Chapter Six
Aidan
“You about tomorrow mornin’?” Da sets down a fresh pint for me and a basket of chips in the middle of the table.
He’d best not be roping me into the starting shift. Aside from my plans with Cara’s parents, I have my own activities going on.
“What for?”
“Breakfast with your mam and me. Thought it’d be something nice, and seeing as you’ve the day off, we could all be together.”
“I-I want to, I do.” Of all days, of all mornings, he organizes family time for tomorrow. “But I can’t.”
“Not even an hour?”
My focus wavers, and I match June’s gaze from across the table. I wish she didn’t have to see this messed-up side of me.
“I’ll stop by the house when I’m done,” I tell Da.
“Done with what?” He rests a fist on one hip. “S’only breakfast. Can’t you do your business after?”
“I said I’ll stop by later tomorrow morning.” The firmness in my voice startles Cara and June and even me, so I ease up. “I won’t be too late.”
“He’s swinging by mine just before lunchtime,” Cara says, stepping on eggshells.
“I’m meeting Cara’s parents,” June adds, and my da softens. “Hangout time.”
His mood changes almost instantly, and I doubt she realizes how much she drained the tension from the room.
“I’ll visit by then,” I assure my da before he heads back behind the bar.
“Is tomorrow the interview?” Cara whispers.
“We shouldn’t talk about it here,” I say, rubbing my temples.
“You’ll have to tell him eventually.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Tell him what?” June asks.
“Danny’s got an interview for uni tomorrow.”
“That’s exciting,” she says, examining my face. “Right?”
“It is. His master’s.” Cara turns her body to face me. “And you know they’ll ask you back, so he’ll find out about it sooner or later.”
“I’ll let him know when the time’s right. And that’s if I get in at all, and they don’t laugh me off the campus.”
“They wouldn’t.” Cara pats me on the shoulder. “You belong there. You did before, and you do now.”
At least Cara believes in me. She has an effervescent personality that bubbles over, but she takes care to only ever say what she means—and I needed to hear something positive like that from her.
We leave the pub early so I can rest up for the hour’s drive to Cork in the morning. I fill up a glass of water in the kitchen, and June lingers by the hallway. I haven’t gotten used to her presence in my place yet.
“With your interview tomorrow, Cara made it sound like you’ve already been to this school,” June says.
“I did. I came back here when…some personal things came up.”
“So you want to go back and finish what you started,” she says while twiddling the hem of her jacket. “Makes sense.”
“I think so.”
“You don’t seem very excited.”
“I am.” I toy with the glass on the counter rather than drinking from it. “I’m worried about the interview part. The being-good-enough-to-get-in part.”
“Someone once told me to embrace change and go all in.” June takes a few steps forward and leans onto the gray island at the center of the kitchen like she owns it. “You should try it.”
“He sounds incredibly wise,” I say, tempering the flare of excitement at her standing so close. “Or maybe incredibly stupid.”
“Wise. I’ve seen some of your work, and Cara’s right, they’re probably excited to see you. But if not, that doesn’t mean you’re any less great. Ultimately, the choice is up to you. You can say no.”
“Now that…” I whistle in surprise. “That’s wise.”
“Good luck tomorrow.” She laughs and exits to the guest room, and I realize I’m smiling as she goes. For the first time, I might be ready for what the next day brings.
That confidence fades once I arrive on campus in the morning. I navigate across the green and past the aging buildings covered in ivy. The school resembles a castle with its walls of gray stone, and in one of the massive sections of window, a professor lectures to a packed class of students measuring liquids in a lab. When I enter the arts building, its familiar faint scent of mildew greets me.
“Ah,” a woman says. “You must be Mr. McCarthy.”
“Er…yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Professor Murphy. I’ve been expecting you. Please.” She leads me to a room halfway down the hall and motions to a wooden chair across from her desk. “Have a seat.”
The prim professor opens a drawer to her left and retrieves a manila folder. One by one, she removes papers from inside and sets them next to each other like soldiers in a line. My application, admissions essay, and portfolio pieces.
“Is this your first time visiting our wonderful campus?”
“No. I-I was in the program before. I had some—”
“Ah! Yes, I recall. Mr. McCarthy . Here we are.” She holds one piece of paper closer to her face, scouring the page. “That’s right. You had your deferment, which expired at the end of summer semester. Professor Bennett told me all about you.”
“I see. Good things I hope.”
Professor Bennett left for an early and well-deserved retirement, but he wrote me a recommendation for my reapplication. Based on how Professor Murphy’s thin lips stretch into a forced smile, I’ll need any help available to me.
“This is a chance for us to chat, you and I. See if this is the right fit for what you aim to achieve in life and at our program.”
I shift in the chair. “Sure, sure. Well, as my application mentions, I attended for almost two full semesters before I left. So I’m looking to pick my studies back up where I was.”
She opens her mouth, but I trample over her like a blubbering eejit.
“I fully understand that all the classes I took before, I’ll have to retake them. I’m prepared for that.”
