by Diane Kelly
A moment later, when my breathing had returned to normal and my nerves had settled, I laughed at myself. All that drama over some rodent in the garbage. Had my life become so pathetic and boring that I now dreamed up imaginary creatures?
***
Before heading to Brendan’s, I decided to make a quick stop by the pub to tell Tammy the bad news about Blarney. I parked in the only open spot in the small asphalt lot next to the bar, the one marked with a sign that read “Parking for Irish only.” Although the pub’s owner, an Italian-American named Franco Pirelli, had put the sign up as a joke, some of the patrons took it seriously and the spot was almost always open.
I made my way through the lot and pushed open the heavy wooden door of the Thorn and Thistle, where my long-time best friend worked as a bartender. The sign in the front window read “Wet Your Whistle at the Thorn and Thistle,” but someone—Tammy would be my guess—had written “Get Thitfaced at the Thorn and Thistle” in black marker underneath it.
Tammy could be a bit of a smart ass. It was part of her charm.
The smell of beer and peanuts welcomed me as I walked through the door. The pub was decked out in Valentine’s Day splendor, red and pink helium balloons floating in the air, heart-shaped cutouts taped to the wood-paneled walls, streamers draping the now motionless ceiling fans. Franco meandered through the crowd, dressed like a burly Cupid with a white sheet wrapped around his waist, no shirt, a toy bow and arrow strapped to his hairy back. Instead of shooting his victims with his bow, this Cupid delivered free shots of cheap Irish whiskey from a bottle in his hand, not bothering to use a glass, pouring the shots directly into the mouths of the willing patrons. Probably a health code violation, but hey, free whiskey. Who was going to complain?
A white banner hung over the bar, announcing “Heartbreak Hour – Half-price Drinks.” Tammy was a marketing genius, always quick to come up with a gimmick to draw a crowd. Her Valentine’s stunt was intended to draw in the unattached singles, knowing the couples would be spending their time and money at the city’s fancier restaurants tonight. It appeared to have worked. The place was packed.
While the J. Geils Band classic Love Stinks blared from the pub’s sound system, I weaved my way through the tables to the bar. Tammy stood behind it, juggling three empty liquor bottles to the amusement of the crowd. Her blond hair was pulled up in a perky ponytail to keep it out of her way as she worked. In honor of the holiday, she wore a pink sweater with a red sequined heart on the front. Tammy was a talented bartender, a real crowd-pleaser, able to serve up any drink no matter how obscure, inventing new concoctions of her own for special events.
Tammy enjoyed being the center of attention. Good thing, too. As a little person who stood only three-and-a-half feet tall, she’d realized long ago no matter what she did people would stare at her. Rather than fight the inevitable, she’d decided to make the most of it. She tried out for cheerleader in high school, landing a spot as the flyer, sailing high into the air and turning a double flip before falling back into the arms of her fellow squad members. The other kids adored her. But she hadn’t been elected out of pity. She wouldn’t have accepted the position if she thought her dwarfism had anything to do with it. No, she’d earned the spot because she was genuine, fun and funny, always ready with a smile and nice to everyone, from the dorks to the jocks to the stoners. Although she was talented with pom-poms, she’d never been much for academics, choosing bartending school over college.
“Erin’s here!” Tammy sang with a smile, her blue eyes twinkling when she saw me emerge from the crowd.
“Hey, Tam,” I called over the loud music. “The decorations look great.”
The greasy-haired man next to me stifled a belch. “Looks like Valentine’s threw up in here.”
Gee. Can’t imagine why he was single.
He drained his glass of pink beer, no doubt one of Tammy’s creations, and laid a five-dollar bill on the bar top. I slid onto his still-warm stool as soon as he slid off it and dropped my tote to the floor at my feet.
Tammy stopped juggling and stowed the three empty bottles under the bar to await her next performance.
I glanced around the room at the other singles. Nope, none of the men were half as attractive as Brendan. Not that I should be using my priest as my point of reference, but still. My prime dating years were slipping away at an alarming rate, yet I couldn’t seem to motivate myself to look for a man.
