Domestic Violets (10 page)
A
t home, later
that night, Hank greets me, but he seems a little distracted. In the kitchen, I find out why. Curtis has returned from New York, and he and Allie are sitting at the kitchen table sharing a box of crayons. Allie is wearing an oversize I ♥ NY T-shirt, and both of them seem to have had a better day than I have.
“Hi, Daddy,” says Allie, laughing at something private, something I haven’t heard.
“The man of the house returns,” say Curtis. “Whoa, what happened to your face?”
“Stockbroker jumped out a window, fell right on my head.”
Hank has settled back under Curtis’s chair, sitting like a sphinx, and Allie is drawing a picture of some kind of lizard. The entire scene is like a snapshot of an image I’ve never seen, my dad spending unhurried, undistracted time with a child. An odd, bastardized manifestation of jealousy rises in my throat, and I’m ashamed of myself. Apparently I’m the sort of person who’s jealous of his own child. My God, what’s happening to me?
“How was New York?”
“Tourists everywhere,” he says. “People are still buying clothes and hot dogs. I guess they haven’t seen the news about how the world is ending.” He’s drawing a drooping violet, a yellow sun in the distance.
I open the refrigerator, not even really looking for anything in particular. In the last few months, it’s become the sort of refrigerator that’s jammed with things like vitamin water and low-fat butter spread and plastic dishes of grapes. Staring at all this health food makes me feel greasy and bloated.
Damn you, Johnny Rockets.
“How’d the rest of your readings go?” I ask.
“I read and everyone listened quietly. Sometimes at those things I get the feeling that everyone is there so they can tell their friends that’s where they were. Like church for intellectuals. Does that make any sense?”
“No,” says Allie, stealing my answer.
“Who’s that person there?” he asks her, pointing to a little man in her picture. I realize that her lizard is actually the Statue of Liberty.
“Umm, duh, Grandpa, that’s you. See, I drew your hair perfect.”
“Ahh, of course. Look how handsome I am.”
“Handsome like my butt,” Allie says, and then covers her mouth.
“Your
butt
? Allie, is this how ladies talk?”
It probably isn’t, but I give Allie a high five anyway for creativity.
“How come we never colored together when I was a kid, Dad?”
He looks at the green crayon in his hand, dull at the tip. “Let’s be honest. You were never very good at coloring. You were better at wrestling and . . . well, knocking things over.”
I take a beer out of the fridge, the last one, and notice that Anna’s black and white Adidas bag is missing from its usual spot. “Where’s Anna?”
“She’s at something called Body Pump,” says Curtis. “What is that exactly? It sounds like it hurts.”
“It’s a class Mommy takes at the gym,” says Allie. “It makes her all buff and ripped. She’s lost fifteen pounds since New Year’s. She could probably beat up Daddy if she wanted to.”
“Didn’t she already work out this morning, before she took you to school?” I ask.
She’s filling the space behind the Statue of Liberty with light blue. “She did her running this morning. Body Pump is weight lifting. They’re different.”
“I’m glad none of my wives have taken Body Pump,” says Curtis. “I doubt if I’d have survived this long.”
Our cupboards are almost entirely empty; there’s just the bottom-of-the-barrel things you can’t ever imagine having purchased, the crap you give to high school kids collecting door-to-door for charity. She’s leaving for Boston in the morning, and we’ve got almost nothing to survive on, and I feel weirdly helpless about all of it. “What in the hell are we gonna eat for dinner? I don’t think low-fat white rice is gonna cut it.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy. Grandpa’s taking us out. Mommy’s meeting us, and they said I can pick—anywhere I want.”
Oh shit.
“Johnny Rockets!” she says, clapping.
I almost put my foot down, but then I realize that I’m too tired, and when Allie’s smiling like she’s smiling right now, no matter how much my face hurts from head-butting a truck, she’s difficult to say no to. Curtis exchanges his green crayon for a blue one. “Do I need a tuxedo, or will a shirt and tie be enough?”
I’ve been a casual reader of
Men’s Health
for years, but I don’t recall ever coming across an article that recommends Johnny Rockets twice a day. In my youth I had the metabolism of a teenage Ukrainian gymnast, but the day I hit thirty, things began slowly to betray me, turning the perma-lean Tom Violet into something far squishier. I scan the menu, and at the back of my throat, I can still taste lunch from this afternoon. It’s sitting in my stomach, equal parts lead and concrete.
“Excuse me, but I actually ordered the
big
Diet Coke.”
