3/17
a parody by
Mary Pat Hyland
* * *
Smashwords edition
Copyright 2011 Mary Pat Hyland
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, location and plot are the creation of the author and should not be considered real. Although inspired by real life experiences, the characters in this novel (except for the public figures whose part in the story line is entirely fictional) do not exist and any resemblance to persons living or dead is unintentional and coincidental.
For Brian & Peggy Hyland, in fond remembrance of surviving 3/17 performances past.
With deepest gratitude to my editors Anne, Sheila, Brian, Kate, Dáithí & Patty; cover designer Jocelyn Bailey; Ingrid, for location logistics; Comhaltas Ceoltoirí Éireann for keeping the path of true Irish music alive; and to Liz, LunaJoon and the Triple Cities Writers Group for their encouragement and inspiration. Cover photograph by Mary Pat Hyland.
Chapter 2: Entering the First Fainne
Lexicon of Irish Words and Slang
Bonus: Sample from “The Terminal Diner”
~ With apologies to Dante Alighieri ~
Chapter 1: Prologue
Fionn MacConnell slouched in a salvaged confessional booth at the back of a Galway pub called The Vestibule, staring at his untouched pint of Guinness and a shredded photograph of his ex-girlfriend, Renny. It was half nine in the morning.
Fists curled tightly, he closed his eyes and saw her there in the pub again, just hours earlier, fingernails digging into her Amy Winehouse beehive as she screamed a litany of reasons why their relationship was damned:
“Ye culchie-brained, lazy-arsed, busker-poor eejit! Ye’re never gonna be famous. Ye haven’t a feckin’ clue where ye’r goin’!”
It wasn’t so much her insults that stung him—he’d been called far worse—but the fact that her meltdown interrupted a brilliant session that included his mates and some well-known traditional Irish musicians. Jaysus, it was mortifying! Of course, when you factored in Fionn’s legendary temper, their hostilities erupted into a war of words on the scale of the Battle of Clontarf. (He, of course, represented the Brian Boru side, she—the bloody Vikings.)
Fionn knew by now the tale of this epic breakup was already out there, growing in scale with each kilometer it traveled down the bótharín from the pub. He could imagine the other musicians’ whispers in the distance: “Remember that poor lad who came in second at the All-Ireland fiddle a cúpla years back? Och, the eejit got into a terrible row with his girl. She was after a few pints and created such a commotion! Wanted him to compliment her new dress, but he was in the middle of playin’ the ‘Maid Behind the Bar.’ Well, the evil she-wolf flew into jealous rage, jumped up on a table and started throwin’ things, left and right. Breakin’ pint glasses and mirrors, cursin’ Our Lord. Disgustin’! Took three patrol cars of gardaí to break up the fisticuffs that followed! Feckin’ brilliant. Ye shoulda seen it!”
Fionn sank his head into his hands. Och, how could he have been codded again so easily by a girl? ’Twas yet another bleak chapter in the endless tome of his doomed love life.
They’d met on a warm May afternoon, when he was out walking to clear the peaty fog of last night’s Guinnesses from his brain. He’d wandered by the Spanish Arch and saw Renny in the distance feeding a cluster of swans along the River Corrib. A slight wind teased her towering mane of jet black hair. He was riveted by the sight. When bay breezes lifted her skirt, displaying red fishnet stockings above thigh-high boots, he was overcome by zombie-like lust and marched toward her craving a carnal carnival ride.
He got one, all right. Several months into their tempestuous romance, they tried to make it about more than just sex. She’d even asked him to teach her how to play the bodhrán so she could be part of The Vestibule’s weekly sessions. After two “lessons,” it was obvious that every bit of rhythm she had in her was best used for something else. The problem was, the more he lingered with her, the less time he spent at his music—an important part of his income and the very heart of his soul. He could no longer afford this love drug, but she was a devil of a habit to break.
After Renny solved that problem by dumping him so publicly last night, he took his pint and crawled into the old confessional booth. The only light within came from a Sacred Heart votive candle that Fionn watched flicker from moonset to sunrise. The publican, an old family friend, locked up and kindly left him inside to collect his thoughts and pride.
Fionn stuck his right thumb into his mouth and nibbled on the fingernail. It was a childhood habit inspired by his namesake, Fionn Mac Cumhaill. The legend goes that young Fionn burned his thumb cooking the salmon of knowledge for the druid poet Finn Eces. When he sucked on his blistered thumb to cool it, he swallowed some of the salmon’s skin stuck to it and received the knowledge of all things, a gift he later used to defeat his adversaries.
Fionn MacConnell ached for such a gift at the moment. What the feck do I do now, he worried. He chewed his fingernail a bit more. That’s it! Fionn flipped open his cell phone and called his Cousin Des in the States. After six rings, it picked up.
“Hallo?”
“Des, it’s me.”
“Whaaa?”
“Me, yer Cousin Fionn.” Fumbling and crashing noises filled the background for a few seconds.
“Fionn, ye feckin’ eejit. It’s feckin’ four in the mornin’.”
“Sorry, lad. It’s just that … Des ye’ve gotta help me. I gotta get outta here.”
“Gardaí after ye?”
“No. Worse. Me girl dumped me in front of the Tuesday night session.”
“Och. Ye poor lad. That’s bleedin’ awful.” Des rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“I know. The whole feckin’ pub was watchin’, too. All these trad legends were there, Johnny Pat Derrane, Micko Harnett and even Tommy Kilcooley. Me reputation’s completely banjaxed.”
Des snickered.
“That Renny’s mental, I tell ye. The craic was so mighty, the music even better. Then she went and spoilt it.”
“Didn’t I warn ye about stayin’ away from them Claddagh swans? I told ye, they’s enchanted.”
“I know, Des. I know. And boy, she’s some witch all right! A talented witch, but she’s a feckin’ mental one. Can ye help me lad? I’m dyin’ here. Need a reason to get out of this place.”
Des yawned as he tried to come up with a suitable scheme to help his cousin.
“This is what ye’r gonna do. Get yer trad band back together and we’ll get ye over here in March for a tour of the States.”
“A tour of the States, with me band? Brilliant! Och, I’m lovin’ the sound of this, Des. I’m not leavin’ to save face, I’m leavin’ ’cause me American fans are pinin’ for me.”
“Ye know, Fionn. It’ll be easy money, too. Yanks love nothing better than a good piss-up before St. Patrick’s Day. They start celebratin’ six months to a year before. No word of a lie. Me friend Sean booked a few indie bands at some college campuses in upstate New York last fall. I’ll see if he can book yez a tour.”
