Harlan Coben - Live Wire

“So what were you watching?”

“I,” Dad said, stressing that one word, “wasn’t watching anything.”

“Yes, Mr. Sophistication over there would never ever watch any television. This from a man who wants to buy the box set of The Carol Burnett Show and still longs for those Dean Martin roasts.”

Dad just shrugged.

“Your mother,” his mother went on, loving that third person, “is much more hip, much more today and watches reality shows. Sue me, but that’s how I roll or rock or whatever. Anyway, I’m thinking of writing a letter to that Kourtney Kardashian. Do you know who she is?”

“Pretend I do.”

“Pretend nothing. You do. No shame in it. What is a shame is that she’s still with that drunken idiot with the pastel suit like he’s a giant Easter duck. She’s a pretty girl. She could do so much better, don’t you think?”

Myron rubbed his hands together. “So who’s hungry?”

They drove to Baumgart’s and ordered the kung pao chicken plus a bunch of appetizers. His parents used to eat with the gusto of rugby players at a barbecue, but now their appetites were small, their chewing slow, their whole manner suddenly dainty.

“When are we going to meet your fiancée?” Mom asked.

“Soon.”

“I think you should have a huge wedding. Like Khloe and Lamar’s.”

Myron looked a question at his father. Dad said by way of explanation: “Khloe Kardashian.”

“And,” Mom added, “Kris and Bruce got to meet Lamar before the wedding and he and Khloe barely knew each other! You’ve known Terese for, what, ten years.”

“Something like that.”

“So where are you going to live?” Mom asked.

Dad said, “Ellen,” in that voice.

“Shush, you. Where?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said.

“I’m not butting in,” she began, which was nothing if not a prequel to butting in, “but I wouldn’t keep our old house anymore. I mean, don’t live there. It’d just be bizarre, the whole attachment thing. You’ll need a place of your own, someplace new.”

Dad: “El…”

“We’ll see, Mom.”

“I’m just saying.”

When they’d finished, Myron drove them back home. Mom excused herself, claiming that she was fatigued and wanted to lie down for a bit. “You boys talk.” Myron looked at his father, concerned. Dad gave him a look that said not to worry. Dad held up a finger as the door closed. A few moments later, Myron heard the tinny sound belonging, he assumed, to one of the Kardashians saying, “Oh my God, if that dress was, like, any sluttier, it would be taking the walk of shame.”

His father shrugged. “She’s obsessed right now. It’s harmless.”

They moved to the wooden deck out back. The deck had taken almost a year to build and was strong enough to withstand a tsunami. They grabbed the outdoor chairs with the faded cushions and looked out over the backyard Myron still saw as the Wiffle-ball stadium. He and Brad had played that game for hours. The double tree was first base, a permanently browned-out grass spot was second, third was a rock buried in the ground. If they hit the ball really hard, it would land in Mrs. Diamond’s vegetable garden and she would come out in what they used to call a housedress and scream at them to stay off her property.

Myron heard laughter from a party three doors up. “The Lubetkins are having a barbecue?”

“The Lubetkins moved out four years ago,” Dad said.

“So who’s there now?”

Dad shrugged. “I don’t live here anymore.”

“Still. We used to be invited to all the barbecues.”

“When it was our time,” his father said. “When our children were young and we knew all the neighbors and had kids going to the same school and playing on the same sports teams. Now it’s someone else’s turn. That’s how it should be. You need to let things go.”

Myron frowned. “And you’re usually the subtle one.”

Dad chuckled. “Yeah, sorry about that. So while I’m playing this new role, what’s wrong?”

Myron skipped the “how do you know” because what would be the point? Dad wore a white golf shirt, even though he never played the game. His gray chest hair jutted through the V. He looked off, knowing that Myron was not a huge fan of intense eye contact.

Myron decided to dive right in. “Have you heard from Brad recently?”

If his father was surprised to hear Myron say that name-the first time Myron had done so in front of his father in fifteen-plus years-he did not show it. He took a sip of his iced tea and pretended to think about it. “We got an e-mail, oh, maybe a month ago.”

“Where was he?”

“In Peru.”

“And what about Kitty?”

“What about her?”

“Was she with him?”

“I assume so.” Now his father turned and faced him. “Why?”

“I think I saw Kitty last night in New York City.”

His father sat back. “I guess it’s possible.”

“Wouldn’t they have contacted you if they were in the area?”

“Maybe. I could e-mail him and ask.”

“Could you?”

“Sure. Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

He kept it vague. He’d been looking for Lex Ryder when he saw Kitty. His father nodded as Myron spoke. When he finished, Dad said, “I don’t hear from them much. Sometimes months go by. But he’s okay. Your brother, I mean. I think he has been happy.”

“Has been?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said ‘has been happy.’ Why didn’t you just say he’s happy?”

“His last few e-mails,” Dad said. “They’ve been, I don’t know, different. Stiffer maybe. More newsy. But then again, I’m not very close to him. Don’t get me wrong. I love him. I love him as much as I do you. But we aren’t particularly close.”

His dad took another sip of iced tea.

“You were,” Myron said.

“No, not really. Of course, when he was young, we were all a bigger part of his life.”

“So what changed that?”

Dad smiled. “You blame Kitty.”

Myron said nothing.

“Do you think you and Terese will have children?” Dad asked.

The subject change threw him. Myron wasn’t sure exactly how to reply. “It’s a delicate question,” he said slowly. Terese couldn’t have any more children. He had not told his parents about this yet because, until he got her to the right doctors, he still couldn’t accept it himself. Either way, this was not the time to raise the issue. “We’re on the old side, but who knows.”

“Well, either way, let me tell you something about parenting, something none of those self-help books or parenting magazines will tell you.” Dad turned and leaned in closer. “We parents grossly overestimate our importance.”

“You’re being modest.”

“No, I’m not. I know you think that your mother and I are the most amazing parents. I’m glad. I really am. Maybe for you, we were, though you’ve blocked out a lot of the bad.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not going to rehash my mistakes right now. That’s not the point anyway. We were good parents, I guess. Most are. Most are trying their best and if they make mistakes, it’s from trying too hard. But the truth is, we parents are at the most, say, auto mechanics. We can tune up the car and make sure it has the proper fluids. We can keep it running, check the oil, make sure it is road ready. But the car is still the car. When the car comes in, it’s already a Jaguar or Toyota or Prius. You can’t turn a Toyota into a Jaguar.”

Myron made a face. “A Toyota into a Jaguar?”

“You know what I mean. I know the analogy isn’t the best and now that I think about it, it doesn’t really hold because it sounds like a judgment, like the Jaguar is better than the Toyota or something. It is not. It’s just different with different needs. Some kids come out shy, some are outgoing, some are bookish, some are jocks, whatever. The way we raise you doesn’t really have much to do with it. Sure we can instill values and all that, but we usually mess up when we try to change what is already there.”