“What have you worked on since you were last enrolled?”
“Uh…” I inhale. “Family stuff. I went back to Ballygrá, where I’m from, for a while. Death in the family. So I’ve been there, working and helping at my da’s pub. My brother was sort of set to take it over, and with him gone…I needed to be there.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Her mouth twists into another locked-up smile. “Have you done anything creatively in that time? Grief is obviously quite a hurdle, so it’s understandable if not. Have you had any projects as a photographer or artist since you left?”
“Sure.” She doesn’t care about the bleedin’ pub or all my family drama or the car accident that changed everything. “I’ve, well, I’ve been taking photos. Mostly ’round town. Sometimes I’ll take day trips to the coast and such. Explore other spots. It’s been enjoyable and I think I’m—I know I’m ready to return.”
Professor Murphy nods, shuffling some of my prints around on the desk. She leans back in her seat while her eyes bore into me. For some strength, I think of June’s encouraging words last night—how this is my decision in the end, not the school’s.
“Mr. McCarthy, as you already know, the photography program here is intense. Full of some of the most talented students from across the country and the world. Enjoyment…well, naturally that’s part of any creative process. But assignments are demanding, grueling. They’ll push you. We don’t cover merely the artistic side, but theory too. Considering this is such a rigorous program, what is it you hope to gain by attending?”
Reasonable question. I applied to one university after unending support from Cara—a university I’d already gotten accepted to a few years back. And now I look like a complete arse, waltzing in as if they’d see me and immediately write Approved in breezy cursive letters on my application.
“Mr. McCarthy?”
“Skills, I suppose. I hope to get some skills as a photographer. To get better, get some practice in, and have other people to work with and get better at…improve my—”
“Skills?”
I scratch the stubble on my chin where I missed a spot shaving.
“And you’re able to dedicate yourself to the challenging hours of the program, correct? This will involve classes, coursework, as well as darkroom time, and you’ll also be required to complete two separate internships or work programs.”
My phone rings, and I jump to my pocket to silence it. None other than Da ringing. “Shite. I mean—sorry. Sorry. Uh, yes. Yes, I can commit.”
Professor Murphy thumbs through more of the photos, holding a few up while I wait.
“I think that’s all I’ll need, then,” she says, resuming eye contact with me. “Thank you for your time, Mr. McCarthy.” She extends a hand and plasters on one last bitter smile. “We’ll be deciding spring entrants in the next few weeks.”
I don’t need to wait to hear her decision, though. The weight of my failure makes my feet drag to the door like I’m wearing steel boots.
“Oh, Mr. McCarthy?” Professor Murphy’s no-nonsense voice stops me at the doorway. “I have one last question. How does photography make you feel?”
“Feel?”
“Yes.” She rests her elbows on the armrests, and her jewelry jangles on her forearms. “I love asking applicants this. When you go out to take photos and you look through the viewfinder, how do you feel?”
Sliding both hands into my jacket pockets, I look at the ceiling as if the answers will appear there. I recall June’s supportive comments from last night. That doesn’t mean you’re any less great. I don’t think great is how Professor Murphy would describe me, but I can at least walk out of here with some dignity.
“Free, I guess,” I say, letting the words tumble out. “I feel free. In control. Like the universe around me could crumble, but I might not notice until after I click the shutter. Because that’s all that matters.”
Yet another stiff smile appears, which she breaks as she gathers my papers and stuffs them back into the beige folder. I’ve somehow said everything wrong during this interview, and I wish I could disappear.
“Thank you, Mr. McCarthy. You can go now.”
“A waste of my morning, and hers.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Cara says over the phone.
“You weren’t there. Christ, rather than taking the trip out to Cork, I wish she’d called me, asked her questions, and let me rattle on with my nonsense that way. Would’ve saved us both some time.” I rub a palm down my face, wishing I could scrub away the last two and a half hours of my life. Getting accepted once was enough of a miracle—expecting to get in twice was pure fantasy.
“Where are you now?” she asks.
“Parked at my folks’.”
“Need me to come over? I’ve got tons of muffins left over from the cafe yesterday, if that’ll make you feel better.”
“No, thanks.” I turn off the ignition and take a heavy breath. “I’m grand.”
“Okay. Say hi to them for me. See you soon. And Danny—” Cara’s voice rings out before I hit the end call button. “No need to beat yourself up about this morning. The fact that you showed up is…it’s a big deal. I’m proud of you.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt and whisper thanks before we hang up.
When I open the front door to my childhood home, both Mam and Da are hunched over their plates at the dinner table. Guilt nags at me—it’d be one thing if my interview went brilliantly, but to throw away a morning when my parents are in the same room together? I wish I could’ve been here.
“Danny. Oh my sweet boy.” Mam’s eyes brighten, and she gets up to greet me. She’s clad in a fuzzy blue bathrobe, and her hair is still damp from a shower. She opens the fridge. “Want some juice?”
“Sure. No, don’t worry, I’ll grab it.”
“Get my message?” my da asks. “I called, too.”
