CoffeeBeanShop

The Luck of the Irish

by Richelle Putnam (bio at end of story)

Martin Brian O'Donnell the Third was getting married. His picture was in the Jackson Daily News, Society Page, Mary Kathleen O'Brien beside him. She was quite beautiful, and I prayed a flaming temper matched her red hair and her good old Irish name.

It was 5:00 o'clock Friday afternoon so my first drink wasn't from a broken heart, but from a long week.

Right!

I opened the cabinet doors over my refrigerator. Bottles clanked as I pushed aside Torada Tequila, Castillo Puerto Rican Rum, Jack Daniels Sour Mash Whiskey, and Bombay Sapphire Gin. Ah. There it was. A half a fifth of Bushmills Malt Old Irish Whiskey.

I set the bottle on the counter with a thud. This called for a celebration. An Irish Celebration. I prepared the Mr. Coffee, and soon the room was filled with bittersweet aroma.

My stomach turned and a knot grew in my throat.

Martin.

Married.

To someone else.

Just four months ago, Martin had told me that commitment was simply too much for him? He needed to find himself, discover what his past had to reveal about him. Then he went into that spill about the old country. Ireland. God, he acted like he had actually endured the four-year potato famine. When he had too much to drink, he cursed the English for stripping his homeland, evicting helpless women and children into the streets even though he'd never set foot on Ireland soil. After he read Angela's Ashes, he started singing, "On Mountjoy one Monday morning, high upon the gallow tree, Kevin Barry gave his young life, for the cause of liberty."

Martin was twenty-five years old and had never eaten a potato. Never. Not fried, boiled, mashed, stuffed, microwaved, nothing.

"After my great-grandfather sailed to America," Martin said, "he vowed that he'd die before a potato was served at his table, and the tradition has been handed down generation to generation."

I wanted to say, "That was over a hundred years ago," but I didn't. I wanted to say, "Have you ever tried fries with lots of salt and ketchup," but I didn't. I was so much in love that I gave up potatoes as well. No more Quarter Pounder with fries. No more Sweet potato casserole. No more mashed potatoes and gravy. No more baked potatoes with sour cream, shredded cheese, and lots of butter.

I ate rice.

Lots of rice.

And noodles.

Lots of noodles.

I grabbed my favorite cup that read, "Men only use one side of their brain…..the wrong side." Steam floated up as I poured the coffee, dampening my face. I added a teaspoon of sugar and two tablespoons of Bushmills, the fragrance strong and heady. I garnished with Cool Whip and trudged to the den. The first sip was hot and stout. The second went down smooth and easy. I stared at the picture, heart thudding, stomach turning. When I emptied the cup, I tossed the paper into the wastebasket, and made my second Irish coffee with four tablespoons of Bushmills.

On my way to the couch, I retrieved the newspaper from the wastebasket. Even in the newspaper, his eyes sparkled. I licked the sweet whipped cream from my lips, and said, "Here's to you."

I made my third coffee, pouring the whisky directly into my cup. Lightheaded and somewhat giggly, I studied the Irishman I'd loved for one year and two months, and clicked my cup against his face. "May you live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent."

I stood, wavered a moment, and made another with an unmeasured amount of whiskey.

Back in my seat, I considered his girl, Mary. Or did she go by Kathleen? Or Mary Kate? Who cared? I lifted my cup. "Here's to your coffin. May it be built of 100 year old oaks which I will plant tomorrow."

Martin and I used to see who could belt out the best toast. Martin always won, the luck of the Irish with him, and he often drew a crowd. I felt proud to be under the arm of Martin Brian O'Donnell the Third. He changed my name, Brenda Louise, to Bren, said it sounded Irish that way, and rolled the Br, so it sounded like B-B-B-r­-r-ren. I loved it.

By my fifth coffee, I revised the Irish toasts as I saw fit.

"May the wind that blows on you be the wind of someone's sour stomach."

"May the dust of your foe's carriage blind the hell out of you."

It wasn't long before my toasts slurred.

"As you schlide down the banishters of life, may the schplinters point the wrong way."

