St. Joseph’s. I push open the wrought iron gate but don’t go inside the cathedral; instead, I stroll through the adjacent cemetery and wander along the path until I find myself at Da’s grave. I sit on the nearby stone bench, aware of the fresh sod covering his resting place, a mismatched green patch from the surrounding growth.
Tears drift down my cheeks, and I whisper, “Oh, Da. I’m failing at everything. It’s all too much, and I can’t do it.”
I want the bar to be successful. I want to prove myself. But there’s just so much riding on it—the
hopes of Ma, Granddad, and even Ryan and the twins—that I feel crushed under the pressure. I think of all that hangs in the balance if I fail. The stakes are so high.
I hear the distant call of a train leaving town, and I think about what it would be like to just up and leave, like that train, to abandon everything and run away from all my problems.
The unmistakable sound of a Harley pulses through the air, and I look up to see Sly riding past. He glances over and spots me, and the bike immediately slows down. He makes a U-turn and rolls back up to the curb outside the fence. I watch him dismount, hang his helmet on the handlebar, and then approach. After finding the gate, he walks to me but stops two feet away and studies my face. “You okay, Michaela?”
I wonder why he hesitates, perhaps he’s afraid to intrude. I nod.
“You don’t look okay, babe. What happened?”
I cover my face with my hands and burst into tears. In the blink of an eye, Sly’s next to me on the bench, his arms gathering me to his hard, protective chest.
“Kitten, I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.” Big hands stroke soothingly over my thin blouse as the heat from his body warms me. I take in a slow breath and wipe the tears with my sleeve.
“I’m sorry. It’s not worth crying about. Really, it’s not. It’s just, the health department shut us down today, and everything sort of caught up with me. Maybe everything you said to me that first night we met is true. Maybe you’re right and this is too much for me.”
“Michaela, look at me.” Sly takes my upper arms in his hands, and I tilt my head up and meet his eyes. Those light green depths are way too pretty for any man to possess. They hypnotize me, even now … here of all places.
“I only said those things to push you, to challenge you. I didn’t mean any of it. I swear.”
My mouth drops open. “You didn’t?”
“No. I think you’re more than capable of running that place.”
I pull out of his arms and move to stand, rubbing my hands up my own. “I didn’t want this, you know. I didn’t want any of it. The bar, the responsibility of my family …”
He moves to stand next to me.
“Then don’t push yourself like this. You want a break? We could leave. Split. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Name it. You want to see Yellowstone, we’ll go. We can get on my bike and ride out of town right now.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
“Yeah, I fucking do, Michaela. Told you, I don’t say shit I don’t mean.”
He’s offering me heaven on a platter, and I want to take it so badly. I stare down at my father’s grave and then my eyes drift over one spot. The stone reads Fiona Mooney. My grandmother. And suddenly I turn to Sly. “I know where I need to go. Will you give me a ride?”
Twenty-One
Sly—
Michaela gives me directions and I take her up into the mountains. She taps my shoulder and points at a dirt driveway next to a beat-up mailbox. I slow the bike and make the turn. We ride up a rise through some tall pines, my fat tires crunching on the stones, dirt, and pinecones. A house that looks to be about a hundred years old appears in the distance as a wisp of smoke rises from its stone chimney. It’s a log home that was probably built by hand.
I park my Harley in front of the wide porch that runs the length of the structure, and we climb off the bike. After removing my cut and stuffing it in a saddlebag, I follow Michaela up the steps to find a handful of rocking chairs facing the view and scattered flowerpots that look like they’re growing herbs.
“Who lives here, babe?” I ask as she knocks.
“My grandfather and my aunt Kathleen. You met her last week. She never married, so after my grandmother died, she moved in to take care of him.”
The door opens and her aunt’s face lights up when she sees Michaela. While they hug, her eyes meet mine over Michaela’s shoulder, and she pulls back. “I didn’t expect you, dear. You should have told me you were coming. I was just serving your grandfather lunch, you must join us.”
We step inside.
We met last Saturday when we were packing up for Easter, so she knows who I am. I glance around. It’s a typical log home, warm and cozy inside. We step into a living room with a big stone hearth. There’s a dining room off to the side and beyond that, a kitchen complete with red gingham curtains in the window.
An elderly man sits at the head of the dining table with a bowl of soup before him—and his spoon paused in the air. His hair is white with widow’s peaks in the thick mane. His eyes are clear blue, and they drill into me before drifting to his granddaughter.
“Grandfather,” she greets him, moving to kiss his cheek.
