The Pub Across the Pond by Mary Carter Page B

Craic
    At the airport, Carlene boarded a bus to Galway. From there she was to wait by the fountain in Eyre Square for a man named Anchor, who would drive her to Ballybeog. She wasn’t sure who he was, but on the phone he’d introduced himself as the “ambassador of Craic.” Thanks to Brendan, Carlene knew “craic” was the Irish word for “fun,” and not the cheaper cut of cocaine used by those who couldn’t afford it pure. The bus was mostly empty, and Carlene sat up front. The driver caught her eye in the mirror and smiled. He was in his fifties with a trim beard and a pea green cap. He had warm brown eyes.
    â€œWhere are you from?” he asked.
    â€œAmerica,” she said. No use leading with Cleveland, Ohio, and sucking the life out of the conversation before it even began.
    â€œAh, right. You’ll love it here,” he said. “You’ve got the Cliffs of Moher, Aran Islands, Galway City. Do ye like live music, do ye?”
    â€œI do,” Carlene said.
    â€œThey’ve got loads of musicians and young ones such as yourself in Galway.”
    Carlene nodded and smiled and took in the cows grazing by the side of the road. She was in Ireland. She was on her way to her new life. She was glad she was in a bus; riding this high up, she felt safe. Even so, it was strange driving on the other side of the road, and every time she looked out the window, she felt as if they were about to get smashed by an oncoming car. Large signs leaving Shannon shouted: S TAY TO THE L EFT .
    â€œGalway’s nice all right,” the driver said. “And as I was saying, you should try to get to the Aran Islands. There’s a ferry that leaves from Galway.”
    â€œI’m actually not staying in Galway,” Carlene said. “Although I’m sure I’ll eventually visit. I’m going to Ballybeog.” The bus swerved slightly to the right. Stay to the left, Carlene shouted in her head.
    â€œDo you have family out there?” the driver asked. This time she decided not to mention her great-great-great-can of beans. Outside it began to rain. Carlene didn’t mind. Even through the drizzle, everything looked quaint and beautiful, even the road signs.
    â€œNo,” she said. He was watching her again through the mirror. She wondered if it would be impolite to ask him to watch the road.
    â€œThis wouldn’t have anything to do with the raffle, now would it?” he said.
    â€œRaffle?” she said.
    â€œI’ve had more Americans ask me about Ballybeog this past month than in me whole twenty years of driving,” he said. I see, she wanted to say. And how many accidents have you had in these twenty years? Please, oh please, watch the road, and for the love of God, stay to the left . Instead, she smiled. “Some American won a pub in Ballybeog,” he said. “Did ye hear about dis?”
    â€œNo,” she said. She was probably going to go to hell for lying to the nicest people on earth, but she couldn’t take the chance that he would react like the woman in the airport, not with her life in his jittery hands.
    â€œAh, it’s all over the news here, sure,” he said. “They’re expecting him any day now.”
    â€œHim?”
    â€œAye, I think it’s some big shot on Wall Street that’s won it, all right. But if he’s thinking he can swoop in and flip it, he’s got another thing coming. Not a little shack like that, out in the bogs.”
    Carlene sat up straight. Flip? Shack? Out in the bogs? Suddenly she wasn’t so concerned about him watching the road.
    â€œYou’ve been there?” she said. “It’s a shack?” Out in the bogs? It was close to Galway, didn’t they say it was close to Galway? Yes, she’d seen it on the map, it was close to Galway. Why did she let strangers rattle her?
    â€œAch, I’ve only driven on through it meself. But Ballybeog isn’t