The Pub Across the Pond

by Mary Carter

  Carlene had purchased them in siren red, liking the idea that she would be easy to spot, even at a distance, even through the mist.

  She looked at her boot again. Be honest. Who wore a red boot up to her knee unless she wanted to get noticed? The mysterious blond woman in tall red boots.

  So much for getting anyone’s attention now. Her only company was a giant cow twenty feet away, chewing its cud, openly studying Carlene with an almost human curiosity.

  “What?” Carlene said. The cow blinked, lowered its head, ripped off another patch of grass, and resumed chewing. Panic, she thought as she took in her surroundings, would not do her any good, would not help rescue her leg from the deep, wet mud.

  At least it was no longer raining. The countryside was certainly green. The morning air carried a floral-manure scent across the field. The cow, most likely the one responsible for the manure portion of the morning smell, stepped a few feet closer. He seemed mesmerized by the boot. She could see him wearing four tall red boots—it would look smashing against his black-and-white coat. “Help,” Carlene said. She’d bought a cell phone in town, but she didn’t have any local numbers. Was 911 universal? Or did Ireland use other numbers? Was it fair to call 911 to ask for a hand out of the mud? Were cows ever dangerous? Aggressive?

  The cow, apparently bored of her, was strolling away. “Hey,” Carlene yelled. “Help.” The sight of the cow leaving filled her with a profound sense of loneliness. Cow ass. I’m stuck in the mud staring at cow ass. How long before a human stepped into this field? Would Joe come out for an afternoon stroll? Did people stroll in Ireland? If she had all these green, misty fields, she would certainly stroll.

  Although look where it had gotten her.

  Birds flitted through the patch of trees just ahead of her, bolstered her, offered her a tiny ray of hope. How bad could things be if they were so chirpy? Carlene’s good leg was starting to hurt from supporting all her weight. She put her arms out to her side and slowly lowered her butt to the ground. That was better.

  No, it wasn’t. Now her ass was wet, and muddy, and slightly sinking. Maybe the ground would swallow her up, bury her. American woman dies in bog behind pub. Yank swallowed by swamp.

  Carlene leaned back and pulled her leg as hard as she could. It loosened slightly. “Thank you,” she said to the universe, or the cow, although she feared neither was listening. She scooted back a smidge and prepared to pull again. But this time, her leg sank deeper into the ground.

  The first vestiges of panic grabbed hold of her. She would not die here with her leg stuck in a mud pit, or a bog, or whatever the hell it was. She would not die before making a go of her pub. She would not die before making love to Ronan, just once.

  A growl interrupted her thoughts. It came from behind her, off to her right side. Goose bumps prickled her arms. She was terrified to turn her head. Did cows growl? A dark patch invaded her peripheral vision. It was a dog, a killer dog, and not only was he emitting a loud, long belly growl, he was baring teeth. Watch out for the bog, the woman at the wellies shop had called out to her as she left. But what if she’d misunderstood the accent? Perhaps she’d said “dog.” Watch out for the dog. Either way, this couldn’t be good. The cow was nowhere to be seen, Joe apparently did not take afternoon strolls, and even the chirpy birds had flown far, far away.

  “Nice doggie” would be a ridiculous thing to say. He was certainly not nice. Obviously, the Irish charm did not apply to their canines. Don’t show fear. Was she supposed to look at the dog, or not look at the dog? Don’t look at the dog. She was in the submissive position, cowering on the ground. Wait a minute, wasn’t she supposed to pretend to be the alpha dog? How could she be the alpha dog if she was cowering on the ground? “Fuck you,” she said softly. No reaction. She said it a little bit louder. The growl increased.

  “Morely. C’mere.” The dog bolted toward the male voice in the distance. She heard his paws smacking happily in and out of the bog. Why wasn’t the damn dog sinking? She’d probably stepped on the one and only spot on the property where you were guaranteed to get sucked under.

