Afraid of Her Shadow

by Carol Maloney Scott

  “I am the queen of denial. Not the Nile.” Gina rolls her eyes, and I carry on. “Okay. I know that isn’t funny. I don’t have ‘marvelous’ humor.” I do the air quotes, even though I usually want to punch people who do the air quotes.

  I shift again, trying to sit without touching the chair. “The truth is that I avoided the house, and all of its contents and meaning, and…he let me. He has allowed this to go on just as much as I have. He is so damn easy going and accommodating that he has avoided real life, too.”

  “Did you ever think that’s why he hasn’t cleaned out the house? He’s just lazy and waiting for you or someone to push him?”

  When I pause too long to consider this, she continues. “If he isn’t a proactive guy to begin with and you are ‘Miss Hide from the Big Bad Ghost,’ who is going to address any change? It has taken a dog, for God’s sake, just to put you both in the hot seat where you finally have to do something.” This speech has caused Gina’s Italian hands to flail about, emphasizing my grim reality.

  “It pains me to say this, especially after you almost killed me, but I think you may have something there.” I finish my shake and look around for the trash can. “But now we can’t hide from it and I really like hiding. And so does Steve.”

  Gina gets up, and I pull myself up, now with muscle soreness added to my list of mobility issues. I follow her to the trash can, and we dump our cups and head back to the locker room to grab our bags. Gina checks me out and says good night to the front desk attendant.

  In the parking lot I thank Gina, even though she tormented me tonight with a mental and physical workout.

  “Hey, what are friends for?” She opens her car door and tosses her bag in the backseat. Leaning on her cute, orange Mini-Cooper convertible, she taunts me one last time. “I did hand you your ass tonight.” She laughs and makes a pity face right away.

  “Whatever.” I get in my car, with old lady speed, and ponder out loud. “I don’t understand that saying. It is such a violent reference. To hand me my ass, you would have to remove my ass, like cutting out my heart. It’s like a ‘Game of Thrones’ or ‘Vikings’ level of violence.”

  She chuckles. “I would think you would like your ass handed to you. That way you could put it in the closet until it returns to normal color.” She ducks, as if I am going to throw something across the parking lot, as we sit in our cars. She has been spending too much time with Claire. That’s her crazy habit.

  “Hey, I’m not Bridezilla.” We both laugh and then I sigh deeply. “Good night, Gina. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, Kiddo. Go home and see if you can figure out how to sleep on your…never mind. Take two Advil and I’ll see you at the office.” She waves and drives off.

  I start my car and fasten my seatbelt. I didn’t even ask her about Tony. I am a bad friend. I used to get secretly angry at Claire last year for monopolizing every conversation with her troubles, but now I’m doing the same thing.

  I may not be a Bridezilla, but I am some sort of Zilla.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I gaze at the smokers on my way into the parking lot of The Wild Banshee, Steve’s neighborhood Irish pub hangout. The façade features a big sign with a picture of a banshee from Irish folklore, which resembles a cross between a witch and a fairy.

  There is always a sizable group assembled on the sidewalk, now that Virginia has anti-smoking laws. I can’t comprehend how anyone continues to smoke. You can’t smoke and expect everything will be alright. I feel like I am witnessing an emergency every time I set eyes upon this gaggle of buddies, just puffing away and oblivious to their impending doom. Every time I do venture back here I hope I am not going to hear that one of them has been taken out by their bad habit. However, I do mind my own business and thank God Steve isn’t among them.

  Steve comes here most Wednesday nights to participate in the weekly trivia game with his friends, play darts and have a beer or two. I used to join him occasionally, but I stopped when it became increasingly difficult to make excuses about not going back to Steve’s place, since it’s right around the corner. Now, of course, I am embracing Steve’s home and all of his…what the fuck is he doing SMOKING? I shut my eyes tightly and open them quickly, hoping to erase the image, which is now burned into my retinas, of the man I love with a LIT cigarette in his hand.

  Despite my policy of not making a scene in public, I walk up to him and blurt out, “Are you kidding me?”

  He turns around with a slight look of panic, both at being caught, and having at least six or seven of the bar’s loyal regulars, some of them much older men, witness his scolding.

