Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
The sky really did look so beautiful over the water that we stopped for a minute on the Ha’penny Bridge that crossed the Liffey, just admiring the view.
The water was half black with shadow, half illuminated by a streak of reflected sun.
I thought of that painting again, The Liffey Swim.
I looked over to the side street, trying to figure out the perspective of where that might’ve been painted from.
“What made his Liverpool fandom so interesting?” I asked, picking up the thread of our conversation before we’d decided to head to dinner.
Eamonn had been looking at me, and there was a moment where I didn’t know if he’d heard the question or remembered what we’d been talking about until his eyes lit up.
“It was his father,” he said. “He was a big Liverpool fan—he remembers his da coming home from the big one in ’76, or maybe it was ’77, with a scarf and a program and a huge wreath of flowers, like what horses get for a race.
And now that his da’s gone he still has it all—the scarf and the program and even some dried flowers, although I have to think he didn’t keep the whole bleedin’ wreath. ”
It was a narrow bridge, and a wave of people were coming through, so we kept walking to not be in anyone’s way. When we reached the other side we split off to separate from most of the crowd.
I liked that the clerk was sentimental enough to have kept some dried flowers as a way to remember his dad, that day.
I’d never been a huge sports person myself, but I’d always liked that they seemed to bring out emotions even in people who sometimes didn’t let themselves feel them any other way.
The fact that Eamonn had gently teased the man for being a Liverpool fan made me think he must have some allegiance to a team himself, and I was about to ask when he spoke again.
“Sio’s over in London now,” he said. “It probably wouldn’t be that hard to visit—I think I could, since it’s the U.K. I never tried it because I thought, what does she need some dryshite over there for, when she’s buildin’ a life.”
The casual way he’d dropped the name Sio, it made it sound like someone I was supposed to already know, and I thought I’d put it together. “Sio is your sister? Siobhán?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Last time I saw her, she’d dyed her hair bright red—it was already reddish, but this was like a crayon out of a box—and was wearing this wild outfit, polka dots mixed with some other pattern and this bandanna thing around her neck.
She’s always been quirky that way, since we were kids.
You’d like her—she’s an artist like you. ”
I couldn’t deny the prickle of pleasure his words gave me. That he’d referred to me so easily as an artist, as though that were a crucial part of my identity instead of something I hadn’t done in years.
And I loved the idea that he thought I’d like his sister, that he’d formed enough of an impression of me to believe that.
“When was that?” I asked. “The last time you saw her.”
“My niece’s baptism, couple of years ago. Kathleen has two girls. I do see them all for things of that sort, I try to go even if I don’t know if they want me there.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said. Granted, I didn’t know his family, but I felt like I knew him well enough by now to imagine they would.
And I really had always loved the idea of big families like that, not to romanticize what I knew had its challenges, but it was just so far from my own experience.
I hadn’t grown up with siblings or extended family who lived close by, so I’d never had any of that.
Christmases at Grandma’s house, everyone gathering for a baby’s first birthday, an entire group of people at your graduation with signs and air horns to celebrate you.
Eamonn grunted in a way that didn’t sound like agreement. “I just always feel so…”
He rolled his shoulders, an agitated gesture that did a surprisingly good job of conveying the feeling I thought he meant. Anxious, maybe. Edgy. Out of place.
We’d been walking along the river, but seemed to be heading more into the crush of people.
The minute we stepped into that fray, the likelihood of us talking about his sisters or how he felt about his family or anything else seemed much slimmer, so I was anxious to finish this conversation while we could.
“Why don’t you all really talk?” I asked. “You and Niall and the rest of them.”
“My sisters are close with each other,” he said.
“Kathleen teaches Irish at a secondary school, she’s got two girls, like I mentioned, she kind of took on the role of mother to all of us, for better or worse, especially the twins, who were still at home when our own mother died.
Rachel and Claire are grand, both in college now in Galway.
Rachel wants to be a doctor and Claire is studying social studies or…
” He frowned. “Social work? I can’t remember what she called it. One of those.”