  She heard his approach. Thick boots sloshing in her direction. Heavy boots; boots equipped for a bog. She saw his jeans. Tall, sturdy legs. His rain jacket, long. His baseball cap pulled over his thick, wavy hair, green-gold eyes looking down at her. He didn’t speak. He stood over her, staring. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said finally. There was definite sarcasm in his tone, and more than a flicker of amusement. It was astounding, like the number of stars in the universe, the nuances carried in his Irish accent.

  “What are you doing here?” she said. He knelt down so that they were eye to eye. There is so much beauty in this, she thought, staring into his eyes. Just looking, quietly, up close, into another person’s eyes.

  “Is that really what you want to say to me?” Ronan said.

  No. I want to say you’re beautiful. You smell good. I’m not married. I’m mortified that I said I love you. Obviously I don’t love you, I don’t even know you. But there’s something about you I think I could love.

  “About the other night,” she said. “I was drunk and I said some things—”

  “Forget about it—”

  “I’m not married.” It felt good to blurt it out. Ronan stared at her for a moment as if she were a safe he was trying to crack.

  “Divorced?”

  “No.”

  “So you lied? Because most people tell the truth when they’re pissed.”

  “I wasn’t pissed. I was just drunk.”

  Ronan threw his head back and laughed. “Pissed means drunk,” he said. “You’ll catch on. We’ve got a million words for it. Pissed, langered, rat-arsed, gee-eyed, blotto, bollixed, ossified, paralytic, plastered, wasted—”

  “I get it, I get it.”

  “So you’re not married and you’re not divorced. I believe I’m missing part of this story, Ms. Shakespeare.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it while I’m stuck in the mud.”

  “Fair play.”

  “Can you pull me out, please?”

  “That’s what I thought you wanted to say.” Ronan sat down on the ground in front of her.

  “I stepped in the one and only spot where you can sink, didn’t I?” Carlene said.

  “Nah,” Ronan said. “There’s a few more.”

  “Great. Are you just going to sit there smirking at me, or are you going to help me up?”

  “Do I really smirk?”

  “Oh yes. You are a big smirker.”

  “I did not know that.”

  “Well, now you do.”

  “I’m learning all sorts of things from you.”

  “Please. I’m really stuck.”

  Ronan rubbed his hands together. “All right, all right. I’ll sort ye out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But it’s going to cost you.”

  “I’m not giving you back the pub.” Carlene hadn’t meant for it to come out so harsh. Maybe her encounters with Joe and the twins had affected her more than she thought. But Ronan didn’t seem offended; in fact, it elicited another laugh.

  “Fair play to ye,” he said. “How about a secret?”

  “A secret?”

  “Tell me something about you that nobody—I mean nobody—knows.”

  “Why?”

  Ronan shrugged. “That’s just the going price for helping a lady out of the muck, what can I tell you, Carlena?” She flushed at the nickname, and a rush of warmth spread through her body. He was smirking again, as if he could read her mind, as if he knew without touching her that that her body was reacting to him. She tried to concentrate on his question. A secret. She could tell him about her father’s OCD. Or her awful wedding. She could tell him about the orange rabbit—but she’d already confessed that little gem to the dog bowl–obsessed man on the plane. She thought about telling him any number of things, yet instead, something flew out of her mouth that she had never expected to say.


  “I can’t pee in public.”

  “That’s not a secret. You’re a girl.”

  “No—not like that. If I’m in a public restroom—or even at a house party—and there’s a line of people waiting—I can’t go. It’s called bashful bladder syndrome.”

  “What?”

  “Bashful bladder syndrome.”

  “It’s hard to hear out here.” Carlene yelled it. Ronan was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking. “Sorry,” he said. “I actually heard you perfectly the first time.”

  “It’s not funny. It’s a serious affliction.”

