“No. I’m thinking soon, though.” Brandon said, giving her a wide smile back. He had great teeth, she was relieved to note. Hopefully it was genetic; the dentist bills from Molly’s childhood had been crippling. And she’d always believed a smile bought you friends faster than anything else. “It’s almost dinnertime,” he allowed, “and I’ve never known her to sleep through a meal.”
Suzanne closed her eyes briefly, but she managed to keep her mouth shut.
“What was O’Shenanigan’s, anyway?” he asked.
“O’Shenanigan’s was a pub, an Irish pub. And I’m proud to say, it was my idea,” Buddy said modestly, “but it was Suzanne’s dad who made it work on a day-to-day basis. He wasn’t a full-blooded mick like me—sorry, Brandon, I can be un-PC if I’m talking about my own kind. But your dad had a real love of all things from that country. He gave us the flavor of the place, the design, the music, the decorations, the food . . .” He smacked his lips and rubbed his stomach. “I love a good rack of lamb the way Jimmy loved a good stout Irish ale. Or cognac.”
“That’s right. Daddy sipped, Mommy guzzled,” Suzanne recalled. She opened a new pack of Spirits. Milds, these were called, and their package was bright yellow. Molly wryly asked, after seeing the package, if they were lemon-flavored.
“Oh, not in those days,” Buddy corrected her. “In those days, she might have her glass or three of wine, but that was about it. I never saw her so tipsy that she had a hard time walking or speaking.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Molly said she’s been in AA forever,” Brandon chimed in. He unraveled his progress on the macramé and started again, watching Buddy’s work more closely this time. The old man’s fingers moved faster than he’d imagined.
“See, I never saw that side of her. Or, at least,” Buddy admitted, “if she was drinking more than she should, she sure could hold her booze. But, then again, we were working fourteen-, fifteen-hour days sometimes. I just don’t know when she’d have had the time.” His mind was still back in that space on State Street, less than a mile from where they were now. It was on the other side of the river, right next to the marina. Such an ideal location. “Oh, it was such a grand bunch of ideas, let me tell you. Picking the entertainment, decorating the place, planning out the menu, familiarizing ourselves completely with all things Irish. It was the first time I’d ever enjoyed work, and the most fun I’d ever had—not counting,” he winked convivially, “the graduation weekend I spent with the McShane sisters.”
“Score!” Brandon offered Buddy the obligatory high five as Suzanne, the resident feminist, groaned obligingly.
“My goodness, all this testosterone,” she sighed. “How very 1950s.”
“The mahogany bar, the shabby furniture, the fireplaces,” Buddy remembered. “Oh, Brandon, you should have seen the little tight-bodiced numbers we had the waitresses wear. We made up a whole legend around this Irish wench, Shaunessy O’Shenanigan, and printed it up on the menu in gothic script.” He looked lovingly at Suzanne, who was smiling, as in-the-memory as he was. “Pretty soon, even the locals believed she’d married six times and her husbands kept disappearing in mysterious ways. And whaddya know, the bangers kept rolling in.”
“And people liked that?” Brandon asked, aghast.
“Are you kidding?” Suzanne shouted with laughter, her cheeks flushed with the excitement of the memory. Being around Buddy reminded her so much of the old days, she couldn’t help feeling like the hopeful, starry-eyed girl she’d been. “They couldn’t get enough of it. On Halloween, and even on St. Patrick’s Day, people came in dressed as Shaunessy. And we brought in some Irish music. At the time, it wasn’t on every street corner the way it is now. You had to really hunt it down.”
“Like The Irish Rovers?” Brandon asked. Brandon’s grandmother had been hooked on the show, and its theme song haunted some of his earliest memories.
“That’s right, that’s right. These bands were complete with traditional Irish instruments—and that means acoustic guitars, uilleann pipes, harps, accordions, and the bodhrans—drums, to the uneducated members of the audience. Buddy ran the dining room—he never dirtied himself behind the bar. You could always see him neat as a pin, in a perfectly clean shirt, pressed tie, and jacket, while Daddy would have on a staff polo shirt covered with coffee spots and reeking of beer . . .” She caught her breath, startled by the huge wave of longing that suddenly swept over her.