"May your blesshings be lessh, and your troubles be more, and nothing but Irish crap fall through your door."

I passed out on the couch, my tears given out, the Bushmills' bottle empty, and woke with a hangover the size of Africa.

The phone rang and I held my head so it wouldn't split.

"Hello."

"Did you hear?" My best friend, May, asked.

"Don't shout. Hear what?"

"About Martin."

"I heard."

"Are you okay?"

I laid my head back on the couch. "Fine."

"You sound like you cried in your beer all night. Did you?"

"All I had last night was coffee."

"So, you're okay?"

"Great. I was just about to jump in the shower. Call you later."

"You're sure you're..."

"Fine. Later. Okay?"

"Okay."

I hung up and dragged to the bathroom where in the mirror swollen bloodshot eyes stared back, and my pale skin was still indented from a drunken sleep.

I soaked for thirty minutes, bubbles crackling around me, and sweet smells of bath oil floating up from the steaming water. How many futile hours had I waited by the phone, dreaming about Martin's return, and prayed to see him in a crowd?

With little to eat since noon Friday, my stomach cried out. An hour later, I was reading the menu at Thornton's. I placed my order and was gulping my third glass of water when I saw them, arm in arm. Her thick hair flamed, and youthful freckles dotted her face. His arm was clenched around her small waist. The Irish couple.

My heart fluttered when his eyes met mine, and dropped like a brick when the two approached my table.

"Bren, how are you?" Martin said.

The smile I forced quivered. "Great. And congratulations."

He looked at his wife-to-be. "Kate, this is Bren. Bren, Kate."

"Nice to be meet you, Bren."

"So, you're okay?"

"It's Brenda," I said. "Brenda Louise. And nice to meet you."

"Excuse me," my waitress interrupted, squeezing between Martin and Kate. I thanked her silently. "Here you go, ma'am. Twice baked potato with sour cream, cheese, and bacon. French fries with melted cheese, and stuffed potato skins. Will that be all?"

I held up my glass. "More water, please." Martin's eyes were wide with disbelief as I bit into a fry and savored the salty, crunchy outside and soft insides. "Want one?" I asked.

"We don't eat potatoes," Kate said, squeezing Martin's arm like a ketchup bottle.

"Really?" I asked, biting into another fry. "How interesting."

"Yes," Kate said. "O'Donnell family tradition."

I glanced at Martin. His face had reddened. "So, where are you going on your honeymoon?"

"Dublin," Kate answered. "Martin has never visited the old country."

I scooped up a fork full of stuffed potato. "You were born in Ireland, Martin?"

"You know..."

"So, you two," I said, interrupting him. "I wish you the very best."

They were shown to their table and I let loose a sigh. My heart soon slowed and I swallowed what I knew to be an Olympic size pool of tears.

What did I hate most about the situation? That Martin was getting married, or that he found someone he loved? More than me. Had he ever loved me? Really loved me? Did it matter?

Damn straight it mattered. I loved him so much it hurt. I loved him so much I was willing to give up anything, potatoes, sugar, chocolate, my name, whatever it took

The revelation struck. Of course he hadn't loved me? He never knew who I was. I was so busy being what he wanted me to be that I gave up…me.

Even my name.

"Will there be anything else, ma'am?"

"Just the ticket, please. Oh, and will you deliver something to the couple over there?"

"Certainly."

"Borrow your pen?"

The waitress handed me her black ballpoint, and as I wrote on a napkin, she asked, "Just the note?"

"Two Irish coffees made with your best Irish whisky, and this note." I handed back the pen. "It's an Irish toast.‘May you never forget what is worth remembering, or remember what is best forgotten'."I rose, stuffed two twenties into her hand. "Thanks."

I gathered my purse, and never once looked back.

© Richelle Putnam. All Rights Reserved.

Finalist - The Luck of the Irish by Richelle Putnam

No bio available.

Editor's Note: "The Luck of the Irish" is a great read. The humor and pathos are definitely Irish! *grin* The ending was great - although this reader expected something else. The writer obviously knew what was best, as who could possibly live with a man who didn't like...oh, you'll just have to read the story.

Back To Top