“And then Sio is an artist in London.”
“They’ve all done well for themselves,” he said, but in a tone of voice that suggested it was an end to the conversation instead of an encouragement of it, and he still hadn’t answered my original question.
The sky was already a bruised blue, the sun long disappeared behind the horizon. I hadn’t realized how much even that tiny bit of warmth had helped the temperature, because now it was hard not to shiver as I burrowed deeper in Eamonn’s jacket.
He led me down a busy street, gesturing toward a building on the corner, the bottom exterior painted fire-engine red, the top covered in a netting of twinkle lights, green shamrocks fixed all along the walls.
“We’re in Temple Bar now,” he said. “That’s The Temple Bar right there, which is one of the top tourist spots.
It’ll be busy, but we can try if you want. ”
Even from out here, I could tell there were people packed in the building, some hanging out in small groups on the street, which definitely made me concerned about the capacity inside.
It was a Saturday night, I had to remind myself.
It was Saint Patrick’s Day weekend. It was hard to remember when time felt so fluid and strange, when it was hard to wrap my head around other people also out enjoying their nights, presumably having more normal ones than I was.
“Let’s keep walking,” I said. “I’ll go wherever you want.”
We had to stop on a corner waiting for enough of a break in the crowd to cross a street, and a group of American college-aged guys came to stand near us, clearly already way past drunk. From behind me, I could feel Eamonn move a little closer.
“There’s a kebab place a couple blocks down,” one of the guys was saying. “It was so good I ate there twice.”
Another guy was checking his phone. “Bro still doesn’t have his location turned on, how are we supposed to—”
And then they were moving on, blending in with the rest of the crowd, and we started heading that way, too.
“We could try that kebab place,” I said, tongue in cheek, and Eamonn leaned in, obviously trying to hear me. I repeated my comment louder, and he shook his head, grinning.
“He was too scuttered to know a kebab from a kiwi,” he said. “C’mon, we’re getting away from this madness.”
We eventually stopped outside a cozy-looking place with latticed lower windows and a worn wooden door.
Eamonn opened it for me to precede him inside, and the moment I stepped into the warmer vestibule I felt immediate relief.
The pub looked exactly how I might’ve expected it to look, like an Irish pub out of a movie—the walls painted a deep red, black-and-white photos in mismatched wooden frames covering most of them, a giant mirrored bar with whiskey bottles lined up all the way to the ceiling.
In the very back, in a separate room I could barely see into, there was a guy on a low stage strumming a guitar and singing about a long road.
It was self-seating, so we grabbed an open high-top closer to the bar rather than venture into the main dining room where the music was coming from.
This place was fairly busy, as well, even if not quite as intimidatingly so as that first place.
I took off my jacket to hang it on the back of the chair before climbing into the seat.
“Feels good in here, yeah?” Eamonn said.
“God, yes,” I said. “My hands are so cold.”
And then I reached up to touch the back of my hand to his face, to show him how cold they’d gotten, apparently.
I only realized as I was already doing it what a weird thing it was to do.
It was too intimate, touching someone’s face.
But now I could feel how chilled his own cheek was, the fine bristle of a day’s worth of growth at his jaw, the warmth of his breath on my wrist. I wished I hadn’t done it.
I wished I’d turned my hand, pressed my palm there instead.
“Ah,” he said, then surprised me by taking my hand between the two of his, which were warmer because he’d been smarter about keeping them in his pockets as we walked.
He gave a quick rub, just enough to leave my skin tingling, before letting go.
“We’ll get you warmed up. It’s a bit mad in here but we can order at the bar. Want a menu?”
In the end, I said I’d eat whatever he recommended, agreeing to some kind of stew that sounded good in this weather.
He talked me into trying a pint of Guinness, reminding me When in Dublin, and I said sure because When in Dublin, indeed.
At this point, it had been almost twenty-four hours since I’d been here—maybe, possibly, depending on whether you counted from the moment I’d hit my head or from the moment I’d woken up—and I was no closer to figuring out what the hell was going on. But at least I was enjoying myself.