Hearts in Ireland

by J. C. Long

  Was she right? Was my perspective just off? And even if it was true, how would I know when I found it? I contemplated this philosophical question until the water in the shower turned cold and I hurried out of it, my mind no more settled coming out than it was when I went in.

  After the shower, I went through just about every item of clothing I’d brought with me to find the right thing to wear. I was on my second pass through when I stopped, forcing myself to drop the two shirts I was holding up to my chest.

  What the hell am I doing? I wondered. I’m acting like I’m in some ridiculous sitcom. I was letting these strange jitters get the best of me, and I had to put a stop to it. Fergal was just being friendly, and going into Dublin with him would be a much smarter course than attempting to find my way through the city and getting lost every thirty seconds. Some people might see that as part of the magic and adventure of traveling, but I did not. Give me strict plans over spontaneous adventure any day of the week.

  I couldn’t deny that it would be nice to spend the day with Fergal—because of our mutual literary interests, of course. If a tiny voice in my mind chimed in that Fergal’s looks would make it nice too, I shut it down quickly. I didn’t need to open that can of worms, not after the teasing I’d gotten from Hannah about it all.

  This was just a tour of the city, and he was probably doing it because I was related to Hannah and Aunt Gwendolyn. I shouldn’t read too much into it.

  Once dressed—I settled on a gray V-neck T-shirt, dark-wash jeans, and my light hoodie jacket just in case it was chilly later—I walked downstairs. It was just after nine, so I had a bit of time before Fergal arrived. As I reached the foyer, the front door opened and Aunt Gwendolyn came in, gardening gloves on her hands, a spade in one hand, and a plastic grocery bag full of weeds in the other.

  She greeted me with a bright grin. “Morning! Want a cuppa?” She didn’t wait for me to respond, so I followed her back into the kitchen. “Need some breakfast? I can make you kippers.”

  I arched my eyebrow. “Kippers?”

  “It’s a fish—herring.”

  I shook my head. “No thanks, not hungry.” It was the truth—my stomach was still all tied up—but even if it wasn’t, I would have turned her down. The idea of eating an oily, bony fish for breakfast was about as appealing as eating a shoe.

  Aunt Gwendolyn chuckled as she sat a kettle on the stove. “Your mom didn’t like kippers either. Hated when Grandma Murphy cooked them. Fetch two tea cups, will you?”

  I went to the cabinet over the sink and took down two tea cups as requested. I paused to look at the sky from the window. It was slate gray, an unbroken sheet of clouds blocking the sun. It looked the way Ireland and the UK always look on television or in movies. “It looks like it’s going to rain today,” I commented, placing the teacups on the counter.

  “It looks like that 80 percent of the time, don’t worry.” Aunt Gwendolyn pushed two pieces of bread down in the toaster, crossed to the fridge, took out a carton of milk, and placed it between our cups. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? I could scramble up some eggs or fry some bacon.”

  “That’s okay, Aunt Gwendolyn. I’m sure I can make it till lunch time.”

  “Nervous about your date with Fergal?”

  I wanted to cover my face in embarrassment. “It’s not a date. He’s just going to show me around the city. If Hannah said otherwise, she’s mistaken.” I made a mental note to kick Hannah the next time I saw her.

  “Hannah didn’t say anything about it. Your Uncle Dick did.”

  I felt my mouth fly open in surprise. “What? Uncle Dick?”

  “Yeah. He told me you and Fergal were at the pub making plans for a second date.”

  Now I was really confused. “Second date? We haven’t even had a first one!”

  The teakettle began to whistle, and Aunt Gwendolyn pulled it off the stovetop, killing the flame, then poured the steaming water into the two cups on the table. She passed me a teabag. “Here, this is Lyons tea, the best tea for mornings.” She looked at me silently until I dropped the teabag into my cup. “Dick said you had a lunch date at the pub Wednesday.”

  I rolled my eyes towards the ceiling while I steeped the teabag. “We had lunch, that’s it. There was no ‘date’ about it. We didn’t even plan to meet there. I went and he happened to be sitting there, so I joined him.”

