Alicia Crumpler is close to finishing a Creative Writing Certificate at UC San Diego-Extension and has a Master’s Degree in Criminology. She pays the bills by teaching criminal justice classes at the College of Sequoias in California. She has had poetry published in For Women Who Roar and flash fiction in The Bangalore Review. When not teaching, she can be found reading, playing the ukelele, or trying to make words stick to paper. She lives near the ocean on the California coast with her wife and fury kid. She is active on Facebook and Instagram.

 

 

Liam Greely cursed the cancer that had invaded his body. He’d lost twenty pounds. What was left of his gray hair lay strands on his head. Wrinkles cut deep into his face, made worse by decades of smoking and hard living. He was sick. Of the poison they siphoned into his veins, of the few months he’d been given, sick of being sick. The was one thing left on his list: Molly’s. The family pub.

Hunched over the redwood bar a distant cousin had crafted back in 1907, a pint of Guinness in hand, he contemplated the cigarette burns and watermarks that scarred its surface. The lines etched in his forehead deepened as he wrestled with the future of the pub he’d inherited from his father, who’d inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father back in the late 1800s. 

He did not turn around when the door to the street opened, allowing afternoon sunlight to fill the room. Anne, his daughter-in-law, entered and sat on the stool next to him. 

“How are you feeling, Liam?” There was a look of concern on her face.

“I’m dying; how do you think I feel?” He took a swallow of his beer.

 She ignored his foul mood. “Has Molly been in today?” 

“No, I haven’t seen my daughter since Sunday dinner.  And I don’t need the two of you hovering over me every minute of the day.”

“We’re just concerned.” She curled a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“I appreciate that, but I can take care of myself,” he said, then put the bottle to his mouth and drained it.  He nodded to Tim behind the bar. “Tim, I need something stronger than this.” He pushed the empty bottle across the bar.

“Of course, boss,” Tim said as he picked up a shot glass and a dark green bottle. “Jameson?”

Liam nodded.

 “Can I get you something, Ann?” Tim asked as he set Liam’s drink on the bar.

“I guess it’s not too early for a gin and tonic,” she said.

“Tanqueray?” Tim asked, taking a glass from the rack, and filling it with ice.

She nodded, then turned back to the man beside her. “About the pub, are you still leaning towards selling it?” She placed a hand on his arm, but he quickly pulled away. “Molly and I hoped we could change your mind.” 

The sound of shattering glass came from the storage room at the end of the bar. Anne sat up straight and looked around. “What was that?”

Liam and Tim continued as if nothing had happened.

“Just Kellen being dramatic. Ignore him,” Liam said. “Why were you discussing the pub with my daughter?” He took a sip of his whiskey.

“She’s my sister-in-law, remember. We talk about a lot of things.” 

Liam shook his head but said nothing. 

Tim set the gin and tonic in front of Anne, then picked up a towel and wiped down the far end of the bar.

Anne got up from her stool and walked around the pub. Liam watched her stop and look at each antique, knick-knack, piece of memorabilia, and the old black and white photos of San Francisco and long-dead family members that adorned the walls. She paused at the tattered 1958 Giants pennant, the year the Giants moved to the city. Then at a black and white photo dated 1904, taken in front of the pub of a young Finn Greely, standing in front of an Oldsmobile runabout; then the tricolor flag of Ireland and a miniature Irish Republic flag like the one that had flown over the Dublin post office in the 1916 Easter Rising. 

“How long has the pub been here?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Her late husband had talked lovingly about the pub when they were dating and how he’d take over one day. 

Liam’s shoulders relaxed. “Since the gold rush. But you knew that.” 

She nodded. “Yes, but I don’t know the details.”

 He blew out a breath. “My great-great-grandfather, Sean, and his brother Paddy opened it in 1855. It moved to this location thirty-odd years later.” He picked up his glass. “This is my home. My heart and soul are here.” He sipped the whiskey.

“I understand.” She retook her seat.

“Of course, you do.” He shook his head as he raised his glass and drained it.

” I married your son. I’m part of this family.” Anger flared in her eyes.

