Domestic Violets (18 page)

Chapter 24

W
hen you’re sitting
outside of a Bank of America looking for a white man in his midthirties with blond hair, you realize how many white men there are in their midthirties with blond hair. I thought America was a melting pot, but from my vantage point it’s like some Aryan dream of pale-haired, blue-eyed domination. My car is on, and a Beatles song is playing. Passersby must think I look suspicious, a man sitting in an idling car listening to “A Day in the Life.” Perhaps I’m the getaway guy. My partners are inside robbing the place, and I’m waiting out here, ready to speed off down K Street with bags of money.

Charlie doesn’t think I have anything to worry about. If I called him now and told him where I was, he’d ask me, quite simply, what exactly I was planning on doing.

Yet another blond guy walks out of the building. He’s wearing a brown suit and a striped tie. That could be him. Another guy whose hair is more sandy than blond walks into the bank carrying a file folder and eating an apple. That could be him, too. Another blond guy, this one in nice pants and a polo shirt, leaves smiling, and he holds the door for a couple of elderly black ladies. I think of these guys from Anna’s perspective, wondering what it is that women are even attracted to. It’s hard to tell with women, especially the smart ones. You ask a girl what she likes in a guy and she’ll say something completely immeasurable like eyes or hands.

I’m compartmentalizing the events of the day so far—seeing Darth Gregory promoted and standing on the edge with Katie are both faraway thoughts, buried somewhere. For me, anxiety has always manifested itself in nausea, and so it wouldn’t be out of the question to roll down my window and throw up on the street.

When I finally get up the nerve to go inside, I’m taken aback by all the activity. Since the advent of ATMs, I can’t even remember the last time I was in a bank, and it’s surprising. I expected a sleepy little room with plastic plants and old ladies filling out deposit slips with pens on chains, but what I see instead is American commerce at full tilt. Tellers are speaking to customers from behind a long counter. There are dozens of little offices lining the perimeter of the lobby, each manned by an official, professional-looking person. The employees are trained to smile, but many of the customers seem worried. I wonder how many are here to simply visit the money in their accounts, just to see if it’s actually still there.

On the wall, CNN is showing a clip of Obama doing a Top Ten on
Letterman
. Barack Obama and my father are doing the late-night circuit, and I’m lurking in a bank scoping out guys and trying to figure out whether or not my wife would like to sleep with them.

“Can I help you, sir?” says a girl. She’s maybe Katie’s age in a smart little suit-looking thing.

“Oh. No, I’m just looking.” It’s what I say on reflex to people in stores, but of course I’m not in a store, I’m in a bank, and the poor girl looks a little alarmed behind her smile. “That’s actually not what I meant. I was looking to speak to someone in private wealth management.” I point at the people in the glass offices. “Is that . . . them?”

She shakes her head. “Nope, those are our personal bankers. The wealth managers are down the hall a ways. Did you make an appointment? They usually see people by appointment only.”

I have absolutely no business visiting someone in the business of wealth management, and I’m sure this girl is thinking that same thing, but she’s being really professional about it. “No, I didn’t,” I say as we walk through the lobby. “I guess I should have. But with the markets the way they are, I figured I should stop by and . . .” and what? “. . . touch base.”

“Absolutely. We’ve had all sorts of walk-ins these past few weeks. It’s not a problem at all.”

We move down a corridor past a room lined with safety deposit boxes before arriving at a quiet waiting room. There are more offices here, but the walls aren’t glass and the doors are closed. There are a few people ahead of me, guys older than me reading
Time
and the
Economist
. She guides me to a podium where there’s a sign-up sheet. “OK, here we are. Who do you usually work with?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Your adviser. Who’s currently managing your . . .” she trails off, smiling.

The version of Charlie in my head from earlier had a point. What am I planning on doing? I guess I imagined strolling in like it was a Banana Republic and I’d see a guy with a big “David Anderson” name tag on and then something would happen from there. Or maybe nothing would happen. But I’d know what he looked like, and I’d know right away if there was a problem. I’d know if he was some nerd with a crush on my wife or if he was the guy I’ve heard her dream about. “I’m not actually working with anyone specifically,” I say. “Kind of a free agent.”

I’m so obviously lying that the men sitting in their chairs waiting look up at me over their magazines.

“Oh, well, no worries. What’s your name? We’ll jot it down here and someone will see you shortly.”

Paul Hewson.

“Tom Violet,” I say.

She starts writing my name in a little box, and then stops. “You’re not related to Curtis Violet, are you?”

