Red Paws Inn

by Robin Roseau

We rented a car, and Alyssa drove. I sat back and enjoyed the sun. “This is actually my favorite time down here,” she declared. “It’s shitty in Minnesota, but it’s beautiful here.”

  “I would think January.”

  “In January, it’s colder than I prefer for swimming,” she replied. “We’re hardy, so we could, but this is more reliable.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “I can understand why they like it.”

  “Imagine summer, though.”

  “No, thank you. How about bugs in the house?”

  “Dad says everyone has a service,” Alyssa replied. “If Mom sees anything that crawls, they’re back out the next day.”

  “We get guests who freak out if they see a spider. We’re as meticulous as we can be, but if we know someone is extra freaked by them, I do an inspection right before they’re due to arrive.”

  “Well, you probably won’t see anything, but are you going to scream if you do?”

  “It might depend upon how many legs it has, and what it’s doing at the time,” I replied. “But probably not.”

  “Good, because if there’s any screaming to be done, I’d prefer that I was the only one.” We both laughed.

  It wasn’t too much longer before we pulled onto the residential streets of Cape Coral. Five minutes and several turns later, we pulled into the driveway of a modest, white rambler. “It’s cute,” I said.

  “They definitely downsized,” she replied. “They’re talking about moving into a townhome, though. Dad hates yard work. He cuts the grass, but Mom does the rest, and she says she’s tired.” She offered a weak smile. “Ready?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  By the time we had fully climbed from the car, Alyssa’s parents had stepped out of the house. They met us on the driveway. I gave Alyssa a nudge towards them and pulled her suitcase from the trunk of the rental. When I turned, Alyssa was just moving from her mother to her father, and I watched as he wrapped his daughter in a tight hug.

  Bernice shifted her gaze from Alyssa to me. Her features froze a little, and I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I stepped forward, my hand extended. “My pleasure, Bernice,” I said. “I’m Janis.”

  “Welcome to Florida,” she replied. We clasped for a moment. Then Oberon was there, his left arm around Alyssa. He offered his right, and we exchanged minor pleasantries.

  “A little warmer than back home?”

  “A bit,” I said. “We had a cold snap, which is good.”

  “Why would that be good?” Bernice asked.

  “It finished freezing the lake thick enough it’s safe for the dogs. I have to keep them contained from initial freeze until it’s safe, and they don’t like it. I do it again in the spring, when it’s no longer safe to walk.”

  She nodded, and then it was Oberon who said, “Let’s get you out of the afternoon sun.”

  * * * *

  Inside, I got a little tour. It was two bedrooms and two baths plus kitchen, living room, and a room Bernice called “the den”. We dropped our bags in the spare bedroom, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief they weren’t going to try to make us sleep apart.

  “Do you golf, Janis?” Bernice asked. “That’s what lesbians do, right?”

  “Mom,” Alyssa complained. “Really?”

  “Well, they do,” Bernice insisted. “Don’t they?”

  Alyssa snorted. I smiled. “Stereotypes are dangerous,” I said. “I have golfed, but I’m not very good. I canoe, kayak, swim, fish, and camp.”

  “You like the water,” she said. “You live on a lake.”

  “I don’t know how much Alyssa has told you.”

  “Just that you live on a lake and help run a resort.”

  I glanced at her. She shrugged. “If I told your life story, what would you talk about?”

  “I take it my daughter left out important details?”

  “I own the resort,” I said. “It’s on the edge of the Boundary Waters. So yes, I guess you could say I help to operate it. Alyssa says you golf quite regularly.”

  “You said you like to fish.” She eyed me.

  “Alyssa wanted us to meet,” I said. “That sounded good to me. Getting out of Minnesota for a few days sounded good, too.”

  “Did you see we’re on a canal?” she asked.

  “A canal?”

  She gestured, and I followed her through the house to the den. She pointed out the window. There was some sort of river with concrete banks traveling along the back of their property, and hanging from a derrick was a white boat.