“Declan’s dead, so what’s the point?” There was no mistaking the sadness in his voice.

“I get it. You lost your son in a pointless war. But you know what? I lost him too. And my girls lost their father.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You still have a family that cares about you and the future of this pub.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

She tried again.  “Tell me more about the pub.” She again placed a hand lightly on his arm. This time he didn’t pull away. She knew most of the history but talking about the past usually took him out of his funk.

“No one cares about those things.” He traced a water stain on the bar with his finger.

Behind the bar, Tim pulled a wooden handle for a pint of black Guinness. “Go on, tell her. I’d like to hear more myself.”

“Na, I’ve no time for stories.” He picked up the glass, took a drink, then tipped it at Tim, who smiled, picked up the empty whiskey glass, and put it in the sink. 

“Please, Liam,” Anne said.

He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar; he took a deep breath and contemplated if it was worth the effort. “Fine. One story. Then you leave me alone?” 

Anne nodded.

“As you know, Molly was my great-great-grandfather Sean’s firstborn. Named after his mother. He convinced Paddy, they should name the pub after the two of them.” He pointed to an old black and white photo of a dark-haired woman in an antique frame on the wall. “That’s Sean’s daughter in 1890. She was thirty-five.” 

Anne glanced at the photo and nodded. “She was pretty.” 

Liam continued, “The original Molly’s was on Irish Hill, but it closed in 1886 when the Ironworks bought up the Hill bit by bit. They reopened here on Mission. The pub might have survived the big ‘06 earthquake, but not the fire that followed. They rebuilt a year later.” 

“San Francisco has a lot of hidden history. I’d never heard of Irish Hill.” Anne picked up her glass and took a sip. 

“Sean and Paddy built the original pub with their own two hands. It wasn’t much more than a shack.” He looked down at his own calloused hands. “Like thousands of other fools, they’d come to California in search of gold but quickly realized there was actual money to be made by opening a pub for his Irish countrymen.” He took another sip of his beer. “Back then, Irish Hill was mainly Irish, but a few Scots and Germans, maybe an Italian or two. It was a rough area, mostly men who had also given up the dream of finding gold and now lived in boarding house-hotels and worked at the Ironworks or the steel mills.” 

“I didn’t realize there was that kind of industry here back then,” Anne said.

“Sure. Arctic Oil was the largest whale and seal refinery on the west coast. And the Rope Company employed hundreds of men. There were also blasting powder companies that made dynamite for the mines.” He picked up his beer. “There weren’t many women in those early days, though. The men left them behind when they came searching for gold. Without women, there wasn’t much for the men to do after they’d worked twelve-hour days but drink in the saloons and fight. Several of the pubs held matches in the street and took bets. They called it bare-knuckle boxing back then,” he said before taking a swallow of his beer.

“Did Sean and Paddy hold fights in front of their pub?” Anne asked

Liam shook his head. “No, they didn’t want any trouble with the King.” 

“The King? There was a king of San Francisco?” Anne’s eyebrows raised.

Liam nodded. “Frank McManus, the King of Potrero. He ruled Irish Hill with an iron fist. He came to America to escape the famine. He and his brother made a fortune selling mining stock. They ruled Irish Hill and owned most of the boarding houses and saloons. They inflicted brutal beat downs to anyone that got in their way.” He lifted the glass to his lips and finished off his beer.

“Was there no law in San Francisco back then to stop them?” Anne asked.

“Oh sure, but McManus paid them off to turn a blind eye to the goings-on.” He waived Tim over. “I think I need a cup of coffee, Tim. Would you make a fresh pot?”

“Sure thing, Liam.” Tim picked up the empty beer glass and walked into the storeroom at the end of the bar.

Liam turned back to Anne and continued. “But then the Welsh brothers challenged his power and built a couple of hotels with saloons in ’em, and one directly across the street from McManus’ biggest hotel. They raised a Democratic committee banner across the front of it. McManus was a staunch Republican, so that made him livid. It started a bitter rivalry.”

Tim walked out, sat a mug of coffee in front of Liam, and then turned to Anne. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, Tim, I’m good, thanks.” She turned back to Liam.