“No. Different Violet.”

“That’s too bad. He’s awesome. Just have a seat here, OK, Mr. Violet? It shouldn’t be long.”

As she walks away, I see that I’ve cornered myself, agreeing to sit and wait for a random Bank of America employee to find me and discuss the money that I don’t have in this bank. “Oh, wait,” I say, stopping her. “I remember now. I was actually supposed to talk to David Anderson? Is he in?”

Her smile falls and she makes a disappointed cluck with her tongue. “Well that’s just bad timing. Mr. Anderson’s at an investment conference this week. How about I leave him a memo with your name and contact information? He can get back to you right away when he’s back.”

“A financial conference?” I look down at his business card in my hand, his name and title all crisp and sans serif.

“Yeah. Up in Boston, I think.”

“Boston?”

“Wait a minute?” she says. “Are you sure you’re not related to Curtis Violet? Because you really look a lot like him. It’s kind of freaky actually.”

“Boston, Massachusetts?”

Chapter 25

A
s I walk
toward my house, I feel like my limbs aren’t quite connected. My nerve endings have been rewired somehow, and they’re all tingling. I’m a head floating atop a detached body of parts. I bump into a pedestrian, and I don’t even have it in me to say excuse me.

I’ve got Charlie on the phone. He’s been listening to me ramble on. “I thought you said I didn’t have anything to worry about?” I say. I’ve chosen to take this out, at least partially, on my best friend.

He sighs. “Here’s the thing. I know it looks bad. But, before you go on some Violet quest of stupidity, just stop and think about it. It’s Boston, man. Right? It’s a huge city. It could be a coincidence.”

This seems sensationally naïve—especially coming from Charlie.

The sun is setting as I walk. It’s getting darker earlier and earlier now, fully committing to fall. I imagine my marriage ending in the middle of the winter when everything is drab and slate-colored and depressing.

“Remember when Hillary cornered you?” I say. I know that I’m being a dick right now, but I can’t help it. “She said she thought you were having an affair, right?”

“Yes, Tom, I remember.”

“Well, were you having an affair?”

Charlie’s right. Boston is a major American city, and there are things happening there all the time. But what Charlie doesn’t realize is that there’s no way this can be a coincidence. There are no coincidences in these sorts of narratives. Every writer knows that—even shitty ones.

As I let Charlie go, I walk right by Gary’s Ford Excursion without realizing it. But then I turn around and take in its sheer bulk. It shouldn’t be here, parked illegally on my street, yet there it is, jutting out into the intersection. In this neighborhood of sensible German and Japanese vehicles, Gary’s truck looks like something built by the Department of Defense to root out terrorists in Afghanistan. I feel like turning around and walking in a different direction. I haven’t spoken to Gary since talking to my mom. I didn’t know what to say to him before, and I sure as hell don’t now. But then, as I’m finally home, I see something unexpected—Curtis and Gary standing together in front of my house. Curtis is leaning against his Porsche. He’s holding a small towel and Gary is in his Ford shirt. Both of them are smiling—I think they’re even laughing. My dog is sitting by the front door. He gives me a look that seems to say,
Seriously, do you believe this shit?

“Hiya, Tom,” says Gary.

I suppose there’s a chance this isn’t actually happening. Maybe as I lurked outside of Bank of America, I fell asleep in my car and now this is the end of a strange, meandering dream. In a minute, my old grade school gym teacher will walk by and ridicule me for not being able to do chin-ups when I was twelve.

“What’s going on guys?” I say.

“Your dad here was just telling me about his new book,” says Gary.

I look over at Curtis, who’s smiling. “Oh really? Well, there are quite a few people who’d have been interested in that conversation.”

By the look on my dad’s face, I can see that he’s just been toying with Gary. He’s an arrogant man—a man who’d use a duller man for sport. “Turns out Gary’s been reading some of my work.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“I finished the short stories, like I told you, Tommy. But then I read the Vietnam book. The
Bridge
one. When those guys opened Davey’s rucksack after he got killed and they pulled out all those old unsent letters. That part wasn’t in the movie. I almost got emotional. I never saw that coming in a million years.”

Curtis is smiling. Glowing praise has always been one of his favorite things about being a famous writer.

Gary is still talking, ringing his big hands together. “It’s kinda funny, you don’t get to read a book and then actually talk to the writer very often. Believe it or not, I don’t know a lot of writers.”

“Really?” says Curtis.

“I met Lee Iacocca once, at a big trade show.”

“That must have been fascinating.”

