Domestic Violets (12 page)
L
ater, after I’ve
showered and shaved, I realize that I have no idea what to do with myself. For a while, I simply roam the house, considering various projects—alphabetizing the bookshelf or perhaps watering all of our dead plants. Saturday mornings I usually write, or at least I sit in the office/extra bedroom and pretend to write, staring at the blinking cursor. But I’m done with my book.
The Son of Hollywood
is finished. And so now what?
I decide to conduct a fictional interview with myself.
“Who are your most significant influences?” asks a journalist whom I’ve made up. He works for the
New York Times
, and he is very serious. This seems like such a clichéd question. I expected more from a made-up journalist.
Down in the kitchen, I watch Allie eat the peanut butter toast I’ve prepared for her. As she chews, I think of my book. By now it’s likely sitting in Brandon’s office in Soho, buried beneath other books from unpublished hopefuls like me.
Allie has a glob of peanut butter on her cheek. “I’m all done, Daddy,” she says, holding the plate out to me, her manservant. She’s in her pajamas still, and Katie’s bracelet, which she insisted on wearing to bed. “You use way more peanut butter than Mommy does.”
“That’s how I roll, sweetie.”
When I toss her crust in the garbage under the sink, I notice a patch of brown corduroy sticking up from the coffee grounds and paper towels. I push things around a little and discover that it’s the jacket I bought for Anna—the one from last night—now soggy and probably ruined. Maybe it could still be saved, given to the Goodwill or perhaps cleaned and replaced in her closet for when she’s feeling less dramatic. But, then again, maybe it’s better off here, never to be spoken of again.
My dad shuffles into the kitchen with Hank at his feet. He’s wearing his wrinkly chinos and one of my Washington Nationals T-shirts.
“Morning, Grandpa,” says Allie, holding an orange juice box.
“Nice shirt,” I say.
He looks like a guy in a weight loss commercial, parading around in his old clothes. “I’m swimming in this thing. Are you gaining weight?” he asks.
“Is your bald spot getting bigger?”
“Well, there’s no reason to be uncivilized,” he says.
By my count, my dad’s been upstairs writing for three hours, and I admire his energy. When I’m writing, I work in short, distracted, twenty-minute bursts, but Curtis has always been a marathon man, spending hours on end with his men upstairs. There’s probably no other way, and the rest of us are just kidding ourselves.
“When are you gonna write me my story, Grandpa?”
“Patience, darling,” he says. “How about you run upstairs and put on some big-girl clothes?”
“Why?” she asks. “It’s Saturday.”
“Yeah, Dad. It’s Saturday. The Violets lounge on Saturdays. And sometimes we give Hank a bath. He’s got a bit of an odor problem.”
“Not today,” he says. “We’re going on a family outing. I need some clothes of my own. I can’t keep borrowing your things. You dress like a hungover college student. Who’s up for a ride in the car?”
“Yay,” says Allie, although, to be fair, she’s a sucker for pretty much anything proposed with enthusiasm. Beside her, Hank is spinning happily in a little circle. “Car” is one of the dozen or so words he knows. If I tell him he can’t come, there’s a chance he’ll hang himself in the bathroom.
“Put your shoes on, Tommy. We’ll give the dog a bath later. I’m driving, and you’re in charge of the radio.”
Once, when I was in the fourth grade, our principal’s elderly secretary came into our room, interrupting religion class. While she talked to the teacher, we all waited and I pretended not to notice that I’d heard her whisper my name.
As I followed her slowly down the long hallway, I wondered if I’d done anything wrong, and then I started thinking about those Publishers Clearinghouse commercials. They had an enormous effect on my expectations as a child, and I convinced myself that a group of people with balloons stood giggling in the principal’s office, waiting for me and holding a giant cardboard check for a million dollars. Waiting instead was Curtis Violet. He stood leaning against the wall in jeans and an old sweater leafing through a school bulletin. He’d been in New York for a while, and I couldn’t remember the last time I saw him. His hair was a little long, and he was working on sideburns of some sort. “Hey, Tommy.” The tone of his voice was weird and sad.
Our principal and his secretary told my dad how sorry they were and asked if there was anything they could do in this difficult time. “No, no. We’ll be OK. I appreciate it. We have a lot to take care of—family business.”
