9. Maeve
Maeve
“This was my gran’s,” said Seimon. He was tall and skinny. He gestured to the table and chairs. “We try to keep this clean.”
I’d recognized the voice in the phone’s background. It was the same voice that had sung at open mic. He had a rare angelic voice, one he showed on rarer visits, but when he visited, he earned thunderous applause from the audience.
He was too young to drink, by about a good three years, but he never seemed to care much for alcohol. His attention was always focused on the stage— when he could sign up, who’d play as his back up.
I’d been to his house only once before, right at the end with his gran. He and his brothers hadn’t been doing well, so I checked in. Seeing the current state of things, I was sorry I hadn’t checked in more.
I sat in the chair that faced the kitchen and watched him bring over two cups of steaming black tea. Then he pulled out Rory’s wallet and phone and set them in front of me. A flush crept up his neck and face.
“We took his clothes, too, but we’ve already sold those. I used up the cash in his wallet, but I haven’t touched his credit cards. I’m not that stupid.”
I knew boys like him. I’d grown up around my fair share of impoverished families.
My dad never wanted anything to do with them, but I liked to help when I could, giving them money or food when I had some to spare.
It was partly why I had the open mic, and why I didn’t require a drink purchase to play on stage.
“Thank you for giving these back,” I said.
“I didn’t know he was one of yers. I wouldn’t have bothered if I did?—”
“It’s okay. I promise.” I touched his hand and his shoulders relaxed.
There was a knock, and Larry, the tall, hulky, redhead big brother stepped into the room. He wasn’t a musician, but I’d seen him plenty of times at the table with the other brothers, clapping for Seimon.
He smiled at me. “It’s good to see you, Maeve!”
I stood up and embraced him in a tight hug. “Good to see you, too.”
He grabbed a cup of tea for himself and joined us at the table, studying Rory’s recovered items. Finally, he said, “It was me who’d knocked him out, but I only did that because he wouldn’t leave us be.
Me and the boys drove him just outside of Cork and dropped him off.
To teach him a lesson, like. Disrespecting our family by assumin’ we stole his wallet. ”
I smiled into my tea. I wasn’t about to argue that point. “Well, I appreciate the wallet and phone. He’s a foreigner. Not having his ID would really mess things up for him, but a few wads of cash missing?” I shrugged. “He’s a businessman. Probably has more of it than he needs.”
I winked at Seimon, and he laughed.
When I finished half my tea, I said, “Well, I should probably get going. There’s another guy causing me problems.”
Seimon perked up. “Another guy? Do you need help?”
I didn’t want to go into specifics, so I just said, “It’s alright. People don’t like when there are too many good things in the world.”
“Hear! Hear!” Larry said, holding up his tea cup.
Seimon followed me out of the house, and I said, “If Rory comes back, try to be a little nicer to him. Alright?”
He nodded. I gave him a tight hug, squeezing out all the bad memories from his life, willing in good.
He and his brother were abandoned by their parents.
They’d been raised by their grandmother, who died two years ago.
I’d known the brothers were living a difficult life, but I had hoped it hadn’t been bad enough to mug someone.
Even still, I smiled and wished to see him soon.
Because without any shred of goodness for someone, there was nothing to try to be good for.
I started to leave, then stopped. “We’re having an open mic right now— a fundraiser. I’d love your talent on stage if you have time.”
He agreed, and I left the house feeling lighter.
It was good to know that Rory hadn’t gone silent on purpose.
There had been a reason, and if I knew these boys, they hadn’t left him anywhere dangerous.
If anything, he’d be naked and embarrassed and maybe need some money, but those were relatively harmless things.
Besides, the very idea of him naked out there made me feel a little bad for him.
If I saw him again maybe I’d even offer him a drink.
I walked down the street, then cut through an alley. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the pub that I noticed someone following me. Their steps moved as I moved, they sped or slowed when I did.
I turned quickly down a side street, only to stumble over a broken piece of pavement and fall hard on my hands, scattering Rory’s phone and wallet on the surrounding pavement.
A pair of legs came up to me.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Rory said, helping me up. He grabbed his scattered belongings, then smiled at me, though it looked pained. A fresh cut marred the side of his temple and neck, but it was his black and blue eye that stole my attention.
“What’s happened to you?” I asked, raising my fingers to touch the bruise but stopping myself. The anger I’d been harboring all day resurfaced, and I stepped back, despite every instinct screaming to close the gap.
“I’m okay. Are you okay?” he asked, glancing at the door. “Did they do anything to you? Because if they did?—”
“Seimon?” The name snapped me out of my thoughts. “No, I’m fine. But you... I didn’t think they’d do something like this to you. I’ll talk to them?—”
“They gave me the cut on the temple, but the rest is from a car accident,” he explained, gesturing behind him. “Had a little issue getting here. Didn’t think I’d make it in time, but I had help.”
Two men stood behind him. One was a traditional-looking Irish farmer in trousers, sporting just as many bruises as Rory. The other was a clean-cut police officer who was unscathed.
“I appreciate you coming to find me, but I’m fine,” I said. “You, though? You don’t look fine. You should go to the emergency room.”
“That’s what I told him, too,” the officer chimed in.
Rory pulled a face. “I’m fine. But we’re not fine.” He stepped closer, and before I could react, he wrapped me in his arms.
My anger dissolved as quickly as it had flared. I needed him in my arms. I craved him. His smell. His heat on my body. I wanted to melt within his embrace.