Gary doesn’t seem to notice that Curtis is being an asshole. “I liked his books on leadership, but I don’t have a lot of experience with fiction. I had no idea it takes so long to write a novel. Tommy, did you know your dad’s been working on this new book of his for five years—and he’s not even done, yet.”

“Well,” I say. “It didn’t used to take him five years.”

Curtis brushes this off in passing. “So, Gary thinks I need to get rid of the Porsche. Trade her in for something newer.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Curt,” says Gary. “She’s a beautiful old automobile. A classic. But the things they’re doing with sports cars now—out of this world.”

“He doesn’t trade in cars, Pop,” I say. “Just wives.”

“Well, someone’s feeling some pent-up aggression today,” says Curtis. “Trouble at the . . . office?”

The quick stop there before the word “office” leads me to believe that my dad actually had to pause midsentence to confirm in his mind that I actually work in an office, and so I take some pleasure in seeing that he’s missed a big spot on his car. A long water streak is running down the windshield, breaking my reflection into two unequal parts.

“The thing about trading in wives,” says Gary. “It’s what I tell guys down on the lot. It’s a helluva lot cheaper to just go ahead and trade in cars instead.”

Curtis laughs, genuinely, which pleases Gary. “Well, when you’re right, you’re right, my friend.” He gives the Porsche’s fender one last stroke and leaves Gary and me alone, scooping Hank up on his way into the house.

Instinctively, we start walking together, drifting back in the direction of his truck, just two men ambling through Georgetown. We acknowledge the chill in the air and he tells me about how things have been tough at the lot since the economy turned. And then: “So, I haven’t heard from ya, Tommy,” he says.

“I’ve been meaning to call you, Pop. I just . . . well, I don’t have a lot of answers. I’m sorry. When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Last night. But . . . it didn’t go so well. She wouldn’t return any of my calls, and so I just kept calling. Persistence, you know. I’m a salesman. Bernice told me she was going to call the phone company and get my number blocked. I didn’t even realize you could do that. But then finally your mom
does
answer, but it’s obvious she doesn’t wanna talk to me. I keep asking her questions, like how she’s been doing at school, but she keeps giving me one-word answers.”

“Yep. That’s kind of her thing.”

“I told her I loved her. I told her that she can be mean to me all she wants and not return my calls, but I’m still gonna love her, and that nothing’s ever gonna change that. And then, do you know what she said? She told me that I might want to start thinking about the possibility of a life without her. I’m not even really sure what that means.”

“Shit,” I say. “It’s not about you. None of it is. This whole thing with my—”

“But that’s where you’re wrong.”

“What?”

“Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve determined that it
is
about me. See, you know your mom. She’s a romantic, right? She’s got an artist’s heart. That’s why she reads so much. Me, though, I’ve always kinda been a by-the-numbers guy. Right down the middle. Black and white. But I’ve got a plan now. Your dad kinda helped me out with it, believe it or not.”

“My dad?”

“Well, not directly. It’s not like we talked about it. That would have been embarrassing. But he helped me with his writing. You know that one story of his, ‘The Skywriter’?”

“Gary—”

“‘The Skywriter.’ Just hear me out. You know, the one about the doctor who hires the skywriter to write ‘I Love You’ in the sky for his wife?”

“Yeah, I know it. But, you’re not thinking of doing that, are you? I don’t think my mother—”

“No, no. Don’t be silly. I’m not gonna to do that
exactly
. The story just got me thinking about being romantic. Sometimes a guy has do something big to get a woman’s attention.”

“You
do
know that the skywriter dies in that story, right? He crashes into power lines.” I stop short of reminding him that the doctor’s wife also leaves anyway and takes their three daughters with her, leaving the narrator alone in a gazebo with nothing but a mint julep and a partially blind bull terrier.

“Sure, but that’s just for the drama. It’s the gesture that’s important. That’s what the story is about, being romantic. Your dad just had to put that plane crash in there to get people to keep reading.”

It strikes me then, walking in a daze up my street, that Gary may have just accidentally discovered the secret of a thousand years of compelling fiction writing.

“I just think your mom needs to be reminded of how it used to be with us. Back when we were younger, I think she loved me more. It’s easier to love someone at first, when you’re young and you don’t know anything about anything. But it gets harder as you go along. Love is tough today. There are a lot of distractions.”

“So, what’s your plan then?”

“No, I don’t want to say anything just yet. Some stuff still has to come together. But it’s gonna be good.”

