by Maddy Hunter
It was obvious the only “roots” Ethel felt needed attention were the ones attached to her head. She squinted at me intensely. “Did you know you have bug bites all over your face?”
“I’m taking care of it.”
“If there’s bugs in this place, I’m gonna have to stop and buy repellant.”
“So you’re in the shoe business,” I said to Ernie.
“Used to be. I turned the business over to Ernie Junior a few years back. But I still keep my thumb in the pie. Someone’s gotta keep Junior on top of what’s hot. Take these little numbers, for instance.” He swept his hand toward Ethel’s feet. “Stick your foot out, Ethel.”
Ethel stuck out her foot and hiked up her flowy pants.
“These are the latest thing from Taryn Rose. Fits like a second skin. Wide toe box. An insole that massages your foot. Made from Italian leather that’s soft as butter. Stylish. Orthopedically designed. Is it comfortable, Ethel?”
“It’s comfortable, Ernie.”
“Three hundred and fifteen bucks,” said Ernie. “A steal for that kind of shoe. ’Course, we don’t have to pay full price. Ernie Junior gives us a senior citizen discount.”
I stared at Ethel’s foot. “Very nice,” I heard myself say as shock set in. Her shoe consisted of two thin straps of platinum leather lashed across her foot and attached to a perfectly flat sole. But it wasn’t the price of the two leather straps that caused my shock. It was the rest of her foot. Her toenails were dark burgundy overlaid with painted daisies, which smacked of a recent pedicure. No small feat, considering Ethel Minch’s toes were all stuck together.
Chapter 6
“On yer right,” Michael Malooley announced into the microphone of the bus, “that ruin on top of the hill was once an ancient watchtower. Oliver Cromwell blew it apart. You’ve no doubt heard of Cromwell, the English Lord Protector who lived by the motto that the only good Irishman is a dead Irishman.”
We were cruising along a narrow road somewhere in Northern Ireland en route to our first destination. Ashley had apologized for our late start by explaining that things in Ireland operated on “Irish time,” which always ran a bit late. I suspected if my group had known this, they would have opted to return to Switzerland, where the weather had been damp, the fog thick, and the food tasteless, but at least everything had run on time.
Ashley was sitting at the front of the bus this morning with a large map unfolded on her lap. She’d probably decided to navigate today to ensure we actually did arrive at our first destination. Michael was therefore acting as driver and guide, alerting us to sights that appeared in the infrequent spaces between hedgerows. He’d obviously spent years studying local history, because he was a real wealth of information.
“Did you see that bunch of stones in circles back there?” Ernie Minch called out to Michael. “Why are they there?”
“Dunno.”
“What’re they used for?”
“Dunno.”
“Who built them?”
“Dunno.”
I’d read that ancient peoples had used stone circles as calendars or astronomical blueprints, but my personal theory was that some primitive civil engineer had built them as a form of traffic control, to lend order to the constant flow of farm wagons and carts. The first roundabouts. The guy later moved to Massachusetts and built some more, but he changed their name to “rotaries.”
Ssssppt! Ssssppt!
I caught a sudden whiff of something strong and aromatic in the air. “What’s that smell?”
Bernice Zwerg, who was seated beside me, stuck her nose in the air and inhaled deeply. “Pine-Sol.”
“Smells more citrusy to me. Like some kind of expensive eau de cologne.” Your average Iowan is blessed with a remarkable sense of direction. Iowans never get lost. They’re always aware of magnetic north, even when the sun isn’t shining. It’s uncanny. I didn’t get that gene. I got the gene that allows me to identify just about any smell that comes my way, which isn’t always the best gene to have when you grow up next to a hog farm.
Ssssppt! A fountain of mist shot into the air from the seat in front of us and rained in our direction. Ethel Minch poked her head over the top of her seat. “Do you like that?” She waved the bottle in front of us. “It’s from Guerlain. Some kind of orangy toilet water. Expensive as hell.”
Orange! All right. Was I good, or what?
“A bunch of us talked at breakfast and decided to take matters into our own hands about the smell in this place. Isn’t that right, Gladys?”
Gladys Kuppelman, who was occupying the seat behind us, answered with an emphatic Pssssssssttt! A cloud of spray floated over the top of my head. I sniffed. This one was easy. Right Guard spray deodorant. My dad still used it. Oh, this was nice. We were having fragrance wars.
“Ira didn’t want me to bring perfume bottles on the trip,” shouted Gladys. “He said they might break. This works fine, though. Good thing I decided not to bring a roll-on.”
Michael’s voice sounded over the microphone once again. “To yer left. In that field. That pile of rocks used to be an abbey before that God-cursed bastard Oliver Cromwell reduced it to rubble. For nine months he reigned death and destruction on Ireland. May he burn in Hell for it!”
Silence. Murmurs. An undercurrent of unease. I looked at Bernice. Bernice looked at me. “Did you get to an ATM to get me my money yet?” she asked.
I rapped my knuckles against my head. “Your money. Unh! I’ll speak to Ashley. Maybe we can stop someplace along the way today.”