  “Oh, if it isn’t the lovely Rebecca.” The older man walks over and reaches out to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He leans in and whispers too loudly out of the side of his mouth. “I don’t think he was expecting a visit from the missus tonight.” Of course the others hear him and they all dissolve into a fit of laughter, as if they were bad little boys on the playground.

  “Hello, Jack. It’s nice to see you, too.” I genuinely mean this. Jack’s in his mid-sixties and has been coming to this bar for many years. Steve has shared with me how supportive Jack was when Noreen died, as were many of the bar’s patrons. It isn’t their fault that Steve is indulging in this jackass behavior. I turn to the others and greet them by name. Nate also gives me a kiss on the cheek and a little squeeze.

  “Rebecca, your car was making a bit of noise on the way in. You may want to bring it into the shop. Sounds like the carburetor.” Nate nods his head and makes sure his serious expression emphasizes the severity of the situation.

  “No, that’s not a carburetor problem, you knucklehead. It’s definitely the spark plugs.” Ted is now engaged with Nate in the mysteries of my car’s issues, and since they’re Irish brothers, this could turn into a brawl.

  I don’t tell them that I had the car at the dealership a couple of weeks ago and it is absolutely fine. “Thanks, guys. I’ll be sure to get it checked out.” Everyone is silent and smiling, waiting for me to address Steve, who still hasn’t made a peep. Maybe he thinks if he’s really quiet and still, I’ll forget he’s here and go inside.

  Actually, that’s a good idea. We’ll talk about this at home. I mean, his house.

  Steve faces me and puts out the cigarette. “Love, you know I don’t smoke.” He reacts to my widening eyeballs and steps back a bit. “Well, I mean obviously I was just smoking…” Now I am nodding in agreement with even wider eyeballs, “…but I just bum a cigarette off one of these jokers every once in a while. It’s a very old habit, but I never smoke anywhere else. I swear.” He looks at his partners in crime and most of them start to nod and mumble their corroboration. They would do this even if he smoked a pack of cigarettes every night he came here, along with a rock of crack with a hooker.

  I kind of feel bad that he is making this pleading declaration in front of all of these men, many who are either unattached or have wives who are home knitting. Or sitting at the bar belting them down and cackling with their friends, which sounds like a damn good idea.

  I manage a small smile to let him off the hook before he loses his man card, and gets sent to a more modern and less masculine hangout. “Okay, Honey. I’m going inside to see the girls. Is Brian working tonight?”

  “Oh, she got you there, Mate. She’s going to check out the fine young man behind the bar. Now that you’ve disgusted her with your nasty habit.” Hooting and chuckling away, Jack and his crew are clearly enjoying watching Steve squirm, but it’s all in fun. If I was seriously pissed I would leave, or at the very least I wouldn’t have said a word. I do HATE smoking, but we have bigger problems.

  I beam at all of them and kiss Steve on the cheek, handing him some gum. As I walk into the bar I hear them all laughing and slapping Steve’s back, telling him he isn’t going to get any action tonight if he smells like smoke.

  I survey the room and see the groups of people ready for trivia night. All ages, and about an equal number of
men and women. The dark wood tables are polished and shiny, and the old bar is lit up, adorned with every Irish saying known to man and leprechaun, as well as pictures of all the bar’s deceased patrons and employees. Really it’s just like being at Steve’s house without the beads or the dog. Also no bugs. At least I hope so since they serve food.

  At the bar I spot a couple of the ladies who frequent trivia night. There’s Bernadette, who is married to Nate. She’s deep in conversation with Eileen, who is her best friend and dates Bill, who is nursing a dark ale while glued to the baseball game on the big screen TV. Bill is absent from the smokers’ circle because he is apparently recovering from his latest heart attack. Steve did know the missus was coming tonight, and filled me in on some of the latest pub news.

  A couple of the other women I don’t know as well, but obviously remember me, stop me and say hello, telling me I look pretty.