I’m glad he’s opted for secrecy here. I don’t think I have the energy for the details, or, more specifically, for telling him that those details are either insane or completely implausible. “Well, it sounds like you’ve got it all figured out then.”

And then he nudges me with his elbow. “Hey, looky there. It’s a pretty girl at three o’clock.”

I look just in time to see a blond ponytail disappear behind the steering wheel of a shining black Mercedes. It’s parked between a Land Rover and a BMW. Cars like this are common here, but this car is familiar. As we get closer, it becomes even more familiar.

“Come here for a second,” I say.

Gary follows me across the street. “What are you doing, Tommy? You gonna talk to her? You can’t do that.”

“I think I know her.”

“What?”

I peer in through the passenger window, which is cracked a few inches, and I find my stepmother crouched there, hiding behind the dashboard. There’s pair of binoculars on the seat beside her. “Jesus. Ashley, what in God’s name are you doing?”

She remains perfectly still, even when I tap the window, like one of those animals that pretends to be dead when a bear approaches.

“Are you OK, miss?” asks Gary. “Are you broken down? Maybe we can help you out.” He hasn’t realized yet who we’re talking to. She’s wearing a tight black sweater and dark jeans.

“I can see you, Ashley. I’m literally looking at you right now. The jig is up.”

Her ponytail shifts, and she’s thinking of an escape plan, perhaps contemplating teleportation. “I’m not here,” she finally says. “Go away. You weren’t supposed to see me.”

“Well, sorry, but I did.”

Gary looks at me and then back at the beautiful hiding woman. “This is a really nice car,” he whispers. “We got a trade in on one a few weeks ago down at the lot. Sixty thousand at least, depending on the mileage.”

“That’s good to know, Pop. Thanks.” I tap the window one more time. Slowly, she rises to a normal sitting position, her hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. “OK. How about you come on out? I can get my dad for you, if you want? He’s just inside.”

“No,” she says. “I hate him. I don’t want to see him.”

“Well, the binoculars seem to suggest otherwise,” I say.

“Does your car have the sports suspension, honey?” asks Gary.

“Pop, I’ll take care of this. Ashley, this is really pretty stupid. Just come—”

She turns the car on quickly and slams it into gear. Gary grabs my arm and pulls me away as she revs the engine, looking frantically over her shoulder. In reverse, she hits the gas too hard and bumps the Range Rover. Then she throws it into drive again and bumps the BMW. The tires rub loudly against the pavement as she twists the wheel back and forth.

“Ashley, seriously.”

“I have to go!” she yells. “You didn’t see me. I’m not here. Don’t tell him you saw me.”

When finally she makes it out of her spot, three cars damaged along the way, she gives us one vivid, desperate glare before peeling out. We watch her rear bumper and a little cloud of burning gray exhaust.

“Wowee,” says, Gary. “That thing can really move! Who was that girl?”

“My dad’s crazy-assed wife. She’s out of her damn mind.”

“What? Ashley
Martin
? That was her? Holy cow. She’s beautiful. She almost ran you over. That’s the thing about lady drivers—they’re not so good in those tight situations.”

“I guess her driver wouldn’t bring her here for a stakeout.”

“She’s skinnier than I thought she’d be. They say the camera adds ten pounds.”

“We should go inside,” I say. “She might come back with a bazooka.”

“Yeah, I think you might be right. She looked pretty mad.”

Back in our driveway, Gary stops at the Porsche and uses his shirt to wipe away the spot on the glass that Curtis missed. “I wish I’d have known it was her,” he says. “I’d have taken a closer look.”

I think about this and wonder how close of a look Gary would consider to be
too
close of a look. “Do you wanna see a naked picture of her?”

“A what?”

“I have a framed picture of her topless in the house. It’s pretty nice. I keep one of all my stepmothers.”

There’s a water stain across his belly now, and he’s standing in the driveway looking at me, unsure of what to say. In Gary’s defense, though, he’s among a long list of people in my life who have never fully embraced my sense of humor. “Really?” he asks.

Hank sees us from his spot at the window and starts barking.

“I’m kidding, Pop. Come on inside.”

“Are you gonna tell your dad about her?”

“I don’t think so. I’m sure she’ll turn up later anyway. That’s kind of what she does. Right now I think I might need to start drinking.”

Unable to hide his enthusiasm for this idea, Gary cuffs my ear and gives me a one-armed hug that nearly lifts me off the ground. When we get inside, I crouch down and Hank leaps into my arms, welcoming us home to the House of Exiled Fathers.