it for a while. The spacious rooms had none of the claustrophobia of the more primitive designs. I thought briefly of the last country club my Dad liked to frequent. It prided itself in being one of the first in the region. It’s club house stood as proof, as creaky and ill-fitting as they day it was built. I shuddered.
My motto as a contractor had always been “if the best thing you can say about a place is that it’s old, then you are overvaluing antiquity”. I remembered delivering that line to Moneka when we were first discussing plans and she had wanted to rent out an old Irish pub. Old? Check. Irish? Check. Leaking? Double Check. Rotting wood? Triple check. I liked to think that she was happier in her current place and that I had something to do with that. I paused for a moment under the lobby’s chandelier, wondering if Moneka would ever let me touch her again.
“Hey Cole, my boy!” My Dad’s voice cut through my reverie like a knife.
Of course, I was happy to see him. My Dad and I have always been close, especially since mom died. But there was hanging out with Dad downtown at Fenway and there was hanging out with him at Elysian Fields. Here he was more than just “Dad”, he was “Francis Saunders: Renowned Architect”. I think sometimes he liked reliving his glory days more than he liked golf.
As I walked over to him, I could see that he had managed to overdress for the occasion. I was impressed. I generally imagined golfers were overdressed as it was. He really managed to take it to the next level. He was wearing freshly ironed dark gray slacks with a button down white shirt and a lighter gray vest. His cuffs were rolled halfway to his elbows and he wore a black golf cap to match his shoes. I couldn’t help comparing him to a 1940s bootlegger. I half expected him to suggest we “give the geezers the slip and head out back for a small bender before the fuzz get here”.
“Hey Mickey,” I said, “Where’s the rest of the gang?”
“You’re smirking.” Dad was not impressed.
“Only at what you’re wearing.”
“Ok, smart-ass.” He smiled and ribbed me. Whatever the airs he sometimes liked to put on, I knew he wasn’t like the rest of these guys.
“Shall we? The piranhas appear to be in full form today.” I put out my elbow dramatically, indicating that we should lock arms and walk into the parlor together. Dad ignored the gesture.
“Piranhas? Last time they were sharks.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. But I’ve decided that ‘piranhas’ is a more fitting term. They swarm on you and pick away until you’re nothing left but bones.”
Dad seemed to consider this for a moment. “Huh. I guess so. Reminds me of your mother’s friends before we were married.”
I liked it when he talked about Mom like this, casually. For a long time after her death, he wouldn’t talk about her at all. Then, suddenly, he’d blind side me on a Sunday afternoon, recalling their first date, first kiss, first walk in the park, first baseball game, and so on. Mom had become the elephant in the room. I hated those times. Now, he could talk about her fondly. That meant I could talk about her too.
“Let’s not keep the piranhas waiting,” he said, tipping his hat in a bootleg fashion and strolling into the parlor. I followed, adjusting my polo and feeling like a real jackass.
The parlor was equally as lovely as the lobby. Though its name gave it a cozy sound, in reality, it was an exceedingly large space. Floor to ceiling arched windows covered three of the four walls. Stairs on either side of the entrance led to a second level that matched the first but for a giant hole in the middle. From there, country clubbers could look down on those entering, figuratively and literally. Chandeliers hung high over the tables. Though tablecloths hid the tables themselves, the high backed chairs with ornate backings hinted at some truly quality (if not a bit gaudy) furniture.
My Dad and I chose a table near a
My motto as a contractor had always been “if the best thing you can say about a place is that it’s old, then you are overvaluing antiquity”. I remembered delivering that line to Moneka when we were first discussing plans and she had wanted to rent out an old Irish pub. Old? Check. Irish? Check. Leaking? Double Check. Rotting wood? Triple check. I liked to think that she was happier in her current place and that I had something to do with that. I paused for a moment under the lobby’s chandelier, wondering if Moneka would ever let me touch her again.
“Hey Cole, my boy!” My Dad’s voice cut through my reverie like a knife.
Of course, I was happy to see him. My Dad and I have always been close, especially since mom died. But there was hanging out with Dad downtown at Fenway and there was hanging out with him at Elysian Fields. Here he was more than just “Dad”, he was “Francis Saunders: Renowned Architect”. I think sometimes he liked reliving his glory days more than he liked golf.
As I walked over to him, I could see that he had managed to overdress for the occasion. I was impressed. I generally imagined golfers were overdressed as it was. He really managed to take it to the next level. He was wearing freshly ironed dark gray slacks with a button down white shirt and a lighter gray vest. His cuffs were rolled halfway to his elbows and he wore a black golf cap to match his shoes. I couldn’t help comparing him to a 1940s bootlegger. I half expected him to suggest we “give the geezers the slip and head out back for a small bender before the fuzz get here”.
“Hey Mickey,” I said, “Where’s the rest of the gang?”
“You’re smirking.” Dad was not impressed.
“Only at what you’re wearing.”
“Ok, smart-ass.” He smiled and ribbed me. Whatever the airs he sometimes liked to put on, I knew he wasn’t like the rest of these guys.
“Shall we? The piranhas appear to be in full form today.” I put out my elbow dramatically, indicating that we should lock arms and walk into the parlor together. Dad ignored the gesture.
“Piranhas? Last time they were sharks.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. But I’ve decided that ‘piranhas’ is a more fitting term. They swarm on you and pick away until you’re nothing left but bones.”
Dad seemed to consider this for a moment. “Huh. I guess so. Reminds me of your mother’s friends before we were married.”
I liked it when he talked about Mom like this, casually. For a long time after her death, he wouldn’t talk about her at all. Then, suddenly, he’d blind side me on a Sunday afternoon, recalling their first date, first kiss, first walk in the park, first baseball game, and so on. Mom had become the elephant in the room. I hated those times. Now, he could talk about her fondly. That meant I could talk about her too.
“Let’s not keep the piranhas waiting,” he said, tipping his hat in a bootleg fashion and strolling into the parlor. I followed, adjusting my polo and feeling like a real jackass.
The parlor was equally as lovely as the lobby. Though its name gave it a cozy sound, in reality, it was an exceedingly large space. Floor to ceiling arched windows covered three of the four walls. Stairs on either side of the entrance led to a second level that matched the first but for a giant hole in the middle. From there, country clubbers could look down on those entering, figuratively and literally. Chandeliers hung high over the tables. Though tablecloths hid the tables themselves, the high backed chairs with ornate backings hinted at some truly quality (if not a bit gaudy) furniture.
My Dad and I chose a table near a
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