Norm says straightaway when I answer the phone. “Pardon me, Norm?” I use my poshest voice, trying to indicate that elegant ladies like myself prefer a conversation to be opened with a courteous greeting and an inquiry after our health. “Justin’s out on parole. He’s coming to stay.” “Who?” “My son.” The shock is too much. I sit down. Norm’s son? Somewhere deep down I knew Norm and Marg had a son. Somewhere deep down I knew their son had gone to prison for armed robbery. Somewhere deep down I had decided to forget that information. “Oh.” My heart is beating a little too fast. I can hear my own breath. “Norm, can I ask you something?” “No.” “OK then,” I say in a sprightly voice. “He was a stupid kid when he did it.” “Norm, if you’re Norm Senior, isn’t your son called Norm Junior?” “He never liked it. Justin’s his second name. Made us start calling him Justin when he was in high school.” “Ah.” “It was his bloody high-school mates who got him into it.
