They Only Eat Their Husbands

by Cara Lopez Lee

  “All right. That’s fair. Fair enough. That’s . . . that’s very fair,” said Mr. H, abashed for the first time since he’d walked in. After an awkward interval, he then tried to draw me out, “So, where are you from?”

  I dragged my head upward and answered, “The States.”

  “Really? But you don’t look American . . . ” He studied my face so insinuatingly that I felt molested. “You have a different coloring . . . darker . . . like you might be Latin maybe, or . . . ”

  I replied with scorn, “I’m part Mexican.”

  “That’s it!” he said.

  Then I added, speaking slowly and underlining each word with sarcasm, “Yes . . . We have black people, too.” I was startled by Joe’s roar of laughter behind me.

  Mr. H dropped his shoulders and said, “All right, all right, I get it. I’m sorry.”

  I replied with a silent smile of forgiveness but said nothing. Joe left the room.

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” Mr. H said to The Boy Next Door, “but how am I supposed to learn anything about other people if I don’t ask questions?”

  “You could try visiting the places those people come from,” the Boy Next Door said.

  “Visit Northern Ireland. Are you mad?”

  “No. Really, you should go sometime. It opened my eyes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’ve always lived in a country that’s been at peace. I’d never been in a country before while it was at war, and . . . that’s all I’m going to say. You should just go.”

  Mr. H’s silent partner finally piped up, “Go to a war-torn country just for the educational experience? Not bloody likely! I like to learn and all that, but I don’t have a death wish.”

  “Me either.” Mr. H took a swig from his bottle of wine, stared at the bottle thoughtfully, and said, “Although I may drink myself to death.”

  “A fuck of a lot better than getting blown up,” his friend suggested.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Mr. H said. He raised his bottle, his friend raised his plastic cup, and they both took a swig.

  The Boy Next Door shrugged in surrender to the pointlessness of a conversation with two pissed troglodytes, sat at my table, and talked to me instead. He told me about his tour of Europe, which is coming to an end so he can start college next week. I asked what he plans to study. He said the world was so full of possibilities he had no idea how he was ever going to pick a major. I asked what possibilities he was passionate about. Everything: travel, history, social anthropology, environmentalism, film, art, writing.

  He gushed about his dream of becoming the next Ernest Hemingway. “He’s why today anyone can pick up a book and just read it, because he wrote so simply.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “John.”

  “John what?”

  “Turner.”

  “So instead of trying to be the next Ernest Hemingway, why not try to be the first John Turner? I mean, lean, straightforward prose is a great thing to strive for. But Hemingway became a great writer by being unique.”

  “Right. Of course,” he said, nodding, receptive to my hackneyed advice.

  Thus encouraged, for the next hour John Turner poured out his fascination with the world, until the light outside faded. Then someone lit a fire in the fireplace, the room slowly filled with people, and John and I fell silent as we wrote in our journals.

  I again felt compelled to put down my pen when Vicki the wine-soaked Scottish siren made her grand entrance. A young woman with luminous hazel eyes, bright auburn hair, and a curvaceous figure, Vicki is clearly used to commanding attention, male or female, with her witty, seductive allure. She started telling Wendy, and everyone else in earshot, about a hosteller she was hiding from, whose excessive attention made her feel stalked. Though I didn’t ask, I knew she was talking about the Nameless American. She explained, “I figured out why he makes me so nerrrvous. It’s because he’s sooshly eenept. (The term “socially inept” sounded reinvented in her thick Scottish accent.) But it’s hard to get awee from ’im, because I feel so sorrry for ’im.”

  It wasn’t just Vicki’s own drama that interested her. When she caught sight of my journal she laughed with delight, “All you Americans are alwees carrying journals. Bring that over here.” She patted the couch next to her. “I want to see what you people write in those things.”

  Laughing, I said, “I’m not showing you my journal. It’s full of my private thoughts.”

