Not until he knew for sure.
The stranger had claimed that the proof was in this seemingly harmless Visa charge. He owed it to himself and, yep, Corinne (she wouldn’t want the voice around either, would she?) to follow up, so Adam called the Visa’s toll-free number. The recorded voice made him dial in the card number, the expiration date, and the CVV code number on the back. It tried to give him the information via a machine, but eventually the recorded voice asked whether he’d like to speak to a representative. Representative. Like he was calling Congress. He said, “Yes,” and heard the phone ring through.
When the representative came on, she made him repeat the exact same information—why do they always do that?—along with the last four numbers of his social security and his address.
“What can I help you with today, Mr. Price?”
“There’s a charge on my Visa card from a company called Novelty Funsy.”
She asked him to spell funsy. Then: “Do you have the amount and date of the transaction?”
Adam gave her the information. He expected some pushback when he said the date—the charge was more than two years old—but the representative didn’t comment on that.
“What information do you need, Mr. Price?”
“I don’t recall buying anything from a company called Novelty Funsy.”
“Um,” the representative said.
“Um?”
“Um, some companies don’t bill under their real name. You know, to be discreet. Like when you go to a hotel and they tell you the name of the movie won’t be on your phone bill.”
She was talking about pornography or something involving sex. “That’s not the case here.”
“Well, let’s see what’s what, then.” The clacking of her keyboard came over the phone line. “Novelty Funsy is listed as an online retailer. That usually indicates that it is a company that values privacy. Does that help?”
Yes and no. “Is there any way to ask them for a detailed receipt?”
“Certainly. It may take a few hours.”
“I guess that’s okay.”
“We have an e-mail for you on file.” She read off his address. “Should we send it there?”
“That would be great.”
The representative asked whether she could assist him with any other matter. He said no, thanks. She wished him a good evening. He hung up the phone and stared at the charge screen. Novelty Funsy. Now that he thought about it, the name did sound like a discreet name for a sex shop.
“Dad?”
It was Thomas. Adam quickly reached for the screen’s off switch like, well, one of his sons watching porn.
“Hey,” Adam said, the very essence of casual. “What’s up?”
If his son found his father’s behavior bizarre, he didn’t show it. Teens were ridiculously clueless and self-involved. Right now, Adam appreciated that. What Thomas’s father did on the Internet couldn’t be the least bit interesting to him.
“Can you give me a ride to Justin’s?”
“Now?”
“He has my shorts.”
“What shorts?”
“My practice shorts. For practice tomorrow.”
“Can’t you wear other shorts?”
Thomas looked at his father as though a horn had sprung out of his forehead. “Coach says we have to wear the practice shorts to practice.”
“Can’t Justin just bring them to school tomorrow?”
“He was supposed to bring them today. He forgets.”
“So what did you use today?”
“Kevin had an extra pair. His brother’s. They were too big on me.”
“Can’t you tell Justin to put them in his backpack right now?”
“I could, yeah, but he won’t do it. It’s only like four blocks. I could use the practice driving anyway.”
Thomas had gotten his learner’s permit a week ago—the parental equivalent of a stress test without using an actual EKG machine. “Okay, I’ll be down in a sec.” Adam cleared the history on the browser and headed downstairs. Jersey was hoping for another walk and gave them the pitiful “I can’t believe you’re not taking me with you” eyes as they hurried past her. Thomas grabbed the keys and got behind the wheel.
Adam was now able to let go when he sat in the passenger seat. Corinne was too much of a control freak. She would keep shouting out instructions and cautions. She almost put her foot through the imaginary passenger-side brake. As Thomas pulled onto the street, Adam turned and studied his son’s profile. Some acne was forming on his cheeks. There was faint hair growing down the side of his face, Abe Lincoln’s lines if not thickness, but his son had to shave now. Not every day. Not more than once a week, but it was there. Thomas wore cargo shorts. His legs were hairy. He had beautiful blue eyes, his son. Everyone commented on them. They had the sparkling blue of ice.