At a pool table to my right, a sandy-haired guy about my age bent over to take a shot. Hmm. He wasn’t so bad. His hairline was receding and he’d begun to accumulate a paunch, but, hey, no open sores. Nobody’s perfect, right? Maybe I could muster up a little motivation.
When he stood, he looked up and caught me eyeing him. Busted. He smiled, revealing a cute dimple in his left cheek. He shot me a wink. Oh, my gosh! Was he flirting with me? No one had flirted with me in years. The attention felt good. I smiled back and a warm blush flooded my cheeks. But when he began sliding his hand up and down his pool cue in an obvious sexual manner, the warm blush turned to hot anger.
I dropped the smile and shot him a drop-dead look. Ignoring his guffaw, I turned back to Tammy. “Men are pigs.”
“No kidding. You just now figuring that out?”
“Guess I’m behind the curve.” I didn’t have much experience with men. Matthew had been my first, and only, real boyfriend. I hadn’t found the time, or the energy, or the urge to date since Riley’d been born. Since I’d met Brendan. Now, thanks to the sandy-haired jackass, any urge I might’ve been able to rally had gone back into hiding.
Tammy snapped her fingers. “Got just what you need, girl.” She grabbed a blender and poured a half dozen different liquors into it, one of which was Blue Curacao. She added a scoop of ice and blended the mixture for a few seconds—bzzzzt—until the ice cubes had been been pulverized into fine crystals. She poured the frozen blue concoction into a martini glass, garnished it with a cherry and a lemon wedge, and plunked it down in front of me. “This will put a smile on your face. Try it.”
“What is it?”
“A new blend I came up with. I call it the V.D. Blues.”
“V.D.? Ick.” I pushed the glass away from me.
She pushed the glass back at me. “V.D. as in Valentine’s Day, not venereal disease. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
I put the straw to my lips, took a sip, and closed my eyes in pure frozen, fruity bliss. “Wow. It’s delicious.” I took another, deeper drink and suffered a brain freeze, putting a hand to my forehead as I cringed.
Tammy chuckled. “Pace yourself, Erin.”
Good thing my parents couldn’t see me now. They’d warned me of the dangers of alcohol since I was an adolescent. Heck, my dad even refused to drink the communion wine and he was one of the most devout Catholics I knew. But Jesus had turned water into wine. A little drink couldn’t be a sin then, could it?
Heartbreaker queued up next, and Tammy cranked up the volume on the stereo. Inhibitions diminished by drink and desperation, many in the bar, including Tammy and me, sung along with Pat Benatar at the top of our lungs, warning those heartbreakers, dream makers, and love takers not to mess around with us. It was like primal scream therapy, exactly what I needed after my stressful day.
With years of practice, Tammy and I managed to carry on a conversation even as she made her way up and down behind the bar, moving her stepstool with her as she went, our conversation interrupted as she took orders and mixed drinks. But the two of us functioned like a paused video and we’d pick up right where we left off when she made her way back to my end of the bar.
Franco-Cupid sidled up next to me. “Hey, Erin.”
“Hey, Frank.”
He held his empty bottle out to Tammy. “’Nother bottle of Irish whiskey. Stat.”
Tammy grabbed a bottle from the cabinet behind the bar, plunked a stainless steel pour spout in the top, and handed it to him, taking the empty one. Cupid left, his sheet sagging now, revealing a tiny sli
t of furry Italian butt crack.
I raised a red brow at Tammy. “Let me guess. That getup was your idea.”
She raised a blond brow back. “Of course. What’s more fun than seeing your boss make an ass of himself?”
I laughed, but only halfheartedly.
Tammy knew me well and could read me like a book. Not that she read books. The Sunday comics were the only literature in which she partook. But if I were a character in a comic there’d be a big gray cloud drawn over my head about now. Tammy stopped in the middle of pouring a drink, setting the bottle down on the bar and holding up a finger to silence the thirsty customer who’d opened his mouth to protest the delay.
“What’s wrong, Erin?”
