Carol Clark: Laced

Carrying a cup of tea, the woman walked over to the table and with a loud sigh sat down with them. “You folks touring around?” she asked, smiling for the first time. It was as though she had completed her job-cooking their breakfast-and now that she was done, she could talk. A multitasker she was not.

“Yes,” Sheila answered, patting her lips with a cloth napkin. “This breakfast is wonderful,” she said. “Have you been in the business for long?”

“What business?”

“The restaurant business.”

The woman shook her head. “I’m not in the restaurant business.”

Brian and Sheila both looked perplexed.

“But why-” Brian began.

The woman waved her weathered hand at them. “It’s my pleasure to feed you. My grandson is staying with me for the week. He’s doing a project for school, a study of people who come to visit Ireland, but we don’t run into that many out on the farm here.”

I’ll say, Brian thought.

“My friend at the pharmacy just loves Kieran. He helps her out sometimes at the store. So she sends people my way. She knows I’m a good cook.” Philomena laughed. “But yesterday I served afternoon tea to a couple who’d gone horseback riding and then into the pharmacy for Ben-Gay. They didn’t think these benches were so comfortable. Too bad about them. They didn’t like answering questions, either. Now you two wouldn’t mind if my grandson took your picture and asked a few questions, would you?” She didn’t wait for an answer but got up and moved slowly toward the hallway. “Kieran!” she called, disappearing down the hall. “Kie-rannnnnnnn.”

Sheila and Brian looked at each other with alarm. “Don’t give too much information,” Brian said, his tone grim. “It’s just not a good idea when we’re-”

A skinny red-haired kid who looked about ten came barreling into the kitchen with his video camera. “Hey, hey, hey, hey, Hollywood,” he cried as he started taping them. He reminded Sheila of the bratty next-door neighbor she had known growing up outside Boston, who’d thankfully moved away before they were teenagers. Twenty years later she married him.

‘Kieran, calm down now,” his grandmother ordered as she came back into the kitchen. “Can I get you more coffee?” she asked her visitors.

“No, we’re fine,” Sheila said.

“Get started with your questions, Kieran. They’ll want to be on their way soon.”

“Okay, Granny.” He sat on the bench directly across from Brian and Sheila, and turned his camera on them.

This is what reality TV has done to the world, Brian thought. You’re not safe from cameras anywhere.

“What are your names?” Kieran asked, sounding like a police interrogator.

This kid is a nudge, Sheila thought, but she answered politely: “We’re Sheila and Brian.”

“Last names?”

“Funny you should ask. Both of us actually have an Irish background in common, and that’s why we love to visit Ireland.”

The kid didn’t blink. He obviously had his set of questions and didn’t listen to the answers. He wasn’t unlike most adults. “What do you plan to take advantage of when you’re here?”

A local artist, Brian thought as he cleared his throat and started to answer. “What everyone does…the beautiful scenery, the wonderful people, shopping for Waterford crystal, hiking, the Aran Islands, and of course Dublin. Your grandmother’s cooking was the biggest treat so far.”

“My granny is a better cook than my mom,” he said.

Philomena Gallagher smiled.

His mother must be her daughter-in-law, Sheila thought. “Where do you live, Kieran?” she asked, anxious to turn the conversation to his life.

“In a village down by Cork,” he answered. “Where do you live?”

“In the summertime we like to go to Cape Cod.”

“I didn’t ask you that.”

“Kieran, don’t be rude.”

“I’m not, Granny. My teacher said to find out where people come from. She didn’t answer the question!”

“We grew up near Boston,” Sheila answered. “It snows a lot there. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, it does. I met Brian when we were about your age.” Sheila laughed. “He used to pelt me with snowballs on the way home from school.”

“Do you have children?”

“Not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Kieran!”

“Sorry, Granny.”

“We’ve been married only a few years. I’m sure we’ll have a baby before too much longer. Kieran is such a nice name,” Sheila said sweetly. “If we have a boy, maybe we’ll name him Kieran.”

Kieran, like most ten-year-old boys in a similar situation, couldn’t have cared less. “You had relatives in Ireland who moved to America?”

“Yes. A long time ago. One of my great-grandfathers sailed to New York in 1884.” She turned to Brian. “Didn’t one of your great-grandfathers leave Ireland around the same time?”

“I don’t know,” Brian answered testily.

Sheila made a face at him and then said to Kieran, “We’re both very proud of our Irish backgrounds. Now we only have time for a few more questions.” God, she thought, I sound like I’m holding a press conference.

“Let me think of some good ones,” Kieran said.

Philomena jumped at the chance to speak. You’d never have known it was the same woman who had said hardly two words when they walked in. “I have a son who moved to America,” she said proudly. “He’s doing so well, he is. He lives in New York and just loves it. I miss him, but he comes home a couple of times a year.” She pointed to a picture on the wall of a young man with a woman and two small children. “He has a big job. Thankfully, it’s not like the olden days when the young folks left for America. Families often never saw them again. They used to hold what were called ‘American wakes’ for them before they left Ireland. Did you know that?”

“How sad,” Sheila said. “That is really sad. We moved out to Phoenix, and I miss seeing my mother more often.”

Brian kicked her under the table.

“Stop the lights!” Kieran exclaimed, seizing on the information. “So you live in Phoenix!”

This kid is a regular Columbo, Brian thought.

“Kieran,” his grandmother said, “now what are your final questions?”

“Are you rich?”

“Kieran, that’s enough!”

“Okay. Sorry.”

Brian stood. “I hate to cut this short, but we have an appointment to join a tour group to Galway and we’re going to be late. I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

Sheila stood as well. “This was so much fun. What do we owe you for breakfast? It was delicious.”

“Nothing. It was our pleasure,” Philomena insisted. “Fiona down at the pharmacy told me you’re staying at Hennessy Castle. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Sheila gulped.

‘It’s grand, isn’t it?’

“Yes.” Sheila turned toward the door and stopped dead in her tracks. A small painting that must have been painted by their artist was hanging on the wall. She hadn’t noticed it on the way in, and it was to her back as she ate. Philomena’s painting was similar to the one they had put up for auction-a lush Irish landscape with a table set for dinner out in a field. The table was covered with an intricate lace tablecloth. The artist’s initials were in the corner-their artist’s initials.

The woman noticed Sheila’s gaze. “Lovely, isn’t it? A friend of mine gave it to me. She incorporates lace in all her paintings. Some of them are really quirky and fun. She just gives them away to her friends. I tease her that she could be the next Grandma Moses, but she’s too shy…”

Sheila nodded. “It’s beautiful. We’ve really got to be on our way.” She reached out her hand. “Mrs. Gallagher, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate the wonderful breakfast. Your Irish hospitality is to be admired. I hope someday we can return the favor.”