The Pub Across the Pond (31 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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“Keep going,” Carlene said. “One two, one two.” The authority in her voice surprised even herself. But suddenly, their questions came faster than their jabs.
“You're married?”
“To an Irishman?”
“A boxer?”
“Does Ronan McBride know this?”
“Does Sally Collins know this?”
“Where is he?”
“Does he know you're here?” Carlene wished she had a whistle to blow.
“I'm not married anymore,” Carlene said. “I found out he was marrying me just for a green card. He disappeared soon after the ceremony. When I tried to get a divorce, I found out the minister who married us in Vegas wasn't even really ordained. So I was never really married, you see. Not that he knows it. I haven't heard from him since. I guess he'll find out when he goes to apply for his green card. Now. Move. Move, move, move.” Slowly, they started moving again. Jabbing, jumping, kicking.
“Is she taking the piss?” Carlene heard one woman ask the other.
“No talking,” Carlene said. For the next half hour, she killed them with aerobics.
 
They stayed for a spot of lunch. It was their idea. They offered not only to buy the sandwiches, but to prepare them as well. They popped into Joe's and came back with their arms full of food. Carlene supplied the drinks. At first, they gossiped amongst themselves while Carlene happily ate her sandwich. Then the conversation slowly turned back to Brendan. They were really interested in her now, and not just the fake polite interest. They told her how they don't believe in divorce in Ireland, it's not like America where everybody gets divorced. Carlene assured them once again that she was never really married, and she tried to get their minds off it by asking the married ones to share their secret to a lasting relationship. The woman who'd been married the longest said, “We don't see each other and we don't talk to each other. That's the secret.”
The conversation moved on, and Carlene loved listening to their gossip.
“Did you hear about Maggie Mahoney?”
“Ah, right, dreadful.”
“Who's Maggie?” Carlene asked. They filled her in. She lived in the next town. She was a young widow, who after five years of being alone had just started dating again. An older gentleman. One by one, the women added to the story.
“Old enough to be her grandfather, so.”
“They were going at it day and night, bouncing off the headboards.” The story halted as a few titters and giggles escaped the crowd. Hands were put shyly over mouths, heads shook, laughter spilled forth.
“Ah, dreadful.” They must have noticed the lost expression on Carlene's face. The woman sitting nearest Carlene leaned in.
“He had a heart attack, you see.”
“Oh no,” Carlene said.
“While they were bouncing off the headboards,” another clarified. Carlene put her hand over her mouth, shook her head.
“When she was coming, he was going,” the oldest in the crowd blurted out. The women rocked with laughter, then crossed themselves.
“May he rest in peace.”
“She got her piece, now he's getting his.” The laughter started all over again. They crossed themselves again.
“Ah, dreadful.”
“That poor woman. We'll have to take her a stew.”
“Ah, go on, tell us more about Brendan,” one woman said. “Were you married in America?” They were all watching her, waiting. This was what it would take to fit in—a little soul baring. Trust was built on confiding in others, owning up to your mistakes. And, if nothing else, Carlene's wedding had been amusing.
“Okay,” Carlene said. “I'll tell you about my wedding day.”
C
HAPTER
37
Las Vegas, Nevada
Are You Lonesome Tonight?
Carlene stood in front of the ordained minister who had the power invested in him by the Universal Church Online and tried to avert her gaze from his hill of a stomach. It strained against his creased forest-green dress shirt. He was milliseconds away from popping a button. Carlene wanted to stop the proceedings. Didn't their ceremony deserve the respect of a fresh, pressed shirt? Surely Brendan noticed. Why didn't he say something? Did the minister's wrinkly green hill of a stomach remind Brendan of the rolling hills of Ireland?
And was that really a white carnation attached to his baby blue blazer with a safety pin? It was a big pin too, as if made to fasten a giant diaper. Great, now she was thinking of diapers at her wedding. That couldn't be good. Besides which, everybody knew carnations were white trash flowers. She wanted to reach out and rip the carnation off his chest. Brendan was the fighter. Brendan should be livid. Brendan should be crouching ready to deliver the one-two punch!