“You better. I’m down to a few coins. Good thing our meals are included today.”
“Did you call the bank back home to wire you some cash?”
“Can’t. You need some kind of card to make a long-distance call on the room phone. In my day you could give the phone a crank, tell the operator who you wanted to talk to, and she’d make the connection for you. These days you pick up the phone and they’ve made so many improvements, you can’t make a call at all.”
“I have a phone card. I’ll show you how to use it when we get back tonight.”
“If that’s like a credit card, you can forget it. I don’t want anyone stealing my identity.”
“Bernice,” I said evenly, “no one can steal your identity from a phone card.”
“I’m not taking any chances. If I can’t use coins, I’m not making any phone call.”
The itching started again. My throat. My jaw. My cheeks. I dug my anti-itch cream out of my shoulder bag.
“What’s wrong with your face?” Bernice inquired. “Looks like measles. Weren’t you immunized? You should of gotten immunized. In my day if people got measles, they usually died.”
“I’ve been immunized,” I snapped. “It’s not measles.” I uncapped the tube and smeared ointment all over my face. Bernice wrinkled her nose.
“That stuff smells like camel dung. You should have bought the kind that comes in an improved fresh clean scent.”
“This is the improved fresh clean scent!”
PSSSSSSSSSSSST!
I shielded my arm over my head to avoid the geyser of spray the man across the aisle released into the air, but the fumes stung my eyes and clogged my windpipe anyway. Uff da. I waved my arms in front of me to scatter the mist.
“Furniture polish,” the man said proudly, holding the aerosol can at the ready. “Lemon scented. The maid’s closet was open, so I kind of borrowed it. It was the best I could do on such short notice. Doesn’t linger too long, though, does it?”
PSSSSSSSSSSSST! He gave another blast in my direction. I guess I hadn’t choked enough for him the first time.
“To yer right,” Michael announced again, “those stone walls with the cannonball dents in them over by the river. Used to be a fine church over there before that goddamned son-of-a-bitch Cromwell and his son-of-a-whore bastard troops”—I heard a rush of footsteps—“bnnrk ig athwart.”
Bernice tapped my arm. “What’s ‘bnnrk ig athwart’?”
I looked down the aisle to find Ashley looming over Michael with her hand firmly planted over the microphone. KRRRREEOOOO! Feedback blared out at us as she wrenched the mike in her direction. KRRRREEOOOO! I winced as Michael wrenched it back. KRRRREEOOOO! Fifty pairs of hands flew up to cover their ears.
“I’d like to thank Michael for his excitin’ narration,” Ashley finally announced in a breathy calm, “but to get y’all in the mood for the day’s sights, I think a little Irish music is in order. So y’all just sit back and enjoy the scenery.”
As I twisted the cap back onto my small tube of anti-itch cream, I could read the handwriting on the wall. One tube wasn’t going to be enough.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Carrick-a-rede Rope Bridge a mere hour behind schedule. Ashley presented us with a short narrative, explaining what we were about to see. “The bridge connects the mainland to a small island that’s the site for a local salmon fishery. It spans a distance of sixty feet and hangs eighty feet above the sea. If any of y’all have vertigo, I don’t recommend you attempt the crossing. The handrails are sturdy, but the flooring consists of wooden planks strung between wires that begin twistin’ and wobblin’ the minute you step onto them. It’s about a mile walk to the actual site, so bring your cameras and some bottled water with you, but leave all your extra baggage behind. You’ll want to leave your hands free for the crossing. Michael will lock the bus, so y’all don’t have to worry about someone stealing your valuables.”
I heard a groan of voices around me as people stretched their cramped muscles and aching joints. I hadn’t brought any water with me, so I retrieved my camera, wedged my shoulder bag into the overhead compartment, and waited my turn to exit through the back door. I was a little apprehensive about the height thing. Iowa is so flat, a lot of people might be unaware they have vertigo. I mean, riding the escalator to the second floor of Younkers department store is high enough to give some Iowans a nosebleed. I didn’t want to think about anyone from my group growing so paralyzed with fear they’d get halfway across the bridge and not be able to make it back. More specifically, I hoped that person didn’t turn out to be me.
I exited the bus behind Gladys and Ira Kuppelman, who were dressed in matching chocolate brown jerseys, cherry microfiber vests, yellow spandex leggings, and really cool sunglasses with mirrored lenses in the shape of rhomboids. Or maybe they were trapezoids. Some shape like that. Geometry had never been my best subject.
Bernice nudged me from behind. “Check out the Bobbsey twins. They look like a couple of banana splits.”
I shrugged. “Maybe they own a Dairy Queen franchise.” But you couldn’t fault their physiques. Ira and Gladys had gleaming silver hair, razor-cut into easy-care, classic styles, and complexions that were bronzed and wrinkle-free. And they didn’t sport an ounce of fat between them. They looked like the kind of people who spent vacations skiing in Vail, snorkeling in Bermuda, snowshoeing in Vermont, and scuba diving off the Keys. They were a real inspiration. I hoped I’d be that fit when I reached sixty, or whatever age they were.