She’d grown used to missing her father over the years, but every now and then she’d stumble onto something that was so Jimmy-like that the pangs would start fresh and take time to fade. Buddy looked at her kindly, reading her thoughts.
“And your dad, oh, your dad, he was—hands down—the greatest bar manager, ever. People came for miles just to listen to his fake accent and hear his jokes.” He smiled proudly. “The ladies, young and old, had always loved to swarm around Jimmy. Trust me, I was plenty jealous when we first met in high school, but after a while, you just had to accept it. He was just that kind of guy. I certainly couldn’t compete with Mr. Charming, so I just left him to his one-man show.”
“What’s the one about the house builder he used to tell?” Suzanne asked. It was hazy in her memory. “No . . . no, wait. Or was it a boatbuilder?”
“Actually, it was both.” Buddy put down his macramé and raised himself onto his feet. “Let’s do this properly.” He drew himself up to his full six feet and paused dramatically. “A young man named Riley walks into a bar in Ireland, just as morose as could be, and the bartender asks, ‘What be troubling you, laddie?’ And Riley says, in complete despair, ‘There is no forgiveness in this world. My mother’s father was O’Malley, the shipbuilder, and in my youth I helped him build hundreds of the fine frigates that sailed to the New World. My father was McDougal, the carpenter. He hand-carved staircase railings and doorframes, and summer after summer I helped him with his work. There are houses I helped build all over Dublin. Yet, does anyone call me Young McDougal, the shipbuilder? Or Young McDougal, the carpenter? No.’ Then he’d pause just long enough, lift his beer, sigh, and say . . .” And Buddy then put his arm around Suzanne’s shoulder and simultaneously, they recited, “But you fuck just one sheep . . .”
Brandon howled with laughter, tears streaking his face.
“Wow, oh wow. That’s a good one. I’m stealing that one,” he said at last, wiping his face. “Well, it sounds like you guys had a good time together—one big ol’ happy family.”
“We sure were,” Suzanne mused ironically, thinking of Ava’s reaction to Buddy these days. “Those were good times. Bussing tables after school, watching the bands . . . I had my first kiss in that pub.”
“Me too.” Buddy confided jokingly.
“Yeah, right!” Suzanne thought of all the women—short, fat, tall, young, beautiful, plain—that Buddy had kept dangling in those days. Ava always nagged him to pick one, or better yet, let her pick one, and settle down already before it was too late and all the good ones were taken.
“You’re in your prime,” Ava had scolded him constantly. “Don’t you want to find a woman while you’re clinging to what’s left of your forties?”
But Buddy, it had seemed, was content to continue the search.
“So, what happened to it?” Brandon cut in. “Is it still around? The bar, I mean?”
Suddenly all the happy memories of days past came crashing down with an almost audible thud.
“No.” Suzanne sat on the bench, hugging her knees to her chest. “No, it’s not.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” He was sorry that he’d ruined the moment. “What happened to it? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, you know.” Buddy shrugged. “Businesses, well, they just fold, sometimes. Recessions happen, economies go soft.”
“You know,” Suzanne cut him off, “I never understood that. I mean, think about it. We were open for seventeen years. Seventeen! We were mobbed every night. We even had a Sunday and a Monday night crowd. In Ports
mouth. In New Hampshire. Where everyone likes to go to bed by nine o’clock in the wintertime. On the weekends there was a line around the corner. They’d even wait in the snow to get in. I’m not exaggerating.”
Buddy studied her face for a long moment.
“I can’t believe your mother never told you,” he said at last.
“There’s something to tell?”
Now her curiosity was really piqued. Daddy had come home one night, sat Ava and Suzanne down, and told them that the restaurant needed a new furnace, new insulation, new piping . . . In short, much more money than he and Buddy had. Shaughnessey O’Shenanigan’s doors had closed that day. And quoth the Raven, never more, Suzanne thought sadly.
“Oh, you could say that, alright.”
She looked at him questioningly. “You tell me.”