  From the bar I hear, “That’s right, she looks almost like the banshee herself with that black hair and white skin. And those eyes…” Beaming at me with perfect white teeth cradled in a strong, beautiful jaw, is Brian, the hottest bartender in Richmond. Well, I haven’t seen all of them, but I don’t see how they could be any better looking. He has classic Irish good looks, with broad shoulders and a chiseled face. His black hair is combed straight back, and his clear pale blue eyes bring new meaning to the song about the smiling Irish eyes.

  I feel my cheeks getting warm and set my purse down on the bar. “Hi, Brian. You’re so silly, and I can’t believe you let Steve go out there to smoke with all those old codgers.”

  Before he can respond, Bernadette and Eileen chime in. “Hey,” Eileen says, “Our men aren’t that much older than Steve. He’s just better preserved.” They both howl in laughter and clink their beer glasses. They earn an unamused glare and a head shake from Bill, who apparently wasn’t as engrossed in the game as we thought.

  I start to explain myself and they both grab me for a group hug. I extricate myself from their enthusiasm and motion to Brian for help. Plus I just like looking at him. In some ways he’s better looking than Luke, but I could be Brian’s mother. I wonder if he likes older women, though. I am thinking of Violet, not me!

  “Brian, can I get a hard cider, please?” I ogle him with my mouth shut so no drool escapes.

  “Coming right up.”

  “Well, look who it is? Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Brian’s Aunt Irene is co-owner of the bar, with her husband, Tommy.

  “Hi, Irene. It’s good to see you, too.” She reaches across the bar and squeezes my hand with her well-worn fingers, dry and callused with hard work.

  She starts telling me a story about Brian and the girl he was dating, and then she leans in to cover her mouth, telling me she was a tramp. I am nodding and following as best I can, but she abruptly shuts up when Brian brings my hard cider.

  “Are you telling his fine lady a bunch of crap about me, Aunt Irene?” He regards her in an accusatory manner, but with a playful undertone and a grin.

  While they begin their sparring and banter, I notice Steve and the smokers have finally come back inside. Steve is still nursing his beer, and I love looking at him. I was angry about the cigarette, but it’s hard to stay mad at him. He is engaged in animated conversation with Nate and Ted, and he looks so cute when he adjusts the bridge of his glasses, pushing them closer to his face. Nate just made a joke and Steve is cracking up, displaying the crinkles at his eyes, peeking out from under the rims of his glasses.

  I turn back to the bar and catch Irene staring at me. “My nephew here may be the hottest guy in this place, but he’s still wet behind the ears.” She tries to mess up Brian’s hair as he walks past her behind the bar, but he ducks and she isn’t tall enough to reach his head anyway.

  She continues grabbing empty glasses and wiping the bar with a rag. “Now that man of yours is a fine looking specimen. And a real man, not a little pretty boy. Am I right?”

  “Oh, yes. Absolutely.” I pause and look over at Steve, who is secure enough in his man card status to blow me a kiss in front of his drinking buddies. I turn back to Irene and say, “I’m very happy. And lucky.” I gaze into my hard cider as if it holds the answer to my happiness. Am I lying? I am happy most of the time. This is just a rough patch. Things will get better and soon he will take down all of the memories…

  My thoughts are interrupted by Jack, who sits down on a barstool. “You know, Rebecca, he was a mess before you came along. He got better over time, but when it first happened…” He shakes his head and makes a low whistling noise to indicate how bad it was. “The good Lord does heal all wounds with time, but he’s better now because of you.” He raises his glass to mine and we softly clink them together.

  “I don’t know, is that really true? I’m not sure he has moved on, Jack. His house is still full of her things.” I shouldn’t share Steve’s business, but it weighs so heavily on my mind. I keep hoping eventually someone’s words of wisdom will provide comfort.

  “Those are just things, Darlin’. What matters is the heart.” He pats his own for emphasis. “He adores you, I can see it in his eyes. Believe an old man.”

  “Thanks, Jack. I hope you’re right.” I look up into his eyes and softly ask, “What was she like?”

  Before Jack can answer we hear behind us, “What’s Jack right about? I don’t recall him being right since 1975.” The men have joined us at the bar, and Brian begins filling new drink orders.

