Domestic Violets (30 page)

“Do you think this whole thing is even illegal?” I ask. “Like we could get into trouble?”

Brandon smiled at his sandwich. “Yeah. Maybe someday the book police will come and take us away.”

I see Diane to her Volvo station wagon and head to my own sinking Honda. On the way home, traffic is mysteriously lighter than it often is, and I think about my book. I’ve started writing a new one—a book of my own—and I think about it almost constantly now, lying in bed, in the shower, walking Hank. The men upstairs have left my father behind and come to live with me in my head, and they’ve been working nonstop for months now to the tune of 133 double-spaced pages. There’s an office in my book and a man in trouble there. He’s driving the car next to mine right now, staring ahead grimly, his tie loose around his neck, his collar yellow from sweat. He looks at me and then back at the road. He has no idea who I am. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he ends up OK. But I guess it’s not really up to me.

If there really are dozens of loose ends to this story, my mother is decidedly not one of them. I expected her to loathe everything about our plan and be convinced that it was a literary travesty, but, somehow, she was very Bohemian about the whole thing. “Anything is better than Thomas Ferris,” she said. And the case was closed.

I park the Honda and begin my trudge through the heat toward home. I can hear Hank barking as he always does when I get to this place on the sidewalk where the sound of my footsteps can reach the spot where he sits, waiting. He hops up and down when I come through the door, pawing at my knee and smiling in his ugly little dog way. “Hey, buddy,” I say. He leads me to the kitchen where Anna and Allie are sitting at the table. Their identical sets of eyes look up, and I feel so much warmth for them, these two beautiful females who I don’t deserve. They’re splitting a bowl of tortilla chips and drinking Crystal Lights.

“Ladies,” I say.

I touch my lips to Anna’s neck and squeeze Allie’s head, running a hand across her hair, which is frizzy from the heat. “What are you working on?”

“A picture of Mommy. It’s a
portrait
.”

In the picture, Anna, for no reason that I can identify, has a giant nose and one of her ears is larger than the other by about 50 percent. Anna and I exchange a little smile. Our daughter is failing to develop as an artist, which is fine by us. Anna and I are both quietly rooting for her to be good at something reasonable. Someone in this family has to be. But I tell her that her picture is wonderful because this is what fathers say—or at least it’s what they
should
say for as long as they can.

She smiles, agreeing with me.

I set my bag of textbooks and pamphlets next to Anna’s Adidas bag and open the fridge to stare.

“Oh, could you do me a favor?” Anna asks. “Could you take the garbage out? Something in there has gotten kind of nasty.”

“I’d love to. Anything else, madam?”

“No, that’ll do for now.”

The garbage bag is only half full and I can’t smell anything particularly nasty, but who am I to argue? I step out the back door, back into the heat, and before I can close it behind me, I hear them giggling at me, the women in my life. Anna and Allie are like a little team sometimes, and I think of the possibility of someday having a son. We could form our own team, and there would finally be some equality in this house.

The garage out back is where we keep the garbage to hide it from the drunks and rats of Washington, D.C., and when I open the door to the dank little place, like I’ve done hundreds of times, I instantly know that something is different. That something happens to be a silver Porsche. I exhale, staring, with the bag of garbage in my hand, for a long, long time. I don’t need to look back to know that Anna and Allie are at the kitchen window looking out at me. I can hear my daughter cheering from behind the glass.

There’s a simple index card beneath the windshield wiper. It’s Sonya’s handwriting. She’s been taking dictation from him lately as he’s gotten more and more tired.

Sonya has done her best to draw a violet, but it’s not the same. It’s too small, wilted, like an old sunflower.

Anna, Allie, and Hank are outside now, and Anna is holding a set of keys. “Sonya brought it over a few hours ago. Curtis wanted to wait until you were gone. He said it’d be more dramatic that way.”

“Hop in.”

The clutch is soft and releases higher than I’ve imagined it would, and so I stall three times, one for each stop light on M Street. Pedestrians glance in our direction. People have been looking at this noisy little car for years, but never with me in the driver’s seat, and I don’t care how many times I stall it, I feel like the coolest man alive. I’m Paul Newman. I’m James Bond. I’m Tom Cruise before he jumped on that stupid couch. I’m . . . Curtis Violet.

“I think I might sell the Honda,” I say.

Anna mans the radio, flipping to our favorite station, and the stoplight turns green. I release the clutch in time and we move forward, the engine humming and whining behind us. I shift into second and then into third as we move across the Key Bridge into Virginia and toward the closest open road I can think of.

