The Family Man Part 3

"So we're letting bygones be bygones? Or is this some kind of Trojan horse that gets you across the border into the enemy land?"

"I thought you'd applaud this as-I don't know-diplomacy. Progress."

"Is this about Celeste?"

He doesn't think so but says, "You could be right. It did seem like an odd coincidence-Denise losing Glenn and me losing Celeste-"

"Six, seven months apart? Not an earth-shattering coincidence."

"You're holding my grudge," says Henry. "Wouldn't that qualify as reverse transference?"

"No such thing," she snaps.

"You're forgetting the service that Denise provided, the one you drilled into me, that if she hadn't abandoned me-"

"And kidnapped your child."

"-and kidnapped my child, I might still be hiding in the closet; i.e., Denise did me a favor, broadly speaking."

"That clean?" she asks. "Denise as knight in s.h.i.+ning armor?"

"She's been humbled. Which seems to be bringing out the best in her."

"Humbled because her husband died?"

"No. Humbled because of a prenuptial agreement."

"She's broke?"

"Not by most people's standards." He smiles. "Go ahead-ask."

"What do you think I want to ask?"

"You're dying to know: Did she come to me for money?"

"Never crossed my mind."

"For the record"-and he raises his voice as if dictating directly to the clipboard in her lap-"she did not come to me for money. Besides, I contacted her first."

"Which I don't necessarily see as a good thing," she counters.

"You will soon."

She looks up with a start, as does the deaf black poodle at her feet. "Thalia?" she asks.

"Thalia," he confirms.

Ten years before, in late spring, his abandonment and surrender of Thalia had been all he wanted to discuss. At an emergency session Sheri stated, "You know what triggered this, don't you?"

He had said of course, the math: Thalia was five when the divorce was final, so she had just turned eighteen in June, and therefore must be graduating from high school, imminently.

"Not that," said his therapist. "Think again. What have you seen lately?"

"Seen? The inside of my office. Briefs. Second-year law students interviewing for jobs."

"I won't waste our time," she had said. "The reason we're back to Thalia after all these years is that scene where Billy Bigelow's ghost puts his arm around his daughter at her high school graduation and she feels his presence and holds her head up higher. Am I right?"

She was right. He'd seen the revival of Carousel in previews and had devoted a good portion of their next session to the talents of Audra McDonald. "But," he countered, "aren't you supposed to point out that Billy Bigelow triggered some very deep feelings, which most mental health professionals wouldn't dismiss out of hand?"

And now he has dug out the letter a.s.signed but never sent and, in fact, never turned in to Sheri Abrams, harsh vettor of exploratory epistles. In it he had introduced himself as the man who had married the widowed Denise Ellis Wales, mother of Thalia Alexis Wales, whom he'd subsequently adopted and [[strikeout]]cherished loved provided for, all too briefly. The first paragraph was a curriculum vitae, the second a legal thicket, and the third a cri de coeur. He'd loved her as his own true daughter, the only child he'd ever known. He'd been young and selfish when he relinquished his rights and [[strikeout]]now he was alone he'd seen the error of his ways. If he could turn back the clock he'd tear up Glenn Krouch's adoption pet.i.tion and fight it in the courts. Parentheses followed, citing case law. It was a first draft, on yellow legal notepaper, ending with anemic congratulations on finis.h.i.+ng high school. He studies the stillborn postscripts:[[strikeout]] "I hope you'll accept the enclosed gift certificate If you ever needed anyone to talk to Would you kindly apprise me of your college plans?" which had given way to a more democratic, "Perhaps at this juncture you are going on to college or starting a job. I'd love to know what your plans are." And finally, the sentence that was code for I am a man of means and perhaps someone you'd like to know: "I live in a townhouse on West 75th Street. I've never remarried nor have I had any other [[strikeout]]issue children."

It was the lone piece of paper in a manila folder marked "Thalia, Correspondence." Would it be a terrible idea to bring this draft to lunch on the second, testimony to his long-standing good intentions? He'd explain why he wrote it, and he'd be honest: His therapist believed in homework. This was an old a.s.signment, prompted by a rough patch he'd gone through a decade ago concurrent with her high school graduation and the prospect that she might be independent, reachable, curious.

Would excavating a never-sent letter strike Thalia as creepy? Could he lighten the mood by quoting his therapist implicating Carousel? Yes, because an actress would appreciate the fact that his graduation fixation was inspired by Rodgers and Hammerstein? No, because the word therapist might raise a red flag?

These questions, aired before Sheri Abrams, prompt her to note, "It isn't like you to weigh every word."

"I've always done that. Lawyers can't just stand before the bench and prattle."

"You were never a litigator," she snaps.

He leans forward in his chair. "Let's settle this now. Am I going to meet resistance every time I bring up my daughter?"

"What is our goal here?" she asks, staring over her half gla.s.ses. "Are weekly lunches going to be enough? Then dinners? Then dinners with orchestra seats? And soon enough, in no particular order, a roof over her head and a codicil to your will?"

He inhales sharply. He hasn't dared look past lunch at Trattoria Dell'Arte in two weeks, but "roof over her head" strikes Henry as a first-rate goal for a delinquent father with a vacant maisonette.

5. On Advice of Counsel.

HIS TRUST ATTORNEY READS the codicil, removes his gla.s.ses, buzzes for a pot of Earl Grey, and finally asks, "This isn't one of those foolish midlife things that besotted men do, is it?"