  She thought it was the end of the subject, but he was fascinated, wanted to hear all about it. She told him how mortified she was when it first happened. She was ten, at a slumber party. The bathroom was right next to the living room where the six girls were laid out in their sleeping bags. They’d been drinking grape soda all night. They all made a mad dash for the restroom. Carlene reached it first. She remembered the girls giggling and pounding on the door, yelling at her to hurry up. She couldn’t go. Not a drop. Her bladder was bursting one minute and just—frozen the next. She knew she still had to go, but her body just wouldn’t cooperate. She had to wait until all the girls were fast asleep, until she verified that each one was breathing deep and not faking it, and even then, even running the water and visualizing each girl’s sleeping face in her mind, it took her forever to go. And unfortunately, it continued to happen; it still happened.

  What kind of person couldn’t pee in public? There was a name for the condition, she’d Googled it. Not bladder-block, or tinkle-phobia, or the golden freeze, as Ronan happily suggested, but BBS, bashful bladder syndrome—a mild anxiety disorder, or according to the Internet, “The inability to initiate urine while in the company of others.”

  “It said that?” Ronan asked.

  “It said that,” Carlene said.

  “Who talks like that?” he said. “Have you ever heard anyone say, ‘Were you able to initiate urine?’ Ah, the bollix. Did ye take a piss? That’s what you’d hear.”

  Carlene laughed. “Nature calls. And even though I’m standing right in the phone booth, I can’t answer.” This time they laughed in unison. It was cathartic, somehow, shouting about her pissing problem while stuck in the mud.

  “Is it only number one, or is it also—”

  “I have never gone—would never contemplate going number two in a public place! Ever!”

  “Never, not once? Not even after a burrito?”

  “Never, not once, especially not after a burrito. Can you please help me up now?”

  “What if you’re midstream and someone walks in? You’re full-on like Niagara Falls—”

  “Midstream I keep going,” Carlene said. There it was again, that deadly smile of his. He had a dimple, just one, on the left side of his face.

  “Thank you,” he said. He started to kneel behind her.

  “Wait,” she said. He stopped. “Now you tell me a secret.” He loosened his grip on her, but didn’t let go.

  “Or what?” he said. “You won’t let me pull you out of the mud?” All she knew was that she wanted to stall him, wanted him to keep holding her, wanted to keep feeling his laughter vibrate the base of her spine.

  “Please,” she said. “Between Joe, and the tree, and the twins, and this defective wellie, I’ve had a stressful morning.”

  Ronan’s hands immediately dropped from her waist. “What about the twins?” he said. Oh no, why had she said that? The only thing worse than being the woman who swooped in and took over their family business, would be being the woman who tattled.

  “That’s just what I was calling my wellies,” Carlene said. “The twins.”

  “You’re a bit strange, Miss America. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  “I believe you’ve covered that already. Now will you please tell me a secret?” Ronan settled behind her again, and soon she felt his arms wrap back around her lower body. She wanted to lean back on him, but she didn’t want him to think she was snuggling up to him.

  “See that empty patch up there?” Ronan stuck his arm out and placed his cheek against hers, so that when he moved his head to the left, he gently pushed hers in that direction. She could feel herself getting turned on again, and mentally told herself to focus. Up ahead she saw what he was pointing at, a bare patch of dirt, abandoned by the grass.

  “Yes.” She hoped he didn’t think she was shaking because of him.

  “I used to have a pigeon loft there.”

  “Like homing pigeons?”

  “Racing pigeons. I trained them myself. Had them for years.”

  “That’s a secret?”

  “No, Miss America, patience.” He waited, and this time she let go and leaned back into him, allowing him to hold her weight. He adjusted his arms and pulled her in tighter. She would show him patience, all right. He could recite War and Peace if he liked, and she would just sit there, feeling him, listening to him.

  “I reckon those pigeons are the reason I’ve never settled down with a woman.”

  Carlene sat up, forcing him to let her go. “What’s that, now?” Was this just the famous Irish blarney, or was he going to turn out to have some kind of a fowl fetish? Oh why couldn’t she just fall for the nice, normal guy for once in her life? She’d never heard of a fowl fetish, a penchant for pigeons, but you just couldn’t count on anything these days.

