He wept bitter tears
But his cries were in vain
As he looked on the lake
A swan glided by
And the sun slowly sank
In the gray of sky
“How do you know it?” I whispered into her ear. Her body shivered. Did I do that?
She swallowed before answering. “My, uh, my Maimeó used to sing this to us when we were small.” A small tear threatened from her glassy eye making me uneasy.
“What’s a Maw-mo?” I asked, curious as hell.
“Maimeó is what we call my grandmother. She’s born and bred Irish. Came to the United States, Jersey, in the sixties carrying my father.”
“That explains the name MacLochlainn,” I said, a slight grin tugging at my lips.
“Yeah, Americans assume I’m Scottish because of the whole ‘Mac’ thing but I’m one hundred percent Irish. My mother’s family is Irish as well, but they came to the U.S. during the potato famine.” That’s when I realized that this must be like coming home for January.
“It also explains the red highlights,” I blurted out without realizing. I almost slapped my hand over my mouth.
Her mouth began to form the question, but out of nowhere a man lifted me from my seat, saving me...possibly.
“Ah, it is you!” He exclaimed loudly for the whole pub to hear. He slapped me on the back, making me choke. “Right! Let’s get pissed, ya’ bastard!” He bellowed making everyone cheer.
“I’m sorry,” I said, as he pushed me toward the bar, “do I know you?”
The guy had about ten seconds before I lost my cool.
“I’m sorry, friend! I know your band! The Ivories! Ah, right, see this here, I know your music. You were here, were ya’ not, two years past?”
“I was. I can’t believe you recognize me.”
“Yeah, I didn’t really like ya’ much.” How comforting, I thought as the ruddy, large Irishman eyed me like piece of meat. He smiled after a moment, making me nervous. My hand formed a fist in preparation. “It was my lady! Agh! Did she have it bad for ya’!” I tensed nervously. “What’s the matter with ya’! Loosen up, man! What’s ya’ drink?”
The guy was all over the place. “What the hell!” I said, “I’ll take a scotch, McEwan's.”
“D’ya’ hear this, boys? The Yank drinks scotch! ’Round here, them’s fightin’ words!” He said, pinching my shoulder hard. I tensed again. “I’m just joshin' ya’, boy!” He laughed heartily and slapped me once more on the back.
I downed the scotch in one gulp, wincing as it burned its way down my throat.
“Another?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I’ve still got a pint at the table.”
“That’s not your table there, is it?”
“Uh, yeah, it is.”
“No, it’s not, mate! You’re drinkin’ with us tonight!”
I peered over my shoulder at January who had arched her back and leaned toward us, trying to listen in. When I caught her doing it, she righted herself, resting her chin in her hand on the table and pretended to be interested in Ailin’s boring ass conversation.
“Is she with you?” The guy asked when he caught sight of January.