“Go fast, Daddy!” yells Allie from the backseat as we come off the entrance ramp to Highway 66. Rush hour has come and gone and both lanes are wide open. I hit the gas, still in third, and the beautiful little car roars forward, shoving us all back into our seats. Anna holds her armrest and laughs and screams.

“Daddy,” Allie says. “Are you sad?”

“No, baby,” I say. “Not at all.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Anna puts her hand over mine on the gearshift.

She doesn’t have to be with anyone else. Because I love her. And because I’m not going anywhere.

I should really slow down. I’m responsible for my wife, my daughter, and an easily frightened dog, and we have our entire lives ahead of us. And I will . . . in just a second. But right now I wanna see what this baby can do.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my dedicated agent, Jesseca Salky, for so much support. Thanks to my editor, Emily Krump, for making this book a lot better. Thanks to Ryan Effgen, for always wanting to talk about writing. And thanks to my parents, for more things than I can list.

P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .

About the author

Meet Matthew Norman

About the book

This Book May or May Not Be Completely Autobiographical

A Conversation with Matthew Norman

Read on

Have You Read?

About the Author

Meet Matthew Norman

MATTHEW NORMAN
works as a copywriter in Baltimore, Maryland, a city that once declared itself “the City That Reads.” Born in Omaha, Nebraska, in 1977, he attended the University of Nebraska where he studied advertising and English, and where he was, briefly, a DJ on the campus radio station. While earning an MFA in fiction writing at George Mason University, he published a number of short stories in various literary magazines, including
Phoebe: A Journal of Literature & Art
. Norman lives with his wife and daughter, and posts sporadically on his blog, the Norman Nation.
Domestic Violets
is his first novel.

www.thenormannation.blogspot.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

About the book

This Book May or May Not Be Completely Autobiographical

L
IKE A LOT OF PEOPLE
who are totally cool and not at all nerdy, I’m a big fan of author readings. For those of you who have never attended a reading, it’s a little like going to a rock concert, except there’s a lot less alcohol, and instead of dancing, you’re encouraged to be very still and quiet. Another difference is that almost everyone in attendance suffers from some sort of social anxiety disorder.

Of the many readings I’ve attended, two have stuck with me over the years as being truly memorable. This is because both authors were very famous, and because both readings were highlighted by moments so awkward that the simple act of committing them to type is making me feel like I need to take a mood-stabilizer.

When my wife and I went to Politics & Prose in Washington, D.C., to see my all-time favorite writer Richard Russo read from his book
The Bridge of Sighs
, things started out great. We listened as he read and politely answered questions, and then we lined up to have him sign our book. It was a lovely evening, I was in a great mood, and there were no signs whatsoever that I was just moments away from being emotionally scarred forever.

But then, as we stood there making married-couple chitchat, my anxiety level began to rise. My wife, who was pregnant at the time, could sense this and encouraged me not to humiliate her in public. Her concern, admittedly, was valid. I have an impressive history of getting nervous around celebrities (and often non-celebrities) and blurting out really stupid things. This was not only a Pulitzer Prize–winning author, this was the guy who created Hank Devereaux, the narrator of the novel
Straight Man
and my favorite fictional character ever. For people like me—super-cool people and wannabe novelists—this kind of thing is a pretty big deal.

So, when our time finally came, I stepped up to the little table and handed Mr. Russo our new copy of
The Bridge of Sighs
. He smiled up at my wife and me, friendly as could be, and said “Hello” and asked us our names so he could inscribe our book. And then apropos of God knows what, I said/ shouted, “Hi, if we have a boy, we’re going to name him Hank!”

Now, allow me to defend myself for a moment. In my mind, informing Mr. Russo that he’d created my first child’s potential namesake sounded like something that a perfectly reasonable person would say—it’s a compliment! Turns out, it actually sounded like something that a serial killer would say, similar to, “Hi, I have a lamp shade made of human skin in my den,” or, “Hi, I brought you my mailman’s head as a souvenir of this blessed occasion.”

For about five seconds, the awkwardness was staggering. Thankfully my wife, who is
not
an idiot, was prepared. She swooped in and said something charming about upstate New York and totally diffused the situation. I didn’t actually hear what she said, though. By then I’d burst into tears and run out into the parking lot.

The second awkward reading moment was also in D.C. This one involved another of my favorite writers, Jonathan Franzen. But this time, I’m pleased to report that the awkwardness, although equally as soul-crushing, didn’t involve me at all.