Fionn hung up and smiled. He’d lost his girl and gained some gigs. Interesting 24 hours, he thought. This working trip—his first to America—would be atonement for his recent sins. He’d no longer take his musical gift for granted. He’d share the gospel of traditional Irish music with the new world.
“All I have to do now is put a dacent band together.” Fionn emptied his pint, blessed himself and exited the confessional booth.
Chapter 2: Entering The First Fainne
As he took Exit 9 South off Interstate 81, Fionn remembered for a serendipitous moment that Dante Alighieri imagined there were nine circles of hell. He wondered if he was headed for the first circle ahead as a hellish snow squall churned toward the car, extinguishing the glare of sunlight above.
His bandmates—Diarmuid, Peadar and Aisling—were with him, trying to sleep off last night’s fun during the endless, bumpy drive from Boston to upstate New York. Fionn wished he could take a nap, too. Here it was Thursday already of their first week in America, and he was totally knackered from the late nights spent with Des and the band.
Ramp pavement rumbled under the tires as Fionn strayed onto the ridged shoulder. He jerked the steering wheel suddenly to the left, startling the others in time to see the approaching whiteout. “Mind yer speed, Fionn,” Peadar said from the back seat. “The roads could turn slippy fast.”
“Sorry.” Fionn pushed his long black hair out of his eyes and gripped the wheel as he replayed Des’s voice in his mind: “It’ll be easy money.” Hmm, Fionn wasn’t convinced. So far the band had performed three less than crowded gigs in The Craic, a Southie dive that Des referred to as his office. At the last gig, they met a lone traditional Irish music fan who looked like a female Bob Marley. Unfortunately, the rainbow-haired girl was under the misguided belief that she could play the bodhrán, and her jerky rhythms kept throwing them off the beat. Shades of that evil Renny, he thought.
Fionn felt a sudden chill and shrugged his shoulders. Was he doing the right thing? Was it worth risking the lives of his bandmates on this wintry road into the unknown, just so he could save his busted ego? Besides that, Des’s easy-money promise was fading faster than the sunshine behind them.
“Turn right at the end of the ramp,” a disembodied voice from the dashboard said.
“Do ye think I should trust this GPS?” Fionn asked while making the turn, glancing in the rearview mirror at an empty road hugging the Tioughnioga River behind him. The squall, thicker than a Wicklow Mountains fog, veiled the road ahead quickly. They passed a barely legible sign for Kennedy State Forest. Fionn wondered if that it meant this was an area where Irish immigrants settled. Could this be a good omen? Then he remembered there happened to be a U.S. president by that name, too.
Snow swirled furiously across the windshield, limiting Fionn’s view of the road. No one spoke for a few miles until the GPS broke the silence.
“Turn left onto County Route 392.”
“I think this is what the Yanks call the boonies,” Diarmuid said, drinking a can of Headbanger’s CaffeineX as the car climbed a curvy, wooded road.
“What if the GPS could read our minds?” Aisling said from the back seat. “What if it could sense all of our fears at this moment?”
“Is that yer inner druid talking to ye again, luv?” Peadar asked with a wink.
“Aw go on! Tell me. Wouldn’t that freak ye out right now?”
The clouds parted and the temperature fell as quickly as the sun behind the steep hills. Snow froze swiftly on the shoulders of the road and Fionn felt the tires glide when the car rolled over icy patches. Des had lent them this car for their tour. He told Fionn he’d had it all checked out, but someone obviously hadn’t inspected the tires thoroughly. Fionn wished he’d realized this before starting up this empty country road.
Diarmuid leaned forward to play with the buttons on the GPS. He clicked the higher elevation view to see how far they were from the college in Dryden. “Look, there’s a Page Green Road coming up. Hah! Almost like it knows we’re an Irish band on a pre-St. Patrick’s Day tour.”
“See the GPS is reading our minds,” Aisling said as she poked Diarmuid between his shoulder blades.
“Ow! That hurt! Ye’ve ruined me for me guitar-playin’.”
“Och! Ye’ve gone too far.”
“Are ye talking to Fionn or Aisling?” Peadar chirped at the GPS.
“There’s no turning back now, ye eejits.”
“What’s with this bleedin’ thing gnarling at us? I’m beginning to think Aisling’s right.” Fionn tapped a button to return to the street elevation view on the small black dashboard screen as he steered around a long bend.
“Púca ahead. Swerve to avoid collision.”
Diarmuid put his face right up to the GPS. “Ha-ha, ye cheeky little minx. Ye’ll not be frightenin’ the likes of us.”
“Fionn! Look out!” Aisling screamed. She pointed toward the front of the car as a black pony galloped across their lane. Fionn dug his foot into the brakes but the old tires had no bite on the greasy road. The car fish-tailed across the pavement, then slid down a steep culvert. Metal scraped rock, playing a cacophonous tune in the key of deep-shite major. The car lurched forward and ricocheted back with a thud.
“Jaysus! Everyone OK?” Fionn looked toward the back seat.
“Yeah. What the feck just happened?” Diarmuid said as he tried to open the front passenger side door.
“We nearly killed a Connemara pony to death,” Peadar said. “Where’d it go?”
Aisling folded her arms tightly to stop her fright-induced shivering. “Feck’s sake that GPS was right. It was a púca. Did yez see its glowin’ eyes?”
Fionn ignored her Celtic spirit analysis and focused on the more important matter at hand. “Can anyone open a door?”
“Not this one, Fionn,” Diarmuid said.
“Mine’s banjaxed, too.” Peadar pounded on his door but it wouldn’t budge.
“We’re going to die here!”
“Calm down, Aisling,” Fionn said. “Give it another try.” She grabbed the door handle hard and luckily the door swung right open. They clambered out her door and stood in the snowy woods, their steamy breath swirling in the headlights.
“So much for our grand tour of the States,” Diarmuid snickered.
“Better turn off the headlights, Fionn. Conserve the battery in case we have to sleep in there tonight.”
“Ye’r right, Peadar.” Fionn pulled the keys out of the ignition.
“Where the feck are we?”
“At the foot of a hill where the valley ended,” the GPS said.
“How can that blasted thing still be speaking to us?” Fionn asked.
“It’s reading our minds,” Aisling said. “It’s telling us we’re going on a journey of some sort.”
“Stop it, Aisling. Ye'r giving me the willies with all yer druid-speak,” Peadar said as he stepped back from the car.
“Didn’t ye hear it yerself, Peadar? That wasn’t me speaking just now.”
“Maybe it’s like a Magic 8-Ball? Let’s ask a question.” Diarmuid stroked his goatee. “Right then, oh magical GPS, tell us how do we get out of this mess?”