"Foolish besotted heteros, maybe. And, George, don't be vulgar. I'm her father."

"All I'm saying is, what's the rush? Unless you're not telling me something, healthwise."

"I'm fine," Henry says. "Although that's what Glenn Krouch thought, too. Fine one day, on life support the next-"

"Not before remembering her in his will, I understand."

"In trust! She won't see that money for years. It's beyond insulting, as if she were an irresponsible child."

"I still think you should give this some time. You're in the honeymoon phase. You don't know if her arms-wide-open embrace is sincere. Or durable."

"Here's something that might surprise you, George. I wouldn't care! I adopted her once, and I didn't fight for her. On advice of counsel, I might add. I'm putting her back where she belongs, and I'm perfectly capable of adding a codicil without the blessing of my suspicious lawyer."

"This isn't me talking exclusively as your lawyer, and you know it."

He does know it. George was the partner who issued the cease-and-desist order twenty-five years earlier: Office mates were to refrain from setting Henry up with their wives' girlfriends and attractive a.s.sociates, and why didn't they open their eyes and stop putting him on the spot, for chrissakes?

"I'm not under her spell," he says. "This is not the result of Thalia ingratiating herself. She's known for months that I was her mother's ex but never said a word."

"Therefore how could someone in such a pa.s.sive role be a gold digger?"

"Correct."

"Acting talent notwithstanding."

"Acting talent still undetermined," murmurs Henry.

"Can I meet her?"

"Under what guise?"

"No guise! Former partner who knew her as a baby."

"Did you?"

George squints at a framed photo of a Christmas tree rising behind his four sons in seasonal sweaters. "Didn't we have an office party once with a Santa?"

"No, we did not."

"Then I must have seen a photo of her. Didn't you have one on your desk?"

"Many. Which are back on my mantel."

George takes his notary seal from its leatherette sheath, slips it around the codicil, but stops short of embossing it. Henry says, "It's not a pound of flesh, Georgie. It's only property."

"Must've been some lunch," his lawyer says.

Giovanni has never been one to chat while styling hair. Even after these many years, he comments only on cut, potential color (Giovanni believes that Henry's gray hair could so beautifully be blond in concert with his blue eyes), and the salon's everexpanding line of products. But today Henry worries that inhouse gossip may have traveled upstairs to this station. He owes Giovanni a firsthand explanation. "I don't know if you've heard anything," he begins.

Giovanni's scissors stop. He waits, meeting Henry's eyes in the mirror.

"About Thalia, your coat-check girl? I know this will strike you as absurd for several reasons, but I used to be married to her mother."

"Yes, we know," Giovanni says mildly.

"We? Other people, too?"

Giovanni shrugs.

"Did Thalia herself tell you?"

"Sure. Many weeks ago. I cut her hair."

"Did she tell everyone?"

Giovanni's scissors stop again mid-snip. "I think no. I think only me."

"Because you and Thalia are friends outside of work?"

"Sure," says Giovanni.

Sure? Is that what a father wants to hear? Nonchalance from a skinny, ill-shaven, tattooed hairdresser? He hears himself ask, "How old are you?"

Giovanni smiles. "She's twenty-nine and I'm thirty-eight. Not terrible, do you think?"

"Not terrible, no," Henry lies. Because Giovanni is running electric clippers over the tops of his ears, he waits a minute before asking, "In terms of corporate structure, would you be Thalia's boss?"

"I am no one's boss. Gerard is my boss and that is all I know." He takes a can from a drawer, sprinkles talc on a sable brush. "Let me clean you up. Isn't this nice? You'll smell like cloves for your lunch date." He tickles Henry's forehead and nose with the brush, unsnaps the nylon cape, holds up the hand mirror for a back view, and says, "Always a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you next time."

As intended, those words remind Henry to pull out Giovanni's tip. But something is impinging on his generosity today. Before Giovanni returns from the laundry chute, Henry, to his own surprise, lightens the thank you by two crisp bills.

The maitre d' at Trattoria Dell'Arte kisses Henry on both cheeks and squeezes Thalia's hand. "Have we had the pleasure?" he asks.

"I work around the corner. Salon Gerard?"

"That's only her day job," corrects Henry. "This is Thalia Krouch, the actress."

"Go on," says Thalia. "Tell him the rest."

Does she mean career or relations.h.i.+p amplification? Thalia points back and forth between them: you, me, us.

"What she wants me to tell you is: I used to be married to her mother."

"My stepfather! For real. Until my mother ran off with Mr. Krouch."

The host yelps, "I love her! I love this stepdaughter!" He turns to the waiter at his elbow, says, "Twenty-four," and then to Henry, "My favorite booth. Enjoy. And welcome back."

Seated, Thalia shrugs out of her jacket and a.s.sumes a brand-new posture, fingers interlaced on the table, interrogation style. "Why do I stay in this job, Mr. Archer?" she asks, unprompted. "That's easy: It's so brainless that any one of my friends can sub for me at the last minute if I have an audition." She opens her menu, says, "I love the antipas...o...b..r. And don't worry. I'm not working my way up to beauty school."

"These friends," he begins. "Are they actors, too?"

"The ones who can fill in for me are. No, wait. Arielle is a grad student. And Amanda is a temp."

"Do you have roommates?"

Thalia groans.

"A bad one?"

"How do I say this? An undergraduate who's smitten."