Buddy already regretted opening his big mouth in the first place. “Suzie, it’s almost dark,” he protested lamely, but it sounded lame even to his own ears. “Can’t this wait for another time? Anyway, why do you even want to dig up all this ancient history? It’s all in the past, and it should stay there.”
“Buddy,” Suzanne’s eyes narrowed, growing dangerously stormy, “you brought it up. Not fair to drop a bomb and run. You tell me now.”
Brandon shifted uncomfortably at the intense look on her face, but Buddy laughed.
“My God, but you look just like your mother when you’re mad.” He tilted his head, smiling. “You really do.”
“Insulting me won’t distract me from the question.” Suzanne tossed her hair over her shoulder, tucking it behind a shell-pink ear, but her blazing eyes belied her prim movements. “Talk now, or suffer the consequences.”
“All right,” he sighed, reaching for his pipe. “Where to begin . . .”
“At the beginning?” Brandon suggested helpfully. Suzanne resisted the urge to bark, Stay off my side, you daughter-defiler.
“Well, twenty-something years ago,” Buddy began reluctantly. “The drinking age in New Hampshire used to be eighteen. And then it was twenty. And then eighteen again. And then twenty-one.” He picked up the hemp strands, eager for something to look at besides Suzanne’s face. “It was pretty damn confusing, let me tell you. And you gotta remember, the older you get, the prettier the young girls look, and the better they’re able to wrap you around their fingers.”
“What?” Suzanne cried. “You’re telling me, you’re honest-to-God telling me that the entire restaurant folded, with all its reputation and longevity, because you were serving alcohol to minors? Female minors, I’m guessing?”
“I thought you’d just get a big fine,” Brandon mused. “I didn’t know they actually closed restaurants for that.”
“They did if it was the eighties, and if you served it to enough of them.” Buddy bowed his head, ashamed. “I had a terrible weakness for pretty girls, and I just hated asking them questions I might get a no to. ‘Can I see your ID?’ ‘No.’ ‘Will you go home with me?’ ‘No.’” He darted a quick look up at Suzanne, clearly hoping she hadn’t lost all her hero-worship for him. She held her face perfectly still. She didn’t want to alarm him, but she wasn’t about to let him off the hook. Not just yet.
“Not my proudest hour, month, or year, but I’d like to think I’ve made up for it. That is, if carrying around ten tons of guilt on your shoulders does the trick.” He gave her a little half-smile, as if mutely saying, How can you be mad at me? I’m just a cute, little, old man. “I couldn’t help it. The ladies, I just loved them. I loved all of them.”
“Yeah, I remember . . . Both you and Daddy—loved the ladies, that is.” She chuckled a little. “Seeing your father flirt,” she shuddered, “let’s put it this way, it’s a great diet aid. But he was just so, I don’t know, suave, and charming, and I’m sure it helped the business. The girls came in to flirt with the guy with the accent, and the guys came in because that’s where the girls were. He just knew how to make people—especially women—feel special. Like they were the only ones in the room.”
“Yeah. Just ask me how fond your mother was of that. Anyway,” Buddy summed up, “the judge saw how many charges there were, and he decided he was going to make an example of us.”
“Got off damn light, if you ask me.”
All three jumped at the sudden comment.
Ava stood at the top of the stairs. She must have come in through the back door. No one knew how long she’d been standing there, listening. She descended the stairs; each step was slow and deliberate.
“Damn light,” she repeated. “It’s pathetic—a forty-five-year-old skirt chaser, giving free drinks to young chippies in the desperate hopes they’ll get drunk enough to . . . to . . . suck face with the likes of him!”
Buddy turned to Suzanne. “Suck face?”
“She still thinks of On Golden Pond as a new release,” Suzanne said apologetically.
“I see.” He looked back at Ava. Her face, even in this state—maybe especially in this state—was magnetic.
“I’m so sorry,” her voice dripped with sarcasm, “that your oversized, immature libido got in the way of my Jimmy’s business. Not to mention his dreams.”
“Ava, look!” Brandon waved his half-finished macramé excitedly. “We’re making them to help out with the harvest celebration. Buddy said . . . I mean, Suzanne said, it was a good idea, and we could put flowers in them, and . . .”