Outside, the Porsche was parked illegally in front of a statue of St. Robert Bellarmine. It looked a little dirty from the road. There were dead bugs all over the windshield. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me to just keep walking. I was too young to be all that concerned, and so I just walked, pulling my backpack along behind me.
When he turned the key and revved the engine, the little car shook beneath us. “Your aunt Lisa died,” he said.
“Oh. But who’s Aunt Lisa?”
“Well, she doesn’t exist, Tommy, but it’s a tragedy nonetheless, and she deserves our respect.”
“What?”
Curtis slapped my knee. “The Orioles game starts in an hour. I got us some seats right behind home plate. I’m driving. You man the radio. Find us something good.”
If he tried a stunt like that today, there would be an Amber Alert across the entire Mid-Atlantic region and he’d end up in jail. But, back then, no one seemed worried about a grown man with sideburns and a deliriously happy little boy speeding up I-95 on a sunny spring afternoon.
The car’s smaller now, or so it seems, and I have to crouch so my head doesn’t touch the ceiling, but it still pushes me back into my seat when my dad hits the gas to speed by a lumbering SUV on the George Washington Parkway. I touch the dashboard and think about how much more awesome this car is than every other car on the road.
“Where are we going? Pentagon City? They’ve got some good stores there.”
“Nah,” he says.
“OK, so, where then?”
“Can we get ice cream?” asks Allie from the minuscule backseat. “I want some ice cream.”
“I think that’s a fabulous idea,” says Curtis. “But I need some clothes first.”
The car smells distinctly of dog, so I crack the window. I find a pop station on the radio and Allie yells for me to stop. It’s an old Christina Aguilera song. Allie sings along about how she’s going to get dirty. This goes on for a while.
“It’s catchy,” says Curtis, and then he starts singing along, too.
After a while, we pull off the parkway and he navigates the obstacle course of senseless D.C. roundabouts and one-way streets while sipping his coffee and smiling at the occasional female motorist. Curtis has always driven as if it’s about the third or fourth thing on his mind. I’ve forgotten how stressful it can be.
“Is there a store around here? Where are we going?”
“I know where
I’m
going, Tom,” he says. “So don’t worry.”
He’s being coy about something, and I’ve learned not to like that.
“Is there ice cream by the place we’re going, Grandpa?”
“Are you kidding? Loads of it.”
We’re passing along the outskirts of the George Washington University, winding through a large neighborhood of brownstones that have been converted into shops and little apartments for students. My dad’s office is a few blocks away in one of the English buildings. His position there as chair of the MFA program requires about four hours of actual work per week five months a year, and for that he earns about three hundred thousand dollars annually. This seems reasonable.
Allie is gazing at Katie’s bracelet in the backseat, considering it from different angles, “I bet that place over there has ice cream,” she says, quietly, as if talking to the dog.
At a stoplight, Curtis watches a young blond girl jog through the intersection. She has a G and a W on either side of her ass and her long hair trails behind her, yellow and whipping in stride. The light turns green, but Curtis just watches her hop up over a curb and glide down the street until the van behind us honks.
“Come on, Dad, let’s stay focused here.”
“Oh relax, it’s just a Saturday drive, Tommy. You’re beginning to sound like your mother. She always hated the way I drive.”
“Or maybe she hated the way you stare at teenage girls. Wives can be unreasonable like that.”
“Well, she hardly looked like a teenager. Early twenties, I’d say.”
“Yes, because that’s definitely the point I was trying to make.”
“Why are you mad, Daddy?” asks Allie. I can feel her watching the back of my head.
“I’m not mad, honey. Your grandpa and I are just discussing the word ‘appropriate.’”
For a while, Curtis weaves through traffic. Allie starts singing another song. She’s saying some of the words wrong, mumbling past others.
“So, you’re sure that’s the stance you want to take on the subject of young girls?” Curtis asks.
“What’s that, Nabokov?”
He likes this, a reference to, ironically, his favorite book. “I just think that holier-than-thou might be a bit of a stretch. You may have some credibility issues there, if we’re being honest.” Sometimes when men like my father smile—learned, successful men—it comes off as something sinister. He checks his blind spot and passes a woman biking along the shoulder in a Hillary Clinton T-shirt. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but perhaps you’d like to tell me about the girl, Tommy?”