Carlene dug the nail of her ring finger into her soft palm. If she pressed hard enough, could she make her love line bleed? She tried, but there wasn't any blood, only a short, sharp pain. She glanced at Brendan, so tall beside her, so handsome in his tux. She ignored the part of her that wanted to punch him in the stomach as well. “You clean up nice,” she leaned over and whispered. Whenever she had a bad thought, like wanting to punch someone in the gut, she would immediately follow it up with something positive. If she thought the bad thought silently, but said the good thought out loud, then that was the one that would count in the end. Wasn't it?
Brendan's lips stretched a tiny fraction, as if it was the best he could muster, as if it hurt to smile. He swallowed hard. His chin shook and his Adam's apple jerked. His nervousness startled her. Did he want to call the whole deal off? She hated this, standing next to each other all stiff and made up. She was used to seeing him with boxing gloves, a mouth guard, and green silk shorts. Maybe that's the way they should keep it. Half-naked and from afar.
One the other hand, it was nice to see Brendan's face free of sweat and blood. She liked the slant of his jaw, his heart-shaped chin. His was a strong, handsome face with full lips and prominent cheekbones. His blond hair was cut short and a patch of freckles paraded up his neck. Only his hands showed the toll his five years of professional boxing had taken on him; knuckles so swollen they couldn't find a ring big enough to fit. Being a lefty, he'd broken the bones in his left hand fifteen times, compared to only six on the right. His nose wasn't the prettiest sight either, but its slight bump gave him character. He was wearing way too much cologne, though, a mix of musk and peppermint. Carlene suddenly wished she had a mint, anything to rid herself of the taste of cheap tequila on the back of her tongue. If she wasn't careful, she was going to cry.
Carlene sniffed and held her head up like she'd seen Brendan do after countless fights. This was her wedding, she had better start enjoying it. Focus on the positive. She loved her shiny gold dress, long and low cut. It clung to her ample breasts. She had a nice rack. She looked down at her nipples. It was chilly in the chapel. Her long blond hair hung in ringlets past her shoulders, a thousand spiral staircases stepping away from her head. They felt a little too tight, and she still had a headache from the hairspray fumes. Brendan paid for the stylist. Her name was Sue and she told Carlene she was going to get the fuck out of Vegas the minute she hit the super slots. Carlene, who worked hard for every dime she ever made, could never understand those who were so willing to just throw it away.
On the other hand, she was taking quite a gamble marrying Brendan, wasn't she?
Carlene's lips were so glossed she had to keep them slightly open. She hated the gummy feel when they touched. Her eyelashes were curled to the ceiling and caked with so much mascara she was afraid to blink. The straps on her gold stiletto sandals dug into her polished toes. At least she would look good in her wedding photo. The photographer, all dressed in black, paced the back of the room. He doubled as a dealer, and warned them his shift was starting. He told them he only took pictures after the ceremony, when it was too late to turn back, like the kind captured at the apex of a roller coaster, preserving the terrifying moment before everything plunged straight downhill.
In her hands, Carlene held a single white rose. She wanted a hundred, an armful. When Brendan handed it to her, she should have insisted on more. She didn't like the cardboard Elvis cutout front and center either. He towered over them in a white suit sparkling with sequins. His right arm extended out, and his finger pointed at her like he was going to recruit her into the army right after the ceremony. Next to the minister was a four-foot pedestal topped with a vase of blue plastic flowers. They looked like they belonged at funeral for a giant Barbie doll. Carlene had just turned twenty-seven. This wasn't the wedding she dreamed of as a little girl.
Had she been in charge of the planning, she would have done things differently. They could have gotten married next to the Sphinx, or in the Eiffel Tower, or in front of the fountains at the Bellagio. Why couldn't he have put more than a good laugh, a couple of margaritas, and a run to the Elvis Chapel into it? And what was wrong with her? She hadn't even said “I do” and she could already feel herself morphing into a nagging, neglected wife.
