600 Hours of Edward

fine when I saw you last.”
    “It’s OK now.”
    “I heard what happened.”
    “What?”
    “You called the cops and got that boyfriend of hers busted.”
    “Did the police call you?”
    “No, Edward. But I’m a goddamned county commissioner. I know things.”
    “Yes.”
    “Scumbag.”
    “What?”
    “That guy. He’s a scumbag.”
    “Yes, he is.”
    “Well, you did good on that. I have to give it to you, Edward.”
    “Thank you, Father.”
    “Come on in, then.”
    – • –
    My mother is in the kitchen, scurrying from island to stove to refrigerator and back to island as she prepares dinner.
    “There’s my boy,” she says as I come into her view, and she dashes over to squeeze my cheeks and coo at me. I hate this part.
    “We’re having your favorite: pork loin, grilled asparagus, rosemary potatoes.”
    “My favorite is spaghetti.”
    “But you like this, too.”
    “I guess.”
    “That’s good.” She’s now away from me and back to her cooking. My mother is the sort of woman who is dressed to the nines at all times, even when cooking dinner. She has been this way for as long as I’ve known her, which is all of my life. When I was a child, I was not permitted to see her until she had showered and put on her makeup and fixed her hair. She was a lovely woman then—tall and lithe, dirty-blonde hair, everything in its place. You can still see that beauty in her, though at sixty-three she is fighting a losing battle against the hair, which is rapidly graying,and the waistline, which is expanding. Her clothes and nails and shoes, as ever, are flawless.
    My father is in the dining room, staring out a window into the approaching dark.
    “Cocksuckers,” he says to no one.
    “Ted,” my mother scolds him.
    “Ah, shit, Maureen, I’m sorry.”
    When my father drinks, as he is doing now, his incidence of curse words—the “shits” and “fucks” and, yes, even the “cocksuckers”—increases exponentially. It can be amusing to watch, if you’re not the target of them.
    “It’s just this goddamned economic development thing. Those assholes are killing me on this.”
    I have been reading about this in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner.
The county’s economic development council, on which my father and the two other county commissioners sit, has been trying to hire a new director. My father put forward the name of a friend of his, someone who worked with him in the oil business years ago. The man came up to Billings for an interview and did quite well—so well that he appeared to be a lock for the job. While in town, though, he was cited for drunk driving, and now the council is cutting him loose as a candidate. My father is his lone backer, and he and the other commissioners have been sniping at one another through the newspaper and television news programs.
    I do not know who is right, as it doesn’t really concern me, but I will note that my father often ends up on the other side of the fence from his fellow commissioners. Make of that what you will.
    “Those assholes are so fucking high and mighty,” my father says. “Dave blew a zero-point-eight—a zero-point-eight. One glass of wine before leaving the restaurant, and they’re saying he’s a drunk. Had those fucking cops stopped him two blocks later, hewould have been fine. Now these guys are busting my balls over the whole thing.”
    “Well, Ted, why don’t we just forget about it and have dinner?”
    “Assholes.”
    “Ted!”
    “Yeah, yeah, OK. Well, come on, Edward, let’s eat.”
    – • –
    My father is holding a forkful of pork loin, and he’s jabbing it in the air toward me.
    “Edward, what are your plans?”
    “Plans?”
    “Yes, plans. You know, those things that give some guidance to life. You do know what plans are, right?”
    “Dear, please,” my mother says. Her dinner is dissolving into a family quarrel. Again.
    “Yes, Father, I know what plans are.”
    “Do you have any?”
    “I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “Plans, Edward. Surely your plan is not to paint your garage every day between now and the end of time.”
    “You know about the garage?”
    “I don’t just know about it. I have seen it. All three iterations of it, in fact. What the hell is that about?”
    “You’ve been by my house?”
    “It’s my house, Edward. Yes, I have been by. I’ve seen you up on that ladder, painting away. It’s goddamned ridiculous. And I’ll tell you this: I have half a mind not to pay that bill when it