The Family Man Part 4

Henry says, "Do elaborate."

"A junior at NYU. His parents came through with a couch and a TV, so I made an exception to the youngster rule. He's perfectly nice."

"By smitten do you mean-?"

"A crush. Partly my fault."

Henry waits.

Thalia says, "Okay. One kiss. Well, a couple more than that, but confined to one night after watching a particularly stirring episode of s.e.x and the City guest-starring David Duchovny. So it's my own fault."

Ordinarily, this would be exactly the kind of gossipy report tinged with s.e.xual bravado he thoroughly enjoys, but not from Thalia.

"Would you rather not hear such things?" she asks.

"It's fine," he says. "I'm cool."

Thalia laughs. "So I see."

"What's this roommate's name?"

"Alex."

"Have you discussed this with Alex and reached some kind of understanding?"

"Had to, on the spot, because he a.s.sumed we were moving directly from couch to futon. I had to give that little speech about how irresponsible it was of me, and don't get me wrong, you are an excellent kisser, but actual s.e.x would be disastrous for roommate relations."

"Futon," Henry repeats. "Is that what he sleeps on?"

"Actually it's what I sleep on."

"In a bedroom?"

"Sort of. It's three rooms so we use two as bedrooms."

"And one bath, I imagine?"

"Don't faint. The bathtub is in the kitchen. No, really, it's fine. We work it out. We have a painted Chinese screen on three sides of the tub and an honor system. Besides, he never has cla.s.ses till noon so he's always asleep when I bathe before work."

"Is a bathtub in a kitchen up to code?"

"Doubt it. But it's cheap, and actually quite charming if you don't mind a few b.u.ms on the stoop. Kidding! No one calls them b.u.ms anymore. No stoop, either, just a noodle joint on the ground floor. Not great, but open till two A.M. And I'm a stone's throw from Little Italy, Nolita, the Bowery, SoHo, the Lower East Side, and every subway line known to man. That was the rental agent's big selling point, that I'd be in the epicenter of Manhattan."

"Where exactly is your place?"

"Chinatown, Mott Street. A fourth-floor walkup. Which I don't mind at all. It's very New York. You've seen those movies in which tenants are trudging up the stairs after a hard day's work or pus.h.i.+ng a drunk date past a cranky non-English-speaking neighbor? That's me, sans elevator, sans doorman."

It is the first time she's alluded to a grander former life. Henry wonders, Would George consider this reference to be an outstretched hand? Subsidize my rent so I can move back uptown? "Very admirable," he says.

Thalia says no, it isn't, not at all. And now, with what can only be described as acute acting talent, she tells him that she has a safety net. "I like living there. I could afford a doorman building in the Village if that's what I wanted ... I don't know if you know that Glenn Krouch left me money. A lot. He owned a very successful box factory."

Henry says, "I did know that."

Thalia adds, "My brothers run it now. And as you can imagine, online shopping has sent the sale of corrugated boxes through the roof. Now would Mr. Archer care to share the twelve-item antipasti?"

Could she have uttered anything less gold-diggeresque or more perfect? He can't wait to tell George: Thalia lied to me so I wouldn't worry about her dead-end job and her nineteenth-century plumbing.

"My situation, my life-it's all good. Really. Good for me and good for my art."

He feels a stinging behind his eyes but manages to subdue it. From his inside breast pocket he brings forth a small leather appointment book and its companion pencil. "Sometimes I cook," he says.

6. You Might As Well Say Yes.

NOW THAT DENISE rings Henry every morning after breakfast, he points out that it's exactly the telephone relations.h.i.+p she had with her mother while they were married.

She says, "I'm flattered that you remember."

Henry says, "You wouldn't be so flattered if you knew the context. I found it highly annoying."