After Mr. Franzen’s impressive reading, during the Q&A portion, a young, nervous-sounding guy asked, “How much of this book is autobiographical?”

Whenever this question comes up at readings—and it comes up a lot— authors are almost always annoyed. Most of them simply shrug it off and give a canned, unfulfilling answer. But not Franzen. For a moment, he looked down at the podium and fiddled with his hair. And then, obviously irritated, he asked the guy why he wanted to know. A few people in the audience laughed, assuming that this was a rhetorical question. But, as his gaze remained fixed, it became clear that he wanted an answer. “I’m genuinely curious,” said Franzen. “Why does it matter to you?”

What followed was awkwardness so devastating and so unspeakably profound that I imagine it was visible from space, like the Great Wall of China. There had to have been two hundred people there—which is the equivalent of a football stadium in the world of author readings. I don’t even remember the poor bastard’s answer, but I remember my heart breaking for him as he struggled to dig a hole in the floor with his program and disappear forever.

In
Domestic Violets
, my main character’s mother, a high school English teacher, tells her son that all first novels are autobiographical. As a blanket statement, I doubt that this is completely true, but there’s usually some truth to comments like this, otherwise people wouldn’t make them—even fictional people. Now that I have a first novel of my own, though, I find myself wondering the same thing that that random guy in D.C. wondered—right before getting bitch-slapped by a
New York Times
bestselling National Book Award winner.

How much of this book is autobiographical?

I’m not going to lie, the evidence against me is pretty damning. My main character, Tom Violet, is a white male copywriter in his thirties with a wife, a daughter, and an emotionally needy dog. Me, too. And, when the book starts, Tom is at a job that he believes is slowly killing him, like asbestos. OK, I’ve been there myself. And, like Tom, my inner monologue consists almost entirely of movie references.

I guess if I’m being completely honest, all I’ve done here is taken someone who’s a lot like me and made him better looking, less afraid of authority, more at ease around women, a little taller, much more charismatic, quicker on his feet, more self-destructive, a cooler dresser, and hopefully a hell of a lot more likeable. And then I unleashed him on our nation’s capital during a full-blown financial crisis.

All right, fair point. But allow me to defend myself again. In real life, my dad isn’t famous, neglectful, or a philanderer. My parents aren’t divorced. My daughter wasn’t even born when I started this book. I’ve never been anywhere near important enough to have my own office. I don’t live in D.C. My dog isn’t really
that
needy. And, well, none of the things that happened to Tom in this book ever actually happened to me. At least not exactly. For the most part. Give or take.

So . . . how much of this book is autobiographical?

I guess you’ve probably figured out by now that I don’t really know. Unlike Tom, I was never an English major, so all of these labels are frightening and confusing to me. Maybe all of it’s autobiographical. Maybe none of it is. Either way, if you ever happen to see me at a totally cool and not-at-all-nerdy author reading, you sure as hell better not ask me if it is. Because if you do . . . I promise that I will embarrass the living crap out of you. How’s that for a canned, unfulfilling answer?

A Conversation with Matthew Norman

You’ve said that the book may or may not be completely autobiographical. Where did the idea for the book originate?

I saw a documentary a while back— I think it was on HBO—about the children of the super-wealthy. It was really fascinating. There were all these young adults who were smart, highly educated, and hyper-articulate, but most of them were completely aimless. For some reason, it really stuck with me, and I started thinking about it again shortly after grad school when I found myself being a little aimless, too, at least writing-wise. This got me to thinking about what it’d be like if my dad was a famous novelist. And then I wondered how that would make me feel, and then how those feelings would manifest themselves into entertaining, self-destructive behavior. That seemed like a book I’d want to read.

Do you think that Tom would have made his own leap to leave MSW if he had not been fired?

Sadly, I think the answer is no. In fact, I’m pretty positive. In my experience, there’s this strange, bastardized version of the Stockholm syndrome that sometimes develops in people who have soul-crushing jobs. You may loathe your job, you may bitch about it constantly to your friends, and you may lie awake on Sunday nights paralyzed by dread, but you somehow rationalize that suffering year after year, or, worse, you convince yourself that the suffering you know is worse than the potential suffering you don’t know. It’s an ugly, unhappy cycle, and Tom was caught dead in the middle of it. Having him get himself fired wasn’t just a plot device. It was a gift, from me to him. I just couldn’t stand seeing him suffer anymore.

Do you think that the book would exist without the financial collapse?

