“Because, you know — kids really do benefit from a backyard.”
“There’s Central Park.”
Doug turned the car off. “Junkies shoot up in there, Carver, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I used to get accosted by hookers on my walk to work.”
“Dad, you haven’t lived in Manhattan since the eighties. I promise it’s better now.”
“I don’t care. I’ve never seen a junkie shoot up in a suburban backyard.”
“You remember Conway’s friend Michaela? Her mom had a huge coke problem when she was growing up.”
“God damn it, Carver, you know there’s a difference between some troubled housewife doing drugs in the privacy of her own home and having your child accosted by a filthy vagrant who you don’t know from Adam.”
He punctuated this by getting out of the car and shutting the door. Carver followed suit, reflexively checking his reflection in the passenger window.
“I don’t know why you’re so attached to that city,” Doug said as they strode down the sidewalk, passing women of leisure whose arms were laden with their Friday afternoon shopping — bags from Tiffany, Sephora, Eileen Fisher and Whole Foods. They reached the wine store, and Doug held the door open for him, the shop bell ringing over their heads.
Carver went around the aisles, snatching up good labels in the major categories — bold red, delicate red, sweet white, dry white, rosé — while Doug trailed behind him and tucked each bottle he handed him into a basket.
“Do you gentlemen need any help?” a smiling woman in a store apron asked them as they turned the corner of an aisle.
“No, he’s got it,” Doug said, which Carver appreciated.
When she was gone, Carver glanced at his father and said, “I probably wouldn’t, uh, raise kids in the city, no. Mostly it just sounds like a giant pain in the ass.”
Doug’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. “Good.”
“I didn’t think you guys were even worried about that. Chip lives so close.”
“That’s Chip,” Doug said. “He’s under a lot of stress, don’t put it all on him.”
Carver stared at the label on a bottle of rosé without really reading it. “What’s ‘it’?”
“Your duty to this family.”
“My duty to reproduce?”
“Your duty to be present and involved.”
Carver thrust the rosé at his father without looking at him, grinding his teeth.
“Have kids or don’t have kids, fine, it’s your decision,” Doug said, “but you barely know your niece and nephew. You live less than an hour away, yet you’re a stranger they see a few times a year. You don’t find that odd?”
“I find a lot of things odd, Dad!” Carver said, stalking away toward the cashier. “I find it odd that we can’t have some polite small talk? I find it odd that I’m always on trial?”
“Lower your voice,” Doug said.
Carver remembered Silver Fox’s identical comment and almost started laughing. The cashier watched them both with wide eyes as she rang up bottle after bottle and they stood there scowling with a foot of pure static between them.
When she announced the total of $561.21, Carver tried to hand over his Amex Black but was blocked by Doug shoving forth his debit card.
“Receipt is in the bag,” the cashier chirped.
“Thanks,” Doug said, and headed for the door. Now it was Carver’s turn to chase him.
“Lillian and I spendallof our holidays here,” Carver said to the back of his father’s graying blond head. “Do you realize how unusual that is?”
“We know that’s only because your wife doesn’t get along with her family,” Doug said.