  “Didn’t he pay? Dick said Fergal paid.”

  I wondered if pouring the scalding hot tea on myself would get me out of the conversation. “Yes, he paid, but just as a welcome to Ireland thing, he said.” Judging by her expression, Aunt Gwendolyn wasn’t buying it. “Come on! I think I would know if I was on a date!”

  “Didn’t he buy you that book on Dublin?”

  I opened my mouth to retort and then stopped, realizing I couldn’t really make one, because she was right. I hadn’t even thought about the book when he’d bought my lunch—not that he’d given me much chance to argue with him.

  “Well,” I said, flustered, “I’ll buy him lunch today to make up for it, then.”

  Aunt Gwendolyn’s laugh made me scowl.

  “It wasn’t a date! Today is also not a date.”

  “Your tea is getting cold.”

  I realized that the battle was futile—she would believe what she wanted to believe, no matter what I said. In fact, my protesting probably just sealed the idea for her—the whole “the lady doth protest too much” idea in action. Privately I thought that Shakespeare should stay out of other people’s business.

  We were halfway through the second cup of tea when the loud roar of a vehicle’s engine started in the distance, becoming louder every second.

  “That’ll be Fergal,” Aunt Gwendolyn said, setting her tea down.

  “How do you know?”

  “Fergal has the loudest muffler in the county of Dublin.”

  Sure enough, a few minutes later the noise had grown to a roar and sounded like it was coming from right outside. I craned my neck, trying to see the front door from where I sat at the kitchen island, when the sound died off. The following knock on the door nearly made me fall off the stool.

  “Get yourself together,” Aunt Gwendolyn said with a suppressed laugh. “Go get the door.”

  By the time I crossed the twenty-six steps to the front door, I felt like there was a bird of some sort trapped in my stomach, trying to get out. The bird’s flapping intensified when I opened the door and saw Fergal standing there. His hair looked like he’d rolled out of bed and ignored it, and he had a pair of glasses perched on his nose. Glasses suited him. He wore a shamrock-green polo shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and running shoes.

  His smile was cheerful; I had no doubt that he was a morning person.

  “Good mornin’!”

  “Good morning.” I smiled back somewhat shyly. I’d seen his smile before, and it still struck some sort of chord in me.

  “Are yeh ready to go?”

  I looked around, checking my pockets for my wallet. “I think so, yeah.” I looked at the sky outside. “Do I need to bring an umbrella?”

  “Oi told yeh today would be fine. Don’t worry.” Fergal looked over my shoulder and gave a friendly nod. “Mornin’, Gwendolyn.”

  “Would you like a cuppa, Fergal?”

  “No thank yeh. Oi got a thermos in the truck.”

  “All right, then. You two have fun!”

  I gave Aunt Gwendolyn a quick hug. “Bye, Aunt Gwendolyn.”

  “Oh, Ronan, here’s a key to the house. I don’t know why I forgot to give this to you before now.”

  I followed Fergal towards his vehicle, and I understood the roar. He drove a massive Ford F-250. It looked like it had seen better days, and the entire lower half of it was coated in dirt. The color of the bit I could see was what I think was beige.

  I made my way towards the truck but stopped when I realized Fergal and I were going the same way. I blushed, realizing I’d assumed the truck was opposite but it wasn’t; it was an import. Ducking
my head, I looked at my shoes to hide my blush as I crossed to the proper side of the truck. I pulled the door open and climbed inside. Just when I felt like I’d recovered from the embarrassment of the wrong side debacle, I nearly fell out of the truck trying to pull the door shut. By the time I had the door closed and my seatbelt on, my face felt like it was on fire.

  Fergal either didn’t notice or was polite enough not to comment.

  “Fergal Walsh,” Aunt Gwendolyn called as Fergal turned the key and the truck came to life with a deep, rumbling roar. “You drive careful, now! That’s my nephew there with you.”

  Fergal nodded, his face solemn. “Oi understand. Ronan will come back in the same condition ’e’s in now. Yeh have my word on the honor of the Walsh clan.” He turned to me, the solemnity breaking into a big, sunny smile that could have pierced the gray clouds above and taught the sun a thing or two about shining. “Ready?”

