by Mary Carter
Eoin, to Carlene’s surprise, was a fantastic artist. Over the next few weeks, he painted a beautiful mural of the Irish countryside on the plywood wall, complete with rolling fields, a stream, and towering trees. Then the people of Ballybeog were encouraged to stop in and sign it. It was a living petition, a town apology, a public stand against the begrudger who wanted her gone. Carlene had never felt so happy, and so welcome.
After that, things quieted down until Sally came through with the hen night. The girls were already drunk when they arrived. All ten of them were decked in fancy dresses and outlandish headpieces. Everyone, courtesy of Sally, was bedazzled, including Carlene. She felt foolish, wearing a headband with a giant blue crystal in the middle of her forehead, but she was learning to go with the flow. Roisin, the bride-to-be, wore a wedding dress that had been cut off way above the knees, neckline plunged low. She also wore a bedazzled veil that was longer than the dress.
The women immediately swept Carlene up in the fun and demanded she keep up with their drinking, shot for shot. Luckily, Carlene had suspected this was coming and had already doctored up a bottle of whiskey for herself that actually contained ginger ale. Sally was in unusually good form, touching Carlene’s arm or giving her a little hug around the waist whenever she was near. It could have been the presence of all that crystal, or it could have been the bottle of Jägermeister she sipped from the entire evening.
There wasn’t a band, but the girls played the jukebox, and drank, and danced, and swore, and joked, and gossiped, and swayed their hips to the music. Carlene watched them, once again mesmerized by their ability to let go and have fun without giving life a second thought. They laughed loud and often. They shrieked. They touched each other all the time; a hand on the shoulder, a hand on a hand, a hand on a knee, an overflowing display of connection and affection. All done with ease, without a second thought. None of them, Carlene noted, wore gloves.
Carlene felt like a phony, an observer, a reporter. She didn’t remember all of their names, didn’t know what they did for a living, where they lived, who they loved, or what their secrets were. But she was thrilled to have women in the pub. It was a start.
“We need men,” one of the hens shouted. She was a tall girl with dark hair piled on top of her head, held in place with a tiara that read: BITCH. She had beautiful light blue eyes lined in heavy green eyeliner. She grabbed Carlene and tried to stare into her eyes. She couldn’t focus for long, and she shifted her weight from one gold stiletto to the other, as if trying to keep her balance. “Where are all the men?” she said. Between her accent and her slur, it took Carlene a few tries before she understood her.
“It’s just us girls tonight,” Carlene said. She looked to Sally for support. Sally was holding a shot glass in one hand, and a crystal and superglue in the other. She stuck the crystal on the shot glass, then watched as it slid down, leaving a smear of glue like the trail of a slug.
“Bollix,” Sally said before trying it again.
“I know,” Miss Tiara said. “We should call you-know-who over here for Sally.” Sally looked up from her shot glass and smiled.
“Oh yes,” Sally said. She came out from behind the bar holding the bottle of Jägermesiter. She leaned against the bar, slid the bottle down to her crotch. “Yes, yes, yes.” The girls howled with laughter, but Carlene was slightly appalled. She’d never seen girls act like—well—guys.
“Oh, Ronan,” another girl shouted. “I love your big cock.”
“Have ye bedazzled it yet, Sally?” Roisin yelled. Sally threw her head back and laughed. Then she guzzled straight from the bottle. When she came up for air, her eyes landed on Carlene and stayed there. Carlene suddenly felt as if the room was closing in on her. She felt someone’s hands wrap around her waist from behind.
“Have you met Ronan McBride yet?” the girl whispered in her ear.
“Of course she has,” Sally said. “He’s been spending a lot of time over here lately, hasn’t he, Carlene?” Carlene didn’t answer; she tried to move away, busy herself behind the bar. Miss Tiara stopped her.
“Maybe it’s to see you,” Miss Tiara said. She poked Carlene’s chest a few times.
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” a pretty blonde said to Carlene. They all looked at Carlene, as if demanding her answer.