  “That’s big,” I said, referring to the boat.

  “27 feet,” Oberon said. “Boston Whaler.”

  “I’m confused. That’s a pretty small river.”

  “It’s not a river,” Bernice corrected. “It’s a canal.”

  “Twenty minutes to the Caloosahatchee River, and then a short jaunt out to the gulf.”

  “We crossed a big river,” I said. “It didn’t seem very far.” I gestured. “That’s two hundred horses.”

  “There’s a speed limit,” Bernice said. “There are alligators and manatees.”

  “Not everyone obeys the limits, but we do,” Oberon said. “Bernice threatened to kill me if I ever hit a manatee.” He smiled. “It’s fun to open it up on the gulf.”

  “I bet it’s a little choppier than I’m accustomed.”

  “It can be; it depends on the day and where you go.”

  “I don’t like it when it’s choppy,” Bernice said.

  “Are you inviting us fishing?” I asked. Alyssa groaned, and I turned to her. “Was I supposed to shut up? You like being on the water.”

  “No, you weren’t supposed to shut up,” she replied. “And you’re right. I like being on your water. When it’s calm.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’d enjoy fishing when it’s choppy,” I said. “But it looks like fun.” I turned to Bernice. “I know some golfers hate golfing with duffers, and I’m not going to let you sucker me into wagers.”

  She studied me a moment then glanced at her daughter. “What about you, Alyssa?”

  Alyssa looked back and forth between her mother and me. I couldn’t read her expression, but then she said, “I haven’t been since the last time I went with you.”

  “As I recall,” Bernice replied, “You and I were both in a snit that day.”

  “We were,” Alyssa admitted.

  “Well, I promise not to be in a snit if you do. I’d love to take my daughter and her lovely girlfriend to the course.”

  Alyssa paused then asked, “Janis, how poor a golfer are you?”

  “So it’s not Bernice that’s picky, but you?”

  “Oh, no,” Bernice said. “It’s definitely me. I don’t like when a foursome of men come up behind me and expect to play through. I really don’t like it if it happens more than once in a round. It tends to reinforce stereotypes I don’t like to help reinforce.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I’m not very good. I can keep it on the fairway, but my drives aren’t very long. I won’t hit any pars. I’ll get a few bogies, a lot of double-bogies, and probably some triple-bogies. Bernice, I understand if you don’t want to take a duffer. I won’t respond well if you get frustrated with me.”

  “The serious golfers go in the morning. If we go in the afternoon, it’s hotter.”

  “It’s the end of November,” Alyssa pointed out.

  “I’d like to go,” Bernice said. “I think we should watch the weather, if we’re also taking the boat out.”

  “Then we have a plan,” Alyssa declared. “So, Dad. I told Janis about your projects. Got something new?”

  “Doesn’t he always?” Bernice replied.

  * * * *

  It was perhaps a half hour later. I had a brief moment alone with Alyssa. “I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “No,” she said, moving into my arms. We kissed briefly. “I have baggage with my parents.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  �
��None of it is your fault. It’s not really theirs, either. I need to let it go sometimes.”

  * * * *

  “Did you want to drive?” Oberon asked me. “You know how to drive one of these, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t driven one this big, but yes, I do,” I said. “If you need me to drive, I’m happy to help. But if you’re offering to let me relax…” I trailed off and grinned.

  Oberon laughed. “Not to worry.”

  “You’re just afraid of hitting a manatee,” Alyssa said. “Mom wouldn’t really kill you.”

  I leaned against her and held her hand. “I’m not afraid of hitting a manatee. Okay, actually, I am, but I’m happy to relax.” Then I leaned and whispered into her ear, “And having made that offer to other people in the past, I know it’s not actually less stress to let someone else drive my boat.” Then I kissed her cheek.

  Alyssa laughed. Bernice and Oberon both looked away, and I wondered if they were embarrassed by the affection. I didn’t consider it PDA. There was no one in sight except family, after all. FDA? Familial Demonstrations of Affection?

