CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Carver woke up frantically the next morning, shooting up into a sitting position and trying to orient himself to the world around him before his vision had even cleared enough for him to properly see.
He felt like he was late for something, or had forgotten something, and he had a vicious hangover that felt like someone had broken a bunch of glass inside his head and body.
To his left there was sunlight, cool air and someone whispering “sorry, sorry” — Scott.
He pointed his face at Scott’s blurred form and said, dumbly, “What?”
“Sorry,” Scott said, touching his shoulder as he climbed back into the van and pulled the door shut behind him. Sunlight was now streaming through the van’s high windows. “I was trying not to wake you. Everybody’s gone, they all went to, like, a day-after wedding breakfast, so I went in to shower.”
Carver untangled himself from the blankets and examined his cum-flecked stomach and legs.
“I want to do that,” he said. Every time he moved his head or blinked, his skull reverberated with pain.
Under all this discomfort, though, was an analgesic and somewhat euphoric effect from last night’s good sex which made facing the day feel possible.
“Yeah, you should.”
“Why the fuck did I drink so much last night?”
“Uh….”
“Why did you people let me drink so much?”
Scott breathed a small laugh. “I think you know we were all trying to stop you.”
Carver closed his eyes, suddenly feeling ill. “You should have tried harder. You should have killed me so I wouldn’t wake up like this.”
“Listen, Carv, I gotta get over to the country club soon or they’re gonna throw my amps in the dumpster, they said.”
“When? What time is it now?”
“Nine-thirty.”
Carver started rooting around for his clothes. “Your van’s dead, how are you hauling your stuff away?”
“I was gonna Uber over and then bring the stuff out to the street and call an Uber XL to pack it into.”
Carver found his socks and began pulling them on. “That’s illogical,” he said, with the impatience he always felt when hungover. “Let’s just go back to my parents’ house and I’ll take you over in the Maybach.”
“You think you have room?”
“Do you have any idea how big that thing is inside? Don’t waste forty bucks on Ubers.”
“Okay, I’m not so broke I can’t afford two Ubers,” Scott said. “But that does sound like a better plan, thanks.”
Carver pulled his briefs back on, then got a cramp in his calf muscle and exhaled in pain. “Do I have time to shower first? I can take a five-minute shower.”
“Definitely. Take ten, even. You okay?”
“I’m fine, it was my calf.”
“Nothing from last night?”
“Not unless you fucked me in my calf,” Carver said, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’m dehydrated and I was sprinting around without stretching. I need electrolytes.”
Scott nodded and gave him a thumbs up.
“Is that a thumbs up like you’re gonna go find me a Gatorade?”
“Oh, was that an actual request?”
“I’d be very appreciative,” Carver said, pulling his shorts on and shooting Scott a grin. “They keep some in the garage fridge, I’m pretty sure.”
“Got it,” Scott said, sliding the door back open and hopping out.
“I only like yellow and red flavor,” Carver shouted after him.
He zipped his hoodie up, climbed out of the van and went into the house, which Scott had left unlocked.
After a quick, punishingly hot shower in the upstairs guest bathroom and the swallowing of two ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, he felt a little more put together.
As Doug had warned him, he was now feeling the pain in his knuckles, which were dappled with ugly little black and blue bruises.
He found a tube of arnica gel in the medicine cabinet and applied that to them, then used some Paul Mitchell serum of Josie’s to slick his hair back before heading downstairs.
He did in fact feel sore inside from going for multiple rounds two nights in a row, but it was satisfying like the ache from a good workout. He liked the feeling and felt almost protective of it.
Scott was waiting for him in the front hall with a cold yellow Gatorade. Carver almost said “I love you,” but this didn’t feel like a joke that was available to them, so he just said thank you three times before taking the bottle and draining half of it.
“Let’s go?” Scott said, gesturing toward the door.
Carver wiped his mouth. “Let’s go.”
They walked in silence through the fresh morning’s sunlight and birdsong. Scott dropped back and waited by the curb while Carver went up and knocked on the front door, which Doug answered.
“Morning,” he said, looking Carver up and down.
“Hi,” Carver said.
“You went to your aunt’s last night?”
“Yep.”
Doug looked him in the eye and nodded. “She knows you know, now?”