Silence. Just then a flicker of headlights cut through the forest up ahead.
“We’re going to be saved!” Aisling hopped up and down clapping her hands together. But the pickup truck’s driver didn’t notice them and roared past. Her glee tumbled into a frown. “We’re going to die. Right here. Within hours. They’ll have to pry our frozen bodies off this ground.”
“Help is on the way.”
Fionn raised his eyebrows at the others.
“Maybe we’re on some prank reality show,” Peadar said as he glanced overhead at the pine branches. “Are there TV cams hidden in these trees? We could be on Power O’Toole’s ‘Laugh Shanty’ right now.” He waved (just in case).
Diarmuid snickered and walked toward the car for another look. “I’ll have a sip of what yer drinkin’ there, Peadar boyo.”
“If that bloody thing talks to us again,” Fionn said, “I’m gonna start runnin’ down the hill.”
Headlights flashed at them from the other direction. They saw a tow truck coming up the hill. All four of them ran to the side of the road and waved at the truck as if they were drowning, but it sailed past.
“If they don’t find us fast enough, a pack of wild coyotes will eat our frozen bodies…,” Aisling said, her words drifting off into the silent forest.
“Anyone have paper and pen?” Peadar asked. “I want to leave a note for me family back in Mayo.” Fionn rolled his eyes.
A third time they saw headlights approach. It was the tow truck returning down the hill. This time the driver stopped when they waved.
“You folks in some trouble?” the driver yelled from his cab.
“Typical observant Yank,” Diarmuid muttered. The man got out and crossed the road to their car.
“Thanks for helpin’,” Fionn said. “A pony just ran across the road and I swerved to avoid it. Next thing I knew, we were in this ditch and there the pony was. Gone.”
“A pony you say,” the man said, giving Fionn a look as if he thought this kid might be drunk. “A big ’un?”
“Smallish, black.”
“A Connemara pony, I’d say,” Peadar chimed in.
“Is that so?” The man winked at Aisling as he examined the back end of the car. “Looks like you’ve busted the axle son. I could give you a lift into town. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to have anyone look at this. This bein’ a foreign-made car, dunno if Butch has the parts. My name’s Virgil by the way. Virgil Keane.”
“Are ye Irish, with a name like Keane?” Peadar asked, smiling broadly.
“I’m American, but I’ve been told our people came from there.”
“That’s where we’re from. We’re musicians. Over here on tour,” Fionn said.
“Well I’ll be dipped. That so? What sort of music do y’all play?”
“Traditional Irish.”
“You mean like ‘Danny Boy’?”
They all looked at each other and sighed.
“Not exactly.”
“Well, don’t know about you all, but I’m gettin’ pretty damn cold here. We can discuss this more in the truck. Let’s get your car up on the bed.”
They grabbed their instruments and suitcases out of the trunk, crossed the road gingerly and climbed into the roomy, rusty cab of Virgil’s truck.
“Wait, forgot something,” Fionn said as he went back over to the car and grabbed the GPS system, rolling up the cord and sticking it in his coat pocket. When he passed in front of the truck, he noticed its license plate was IFRN317. He chuckled. It looked like an abbreviation for the Irish word for hell, ifreann.
“Did yez see that creek over here?” Peadar said. “Lucky we weren’t goin’ downhill when that púca crossed. We might be drowned.”
Fionn slid in next to Aisling and draped his arm around her so he could fit on the seat. She smelled like that perfume made from Burren wildflowers. Lovely. He took in a deep breath and she smiled at him. OK there lad, don’t get started, he thought. This trip is about restorin’, not further destroyin’, yer reputation. She’s a dacent girl that ye’ve known for years and besides she’s dating that Eamon fella back home, he thought. He pulled back his arm.
“Ye OK there, lass?”
She nodded.
“Where are we goin’ to stay tonight?” Peadar whined.
“I’m hopin’ there’ll be a hostel in town,” Fionn said.
“We should ask yer man for directions to the best place to stay,” Diarmuid said, pointing his thumb at Virgil as he approached the truck and hopped back into the cab.
“If y’all don’t mind, I’m gonna come back in the daylight to get your car. It’s wedged in that culvert real good. So where can I take you kids?”
“We were wondering if ye could suggest somewhere in town, fair priced lodging. Do ye know of a good hostel, or a bed and breakfast?” Fionn asked.
Virgil laughed. “Sakes, there ain’t no place like that around here. That is, unless you don’t mind sleepin’ in a chicken coop. Heh-heh!”
The four glanced at each other, soft Appalachian banjo music drifting across their minds.
“Listen, got an idea. Maybe you Irish kids are long lost cousins of mine. I couldn’t let you sleep in a gutter somewhere. What say you stay with me and the wife tonight? Two of you can sleep in the boys’ old bedroom. The other two can fight over the davenport and pullout.”
Aisling’s eyes widened. Why hadn’t she listened to her Ma and Da and stayed at the university this semester instead of running off with these gypsy musicians? No, she was bored with her major and wanted a little adventure. Well, her wish was just granted. A road sign they passed a way back inspired the Galway newspaper headline she imagined her parents reading: “Irish band bludgeoned near Blodgett Mills.”
“That’d be grand,” Fionn said. “We’ll compensate ye for yer troubles, of course.”
Virgil laughed. “Your money’s no good here, son. So you think you almost hit a black pony in the middle of the road, for real? I knew some musicians when I was a teenager, and they all smoked that funny stuff. Do you Irish smoke that funny stuff?”
“No,” Diarmuid said with a straight face. “We drink it.”
“Mercy! You kids sure are funny. Wait ’til my Nolene hears about the black pony. She’ll think you’re into witchycraft or sumpin’.”
“Oh no, mister. We’re Catholics,” Peadar said.
“I’m Presbyterian, but I hope you won’t hold that against me. Hah-hah.”
They sat silently as Virgil made a U-turn, a right here, a left there, driving them even deeper into the foggy woods. Fionn had been trying to keep track of the landmarks in case he had to lead them on foot-flight away from this stranger, but with the dense fog, they could have been climbing over the peaks of Connemara’s Twelve Bens and he wouldn’t have known it.
Off Woodchuck Hill Road, Virgil turned onto a steep, pine tree-lined dirt road. The tow truck’s springs couldn’t keep up with the rock-hard ruts. Tires smacked frozen ground and the impact knocked the truck’s headlights off. The band members clutched their gear and suitcases bracing for impact, but the truck slid down the grooved road in pitch darkness like coal tumbling down a chute. Peadar held his breath and began sweating profusely.
