Brian O’Dowd was born in Dublin. He lives in Toronto. O’Dowd is a Professor at the University of Toronto. His novel ‘A Wicklow Girl’, was published in 2017. Available on Amazon etc. Publisher: Tellwell, Canada. In 2019 he won the prestigious Prix Galien 2019 Canadian Science Award, as reported in the Irish Times. https://www.irishtimes.com/news/health/dubliner-wins-prix-galien-2019-award-for-pharmaceutical-research-1.4093350

‘Those Between Times’ Ⓒ

Brian O’Dowd

Leaving New Orleans, I drove the river trails of old Dixie, wondering what God had for me. South Louisiana is fishing towns, seafood places with marinas and gas stations. Oil-rigs parked in the ocean, sucking the planet dry—drill baby, drill baby—I’d a set of traveling to do. Stopped in Galliano: usual fare with gumbo, jambalaya, and crab cakes, washed with cold brew coffee. Never keen on lobster—seemed like too much work for so little, like dating convent girls in my youth. Riding through Plaquemines Parish, I arrived in Grand Isle and stopped by the ‘Shady Nook’ motel. Not grand nor shady, just a tourist place—a seedy joint with dodgy plumbing, but balcony rooms faced the ocean. My bag and pipes had long seen the best of times.

“All I wanted was to go somewhere, all I wanted was change. Warn’t particular.”

‘Welcome to Grandy. Owned by Pickens family,’ read the faded sign. Hurricane Katrina and friends had gotten in good licks. In family places I imagined shepherd’s pie, grub so good you’d lick the plate clean. The Shamrock Bar was next door, which is why I stopped—needed my ration of grog. Beach reminded me of Courtown with sandy dunes and better times. Behind the counter was a bikini-top woman, sucking Coke through a straw, athletic legs like she spent summers in the ocean. Had an appreciative gawk—well, she knew. Some lucky lad landed that lottery. Light rain started on the tin roof, tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip. Nowt like loving a woman in the tropics; perspiration drips like juice from ripe mangos. Lot on my plate, only with thinking.

‘Bikini-top’ on the phone; I was fascinated to hear her accent from Ireland’s east coast. As I read her name-tag, I wondered if her breasts tanned like the rest. In Ireland they’d be turning pale given the time of year—surest sign of autumn in that land of pale sun; golden delicious Dublin mott. Memories of tan lines fading on a brown-skinned Irish girl back from Majorca; by Christmas, all white. Wonder of the world—never needed Copernicus to know something’s going around. High cheek freckles, short hair, and as I looked, her eyes were laughing.

“Mairead, I’ll go, sure I’ve a Canadian fella giving me the eye.”
Maple leaf tags on the suitcase.
“Noreen,” she as we shook hands.
Krakatoa moment for me—touching her.
“Howya, sure, we get loads from Toronto.”
Noticed she was giving the eye, but maybe only my mind’s eye.

“Yeah, and Baile átha Cliath?” I asked.

“You know, I was thinking.”

Thinking because of my pale Irish mug—plain Irish mug, truth be told.

“Sure, I’m Wicklow!”

“Climbed Sugarloaf once,” I blurted, while the cat got my tongue.

Many thoughts seeking attention. From the Garden of Ireland, no surprise I was smitten. As she handed me the registration card, I inhaled warmed coconut.

“For one?” she asked, oblivious to my beating heart, being short of air.

“Yeah, night to fill. Traveling down God’s highways.”

Some guests appeared and she was distracted. Hefted my bag and on my way, then she changed my world forever.

“Michael, will you be in the bar later? Sure, we could have the grand old chat?”
“Okay,” all I mustered.
Sold my soul, knew a devil’s deal was done.
“Frozen beer for Canadians,” she laughed.
“Hey, I’m Irish.”

That pot-mess of confusion—Paddy’s boy stewed with Micks and Billys, green and gold. Sinn Féin and the Union. Scattered and separated on one wee island. We all love our wretched island—at least on that, we have our brawny hands. Only home, end of days. Lying on the bed with ocean waves through an open door, contemplating. How did she escape the clutches of Wicklow showers back home? No ring, but beautiful birds are caught. She was never alone.

