“The purification?”
“One beer won’t poison me, Tempe. I’m not a zealot.”
Since conversation required screaming, I focused on the band. I grew up with Irish music, and the old songs always summon childhood memories. My grandmother’s house. Old ladies, brogue, canasta. The roll-away bed. Danny Kaye on the black-and-white TV. Falling asleep to John Gary L.P.’s. I suspected these musicians were a bit loud for Gran’s taste. Too much amplification.
The lead singer began a ballad about a wild rover. I knew the song and braced myself. At the chorus hands slammed in a five-strike staccato. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! The waitress arrived at the last pounding.
Harry and Ryan chatted, their words lost to the din. I sipped my drink and looked around. High on the wall I could see a row of carved wooden shields, totems of the old-line families. Or were they clans? I looked for one named Brennan, but it was too dark and smoky to read most of them. Crone? No.
The group began a tune Gran would have liked. It was about a young woman who wore her hair tied up with a black velvet band.
I studied a series of photographs in oblong oval frames, close-up portraits of men and women in their Sunday best. When had they been taken—1890? 1910? These faces looked as grim as those in Birks Hall. Maybe the high collars were uncomfortable.
Two schoolhouse clocks gave the time in Dublin and Montreal. Ten-thirty. I checked my watch. Yip.
Several songs later Harry got my attention by waving both arms. She looked like a referee signaling an incomplete pass. Ryan was holding up his empty mug.
I shook my head. He spoke to Harry, then raised two fingers above his head.
Here we go, I thought.
As the band began a reel, I noticed Ryan pointing in the direction from which we’d entered. Harry slid off her stool and disappeared into the mass of bodies. The price of tight jeans. I didn’t want to think about how long her wait would be. Just another gender inequality.
Ryan lifted Harry’s jacket, slid onto her stool, and placed the jacket where he’d been sitting. He leaned close and shouted in my ear.
“Are you sure you two have the same mother?”
“And father.” Ryan smelled of something like rum and talcum powder.
“How long has she lived in Texas?”
“Since Moses led the Exodus.”
“Moses Malone?”
“Nineteen years.” I swirled and stared at the ice in my Coke. Ryan had every right to talk to Harry. Conversation was impossible anyway, so why was I pissed off?
“Who is this Anna Goyette?”
“What?”
“Who is Anna Goyette?”
The band stopped in midsentence, and the name boomed out in the relative quiet.
“Jesus, Ryan, why don’t you take out an ad?”
“We’re a little jumpy tonight. Too much caffeine?” He grinned.
I glared at him.
“It’s not good at your age.”
“It’s not good at any age. How do you know about Anna Goyette?”
The waitress brought the drinks and showed Ryan as many teeth as my sister at her friendliest. He paid and winked at her. Spare me.
“You’re not exactly poetry to be with,” he said after placing one of the beers on the ledge above Harry’s jacket.
“I’ll work on it. How do you know about Anna Goyette?”
“I ran into Claudel on this biker thing, and we talked about it.”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“He asked me.”
I could never figure out Claudel. He blows me off, then discusses my phone call with Ryan.
“So who is she?”
“Anna is a McGill student. Her aunt asked me to locate her. It’s not the Hoffa case.”
“Claudel says she’s a very interesting young lady.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Harry chose that moment to rejoin us.
“Whoa, little buckaroos. If you have to pee you’d better plan ahead.”
