“How’s it going?” Peter winked at Layla as his brother let out a low whistle.
Layla, having just sidestepped Benny Corcoran’s admiration, was not prepared for the wily twins’ attentions. With an enchanting combination of teenage timidity and self-assurance, she nodded briefly in their direction before ducking into the mini-mart.
“Jaysus. Did you see her?”
“See her? Michael, I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle.”
The Donnelly twins, with their salacious grins and gawking eyes, were not affected by Layla’s bloom in the same way as nostalgic older men. They were, after all, only eighteen, with the prospects of a whole world of debauchery and mischief before them (hang what their mother had in mind). The sight of Layla’s long legs, tanned even under her thin stockings, produced the basic, primitive lust expected of boys their age. On any other day, the twins would have followed Layla into the shop. But this was Monday. The boys never stepped into Danny Fadden’s mini-mart more than once on Mondays.
As a matter of tradition, and to spite their mother for making them sit through two Sunday Masses, Peter and Michael Donnelly habitually paid a visit to Fadden’s Mini-Mart on Monday mornings before school. In a ruse that had started their first year of secondary school, Michael would keep Mr. Fadden busy at the counter with some obscure mythology question, to which only the grocer, a devoted fan of Irish lore, would know the answer. Meanwhile, Peter would swipe two bottles of Beamish from the beer shelf, stuffing them into the pockets of his large duffel coat. The twins gleefully chugged their beers before school, passing them among the thick-necked boys who congregated in the woods beyond the football field. This ritualistic passing of backwashed ale was merely a frothy afterthought for the twins, though, for it wasn’t the beer or the thrill of stealing it but the rather cruel game they played on poor Danny Fadden that tickled them the most.
Every time Peter swiped two bottles of beer (always from the back of the shelf), he left a piece of green felt in their place, along with an IOU note signed Finnegan. It didn’t take long for Danny (a man who starred in his own daydreams as a love-struck Diarmuid eloping with a witchy Grainne) to put two and two together to get five. The green felt, the missing stout, the name Finnegan. It all pointed to one thing: the mini-mart had its very own leprechaun. Danny Fadden counted himself supremely lucky to be blessed by the touch of the little people, and he awaited the leprechaun’s Monday morning visits with barely contained excitement. Of course, everyone in Ballinacroagh joked of “Fadden’s Fairy” and would often ask the shopkeeper, when stopping in for some milk or potatoes, how his little friend was getting along. Danny’s wife, Deirdre, by contrast, did not find her husband’s leprechaun fixation at all funny, and after nearly five years of his lunacy, she left Danny on the eve of their thirtieth wedding anniversary.
The shy grocer was softly tiptoeing up to the beer aisle when Layla walked into the store. Knowing full well the precarious temperament of leprechauns, with their complete dislike for anything human, Danny was always careful not to disturb his little friend’s hiding place. He steered clear of the beer shelves from noontime Sunday to eight o’clock Monday morning, lest he stumble upon his unsuspecting visitor and frighten him away altogether. This meant, of course, that he never made the connection between the notes and the Donnelly twins’ Monday morning visit. While Layla scoured the produce stands for onions, Danny was hunched over in the beer aisle, deciphering the meaning behind the little person’s latest note: “I like barley, I like rye, I like stout in my pie. IOU. Finnegan.” Neither of them saw Malachy McGuire standing patiently at the register counter.
The younger of Thomas McGuire’s two sons, eighteen-year-old Malachy had somehow managed to sidestep the male McGuire DNA of turnip torsos and butchered complexions. Nor had he taken much from his mother’s side, who along with Malachy’s three plump sisters would have given a modern-day Rubens much to concentrate on.
Peaking at six foot one, and slender with the hands of a pianist, Malachy sported a mop of unruly black hair and sapphire eyes that sparkled like midnight suns. His luminous youth was something to marvel at indeed. He was nothing like his older brother, Tom, who at twenty-one was an almost carbon copy of their father, though without the latter’s ambition and talent for subversion. Tom Junior spent most of his time scurrying between amateur hurling matches and playing henchman for his father, while Malachy much preferred the complementary hobbies of football and astronomy, balancing the terrestrial with the heavenly, and excelling in both equally. Unknown to Malachy, the cosmos that he pored over so many nights from his bedroom window was in perfect alignment that Monday morning.