  “Pigeons are loyal,” Ronan explained. “Once they’re trained that this is home, they’ll do anything to get back to it. A fella I knew once gave me one of his racing pigeons when he moved away. The loft wasn’t even there anymore, just one stump where it used to be. Every day that pigeon would fly back to it and just keep sitting on that stump, waiting for his original owner to come home.”

  “That’s so sad,” Carlene said.

  “Every day I’d ride my bike over there and scoop him off the stump, tuck him inside my jacket, and ride back here with him. And every day, he’d go back. Pigeons will fight anything to find their way home. They’ll battle storms, hunger, sickness, predators, fear, and still keep flying toward home. I once had a pigeon who was shot at, and he still made it back.”

  “You are depressing the fuck out of me,” Carlene said. Ronan laughed and wrapped his arms around her again.

  “That’s not depressing,” he said. “It’s loyalty. It’s love.”

  “So you’re saying you haven’t settled down because you haven’t met a woman who’s proved her loyalty by getting shot at, starved, or battling predators to make her way back to you?”

  “I’m saying when someone loves you—really loves you—there’s this invisible line connecting them to you. You think of each other as home base. And nothing in this world could keep you apart. You’re never afraid to let her go, because you know she’ll do whatever it takes to come back.”

  Carlene was silent for a moment. “Who was she?”

  “Who was who?” His voice was deeper now, edgier.

  “The woman who left you,” Carlene said softly. Ronan tensed behind her. He tightened his grip.

  “On three,” he said. It sounded like, “On tree.” She wanted to make a joke about it, but she’d already ruined the mood. He started to count, and then he pulled. Finally, Carlene’s leg came up out of the mud. Unfortunately, her new boot did not.

  CHAPTER 17

  Empty Kegs and Vampires

  The next morning, Carlene awoke to a loud clanging noise. It sounded as if it was just outside the house. Was something happening in the shed where the beer kegs were kept? Carlene sat bolt upright in bed. Was it Wednesday? She’d barely slept two hours. Last night, after Ronan rescued her from the mud, she found Ciaran, Anchor, Danny, Eoin, Billy, and Riley circling her back door like stray cats. They just wanted a game of cards and a quiet drink. Couldn’t she just let them in? She’d stayed open until four A.M.

  It couldn’t be much more than six A.M. now. Was the beer man just delivering the kegs, or was she supposed to d
o something, sign something? She pulled on her jeans, which were lying on the floor beside her bed. Her clothes were always neatly folded and pressed at home. Here, she was still living out of a suitcase, and she loved it. There was nothing like simplifying your life. She pulled on a sweatshirt, slipped on her flip-flops, and went out to the shed. On the ground, in front of the shed, she saw circular impressions, like mini-spaceships, indented in the grass. Keg footprints. No, no, no. She counted six of them. The deliveryman had been here all right, and someone had stolen her kegs. Maybe there was some explanation. Maybe someone had already set them up for her.

  She opened the shed. The old kegs were still there. Crossing her fingers anyway, she went over and tipped one. Light as a feather. Even though she knew the outcome, she took a turn tipping each one. They were all empty. And since there was nothing else to do, she went back to the first keg and kicked it. A hollow sound rang out. Even empty, it hurt her foot. Still, pain was better than festering frustration, so she went ahead and kicked every single one of them. Oh, if her regulars could see her now.

  She completely forgot that she was supposed to have carried the empty kegs out to the front of the road for the delivery guy to pick up. He was supposed to remove them and leave the full kegs in their place. She was supposed to find someone to help her roll the kegs to the shed. Why didn’t someone remind her? And what exactly happened?

  It was too early to play detective. However, a few things were apparent. The beer man had indeed arrived at some ungodly hour. Instead of leaving the full kegs by the side of the road, did he roll them down to the shed for her? Doubtful. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have checked inside the shed and taken away the empty ones? Good Samaritans usually go all the way, don’t they?

  So she was dealing with three factors. Beer man arrives, and finding no empty kegs, dumps the full ones out by the side of the road.