“The hostilities went on for several years: murders, shootings, arson. Then in 1894, McManus’ brother was stabbed and killed in a bar fight in his own hotel. Frank McManus was so distraught that he became an alcoholic and died two years later.” He picked up the mug and took a sip. “My family, being Democrats, didn’t lose any sleep over his demise.”

“That’s quite a story,” Anne said.

“Yes, it ’tis,” Liam agreed. 

Anne stood up. “I should be going. You need your rest.” She pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her purse and placed it on the bar.

“Wait a minute, girl, I’m not done. And you know your money’s no good here,” he huffed. 

Tim winked at Anne and smiled.

“Sit back down, Anne.” He patted the stool next to him. Anne picked up the money and returned it to her purse, then sat back down. 

 “See that wooden sign behind the bar?” He gestured to an old decaying piece of wood with the word Molly’s burned into it. Anne nodded. “That sign hung over the original Molly’s door on Irish Hill. My great-grandmother, Kate, saved it before the fire tore through after the earthquake.” His lips twitched in a grin. “She was a spit-fire that one.”

 

The Earthquake- April 6, 1906

Finn Greely had only been asleep a few hours. The pub closed at 2 a.m., and he had helped his son Michael close before he headed upstairs to the apartment above the bar.

Kate had gone to bed much earlier. There was no music on Tuesday nights, so it had been quiet downstairs. A little after 5 a.m., something woke her. Days later, she would remember seeing the time on the grandfather clock on her way to the kitchen to get a drink of water. She stood at the sink and poured water from a pitcher into a glass. That’s when the shaking began. 

“Was that an earthquake?” Finn called out from the bedroom.

“Just a small one, go back to sleep,” Kate said before she took a drink from the glass. Then it started again. Slowly at first, she held on to the counter. Earthquakes weren’t unusual in San Francisco. Small ones happened all the time. So, she didn’t panic at first. But it didn’t stop, and it grew in intensity, shaking so hard she had trouble standing. 

She cried out for Finn then crawled under the kitchen table. It was sturdy redwood, hand-made by her husband’s first cousin.

Finn rushed from the bedroom and crawled under the table with Kate just as the ceiling in the bedroom collapsed, covering the bed with plaster and wood. The shaking continued. Kate watched in horror as a bookcase fell over, lamps filled with oil hit the floor, the doors on the kitchen cabinets flew open, and everything inside burst out and fell to the floor. 

Kate gripped Finn’s leg. Digging her nails into his thigh as she watched the living room sofa staggered across the room toward them. Then the outside wall gave way, and the pitch-black night entered the apartment.

Forty-two seconds later, at 5:13 a.m., it stopped. Finn and Kate hugged each other close.

Kate screamed and pointed at the building across the street. A man dangled from a ledge by one hand, his eyes met Kate’s, and they stared at each other unable to look away. Kate, frozen in place, was unable to say or do anything. Then, as if accepting his fate, the man nodded slightly and let go, falling to his death three stories below.

“NO!” Kate turned into Finn’s arms.

“We have to get out of the building.” Finn crawled out from under the table, pushing the couch away. “The lamp oil or the gas could start a fire.” He helped Kate out from under the table. “Grab yer coat and shoes.”

Kate rushed to the small closet near the front door, climbing over the coffee table and parts of the ceiling. She reached for their coats then shoved her feet into walking and grabbed her handbag off the end table by the door.

Finn pulled open the door to the stairs that led down to the pub, it was pitch black, but the stairs were still in place.

“Thank God they didn’t collapse,” he yelled. “I’ll go first.”

Finn gently stepped onto the first stair, and it held. “Be careful, but hurry.” He took Kate’s hand, and they quickly made their way down.

As they reached the bottom, Kate gasped. The sun had just begun to rise over the Oakland hills, and they saw the magnitude of the damage. The pub was destroyed. The wall-to-wall mirror behind the bar lay shattered on the floor. Broken bottles and glasses covered every surface, and the stench of alcohol filled the room. The ceiling had fallen in on the west side, and big chunks of the wall on the Mission Street side lay scattered on the sidewalk.