  “That’s exactly why I want to rrread it. You’re spoilin’ the fun.” When I wouldn’t give in to her wheedling, she asked, “Did ye’ write anything in there about the ghost of Ballintaggart?”

  “This place is haunted?” asked Janet, her eyes shining. Janet had been talking to someone else, but Vicki’s strong personality has its own gravitational pull. A couple of other women also leaned forward.

  Surrounded by an audience, Vicki was in her element. Lifting an eyebrow and slowly scanning our faces, she dramatically pointed at a portrait on the mantel, a painting of a young woman with strawberry blond hair piled on her head, wearing what appeared to be a nineteenth century dress. “That’s Lady Ventry, the ghost of Ballintaggart,” she whispered, as if not wanting the ghost to hear. She told the tale in a husky murmur while light from the fireplace danced across our faces, turning us into the picture of young girls telling ghost stories around a campfire. Long ago, the English Lord Ventry owned most of the land on the Dingle Peninsula. According to Vicki, Lord and Lady Ventry were staying at Ballintaggart Manor “when it happened . . .

  “Her husband thought she was fooolin’ around with a servant. He was very jealous. So he hired someone to kill ’errr. The killer thrrrottled her and threw ’er down the stairrrs!” She said the murder took place, at least as far as the throttling went, in Room F. “And sooometimes,” she paused for effect, “people still hear ’er walking around that rrroom, or see ’er at the window looking ooot. Some people have even heard ’er getting thrrrown down the stairrrs.”

  I’m staying in Room D, where, so far, I haven’t heard any ghosts, just creaking floorboards. “But,” I said, “if I were going to see spirits, I’m sure it would be here in Dingle. I can’t explain it, but it’s like this town talks to me on some deep ancestral level.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Vicki said. “This town has put you under a spell: you’ve been Dingled!”

  It’s not any one thing that casts the Dingle spell, but if I were to blame just one thing, it would be the music—in the pubs, in the streets, and at Ballintaggart. Each night in the music room, two or three guitars appear. Often there are drums. Sometimes there are harmonicas or other instruments.

  That night, Gareth was the first to bring in his guitar. After he plucked a few folk tunes, I overheard him tell someone that he used to give guitar lessons to prisoners. He declined to elaborate. Although he’s a serious man, he’s not a brooding one, and he didn’t just play for himself; mostly he played requests, so other people could sing along.

  Gareth’s inner schoolboy came out when he discovered he could drive the Irish Sisters up the wall by playing “More than Words,” the popular ballad by Extreme. He’s taken to poking out his tongue and playing that song every time the Sisters walk into the room, knowing full well he’ll never get through the first verse before they start throwing things at him, punching his arms, and shrieking protests until they drown him out: “Stop, stop . . . you’re killin’ us! Every bloke with a guitar who passes through Dingle plays that shite song!”

  Eileen, the bolder sister, strummed tunes by Sarah McLaughlin and Jewel. Rory played traditional Irish ballads and songs from slightly more recent Irish artists like Van Morrison and Crowded House. All three played folk, rock, and blues: Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Tracy Chapman . . .

  Under the spell of music, hours melted like Salvador Dali clocks. W
ine spilled on the rug and cigarette smoke hung in the air. The smoke would have driven me out of any other room, but here it seemed necessary, part of a ritual intended to transport us on a collective vision quest. The mood shifted as the room filled with nothing but the primitive sounds of two hand-drums and a didgeridoo, rivaling the story of Lady Ventry for thrilling spookiness. I got so lost in the mantra of the drums that I disappeared. I might have been sitting there for minutes, hours, or days.

  I felt high. If I’d ever taken a drug that made me feel that way, I would have become an addict long ago. Was this why they seemed to vanish before my eyes, all those addicts I’ve loved? Was this the elusive escape they kept chasing, but never seemed to find?

  I stayed until I could no longer hold my eyes open.

