“Well, it was. But that part of it?” She passed her hand in front of her face as if waving away cigarette smoke. “I couldn’t keep that up.”
Once in a while, Little Hughie came by the Half Moon at his father’s bidding, but he walked through the place like a foreigner in an unfamiliar land. Malcolm would greet him warmly, ask how he was, but Hughie always seemed uncomfortable, so Malcolm didn’t bother with him much beyond that. Would be nice if he stayed for a drink, remembered some funny things about high school, but Hughie always had to be somewhere. Rumor was when his boys turned eighteen, Big Hugh warned them to never let him catch them drinking there, embarrassing themselves. He wanted them to be businessmen, wear suits every day. But wasn’t Hugh a businessman? Malcolm thought. Wasn’t he in fact better off than those guys in suits because he didn’t answer to anyone? In addition to the drinking, the nightly peeling of someone off a stool while that person either wept or cursed at you, Hugh said he didn’t want his boys feeling the weight of a stack of cash at the end of a night. It was too tempting for a young person, and giving in to that temptation was shortsighted. Something about that nagged Malcolm, who was the same age as Little Hughie and sat next to him in American history their senior year. Malcolm remembered Hughie giving a two-minute speech on the wedding of the rails, and watching as the sweat beaded at his hairline, ran down by his ear. Malcolm went up there next and winged it, having completely forgotten he was supposed to present that day, and the podium was dotted with Hughie’s sweat. Malcolm got a B and Hughie got a C.
But Hughie did a summer enhancement program at Columbia when they graduated, the same summer Big Hugh taught Malcolm how to change a keg, how to free pour, how to make his own syrups if the bar ran out. “Surprised your father never showed you,” Hugh said once, and more than two decades later, Malcolm still thought about him saying that—his exact expression and tone—every time he changed a keg.
“He was proud, your father,” Hugh said another time, out of nowhere, or so it seemed, until Malcolm noticed a news story about a shooting outside Penn Station on the TV over the bar. “Some people thought he was arrogant.”
“What do you mean?”
“Probably because he bought that bar in the city instead of up here. He didn’t think much of this place, I don’t think. I’m sure he thought it was very small town compared to Gephardt’s.”
Malcolm turned to look at him, but Hugh was still staring at the TV. “He had a steak on the menu for like thirty bucks at Gephardt’s. Keep in mind this was in the seventies. You didn’t hear of that kind of thing in an Irish pub.”
“You were there? You never said you went there.”
“Oh yeah, I was there a lot of times.”
“So you knew my dad pretty well?”
Hugh seemed to consider his words. “I knew him.” He turned to Malcolm. “Did he ever say anything to you about me? Or about the Half Moon?”
“I don’t think so,” Malcolm said.
“Really? Nothing?”
Malcolm shrugged. “No.”
Hugh nodded, and Malcolm hoped his feelings weren’t hurt. Maybe he should have told Hugh that his dad loved the Half Moon, but the truth was he never remembered his dad acknowledging its existence at all. He only had eyes for the city and often said if it weren’t for Gail, who insisted on a yard as soon as Mary was born, they’d be living somewhere downtown.
“So you remember it? Your dad’s place?”
“Yeah, of course I remember it. I was eighteen when he died.” After Gephardt’s it became a more generic sports bar called Over Time. They took down the photos of the Irish countryside and replaced them with signed posters of athletes.
“I was just wondering if you visited him there. If he let you and your sister there when you were growing up.”
“Yeah he did. Why?”
“Jeez, Mal, no reason. I’m just asking.”
Once in a while, especially when Malcolm was younger, Hugh would comment that his own boys weren’t as wise as Malcolm, and he’d tap the side of his nose. It was a compliment, Malcolm always told himself after, and couldn’t for the life of him figure out why it unsettled him. Everyone knew being wise was a good thing.
* * *
Alone in the bar after Hugh made his offer, eleven thirty in the morning, a tower of receipts on the spike, Malcolm poured one small scotch and drank it slowly as he looked at the yellow sunlight pouring in through the windows, falling on the beat-up tables and chairs. The temperature was brisk but the forecast looked lovely for that whole week, and he thought about how nice it would be to sit outside. Then, with Hugh’s words still echoing, he saw it right before him: everything the place could be. Stonework, string lights, umbrellas, patio heaters through November, blankets they could lend if people got chilly, like they did in Germany, according to Jess, who’d been there. He’d have half-moons stitched into the corners. Maybe on the umbrellas, too. He could have T-shirts available for sale like they did at bars down the shore.
* * *
It was a risk that they could just barely take on. As manager he made a salary they could rely on. As owner he’d have to look at the net profits each month, invest what he could back into the business, and take whatever was left as income. To do even that much, they’d have to cash out another portion of Jess’s retirement savings.
“It’s really just a question of money,” Malcolm said. He’d taken the night off and had dinner ready when she walked in from work. She was exhausted. She’d been fantasizing about a cold glass of wine since three o’clock. After running to catch the 5:46, the train ended up sitting in a tunnel just outside Hackensack because of system-wide signal problems. When the train lost power and went dark, the woman in the seat next to her started taking small sips of air like she couldn’t breathe. Jess asked if she was claustrophobic, and offered the bottle of water she’d been drinking from, assured the woman she wasn’t sick or anything. The man across the aisle informed them that she was probably cleithrophobic, not claustrophobic—a common mistake. When he turned away, Jess mimed gagging herself, and the woman almost smiled.
By the time she got to Gillam, it was after seven. At first she thought Malcolm being home was just a nice surprise—they rarely ate together on Friday nights—but then she realized it was because the day he’d been waiting for had finally arrived and he wanted to talk it out.
“Just money,” Jess repeated.
“You know what I mean.”
She didn’t know what he meant—money was the question.
He’d made pasta in a cream sauce. Hunks of chicken. The pots and pans he’d used were washed and drying on the rack. As soon as she understood that he didn’t simply have André pass two meals out the alley door of the Half Moon, she softened. Malcolm taking over the business felt inevitable, especially when Hugh said his sons had no interest, but he had to see that the building was way out of reach. She didn’t have to sit down with the numbers to know that much. She understood the potential it had, yes, but a big renovation would require even more money.
“I don’t know. Hugh said he’d work something out with me if I wanted to buy both,” Malcolm said. “A side deal.”
“No way,” Jess said, incredulous. “I really don’t want to be tied to Hugh Lydon. Do you?”