“Maeve, I’m so sorry for everything. I never meant to lie to you, but I was weak. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” the word escaped before I realized.
Then I straightened up, shaking my head.
“No. You and Frank lied to me. You’re trying to buy those stocks.
You’re trying to steal my pub from me, and it doesn’t really matter.
Does it? It’s already too late.” The truth hit me like a freight train. “It’s too late.”
Rory grabbed my hands so quickly it startled me. His grip was firm but not forceful. It was hard to pull away. So I didn’t.
“It’s not too late.”
My heart lurched toward him, but my head shook no. “It is too late. I need to get back to open mic.”
I turned to leave.
“Are you still going to sing?” he called after me.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I hurried down the street toward the pub, daring them to follow me.
Inside, the Anchoring Pig was packed. The music boomed, and the crowd roared over their pints.
Eliza was behind the bar, expertly working alongside my other bartender, Marla, in their seamless bartender’s dance.
She spotted me, then the men trailing behind me.
Her eyes widened— and so did mine when I noticed Frank sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a beer and staring at Eliza.
When she froze, Frank followed her gaze and smiled. The expression didn’t reach his eyes. He stood, leaving his beer, and approached Rory with an exaggerated slap on the back. Rory winced.
“It’s about time you got here!” Frank crowed.
But Rory didn’t embrace his brother. He stepped back, his voice monotone. “I could’ve gotten here sooner.”
Frank waved him off and pulled out the infamous documents, the ones giving him and Rory control of my family’s shares. He handed them to Rory. “I just need your signature to make it official.”
I turned away, unable to look. Unable to breathe. It would all be over with a few strikes on the paper. By a name I had called out at my most intimate moment.
I went to the stage instead. The drummer had just finished his solo and the next act was gearing to get on. I plastered on my best smile, and shouted, “How are you guys doing at open mic?”
The crowd cheered in response. There had to be more than double—triple the clientele than normal. I recognized some of the usual open-mic-ers, but there were many new faces, with earnest eyes, and big smiles. And they were all vastly different people.
That’s what I loved so much about music. It brought people from all walks of life. With different shapes, forms, ideas. Two very different people from very different backgrounds could come into open mic and find camaraderie.
I said, “Remember the only rule in open mic is?—”
The audience roared as one, “DON’T BE A DICK!”
“Right!” I clapped my hands, gesturing to the bold, hand-painted sign hanging crookedly over the bar that read the same in large, messy letters. Just beneath the sign was Rory and Frank. The papers were in Rory’s hand. Everything I had ever worked for was in his hands.
I turned back to the audience, with the same big smile. I wanted to reiterate the fundraiser, how their contributions—though meager last I checked in the fundraising bucket—but I couldn’t because it really didn’t matter, did it? Nothing mattered.
“Next up, we have…”
“Are you gonna sing for us, Maeve?” the voice was lost somewhere in the crowd.
“I’m only singing if we make our donation goal tonight, and it looks like we’ve still got a ways to go.” More than a ways. We had maybe a few thousand. I needed fifty grand to buy the shares, or I would have if Rory hadn’t…
“How much more do you need?” this came from a different voice, and it came closer, right up to the stage. It was Rory with his checkbook in hand.
“Very funny,” I said, crouching down, away from the microphone. I tried to make it sound angry— spiteful, but I couldn’t muster the emotion. A numb had rolled across my body. Maybe this was what Old Bill had felt, too.
“Fifty thousand dollars. I’ll donate fifty thousand dollars to your fundraiser if you sing right now.”
“Fifty thousand dollars?” I breathed. “Now, I know you’re actually joking. I saw you with the papers, Rory. I saw what you did?—”
“Then you would have seen me rip the papers, too. The deal’s off. I told Frank to call your family right now. To tell them you’re going to be buying the shares instead.”
“But I don’t have the money,” I said softly.
He scribbled out a check for fifty thousand and shoved it in my hand. “Yes, you do, but you have to sing. This is your pub, not Frank’s and mine. I want you to buy your family’s shares. Get out from under them. Make this place what you want it to be.”
My heart jumped into my throat, and I only just managed a “but?—”
I looked at him, then at the crowd. Curious eyes stared back. Even with that money waved in my face, I almost said no, but I managed a nod. I walked stiffly up to the stage and in a wavering voice, I said, “It looks like we hit our goal!”
The crowd erupted in applause.
Emotion clotted my throat, and I almost couldn’t speak, but at the last minute, right when the audience went quiet, I was able to manage out, “It looks like I’ve got to sing.”
And then came a louder applause. It was near stifling. I knew people cared about the open mic, but I never expected them to care so much about whether or not I sang.
I cleared my throat, willing away tears that threatened to fall.
It was easier than I expected picking up my guitar, almost like it was any other time I used to play on stage, and just like when I used to play on stage, I strummed that old familiar tune I did right before a show.
I used to love this moment. This anticipation of what was to come.
There’d been a handful of times where I’d held a guitar and played a tune, but it had always been in the quiet solitude.
Early morning hours at the pub when everyone else had gone home, and I’d sing, just like I used to, shedding all the layers off my body, pretending my ex had never told me the truth about my singing.
Pretending for just a moment that I was actually good enough.
I did that here now, too. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift away, let the two dozen eyes melt into the black, and it was just me and my guitar in the wee hours in an empty pub.