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Authors: Ellen Wittlinger
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everybody has them now so he can’t feel so superior using the conspicuous thing)—so we could just zip by and pick it up on our way in.
“Let’s eat at the table, like civilized folks, shall we?” he asked as he unlocked the door to his place. As though I had a choice. The big, polished table in the dining room was all ready for us—a table I’d never seen him use before except as an auxiliary desk when the one in his office was overflowing. But now there were two place settings all ready for us, napkins folded, wineglasses in back of the plates, and two brand new, never-burned candles in glass holders, waiting to be lit.
Was he getting ready to tell me some really bad news? Was he sick? Broke? Getting married too? No, not that. He used to tell Mom (in this annoyingly calm voice) that he never should have gotten married in the first place. He wasn’t the kind of man who could be happy with an enclosed life. That’s the way he put it: an enclosed life . Like he was so free now, Mr. Armani Suit, Mr. Car Phone, Mr. Take-Out Food.
He dumped the Moo Shu Pork, the Emerald Chicken, and the rice into bowls, put the scallion pancakes and steamed dumplings on a plate, and brought them to the table, as if he’d actually prepared dinner instead of just paying for it. He lit the candles, as if we were celebrating something. I’d be damned if I’d ask him what the hell was going on.
“This is nice for a change, isn’t it?” He snapped the napkin and put it in his lap.
“What the hell is going on?” I couldn’t help it; I was too nervous to eat.
He smiled but continued to spoon rice onto his plate. “You’re perceptive, aren’t you?” Perceptive? I’d have to be comatose not to smell a rat here. He sighed, but it wasn’t an unhappy sigh. “The fact is, I sometimes feel like I don’t know you anymore, John. We spend time together, but we don’t talk much.”
“Whose fault is that?” I mumbled. Now that I knew he just wanted to bullshit me, I could eat. The Moo Shu looked good, even with bullshit sauce ladled over it.
“I don’t think we need to assign blame. The fact is, you’re practically an adult now, and I’d like to think we can have a mature relationship. I thought about your outburst the other week, and I realized that I haven’t been giving you enough credit, have I? You’re a man now, and we should be able to speak to each other directly.”
Oh, wow, I was so flattered. And wasn’t it wise of him to plan a private chat this time, so his manly son couldn’t embarrass him in public a second time? “So, what are you planning to say to me now that I’m a man that you couldn’t say to me when I was a kid?”
He squeezed a dumpling between his designer chopsticks, took a big bite, and chewed carefully while he thought that one over. “What I’d like to talk to you about, John, is divorcing your mother. I hope you’re old enough now to understand that I had no choice.”
Whoa. I definitely was not old enough, and might not ever be old enough to hear why my father had no choice except to run off with one of his anorexic girlfriends and leave my mother sitting in the dark.
“And I’m not blaming your mother. I’m really not. But I had to get out of there, John. It was home to her, but it was killing me. That small-minded community, everyone so concerned about trimming their shrubs, and growing their roses, and, and …”
“Raising their kids?” I suggested.
He smiled at me, like he was proud I’d managed to zing him. “Well, that too, I suppose. I never was much of a soccer dad. Do you remember the first year you played baseball, Farm Team or something? You were about eight, I think, and the coach asked me if I’d help him, be an assistant. I had to laugh at the poor guy. He’d gotten himself roped into it, and now he was trying to get another sucker involved. No, sir.” He shook his head at the guy’s naïveté.
My appetite had suddenly disappeared. I poked at a dumpling
“Let’s eat at the table, like civilized folks, shall we?” he asked as he unlocked the door to his place. As though I had a choice. The big, polished table in the dining room was all ready for us—a table I’d never seen him use before except as an auxiliary desk when the one in his office was overflowing. But now there were two place settings all ready for us, napkins folded, wineglasses in back of the plates, and two brand new, never-burned candles in glass holders, waiting to be lit.
Was he getting ready to tell me some really bad news? Was he sick? Broke? Getting married too? No, not that. He used to tell Mom (in this annoyingly calm voice) that he never should have gotten married in the first place. He wasn’t the kind of man who could be happy with an enclosed life. That’s the way he put it: an enclosed life . Like he was so free now, Mr. Armani Suit, Mr. Car Phone, Mr. Take-Out Food.
He dumped the Moo Shu Pork, the Emerald Chicken, and the rice into bowls, put the scallion pancakes and steamed dumplings on a plate, and brought them to the table, as if he’d actually prepared dinner instead of just paying for it. He lit the candles, as if we were celebrating something. I’d be damned if I’d ask him what the hell was going on.
“This is nice for a change, isn’t it?” He snapped the napkin and put it in his lap.
“What the hell is going on?” I couldn’t help it; I was too nervous to eat.
He smiled but continued to spoon rice onto his plate. “You’re perceptive, aren’t you?” Perceptive? I’d have to be comatose not to smell a rat here. He sighed, but it wasn’t an unhappy sigh. “The fact is, I sometimes feel like I don’t know you anymore, John. We spend time together, but we don’t talk much.”
“Whose fault is that?” I mumbled. Now that I knew he just wanted to bullshit me, I could eat. The Moo Shu looked good, even with bullshit sauce ladled over it.
“I don’t think we need to assign blame. The fact is, you’re practically an adult now, and I’d like to think we can have a mature relationship. I thought about your outburst the other week, and I realized that I haven’t been giving you enough credit, have I? You’re a man now, and we should be able to speak to each other directly.”
Oh, wow, I was so flattered. And wasn’t it wise of him to plan a private chat this time, so his manly son couldn’t embarrass him in public a second time? “So, what are you planning to say to me now that I’m a man that you couldn’t say to me when I was a kid?”
He squeezed a dumpling between his designer chopsticks, took a big bite, and chewed carefully while he thought that one over. “What I’d like to talk to you about, John, is divorcing your mother. I hope you’re old enough now to understand that I had no choice.”
Whoa. I definitely was not old enough, and might not ever be old enough to hear why my father had no choice except to run off with one of his anorexic girlfriends and leave my mother sitting in the dark.
“And I’m not blaming your mother. I’m really not. But I had to get out of there, John. It was home to her, but it was killing me. That small-minded community, everyone so concerned about trimming their shrubs, and growing their roses, and, and …”
“Raising their kids?” I suggested.
He smiled at me, like he was proud I’d managed to zing him. “Well, that too, I suppose. I never was much of a soccer dad. Do you remember the first year you played baseball, Farm Team or something? You were about eight, I think, and the coach asked me if I’d help him, be an assistant. I had to laugh at the poor guy. He’d gotten himself roped into it, and now he was trying to get another sucker involved. No, sir.” He shook his head at the guy’s naïveté.
My appetite had suddenly disappeared. I poked at a dumpling
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