“He’s very good looking,” Carlene said. She felt heat rise to her face and she tried not to look at the pool table where he’d slept just the other night, she tried not to think about his mouth on hers, his voice and breath in her ear, his arms around her.
“He’s off-limits to you,” Roisin said. She swept over to Sally, whipped her bridal veil off, and put it on Sally. “Sally and Ronan are soul mates,” she said. “It was written on the abbey walls, right, Sal?”
“Not on the walls,” Sally said. “He left me a note in the wall,” she added.
“Really?” Carlene said. Don’t let them get to you, she told herself. Thank God she was drinking ginger ale, and yet she still felt sick.
“They were fifteen years of age,” the blonde said. “What did the note say again, Sally?”
“Be mine,” Sally said. They all looked at Carlene.
“Oh,” Carlene said. “That’s very. To the point.” She understood what this was now. An intervention. Stay away from Ronan. Maybe Sally was the one who’d put up the wall. After all, she had motive and access to the tools. “So,” Carlene said. “Why aren’t you two together now?”
“Irish men take forever to commit,” Roisin said. “I’ve been after Martin to marry me for the past eight years.”
“But when they do commit, it’s for life,” the blonde said. “We don’t have ‘drive-by divorce’ like you Yanks.”
Carlene thought about her marriage. A hit-and-run. Guess he was the exception to the life sentence.
“So you think he really wants to be with you, Sally?” Carlene said. “You think he’s just, what? Playing hard to get?” Carlene told herself to shut up. After all, these women were tough and drunk and could definitely kick her ass. But she wasn’t going to let them gang up on her either, not without defending herself a little.
“I wouldn’t have such strong feelings for him if it wasn’t mutual,” Sally said. “That’s just not possible.”
Carlene could tell from Sally’s intense expression that she believed what she was saying. She felt a rush of pity for her. Carlene had once thought the same thing about Brendan. How was it possible to have every cell in your body light up around a particular man if they didn’t feel the same way?
“But he doesn’t call you?” Carlene said. “Ask you out on dates?” Does he hold your hands and stare into your eyes and ask you what you want to be when you grow up? Does he ask you to tell him secrets and rescue you from bogs and roofs? When was the last time he pushed you up against a wall and kissed you until you saw stars?
Roisin staggered up to Carlene. She looked her up and down. Then she turned her back on her.
“All right, ladies,” Roisin said. “Enough of this fucking talk about fellas. This is my hen party. Who wants to do shots off my stomach?”
“I’ve known him since I was five years old,” Sally said. “We’ve done loads of things together. Our families do loads of things together. Jane’s right.” Carlene glanced at the blonde, whose name she now knew was Jane. “You don’t know a thing about Irish men,” Sally continued. “You will never get them like we do. Even if they get crushes on American girls—”
“Or Eastern European girls,” Jane said.
“Or whoever the feck,” Sally said. “The relationships never work out because at they end of the day, they know they can’t do better than an Irish wife.”
“Maybe so,” Carlene said. “But in America, if he’s not pursuing you, we’d say, ‘he’s just not that into you.’ I know it hurts, but when you actually get the concept it can be quite liberating.” The women just looked at her. “Become the man you want to marry,” Carlene said, trying to muster up a peppy voice.
&nb
sp; “What the fuck does that mean?” Sally said.
“Sounds like a load of shite,” Roisin said. It looked like the swear jar would work equally for her female guests. Carlene was going to have to get started on that. She could have thousands in there already.
“They’re all the same,” Miss Tiara said. “All men are babies who want a mother in the kitchen, and a Madonna taking care of their babies, and a whore in the bedroom. And it’s all because their Irish mammies treat them like they’re gods. I am not going to raise my son that way. I am going to break the cycle. God, I fucking hate men. I wish I’d never gotten married. I wish I could be a selfish man who thinks of no one but myself and comes to the pub every night to tell the same stupid jokes to other sweaty, smelly men who are too cowardly to go home and be good to their wives and kids.”
Carlene was starting to think the shots were a bad idea....