“What girl?”
“You know, I think I’ve actually used those exact words before. ‘What girl?’ A little advice, son, they don’t work, so you might want to try something more original.”
“You mean Katie?” I ask.
“Katie, that’s right. I couldn’t remember her name. When she started walking toward our table, I thought we were going to lose you. You looked like you were about to make a run for it. I know that look.”
“She’s just a girl I work with,” I say.
I wish Allie would take off that stupid bracelet. It’s not doing any of us any favors.
“Tom, I’m not proud of some of the decisions I’ve made in my life. I think you probably know that. But let’s both agree that I’ve got some experience in this particular genre. I know when a girl is more than
just a girl you work with
. Trust me.”
Outside, as the city passes, things look familiar, even though I’m not exactly sure where we are.
“How long has it been going on?” he asks.
“It isn’t, Dad
.
I just told you that. I’m married, remember? Believe it or not, some of us are able to manage our lives with control and forethought. You should try it sometime.”
He smiles. “She’s a very pretty girl. I know the type.”
“She’s a friend. And she’s a nice person, she’s not a type.”
“Oh don’t be naïve. You know better than that, Tommy. That’s what I tell my students. I see these young writers struggling to make their characters unique—going on about the color of their hair or pitch of their Southern accents or what have you. But sometimes generalities suffice just fine. Everyone is a type of something.”
“God, you’re so full of shit.”
When the car stops, Allie claps and says, “We’re here!” She says this whenever she’s in a vehicle that comes to a stop.
“Where are we?” I ask. But this is a stupid question. I know exactly where we are.
“I need you to do me a favor,” says Curtis. “I need you to pack some of my clothes. As many as you can get.”
“Pack?”
“Yes. From my house.”
I look around. “Why can’t you pack your own clothes?”
“Well, it’s not that simple. There’s about a fifty-fifty chance Ashley’s there.”
“Ha. Well, hell no, then. Are you out of your mind?”
“Come on, Tommy. Let’s just say she’s not my biggest fan right now. And she’s always liked you. At least as much as Ashley can like someone. She’s probably not even there, anyway.”
“You said fifty-fifty.”
“Well, I meant forty-sixty. I don’t know. I’m not a statistician.”
“Are we getting out?” asks Allie. My daughter hates stalls in narrative drive.
“Just pack some clothes. Underwear, some shirts. In and out. It’ll be easy. Oh, and I need you to get me the green bag on my writing desk. Just a little carry-on thing. Don’t forget that.”
“No, Dad. That woman is certifiable. She’s probably got a gun.”
“Oh you’re being ridiculous. In fact, you’re being a bit of a baby.” He hands me a set of keys on a Dickens key chain.
“I don’t believe this,” I say. But, actually, I
do
believe it. My father has lured me here. And to do it he needed little more than the prospect of a ride in this goddamn car. What am I, ten?
“That place over there has ice cream, Grandpa,” says Allie. “See, look at that sign with the cone on it. We should get out here?”
He winks at Allie’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “No, baby. You and I are staying put for a minute. Your daddy’s gotta run an errand for me.”
“I hate you,” I say.
“Oh, you don’t mean that. Thirty-seventy. I promise. There was a fund-raiser up in Manhattan last night. AIDS or Obama or something. Maybe it’s tonight, I can’t remember for sure. You know Ashley. She never misses that sort of thing. Come on, I’ll buy you some ice cream when you get back.”
“Seriously. I hate you.”
As I open the car door, he grabs hold of my arm. “Don’t forget. The green bag—on my writing desk. I need that.”
“Whatever.”
“Bye, Daddy,” says Allie.
Curtis and my daughter are disproportionately cheery about all of this, which is infuriating. Even Hank doesn’t seem to give a shit that I’m walking into a potential buzz saw. Curtis, the coward, didn’t even have the balls to park closer than two blocks from his own house. I’m the star of a public service announcement cautioning viewers of the horrors of infidelity.
This is your brain. This is your brain when you’re a hopeless, skirt-chasing philanderer.
Any questions?