  I couldn’t help but return the smile, the bird in my stomach settling down a bit. “Ready.”

  And we were off down the bumpy road to Dublin.

  Caibidil 10

  THE ROAR of the engine was not as loud from inside the truck as I thought it would be. It quickly faded from my attention, becoming no more than background noise. I was extremely aware of Fergal’s presence just a few feet away from me. With every passing mile—kilometer?—I felt the awkwardness building.

  I kept my eyes focused on the dashboard in front of me as we drove, anything to not draw attention to myself. Stupid Hannah and Aunt Gwendolyn, I thought darkly. If they hadn’t said anything about this being a date, I wouldn’t feel so damn awkward.

  “Ronan?”

  I shook myself from the reverie and looked at Fergal, who had an expectant look on his face. “Huh?”

  “Oi said, yeh didn’t ’appen to eat breakfast, did yeh?”

  “Breakfast? Oh, uh, no, not yet.” I cringed inwardly at how ridiculous I sounded. Fergal was going to think I was a moron. “I wasn’t hungry at Aunt Gwendolyn’s.”

  “Good. Oi thought we could go to this great breakfast place called Kilkenny’s. Yeh ever had a traditional Irish breakfast?”

  “I don’t think I have, actually. Sounds good.” Interesting how he mentioned breakfast and I was suddenly hungry again. The mystery of the human body.

  We didn’t talk much on the drive, but the silence was no longer awkward. I took the time to get a good look in the daytime at the places we’d driven by the night I arrived. When we reached Ballymore Eustace, I took in the charming village, a place that spoke of history, of lives lived, of times endured.

  A feeling of awe tightened in my chest.

  “Was there any place yeh were ’opin’ to go today, or do yeh just want the five-pence tour?”

  “I definitely want to see St. Patrick’s. After that, I hadn’t really come up with anything.”

  Fergal smiled. “Good.”

  That response got me interested. “Good? Why good?”

  “Oi thought of a few places yeh might be interested in, is all. Since yeh don’t have any real plans, yeh can be at my mercy.”

  “So where are you taking me?”

  “Oi told yeh, to Kilkenny’s. Do all Americans ’ave such short memories?”

  I smacked his arm. “After that.”

  “Now that Oi won’t say till we get there.”

  Over the remainder of the drive, I tried to get him to tell me, but he was tight-lipped about it. Every attempt I made only caused him to smile. That was partly why I kept doing it even after it became clear that he wasn’t going to tell me—that, and it was fun to bug him.

  He pulled the truck into a parking lot. “We’re about a block away from Kilkenny’s,” he said as he killed the engine. “We’ll walk from here.”

  About half a block away, I was hit by the smell of breakfast. By the time we reached the restaurant, my stomach was rumbling loudly and I was ready to eat. I paused when I saw all the people waiting outside and got a little nervous. “Are we going to be able to eat any time soon?”

  Fergal placed his hand comfortingly on my shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t yeh worry. Oi made reservations.” He didn’t remove his hand as we walked to the entrance, the weight of it sending heat radiating through my body in waves.

  The hostess at the door led us to a table, and a pretty redheaded waitress joined us moments later.

  “The traditional breakfast, please, fer both of us.”

  “Eh, does that traditional breakfast have kippers?” I asked hesitantly. “Because if so, I don’t want them.”

  “No kippers,” she assured me with a smile. “The big breakfast for two?”

  I looked at Fergal for a moment, who gave a nod. “Sounds good to me. And can I have a Coca-Cola?”

  “Milk tea, fer me, please.”

  The waitress wrote it all down and walked away.

  “Cola in the mornin’? Really?”

  I shrugged. “I need caffeine, and I hate coffee. Now, are you going to tell me what this big breakfast is comprised of, or do you expect me to wait until they bring it out?”

  “Yeh can wait.” Fergal grinned broadly. “What is it yeh do in America, Ronan?”

  I sighed, sitting back in my chair. “Is it twenty questions time? Okay, fine. I worked in a bar.”