Up ahead, a lone candle glowed inside the window of a double-wide mobile home. The truck smacked another rut and the headlights kicked back on. They could see two all-terrain vehicles out in front of the home. Next to them stood a steel cage corralling two snarling black dogs, their fierce eyes glowing in the headlights.
“Wait ’til my Nolene hears I’m bringin’ home a pack of Irish musicians for dinner. Sakes alive!”
Diarmuid whispered to Aisling, “He sounds like a hunter bringing home a haunch of venison to toss in the stew pot.” She giggled. Virgil looked back and noted her pretty face and curly chestnut hair as he got out of the cab.
“Too bad my sons Ray and Duane aren’t here to meet this filly, either. They ain’t never had an Irish girl,” Virgil winked to Fionn.
Aisling elbowed Diarmuid. “Och, did ye hear that? Eeuw! I feel so manky. Wish I could shower.”
As soon as the band members climbed out of the tow truck, the dogs flared their juicy gums and growled. They pawed the ground and lunged at the steel fence surrounding them, jaws opened like great whites, spiked collars clanking against metal.
Diarmuid leaned close to Aisling’s ear. “Abandon hope, all ye trad musicians who enter here.” His words creeped her out but there was something darkly attractive about Diarmuid’s latchico looks, she thought. Of course she was attached—her boyfriend Eamon was waiting for her back home in Galway. But they weren’t married or even engaged yet, right? There’s no harm in a bit of checking out the competition. Peadar was already deemed out of the question. Food obsessed and probably in love with his mam, she thought. Fionn was easy on the eyes, but for all the years she knew him, he always seemed completely uninterested, all business. Maybe she’ll meet an American lad she’ll fancy, but defo not the spawn of Virgil, Aisling thought.
“Honey babe, look what I found at the side of the road. They’re Irish, just like grandpap. Might be long-lost cousins.” Nolene narrowed her eyes at the four as they came through the side doorway.
“God bless all here,” Peadar announced.
Nolene patted down her fleece house frock looking for the pack of cigarettes, pulled out a lighter and lit up.
“Hope they ain’t too hungry, Virg,” she said as blue smoke twirled out her nostrils. “Just warming up some corned beef hash in the Crock-Pot. ’Spose I could make some deviled eggs, too.”
The group examined the faux knotty pine interior of the Keane’s home. There was a small table with four chairs. Bubble wrap was duct-taped to the windows as insulation from winter gales. The wrap had an amber hue from the constant smoke cloud off Nolene’s unfiltered Pall Malls.
“Hi Mrs. Keane, me name’s Fionn. That there’s Diarmuid, next to him is Peadar and the lovely lass to his right is Aisling. We’re musicians on tour of the States. Our band is called Slí na Fírinne. Yer husband was kind enough to rescue us after our car slid off the road near the forest.”
“See tha fear in ya? Huh?”
Fionn chuckled. “The band’s name means the path of truth in Gaeilge.”
“Gwale gah, huh?”
“The Irish language.”
Nolene picked at her teeth as her eyes squinted at the four strangers. “I thought you Irish wuz English like the rest of us.” Fionn’s right hand curled immediately into a gentle fist at his side.
“They said they saw a black pony in the road, up by the woods on 392,” Virgil said to his wife, eyes wide as he mimed chugging a can of beer.
“Been livin’ in these parts all my life, hon. Ain’t never seen no black pony runnin’ loose.” Nolene smirked at her guests. “You kids thirsty? Would you like something to drink?”
“That’d be grand,” Peadar said. “I’d love a cuppa.”
Nolene snorted. “Cuppa what?”
“Tay.”
“Ain’t no tea drinkers in this here home, son. We have Sanka, Mountain Dew and some bottled spring water in the fridge. You don’t want to be tastin’ it from the tap, folks. Might be a bit risky since our well failed the E. coli test last fall.” She cough-wheezed a cloud of blue smoke that encircled the musicians. “Of course, if you’re nice to Virgil, he might share a can of his precious Genny Cream Ale.”
“Honey babe, do you mind if they stay the night? No place else for them to go.”
“Heck, they can stay until the car’s fixed. I don’t mind none,” she said as she gave Diarmuid a saucy look. Now he felt manky.
“Well, might be a while. They got one of them Korean cars. Don’t know how long it will take Butch to get the part in.”
Aisling nudged Diarmuid whose eyes were already wide from thoughts of an extended stay in this dwelling. Peadar cough-sneezed. He had weak lungs since his childhood, and the toxic combination of Nolene’s cigarettes, dog dander and wood smoke-permeated furniture were flaring up his allergies and rosacea. Peadar’s florid face alarmed Fionn.
“Lad, care to step outside with me for a minute?” he whispered to Peadar. “I’m going to ring up Des.” Peadar nodded. “Excuse us for a few. We’re going to get a little fresh air.” Nolene frowned and stubbed out her cigarette in the sink.
“Well, I hope they enjoy the cold air,” she muttered as she stirred the corned beef hash. “’Cause I ain’t givin’ up my coffin nails,” she said, cough-wheezing again.
Once outside, Fionn opened the prepaid cell phone Des bought them. He couldn’t believe that these musicians traveled to the States without one. Fionn’s was somewhere under a pile of dirty laundry back at his flat. Diarmuid said he’d run out of minutes, Aisling blamed a last-minute purse switch and Peadar simply didn’t see the need for one. That is, until now. The two waited for signal bars to appear on the phone with the anticipation of Boy Scouts rubbing sticks to start a fire. Nothing sparked on the phone’s screen. Not even a weak half bar.
“I think them trees are chokin’ the cell tower signals to yer mobile,” Peadar said, looking up at the pine tree-edged darkness. “Let’s wander up the road a bit.”
The dogs sprung against the steel fence as they passed them again, clanging like ocean buoys.
“Even old Cú Chulainn would have feared them beasts,” Peadar said, laughing as he tiptoed past.
“They wouldn’t bother me that much, except they look so hungry,” Fionn said.
Tree boughs creaked above as a cold wind stirred over the hilltop. Soon it billowed with strength and roared at the two men, stinging their faces with ice pellets. The road became treacherous, and their feet stumbled on the frozen, rutted mud. Finally, they reached a small clearing overhead and Fionn turned on his cell phone again. Nothing. The glow of the phone lit up their faces outlining each worry line furrowing their brows.
“Wonder if this might work,” Fionn said as he pulled the GPS device from his pocket.
“Don’t ye need power from the car for it to run?”
“I know, just hoped there might be some residual energy left in the blasted thing.” He flicked it on but the screen remained dark. They heard howling in the distance. Aisling was right—coyotes were about!
