Real Live Boyfriends

“Uh-huh.”

“So?”

“So what about it?”

“So I’m not sure you’re my real live boyfriend.”

“I’m your husband,” he said, kissing the top of her frizzy head.

“Ag!” I shouted. “Are you reading my personal things?” I stomped over and snatched the notebook out of her hand.

“Sure,” Mom said, ignoring me and turning to Dad, “but I’m not sure you’re my real live boyfriend because you don’t always call me when you say you will.”

“Elaine!” he moaned. “I forgot once last week when I was at Greg’s playing Wii.⁵ I wasn’t even home late.”

“No. You forgot that other time,” she said accusingly. “When you said you’d call from the grocery store to talk about what we were having for dinner.”

Dad winced.

“I was sitting on the bench outside my yoga class,” Mom went on, “waiting for you to call. Finally I gave up and went inside, but I missed all the chanting.”

“You don’t even like the chanting.”

My mother coughed. “I’m learning to like it. Anyway, I was waiting for you to call and you never did.”

“We’ve been married twenty years. I’m your real live boyfriend, okay? If that’s what you want to call it.” My dad went back to his desk in exasperation.

“Mom!” I waved my hand to get her attention. “Don’t read my stuff. If it looks remotely personal, don’t read it. Even if you’re holding the notebook for some completely justifiable reason. It’s not your business.”

She held up her palm to silence me. “Ruby, not now. I’m talking to your father.”

“It’s hard enough to have any privacy living in this tiny houseboat without you reading my notebooks,” I went on. This was something Doctor Z had suggested I do when the opportunity came up. To make very clear to my mother how I’d like to be treated and ask her to respect my privacy.

Only, Doctor Z has never tried to be clear with Elaine Oliver. Mom gave no indication whatsoever of having heard me.

“I don’t know whether there’s going to be kissing either,” she complained to Dad. “Honestly. The other night I rubbed your neck and you didn’t even turn around.”

Ag, ag, ag and more ag.

“Oh, help me, Elaine. I was working under deadline. Are you trying to start an argument?” Dad barked.

“I’m expressing myself!” yelled Mom, leaping up from the floor. “You always want us to share our feelings, and now when I’m sharing my feelings you say I’m starting an argument! That’s so unfair!”

Polka-dot hates when they argue, so he stood up and started barking. Rouw! Rouw!

“I’m your husband, Elaine!” yelled Dad. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly questioning everything!”

Rouw! Rouw!

“But are you my boyfriend?” Mom cried. “Ruby says the whole point of a real live boyfriend is that you can tell he’s your boyfriend.”

Rouw! Rouw!

“Ruby’s in high school,” Dad called over Polka. “Why are you listening to her?”

Rouw! Rouw!

“It’s just how I feel!” stormed Mom. “Maybe because I haven’t done a show in so long. Maybe because of what Juana said the other day.” [Blah blah blah. Insert long monologue about her personal issues that’s completely uninteresting to anyone under the age of forty-five]. “I don’t know,” she finished, nearly in tears. “I just can’t tell! I can’t tell if you’re my boyfriend!”

Dad opened the door to our houseboat and called out into the night. “I am Elaine Oliver’s real live boyfriend! I want everyone to know! My name is Kevin! I am a gardener of rare blooms! I am her boyfriend forever and ever!”

Rouw! Rouw!

Dad kept yelling. “I’m telling you, Seattle! Elaine Oliver is my woman!”

Mom started laughing. “You’ll wake the neighbors.” She wiped her nose with a tissue.

Dad started singing, off-key but loud:

“I don’t wanna sleep,

I just wanna keep

On lovin’ you.…”⁶

“Okay, okay!” Mom cried.

“Don’t you love Speedwagon?”