The newly, seemingly impervious Denise laughs. "All my husbands would agree. Have I mentioned my mother lately? She's eighty-two and has all her marbles. I have a stepfather, too, a cousin of a cousin's in-law, not Greek American but Greek. In Greece! Eleni's come full circle, straining yogurt in the village her parents ran from. She's quite the conversation starter, apparently, with her b.o.o.b job and her Sub-Zero."

Henry, who is finis.h.i.+ng the Monday New York Times crossword puzzle as Denise prattles, stops mid-clue. "Since when?"

"The b.o.o.b job? It was her seventy-fifth-birthday present to herself. And would you believe she was engaged in three months, thanks to the Internet? The photo she uploaded starts at her waist."

"Remarkable," Henry says.

"I'll e-mail you their wedding portrait. They didn't meet until she went over for the wedding-very nineteenth century. Except for the Internet part, it was your basic arranged marriage. The fiance neglected to mention that he was a head shorter. Well, not really: He comes up to her ear. But she doesn't mind. She sounds very happy. He's only seventy-something and unexpectedly-to use her favorite word-virile."

Henry doesn't need much in the way of aural cues to respond to the word virile. A euphemistic reference to geriatric s.e.x will suffice. He needs a boyfriend. And just as he is thinking about what excuse will get him off the phone fastest, Denise asks, "Henry? Speaking of relations.h.i.+ps, are you seeing anyone?"

"Not at the moment."

"Would you like to?"

When he doesn't answer, Denise says, "You know perfectly well why I'm asking. I have friends, dozens of them! All gay and many unattached."

"I don't think so," he says.

"Don't think what? That my friends are gay, or that you'd care to make their acquaintance?"

"Don't think there are 'dozens,' especially if you mean my age. We're a near-extinct group-"

"Then I'll trick you. I'll invite you to a dinner party and surround you with a roomful of candidates."

Henry says, "I'd better get going. Thanks for the warning. I'll be sure to decline the invitation."

"But it won't be a blind date. I'll call it something else: my birthday, for example. That's soon enough. I'll move you around the table so you get to experience everyone."

Henry tries, "A dinner party can cost a fortune."

"A c.o.c.ktail party, then. Wine and hummus."

"I can't." He adds weakly, "I wasn't being truthful before. I am seeing someone."

"Who?"

"Someone I met ... we're volunteers for the same charity."

"Which one?"

"The Innocence Project," he says. The words tumble out easily; he's been meaning to look into pro-bono work.

"No you're not! I'd have seen the signs. You'd look less pinched. And you'd be giving fewer sidelong glances to countermen."

"It's ridiculous, being set up by my ex-wife-"

"It's not ridiculous. It's an outlet for me. As you know, I'm in mourning and in crisis. You might as well say yes. It's going to happen whether I get the green light from you or not."

Henry does want to meet someone, but not a buddy of a garrulous ex-wife who will extract detailed morning-after reports from all parties. "It wouldn't be comfortable for me," he says.

"Nonsense. I'd be very low-key about it. I'd make it seem accidental."

"Which implies that you'd be chaperoning."

"I'm getting bored with this conversation," says Denise. "I'm just going to spring something on you when you least expect it."

She doesn't say goodbye yet. It seems she has ordered a freerange chicken from Fresh Direct. How about if she brings it to his place and cooks him dinner? Not to worry: She's turned into something of a chef ever since Glenn signed her up for a weeklong course on a farm in Tuscany that pressed its own olive oil. Has he been reading about the benefits of a Mediterranean diet?

This is the plus and the minus of Denise and why he can easily keep his own counsel: She monopolizes all conversations. The uneasy topic of Thalia does not come up as long as Denise is free-a.s.sociating. Is he being deceitful? He reminds himself that as Mrs. Archer she kept large and rather malignant secrets from him. A burgeoning friends.h.i.+p with a neglected and estranged daughter, he decides, need not be called to her attention. He says yes to dinner because he doesn't have plans, and even at 9:45 A.M. he can almost smell the rosemary perfuming his kitchen.