“Let’s get the feck out of here,” Fionn said as they tried jogging back to Virgil’s mobile home. Peadar’s left foot hit a rut and his ankle hyper-extended.
“Shite! Me ankle’s wounded!”
“Here, put yer arm around me shoulder,” Fionn said. The two hobbled back as if they were running a potato sack race.
Wind outside the mobile home shook the bubble wrap inside like maracas. Its noisy percussion rattled Aisling’s nerves.
“What if they’ve been attacked by coyotes? How would we know?” Aisling asked Diarmuid.
“Ye’ve got some fertile imagination there, lass,” he said, keeping a wary eye on the hostess stirring the Crock-Pot. They heard a commotion outside.
“Peadar’s injured his ankle,” Fionn said breathlessly as they burst open the door, the wind shoving them inside.
“Clear off the davenport, Virgil. I’ll get somethin’ out of the freezer to put on it.” Nolene said, gesturing with a wooden spoon. Fionn and Virgil lowered Peadar onto the brown plaid sofa. Peadar winced as they lifted his legs and propped the left ankle with a pillow.
“Here ya go,” she said as she draped a freezer bag filled with frosted, odd dark objects over his ankle.
“Not the turkey giblets!” Virgil frowned. “But what if they thaw out?”
“Then I’ll make the stew before your birthday, that’s all. Can’t you see this boy’s in pain?”
“Guess you’re right, honey babe.” Virgil frowned, adjusted his Crappie Derby cap and grabbed a Genny from the fridge.
Peadar stared at the bag containing frozen meat stubs, and the thought of what was in it nearly made him vomit. Aisling could see he was upset and patted his hand. “Hang in there, luv. We’ll get ye back home to Mayo soon.”
“We can hope, can’t we?” Diarmuid said, smirking at the invalid.
Peadar scowled back. He thought Aisling was a sweet, lovely girl, but that Diarmuid’s humor was too dark and cheeky for Peadar’s taste.
“Virgil, would I be able to use yer phone to call me cousin in Boston and let him know we’re OK? I’ll call collect.”
“Sure, you’d be able … if the darn squirrels didn’t gnaw through our wires last fall. Phone company couldn’t send anyone up here ’cause we’ve been snowed in just about ever since.”
“There’s no phone?” Aisling repeated to herself, eyes glazed.
“Do ye have a computer?” Diarmuid asked, and then as soon as he said it, realized it wouldn’t work without a phone line. He suspected the Keanes used the term wireless only in connection with bras.
“Well, folks, soup’s on!” Nolene said as she lit another cigarette and let it dangle from her lips while carrying the Crock-Pot over to the table. “Maybe it’s a good thing that injured boy’s on the sofa. We don’t have enough chairs.” She cough-wheezed another blue cloud of smoke over the table as she ladled out the corned beef hash into mismatched bowls. Virgil set a loaf of white bread still in its wrapper on the table, next to the plastic tub of margarine.
“This here’s a real treat for us,” Virgil said as the three at the table looked down at the greasy lumps of corned beef and potato chunks in their bowls. “But I understand you Irish eat this all the time,” he said as he slathered margarine over a piece of bread.
“No word of a lie,” Diarmuid said, “but corned beef’s never passed o’er me lips.” He stared nervously at his food.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, hon,” Nolene winked saucily at him as she ate her meal leaning on the counter top. Virgil raised his eyebrow. He’d have to watch that boy. Didn’t appreciate his sarcasm, and really didn’t like the way Nolene was taking a cotton to him.
As Peadar ate his meal on the couch, he noticed a framed picture of Calvary hanging on the wall above him. If he moved slightly, the image morphed into the risen Christ. Well, he thought, at least they have religion. Right? They wouldn’t be the sort then to murder us in our sleep, right?
His eyes moved across the room to the TV set by the window. On top of it was a pewter gargoyle with red eyes that glowed from a lit candle inside it. Hmm, he wondered, maybe there’s a conflict of faiths going on here? Leaning against the far wall was a particle-board bookcase with a large, dusty photo on top. It showed two young men, probably Ray and Duane, standing by a Last Supper-like display of assorted dead “trophies”—pheasants, deer, bass and a fistful of gray squirrels. Hanging above that was a velvet painting of Dale Earnhardt driving his No. 3 car through the pearly gates as St. Peter waved a checkered flag.
Hmm, Peadar mused, somethin’ tells me they have catholic taste in religion. As he said a few silent Hail Marys, the wind gathered force outside and a sudden gust shoved the wall next to him.
“Feel that, y’all?” Virgil asked, corned beef dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t let that frighten’ ya. This here home’s prone to a little shake, rattle and roll when there’s a good blow outside. Don’t worry. We got steel bolts connectin’ us to the poured concrete beneath.”
Just then the wind blew so fiercely that Aisling could swear she felt the home move a couple of inches. “Does the wind rock yer home like this often?”
“Nah, just for the entire month of March. Like them tides of March I read about in school, I guess.”
“We always say, if it’s rockin’, don’t keep knockin’.” Nolene patted Diarmuid’s shoulder. “Say, hon, can you pass me the margarine?” Diarmuid felt Aisling kick his ankle under the table. Jaysus, she’s a flirty one, he thought.
“You know what, honey babe? I think I’ll take these folks over to meet Cousin Brian tomorrow. He’s the real Irish one in the family. You’d all like him, I bet. His three daughters do that Riverdance stuff. They go all the way up to Syracuse twice a week to take lessons. Bet he’d enjoy meetin’ some real Irish.”
Fionn smiled, but inside he grimaced at Virgil’s use of the “R” word. It made him think of Renny, who told Fionn once that she had a fantasy about cutting his long locks to the length of Michael Flatley’s, dyeing it a deep strawberry blond and perhaps adding a slight perm. He’d laughed at her horrifying suggestion. She whined, “But ye’d look so posh, luv.”
Tryin’ to change me looks—that was the first red flag about that relationship, he thought. Fionn shuddered as he shook the braying image of Renny from his mind.
“Well, thank yez all again very much for your hospitality,” Fionn said. “Dinner was quite … tasty.”
“You’re most welcome, hon,” Nolene winked. “There’s enough so we can have the leftovers with our fried eggs tomorrow.”
Aisling helped Nolene clear the table as Virgil prepared the boys room for two of the guests by lifting boxes of junk and hunting gear off the beds and tossing them in his tiny office. Fionn decided to sleep on the sofa across from Peadar in case they had to flee in the middle of the night. His 6-foot-4 frame barely fit on the lumpy furniture, but he was grateful to spend the night there instead of in a freezing car. In the boys’ room, Diarmuid slept in the bed closest to the door, so he could protect Aisling from intruders. She suspected that he was the one who had more to fear.
