make sure nobody stole the paint off the shutters.”
She was right. “Or the sconces,” I added.
“Or the sconces.”
Our parents were mildly insane that way. It should have been much funnier than it was. Roy was smiling.
“What about ‘Show me the couch’? ” I said. It was a famous story in our family.
“Oh, Christ almighty.” Now it was Pamela who sounded like our father.
When Pamela was sixteen, she volunteered to hang out at our aunt Christie’s apartment in East Boston and sign for the new couch that Jordan’s Furniture was delivering sometime between nine in the morning and four in the afternoon. My aunt Christie was an air-traffic controller at Logan Airport and couldn’t miss work. Her apartment was on the top floor of a four-story walk-up.
My old man was not into the idea of Pamela’s being alone with three or four furniture movers, as it’s well documented how fond furniture movers are of squeezing unscheduled gang rapes into their busy days.
My old man walked Pamela through the correct answers, then quizzed her:
Old Man: And what are you going to say when the movers buzz up from the lobby?
Pamela: Who is it?
OM: And when they knock on Aunt Christie’s door, then what are you going to say?
P: Who is it?
OM: And after they identify themselves as the movers, and you see them through the peephole, what are you going to say before letting them in?
P: Just a minute, I’m naked?
OM: Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m serious here.
P: Show me the couch. I say, “Show me the couch.”
OM: Exactly. Show me the couch.
I took a smoke from my pack, and Pamela motioned wordlessly, like a blackjack player who wants the dealer to keep ’em comin’.
“You don’t smoke,” I said.
“Oh, shut up.” She tickled Roy’s chin and said in a cartoon voice, “Show me the couch. Your grandparents are crazy, crazy, crazy.” He collapsed in a giggling heap on the driveway. Pamela turned to me. “But you are going to have to tell them you guys split up, you know?”
“Thanks,” I said sarcastically. “I had no fucking idea.”
“I’m just saying, you might want to do it sooner than later.”
“What for?”
“They’re reserving the function room at the Knights of Columbus for a party for you guys.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
She nodded. “Around Christmas.”
“Shit.”
“I told Ma you guys meant it, you didn’t want a party or anything.”
“What did she say?”
“That it wasn’t about what you wanted.”
“Fucking Ma. I swear to God, we should have kept getting married a secret.”
Pamela couldn’t resist. “What were you going to do, never tell anyone?”
“Not never. When we knew it was going to work out, then . . .”
“You’re kidding?”
“What, is that so wrong?”
“Whatever. It’s your business.” She didn’t want to get sucked deeper into the conversation she’d started. She took refuge in her pocketbook, feeling around in it like doing so was her sole purpose in life. “Tell me I did not forget my Visine, Roy.”
“Not telling anyone certainly would have made splitting up a lot easier,” I said.
Pamela responded by not responding.
I had at her. “And do me a favor. Spare me the ‘You can’t leave yourself a trapdoor and expect your relationship to work’ crap.”
“Fine. Do I look like I’m not sparing you?” She had the contents of the bag emptied onto the sidewalk.
“But you do think that, though, don’t you? That you can’t have a trapdoor?”
“Are you asking me or are you not asking me?”
“Yes, I’m asking you.”
“The answer is no. You can’t.”
“Oh, okay. So you honestly thought you were going to stay married to James? Forever?”
“I didn’t think it was going to be easy, but I thought I was signing on for good.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like I was right, and you were wrong.” That hurt her.
“Why are you being such a fucking asshole? Just because you’re screwed up and having a shit time doesn’t mean you get to be cruel.” She was right, and I was sorry I’d hit her that hard. “And to me of all people. You call me out of the blue—”
“I know. I know. I didn’t mean that.” I was trying to head her off before she could recap her generosity and my selfishness. But she wasn’t going to stop until she’d gone through at least one cycle of letting me know how she felt about the whole thing. I got out of her way.
“And you tell me all this crazy, über-dramatic shit—like my plate isn’t buried already. You need a place to stay, a few dollars, and I say, ‘No