  “So yeh like bartendin’?”

  “Not at all,” I confessed. “I actually hated it. It was just… just a way to make money, I guess. What I really wanted to do was be a teacher.”

  “Why didn’t yeh?”

  I shrugged, drumming the fingers of my right hand on the table next to my napkin. “I didn’t major in the education field, so my ability to get a job would be limited. I decided to get my Master’s in Education once I finished undergrad. By the time I finished, though, I was so burned out. I didn’t even want to think about school again, so I took a break. It was meant to be temporary, but then my mom got sick, and, well, I never found the time to get back to it.”

  At the mention of my mother, Fergal’s face fell a bit. “Oi’m sorry about yer mum.”

  “Thanks,” I said softly. I regretted bringing her up and lowering the mood, but she was an important element of my life, and I couldn’t think about the future without thinking about the past and the impact her illness and death had had—and would continue to have, probably until my own death.

  “Do yeh think yeh’ll go back to school—eventually, Oi mean?”

  I propped my elbows on the table, hands clenched in front of my chin. He’d asked me a question that I had been too afraid to ask myself up until that moment. Lawyers had a thing, I heard on television once: never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. That used to be my philosophy, too, but now I was in uncharted territory; there were only questions with answers I didn’t know.

  “I still want to, yes. I mean, I can’t put my whole life on hold forever.” As appealing as that idea was.

  “Trinity College has an incredible education program,” Fergal commented casually, and I didn’t know if he was making a hint of some sort.

  Before I could inquire a bit more, the waitress returned, followed by a food runner. I quickly realized why it took two people. They each carried one massive plate. I couldn’t see the porcelain through the food. A rasher of bacon, a massive fried egg, baked beans, pork sausage, and two separate cake-like lumps, one black and one a grayish white.

  “What are these?” I pointed to the two items with my fork as the plates were placed in front of us.

  “That one,” Fergal said, pointing to the black mass, “is black pudding. Blood sausage. The other one is white pudding. Sausage, fat, and oatmeal mixed together, but no blood.”

  “Well… that’s good.” I poked the black pudding dubiously with my fork.

  “Oh, just give it a try. It’s good, Oi promise.” Fergal forked off a big chunk of black pudding and popped it into his mouth to demonstrate.

  I took a tentative bite and found it wasn’t awful. It was salty, and after the second bite, I d
ecided I liked it.

  Conversation died down between us as we began to eat in earnest. Even if I wanted to make conversation, Fergal didn’t pause long enough to take a breath once he picked up his fork. I actually stared at him, surprised at just how quickly he made his way through the massive plate.

  He noticed my staring at one point and took a break from shoveling baked beans into his mouth. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly, forcing my eyes to my fried egg. I really needed to get a grip and stop making myself look like an idiot in front of him. I didn’t glance up until I was sure he was back to eating, and even then I only gave him the quickest glimpses.

  “That was delicious!” Fergal sat back with a contented sigh, patting his stomach.

  I couldn’t believe he was already finished—I still had half a plate of food in front of me! “Did anyone ever tell you you shouldn’t eat so fast?”

  “Every day of my life since Oi was seven,” he replied cheerfully. “Oi can’t ’elp Oi’m a fast eater.”

  “A very fast eater.” I picked up my pace a little bit, but it still took me another fifteen minutes to finish. “You were right,” I said when I was finally through. “This was excellent. And I’m really glad I didn’t eat breakfast at Aunt Gwendolyn’s.”

  Fergal looked really pleased at my words. “Oi’m glad yeh liked it. Oi ’ope yeh like the next stop too.”

  He reached for the check, which had been surreptitiously placed on the table when the massive plates of food had been brought, but I snatched it away quickly.

  “No, you’re not paying. I’m paying. This is in return for you buying me lunch the other day.”

  “That was just pub food,” Fergal protested. “This place isn’t cheap!”

  “I don’t care. I’m paying.” I flashed my Visa card. “Expensive places are what credit cards are made for.” I gave him my most determined look, and he nodded in concession gesturing for me to go ahead. I flagged down the waitress and handed her my card along with the check.