“Do you take this woman to—” The minister started to cough. Brendan looked at Carlene and crossed his eyes. Good old Brendan. That's why she was doing this, because he was wonderful and made her laugh, because she loved him. That was something, wasn't it? Carlene turned her head slightly and covered her mouth, so the minister wouldn't see her laughing at him. He was still coughing, a smoker's cough, filled with phlegm, and his jowls bounced up and down from the force. Carlene opened her mouth in a pretend yawn, anything to stop the laughter roiling inside her, busting to get out. Just then, the minister's offending button popped free from his straining stomach and shot into the air. It landed smack on the center of Carlene's tongue.
“Jaysus,” Brendan said. “That's some balls.” His hands flew up to his head. Carlene opened her mouth as wide as she could, terrified she was going to swallow the button and choke to death. Would Brendan get to stay in the country if she died now? No, because they hadn't even said “I do.” But if they had and she died—
The air conditioner rattled and then groaned to a stop. Heat descended like a swarm of locusts. The minister yanked a wrinkled blue tissue out of his blue suit and held it out to Carlene like a consolation prize. Who the fuck wears a dark green shirt with a baby blue blazer? Carlene spat the button at the Elvis cutout. It stuck just beneath his nose.
“Good shot,” Brendan said. He grabbed her hands and pulled her toward him. His grip was strong, decisive.
“I do,” he said. He took the platinum wedding band they had purchased ten minutes earlier from Discount Diamonds out of his pocket and slipped it on her finger. Carlene stared at it. It did not come with any diamonds. The minister looked at Carlene. Brendan squeezed her hand. “Your turn,” Brendan said.
“Oh,” Carlene said. “Me too.” She tried to slip Brendan's ring on his finger, but she couldn't get it past his knuckle.
“Good enough,” Brendan said. He pulled his hand away. The minister pronounced them husband and wife, picked up a remote control from the podium, and pointed it at gigantic speakers suspended from the ceiling by frayed bungee cords. They crackled to life and Elvis's booming voice filled the tiny chapel.
Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Brendan gave her a small kiss. His lips were chapped, and her excessive gloss helped to coat them. That's good deed number two I've done today, Carlene thought.
Honey, you lied when you said you loved me,
Elvis crooned. Carlene turned to have her wedding picture taken, but the wedding photographer slash blackjack dealer was gone. Carlene painfully stepped to the pew where she set down her purse. Her heels were killing her. How could something so beautiful cause so much pain?
She dug her iPhone out of her purse and clicked on the camera application. Just married a guy you barely know so he can stay in the country? There's an app for that.... She held the phone at arm's length and snapped her own picture.
I'm Mrs. Brendan Hayes,
she thought.
That's some balls
.
They hit a bar and drank. She knew Brendan could drink, but the amount he consumed that night should have been lethal. He was too drunk to make love, and he passed out in their heart-shaped bed. Carlene stared at the ceiling and knew she had made a mistake. It was almost a relief when she woke up and he was gone. She never saw him again. A month later she received a letter from the Elvis Chapel with their sincere apologies, but anyone who had been married by Minister Harrison was not legally married. Turned out his online license had expired. The chapel offered to cover all expenses to Vegas for a replacement wedding. A replacement groom they couldn't come up with. It was strange; Brendan was out there somewhere, thinking he had a wife. He'd find out, she guessed, if he ever tried to put the paperwork through for citizenship.
 
Ballybeog, Ireland
When Carlene was finished with her story, the women all rallied around her, asking her a million questions. Had she Googled him? Did he come back to Ireland? What county was he from? Was she still heartbroken? No, she told them, she was totally over Brendan Hayes. It was the truth, and it felt good to say it. If only she wasn't in love with Ronan—only then could she say she'd truly learned her lesson. She'd been so harsh on him the other day, but he was right, she was just as messed up as he was—different mistakes, same flawed human being. She didn't mention Ronan or any more of her flaws to the women. One secret at a time, she thought—otherwise there would be nothing left for tomorrow's class.

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