Like Peter and Michael Donnelly, Malachy was on his way to school when he decided to stop into Fadden’s for his morning Lucozade. But unlike those of the devious twins, Malachy McGuire’s soul was as old as the constellations themselves. To him, Layla’s promising aroma was not a reminder of a long-lost boyhood or the instigator of teenage lust. No, for Malachy, the sight of Layla’s exotic profile filling up a bag of white onions was a sign, a resounding yes to the age-old questions of the divine.
Yes, there was a God. Yes, there was life beyond the sleepy valleys of Ballinacroagh. Yes, there were undiscovered universes waiting just for him. And one of them was standing right before him, in all her astounding milky ways.
Malachy felt suddenly weak and dizzy. As his vision fuzzed over and his legs gave way, he grabbed the nearest stationary object—a grocery shelf. Unfortunately for the star-gazing romantic, the shelf happened to hold a pyramid display of feminine hygiene products, and before Malachy knew it he was in a heap on the floor, covered—to his mortification—in specially priced, two-for-one boxes of super-size tampons.
The clatter awoke Layla to her surroundings, and as she turned to the front of the shop, a burning sensation instantly took hold of her body. There, down the aisle before her, was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. Layla tried to breathe but found instead the start of debilitating hiccups—catches of love-bitten air that would not end until she had taken a good swill of Marjan’s famous dugh drink.
“Are you all right there, lad? Didn’t hurt yerself now, did you?” Danny Fadden asked, rounding the corner of the beer aisle, his fish-bowl eyes blinking behind thick glasses.
Poor Malachy. For the first time in his life his natural grace had forsaken him. Surrounded by such private tokens of femininity, all he could do was bow his red, tender face and make a run for it. He didn’t dare look back at Layla as he pounded through the grocery’s door; didn’t acknowledge the twins’ mocking calls of “I think ye forgot yer tail, McGuire,” or even notice that he was running in the opposite direction from school, so lost was he in Layla’s lovely perfume.
While her youngest sister was hiccuping romance in the mini-mart, Marjan was busy in the kitchen chopping her last onion, impatient for Layla to return with reinforcements. Frying the chopped onion with some olive oil, she flipped the pieces about until they were crunchy but not blackened, then set the fried charms aside for later, to be sprinkled on bowls of soup ordered by expectant customers. Marjan considered this sizzled garnish to be the best part of her red lentil soup, for after all, the humblest of moments can often be the most rewarding.
Layla would not appreciate the significance of this simple lesson until she had paid for her bag of white onions, smiled at Danny Fadden’s dazed look, averted the loitering Donnelly twins’ low whistles, and quickly returned to the warmth of her sisters’ kitchen, hiccuping all the way. Only then did she realize that she was still holding an onion in her palm, the last one she had picked up before seeing Malachy McGuire’s wondrous face. When she unclenched her tight fist, she found that, just like her heart, the little white vegetable was sautéed to a crisp.
baklava
4 cups brown sugar
1 cup water
1⁄2 cup rosewater
1 pound shelled pistachios, chopped
1 pound blanched almonds, chopped
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
15 frozen phyllo pastry sheets
1⁄2 cup unsalted butter, melted
Bring 2 cups of sugar, water, and rosewater to a boil in a medium saucepan. Set aside to cool. Grind pistachios, almonds, cardamom, cinnamon, and remaining 2 cups of sugar in a food processor for 1 minute. Set aside. Lay 5 sheets of buttered phyllo pastry into a greased 13-by-9-inch pan. Spread a thin, even layer of nut mixture, then cover with 5 more buttered sheets of pastry. Repeat until all mixture is used. Cover with 5 more buttery sheets. With a sharp knife, cut across and diagonally to form diamond shapes. Bake in oven at 350°F for 1 hour. Pour cooled sugar and rosewater syrup over top. Let cool before serving.
chapter three
THE PEACH OFFICES of Ballinacroagh’s police station sit at one end of the town square, across from Saint Barnabas Roman Catholic Church and immediately adjacent to the decaying Palladian building that houses the town council.