  Anyway.

  It was shaping up to be a nice day. Clear skies and warm, but not yet hot. The birds were out, including a lot of gulls, which Alyssa told me were Florida’s equivalent of pigeons, and Bernice referred to as “flying rats”. It was later I’d see my first pelican, first at a distance, and then one followed along with us for a minute or two. It was huge, and I didn’t take my eyes from it.

  Oberon was a cautious boat driver. I decided I’d happily let him drive one of my boats if they ever came to visit. We made our way out to the river and turned downstream for the gulf.

  I was both disappointed and relieved we didn’t see any manatees. At least no boats were hitting them, but I would have liked to have seen one.

  Fishing the gulf was both similar to and different from fishing in Minnesota. First, it was a much, much bigger production. Once we reached the gulf, it was still nearly another hour before we reached Oberon’s favorite fishing spot. I didn’t mind. I sat beside Alyssa and enjoyed having not a single responsibility. Next, the water was deep. We set up over some sort of rocky reef and then simply dropped our lines to the bottom before lifting them again. There was no casting, no trolling, and no bobbers. I asked about that.

  “Other places, people might cast,” Oberon explained. “We won’t get anything big here, but I’m fishing for dinner, not sport. How about you?”

  “I fish to eat,” I said.

  Bernice was the first to catch a fish. She pulled it in, removed it from the hook herself, took a look, and tossed it back. Several minutes later, Oberon caught a keeper. Bernice caught a keeper. Alyssa caught one, pulled it from the water, and then held the fishy end out to her father, who unhooked it for her and tossed it back into the water.

  I didn’t say a word.

  But I finally had my own. I could tell Oberon expected to have to pull it from my line for me, but I did it myself then held it up. “I don’t even know what this is.”

  “It’s a fish,” Alyssa said.

  “Thank you, Ms. Obvious.”

  Oberon lifted the lid to the live box, so I set my fish in, rebaited my hook, and dropped the line. Bernice handed me a baby wipe.

  It didn’t take long, maybe an hour or so, until we had ten fish in the live box with about as many tossed back. Oberon counted the fish and then looked at the sun followed by his watch. He frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Alyssa.

  “No idea.” She lifted her voice. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  “I’d planned a day of fishing.”

  I laughed. “Do we have our limit?”

  “No, but we have enough.”

  “It’s a nice day, Oberon,” Bernice said. “We can afford a little gas. Let’s go show them where the rich people live.”

  And so, we did.

  * * * *

  We stood at the ladies’ tee for the fourth hole, the first par three of the course. Bernice was a good golfer. She had gone bogey-par-bogey so far. Alyssa was bogey-bogey-double bogey. I was somewhat worse than that. My drives were straight but somewhat unimpressive in their distance. Bernice hit her drive, a beautiful shot, the ball taking a couple of nice bounces and coming to a stop just on the edge of the green. She turned around and smiled. “I won’t make that putt, but I’ll take it.”

  Alyssa was next. As she teed up, Bernice moved to my side then surprised me. She wrapped her arm around my shoulders. I rather liked it, and my arm went around her waist. We watched Alyssa hit a nice shot, the distance good, but it landed in the sand to the right of the green.

  Then it was my turn, but Bernice didn’t let me go. “Janis.”

  “Bernice?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Thank you. I am, too.”

  “It’s a nice day.”

  “It is,” I agreed. “Beautiful.”

  “A good day to be outside,” she said. “A good day to spend with my daughter and her lovely girlfriend.” I smiled at her but wasn’t sure what to say. “Your range is short.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re consistently straight.” I nodded, waiting to see what she’d say. “Take a chance.”

  “If I’m careful, I won’t slow us down. But if I send the ball every which way, we could lose a lot more time than whatever we gain if I hit it further.”

  “It’s a nice day,” she said. “Are you in a hurry for it to end?”

  “Bernice.”

  “Take chances,” she repeated. “I don’t normally give golfing advice.”