“Never see anyone from home,” she had said.

There’d be bubba boy lurking, show up with her surly fellow. Old boy chewing ‘baccy, dragged out hearing paddies blabbing about a faraway island, anything else too far-fetched.

“‘Y’all ever see a leprechaun over there?’ Sole contribution.”

Downed mini-bar wine; my encounters with Gaels never prospered. Other than we fled our windswept, misbegotten bog land, there was nothing. Through the years, formed no lasting relationships with paddies abroad. Pipes banging and shaking, got the shower. Brushed teeth, thinking you can’t shove pyroclastic flow back down a volcano. Friendly mirror, departed with low expectations—going with the flow in the land by the delta.

‘Cold mugs of Beer’—Cajun’s promise. She won’t be there, anticipating cold beer for a mug. Sit with a few favorite Sam Adams, leave for double bed. Past end-of-season pub, quiet and dark, but on a bar stool was Noreen: lip-sticked and fresh-faced, lit in neon from Hollers Moonshine sign, short red dress, and painted toes in flip-flops; sight for eyes of any man. Wanted to tell her I’d missed her as she grabbed my arm.

“It’s great to see you,” I told her.

No hubby, no main squeeze, no partner, no other body—just her body. Gobsmacked, she by her lonesome. Saints be praised, come marching in.

“Nick, this man is famous, an Irish writer,” she told a stout barman.

Gave the raised query eyebrow.

“Have to be careful in the motel business. With dangerous fellas!” She laughed. “I looked you up. You’ve more degrees than a thermometer.”
“Me mother insisted on edgeimications.”
While Christian Brothers fretted limitations.
“Wrote one book.”
Me and the Almighty.
“Love Irish in Grandy,” Nick’s hippy handshake.

Saw through that bonhomie. Knew what he was about, messing like an extra mongoose at the party. Looked like he had a thing going for Noreen—maybe previous—he lined up shot glasses.

“Our Cher always telling about Ireland,” some mirage over the waves. “My friend, toast to the island that gave us Noreen.”
Move along pops, rapping with Wicklow babe with wicked thighs. Them are ties that bind.
“Sláinte and Éireann go brách, mud in your eye,” I sank the cheap rye.

Blocking my action as ever—fair play and me messing on his turf with a girl from the old sod.

“Nick, go away, don’t get Michael drunk, we need to talk.”
Vamoose, pal, you heard the chick.

Sat at a table; she drinking Dixie beer, I’d last of summer ale.

“So, Professor, why are you here?”

Sick and tired of working, then times God gives me a kick in the arse.

“Roll by the coast, by the seaside, carnival rides.” Zipper and dipper.

Too long in New Orleans’ smoky clubs, waiting for decree nisi and decree absolute. Now carnal rides on my mind—zipper and dipper.

“Ireland should keep girls like you, not in these bayous.”
“What was the book about?”

“What makes a woman change—hurt man she loved. Romance as a young fellow, finished. Departed Eireann broken-hearted, heard even men were reading.”

Written about a fellow leaving Ireland, as many before and after to follow.

“So, still miss this girl?”

Typical broad question—here carrying flame for young one from years past. She’d think I was daft, but romantic like a poet.

“Both from Dublin streets, knew about each other.” I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Paused, let early love’s gravitas fill the air with country music. If a man takes a ride, he learns how to fall.

“In love with an Irish girl seemed deeper.”

Just a kid, no place to hide. Who knew dealing with that? Like snorkeling, skating, transition boy-to-man. Fickle women inhabit the earth, roaming and rambling.
Queen in Asia once kept 100 men for sexual pleasure.
Holly Molly!
Lessons learned, bottomless pit.

“Nobody explained consequences,” she nodded.

She understood the ‘romance’ business; said as a teenager in Avoca, she’d an affair with a married fellow, laughed, put hand on my knee. Bird from Pelican state gave me goose bumps. Maybe a reason she was in deep Louisiana—us, a Mick and Kate, wrong side of the pond. We’d emigrants’ song to sing and lament.