I look up just in time to see the delighted waiter laugh. Curtis, the funny son of a bitch, has stolen my line. Or perhaps I’ve stolen his. Either way, he’s delivered it better. “Any bigger, I carry with two hands,” says the waiter, a different Asian man from this afternoon, but equally as friendly.
I keep looking at my dad, wondering if he’s fooling around with my mother’s life. I’m also thinking about my trip to Buckingham Palace today, and those two fucking construction workers, and my stupid, stinging face. All afternoon I’ve been playing the scene out differently, concluding it in far less embarrassing ways.
Even under the best of circumstances, though, dining with my dad is stressful in its own right. He’s not Leonardo DiCaprio, but in cities like this he’s enough of a celebrity to get attention. Reading the menu with Allie, helping her sound out words, he’s acting oblivious to it all, but he’s well aware of the table of middle-aged women next to us whispering. And the young married couple in their hipster sneakers and glasses doing the same thing. And, of course, the weirdo outside, leaning against a parking meter and peering in through the window. There’s always at least one weirdo, it seems, some reclusive book nerd with goofy hair who’s probably got a gun jammed into his soiled underwear.
Allie sees Anna before I do. She sets her kid-size root beer down with a bang. “Over here, Mommy!”
I’m shocked to see that Anna is wearing the brown corduroy jacket I bought her all those months ago. “Hi everyone,” she says. “Curtis, what do you think?” She opens the jacket revealing her yellow “What Would Curtis Violet Do?” T-shirt. It’s a little tight. It looks good.
“Well, apparently I chose the perfect size for you,” he says. “Any bigger would have been a crime.”
“Dad,” I say, tired.
She slides into the booth next to me. “Ouch. What happened?” she asks, touching my face.
“A stockbroker fell on him,” say Allie, my little parrot girl in her oversize T-shirt.
“What?”
“No. I . . . I’m an idiot. I was reading something on the way out of the office, ran right into a sign.” She seems to accept my idiocy in stride. “I thought you didn’t like that thing,” I say, touching her sleeve.
She shrugs. Her hair is wet and she’s still flushed from her workout. She smells like soap and cool air. “So, who do you think it’ll be tonight?” she asks. “My guess is the creepy guy outside. I saw him when I came in. I think he’s on his way to go shoot John Lennon.”
This is a game we play when we’re out with Curtis. We try to predict who will be the first to approach the table. I glance again at the twitchy guy outside, leaning now against a big Mercedes that clearly isn’t his. “Nah, he’s harmless. It’s gonna be Oprah’s Book Club over here. They’ve been giggling since we sat down. Guaranteed.”
I touch her thigh, thin and firm in my hand. She was right about the jacket when I gave it to her. It’s wrong somehow, a little too wide, a little too short in the arms. It’s just not her.
“Did you know that chicken fingers are made from
real
chicken fingers,” says Curtis. “They pull them out with giant tweezers.”
“Gross, no they don’t,” says Allie. “Chickens don’t even have fingers. They’re birds.”
“I’ll be honest,” he says. “I preferred you when you were younger and not so smart.”
Anna orders a plain chicken breast sandwich and I continue the day-long assault on my body with another cheeseburger.
“Everyone at work was talking about you on
Letterman
, Curtis,” she says. “You’re a natural. You should have been an actor. Or at least a talk show host.”
“You wouldn’t believe how cold he keeps that place. Some of the women on his staff wear mittens. I guess he’s got this sweating problem, and so it’s in his contract that he gets to control the temperature at all times.”
“What was he like? Was he nice?”
“Of course. He’s a nicer man than people think. He just doesn’t like stupid people. Do they serve alcohol here?”
“I don’t think so,” says Anna.
“Well, clearly that won’t do,” he says. For a moment, he plays it cool, toying with the napkin dispenser and reading the kids’ tablemat with Allie. And then he points across the room. “Sweetie,” he says. “Look at that over there. It’s probably the biggest milk shake I’ve ever seen.”
Allie whips her head around to gaze at a teenager in unlaced Air Jordans sipping a huge chocolate milk shake at the counter. As her eyes light up, Curtis sneaks a flask from his jacket pocket, spikes his Diet Coke, and then winks at my wife. I feel like my dad committed to a certain kind of behavior about thirty-five years ago and has gone with it ever since. There’s something admirable in that.