  In the midst of all the laughing and back slapping, Steve leans in to kiss me. “Are you having fun?” he whispers in my ear, which tickles. “We can have a lot more fun later.” More loudly he broadcasts, “Do we have any time for a game of darts before trivia starts?” He is addressing the men, but also looks at me hopefully. I hate when he does that. I never want to be one of those women who keeps a man from having fun.

  “Go ahead, silly. I am enjoying the company over here.”

  “Yes, we’re having a lovely chat.” Irene comes out from behind the bar and slings the rag over her shoulder. She gets on her tippy toes and squeezes Steve’s face. “Don’t you worry about your woman, we’ll take good care of her.” Still squishing Steve’s face in an awkward way, she says, “Look at him, girls. He’s a good one. This one’s a keeper.”

  She releases his face and he takes a moment to work the kinks out of his jaw, and feels his cheeks for any potential damage. After giving me a quick kiss, he’s off with the men.

  “But this is a fine lass, too. You need to marry this one before she gets away.” She yells after Steve and this wakes Bill out of his sports induced coma again. Apparently he only has a few hot buttons.

  “Marriage is for fools. There’s no reason for it. Don’t do it, Steve. I’ve been paying alimony for twenty years, and don’t even get me started on the lazy, ungrateful kids.”

  Irene smacks him on the back of his neck with the bar rag. “You just keep quiet over there and watch your game. Who’d want to marry the likes of you, anyway?”

  He ignores her and turns back to his game. Bill probably gets smacked a lot.

  I immediately feel a stab of sorrow and embarrassment for Eileen. Even if Steve did feel that way (and maybe he does since he was almost forty when he married Noreen), it would be much worse for him to broadcast it in public. But maybe Eileen isn’t interested in marriage, either. I’ve never been too worried about it, and all of these people would be on their second or third marriages if they took the plunge.

  I join Eileen and Bernadette, who advise me to ignore Bill. Apparently Eileen has no problem doing it, so I shake off his negativity as they welcome me to their conversation.

  All of these people knew Noreen, but they never mention her. Jack’s comments were a rare occurrence. I suppose it is unfair and inconsiderate for me to expect the same from Steve, but at least I can find comfort in this environment. Perhaps if we take down the pictures, the house will be the same—just another place where she spent time.

  “Did you eve
r do that, Rebecca?” Bernadette interrupts my train of thought with laughter. She is rubbing her eyes so Eileen must be saying something funny.

  “I’m sorry, I was daydreaming. Do what?”

  They proceed to recount the tales of Eileen’s early divorce days, when she used a “bar name.”

  “So you didn’t tell men your real name?”

  “No, I was too scared. I was Trudy. Trisha. One time to be more exotic, I was Tatiana.” Eileen giggles and Bernadette starts in again, slapping her leg.

  “Yeah, you really look like a Tatiana with the red hair and freckles.” Bernadette can’t compose herself. I wonder how many beers she’s had. But who cares? Her husband is right over there, throwing darts and providing her with a sense of security and…

  I interrupt my own thoughts and chime in, “You know, I just noticed something. Almost everyone in this bar is Irish.”

  They all burst out laughing. It’s easy to be a comedian in this place.

  Irene points at the name and all the Irish sayings as proof. “This is an authentic Irish pub, as good as it gets this side of the pond. Not like that fancy imposter downtown that all the young folks frequent.” She gives Brian a look when she says “young folks.”

  He sighs. “Aunt Irene, there’s nothing wrong with O’Malley’s. It’s a younger crowd. Do you want hard rock bands playing in here?”

  “Jaysus, no! That noise would wake the spirits of the dead.” She crosses herself and looks up. Maybe Irene should come over and tell me if she feels Noreen’s spirit. These people seem very good at that sort of thing.

  Everyone goes back to their drinks and conversations, and Jack makes the announcement that trivia will soon begin.

  Irene glances over at the dartboard area. The guys are finishing up and getting ready to head back to the bar. She quickly grabs my arm and says, “I know you must worry about that little red-headed one.”

  My stomach churns. This is not the time to have this conversation, but Irene and tact mix like dogs and table manners. I attempt to put together a coherent thought, but she quickly interrupts.