Page 58 of British Daddy to Go

Sean

It’s been twenty-four hours since Maggie walked out of my apartment, and apart from a single apology text, she hasn’t been in contact with me again since then.

They say misery loves company, but that doesn’t work both ways. My parents are perfectly happy to be in New York City for their first visit. I’ve tried to put on a smile and show them around my home, but they see right through me.

Mother sighs for the hundredth time today. “Forget it,” she finally says in her shrill voice. “I’ve scheduled a boat tour of the Hudson for later today. I’m going to go on my own while you figure out how to make Sean into less of a dreadful human being.”

She means well, I’m sure.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I tell her. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“You and I both know that isn’t true. Now, the two of you go find a pub and get sloshed while I enjoy the sights. It’s a clear day, and I want photos of the Statue of Liberty!”

Dad’s face is brighter than the city lights. “You mean, you’re going to let me get pissed with my son?”

My mum is far too polite to roll her eyes, but I think she’s straining her muscles to prevent it from happening without her consent. “You’re better off with him than with me. I can’t take your banter right now. Just be sure to cheer him up in time for dinner. I’ve made reservations at this incredible French restaurant. The ladies I meet for tea swore it was the place to be on a Saturday night in the city.”

I don’t have the heart to tell Mum that her white-haired friends are hardly the experts on New York City nightlife. If she really wanted the place to be, she’d go to one of the many nightclubs scattered throughout the city. What Mum’s friends meant is that the French place is where socialites and royalty dine on a Saturday night.

Pointing this out would lead to a fight I don’t want to have, though. She’s letting Dad and me off the hook for her awful boat tour of the filthy river, so I want to stay on her good side.

Mum holds her cheek out for Dad and me to kiss, so we do. “I’ll see you at Chez Joseph at seven sharp,” she tells us. “Do not be late! And try to be sober by then!”

My watch reads just after two in the afternoon, which gives Dad and me plenty of time to drink and be merry before we have to meet Mum at the restaurant.

“Shall we?” I ask. “I know a great place that will remind you of home.”

My father laughs. “If I wanted to be reminded of home, I’d have stayed across the pond! Take me somewhere New York.”

I don’t make much of a point to visit places that feel like New York. In fact, I much more often frequent pubs like the ones I would sneak into when I was in the upper school. It makes sense that my father wouldn’t want to see something he can see just as easily back home, though.

One bar about a block from the Hudson tour launch strikes me as a good place for us to visit. “Follow me, then,” I tell him.

My father’s legs are shorter than mine, and he’s not used to the fast-paced walking of a New Yorker, so it takes a full ten minutes to get to the bar. It’s early, so the place is mostly empty, but I’d rather not deal with humans other than my Dad right now, anyway.

Dad orders a Long Island Iced Tea because it’s the most “New York” sounding thing he can think of. I stick with whatever is on tap.

“Care to tell me what has your knickers twisted?” he asks after a long sip of his strong drink.

I shake my head. “Not even a bit. And my knickers aren’t twisted.”

“You’ve been in a sour mood since we got in yesterday. I caught this tone in your voice over the phone, too. Tell your old dad what’s wrong.”

A laugh escapes my lips. “I swear, I’m fine.”

“I swear, you’re a liar!” he responds, calling me out. “It’s okay, Sean, you don’t have to tell me. I already know.”

“I really doubt that, Dad.”

The beer is smooth and goes down quickly. It doesn’t take long for me to order another from the bored bartender. A waitress sits in a booth, marrying ketchup bottles. It’s actually quite possible this place isn’t supposed to be open yet, and they’re serving us out of pure pity.

Do I look that terrible? I don’t feel great, but I’d thought I was hiding it pretty well. Clearly, I’d thought wrong.

We’ll tip the barkeep well when we leave this joint. Even if theyareopen, it can’t be convenient to have two old men sitting in stools and ordering drinks in the early afternoon. It’s a Saturday, so the bartender could surely better spend his time preparing for the tourist rush he’s going to get later on tonight.

I twirl my tall, sweating glass on the smooth counter. Another sign this place isn’t meant to be open: the bar hasn’t had a chance to get sticky yet. It might be worth it to visit bars this early regularly. I abhor sticky counters and beer-soaked floors, but I very much enjoy a good beer every once in a while.

My father is staring at me. How long has he been watching me? I don’t like being under his scrutiny. It’s Mum who usually looks down her nose at me, not Dad.