Kate stared at what had been their home and livelihood, where her husband’s family had lived and worked for decades. 

“Oh my God, Finn, there’s a fire behind the bar.” She pointed at the flames. “We’ll lose everything.”

“Hurry! If the gas line is broken, this whole block will go up.” Finn pulled her toward the street, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw the wooden sign that had hung over the door of the original Molly’s on Irish Hill. She jerked loose of Finn’s hand and ran back into the smoky building, pushing away chairs and a table to get to the 50-year-old, three-foot wooden sign. Grabbing it from the debris, she ran from the building as flames licked the ceiling behind the bar.

Finn grabbed the sign from her, “Damn it, woman, are you crazy?” he shouted as he took her hand and pulled her to him, “You could have been killed.”

They ran down Mission Street toward the bay. Looking over her shoulder, Kate saw flames rise from several buildings, including Saint Mary’s Cathedral. Three generations of Greely’s had attended mass there since Sean and Paddy had arrived in San Francisco back in 1855. Finn and their son Michael had been baptized and confirmed there. She and Finn had been married there. Kate made the sign of the cross over her chest and asked God to keep Father Brian and Father Peter safe. Looking back toward the pub, it was now totally consumed by fire. 

Finn squeezed her hand, and she turned back to focus on the road ahead. “We’ll rebuild.” She promised herself. “We’ll rebuild.”

#

 

“That’s quite a story. Kate was a brave woman,” Anne said.

“Greely women have been the backbone of the family,” Liam admitted.

“Yes, they have.” Liam’s daughter, Molly, had entered the pub unnoticed and stood behind them. Tall, athletic, and self-assured, she looked more like a woman in her mid-twenties than thirty-five.

Liam’s face brightened. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your story.” She sat down next to him and kissed his cheek. “How are you feeling, Da?”

“About the same.” He gave her a half-smile.

“Have you eaten today?” She put an arm across his shoulder.

“A piece of toast this morning. I’ve no appetite.”

“But I’ll bet you’ve had a pint or two.” Molly looked at Anne, who nodded.

“It’s the only thing that tastes good, so leave me be,” he muttered.

“You need to at least try to eat. How about I make you an omelet?” Molly asked.

“You don’t need to fuss over me. I do know how to cook if I get hungry.”

“All right, all right.” Molly raised her hands. “But you can’t live on Guinness alone,” she said as she got up and walked behind the bar to give her friend Tim a hug. “Is he behaving himself?” she asked.

“Of course. He’s a prince.” Tim smiled, then leaned close and whispered, “He went upstairs around noon and took a nap for a few hours.

“That’s good. He needs to take it easy,” Molly said, nodding her head.

“Can I get you a pint, Molly?” Tim asked, grabbing a glass.

“I’d love a Guinness, thanks.” Molly walked back around the bar and sat on the stool by her father.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Liam asked.

“I took the night off. The restaurant can survive one night without me,” Molly replied as she picked up the beer that Tim had set in front of her and took a sip. “So, what are you two up to?” She looked from Liam to Anne.

“Liam was telling me stories about the pub and how Kate Greely saved the original sign after the earthquake and fire.” Anne raised her glass, “Cheers to Kate! “

Molly raised her pint and Liam his empty coffee mug. “Cheers to Kate!” They chimed.

“Did he tell you about the ghosts?” Molly asked.

“Ghosts? No. No one mentioned ghosts.” Anne looked from Liam to Molly, then turned to Tim. “I think I’m going to need another cocktail.”

“Sure thing,” Tim said as he refilled Liam’s mug.

Molly stood up. “While you tell Anne about the ghosts, I’ll go upstairs and see what I can throw together for dinner.”

“Good luck. There’s not much in the fridge,” Liam said.

“Not to worry. I’m resourceful.” 

Anne turned in her seat to face Liam. “OK, tell me about the ghosts. How many are there?” 