“War battered dogs are we,
gnawing a naked bone,
fighting in every land and clime
for every cause but our own.”

Leant close, mad spirit in those cat eyes.

“Hopeless, thinking of him even when I was married. Emotions mad, terrible like that.”

Error ways—‘was married’. Quiet with memories, felt she wanted to reveal secrets. Nancy whiskey taken over; then I kissed her. Took a gamble—knew not too soon. Talked like we’d always known each other. Departed Ireland at nineteen, fell in love with Ferrice, son of motel owner. Given her married fellow’s circumstance, Ferrice best choice. Noreen swapped mother’s Wicklow house, made home in a Gulf Coast trailer park. Returned, telling Mammy she’d not do college hotel course but head back. Her father had died, mother hopeless to stop this. Now divorced, her ‘ex’ with their son in Biloxi down the coast. Never finished her Leaving Cert.

“Ferrice customized Harley knucklehead with sidecar. Out over Florida panhandle, past fields of Texas blue bonnets and barbed wire fences, hit archipelago to Key Largo. After, never working rooms! Desk duty! Loved Key West, Caribbean music times. Orange juice from the trees. Wanted to stay.”

Wheeler dealer Ferrice, she liked that ride.

“Godmother left me her house in Howth on the head. Not sure what to do.” My grubstake.

Needed bamboozle, flummox, boast, cheat as decent man. Confronted! Lobbed that in the mix, life smelling of roses. Blow her summer dress with hot air. Won’t whack World Series home run or spike Super Bowl touchdown, nor name scratched on Lord Stanley’s Cup. Frankly, achievements not amount to hill on bogs of Allen. Now superpower ‘Howth-head-man’. Dublin Bay in mind’s eye. Ireland’s eye to Bray Head. Lad chosen for Shangri-La on Erin’s isle. Needed bubble meself, play my cards—I’d win with a full house.

“Goodness, on Howth Head! Impressive, rich man living in high cotton.”

Needed big-boy pants, serious intent that day.

“In the tent, remember as a kid hearing fishermen below cliffs. Nets with rough seas. Caves underneath, waves rushing made earth shake.”
“Through caverns measureless to man.”
“Will you rescue me? I’ll make beds!”

Laughed at crazy notion, stared in the bar mirror, brushed fringe from her eyes. No middling woman, smasher, an eye-catcher in my round specs.

“Will you go back?” she wondered.

“Thinking.” Only eunuch sees clear, dangling sac every man’s Achilles’ heel. Knew Ireland lonely, night or day.
“Don’t you have to be ‘Professor’?”

“I’ll quit, got cash from the book.”

Money in banks. Build a Potemkin village. Deluxe life, large chips, two rock salmon. Fruit on table and no soul poorly.

“Sometimes thinking of Wicklow and home,” she said.

Real home, not carpetbagger state. Place full of alligators and reptiles, storms and slick oily fellas from barges, dangerous fellas in motels and scallywag life. Even land was fickle—will-of-wisp place, swamp and bayous, houses on stilts over delta sandbars. Forever changing, shifting sands. Slivers of land with only bare width of a road—here today, gone tomorrow. Gone with wind in blink of a hurricane eye, and every year storms come, no time to ever recover. Louisiana nothing like the rock-hard place from whence she came, that timeless land that made her. Wicklow anchored to granite rock a thousand miles deep. Dublin’s river flowed from Wicklow mountains, crafted of Celt, Saxon, Norse, and much worse. Elemental; Liffey’s children we were.

“But I know it’s late and difficult. Maybe for you it’s easier. I’m hanging on like hair on a biscuit.”

Things complicated; women always with others to look after. She left for a few minutes; I was feeling good in family style. Took a swig from her bottle with a taste of lip gloss. She returned, sat closer—lost love song on the jukebox on her silver dime. Randy Travis to second my emotions.

“Oh, it’s good to talk about home. Still feel a stranger here. Even though folks are friendly it can be lonely.”