I move to him, extending my hand. “Marcus Gates, sir. A friend of Michaela’s.”
He shakes my hand. “Sit.”
We take seats and Michaela’s aunt brings us each a bowl of chicken and vegetable soup. As I hear a hen clucking from the back of the house, I can’t help thinking that one ended up in the pot as lunch. The vegetables are probably fresh from the garden as well.
I taste a spoonful and it’s delicious. Her aunt passes a basket with baked bread, still warm from the oven.
“I haven’t had cooking this good in a long time,” I say by way of compliment.
Her aunt smiles, stirs her soup, but doesn’t speak.
“How’s the pub?” her grandfather asks.
Michaela stirs her soup, her eyes on the bowl. I stare at her, wanting to comfort her, and reach over to cover her free hand with mine. The old man doesn’t miss it.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sharp as a tack.
She tries to smile, but it fades. “Nothing, Grandpa.”
“Bull. Tell me.”
He’s a no-nonsense guy, and I like him already.
“Michaela.” His voice is low and serious, and I can’t imagine him brooking any arguments. The man obviously won’t tolerate being put off.
“The health department shut Mooney’s down.”
He chomps his jaw, staring at the tabletop, and then drops his spoon with a clatter. “Johnson? Lyle Johnson? He the one who shut you down?”
She nods. “You know him?”
“He’s a little prick, just like his daddy before him.”
“Grandpa!”
“Well, he is. Don’t worry about him. I have to, I’ll go down there and raise hell in his office.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Aunt Kathleen snaps.
Michaela stares down into her bowl again and murmurs, “I don’t think I can do it. I’m failing at all of it.”
“The pub?” the old man asks.
She nods.
He stands, his knuckles on the table to keep his balance, and then shuffles over to a bookcase. He returns with a leather-bound album about four inches thick and drops it on the table with a thud.
He sits and flips it open. The first picture is a black-and-white photo of a farm.
“That’s the farm back in Donegal. The family was dirt poor, living in a sod house. My father went back in the thirties and found the ruins still standing. Took this picture.” He flips to the next page, and two faces stare back in two ovals, obviously taken in a photographer’s studio at the turn of the century. He taps his finger on first one, then the next. “Your great, great grandfather, Sean Padraig, and his brother, Finn Hugh. They came to this country with nothing. Worked their way west from New York. Earned money prize-fighting and any other way they could, some legal, some not. Settled in Uprising with enough money to start the pub.”
He flips the page. The next photo is the outside of Mooney’s back in the town’s early days. The streets are still dirt, wooden boardwalks line the buildings, and a mule-drawn wagon sits out in front, loaded down with barrels of beer.
He flips again and Michaela points at the picture. “I know that photo. There’s a copy of it in the bar.”
It’s a shot of the inside of the pub, the long bar, and two young men with mustaches and long white aprons, posing.
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The old man skips a few pages. “During prohibition, your great-grandfather and his two brothers were in the moonshine business.” He points to a shot of two men next to a 1930s Ford. “Those were hard times. The pub sold root beer and ice cream to stay in business but had a back room for gambling and drinking late at night. The local police took payoffs and looked the other way.
“Then I took over, and we suffered through the Great Depression, then your father, and now you, Michaela. So you see, this place is your legacy. Hardships come and go, but the family has hung on through all of it. I’m sorry I can’t help you more, so I guess I’ve got no right to expect you to give up everything for that place, but I sure would hate to see Mooney’s end with you after almost a hundred and twenty years.”
I hate the pressure the old man’s putting on her, but I have to admire the way he laid it all out for her. It’s her decision what to do from here on out. Doesn’t sound like he’ll stand in her way, no matter what she decides.
When her grandfather closes the book, he studies Michaela’s eyes. “You having any trouble with those bikers?”
It’s then I become aware that he doesn’t realize I’m one of them. I’ve always been in civilian clothes and only used my truck anytime I’ve been introduced to any of her family members. Apparently, Michaela hasn’t told them about the club, the money, or me. But he knows something, so maybe Cullen told him, or he just knows from word on the street with other businesses.
Either way, something about this man makes me want to be straight up with him. Aunt Kathleen has carried the dishes into the kitchen, so I take the opportunity to lay it out for him.
“She’s not going to have any trouble with the club.”
His eyes cut to me, and there’s that sharpness again. “And you know this how?”
“I’m one of ’em. She’s not gonna have any trouble from us. Got my word.”
I can see in his eyes he’s reserving judgment on whether my word is good. “Time will tell, I guess.”