Talk at the table turns to the economy, and my attention drifts. Some more people have discovered Curtis, others are completely oblivious—the readers versus the nonreaders. And then I get this strange sensation, as if the lights in the diner have dipped, like I’m having a mild stroke. There’s a familiar girl standing at the door with three other people. I blink and look again. Amazingly, it takes me a moment to realize that it’s Katie. That’s the miracle of context. Outside of our office or 7-Eleven, I hardly even know her. There’s another pretty girl, too, and two guys, one of whom is Todd the Idiot. Katie’s wearing a short denim skirt, a Rolling Stones T-shirt, and, of course, her corduroy jacket. The same jacket, more or less, that my wife is wearing right now.
I’ve been married long enough to know that this has the potential to go badly.
When they sit at their booth on the other side of the restaurant, our eyes eventually meet. I smile barely and then watch her go through the same weird process of identifying who I am—her boss.
Hi
, I mouth, and she gives me a surprised little wave. I’m not sure how long to hold this, to look at each other across the room, and so I look away, but not before catching a chilly glance from Todd. It must be very tiring to give men like me scowls day after day.
And then my wife’s saying my name. “Work. Tom?”
“What?”
They’re all looking at me.
“How was work, Tom? We’re just trying to keep you involved here.”
“Work . . . was good,” I say, a little dazed, as if somebody’s shaken me awake. “I negotiated a peace treaty. Saved a baby seal. Standard day.”
She gives me a strange look, perhaps because I’ve said this very quickly and I am now sweating. Across from me, my dad’s expression changes, too. Smiling, his eyes are downcast as he prepares to say hello to the beautiful young fan walking toward our table.
“Hey, boss,” says Katie.
Curtis looks at me, momentarily confused, and I look at Katie. “Well hey there,” I say. “What’s up?” I have no idea why, but for some reason I’m pretending to be surprised to see her, as if we haven’t just said hello from afar thirty seconds ago.
“Just getting some dinner,” she says. “I’ve got that Bright Eyes concert tonight at the 9:30 Club. Remember?”
“Oh yeah, right. That’s tonight.”
“How’s your face? It doesn’t look all that bad. Does it still hurt?”
I look at my family as if one of them might decide to take over, but they’re all just staring at us.
“He saved me from bullies today at work,” Katie says, laughing. “It was like a junior high flashback. My hero.”
Anna looks at me and then back at this girl—this girl who, apparently, knows me. “How do you guys,” she begins, touching my arm, “know each other?”
“Oh, yeah, forgive me. I’m rude. Everyone, this is . . . Katie. She’s my coworker—the other copywriter at the office.” I go around the table and introduce everyone. My wife smiles and shakes the girl’s hand politely, but I see a storm cloud approaching along the ridges of her brow.
“Wow, sweet jacket,” says Katie. “You’ve got good taste.”
“It was . . . a gift, actually.”
“And this is Allie,” I say, too quickly, breathing too hard.
“You look just like your mom, Allie,” says Katie.
“Your bracelets are awesome.” Allie is wide-eyed, staring at a series of colorful bands running up Katie’s arm.
Without hesitation, she slides one from her wrist, a pink one, and hands it to my daughter. “Here, you can have one. It’ll look pretty on you.”
“Really?”
“Oh no, no,” says Anna. “That’s sweet, but she can’t possibly—”
“Seriously, it’s totally cool. I was on this bracelet kick for a while, and so I’ve got about a hundred of them.”
Allie holds her arm up, the pink bracelet sliding all the way up to her knobby elbow. “Look, isn’t it cool?”
“What do you say, honey?” says Curtis, tugging gently on her ponytail.
“Thanks!” says Allie. “I’m going to wear it to school tomorrow.”
“That was very nice of you, Katie,” says my wife. “Thanks.”
For about two seconds no one knows exactly what to say to anyone. “Well OK then,” I say. “Have fun at your concert.”
The look on Katie’s face then is sudden hurt, like a girl slapped. “Oh. Yeah, OK. I will. You have . . . a good night, too.”
Across the table, my dad’s smile fades to intrigue, and I avoid his eyes, focusing instead on a picture of Buddy Holly on the wall. I see Katie five days a week. She’s read my novel, and we’ve shared cigarettes on the roof of our horrible office building. I know she’s allergic to cats and that her landlord made her cry last month because he accused her of lying about paying the rent. She knows that I’ve been offered a promotion and that I find it embarrassing sometimes to be my father’s son. I know that her mother is on antidepressants and she sometimes implies that Katie needs to lose five pounds. I’m a little bit in love with her, I think about her at night, and I wonder what her skin must feel like. And I’ve just brushed her off in front of my family as some girl I work with.