“Going into exile is traumatic, we all suffer with that,” I said. Querencia, I was thinking—those who journey overseas change sky and their souls.

“I think we want a lottery win and head home, be done with it,” she offered.

Ran her fingers through my hair, breasts pressing on my arm. She’d have beads galore from Mardi Gras.

“I can layer it, two days I’ll be back at my place in the Quarter. Will you be round?”

With me in white water above a fall and no escape, attracted like steel to a hadron magnet. It was that rapid. I’d be her croppy boy.

“Sure, I’ll arrange things.”

Only thing up my sleeve in New Orleans was that parlor massage from Suzann, Chinese twin from Belize.

“Michael, let’s go down to the ocean—this time is best.”
“Ca-va,” waved Nick goodbye. “Allons.”

Avoided eye contact, gave him a tip but he knew all about me. Outside, on the wooden path she took my hand. By shoreline and light of harvest moon, she pulled me close.

“I’m glad you came by this way,” she told me.

We kissed by Gulf of Mexico, again on a bench nearby. She took a small bottle of rum from her purse, took a sip, and handed it to me.

“Wicklow girls taste nice,” I whispered.

What life is about—my brain tuned to turmoil. Warm and dark as I stripped and went for a bathe in the salty ocean. She laughed, warned to watch for sharks.

“Weather breezin’ up,” she ran for a towel.

Swam that sea—a dip in the nip. We went to my ‘Villa’ room and spent that night together. Windy season ending, but Grand Isle was a wild place—made earth shake, easier on shifty soil.

Could hear waves, but crows woke me outside long after dawn. An angel lying on the pillow, hair tousled from the night. Wondered if I crashed on the road, maybe on a morphine drip.

“Told the devil for one night he’d have my soul.”
“Because of me?”
“A good deal.”
Maybe Satan got his bargain.
“How did that demon know I’d be so crazy!”
“He knows about you,” she’d sinner ways.

Each with raft of mortalers under the belt. When the saints be marching, we won’t be in that parade.

“Devil made me do it.” She jumped from the bed.
“I’ve to run. Oh, laissez les bon temps rouler. A woman’s work never done with fellows around.”

Her son James was back; early morning, mother-in-law brought the lad from Biloxi. At the door she waved her finger.

“Better not be one-night-stand buster, I’m convent girl from Wicklow. Don’t have me a sinner. Y’all come eat when you hear breakfast bell. Sorry, no white pudding, just flapjacks, buttered grits today.”

Tucked in the bed cover and kissed again.

“Could get to like you, I’ve black satin sheets in my chambre à coucher on Decatur. Better come visit, good Lord willin’ and creek don’t rise.”

Heard humming as she ran away—it was not the blues.

Lay back with brain topsy-turvy, only evidence remaining was empty rum bottle and mosquito bites. September moseys have iron mouth. Only needed half a bed and woman to call my own.

Hour later in the kitchen, introduced me to her son, James.

“Michael, my friend from Dublin,” and that’s no lie.

Young fellow told me firmly his name was Jimmy—a bright kid of twelve years, had Noreen’s unguarded eyes but not her bones. Shook hands, looked like his mother but smaller than a normal kid. Some undiagnosed wasting disorder; was in a wheelchair, caught me looking. Feel infinite sorrow when young ones are in trouble—hard to contemplate for us all. He doesn’t got all what belongs to him. He replied with his eyes:

‘Know I’m in a tough spot, but I’m brave, doing my best. So no pity, okay? I’ve my mom and she’ll always be with me.’

Sitting together round the kitchen table. Jimmy told me he’d been to Wicklow with his Dad—no one knew he’d only four months left. Still cry a little, with memories of a tough kid in a spot from which he and she knew there’s no escape. He went to see God early.