Miss Tiara stumbled up to Roisin. “I just wish one person would have wrenched me aside before I said ‘I do’ and told me how much marriage can drain the fucking life out of you,” she said. Her tiara slipped slightly. She pushed it back up, only managing to slide it to the other side. Roisin staggered back, as if struck by Miss Tiara’s words, then suddenly dropped. She sat slumped over on the floor holding her bottle of whiskey. Mascara ran down her cheek. Her hair was filled with static and several strands were sticking straight up as if crying for her veil.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Sally said. Carlene didn’t know if she was talking to her or Miss Tiara. The women all gathered around the bride-to-be.
“Your marriage isn’t going to be like that,” Jane yelled down at Roisin. “Martin’s a nice fella. He’s quiet and likes to stay at home.”
Roisin lifted her head. “I know,” she said. “That’s the fucking problem.”
“What do you mean?” Jane said.
“He’s boring,” Roisin said. “I’m going to die of boredom.” At once the women began assuring her that Gary was not boring.
“For fuck’s sake,” Roisin said. “He’s having his bachelor party in the Aran Islands.”
“The islands are lovely,” Jane said.
“That is a bit odd,” Sally said. “Do they have strippers on the Aran Islands?”
“Yes,” Roisin said. “They’re called sheep.” At first there was stunned silence, then the girls all broke into howling laughter.
“Ciaran could stand to be a little more like Gary,” Jane said. “After his bachelor party he came home with a thong between his teeth. I didn’t speak to him until the wedding day.”
“Come on, Jane,” Roisin said. “At least you can’t say Ciaran’s boring.” Ciaran, Carlene thought. Jane was married to Ciaran? Her Ciaran? This was the woman who liked the vampire books? For some reason Carlene never pictured Ciaran having a wife that hot. It did make her wonder why he was in the bar all the time if he had someone like her at home. Jane stumbled up to Carlene, and for a second Carlene wondered if she had just blurted her thoughts out loud.
“What does Ciaran do here all night?” Jane said. “What does he say? Who does he talk to?” What she really wanted to know was, “Why isn’t he with me?” and that was one question Carlene couldn’t answer.
“Hey,” Sally said. “Bartenders are like priests. No talking out of school.”
“This hen night sucks,” Roisin said. “It’s been about as useful as a chocolate willy.” She stumbled over to Sally, grabbed her veil back, and put it on. Then she grabbed the bottle of Jägermeister out of Sally’s hand and stumbled down the hall. The rest of the girls followed. Carlene stayed in the bar to clean up. But even from the distance she could hear them singing, and laughing, and shouting, and eventually vomiting into the bog.
CHAPTER 23
Down the Hatch
Carlene wanted to fully explore the backyard before winter hit. It was nearing the end of October, and the mild fall weather was starting to develop a bitter bite. She had purchased a new pair of wellies, ones that fit tighter this time, and she began tentatively exploring the backyard foot by foot. On many of these sunrise expeditions, the kitten would join her. One morning, Carlene was picking a few wildflowers for a jar for the back porch. The kitten bounded up to her, rubbed against her leg, then shot off again. Carlene watched the kitten trip across the yard. One minute it was there, and the next it dropped out of sight, seemingly vanished into thin air. Carlene’s heart dropped. She ran to the spot where the kitten disappeared, a clawing panic gripping her chest. She fully expected to dig the kitten out of the muck, lifeless and stiff.
She should have named her, Carlene thought as she ran. Why didn’t she name her? And why was she letting a kitten run around a bog in the first place? She’d tried to leave the cat inside, but the little furball wouldn’t have it. She’d morph into a devilish creature, yowling and scratching at the screen door, insisting she be let out. Sometimes the kitten squeezed her tiny body through cracks in the porch and slipped out on her own. Live and let live, Carlene finally decided. It seemed to be the Irish way. When Carlene reached the spot where she had last seen the kitten, she looked down and saw a small hole in the ground.
Carlene dropped to her hands and knees and examined the opening. She was terrified to stick her hand inside, but she could hear the kitten’s pitiful meows coming from within. No matter what, she wasn’t going to call Ronan. He hadn’t come around lately, and calling him to rescue her kitten was taking things a bit too far. Besides, wasn’t she the one who lectured Sally on not chasing men? Was it time she faced the fact that Ronan just wasn’t that into her?
