Page 31 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

"Healthy." She turned to her husband. "What, you're a doctor now?"

"I'm just saying."

"He needs to eat more. Come inside. I'll order more food."

Ellen Bolitar didn't cook. Not ever. There had been an attempt at a meat loaf involving Ragu sauce sometime during Myron's high school years. They'd had to repaint the kitchen to get rid of the smell.

Myron offered her his hand. His mom gave him the stink eye.

"You too? I'm fine."

She started back toward the house with a discernible limp. Myron looked over to his father, who just gave him a small shake of the head. They followed behind her.

"I'll tell Nero's to throw in another veal Parmesan. He needs to eat. And your nephew, he eats like he's a building with a tapeworm." She made a shooing gesture with her hand. "You two boys go in the den and

do whatever manly bonding stuff you guys do."

She grabbed the handrail and made her way into the kitchen. Dad nodded for Myron to follow him. Myron just stood there for one moment and let the feeling rush over him.

He loved his parents.

Yes, we all do, but rarely is it so uncomplicated. There was no confusion, no remorse, no resentment, no hidden rage, no blame. He loved them. He loved with no buts or stipulations. They could do no wrong in his eyes. There were some who claimed that he just looked at them through rose-tinted glasses, that Myron was prone to both fits of nostalgia and familial historical revisionism.

Those people were wrong.

Myron and Dad sat in the same spots in the den or TV room, whatever you want to call it, that they had sat in for more years than Myron cared to remember. When Myron was young, experts warned about the dangers of too much television watching, which might or might not be true, but this particular father and son had bonded in this room sharing mutually loved programs. Prime time was eight to eleven P.M., and back then, before everyone watched on demand or via streaming, a father and son would sit and laugh at a stupid sitcom or discuss the cliches in a detective series. You'd watch and you'd be together, in the same room, and that meant, whatever else you want to say about it, some concept of bonding. Now parents went to their rooms and kids went to theirs. They all stared at smaller screens--laptops, smartphones, tablets--and watched exactly what they wanted to watch. The experience now was entirely solitary, and Myron couldn't help but think that was a terrible thing.

Dad grabbed the remote, but he didn't turn on the TV.

"Is Mickey here yet?" Myron asked.

His parents had come up to stay with Mickey while Mickey's parents went on their retreat.

"He should be here any minute," Dad said. "He's bringing Ema to dinner. You know her?"

"Ema? Yeah."

"She always wears black," Dad said.

Mom from the other room: "Lots of women do, Al."

"Not like that."

Mom: "Black is slimming."

"I'm not judging."

Mom: "Yes, you are."

"I am not!"

"You think she's a big girl."

"You're the one talking about wearing black because it's slimming, not me." Dad turned to Myron. "Ema wears black nail polish. Black lipstick. Black mascara. Black hair. Not naturally black. I mean, like ink black. I don't get it."

Mom: "And who are you to get it?"

"I'm just saying."

"Look at Mr. Haute Couture over there. What, you're suddenly Yves Saint Laurent with the fashion tips?"

"I thought you were on the phone changing the order!"

"The number was busy."

"So call back."

"Yes, master. Right away."

Dad sighed and shrugged. This was their way. Myron just sat back and enjoyed the show.

Dad leaned toward Myron and spoke in a low voice. "So where is Terese?"

"In Jackson Hole. On a job interview."

"As an anchorwoman?"

"Something like that."

"I remember when she was on the air. Before you two . . ." He brought his hands together and separated them and then brought them back together. "Your mother and I would really like to get to know her better."

"You will."

He leaned a little closer. "Your mother worries," he said.

"What about?"

Dad was not one to hold back, and he didn't now. "She worries that there is a sadness there."

"With Terese." Myron nodded. "And what about you? Do you worry?"

"I don't interfere."

"But if you did?"

"I see the sadness too," Dad said. "But I also see strength. She's been through a lot, hasn't she?"

"Yes."

"She lost a child?"

"A long time ago, when she lived overseas, yeah."

Dad shook his head. "I'm sorry to raise this."

"It's okay."

"And you still don't want to tell me why she was in Africa for so long?"

"I can't," Myron said. "It's not my place to tell."

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