The man came here asking for nothing but green fields and peace. Lena knows there was a time when he considered turning around and walking right back out the door. A part of her wishes, for his sake, that he had done it.
“Shit,” Cal says suddenly, realizing. “The damn pub. Next time I go in there, I’m gonna get roasted harder’n a Thanksgiving turkey. What are you getting me into, woman?”
“Listen to me, you,” Lena tells him severely. “You haven’t a notion of the slaggings I’ve put up with, going out with a blow-in and a Guard, and a beardy one at that. You can take your turn and like it.”
“I already get enough crap for coming over here and taking their women. If I actually get engaged to you, they’ll probably get me blackout drunk on poteen and dump me on your doorstep in a wedding dress.”
“You’ll be only gorgeous,” Lena says. “Don’t let them forget the veil.”
She knows he’s wondering what Trey will make of this. She almost points out that they can tell Trey the real story—God knows the child can keep her mouth shut—but she stops herself. Something is going on between Cal and Trey; things are shifting and fragile. Lena shoving her oar in could easily do more harm than good.
“Come here,” she says, leaning in at the window and holding out her hands to him. “If I was going to get engaged to anyone, I could do a lot worse than you.” When he comes to the window, she gives him a kiss that aims to make him forget everyone else in Ardnakelty, at least for a minute or two.
—
Ardnakelty, as Cal predicted, pounces joyfully on the opportunity to give him copious amounts of shit. Mart shows up on his doorstep right after dinnertime, with his fluff of gray hair slicked down and his donkey hat tilted at a jaunty angle. “Put on your best shirt, bucko,” he orders. “I’ve a pint to buy you.”
“Oh, man,” Cal says sheepishly. “You heard, huh?”
“Course I heard. This requires a celebration.”
“Aw, Mart. Come on. It’s not a big deal. I just figured, we’ve been together long enough that—”
“It’s a big deal whether you like it or not. You’ve got friends around here that wanta congratulate you properly, and we need something to celebrate, after the few weeks we’ve had. We didn’t win the hurling, so the next best thing is young love. You can’t begrudge us that. Go take off that sawdusty aul’ rag and put on something dacent, and we’ll be off.” He flaps his hands at Cal like he’s herding a sheep. “Don’t keep me hanging about. I’ve a mouth on me like Gandhi’s flip-flop.”
Cal yields to the inevitable and heads inside to put on a shirt. He knows that, regardless of engagements, he needs an evening in Seán Óg’s. He needs to find out how Trey’s story has landed, and what ripples it’s sending out.
At least, as it turns out, Mart has restrained himself from extending the festivities to the whole townland. Seán Óg’s alcove is occupied by the guys Cal sees most often, Senan and Bobby and P.J. and Francie—and, ominously, Malachy Dwyer, although Cal is relieved that no poteen bottles are in evidence so far—but the rest of the pub is its usual sparse weekday self. There are four spindly old guys playing cards in a corner, and two more at the bar exchanging the occasional grunt; they glance up and nod when Cal and Mart come in, but none of them show any inclination towards conversation. Rushborough alive brought everyone out to assess and discuss him; Rushborough dead is something to be talked about in private, or not talked about at all.
Cal is greeted with a collective roar—“Here comes the bride!” “Dead man walking!” “Get this fella a pint, Barty, to drown his sorrows!”
“Jeez, guys,” Cal says, embarrassed and sliding into the banquette as fast as he can.
“We’re just pleased to see you,” Bobby explains. “We don’t know when we’ll get another chance, sure.”
“This,” Malachy says, tapping the table, “this is a wake. For your social life, may it rest in peace. Lena won’t let you out on the tear with the likes of us reprobates.”
“She will,” Francie says. “Would you want to look at that big beardy head every evening?”
“I wouldn’t wanta look at it any evening,” Senan says, settling himself better on his banquette to get down to business. “What’s Lena at? I thought that one had some sense.”
“I’d say the sun got to her,” P.J. says. “She’d want to get looked at.”
“Ah, now, love’s a mysterious thing,” Mart says reproachfully. “She sees sides of him that we don’t.”
“Or else she’s up the duff,” Malachy says. “Is she?”
“Lena’s a bit long in the tooth for that,” Senan says. “So’s himself, mind you. Is there any mojo left in the yoyo at this stage, man?”
“Is there what?” Cal says, starting to laugh.
“Any fizz in the firecracker. Any spin on the googlies. Fuck’s sake, man, don’t make me spell it out for you. D’you do the do?”
“He’s no chicken,” Mart agrees, eyeing Cal with interest, “but then again, he’s a Yank. With all the hormones and chemicals they’d eat, they could have mad super-sperm on them. D’you have super-sperm, Sunny Jim?”
“What difference does it make?” Malachy says. “Once he’s married, he won’t be getting the ride anyway. Enjoy it while you can, man.” He tilts his glass at Cal.
“If he can,” Senan points out. “He hasn’t answered me yet.”
“Fuck all y’all,” Cal says, red and grinning. In spite of everything, he can’t help enjoying this.
“And me just after shouting you a pint,” Mart says reproachfully. “There’s gratitude for you. I oughta drink it myself.”
“Tell us, bucko,” Senan says. “Solve the mystery. What the hell were you thinking, at all? The two of ye looked like ye were getting on great guns. Why would you wanta go wrecking a good thing?”
“I’d say he got religion,” Bobby says. “The Yanks are always getting religion. Then they’re not allowed to do the business unless they’re married.”
“Where would he get any religion round here?” Senan demands. “Everyone’s Catholic. You don’t get that; it’s not the fuckin’ chicken pox. You’re either born with it or you’re not.”
“ ’Twasn’t the religion,” Mart says. “ ’Tis the uncertain times that’s done it. Some people get awful edgy about that class of carry-on, and they go looking for something to make them feel settled. Wait and see: there’ll be an epidemic of weddings around here now. Weddings and babas. So watch yourselves.”
The pints arrive, and the guys toast Cal’s marriage loudly enough to draw a few ragged cheers from the main bar. “Many happy years to you,” Francie tells him, wiping foam off his lip. “And may there be never a cross word between you.” Francie missed out on the woman he loved, decades ago, and is easily moved by romance of any kind.
“While we’re at it,” Mart says, raising his pint again, “here’s to us. You’re stuck with us now, Sunny Jim. I wouldn’t say that occurred to you, before you went down on one knee. Didja go down on one knee?”
“Sure,” Cal says. “When I do a thing, I do it right.”
“Good thinking,” Malachy says. “Get the job done before the aul’ joints give out and she has to help you back up again.”
“Till death do us part,” Mart says, clinking his glass against Cal’s. “You’re going nowhere now.”
“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere anyway,” Cal says.
“I know that. But you coulda, if you’d wanted to. You were a free agent. We’re on different terms now, psychologically speaking.”
“We’ve the divorce, these days,” Senan says. “If he has enough of our bolloxology, he can divorce Lena and the lot of us, and ride off into the sunset.”
“Ah, no,” Mart says, smiling, his eyes resting thoughtfully on Cal’s face. “I wouldn’t say Sunny Jim here is the divorcing type. Once he’s given his word, he’d stand by it, come hell or high water.”