Domestic Violets by Matthew Norman Page A

parenting,” I say.
    When our burgers arrive, we eat and listen to classic rock ’n’ roll songs. He tells me about the dealership and how my half brothers are doing, Brett and Randy, two far more capable men than I, living in Dallas and Kansas City. And then he catches me off guard for the second time. “So, I hear your dad is having some marriage troubles.”
    “Well . . . I guess you could say that.”
    “That Ashley gal of his from the magazines? She’s beautiful. How could he let a woman like that get away?”
    It takes me a moment to realize that he’s not being sarcastic. Gary has made the classic mistake of equating precise cheekbones, perfect breasts, and a vague association with philanthropy as the signs of a good woman. “Gary, my dad has let far better women get away. Did you know that I’m actually four months older than she is? I’m older than my stepmother, Pop. That’s just not the natural order of things. The fact that I’m not in therapy is a statistical anomaly.”
    He pokes at his hamburger, looking under the bun at the half-melted cheese. “Well, I guess he could have just about any woman he wants, what with him being who he is and all.”
    This is a strange conversation for Gary and me to be having. Curtis is a topic we generally avoid, which I’ve always liked. He’s one of a small handful of people I know in the world who seems to have no interest in my dad. Until now. “You freelancing for People magazine?” I say. “Is this why you wanted to have lunch, to talk about my dad?”
    “I was just . . . making conversation.”
    “We’ve never had to make conversation before. Why is your shirt so dirty? What, have you been using it as a napkin? Is there something wrong?”
    If Gary looked merely melancholy before, that’s all come crumbling down now as I really look at him, sinking there in the booth across from me. He rubs his eyes with his fists and sighs. “Well, it’s your mom. When was the last time you talked to her?”
    He watches me chew and swallow for a while as I think about the four or five missed calls I’ve had from her. I feel like a dick—classic Child-of-Divorce Syndrome. “I’m not sure. A week, ten days maybe? Why?”
    Gary wrings his napkin, tearing at the corners. “Well, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. But, well, it all started about ten days ago, after your dad won that award. They talked on the phone—”
    “Wait. My mom and dad talked on the phone?”
    “Yeah. I know because I answered. They talked for about an hour actually. And, since then she’s been . . . different. And then I hear in the papers about your dad and Ashley splitting up, and I guess I just—” His face begins to flush, and he doesn’t want to say whatever it is that he’s trying to say.
    “You guess what?”
    He leans forward, his big belly halved by our table. “Do you think maybe they’re seeing each other?”
    “Seeing each other where?” Hearing myself say it, this combination of words, I get what he’s asking, and I laugh. “Gary. I can’t even remember the last time they were in the same room together. There’s . . . no way. What are you talking about?”
    “OK, that’s what I thought, too, obviously. I mean, this is your mom, right? But, well, she’s a complex woman, Tommy. I’m not an idiot. I bought your dad’s book last week, and it seems like every story in there is about . . . well, affairs and people cheating on people and hurting each other. I hate to even think it, but . . . I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past your dad is all. Seems like it’s probably second nature to him.”
    As I set my cheeseburger in its little red basket, I tell him that I wouldn’t put it past him, either, but that the person we’re really talking about is my mother and his wife, but still, the part of my brain that focuses on fucked-up, unforeseen shit begins working through a series of complex probabilities. My dad is in love again—as always—but