“Not for my party, you’re not,” Ava seethed. “Nothing that man has touched will be at my celebration. It’s bad luck.”
“Okay, Mom.” Suzanne took her elbow, trying to head back into the house. “Let’s get a schedule and find that yoga class you keep promising me. I want to be able to bounce a quarter off my ass by the end of the summer. Or at least two dimes and a nickel. Come on.”
Ava didn’t budge.
“The last twenty years of Jimmy’s life,” she informed Buddy furiously, “were spent stuck in a cubicle, doing the same damn job he’d always hated. He was never the same after that. You took his . . .” she clenched and unclenched her hands before her, trying to pull the word she needed out of the air, “his joi de vivre, dammit! His zest. You took my Jimmy’s sparkle because you’re nothing but a puppet to your pecker!”
Suzanne choked, mid-exhale, trying not to laugh. Ava glared at her.
“I’m sorry!” Suzanne ground her cigarette out. “But when one hears one’s own mother say things like ‘You’re nothing but a puppet to your pecker,’ well, allowances for giggles must be made.”
“After all I’ve done for you, and you’re taking his side?” Ava asked, aghast.
“I’m not on anyone’s side! And besides, why do there have to be sides?” she protested. “Mother, please. You need to calm down. I mean it. I do not want to have to tell Brandon here to sling you over his shoulder and drag you into the house. But,” she pointed her finger directly in her mother’s face, “I am fully prepared to do it!”
Brandon looked at Suzanne in terror. She wrinkled her nose at him, indicating the unlikelihood of the task. Knowing that he wouldn’t have to act on her threat seemed to make him feel much better.
“Yeah, I will,” Brandon squeaked. “I really will.”
“You broke both our hearts, when you killed our business,” Ava said, ignoring Brandon and Suzanne. “And it’s time you knew that was the reason I started drinking. What you did made me climb into a bottle for ten years!”
The silence that clapped through the yard was deafening. Brandon looked at Ava in disbelief, and, if Suzanne read it right, a little disgust as well.
But Buddy—Buddy who never got upset, never lost his composure in front of anyone, never exploded and never raised his voice except in great fun—Buddy froze stock still, gaze locked on Ava, his eyes deepening until they were dark and furious.
“I could always, always handle my liquor before that,” Ava continued, her voice riding stridently, her nose high in the air. “The stress—no, the agony of losing the pub—ruined my Jimmy. And that, my friend
, ruined me.”
“Mother . . .”
“We had nothing when all was said and done. Nothing to show for seventeen years of working night and day. We couldn’t even afford to send our daughter to college!”
“Now, hold on just one minute.” Suzanne wasn’t about to let herself be used as a weapon to beat Buddy with. “You know goddamn good and well that I didn’t go to college because I was pregnant. Everyone knows that. Not because of lack of money, but because of lack of a Trojan.”
“You ruined all of us,” Ava raged on, ignoring her daughter’s calm, rational words. “So, why don’t you just be a man and once and for all own up to what you’ve done.”
“And just what did I do, Ava?” he asked softly, his expression frozen in place.
“What do you think?” she screamed. “You turned my husband into a walking dead man, and you turned me into a drunk!”
That last word echoed endless throughout the courtyard; it seemed to Suzanne that it would never stop.
Drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk . . .
For a long moment, no one dared speak into the tense night air.
“Okay, that’s it,” Buddy said finally, getting his cane and struggling to his feet. “That is it.” He took a slow step toward Ava, then another, then a third.
Ava, for her part, stuck her nose right up in the air, poised for a fight. It was the stance she took, Suzanne knew, when she knew she was wrong but was going to stand her ground anyway; in other words, it was a pose she’d seen often.
“Mother,” Suzanne began hastily, “no one but you can . . .”
But Buddy would not be stopped now, and he cut her off with a softness that was chilling.
“Your drinking, lady, is not my fault.” He emphasized the last three words tapping his cane on the lawn. “How dare you? How dare you? I may have made some messes in my day, lady, but that one was all you. All you. As in all Ava, all by herself. You chose to pick up the booze, and you chose to pour it down your throat by the gallon, and that broke James’s heart a helluva lot worse than anything I ever did.”
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