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“Threaten her?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
I look toward the stairs.
“I want you to talk to your kid.”
“I talk to my kid.”
“Talk to him about this.”
He’s quiet long enough that I can hear somebody talking in the background on his end.
“You her father?”
“No.”
“What are you?”
The question lands in a place I don’t have time to inspect.
“I live with her. I’m married to her mother.”
“And her mother asked you to call me?”
“No.”
He gives a short laugh without anything funny in it.
“So she doesn’t know.”
“No.”
“Then why are we talking?”
Because Tova asked me not to.
Because I promised.
Because the problem has an answer sitting in my hand.
“Because your son can stop doing this.”
“You always this subtle?”
“Not usually.”
He doesn’t laugh.
“I run a local business,” he says. “In a hockey city.”
“I know.”
Half the people who walk through his door wear my number on a Saturday night. Neither of us has to say it.
When his voice comes back, it’s the one people use once they’ve decided I’m not worth the trouble.
