I have no idea with whom. The smart money would be on anyone else in the world other than my mother. A barista-in-training at Starbucks. One of his students. A longtime enemy’s wife. One of the waitresses here at Johnny Rockets. Jesus . . . anyone. “No, Gary,” I tell him. “No.”
“Yesterday, I was in our bedroom, and I found one of his books in her drawer in the nightstand. I didn’t even think we had any of his books—she used to tell people they weren’t allowed in the house. But there it was.”
“Which book?” I ask.
“A small one, not very long. November something.”
“ Tomorrow Is November ?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”
The chilling remains of burger look gross and fleshy in the basket, nestled in fries. That was my dad’s first novel, and it’s dedicated to her.
“I keep trying to call her, but she doesn’t even want to talk to me. Says she wants to think about some things. I’m not an expert on women or anything, but thinking doesn’t sound like a good thing at all. Because women only think about bad things, I’ve found.”
Gary is right, of course, especially when it comes to women like my mother.
“Wait,” I say. “You’ve been trying to call her? Call her where?”
Gary’s eyes fall to the salt and pepper shakers at the middle of the table. “She’s been staying out at your aunt Bernice’s for a little while now, over in Maryland. She’s . . . sorting some things out. I don’t know what to do, Tommy. What’s gonna happen if she decides she doesn’t want to come back?”
The waiter returns, sneaking up on us, a ninja waiter. He sets a second Diet Coke in front of me—a bubbling tub of soda. “Another big drink?” he asks.
Apparently now he gets my joke.
Chapter 13
B ack at work , I’m sifting through all the crap that Greg has jammed into my in-box while I was at lunch. Because he hates me so much, Greg often leaves things for me when I’m gone to save him the indignity of actually having to speak with me. This is an arrangement that actually works best for everyone involved, but I still try to make things as difficult for him as possible. I’ve been known to sneak things into the garbage and claim never to have seen them. Nothing too important, just random drafts of brochures or press release copy or things that if never seen again would cause no one any tangible harm. Except Greg, of course.
Dear HR:
I am convinced Tom Violet hides drafts of copy and then denies it. This is not only unprofessional, it also creates a great deal of rework for my team and me and goes against best practices. Not to mention, it is profoundly immature.
Along with Johnny Rockets–induced heartburn/meat sweats, the image of my mom and dad having sex has followed me back from lunch and has managed to thoroughly ruin what’s left of my afternoon. If Brandon was here, he’d ask me if my mom had her own secret piece of ass and I’d be left with no choice but to bludgeon him to death with the oddly heavy stapler I stole last time I was in Greg’s office.
I dial my mother at her school. Helen, the receptionist, tells me that my mother is currently with her AP English students. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but Helen sounds strange, and I wonder if she knows something. I believe this is what mental health professionals call paranoia.
“How have you been, dear?” Helen asks.
I decide not to tell her about the erectile dysfunction, the recent layoffs at my company, how my dad has taken to smoking pot in my extra bedroom, or how my hands smell like French fries even though I’ve washed them three times. “Oh, you know,” I say. “Not too bad.”
A few minutes later, I’m pretending to work when my phone rings. I answer, expecting something horrible to be on the other end, but I’m happy to hear Lyle, our media contact at the Washington Post ’s business section. “Oh. Hey, Lyle,” I say.
“I wanted to let you know I got the press release you sent over this
“Yesterday, I was in our bedroom, and I found one of his books in her drawer in the nightstand. I didn’t even think we had any of his books—she used to tell people they weren’t allowed in the house. But there it was.”
“Which book?” I ask.
“A small one, not very long. November something.”
“ Tomorrow Is November ?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”
The chilling remains of burger look gross and fleshy in the basket, nestled in fries. That was my dad’s first novel, and it’s dedicated to her.
“I keep trying to call her, but she doesn’t even want to talk to me. Says she wants to think about some things. I’m not an expert on women or anything, but thinking doesn’t sound like a good thing at all. Because women only think about bad things, I’ve found.”
Gary is right, of course, especially when it comes to women like my mother.
“Wait,” I say. “You’ve been trying to call her? Call her where?”
Gary’s eyes fall to the salt and pepper shakers at the middle of the table. “She’s been staying out at your aunt Bernice’s for a little while now, over in Maryland. She’s . . . sorting some things out. I don’t know what to do, Tommy. What’s gonna happen if she decides she doesn’t want to come back?”
The waiter returns, sneaking up on us, a ninja waiter. He sets a second Diet Coke in front of me—a bubbling tub of soda. “Another big drink?” he asks.
Apparently now he gets my joke.
Chapter 13
B ack at work , I’m sifting through all the crap that Greg has jammed into my in-box while I was at lunch. Because he hates me so much, Greg often leaves things for me when I’m gone to save him the indignity of actually having to speak with me. This is an arrangement that actually works best for everyone involved, but I still try to make things as difficult for him as possible. I’ve been known to sneak things into the garbage and claim never to have seen them. Nothing too important, just random drafts of brochures or press release copy or things that if never seen again would cause no one any tangible harm. Except Greg, of course.
Dear HR:
I am convinced Tom Violet hides drafts of copy and then denies it. This is not only unprofessional, it also creates a great deal of rework for my team and me and goes against best practices. Not to mention, it is profoundly immature.
Along with Johnny Rockets–induced heartburn/meat sweats, the image of my mom and dad having sex has followed me back from lunch and has managed to thoroughly ruin what’s left of my afternoon. If Brandon was here, he’d ask me if my mom had her own secret piece of ass and I’d be left with no choice but to bludgeon him to death with the oddly heavy stapler I stole last time I was in Greg’s office.
I dial my mother at her school. Helen, the receptionist, tells me that my mother is currently with her AP English students. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but Helen sounds strange, and I wonder if she knows something. I believe this is what mental health professionals call paranoia.
“How have you been, dear?” Helen asks.
I decide not to tell her about the erectile dysfunction, the recent layoffs at my company, how my dad has taken to smoking pot in my extra bedroom, or how my hands smell like French fries even though I’ve washed them three times. “Oh, you know,” I say. “Not too bad.”
A few minutes later, I’m pretending to work when my phone rings. I answer, expecting something horrible to be on the other end, but I’m happy to hear Lyle, our media contact at the Washington Post ’s business section. “Oh. Hey, Lyle,” I say.
“I wanted to let you know I got the press release you sent over this
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