  After I crawled into bed, I heard John (The Boy Next Door) and another young guy enter the co-ed dorm. They went into the bathroom, whispering about how great Ballintaggart is. I heard John say, “Did you meet that Cara? She was really cool.” Smiling in the darkness, I wondered what made him think I was “cool.” Looking back on the evening, I realized I hadn’t said much. I’d mostly asked questions, watched, and listened. I hadn’t been trying to get people to like me; if I had, I would more likely have talked up a storm. The simple wisdom this implied was nothing new, but it was a new way for me to experience myself.

  I drifted off to sleep filled with wonder, as I have been ever since. For the first time in my life, if I could change anything about myself, I wouldn’t. I want to hold onto this feeling. I don’t want to let go of this place.

  ***

  I’ve asked Saoirse for a job at his little café that smells of books and tea. I’ve decided to try to stay in Dingle for the winter.

  So what about Sean?

  What about Sean? After I replied to his email, “Marry me, soon,” with my answer, “Okay, when?” I received no response. In Spain, I emailed my reply again, just in case he didn’t receive the first one: “Okay, when?” No response again. In France, I sent the same two words: “Okay, when?” Here in Dingle, I checked my email at the town library. Still no reply.

  I have no fiancé. I have no home. No job waits for me in the States. Although my flight from London to New York is in eleven days, I’ve never planned on New York as my final destination. I’ve always planned to decide that later. Later is almost here, and I still have no idea where to go. How can I go home when I don’t have one?

  As Vicki said, I’ve been Dingled. So for now, I’ve decided to stay under this town’s spell, if I can. But I’m running out of cash, which means I’ll need a job.

  When I asked Saoirse if he’d hire me, he gave me a measuring look and pulled on his chin. He asked about my experience. I told him I spent several years as a waitress in college.

  “We’d expect y’ to do some of the bakin’ and the food preparation. Do y’ have kitchen experience?”

  “Well, I’ve never baked for a restaurant . . . but I’m a pretty good baker at home when I put my mind to it . . . and I’m a fast learner.” God, I must have sounded pathetic.

  He told me he’d think about it.

  This evening I told Janet and Gareth about my plan. (Jukka left a few days ago.)

  Janet said, “Sounds like that’s the end of your guy back home.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m just not going to plan a life with him until he asks me to.” I shook my head. “You know, this whole trip I’ve been asking God to show me the purpose of my life. I don’t know the whole answer yet, but I’ve discovered one thing: The purpose of my life is not to get what I want. The purpose of my life is to become who I am.”

  Gareth looked skeptical. “You’re telling me you’d be happy even if you never got anything you wanted?”

  “I’m telling you I’ll never be happy if getting what I want means giving up who I am.” I’ve spent a lot of my life talking, usually about myself, but, for the first time, I listened to myself as if I might have something useful to say. “That’s what this journey is all about. It’s not about finding something, it’s about becoming something.”

  Janet stared at me with fierce concentration as if I were a Rubik’s Cube and my words were a disordered jumble of colors. “That’s what your journey around the world is about?”

  “Not just that journey. My life. How I live it. Me. When I die, that’s all I’ll have to show for everything: just me.”

  “I agree with all that,” Gareth said. “But as for your feller, I have to say, I’m with Janet. You don’t really expect him to wait for you, do you?”

  “You don’t understand. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m the one who’s waiting.”

  The Last Frontier

  thirty-five years old

  Last year, Sean was the one waiting. But it wasn’t me he was waiting for. His whole family was waiting, for life to either get better or unravel.

  Sean’s dad, Stuart, was an entrepreneur and, in the way of the Alaskan frontiersman, his dreams became subject to boom and bust. When the oil boom came, his little jewelry shop had its own boom. When the oil bust followed, the shop continued to thrive as more expensive stores left town. Then the retail boom came, filling the city with big boxy superstores and little discount outlets. Stu’s neighborhood store just wasn’t a convenient place to shop anymore. The business started to tailspin, and so did Sean’s dad.