“Three. Paddy, Sean, and a cousin.” Liam picked up the mug of coffee but didn’t put it to his lips. “In 1891, Paddy was killed late one night when he stepped out the front door of the pub and was hit by a team of horses pulling a wagon.” Liam shook his head.

“That’s terrible,” she said as Tim placed the drink in front of her.

“Well, as I was told, Paddy was a drinker, so it’s likely he stumbled out of the pub and fell in front of the team.” 

“But still, his poor family,” Anne said.

“Paddy never married and didn’t have any children, but Sean took losing his brother pretty hard. Never got over it. He died a few years later. Heart attack got him while he was pulling a pint behind the bar.”

Anne shook her head. “That’s just tragic.” 

Liam nodded. “That’s when Sean’s son, Fin, took over the pub.” 

“So those are two of the ghosts,” Anne said, and Liam nodded. “What about the third?”

“A cousin, Kellen Greely.” He pointed to a black spot on the bar a few feet away.  “See this burn mark?” He looked at Anne, who nodded. “It’s Kellen’s. It was the first burn on the new bar, just after it was installed in 1907.” 

Anne looked at him, tilted her head to the side, her eyebrows lowered. “Kellen?” she pointed to the storage room. “As in the Kellen who just broke a glass?”

“One and the same.” He smiled. 

 

San Francisco- April 1907

 

The third incarnation of Molly’s reopened a year after the San Francisco earthquake and fire of 1906, at the same location on Mission Street, and everything went back to normal. The pub was busy in the evenings, and a few regulars showed up every afternoon. Kellen Greely was a regular. 

Bent over and forced to rely on a cane, Kellen made his way inside after visiting the outhouse behind the pub. He hobbled to his stool at the end of the bar and dropped down.

He was no longer the muscular, energetic Irishman he had been when he arrived in San Francisco in 1860. The black hair of his youth was now gray, and he was in need of a haircut and shave. His skin held the grayish cast of someone not well. Too weak to work, he spent his afternoons at Molly’s. Years ago, he loved to sing with friends and family in the pub and enjoy the craic, but decades of cigarettes left his voice sounding like sandpaper. Now he barely spoke above a whisper. His bones ached, and his strength was gone. His age showed on his deeply wrinkled face, making the scar on his cheek, a result of a youthful boxing match, more pronounced.

Doing the best he could to control the shaking of his gnarled, arthritic hand, he lit a cigarette, blew out the match, and tossed it in the tin ashtray.  Taking a deep pull on the cigarette, he held it in his lungs for a few seconds then blew the smoke into the air. 

He raised his empty mug for Finn to see.

“A fresh beer for you, Kellen?” Finn asked, picking up the empty glass.

“T’at would be grand, Finn.” His voice still held a slight Irish accent. 

Finn drew a mug of ACME lager from a cask and set it in front of Kellen. 

“Thank God for ACME. What would we have done if they hadn’t gotten up and running so fast after the shaker?” Kellen raised his mug. “Sláinte.”

“Cheers.” Finn nodded. “We were making our own beer, remember. I suppose we could have gotten a permit to sell it legally, but that would have required a bigger investment than we could make at the time,” said Finn.

“The pub seems to be doing well since you reopened,” Kellen said.

 “Aye. But the earthquake and then the fire.” Finn shook his head. “Jesus, it almost did us in.” He picked up a towel and wiped down the new redwood bar. His brother John, a lumber surveyor, had found the perfect tree in northern California, supervised its felling, and brought it to San Francisco by horse and wagon. A cousin milled the boards, and another cousin built and installed it. It had been a real family effort, start to finish. 

“None of us needed that, that’s for sure.” Kellen agreed, picking up the pint and taking a long swallow. He then picked up his cigarette and took a drag, sparking a round of coughing from deep in his chest. He turned and spat a wad of phlegm into a nearby spittoon and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 

“Have you seen the doc about that cough Kellen? It’s getting worse.” Finn picked up a glass and wiped at the water spots.

“Na, no need lad. I know my days are numbered,” Kellen said.

“Don’t be so doom and gloom Kellen, you’ll outlive us all.” 