“Best-looking girls are from Wicklow, but too many freckles.” Could hear that Wicklow accent in Jimmy.
“James!”
Kid had an opinion, gave him thumbs up.
“Wicklow girls are the best!” On that I’d testify.
“Not just you, Mom, saw them on the beach in Bray.”
“I’m jealous, my boy checking out girls.” She hugged him.
“Here on the beach they tan more even. Celtic Irish people are most pale. Mom, I read that.”
Drank my coffee, ate dreaded grits; kid had an eye!
“Swim okay in the sea, but better in the pool.”
“James got his first kiss from girlfriend at the pool in Arklow.” Noreen so proud. Jimmy waved away mother’s remark, no time for trivial talk.
“He writes poetry to her!”
“Don’t go an’ dog me, Mama. Mom, I write poems—not all to Jenny. Jenny writes a lot; she might visit next year. Dad says I’d maybe swim for Ireland in para-Olympics; obviously Louisiana first choice. Need train really hard.”

Noreen looked at him, bursting with pride.

“I liked the Sugarloaf, took loads of pictures. If I get leg muscles stronger I’d maybe climb it, only 1644 feet.”

Finished breakfast and left, wanted God to bless them both.

Later that morning, sat with Jimmy on a rickety pier out over mighty Mississippi. Fishing for catfish with long fishing pole, furiously waving at the bridge of passing oil barge. Noreen asked me to video, watched waves break around oil freighters led by the pilots.

“That’s old MeldRidge from Texas goin’ up river to Kansas. Reckon two days late, Seymour?” Jimmy asked.

Elderly fisherman Seymour Stanley had Yankees baseball cap, face lined like a wicker basket, chewing wad of tobacco. Seymour, I guessed, was Jimmy’s best friend.

“Looks like they got cleaned up somewhat. Must have gotten held over dry dock in Pensacola. Sure heard she needed repairin.”
“And she’s ridin’ low,” said Jimmy. Now deep Louisiana, happy when Captain responded with foghorn!
“Sure enough. Gotta make sure folks in Kansas got heaten for them cold winters,” Seymour replied. “We ain’t all fortunate.”
“Someday! Someday I’m gonna ride those barges movin’ that crude. Eh, Seymour! Ain’t I, Seymour?”
“Sure Jimmy. You’ll ride barges. Move crude from Pecan island to up north. If you set your strong mind, figure you do anything you want. Mark the twain for safe waters; sand gravels always changing. Like time, Jimmy.”

Slowly MeldRidge barge moved past, up and around the bend in that majestic river.

“Okay, Jimmy, gotta be movin’. Your Dadda’s boat comin’ anytime soon.”

Seymour walked slowly with aid of a cane as he pushed Jimmy.

“You can bet on it, Seymour, you can bet on it.”
“Yeah, bet on Gamblin Star, sure enough. You ought to be on stage, just you and your Dadda.”
“Catch you fellas on the flip side.” Last thing I’d said.

Later, Noreen could not watch the video taken that day—if our God with his emotion maybe get old quick. Ferrice coming back, so later that morning I left. Side of the motel, Noreen discreetly hugged me. Driving back to City of Nawleen, I was in a trance—could not wait to see this unguarded colleen again. God’s plan always involves fork to change direction; how universe operates. Sometimes God passes me that bouncing ball. Road trip had been my epiphany, after precious years of debauchery, spending time with honky-tonk angels. Priests of school days were correct, needed emotional bond with a woman and not babes looking for cash in my wallet. In our brief encounter, she put me in a mental place I’d rarely been—a man with two sugars in his tea, batter on three balls and no strikes. Later in this tale, there’s no apple, just sting of a serpent got me removed from paradise. Still, now, I’d give it one more good lash.

Back then, early times, Noreen—been better if at Ellis Island was dispatched back to Erin’s isle.
‘Sorry’, Customs fellows would say, likely Boston old lad.

“Away home with ye now, lassie, not a thing here for likes of you. Erin go brách needs you. For the best, find a farmer, help him do the milking, early morning mists. Don’t go down to Louisiana. Raise Irish cows, chickens, barley and Wicklow young ones. You’re a mad one come over here. What on earth you thinking? Stay put where you are for God’s sake. Go on home and sit beside the turf fire in the cottage. Do a mother’s work, stir the stew. This land full of cockroaches.”

(Condensed version, Chapter 1, ‘A Wicklow Girl’ publication)