  The first sign of Stu’s decline was his greenhouse. He used to grow gorgeous red tomatoes. He once gave me a few to take home. He was so proud, I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t like tomatoes. But last year he let the tomato plants go, along with the other fruits and vegetables, and the flowers that used to cheer him in winter.

  Stu had given up drinking years before. I remember he once pulled Sean and me aside and drew something out of his pocket to show us. It was a gift from a fellow member of Alcoholics Anonymous: a coin emblazoned with the number thirty. “Thirty years of sobriety,” he confided. Then he gave us an impish grin. “And it only took thirty pounds of marijuana to get through it.” Last year, instead of planting tomatoes in the greenhouse, Stu grew pot.

  As Stu spent more time getting high, he spent more time sleeping upstairs in his recliner. He left the running of the shop to Sean’s sister. Sean’s mom, Tess, set her mouth in that funny little line that was her way of tolerating her husband’s foolishness without stooping to approval.

  Tess’s mother lived with them. Grandma Mae was a tough, broad-shouldered old gal from Montana’s Bitterroot Mountains. She held onto the no-nonsense attitude of the Great Depression—and anything else she could still use. Forced to slow down by poor health, she spent her days in the matching recliner across from Stu’s, knitting dishcloths. She’d knitted me a set the previous Christmas, and everyone had stared in surprise as she accepted a hug from me without fuss, chuckled, and patted my arm—an uncommon honor. The only thing she knitted last year were disapproving brows, aimed at her son-in-law. “You should get off your rear and stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. In response, he got off his recliner and went to bed.

  He stayed there for months.

  That Christmas, Sean and I spent as little time as possible at his family’s house. On Christmas Eve, he escaped to my place and watched me decorate a tree. I asked him to help me.

  “I’m just not into the tree decorating thing,” he replied. “But you’re doing a great job.”

  “What are you into?” I asked. He rarely wanted to go skiing any more, or to the movies, or to the dojo, or anywhere. I looked at Sean sitting listless on my couch staring out at the snow and pictured his dad sitting on his recliner staring into space.

  He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry you got stuck with such a Scrooge. What you need is someone more cheerful than me, someone who’ll do things with you.”

  “I hate when you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Tel
l me I need someone different from you. Why don’t you be that guy, instead of trying to pass me off on someone else? Or why don’t you just tell me you don’t want to be with me? Why doesn’t anybody ever want to take responsibility?”

  Although the days grew longer, Sean’s winter blues held onto internal night. His sense of humor remained, but it was dark humor. He made fun of himself for being over-thirty and living at home.

  I argued against his self-indictment. “But you live in your own apartment. You pay rent.”

  “Cara, my parents live upstairs, I live downstairs. I pay rent, but it’s ridiculously cheap. I live at home.”

  “Okay. But it’s not as if you’re a mama’s boy. You’re very independent.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. I mean, my dad expects me to take over the business, but I don’t want to. I hate it. I mean I like making jewelry, but I never wanted to run a business.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Yes. Then you know what he told his friends? He said, ‘I spent twenty years building this business, thinking my kids would take over and take care of me in my old age.’ Now the business is going bankrupt, and he feels like he’s failed us . . . or we’ve failed him.”

  “Your father has no right to expect you to fulfill his dream. It’s not going to help him if you go down with the ship. This is your life, not his.”

  “You do know, whatever I do, I’ll probably move to the Lower Forty-eight?”

  “Yes . . . ”

  “So what happens to us then, you and me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. What happens to us then?”

  “You know I’m not interested in marriage.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cara, I’ve never been able to sustain a relationship long-term. I can’t promise to love someone forever. I don’t even believe love exists.”

  “Doesn’t exist? Come on! That kind of thinking has to be some kind of sickness.”

  “Maybe it is. All the more reason for me not to get married. Why do you want to hang around with an alcoholic, anyway?”