Would be far more pleasant to think about Bea if I knew if she’d been made aware of the special show at the drive-in theater this evening, and if she went, and if she liked it, but I know none of those things.
Because my parents unexpectedly arrived on my doorstep at the exact moment that I should have been leaving for the drive-in theater myself, and the only way to keep them from terrorizing my children was to agree to have dinner with them.
At JC Fig.
Where we’ve been given a private room—over my objections—so that there are no witnesses now to my parents’ horrific nature.
“You owe us, that’s bloody why,” my father is sniping at me as Aileen, the same server that Bea and I had, hovers in the doorway of this upstairs dining room as though she’s afraid to approach the table to refill our water glasses.
Tank takes the metal pitcher from her and does it himself.
I wonder what it would take for my security agent to justify homicide in my defense?
Clearly, I wouldn’t want Tank, or Pinky, or Butch, to end up behind bars on my behalf, but what if it were justified?
“All of those years that we supported you while you were dilly-dallying with that silly career,” my mother adds with a sniff.
“All of those times you made up stories about what your mother was doing when she was at her book club,” my father growls.
“And the stories you would make up about your father while I was away on a commission,” my mother adds.
The both of them.
Pretending that I lied about their affairs.
Because they’re broke.
Flat broke.
That inheritance they claim to have taken away from me to bestow upon my sons instead?
Even their home is mortgaged to the hilt.
They’re penniless.
Paupers.
Maxed the last of their credit cards to fly here to the States to badger me for money.
Probably expecting they’ll be staying in my home too.
Not bloody likely.
They continue to prattle on about my terrible misdeeds as a child, making up their own stories about the things they never did to support me, while I smile as pleasantly as if I were eating?—
Well, I was going to say a Sunday dinner of roast lamb and carrots and potatoes, but I find I’d prefer a very particular barbecue chicken and butternut squash risotto.
God, I should be at the theater.
Not that I expect Bea would fall into my arms in gratitude for showing her favorite old movie, but so that I could watch her watching the show.
So that I could see that I haven’t fucked this up further by plunging her into the depths of grief by reminding her that she’ll never again watch it with her mother.
Would you look at that?
I’ve drained my wine.
Again.