It is Denise's first visit to his townhouse, and she asks for a tour while the roaster is resting under aluminum foil. She is an appreciative visitor, complimenting his rugs, his variegated parquet, his wainscoting, his lithographs. He narrates: This was the original molding, the original ceiling fixture; this came from a flea market in Arundel, Maine, this from an auction house in Philly. Picture these four walls papered in khaki gra.s.s cloth! That's what I was up against. And this marble fireplace unearthed during renovations!

Too late, as they round the corner into his living room, he remembers that photos of baby Thalia are prominently displayed on his mantel.

"Where'd these come from?" Denise asks.

"They were always here," he lies.

"Now that I see your shrine, I feel bad," she says.

Just like that: The central tragedy of his life, and its perpetrator finally suffers a pang. "Bad because you let your husband cut me out of Thalia's life? How does that strike you now? As reprehensible? So many lost years, every birthday, every milestone?"

"Horrible," Denise says. "Unforgivable. Although I have to say, I don't remember you putting up much of a fight." She puts her arm through his and pats his hand. "You know what we should do? Let's call her. Now that I see this adorable little face I'm not even sure what our most recent squabble was about except that it addressed my maternal shortcomings. Where's your phone? I'll promise her that I'll reform. Or at least try. She's very forgiving. Maybe she's cooled off."

Henry appreciates the testimonial to Thalia's forbearing nature but rejects Denise's offer to concoct a united family. He wants and deserves Thalia to himself.

"That sounds like a very long conversation," he says. "A shorter phone call might be to one of those bachelor friends of yours. Who's at the top of your list?"

Denise's face registers new mission in life. Successfully sidetracked, she rushes for her purse and her phone.

"Can we eat first?" Henry calls after her. He hears not one but two identical messages being left on answering machines, first to a Jeffrey, then to a Todd: "You remember that my ex turned out to be gay?" she chirps. "Well, guess what? He's unattached. Call me."

How did I ever marry her? Henry wonders. And simultaneously, Jeffrey? Todd?

7. Where Are My Manners?.

IT IS 9:45 P.M. and Henry is watching Jane Eyre in his pajamas when Thalia calls, asking if she may drop by. "When were you thinking?"

"Is now okay? I'm four blocks away."

He dresses quickly and as casually as his wardrobe allows, just in time to answer the doorbell. On the top step, Thalia is trying not to s.h.i.+ver in a too-thin yellow wool coat. Next to her, running his hands appraisingly along the stone mythical animals decorating either side of the door, is a tall, gaunt, unsmiling stranger. "I'd like you to meet Larry-" Thalia begins, but doesn't amplify once she steps inside. "Wow! I had no idea! Now I have to readjust my whole mental picture of Henry at home."

Henry reaches around Thalia to offer his hand to the stranger. "Please come in. I'm Henry Archer."

The stranger shakes Henry's hand but says only, "I know."

Thalia is staring up at the elaborately carved and domed foyer ceiling. "It's not that I expected you'd live in a fourth-floor walkup, but, yikes. I mean, you could tell me I was in Gracie Mansion and I'd believe it."

"How many square feet?" asks the guest.

"No idea," Henry lies.

"Sorry-Henry, did I mention this is Larry Dumont, famous actor?"

"Actually I'm Leif now," the visitor corrects. "L-E-I-F"

"Noted," says Henry.

"We had dinner over on Amsterdam," Thalia says.

Before Henry can ask for their coats, Leif embarks on a self-tour. His first stop is the oil painting over the living room fireplace. He studies it-a bouquet of dying flowers dunked blossom side down into a clear vase-then declares, "At first I think Dutch still life. But then I think, no, modern. With a narrative: Her lover betrayed her and tried to win her back with flowers, but she was too enraged to accept a peace offering."

Henry glances at Thalia, who returns a wonderfully screwy look that says, Don't ask me.

"Is this something you'd be willing to sell?" Leif asks.