When Virgil turned off the last light, the house “disappeared” into darkness. If they held up their hands to their faces, none of the four would be able to see them. The wind cried like keening banshees as it rushed through the pines next to the mobile home. Every once in a while, they heard low growls from the dogs outside, followed by fierce barking as if a terrible row was occurring, then suddenly, utter silence.
The restless night left them exhausted when the sizzle-sputter of eggs frying in Crisco roused them early the next morning. Peadar—not quite awake—looked at his ankle, saw the bag of thawed giblets draped over it and screamed. He told Aisling later that he thought the dogs had gotten in the house and started eating his foot.
“Jayz, did I have strange dreams last night,” Diarmuid said to Aisling as they sat down at the table. “I dreamed a pig was kissing me, and the pig reeked of corned beef hash.” He wondered why Aisling was staring at him instead of laughing at his silly dream. Then she took a napkin and wiped his cheek.
“What the feck are ye doin’?”
“Shh!” she whispered. “Removing pink lipstick.”
“OK, who wants eggs and hash?” Nolene sang as she carried a cast iron skillet over to the table. When she put a spoon into the pan, it broke a yolk leaking thick yellow streams over the red hash. “Here you go, hon,” she said to Diarmuid as she leaned in close to spoon some onto his plate. He noticed her pink lipstick.
Peadar slipped his shoes on gingerly. His ankle felt much better. The swelling was down and he could walk over to the table.
“See what a little bag of frozen giblets can do?” Nolene laughed.
Chapter 3: The Second Fainne
“Stopped by Brian’s for a chat on my mornin’ run,” Virgil said as he returned while they were finishing breakfast. “Says he can’t wait to meet y’all. He insists that you stay the night with his family.”
“Och, that’s very kind of him. I’ve heard yez Yanks were generous. Now I believe it,” Peadar said as he finished off a corner of toast.
Virgil rubbed his hands together. “You kids ready to go fetch your car and head on over to Butch’s?” They nodded, stood up to clear the table but were shooed away by Nolene.
“Run along, now. I can clean up this mess.” They thanked her profusely for her hospitality and she returned the sentiment by patting Diarmuid on the behind as he walked out the door. “Don’t be a stranger now,” she called after him.
The band members climbed into the truck and it lumbered up the dark roads to the scene of the accident. When they got there, Virgil backed the tow truck toward the disabled car, attached some chains and then rolled it up the ramp onto the truck’s flatbed.
As they waited, Aisling was trying to purge crazy thoughts of what their night would have been like if they’d stayed in the car. Diarmuid was trying to block memories of the dreadful smell of corned beef hash and the even worse taste of pink lipstick. Peadar was trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his ankle again. Fionn was wondering if Renny had noticed he was gone yet.
“How far is it to Butch’s?” Fionn asked Virgil.
“’Bout eight miles up the road.”
Skies cleared, the wind settled and bright sunlight melted remnants of yesterday’s snow squall. Fionn took his cell phone out to see if he could get any service. He’d have to let someone know at the college that booked them that they’d probably not be making their gig tonight. Again the phone showed not even a hint of a bar. We’re trapped in a cellular Twilight Zone, he thought.
Virgil pulled in at a rundown service station with a carved tree trunk bear waving an American flag out front.
“C’mon in Fionn, I’ll introduce you to Butch.”
They walked into the dirty repair shop that reeked of motor oil and stale french fries. Butch wiped his hand on an oily rag and extended it to Fionn.
“Pleased to meet ya, son. What happened to your car?”
“We came across this black pony in the road and I braked to avoid it. The road was icy, I couldn’t get any traction and the car flew right into the ditch.”
“They was up on 392,” Virgil added.
Butch chewed gum exaggeratedly as he stared at Fionn. “Never seen a pony there, but did find a salmon in the middle of the road once. Took it home and grilled it. Darn tasty eats. Say, what kinda accent you got there, son?”
Fionn tilted his head as he wondered if Butch really said what he thought he just said. “Um …Irish. Mates and I have a band. We play traditional music.”
Butch squinted at him and started chewing again. “You one of them IRAers? You like to blow things up, ’cause if so, we don’t need no terrorists in these parts. Got enough troubles of our own, what with the phones being out from them al-Qaeda squirrels jihadin’ the lines.”
Fionn laughed. “No, jayz no! We’re from the Republic of Ireland, not Northern Ireland. I promise ye, none of me mates knows anything about makin’ bombs.”
Butch looked past him at the three others sitting in the truck. “Guess y’all do look harmless enough. OK, I’ll place an order for the parts, but this bein’ one of them Korean cars, I don’t expect I can get anything in before a week.”
“A week?” There goes their gig money, Fionn thought. Jaysus, Aisling will freak when she hears that. And what if Peadar needs medical treatment for his ankle? Bloody hell, why did I take on this tour, he thought. Haven’t I paid enough for me sins?
“We’ll be in touch, Butch,” Virgil said patting his oily shoulder. “Gotta go drop off these kids at my Cousin Brian’s.”
The band saw Fionn grimace as he walked toward the truck.
“Bet it’s gonna cost us our earnings,” Diarmuid said.
“Don’t say anything when he gets in, he probably feels bad enough,” Aisling said.
“Och, why did I let yez eejits talk me into this nightmare?” Peadar frowned as he rubbed his sore ankle.
Brian Murphy’s home was an aluminum-sided ranch just down the road from Butch’s Zzzip-In Repair Shop. Since it was Friday morning, Brian was at work. He was the manager of an artificial insemination cooperative run by the agricultural college about 20 miles away. His wife Kelli answered the door, her hair ribbed with curlers.
“Hey, Virgil, you old dog! Brian said you were coming over.” She kissed his stubbly cheek. “So are these those Irish people?” she said, tilting her head. They nodded and Diarmuid noted that somewhere in the house, The Irish Tenors were singing the theme song from Titanic.
“Come on in. Wait until the girls get home from school and see we have real Irish musicians staying with us,” she said clapping her hands together and letting out a squeal of delight. “You know what? You can help them practice for their show at the Ruffed Grouse Lodge tonight.” Diarmuid raised his eyebrow toward Fionn, who saw his reaction out of the corner of his eye but knew it was best to act like he didn’t hear anything.
“So what are your names? O’He and O’She? Hah-hah-haaa.”
“I’m Aisling. That’s Fionn, our leader, next to ye. Diarmuid is the cute, but scary one,” she giggled, “and Peadar is the gimp.” Diarmuid grinned at her compliment; Peadar frowned.
