Part 15 (2/2)
”Of course. I truly am glad to see you, Harry. And I'm very curious about what you're doing. But I'm leaving for Charlotte on Monday.” I rummaged in the back pocket of my purse for the emergency keys I keep there, and handed them to her. ”You're more than welcome to stay as long as you need the place.”
”No wild parties,” she said, leaning forward and pointing a stern finger at me. ”I have a lady watching the house.”
”Yes, Mom,” I answered. The fict.i.tious house watcher was perhaps our oldest family joke.
She gave me a brilliant Harry smile and slid the keys into her jeans pocket.
”Thanks. Now, enough about me, let me tell you what Kit's up to.”
For the next half-hour we talked about my nephew's latest scheme. Christopher ”Kit” Howard had resulted from her second marriage. He'd just turned eighteen, and come into a sizable sum of money from his father. Kit had bought, and was renovating, a forty-eight-foot sailboat. Harry was unsure as to why.
”Tell me again how Howie got his name?” I knew the story, but loved to hear her tell it.
”Howie's mama took off right after he was born, and his daddy had left well before then. She left Howie on the steps of an orphanage in Basic, Texas, with a note pinned to his blanket. It said she'd be back, and that the baby's name was Howard. The folks at the orphanage weren't sure if Mama meant his first name or his family name, so they took no chances. They baptized him Howard Howard.”
”What's Howie doing now?”
”Still bringing in gushers and chasing every skirt in West Texas. But he's generous to me and Kit.”
When we'd finished, the waiter cleared the dishes and I ordered coffee. Harry pa.s.sed, because stimulants interfered with her purification process.
We sat in silence awhile, then, ”So where's this cowboy want you to meet him?”
I stopped stirring, and my mind scanned for a connection. Cowboy?
”The cop with the great a.s.s.”
”Ryan. He's going to a place called Hurley's. Today is St. Pat-”
”h.e.l.l, yes.” Her face went serious. ”I feel we owe it to our heri-tage to join in the recognition of a truly great patron saint, in whatever small way we can.”
”Harry, I've had a long-”
”Tempe, but for St. Pat snakes would have eaten our ancestors and we would never have been.”
”I'm not suggesting-”
”And right now, at a time when the Irish people are in such turmoil-”
”That's not the point and you know it.”
”How far is Hurley's from here?”
”A few blocks.”
”No-brainer.” She spread her hands, palms up. ”We go over, we listen to a few songs, we leave. We're not committing to a night at the opera.”
”I've heard that before.”
”No. I promise. As soon as you're ready, we're outta there. Hey, I've got an early morning, too.”
That argument did not impress me. Harry is one of those people who can go days with no sleep.
”Tempe. You've got to make some effort at a social life.”
That argument did.
”All right. But-”
”Hee. Haw. May the saints preserve ye, ye rascal.”
As she waved for the check, I was already feeling the knot below my sternum. There was a time I loved Irish pubs. Pubs of any kind. I didn't want to open that sc.r.a.pbook, and had no intention of making new entries.
Lighten up, Brennan. What are you afraid of? You've been to Hurley's and you didn't drown yourself in beer. True. So why the trepidation?
Harry chatted amiably as we walked back up Ste-Catherine to Crescent. At nine-thirty the sidewalk crowd was already thick, the couples and cruisers mingling with the last of the shoppers and sightseers. Everyone wore heavy coats with hats and m.u.f.flers. People looked thick and bulky, like shrubbery wrapped and tied for winter.
The portion of Crescent above Ste-Catherine is the Anglo ”Street of Dreams,” lined on both sides with singles bars and trendy restaurants. The Hard Rock Cafe. Thursdays. Sir Winston Churchill's. In summer, the balconies are filled with spectators sipping drinks and watching the dance of romance below. In winter, the action moves inside.
Few but the Hurley's regulars frequent Crescent below Ste-Catherine. Except on St. Patrick's Day. When we arrived, the line from the entrance stretched up the steps and halfway to the corner.
”Oh h.e.l.l, Harry. I don't want to stand out here freezing my b.u.t.t.” I didn't want to mention Ryan's offer.
”Don't you know anyone who works here?”
”I'm not a regular.”
We joined the queue and stood in silence, s.h.i.+fting our feet to keep warm. The movement reminded me of the nuns at Lac Memphremagog, which made me think of the unfinished Nicolet report. And the ledgers on my bedside table. And the report on the dead babies. And the cla.s.ses I had to teach in Charlotte next week. And a paper I planned to present at the Physical Anthropology meeting. I felt my face grow numb from the cold. How did I let Harry talk me into these things?
There is little patron exodus from pubs at 10 P.M. P.M. After fifteen minutes we'd advanced about two feet. After fifteen minutes we'd advanced about two feet.
”I feel like one of those flash-frozen deserts,” said Harry. ”Are you sure you don't know someone inside?”
”Ryan did say I could use his name if there was a wait.” My egalitarian principles were being sorely tested by encroaching hypothermia.
”Big sister, what are you thinking?” Harry had no qualms about exploiting any available advantage.
She shot up the sidewalk and disappeared into the head of the line. Moments later I saw her at a side door, flanked by a particularly large representative of the Irish National Football Club. They were both gesturing to me. Avoiding eye contact with those remaining in line, I scurried down the steps and slipped inside.
I followed Harry and her guardian through the labyrinth of rooms that make up Hurley's Irish Pub. Every chair, ledge, table, bar stool, and square inch of floor was filled with green-clad patrons. Signs and mirrors advertised Ba.s.s, Guinness, and Kilkenny Cream Ale. The place smelled of beer, and the smoke was thick enough to rest your elbows on.
We wormed our way along stone walls, between tables, leather armchairs, and kegs, and eventually around an oak and bra.s.s bar. The sound level exceeded that permitted on airport runways.
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