“I saw,” I say through gritted teeth. “I was driving and couldn’t answer.”
“Long drive, eh?”
I ignore his comment. “Would’ve come by sooner. No one told me we’d be doing this ’til last night.”
“Danny,” Mam says in a warning tone. “Please. Y’just got here.”
I give a concession of a smile. “Sorry.”
Once I settle in at the dining table, all three of us fall into a clumsy conversation—updates and gossip from Aunt Brianna in Sligo, the new hires Da made for the pub, and how Cara’s managing with the wedding.
We don’t spend much time like this together anymore. Grief swallowed Mam whole once Michael died. It left her unwilling to leave bed some days, and she’s spent weeks on and off with her sister for a mental refresh. Da dove into work, taking over her responsibilities. And I returned here to sand down the rough spots.
Today, I get the sense that we’re all on the same team—something I haven’t felt in a long time.
“Can’t believe Cara’s getting married in a few days,” Mam says, cheerier than usual. “Seems like yesterday you two were running ’round the yard and making mischief. How’s everything with that new sister of hers?”
“Far as I can tell, they’re getting on.”
“Seems like a brilliant girl,” Da adds.
“She’s…” How can I describe June? Brave. Funny. Refreshing. “She’s lovely.”
“Any thoughts on when we can talk inventory?” Da asks.
“Noah,” my mam whispers, “do you really need to chat about that now?”
“It’s related to the wedding,” he says, turning his attention back to me. “Once you’ve finished your time off, I’d like to go over the process.”
“I figure Mam’d come back and handle that again. When-whenever you’re ready, ’course.”
Da removes his silver frames and rubs both eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger. “You’d be doing us both a favor by taking that part of the pub over for now.”
I fear what for now might mean—no deadline, no expiration date. And why would I take over work from my mam? She’s been getting better, going out more, and readjusting to our new normal. I wouldn’t have considered interviewing at all if she didn’t seem well.
“What about Lucas? The lad you hired?” I ask, hopeful. “He said he’d take more hours.”
“The kid’s a fine bartender for now, but I’d like to know he’s someone who’ll stick around for a while before I pass off a task as important as inventory to ’im.”
“Now’s not the time,” Mam interjects.
“It’s a fine time. Danny, the pub may not be as big a thrill as jetting off and taking pictures, but it’s also not a bad gig.” He sweeps his hand around the room. “Keeps the roof over our heads.”
McCarthy’s Pub, by some miracle, is not a financial burden on our family. Every month, we have the funds to pay the staff a fair wage, buy what we need to keep operating, and earn enough profit to keep the lights on. We can thank the Irish and their love of drinking for that. Our lives have never been lavish, but I never got the sense that was my da’s goal. If he aspired to life beyond the four walls of McCarthy’s Pub, he never let on.
“I’m not looking for a thrill,” I say, a little ashamed that my desire to do anything but the pub is so glaringly obvious to Da. “I’m fine stepping in, but Mam should know we’ll welcome her back anytime. We can look forward to that.”
“Love, if you—”
“Always a fuss with you.” Da throws his arms up. “Your brother gave his all, whenever we needed—”
“I’m not Michael. Sorry for that.” Michael would have done anything for the family and the pub, but I’m at my limit—and drowning in guilt every time I realize it. “Don’t know why you always have to bring him into this.”
“He’s part of this family too. Forever. Michael’s not here with us, God rest him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about him every day.”
“Noah.”
“Well me too. He may have been your son, but he was my brother.”
“So our sadness is a competition now?” my da asks, his voice steeped in anger.
“You bring him up every chance you get. It’s like living with a ghost.”
“Would you two stop?” Mam stands with a sob, tears trickling down her cheeks. She opens her mouth to say something else but gives up. She leaves and slams the door to the bedroom. The guest bedroom. I’d hoped her and Da’s relationship was improving, but that must’ve been wishful thinking.
“I think…” Da pauses as if he has to handpick each word. “I think if we can give your mam a longer break without that responsibility…not going into the pub where she saw him in there every day. With more time, we might make the situation easier for her here. Let her ease into things at her own pace.”
As much as we disagree, my father and I have the same desire. He’s begging me to say yes without getting on his knees, all to take care of Mam. No doubt, her taking the time and space to grieve with us in Ballygrá sounds better than her running off to Sligo again, or even further. I want her to stay, so I’ll do anything.
The memory of my interview this morning slaps me in the face. Michael would never have done something so selfish. He never would have wanted me to do something so selfish. Maybe all I’m destined to be is a bartender who dabbles in photography, and I shouldn’t expect anything more—not in my career or in my personal life—and I need to learn to live with that.
“How’s Tuesday after the wedding?” I ask weakly as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Should still be quiet at the front, and we can talk inventory.”
He pauses, then solemnly bobs his head once. Da sorts through some papers that clutter the skinny worktop of the kitchen island and offers them to me without meeting my eyes. “For the post,” he mutters.
Not until I step out to my car and peek at the letters do I notice my hands quivering with frustration.