Well, for a little while, it kind of did. I had a completed draft of the book all printed out and sitting in an impressive pile on my desk. The basic plot and characters were the same, give or take, except there were very few references to the “real” world—and certainly no references to the financial world, of which I have only a childlike understanding. Then, pretty much over night, the world got flipped upside down. As I started going back through the manuscript, I realized that it had become laughably irrelevant. The world had changed, and I couldn’t just ignore it. So, after a few days (perhaps weeks) of anxiety and low-level alcohol abuse, I decided to open a new Microsoft Word document and just started typing. It turns out that balancing the stuff I’d made up with the drama that was unfolding nightly on the news was really exhilarating. So, yeah, a worldwide financial crisis . . . lucky me.

Allie is very precocious for a young child and very aware of her parents’ lives. Is she “gifted and talented,” or are Tom and Anna simply not that discreet about their marital problems? Do you think kids generally know when something is up?

Little kids are tough—even fictional kids. I think as a writer, you can only go one of two ways: you either make them really bright and perceptive or you make them complete idiots. Anything in between is just kind of boring. If you go the smart route, they can end up being your little truth-tellers, and that’s exactly who Allie is. She isn’t old enough to know about neurosis or subtext yet, so she just calls things as she sees them. Adults spend a lot of time not saying what they should be saying because they’re afraid of the consequences. Having a little kid lurking around to do some strategic blabbing is a great way to make people actually deal with their problems.

Tom mentions that the word “ironic” gets misused a lot. But, in fact, many of Tom’s experiences are ironic. What’s this all about?

Hmm. That’s actually a pretty ironic statement. At least I think it is. I have a theory on irony, which I’ve been halfheartedly working on since junior high. I sincerely believe that when irony shows up in fiction, it’s almost always completely by accident—just like in real life. That’s certainly the case with
Domestic Violets
. I’m nowhere near organized enough to plan irony, so I had to trust that if I was diligent enough, I’d eventually stumble blindly into it. Admittedly, Tom’s worldview helped. He’s a person who’s always prepared for the worst. So, when the worst inevitably happens, he just sort of looks at you and says something sarcastic. I think it’s why most people who actually know him find him infuriating.

If you could choose a dream cast to play your characters in a film, who would you include and why?

I absolutely love movies and I quote them incessantly, so you’d assume that I have an entire cast list typed up and laminated. But the truth is, I really have no idea. The only character in the book who I casted with an actual actor was Gary, who’s played in my head by Brian Dennehy, Chris Farley’s dad from
Tommy Boy
. Everyone else was just an amalgamation of random people I’ve known over the years or people I just made up. I imagine it’s sort of like the complete strangers who show up as extras in your dreams. Where do those people come from? Does your subconscious create them, or are they just sort of . . . there? (Side note: I think I just blew my own mind.)

If there was a playlist for Domestic Violets what would be on it? Do you listen to music while you write?

Silence kind of freaks me out when I’m writing. It makes me overly aware of the sound of me not typing. So, I’ve always got something on in the background. Here’s a list of songs that had varying degrees of influence on the book.

“I’m Always in Love” by Wilco

It’s a joyous song, but also kind of manic. And it was actually the working title of the book.

“Street Fighting Man” by The Rolling Stones

This song was in my head during the absurd bar fight, and then again in the very last scene of the book.

“Arc of Time” by Bright Eyes

Katie is the type of person who goes crazy for Bright Eyes. I imagine her listening to this song in her little apartment while she’s putting on makeup.

“Where Is My Mind” by The Pixies

This feels like it could be Tom’s theme song. I am aware, however, that the lyrics don’t really make very much sense.

“Some Days Are Better Than Others” by U2

It’s always reminded me of that moment somewhere between youth and adulthood where you accept that you have very little control over things.

“A Day in the Life” by The Beatles

It starts really slow and melancholy, but takes a jarring, anxiety-ridden turn about two minutes in. It’s about someone trying to hold on . . . and not doing very well.

“Handbags & Gladrags” by Stereophonics

Most of
Domestic Violets
was written when my wife and I were living in London. I discovered the Stereophonics and their version of this old song there.

“Fluorescent Adolescent” by Arctic Monkeys

“The best you ever had is just a memory,” is a line that rang out to me when I was writing the book. It’s about more than sex, I think, and it’s a little haunting.

“Always Love” by Nada Surf

If Tom’s stepfather, Gary, knew who Nada Surf was, this would be his favorite song in the whole world.

“Chicago” by Sufjan Stevens

The lines “I made a lot of mistakes” and “all things go” are repeated over and over until they become a mantra of redemption. It’s a very inspiring song.