“Never heard Irish names that sounded like that before. No Kevin or Maggie in your group?”
“We are who we are. Mind if I use the jacks?” Diarmuid asked.
“The wha…?”
“Yer terlet?”
She wasn’t sure about this brusque “Deer-mutt” fella. He seemed a little dark. Maybe he was one of those IRA terrorists. Did she trust him using the “good” bathroom?
“You can use the one down in the rec room. That’s where you’ll be staying. Follow me.”
She led them down the plush carpeted stairs to a wide-open room the length of the house. They set down their instruments and suitcases and looked around the pub-sized room. One wall was filled with mirrors. There was a portable dance floor broken up into parquet squares leaning against a corner. A lighted trophy case filled with awards from Irish dance competitions lined the far wall. Kelli led Diarmuid past it and pointed out the bathroom, whose every fixture was pink.
“This is a photo of my dancing colleens,” Kelli said to the others. “That’s Katie, the middle one is Kara and the youngest is Keera.” The photo showed the three in their Irish dance costumes, straight bodices that flared into skirts covered with sparkly Celtic designs in garish hues. Their natural hair was covered with towering shiny ringlet wigs. They wore hard shoes with faux crystal shamrock buckles.
“That’s a fine thing ye’ve done, introducing them to the tradition of Irish dance,” Fionn said. “Did ye dance as a child?”
“No, oh no, not at all. We were shopping at the Carousel Mall in Syracuse one day and happened upon McCool’s School of Irish Dance performing. The girls were interested and so I asked Kevin McCool after the show if they could sign up. We were put on a waiting list for six months before they could take a class. Kevin is from Dublin. Have you ever been there?”
“Is the pope Catholic?” Diarmuid muttered as he rejoined the group. They all laughed.
“You three fellas can stay down here tonight and Ashley can stay with the girls in their room upstairs. It will be like a slumber party,” Kelli said as she gave Aisling a giggly hug. “I’ll go get some sheets and blankets for you.”
Aisling looked at the others and mouthed “Ashley?” They shrugged.
After Kelli disappeared upstairs, the band members got comfortable on the two couches in the rec room. Aisling fell asleep almost immediately and slumped toward Diarmuid. He put his arm around her.
“Cailín bocht. It looks like she’s got the coladh marbh,” he said.
“I could sleep like the dead now, too,” Fionn said, stretching out on the floor so Peadar could raise his legs onto the sofa. By the time Kelli came back downstairs with the linens, they were all sound asleep.
Too soon after, the sound of tapping feet awakened them. They squinted up at three girls with springy ringleted hair standing over them.
“Mom said you were here to help us practice for the performance tonight. We need you to play a reel for ‘The Blackbird,’” Katie demanded.
Fionn rubbed his eyes as Peadar yawned.
“Do yez think we could play them a number or two?” Fionn asked.
“Sure.” Aisling nodded, Diarmuid shrugged and Peadar started assembling his uilleann pipes. The girls folded their arms and waited while Aisling sat up and pulled her button accordion out of its case, yawning as she slid the straps over her shoulders. Fionn tuned his fiddle and Diarmuid clamped a capo onto his guitar’s fret board. Fionn counted off and they started playing an energetic reel. The music drew Kelli downstairs. Diarmuid smirked when he read her T-shirt: “I don’t dance. I finance.”
“Oh, this is wonderful. Let me get the camcorder. Don’t start yet girls,” Kelli said as her daughters preened before the mirrors. She ran upstairs and returned just as the girls were lined up on the dance floor. “Oh, and I brought something to help the band keep time.” She set a metronome on the coffee table in front of them. Diarmuid shot a look of disgust at Fionn. Aisling giggled.
“We need it at 113 beats per minute, Mom,” Katie said, sounding impatient.
“After all the feises I’ve been to with you girls, don’t you think that number is burned into my brain? Hah-hah!”
“It’s feiseanna,” Peadar said softly to Kelli, smiling sincerely at her.
“Huh?”
“The Irish word for the plural of feis is feiseanna.”
“Mr. McCool says feises all the time and he’s from Dublin,” Kara said with a sneer, arms folded.
“That’s because he’s a fe….”
“Diarmuid, shut yer gob!” Fionn growled. “Right then, ‘Miss McLeod’s’?” The band sped into the reel they’d played so many times during their pre-tour practices that their instruments could play it without them. Aisling yawned again as her heavy eyes followed the glittering shamrock buckles on the girls’ hard shoes. She started wondering what would be worse: freezing in the broken-down car, being eaten by coyotes or playing night after night for these feis princesses. Hmm, tough one.
Tiny Keera, arms straight at her sides, started waving fingers upward at the musicians.
“Is that little one tellin’ us we’re too slow?” Diarmuid muttered.
Kara did the same thing. All of a sudden Katie stopped dancing, folded her arms and frowned at the musicians.
“Listen, you’re going to have to keep pace with us or else we’ll just use the Paddy MacSeamus CD. He knows how to play for dancers.”
Aisling knew that scary look on Fionn’s face. She’d only seen him unable to control his anger once, and that was years ago when they were playing at a street festival in Lisdoonvarna. Paddy MacSeamus & His Dancin’ Ballybunions wouldn’t get off the stage when Slí na Fírinne was supposed to go on. They’d whipped the crowd into a frenzy with their campy version of a céilí dance Paddy renamed “The Sweets of Mayhem.” It involved some traditional footwork, namely the sevens and threes, but included kissing and punching and ending up in an Irish-style conga line snaking around the dance floor. Since Fionn’s band was the last act on stage, it angered him to see their precious time to play beautiful traditional music being wasted by this tawdry display of tourist fodder. Paddy also had an irritating habit of never quite tuning his fiddle right, which further grated on Fionn’s nerves.
That day at the festival, Aisling watched Fionn’s hands curl repeatedly into fists and then relax as he waited for the orange-haired Paddy to finish. The last time they curled up, they stayed that way until they connected with Paddy’s jaw, knocking him to the ground and inflaming the angry dancers into a lynch mob that chased Fionn through town.
Aisling looked at the sisters and tried to decide which one Fionn was imagining punching out first. Perhaps it was their mother, who was videotaping the whole thing an arm’s length away.
Fionn clutched the fiddle bow tightly, then looked at the musicians. “Faster!”