  “Chances.”

  “Yes,” she said. “As long as you hit the ball squarely, you’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She tightened her hold for a moment. Then, while Alyssa gave me a look, I approached the tee. I set up my ball, stepped back, eyed everything, then gave myself two practice swings.

  It wasn’t my first time on a golf course, but as I said, I wasn’t very good. And this certainly isn’t a story of me suddenly becoming a professional golfer. Get that right out of your head. But I’d been on a course before, and I’d had a girlfriend or two try to encourage me to become a better golfer. I’ll get back to that in only a moment.

  There’s a lot of movement in a golf swing, or at least as my girlfriends had attempted to teach me. Line up, feet wide, but not too wide. The ball is about midway between the golfer’s stance, and her knees are slightly bent. Then she lifts the club, and at least according to my girlfriends, does a weight shift to the right. The club wraps up over and partly around her neck, and then she begins the downswing. At this point, over about a second or so, the club head, previously pointed to the sky, descends. Her hands are probably leading the club. She begins to shift forward towards her left foot. At the bottom of the swing, she gives the club a little snap with her wrists. Impact. Then momentum carries her through until she has nearly her entire weight on her left foot, the club wrapped around her neck the other direction, and her right foot is turned sideways with just the toe touching the ground.

  That’s a lot of movement. That’s a lot of opportunity for bad movement, and bad movement means the ball goes any which way.

  If the golfer dips her knees, instead of hitting the ball squarely, she can hit the ground. But if she straightens, she’ll swing over the ball, or just top it. Embarrassing.

  If her hands lead the club all the way through, it will close the face, and instead of the ball flying high through the air, it stays low, probably hitting the ground not far down the fairway, and then it can bounce funny. If nothing else, it’s not a very long hit. I did that a lot.

  On the other hand, I can’t imagine the number of ways to screw up that little snap of the wrists, but I bet any one of those screw ups send the ball any which way.

  Not to mention all the other things one can do wrong.

  I knew all this, or enough to understand it’s not just a matter of swinging the club at t
he ball. That would be easy.

  I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t do that weight shift. I didn’t lift the club as far on the backstroke. And I didn’t intentionally snap my wrists. I knew each of those was an opportunity to have little variations, and variations meant the ball went all sorts of weird places.

  But Bernice told me to take a risk. So I did.

  I lifted the club higher than I ever did. I weight shifted. Oh, not as much as some golfers, I bet, but I did a little shift to the right. Then I swung, and I even gave it just a little bit of snap.

  I knew the point of contact was good. I got a solid thwack on the ball. I did the follow-through, and then I lifted my head to find my ball.

  And then Bernice said, “Nice ball, Janis.”

  “I didn’t see where it went. Is it even on the fairway?”

  “Right side,” Alyssa said. “Just short of the sand. I think that’s your best drive so far.”

  They both smiled at me. “Ride with me,” Bernice ordered.

  * * * *

  We drove our carts down the fairway. We were practically on top of it before I identified my ball. I breathed a sigh of relief; if I’d hit it any further, I’d have joined Alyssa in the sand. Bernice parked the cart then asked, “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  “Hit it that way,” I said, gesturing towards my left, the front of the green.

  “The pin is that way.”

  “And there’s the great Cape Coral desert between me and the pin,” I replied. “I’m not sure we have enough water with us if I take a trip through the sand. We’ll be here for hours as I whack it out.”

  “Pshaw,” she said. “I’m going to show you something.” She climbed from the cart and grabbed a club from her bag. She dropped a ball to the left of mine; she could hit her ball without interfering with mine. “Seven-iron,” she said. She gave a practice swing then stepped closer and gave her ball a little pop. It flew through the air, landing on the green by about two yards, then rolled towards the cup, finally coming to a stop about five feet to the left of the pin. “I thought it would break more,” she said. Bernice turned to me.

  “I thought we were supposed to use a nine at short distances.”

  “You can.” And then she tried to explain about loft and energy and…