“Emily! Over here!” I pivoted toward the sound of Nana’s voice and, with Bernice in tow, elbowed my way through the crowd toward her. “Is your young man here, dear? I didn’t see him board the bus.”
“He couldn’t come today.”
“That’s too bad. No interest?”
“No pants.”
“No kiddin’?” She nodded her understanding. “I can see’s how that might be a problem. Could be one a the other fellas on the tour would be nice enough to lend him a pair.” She paused to evaluate the men milling around us. Ernie Minch. George Farkas. Osmond Chelsvig. “Guess that’s not such a good idea. Everyone else has shrunk.” She wrinkled her nose. “I thought it smelled bad on the bus, but it’s followed us right outside. What in the world is that odor?”
“Me,” I said, offering my jacket and hair up for inspection. “Take your pick. Spray deodorant or furniture polish.”
“I smell it too,” said Tilly. “It’s not a synthetic odor. It’s more organic. Earthy. Pungent.”
“Smells like garbage,” said Bernice.
Tilly continued. “Considering the Irish have access to an alternate supply of fuel for cooking and home heating, I would suggest what we’re smelling is peat.”
“Which one’s Pete?” asked Bernice.
Nana grabbed my arm. “Look, Emily. There’s a tall one. Maybe you can borrow his pants. They look pretty nice too. Dockers.”
As if on cue, the “tall one” turned to face us. He had a lion’s mane of shoulder-length frosted blond hair, cheekbones like sculpted granite, and eyes that were a dazzling shade of aquamarine. He flashed a killer smile at Nana, and while we all stood gawking, he sauntered toward us. “Forgive the intrusion, ladies, but did I overhear one of you say you wanted to borrow my pants?”
Drop-dead gorgeous men sometimes affect women in inexplicable ways. Our body temperatures increase. Our brain function decreases. Speech deserts us. It’s really annoying. Especially the speech part. Nana was first to recover. “The pants would be for Emily’s young man. He hasn’t got none.”
“There you are, lovebug!” cried Jackie, barging into our circle. She wrapped her arms around the “tall one” and preened like a prom queen. “One minute you’re there, and the next you’re gone,” she scolded him. “I hope I don’t have to spend this entire vacation keeping track of you. Have you introduced yourself to Emily yet?”
“Emily?” he said, redirecting his gaze to my face and narrowing his eyes. “You’re Emily?”
Ehh! Jackie’s husband. Why was I getting the impression that the pleasure of meeting me was running a distant third to root canal and sigmoidoscopy?
Jackie graced Nana with an affectionate smile. “And you must be Emily’s grandmother. She told me all about you at breakfast this morning. I’m so happy to meet you!” To show just how happy, she rushed at Nana and lifted her off her feet in a bone-crunching hug that knocked Nana’s visor off her head and raised the eyebrows of a few people who had joined our circle.
“I hope she’s not that happy to meet me,” Bernice grumbled.
“I should introduce myself to the rest of you,” Jackie said to the group, waving her name tag. “I’m Jackie Thum, and I’m here on my honeymoon with my husband, Tom.” She held up his name tag for our collective perusal.
“Your name’s Tom Thum?” Ernie Minch grinned, hiking his pants up higher under his armpits. “You any relation to that midget colonel who played the circuit with P.T. Barnum?”
Gladys Kuppelman gasped. “You’re not supposed to say ‘midget’ anymore. You’re supposed to say ‘little person.’ You have to be politically correct.”
“Tom Thumb was a midget?” puzzled Ethel Minch. She grabbed her turban as a fierce wind blew across the parking lot. “I thought he was a dwarf.”
“I thought he was a general,” said Bernice.
Tilly thumped her walking stick on the ground and said with authority, “It’s more politically correct to refer to a diminutive person as ‘vertically challenged,’ whether he’s a colonel or a general.”
“Says who?” Ira Kuppelman objected as he raised his arms above his head in a series of stretching exercises. “My money’s on ‘height impaired.’”
“You can’t say he was ‘impaired,’” Gladys corrected. “That implies there was something wrong with him.”
“There was something wrong with him,” shouted Ernie. “He was a midget!”
Nothing circular about this conversation.
“So what’s the story?” Ernie prodded Tom. “Are you related or not?”
Jackie stuck out her hip and posed her fist on it. “He’s over six feet tall. Does he look like he’s related?”
“How should I know? Maybe he wears lifts.”
“Ernie used to sell lifts,” Ethel said
with pride, “but there wasn’t much call for them in Brooklyn. In order to make any money at it, we woulda had to relocate to Hollywood.”
“All right, y’all!” shouted Ashley from somewhere at the front of the throng. She poked a green-and-white-striped umbrella into the air so we could locate her. “We’ll proceed through the gate and hike slowly along the trail. Watch your footing because the trail’s uneven. Please don’t crowd each other! Everyone’ll get to see the bridge once we reach it. And whatever you do, don’t wander from the trail.”
Good advice, considering the path wended along the lip of a cliff that dropped off precipitously to the sea below.