Uppercut. Your dad goes to brothels.
“Call the repo man,” Harold advises. “Tell him he’s not taking anything unless he’s got a warrant. Then go stash it at your vacation home.”
I wish I could exist in whatever world Harold is in right now, holding an entirely different conversation parallel to ours. “Actually,” I say, “our news is that we’re thinking about getting a dog.”
“We are not.” Nicholas’s grip on his fork tightens.
I sip my cranberry juice. It’s revolting. “Something small, that yaps a lot. Maybe a terrier or a chihuahua.”
A muscle in his cheek jumps.
“Maybe we’ll get a cat, too,” he suggests.
Deborah looks at me, frowning. “Isn’t Naomi allergic to cats?”
“Is she?” He smiles at his clean plate. He’s finished all his food, even the bits of creamy mushroom that I know he doesn’t like. What a good little boy. I bet his tail is wagging in anticipation of being petted.
Nicholas pretends to consider. “Two cats, maybe, so the one won’t be lonely.”
“I’ve been thinking,” I interrupt. Our dysfunction is growing increasingly evident. Even Harold is paying attention now. “About keeping my maiden name. It’s what a lot of women are doing now.”
This doesn’t bother Deborah in the least. She’s glad to hear it, I’m sure. Fewer women to share her name with. Unfazed, I change tacks.
“Actually …” I tease out the word. “Nowadays, sometimes it’s the man who changes his name. Nicholas Westfield has a certain charm to it.”
“He can’t change his name!” Deborah cries.
“Why not? Women do it all the time. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
Nicholas doesn’t dignify this with a retort, shaking his head at me. “That’s ridiculous,” his mother huffs. “He has a lovely last name. Not that yours isn’t … nice … but it’s not quite as special as Rose, now, is it? Dr. Rose is how he’s known in this community. He can’t change it now. And I’m sure he’ll want his children to carry on the family name, too.”
“We’re not having children,” I declare. “I’m barren. I lost my uterus in a Ponzi scheme.”
Nicholas throws his fork down with a clatter and stands. His business of moving around is loud, but not loud enough to disguise his mother’s startled cry. “It’s getting late.” He scowls at me. “Come on, Naomi.”
I wave a hand over my plate, feigning incomprehension. “But I haven’t finished yet.”
He grabs my hand. “Oh, you’re done.”
Nicholas all but throws me over his shoulder to get me out of that house. I can feel that my face is flushed with triumph and I know my eyes are bright and shining. A complete basket case. This is how I want to look in the picture we use for invitations. I wish I could fall down and laugh until my ribs crack, but he drags me out the door. Every muscle in his body is tense.
“Thanks for dinner!” I crow behind me. “Your adult son and I are so grateful!”
“Stop saying that,” he snaps, tugging my arm when I try to dig my heel into one of the flowers in the yard.
“Stop thanking them for dinner? That’s not very nice manners, Nicky.”
He and I suffer each other in silence on the car ride home, preparing our arguments in our heads. As soon as we pull up under the halo of our streetlight we get out and round the car, doors slamming with hurricane force.
“Don’t slam my car door.” As if he didn’t do the same.
He’s in love with his status symbol of a car and would probably marry it if it were socially acceptable. “Your car isn’t that good-looking and didn’t even win the J.D. Power award. I hope a bird craps on it every single day for all eternity.” Right on the windshield in front of his face, a big white splat.
“You’re just mad because you drive a woolly mammoth.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my car.”
“I’m sure it was in top form once. In 1999.”
Listen to this man’s privilege. He’s probably never driven a car that was more than two years old. “I buy what I can afford. Not all of us have rich parents who paid our tuition at swanky New England schools.”
“You want to go to college? Then go to college! Don’t punish me for being successful enough to buy a nice vehicle.”
And we’ve come to the crux of it. Naomi doesn’t have a college degree. Naomi doesn’t have a fancy car. How do we measure her value without these must-haves? I think about my parents saying