“You knew she knew?” Carver said, surprised.
“Of course, your mother told me.” Doug cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you knew this, but Chip let us know that your sister has been looped in for a few years, as well.”
“Yeah, he did tell me that.”
“Alright. Okay. Well, they’re both over at that, uh, breakfast situation. As is your wife.”
“Okay, good,” Carver said with relief. “I was about to ask.”
“Are you coming in?”
“No, I came by to grab my keys. I need to go run an errand.”
Doug looked over his shoulder. “Your little friend’s out on the curb,” he said, in a dour tone.
Carver rocked back and forth on his heels, grinning nervously. “He is. I’m gonna help him grab his audio equipment from the club.”
Doug sighed, then opened the door and beckoned him into the foyer. Carver stepped inside and waited as his father went over to the central table, which held a few Taschen books, small sculptures and the key bowl. Normally it also held a vase full of fresh flowers, but today it didn’t.
“We’re having a family meeting here at the house at eleven,” Doug said as he dug around in the key bowl.
“Okay,” Carver said, growing more antsy.
“I filled your brother and sister in on some of what we discussed last night. To make sure we’re all on the same page, as it were.”
“Okay, good. Do you want me to look —”
“I know what your keys look like. You’ll be back here in time, right?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
Doug finally located his keys. Carver held his hand out, but Doug withheld them and said, “Listen — you shouldn’t make any big decisions for the next few months.”
“Dad. What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious. It’s like when you’re grieving a major loss.”
“But what’s this regarding, sorry?”
“You’ve said a few times now that you’re planning to leave your wife, quit your job, et cetera.”
Carver blew out a breath and reached for his keys again, but Doug didn’t budge. “I wanted to change my life before I knew, okay? I’m realizing I’ve been unhappy for a while now, and there actually are things I can do about that. Okay?”
“Well, but see, that’s completely normal.
Happiness is for women, children and retirees.
It’s very hard for an ambitious young man to be happy no matter what the situation.
It’s just a biological imperative, I think.
The idea is to pick a path that eventually pays off, and enjoy it once you’re my age. ”
“Dad,” Carver said, rocking back and forth on his heels more frantically, “I love you, but I have a splitting headache and everything you’re saying to me sounds crazy.
” Doug opened his mouth, but he steamrolled him: “Can we agree that I’ve earned the right to make some changes to my life?
I’ve earned millions of dollars because I thought it would make you happy.
Has anyone else in the world earned tens of millions just to make you happy?
I own a yacht with three bathrooms. Can I please have my car keys? ”
Doug dropped his keys into his hand. Carver closed his fist around them and quickly stuffed them in his pocket.
“I never said you’re not resourceful,” Doug said. “That isn’t the issue here. And I think making millions of dollars made you at least a little happy.”
“Okay, it was a consolation.”
Doug inhaled, then pointed behind Carver, in what he presumed was supposed to be Scott’s general direction. “This is just not something we’re programmed to understand.”
“And that’s fine,” Carver said, twirling his keyring around his finger.
“It feels like something you’re doing for the wrong reasons. I’m watching a pendulum swing.”
“Yeah,” Carver said, feeling that same wonderful calm he’d felt the night before. “I understand your perspective here.” His poor dad. His poor, befuddled, damaged dad.
Doug had never been angry enough for his father Fred, an authoritarian who Carver was frankly relieved to not actually be related to.
One of his favorite memories of Doug was a time when they were all out in Ohio for a family visit, and he had calmly interrupted a backyard tussle between Chip and Carver.
Fred, who was American through and through but possessed a terribly stern German face and manner, said to his son, “When are you going to start hitting those boys?” and Doug snapped, “I’m not. ” And he never did.
Carver was sorry to not be related to his grandmother Gladys, who was herself quiet and stern but secretly kind and a talented artist. She was a woodworker who made small pieces of furniture and dollhouse miniatures, and she knew how to blow glass into beautiful Christmas ornaments.
Chip was never very interested in any of this, so before the artistically inclined Conway came along, Carver (who loved fine things from an early age) was happy to be the one who sat next to her in the garage and watched her work.
Doug tried to imitate Fred’s manner at times, but he could never pull it off, thank God, because — like Carver — he was too much like his mother.