Mags
By Tim Egan
Maggie O'Callahan has the toothy countenance of a grinning Connemara pony. She smiles happily, walking toward the dock to get just one last glance of the ferry as it hoists anchor. "Maybe", she says to herself with the part of her heart that still produced the innocence of a bony-legged schoolgirl, "I'll see him ride into his sunset."
Somehow, it didn't matter. The broad glimmer in her eyes and plastered beam across her face, which was beginning to make her facial muscles ache, tells a story not of what was to come, but of what had happened.
"Mags" as her work mates at the Oak's Crossings Cafe called her, was a special person who could only see the good in others. And she knew straight away the brilliance of the man who wandered in for a feed on a cold, rainy, Galway afternoon. With a frame that filled the doorway, he shook off the rain not knowing the attentive gaze upon him from the back of the room. Mags couldn't see his face just yet, but there was a teeming impression of unfamiliarity and not just because of the long, rain-moistened leather coat he wore. He sat down to order.
She heard a fathomless thump of a voice that made her lungs seize up and arms tingle, then lost her concentration, scribbling what must have been an order. Then she heard one word that brought her `round.
"Coke." Then a pause. She had an inkling, then he continued. "With ice, please."
"A Yank," she thought. "The voice, the coat that looked straight out of a Western movie and a Coke. He's a Yank."
When she brought out his lunch, she decided she would strike up a conversation. "Be careful now, it's hot," she said in a comely voice, silky to the ear as a touch of a fresh rose pedal, in a fine-pitched brogue.
"Hot, spicy," he shyly inquired, "or just hot?"
Realizing a chance for further dialogue, "Just hot lad, why? Do you not go in for spicy food?"
"No," he smiled wide and gave off a slight wink over his left, glinting hazel eye. "I have an Irish mother. The only spices she ever used were butter and salt."
His dry humor caught her off guard and she laughed out loud to the point it was almost an unladylike and impressionable snort, but she stopped short of embarrassment.
After he finished his meal and five or six cokes, Mags had lost count, she brought his check. "Are you staying in Galway long?" she innocently asked.
"About a week," he wavered, "maybe longer."
"If you're interested in the drink or good craic, the bar next door has traditional live music tonight." Subconsciously, she had opened herself up. "Usually things get going about 9 o'clock," the same time she went off work.
That evening that same frame that filled the doorway of the Oak's Crossings, did the same at the adjoining pub. As her stomach rumbled with nerves, he eased his way across the floor, not wanting to seem to anxious but not wasting any time introducing himself. As a Guinness cascade flowed, they exchanged pleasantries.
"Is this your first time in Galway?" she asked.
"First time to Ireland," he answered. "I was in a little town called Leighlinbridge, in County Carlow, visiting family. It was pretty slow there. My cousins are farmers. I wanted to come to Galway because friends back in the States told me it was a beautiful place and a lot of fun. I would have been here a couple days back, but I couldn't get a ride in Leighlinbridge."
As he uttered his last few words, she was just about to take a drink of the short Vody he had bought for her. Not believing her ears, she choked her drink down the wrong pipe.
"Did you say you couldn't get a ride?" she coughed through her misdirected drink and forced hold on a riotous burst of laughter.
He paused, "Obviously, getting a ride in Leighlinbridge is something completely different than getting a ride in Galway," he sharply realized.
"It's the same, but not the same ride you Yanks are thinking about," she said and both laughed with him copping on to the meaning.
"So tell me what you know about Ireland," she prodded.
"All my Grandmother could tell me," he said with pride. "Songs, history, stories and legends."
"What legends would they be when they're at home?"
"My favorite," he said, "is Cuchulainn. I've even written a poem about him."
"A Yank," she said in a shock, "writing a poem about Cuchulainn, Jaysus that's strange. Don't they have heroes in America to write about?"
He laughed saying "sure" and then recited his rhyme word for word. It was at this moment that she gave a piece of her heart to him forever, even if he didn't know.
She laughed, but not to humiliate. She couldn't believe her own ears, it was a fantastic poem indeed. He took no offense, for him, her laughter was medicinal.
Two weeks had past and they made their way to Dublin, to spend a few days and say goodbye. The "Yank" was heading to London by boat, the same way his Grandfather had done, then it was back to America. Their time was short, but memories are what matters to Mags.
Life she decided, her life anyway, would be defined by positive circumstances. Although she buries the unfortunate fact she may never see her "Yank" again, her heart will always hold the time they shared as one of life's purest delights.
While she stands on the dock, she thinks about all the women, wives and lovers, who sent their men off to war. Some never to return, many never to be the same. She thinks of their bravery and feels their tears. But her well-defined existence won't allow the slightest weep. No one could live by any better definition and her toothy grin will last longer than just the steps she takes on the dock this day.
