Caesar

Story #1 of Year Three on Roulette Weal

Salad looked heavy on the croutons. 

Tommy Maguire started to pick some off with his fingers, caught himself.

It’s a country club, Tommy. You’re a member.

He took a huge bite of Caesar, bit down on a crouton he didn’t see between hearts of romaine.

“Fuck,” he said out loud, followed by a mouthful “sorry” to no one in particular.

He had grown a well-manicured beard over most of the facial scars, and got the front teeth done-four top, four bottom- but his jaw was still an anatomy jigsaw puzzle from years of street shenanigans.

Some filmmaker wanted to make his life into a movie, but Tommy wasn’t into that.

Didn’t wanna embarrass his three kids, none of whom were at the big round table he had reserved for Willow Corner CC Junior Tournament and Luncheon.

He started playing Tetris with the unwanted croutons, using a fork.

Adelaide walked through the big glass door and sat at the table.

“Hi dad….Umm… Nevermind. Hi. I’m hungry. You gonna be mad if I special order vegan?”

“The fuck…excuse me…why would I be mad? Lotsa young boxers are going vegan. Supposed to be good for the ticker-why the fuck…excuse me…why is your shirtsleeve wet?”

Adelaide swallowed.

“I don’t care about the shirt, Addy, “ Tommy said. Just curious, not mad.”

Adelaide’s eyes moistened and she sipped water from a glass that was probably worth more than Tommy Maguire’s first watch in 1973.

“Honey?” Tommy said.

“Someone pushed Diana Luker into the pond behind 17.I pulled her out.”

“She’s ok, right? You pulled her out.”

“She’s really traumatized and upset dad. It’s…nevermind.”

Tommy reached for his water glass. His fake teeth rubbed against the rim as he drank, made a noise, almost musical but annoying.

“It’s the Skidegaard kid, ain’t it?”

“It’s okay, dad, it’s over.”

“It is now.”

Tommy Maguire stood.

Adelaide grabbed his shirtsleeve.

“I know you hate his father, Dad. It’s not…I dunno…Don’t make it worse. We can call out his bullying on socials.”

Tommy Maguire kissed his fifteen-year-old daughter on the forehead.

“I’m gonna take care of that little bastard. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

Adelaide grabbed more of her father’s shirtsleeve.

The oldest, she understood a little of his past. 

A drama and dance instructor had come into prison, wrote a play for the inmates to perform. Tommy stood out. So much so that people worked to commute his sentence, and after his release he got movie roles playing characters that weren’t too far removed from himself.

Adelaide was smart enough to know that the line blurred. She knew her dad worked at it, and she loved him for it but he had a long way to go.

She shook her head and let go of Tommy’s sleeve.

He stomped out the door like his vengeful bus driver character in Night Hammer.

People at other tables whispered.

Porter Skidegaard’s father was a famous TV attorney. 

Tommy Maguire thought guys like him were responsible for crazy insurance rates. And Stiig Skidegaard had voted against letting Tommy Maguire be a member of the country club.

Adelaide ordered some jackfruit.

She was pretty sure that after she pulled Diana, screaming, from the pond, she had broken Porter Skidegaard’s nose.

Adelaide hoped the little prick would run to his dad first, and not the country club authorities. Her father would way rather deal direct with that guy than the country club people. He was deferential around them, almost shy. Unlike himself. 

Adelaide finished her jackfruit and ordered a vegan tiramisu, something Diana had helped her get on the menu.

Tommy Maguire walked back into the dining room rolling down his sleeves. His knuckles were bleeding.

Adelaide Maguire sucked in a breath so hard she felt her eyeballs move deeper in her skull.

Tommy saw the look. 

He held up the hand.

The Brightmoor Shamrocks gang tattoo wrapped around his wrist.

Scars crisscrossed his palm.

When Tommy held up the hand, Adelaide knew he wanted silence.

He sat at the table and reached for his daughter’s hand.

“It’s all taken care of.”

Adelaide squeezed her father’s hand, wiping at the blood with her thumb.

“Dad, you’re famous now. If you hit Stiig Skidegaard…”

“I didn’t hit anyone, my love. I promise.”

“Bullshit, Daddy, your knuckles are bleeding.”

Tommy raised his finger to his lip.

“Don’t swear, my angel. This is a nice place.”

“Daddy…”

He leaned in and whispered.

“Porter Skidegaard drives that champagne-colored Mustang, right?”

Adelaide nodded. “16th birthday gift.”

“I was gonna steal it, park it behind the dumpster over by Ikea, scare the shit out of the kid, let him cry about it… Cars now ain’t as easy to boost as they were when I was a kid.”

“You cut your knuckles trying to break into Porter’s Mustang?”

Tommy nodded.

“But you were unsuccessful?”

Tommy nodded.

“But you said it was taken care of. How is it taken care of?”

“I left a note on his dad’s car informing him that if his fucked up kid messes with any more kids at this country club, that I’m putting together a cabal…I think that was the right word…of members to get them expelled from membership.”

“That was really smart, dad…thank you…” Adelaide’s lip quivered.

A waiter brought her tiramisu and she stared at it.

“Baby? Tommy Maguire said “What now, sugar pie? Did I…”

Adelaide turned to her father.

“I punched Porter in the face. Because he deserved it. I know there will be trouble because of it. I’m sorry Daddy, I was sick of his shit.”

Adelaide bawled into her father’s chest. “I’m sorry Daddy, I couldn’t let it…”

Tommy Maguire wrapped his scarred and tattooed arms, covered in a silk shirt,  around his daughter.

He beamed, the smile so wide it showed the gaps between the fake teeth he had done and the few remaining real teeth in his head.

He looked around the room at a bunch of people he never would have known if he hadn’t joined a country club. They were all nice to him, but he wasn’t sure how real it was. Right now he didn’t care.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy. I’m…”

“You’re the best, sweetheart, sticking up for your friends like that. I’m so proud. So, so proud.”

“What if-?” Adelaide started.

“What if what? What if we get kicked outta this country club? Who cares? The Caesar salad sucks.”

***

Tell me a fish out of water tale. Or tell me or ask me anything.

*** Author’s Note***

I made a very rare visit to a country club today for a charity event. For the record, the Caesar salad and everything else I was served was amazing. No jackfruit.