I blinked and opened my eyes wider in a vain attempt to dry the tears once again forming in them. “Blarney’s got a brain tumor. He’s going to die if I can’t come up with five grand for surgery by next month.”
“Five grand? Holy crap!”
“My thought exactly.”
“Have you called Matthew?”
I nodded. “He’s good for five hundred. But that still leaves over four thousand dollars.” It might as well be a million.
Tammy reached over and grabbed her well-stuffed tip jar, holding it out to me and shaking it, the coins that had settled to the bottom jangling against the glass. “I have no idea how much is in here, but it’s yours. Open your bag.”
Her generosity was touching. But I didn’t want to take money from a friend unless I had absolutely no other choice. Besides, her base salary was a joke. She counted on her tips to pay the bills. “Thanks, Tammy. But I’d feel like a total loser if I can’t find a way to take care of it on my own.”
Her face looked thoughtful for a moment, then she reached under the counter, pulled out a green piece of paper, and thrust it at me. “Here’s the answer to your prayers.”
Answer to my prayers, huh? I’d asked God to provide me a solution quick. Had he actually listened this time? And delivered?
I looked the paper over. The flyer read ERIN GO BRAGH across the top and detailed the bar’s upcoming Saint Patrick’s Day festivities, including half-price Irish Coffee and a Celtic Band from six to nine PM. As the grand finale, a wet T-shirt contest would be held at ten o’clock. The winner would take home a five-thousand dollar grand prize.
Enough to fully cover Blarney’s surgery.
My guess was the Celtic Band and Irish coffee were Tammy’s idea. The wet T-shirt contest had to be Franco’s.
If this was the answer to my prayers, God’s not the guy I thought he was. No way would it be His plan for me to dance in a wet T-shirt, right? I handed the paper back to Tammy, shaking my head. “Get real, Tammy. I’ll be ten years older and two cup sizes smaller than the other girls.” My 32A’s weren’t likely to get me much attention, much less the grand prize.
Tammy shoved the paper back at me. “Don’t write yourself off so easily. I’ve seen these things before. The biggest boobs don’t necessarily win. The winner is usually the one who puts on the best show.”
I could put on a show, true. I had a shelf full of first-place dance trophies to prove it.
“With your dance talent, Erin, you’d have a real chance.”
I was flattered, but still skeptical. “Seriously?”
Tammy finished pouring the customer’s drink, slid it toward him, and took the bills he offered. She turned back to me, her eyes intent. “Would I lie to you?” She stashed the cash in the register, glanced up and down the bar and, seeing no waiting customers, leaned toward me conspiratorially. “If you ask me, you’re a shoe in. Most of the girls who enter these contests are drunk bimbos who get up on stage and just giggle and shake their boobs around. If you go heavy on the makeup nobody will realize you’re over thirty. If you don’t want to be recognized, you can wear a wig and use a fake name, something sexy like Desiree or Vanessa. And if you put cream rouge on your nipples, it’ll make them show more through the wet fabric. The guys like that.”
I didn’t know whether to be impressed by her knowledge or depressed that dancing essentially topless was my only viable option for paying for Blarney’s surgery. What’s more, what would Brendan think if he knew I was considering this? He’d be disgusted, disappointed. Losing Brendan’s respect would hurt almost as much as losing Blarney. I looked at the flyer again.
Erin Go Bragh. But should Erin go bra-less?
I shook my head again. “I’m not sure this is a good idea. I don’t know if I could even do it. It just seems . . . wrong.”
Tammy shrugged. “Take some time and think about it. I know it seems slutty, but you could go home with an easy five grand for a half hour’s work.”
I sighed. “You’d make a good pimp.” I folded the paper and stuck it in the pocket of my hoodie. I downed the melted remains of my drink and laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar.
Tammy slid the money back to me. “How many times do I have to tell you, Erin? Your money’s no good here.”
Tears welled in my eyes again. “Thanks, Tam.” She was such a great friend, always there for me. Heck, she’d even come up with a possible solution to my money problem. Not that I’d seriously consider dancing in a wet T-shirt contest—at least not until I’d explored all other options. But still. I slid off my stool.