The Garda station, with its pasty, popcorn stucco façade, is nothing to boast about; nor does the crumbling plaster crest above the door, engraved with the words “An Garda Síochána,” intimidate anyone who crosses its creaking, musty threshold. “An Garda Síochána,” or “Guardians of the Peace” for those unschooled in the Gaelic tongue, is the official title of the blue-vested, potbellied police officers comfortably stationed all over the Irish countryside. To the uninitiated, Garda may seem like a badge of glory, a name that alludes to winged, mythical protectors, the kind that hover above their human counterparts with ready crossbows in case trouble strikes. But such grand titles can often be misleading, as evidenced by the police station’s two most regular (and reluctant) inhabitants.
Sergeant Sean Grogan sat in the processing room, feet up on his desk with eyes half-closed as he listened to the day’s weather pattern on a handheld radio. Flaccid in both body and soul, Grogan could usually be found listening to Mid-West FM; news of union disputes, foot-and-mouth epidemics, and war-torn African countries always made him thankful for the monotony of his chosen occupation.
“Is that tea on its way, Kevin?” Sean Grogan asked, briefly popping open one eye to his second in command, Guard Kevin Slattery.
Every morning Kevin Slattery would ignite the hundred-year-old stove—a turf-powered range kept in a side room—before filling the dented tin kettle with cold water and arranging Grogan’s favorite shortbread biscuits on a tea plate. On this particular Monday morning, though, Kevin had arrived late for work, having been detained by his pregnant wife’s premature contractions.
“I was meaning to get to that now, Sean,” he replied, lighting the range. He didn’t know who was more demanding of attention—his water-retentive wife or his lazy superior officer. Calling it a draw, Kevin returned five minutes later with a gray circle of turf ash on the tip of his round nose. “The range’s goin’. It won’t be long now, so.”
Grogan grunted testily. He needed his morning tea and shortbread boost in order to concentrate fully on the International News.
To bide the time until the water boiled, Kevin crouched before a two-shelf bookcase set against one corner of the processing room and removed eight dusty ledger books from its shelves. Although most Garda stations in County Mayo were furnished with at least one humming new typewriter, Ballinacroagh still used the crumbling ten-pound ledger books of yesteryear to record the town’s illegal activities. Kevin Slattery had the wearisome job of handwriting the police reports, meticulously printing in the ledger columns each crime, with its corresponding date, time, and alleged perpetrator.
Opening the most current ledger, Kevin read the last entry on the fourteenth of February, the day the Cat, Ballinacroagh’s resident drunk and all-around malcontent, had delivered a two-fingered salute to the Saint of Sweethearts. The wizened alcoholic (no one in town really knew how old the Cat was) had decided to bring his Valentine’s Day party to the rectory’s roof, climbing up there with the uncanny ease of the scraggy animal for which he was named. The Cat spent a good three hours on the rectory’s roof, lamenting lost loves and wailing into an unmarked bottle of misery, until Grogan and Slattery finally managed to bring him down with a cattle prod.
The young officer shook his head at the memory and closed the ledger, sending up a poof of dust that made his eyes water. The kettle whistled sharply in the side room just then, overriding the news crackling on the radio. Annoyed, Grogan leaned forward to turn the receiver’s volume up and happened to catch sight of Thomas McGuire’s Land Rover gunning into the town council’s parking lot next door.
Both guards scrambled to the window and watched as Thomas thundered up to the council office. The hefty bar owner pounded on the closed door for a full two minutes, driving his fist senselessly into the wood panels and giving himself a right old nasty splinter, which worsened his mood altogether. It was only eight in the morning, too early for the lazy sods on the board to show up for their stab at municipal work. Still, the wee hour didn’t stop Thomas from kicking the blue council doors in unadulterated rage before retreating to his Land Rover to await Councilman Padraig Carey’s arrival.
“Doesn’t look like he’ll be filing any complaints at the town hall just yet,” observed the mild-mannered Kevin. He would not have admitted it for the world, but the sight and sound of Thomas’s violence frightened him something awful.
