Kevin, Corrigan’s father, looked fit and hearty, with a square-jawed, pink-hued face, and wiry gray hair clipped straight and short. He was wearing a dark suit with vest, tie loosened and collar in disarray, liberally sated and jovial. “Well, he’s taken his own sweet time about it, but he hasn’t done badly,” he pronounced, clamping an arm around Evelyn’s waist. “What he did to deserve you is beyond me power to imagine, but there must be some sense left in him somewhere. Welcome to Ireland. And welcome to our house.”
After that, Evelyn lost track of the introductions as they were shouted over the din or acknowledged with a wave from a table, over a frothing pint. There were Corrigan’s two brothers and a sister, dozens—it seemed—of his old pals, friends of the family with names no sooner announced than forgotten, and innumerable cousins, uncles, in-laws, and aunts. And, of course, everyone was dying to meet the American wife.
“Carnegie Mellon, in Pittsburgh? Was Joe there? I didn’t know that,” a tall man in a tweed jacket said. “Did you know that Andrew Mellon was Irish-American?” Evelyn hadn’t. “And so was William Penn, who founded Pennsylvania. In fact, he was native Irish—from Cork.”
“The Irish seem very proud of their nationality,” Evelyn remarked.
“Other people have nationalities,” someone else chimed in. “The Irish and the Jews have a psychosis.”
“The only thing you have to know about Irishmen is not to let them mix alcohol and politics,” a chubby woman in a floral dress told Evelyn. “It’s like driving. They can’t handle both at the same time, you see.”
“Where did ye say they’re living now, over there? Pittsburgh, is it?”
“I thought a Pittsburgher was something you ate with chips at McDonald’s.”
Behind, Corrigan was unable to resist a little posturing as the worldly finder-of-fortune returned from afar. “Of course, I moved out of academics a while ago, now,” he told a couple of men about his own age, both nursing pints of Guinness. “I’m managing a big AI project for one of the larger corporations—Pittsburgh based.”
“That’s nice,” one of them said, staring woodenly.
“In fact, we’re in the process of reorganizing for what everyone thinks will be a major breakthrough. Might well mean another promotion.”
“That’s nice.”
Another woman said to Evelyn, “You should make money while you’re young, and babies when you’re older. People get themselves into such a mess trying to do it the other way round.”
“I have relatives in Boston,” her companion said. “We always try and get over there for Saint Patrick’s Day. Americans do a much better job of organizing it. I think they understand it better than we do.”
The drink and the talk flowed freely. As the mood grew mellower, Kevin Corrigan rose to propose the traditional Irish wedding toast: “May you have many children, and may they grow as mature in taste, and healthy in color, and as sought after . . .” he swayed unsteadily, almost spilling his drink, and Helen nudged him sternly, “as the contents of this glass.”
“Slainte!” everyone chorused, and drank.
Then it was the turn of an uncle, also called Joe: “May the road rise to meet you, the wind be always at your back, the sun shine warm upon your face . . . Hell, there’s more, but I forget what it is. Anyway, good luck to the pair of you. And let’s be seeing more of you over here in future than you’ve managed so far. Slainte.”
“And may you be half an hour in heaven before the Devil knows you’re dead,” someone else threw in.
“Slainte!”
“May you live as long as you want,” a woman sitting by Mrs. Corrigan followed, “and never want as long as you live.”
And naturally, Mick couldn’t be left out. “May you die in bed at the ripe old age of ninety-five,” he said, raising his glass to Corrigan.
“Why, thank you, Mick.”
“. . . shot by a jealous husband.”
By the middle of the afternoon, Evelyn could feel travel fatigue and jet lag catching up with her, on top of everything else. The room seemed to be rocking, and the faces and conversation were all smearing into a meaningless blur of sound and color. “I have to go up to the room and rest,” she told Corrigan. “Can we make some excuse and get away?”