Carlene picked at the grass on either side of the hole, hoping to make it a little larger. She wanted to at least be able to peer into it before sticking her hand into the abyss. Thank goodness for Saint Patrick, she thought. At least this couldn’t be a snake hole. To her surprise, pulling the grass around the hole revealed planks of wood, as if some kind of crate had been smashed on the ground and abandoned. Carlene tore at the grass. Suddenly, she was staring at what appeared to be a small door, or a hatch. The middle of the door had caved in, creating the opening the kitten fell through. Carlene grabbed the remains of the door with both hands and pulled.
It swung open quite easily, revealing a deep hole beneath it. It was big enough for Carlene to jump into. The kitten’s meows grew louder.
“Hey, kitty,” Carlene said. “I’m here.” Carlene wished she had a flashlight. She didn’t want to leave the kitten for a second, but it was too dark to see inside. She wasn’t going to go in blind. “One second, kitty,” Carlene said. She quickly closed the door. There was no one around, but she still had this feeling—this rush of adrenaline that came with discovering a secret trapdoor. She ran like a child to the shed where she’d stored all the tools she purchased from Sally’s hardware shop. A flashlight was one of her purchases, and as she ran she mentally patted herself on the back for thinking of it.
She opened the shed, grabbed the flashlight, and turned it on. It worked! Luckily, she’d thought of batteries too. She ran back to the secret door, dropped to her knees, and opened it again. At first she shone the light over the hole so that she wouldn’t blind the poor little kitty with direct light. The kitten hadn’t moved. He was crouched at the bottom, which appeared to be about ten feet down.
Not a bad drop. Still, she needed something, maybe a chair or ladder to put down the hole. Even with such a short jump, she could sprain her ankle if she wasn’t careful. Especially since, from the looks of it, the floor of this hole was covered with stones. In fact, it looked almost as if the stones had been deliberately built into the floor. Carlene shut the door again and ran back to the pub. If anyone was watching her run back and forth, they would have thought she was some kind of nutter doing morning sprinting exercises. Not that she would care. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so giddy. She felt like Christopher Columbus about to discover the New World. She grabbed one of the wooden chairs from the back porch, returned to the trapdoor, and opened it for the
third time. She lowered the chair as far as she could and then let it drop. To her relief, the chair stayed upright and she didn’t hit the kitten. In fact, the kitten remained curled up on the floor, watching Carlene’s every move. Her cries had stopped; now she seemed merely curious.
Should she go back for her cell phone in case something went wrong? Before she could talk herself out it, Carlene lowered herself into the hole. She landed harder than she expected, but other than a shock to her ankles, she was okay. She scooped up the kitten and examined her. She gently touched her paws and the rest of her tiny body. She was completely fine, just shaking, and her little heart was pounding louder than Carlene’s. She set the kitten on the chair and turned on the flashlight.
She only had about a foot of space in which to stand upright. The hole did seem to continue, but it wasn’t until she got down on her hands and knees that she could see there was an actual tunnel burrowed into the ground. The floor of the tunnel was made of stone, the walls were simply dirt, and the roof consisted of crisscrossing wood beams. Whatever this was, it was man-made, unless beavers in Ireland had rapidly advanced their skill sets. Did Ireland even have beavers? Carlene hadn’t a clue.
It was a very narrow passageway, and when she shone the light down it, she couldn’t see to the end. The eternal question remained—was there a light at the end of the tunnel?
If she started to crawl into it, how long would it last? What was on the other side? If she panicked, was there enough room to turn around, or would she be forced to crawl backward? What if she started crawling through and the roof caved in? She could suffocate to death without anyone ever finding her body.
And what if someone was hiding in there somewhere? It would be all fine and grand to make it through the passage, unless waiting at the other end was a vagrant with a meat cleaver. She couldn’t do this now. She was going to have to think this through. Who else knew about this? Should she tell someone? Ronan?