Grogan sighed. “Better get to the tea now, Kevin. It’s going to be a long day yet. I’d put my money on it,” he said out of habit, for Grogan was a man who regularly lost his week’s wages to the horses. He nodded knowingly and turned the weather report up on the crackling radio.
. . . Well now, folks, this just in from the lovely Kathleen at our weather desk—be prepared ’cause it looks like the rain’s coming and it’s here to stay. Winds will be gale force eight, with a chance of strong gusts to storm force ten. Don’t forget yer umbrellas, and do yer shopping before lunchtime! This is Irish Western Radio. Mayo, Ireland, and the world are listenin’!
Thomas turned the radio on in his Land Rover with his splintery hand, hoping to drown out the beats pounding in his head. That gobshite Padraig had better open the council office soon, he thought angrily to himself, or there was no telling what he’d do. If he didn’t get some answers for what he had seen in the old pastry shop, God help him, he’d tear the place apart with his own two hands. He was fecked if he was going to let that Eye-talian witch rob him of his dream a second time around, that was for sure.
For Thomas McGuire, the dream had started on December 31, 1961, the fateful birth night of Irish television. The country’s foray into technology that night brought him face-to-face with the debonair moves of the Working Boys Band, swinging live from Dublin’s Gresham Hotel. As his entire family sat gobsmacked before the fuzzy receiver, fifteen-year-old Thomas stood behind the line of straight-backed chairs set in the front parlor and felt his toes move with a life of their own. Before he knew what was happening, his pointy, two-toned shoes were swinging in uncontrollable dips and turns, following the televised rhythms of the Motown-inspired Irish sextet into a whole new world. Those feet of his mash-potatoed out of the parlor, did the twist up the stairs, and set a syncopated beat knocking about in Thomas’s usually vacuous brain, a beat that did not stop thumping, not even when he was asleep.
Aware of the stigma that his growing obsession with popular dance steps would incur on the Gaelic football field at his all-boys’ secondary school, Thomas hid his passion from everyone and indulged only under the invigorating stream of a scalding showerhead, shimmying as the shampoo bubbled down the drain. Sometimes, while his snotty brothers slept in the bed next to him, he would fish out a flashlight to pore over the latest Teen Beat magazine he had “borrowed” from under his sister Margaret’s pillow. Pictures of apple-cheeked American teenagers on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand and bowl-headed Brits bopping away to Top 40 hits from the Yardbirds and Herman’s Hermits filled his gut with yearning. If only he was older, young
Thomas would whisper to himself. He’d be off like a shot to London or New York. To make a name for himself. Thomas McGuire could be the next Elvis Presley or Paul McCartney, he knew he could.
Alas, it was not to be. With his father’s untimely demise came the responsibility of an empire, or the start of one, which for young Thomas turned out to be Paddy McGuire’s Pub. He put his dreams of dancing fame aside for the more staid occupation of drink lord and town bully. Between 1966 and 1976, with the help of a much-touted marriage to Cecilia Devereux, the county mayor’s two-hundred-and-twelve-pound nymphomaniacal daughter, Thomas McGuire would secure for himself a tidy monopoly on the town’s precious leisure money. He relegated his six wayward siblings to the daily maintenance of his growing businesses, while he oversaw the whole machine with the eyes of a hungry beast. And it had served him well, this diligence of waking hours, his insistence on upgrading the Wilton Inn’s upholstery (from an early-century leather to a paisley velour) and pub menus (adding a bottle of sticky port wine to his growing list of stouts and ales). In a time when the average yearly wage hardly topped eight thousand pounds, Thomas McGuire had managed to become a very rich man. With his six thriving establishments and nearly a third of the town’s residents working under his fungied thumb, Thomas might even have taken a respite from it all. He might finally have set aside some time to tend to his ever-expanding wife and his growing litter of children. Yes, had Thomas not decided (in a rare moment of generosity) to treat his three hardworking brothers to a trip to the Spanish island of Majorca in the summer of 1980, he probably would have stopped for a stale breath or two. But destiny, it seemed, had other plans. For it was on that trip that Thomas finally became free to relive his adolescent dream.
Pomegranate Soup Page 4