Whatever happened to dancing at the crossroads, Peadar wondered as he watched the girls in their glitter-tacky garb. He recalled dancing with his cousins back home in Mayo one sunny afternoon on a coast road by Clew Bay. Uncle Malachy played the concertina for them as they danced a four-hand reel followed by a lively Newport Set. They were wearing everyday clothes, no sparkly shamrock buckles, nary a ringlet upon the heads on his red-haired sisters and Cousin Aileen. What they danced that day was far more authentic and beautiful in its simplicity, he thought, than this schlocky Vegas-style approach to Irish dance today. Even more, he noted, there’s no look of enjoyment on their makeup-plastered faces. Irish dance should be simple and laughter-fueled (like that day in Mayo), not cold and driven with Olympic-like aggression. So much seemed to get lost in translation as tradition crossed the Atlantic and back.
“Girls, do your hornpipe next,” Kelli said, one eye hidden behind the video camera. “You know, the one that wowed the adjudicators in Buffalo.”
“Do you know how to play ‘Harvest Home’?” Kara asked.
“Of course, lass,” Fionn winked at her. Aisling was glad to see his inner fury had passed.
“I want ‘The Mason’s Apron’!” Katie pouted.
“I can only dance this to ‘The Boys of Bluehill,’” Keera said, arms folded.
“If ye’d like, we can play them all and yez can take turns,” Fionn said.
“I’m first then.” Kara stepped forward.
“Why you? I’m the oldest. I should go first!” Katie poked her sister in the arm.
“What about me? I’m the youngest. I’m always last. Let me go first this time!”
“No, Keera!” Kara snapped. “And by the way, your elbows always bend out during competition. If you don’t keep them in, you’ll never place in a higher level.”
“SNOT!” Keera stuck her tongue out.
Kara grabbed Keera’s ringlet wig and threw it across the room. “Ha-hah, ha-hah! You can’t dance without your hair!”
“Kara!” Kelli screeched, still videotaping. “You apologize to your little sister right this minute, missy.”
“Why?”
Katie shoved Kara. “You’re a brat!” Kara reached for Katie’s ringlet wig, but her sister managed to pull Kara’s off first. The girls kicked each other and fell to the dance floor. Keera jumped onto the pile as the girls clawed and screamed at one another.
“‘The Boys of Bluehill’ it is!” Fionn said. “Right then, a haon, a dó, a haon dó trí….” The band jaunted into a lively hornpipe as the battle royal ensued, Kelli still videotaping it all.
When Brian got home from work that evening, he noticed his girls were wearing makeup a bit heavier than usual as they ate dinner in the kitchen. He kissed each girl on the top of her head then looked around.
“Aren’t those Irish people here?” he asked Kelli.
“Yes. They’re eating downstairs.”
“That’s not very welcoming.”
“Well, the girls got overly excited today during practice and there really isn’t much room up here and one of them, well…,” she said as she leaned in to whisper to him, “I think he might be one of those IRAs. Kinda s-p-o-o-k-y.”
“We can all spell spooky, Mom,” Katie said. “It’s not like we’re Cousin Nolene.”
“IRA? Really?” Brian said, raising his eyebrows toward his daughters. “Do you think it’s safe for them if these characters stay the night?”
“Well the one girl, Ashley, seems very nice. She’ll be staying in the room with the girls tonight.”
“She’s not a smoker or druggie is she? Geez, musicians can be a sordid lot. Don’t want them teaching our angels bad habits.” The girls beamed sweetly at their father.
“C’mon, I’ll introduce you to them.”
When they went downstairs, Brian saw the four eating their dinner.
“Ah, I can see Kelli’s given you some of her famous corned beef and cabbage. It’s always a treat for us, but I suppose you eat it all the time over there.”
“Actually,” Diarmuid started to speak but stopped when Aisling’s elbow connected with his gut.
Fionn stood up to greet him. “Howya, Brian. I’m Fionn, the leader of the band. Can’t thank ye and the missus enough for yer kind hospitality to us.”
“Nice to meet you, Fionn. So who are the others?”
“Peadar, Aisling and this is Diarmuid.” As Brian shook everyone’s hands, Kelli nodded when he reached Diarmuid, so he’d know which one she thought was with the IRA.
“Well, this is quite a treat for us all, to have real Irish people under our roof. Have you seen the girls dance yet? I bet you think they’re heading for Riverdance. Kelli and I are so proud of them.”
The band members looked at each other, wondering who would have the courage to respond. Peadar smiled at Brian. “They’re right lively dancers. Feet flyin’ so fast, ye couldn’t follow them.” Phew, the others thought, good answer.
Brian grinned widely. “Wow, that means so much coming from pros like you. Have you ever met Michael Flatley?”
Diarmuid couldn’t hold it in and snickered. “Of course! We’re very close.”
What does that mean, Brian wondered as he stared at the dark-haired fellow. Is Michael Flatley one of his IRA brethren? Oh, how would he ever be able to break the news to his innocent daughters?
“That’s wonderful,” Brian said carefully. “You must give our daughters a good review then. Well, gotta eat my dinner now. We’ll be going to the Ruffed Grouse Lodge in an hour. OK?”
“We’ll, as in all of us?” Aisling asked.
“Yes, Ashley,” Kelli beamed. “Wanted to keep it a surprise, but the Grand Drummer is going to be there tonight. He leads the National Covey of Ruffed Grouse Lodges. Brian put in a good word for you and so you’re the featured entertainment, after the girls dance of course.”
“Lovely. Are we gettin’ paid?” Peadar asked. Diarmuid smirked. Fionn scowled.
“Yes, free bed and breakfast,” Brian laughed as he escorted Kelli up the stairs. When they were out of sight, he whispered to his wife, “Can’t believe it! Michael Flatley … do you suppose he’s in the IRA, too?”
“Fionn, what about our gig tonight?” Aisling asked as they packed up their instruments. He took out the cell phone to see if they’d get service here. Nothing.
“Well, that answers that,” Peadar said.
The band squeezed into the back seats of the Murphys’ minivan and they all drove off to the Ruffed Grouse Lodge. It was a quick ride away, mercifully, and the band was led to the back of the hall where they would be setting up, right under a mammoth TV screen next to the bar. Fionn asked Kelli if the band was going to play for the girls, but she told him ‘no.’ The girls said they’d be less nervous if they danced to the Paddy MacSeamus CD, so all the band had to worry about was their own performance.
Fionn bit his right thumb fingernail as he walked away, thinking actually the girls and Paddy MacSeamus made a brilliant match. Peadar was explaining the uilleann pipes to the bartender when Fionn reached the band.
“Uilleann means elbow in Irish,” Peadar said to the young man. “That’s because unlike the Highland Pipes, ye know the regular bagpipes, these are played with the force of me elbow compressing the bladder here. Fingers cover the holes on the chanter to get the different notes.”
“Cool. Why aren’t you wearing a kilt, like the other bagpipers I’ve seen?”