“No, not likely.” Kellen took another drag on the cigarette, then placed it back in the tin ashtray.  Finn turned and walked into the storage room at the end of the bar. He could still hear Kellen coughing, then the sound of breaking glass. He stuck his head out of the storage room to check on Kellen, but he wasn’t on his stool, the ashtray was turned over, and Kellen’s cigarette burned on the bar. Finn rounded the bar to find the old man collapsed on the wood plank floor, the mug of beer shattered.

“Kellen!” Finn yelled grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. But Kellen didn’t stir. His chest didn’t rise or fall. Kellen had drawn his last breath. 

 

#

 

Liam drained his coffee mug and set it on the bar, covering the burn Kellen had left. “Those are our three ghosts. Sean, Paddy, and Kellen,” he said.

“They’re all members of the family,” Anne said, and Liam nodded. “Liam. Please look at me.” He looked at the ceiling and silently cursed Molly for making him quit smoking, then turned to Ann. She placed her hand on his and gently squeezed. “Liam, please don’t sell the pub. There’s so much family in these four walls.” 

Liam turned away but stared at her reflection in the mirror. “Anne, I’m old, and like Kellen, I know my days are numbered. The cancer is going to kill me soon.” He lowered his head and stared into his coffee. “And Declan’s dead. I have no son to pass it on to.” 

Annie’s back arched. “Seriously? You have a daughter who manages a successful restaurant. For God’s sake, she’s named after the pub.” She stared at him, her frustration growing, “Molly loves this pub. She grew up in it. Let her have it.”

He raised his head and looked at her. “A woman’s never owned Molly’s. It’s always been passed from father to son,” he said half-heartedly. “It’s tradition.”

“You can’t be serious.” She cocked her head to the side and stared at him, “This is the 21st century. That’s one tradition whose time has come and gone.”

 Liam shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Stop being so stubborn. You know she’s capable.” Anne laid her hand on his. “Molly worked her way through college working here. She has a business degree and went to culinary school. For God’s sake, she manages a four-star restaurant. She can run this place with one hand tied behind her back.”

“Why would she want to leave a successful career and take over a small pub?” Liam asked. 

“I’ll tell you why, Da.” Molly, holding a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, stood behind him. “Because it’s my family’s pub.” She placed the plate in front of him. “And just because I’m your daughter and not your son doesn’t mean I don’t care just as much as Declan did.” She stared at him. “Give me a chance.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

“She’s right, boss. What would San Francisco be without Molly’s? It’s a landmark.” Tim interjected from his place behind the bar.

“Jeezus, not you too Tim.” Liam shook his head. “Truth be told Molly, I thought you and Ann would rather I sold the place and left you the money.” He looked from Molly to Anne. “I get offers all the time. The last real estate agent said he could get me two million.” 

Anne shook her head. “We don’t want the money. We want the pub to stay in the family.” She smiled. “Don’t you think it’s time for there to be another Molly in Molly’s?”

“That would be something, wouldn’t it?” Liam grinned.

“Yes, it would.” 

He raised his hands in mock surrender, “OK, OK, you win. I should know better than to argue with women.” He turned to his daughter. “When I’m gone, the pub will go to you.” 

Both women leaned in to hug him. Tears ran down their cheeks as they put their arms around him. 

After a few seconds, Liam pulled away and quickly wiped away a tear. “Tim, I’d say we need a shot of the good stuff.”

“The single malt Teeling?” Tim asked, surprised.

“Yes, this calls for the best we have.” Liam smiled. The light twinkled in his eyes. 

“And the most expensive.” Tim chuckled as he lined up four shot glasses.

“Pour one for Kellen, or there’ll be more broken glasses to clean up,” Liam said with a laugh.

Tim sat one more shot glass on the counter and poured the golden liquid into each.

Liam raised his glass to the picture on the wall. “To the future of Molly’s.”

“To the future of Molly’s.” They repeated and gently tapped their glasses.

“Sláinte,” they said in unison.   

The whiskey in the fifth glass sloshed over the rim onto the bar. Liam smiled and shook his head. “Damn it, Kellen, mind your whiskey, or I’ll cut you off.”