Tammy picked up my glass and ran a cloth over the bar. “Off to see your boyfriend-without-benefits?”
What was it with people today? First my mother and now Tammy insinuating there was more than friendship between me and Brendan. Or should I say Father O’Donnell?
I shot her a pointed look. “He’s a priest, Tammy. He’s not my boyfriend.”
She cocked her head. “It’s Valentine’s Day and you’re having dinner with him. Six weeks ago you spent New Year’s Eve with him. Y’all were here, remember?” She shot me a pointed look this time. “I saw what almost happened between you two.”
I bit my lip. How could I deny it? It was true. When the midnight countdown had ended and the couples in the pub indulged in the traditional New Year’s smooch, Brendan and I had turned to face each other, our lips moving toward each other. It had seemed so natural, so right. Fortunately, at the last second, we snapped to our senses. A kiss between a Catholic priest and a parishioner would be a big no-no, the type of sin to ensure us a spot in the hottest reaches of hell, forever damned to dwell next to Jimmy Swaggart. We’d re-aimed our kisses toward each other’s cheeks at the last possible moment, narrowly avoiding eternal damnation.
We’d laughed the incident off at the time, chalking the almost-indiscretion up to too much drink. But Brendan had drunk only a couple of beers—Guinness Stout, of course—and I’d finished just two glasses of champagne. Hardly enough liquor to excuse our behavior. I’d tried to ignore how crushed I’d felt after the aborted kiss, chalked my feelings up to general loneliness rather than any real romantic feelings for Brendan.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to Tammy’s observation/accusation, so I decided to turn the focus back on her. “Why don’t you get a boyfriend of your own so you don’t have to butt into my nonexistent love life?”
She fought a grin, letting me know my snide remark hadn’t fooled her. But she knew better than to push the touchy subject of my relationship with Brendan any further. Besides, I was truly concerned about Tammy. I knew how lonely it was to be single, and at least I had a son to keep me busy. Other than a couple of fat and lazy tomcats, Tammy had no one to go home to, no one to keep her company. But it wasn’t for lack of offers she was still single. Her size was no impediment to her popularity with men. She constantly received offers from guys who found her to be cute, fun-loving, and witty.
I picked up my tote bag and slung it over my shoulder. “You should take a chance on one of those guys who keep asking you out. Some of them seem really nice.”
“I know, I know. But it’s a matter of logistics, Erin.” Tammy tossed the bar towel under the counter. “I want a guy I can look in the eye, not the belly button.”
&
nbsp; I could understand that. When I’d dated Matthew, he’d stood more than a foot and a half taller than me. The difference in height made slow dancing awkward. It hadn’t prevented us from hooking up, though. Just that one time. That one time that changed my life forever. “Someday our princes will come.”
“I hope so. And maybe we’ll come at the same time.” She raised both a glass and her voice. “Here’s to simultaneous orgasms!”
The crowd around us cheered.
CHAPTER FIVE
OUR FATHER, WHO ART HEAVENLY
Tammy’d given me a lot to think about on my way to Brendan’s place. Whether I could really win a wet T-shirt contest. Whether I’d ever have another orgasm, let alone a simultaneous one. Whether there really was something between me and Brendan.
Was Brendan my boyfriend-without-benefits? Had something developed between us over the years, snuck up on the two of us when we weren’t looking?
I’d first met Brendan fourteen years ago, at confession. Going to confession that day was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. My last confession a year earlier at a church near the Notre Dame campus, the one in which I’d confessed my most shameful sin, had been traumatic. My then-boyfriend, Riley’s father-to-be, was a star athlete, a big man on campus. How could he be otherwise at six and a half feet tall? Matthew and I sat next to each other in Accounting 101, together suffering through the doldrums of double entry bookkeeping, debits and credits, depreciation and amortization. I’d been thrilled when he’d asked me out.
We’d been dating for five months when we’d attended a loud, packed house party. After three full cups of trash can punch, two too many for someone my size, Matthew and I ended up in his dorm room. One thing led to another and, before I knew what was happening, I was pregnant.