I
N MORE THAN
thirty years' residence in Manhattan, Henry has never been to Long Island City, nor taken the number 7 train. Krouch & Sons Cartons is a factory on the corner of two city blocks, whitewashed brick, three tired stories high, nearly windowless. A side entrance next to the loading dock turns out to be the unceremonial front door. Inside, there is no reception area and no receptionist. Machines screech at, he is sure, unsafe decibels. He knocks on the closed door that has "Office" hand-lettered on its pebbly glass. A woman's voice calls, "Come in. It's open." He enters a room frozen in 1958, its floor swirly green vinyl tiles. An older woman with unnaturally black hair is seated at what might be an army surplus desk; behind her, family photos are mounted on a Scotch-tape-scarred wall. "You're the guy who called, right? About a family matter?"
"Correct: Henry Archer."
"They're expecting you." She points—there and there, separate offices. "Stick your head in," she advises.
What would one expect in a second-generation box manufacturer, once described by Todd Weinreb, astute social observer, as "Tweedledee"? Behind three-story wire in-boxes, and possible samples of Krouch corrugation, is one son and his paperwork. He looks astonishingly like his father, at least from the photographic gleanings Henry has collected over the years. His blond hair is straight and combed over a balding crown. His eyes protrude in something of an amphibian manner. Henry thinks:
Time has passed him by—a young man stuck in his father's chair.
"You wanted to see me about what?" asks this Krouch.
"I'm Henry Archer. And you are which brother?"
"Glenn."
"And Tommy will be joining us?"
Glenn pushes a button on his desk phone, says, "The lawyer's here," and hangs up.
Henry asks—pointedly; an etiquette lesson—"Shall I take a seat?"
With his eyes back to whatever paperwork had his attention before his guest arrived, Glenn mumbles something vaguely affirmative.
Henry begins with what he believes is full disclosure. "I'm not sure if you're old enough to remember that I was the immediate past husband whom your stepmother divorced to marry your father."
Still not looking up, but with a twitch of a smile, Glenn says, "I'd express my regrets, except you probably got the better deal."
Despite his own distaste and old wounds, Henry takes umbrage. "Your stepmother is suffering the loss of the man she was married to for twenty-five years," he begins.
"Twenty-four years," says a voice from the doorway. Henry turns around and has one overarching thought: that son number two got the looks, the height, the hair. "Tommy Krouch," says the new arrival, and shakes Henry's hand.
"Sit down," says his brother.
"Where?"
Glenn rattles a folding chair next to his desk. Its unformed carton slats slip to the floor. Tommy flips the chair around so he's straddling it back-end-to. "So why are we talking about Denise?" he asks Henry.
"You can't possibly be here as her lawyer," says Glenn. And then to his brother: "He used to be married to her."
"I'm not here as her lawyer. I'm here of my own volition, as a favor—"
"Not a big grudge holder, I sense," says Tommy.
"I thought you were coming all the way over here to talk about Thalia," says Glenn.
Henry hadn't thought of framing the situation as an orphans-in-the-storm housing dilemma, but now he says, "I've taken Thalia in. And I dearly hope I don't have to do the same for her mother."
"What are we talking about?" Glenn asks.
"You won't be surprised to hear: your father and stepmother's prenuptial agreement."
"Which Tommy and I are not parties to."
"Gentlemen," says Henry. "Don't insult my legal IQ. You're co-executors of the will. Except for that pre-nup, Denise would have everything. My guess is, you hold its twenty-five-year benchmark very dear."
"Actually," says Tommy, "we don't. Because that would be the equivalent of celebrating our father's premature death, wouldn't it?"
What has Henry been expecting? Not thoughtfulness or dignity. Why hadn't anyone told him that the boys might be decent lads? Thus far he's interpreted their walkout at their father's funeral as intolerant hotheadedness. But now he's wondering: Could it have been their attempt at restoring decorum? Henry says, "Of course I wasn't implying that. I apologize. I only meant on the narrow issue of the duration of the marriage—"
"It's not greed," says Tommy. "It really isn't. It's more like this: We hate our stepmother. Period. Oh, and one other little thing? At the time of our father's death, she was screwing around."
Henry pretends that nothing impeachable has registered. "I've consulted a partner in our trust division whom I consider to be an expert on prenuptial agreements." Henry pauses; is he imagining a soupçon of worry passing between the Krouches?
"Go on," says Glenn.
"Simply put: Your father burned the pre-nup on their first wedding anniversary, documented by photographs."
"How do you take a picture of a burned document?" asks Tommy. "I mean, even if there were a photo of every page being thrown into the flames, and close-ups, how do you prove it wasn't just a stunt?"
"It is Denise's contention that he meant it. And in the Polaroids, he's the one holding the match."
"Where are you going with this?" asks Tommy.
"To court," says Henry.
"In your capacity as Dad's wife's ex-husband and quite obviously her very close friend?" asks Tommy.
"He means are you romantically involved with Denise again?" asks Glenn.
"I am not," Henry says. "Nor would I be."
"Says you," barks Glenn.
"I'm gay," says Henry.
After an unhappy pause, Glenn says, "But you were married?"
Tommy says to his brother, "Like you don't know a dozen guys in that same boat—married but gay?"
"Not a dozen," says Glenn.
Henry senses a shift: Will Tommy's social sensitivity lead him onto a statesmanlike path? He says, "We are quite sure that if this question goes before a judge, he'll be persuaded, particularly after twenty-four years, that your father's intent in burning the pre-nup was, ipso facto, the destruction, elimination, revocation, you name the synonym, of the agreement. In which case, with the bang of a gavel, Denise inherits everything."
Glenn says, "I don't think so."
"What does she want?" asks Tommy.
Glenn says, "We're not asking what she wants without our lawyer present!"
"I'll answer, then, without being asked," says Henry. "She wants to keep her domicile of twenty-four years. And half."
"Half of what?" Glenn asks.
"Your father's estate."
"When hell freezes over! She was cheating on Dad when he died," says Glenn.
"Allegedly."
"Fuck 'allegedly'! She could've been screwing around for decades."
Henry says calmly, "Not that I'm stipulating to that, but the pre-nup covers the duration of the union, not the beneficiaries' suspicions."
"We have witnesses," says Glenn.
"No, you don't," says Henry.
"Thalia," says Tommy. "On a witness stand? How would you like to be up against that in full courtroom glory doing—who was that actress who stole the show in
My Cousin Vinnie?
"
What's this?
Henry thinks. "Thalia is busy," he sputters. "She's not a party to this. She's already being pulled in several different directions."
"Like what?" asks Tommy. "Is she still working at that hair place on West Fifty-seventh?"
"As far as I know, she's not."
"I think we're done here," says Glenn.
"Denise can't touch the business," says Tommy. "Glenn and I
own
the business."
"Shut up, Tommy," says Glenn. "We're not saying anything. We have the pre-nup in the safe, unburned, uncanceled, unrevoked."
"Talk to your lawyers, gentlemen," says Henry.
How many admirers can one unavailable young woman juggle? Henry asks no one but himself as he waits for a 7 train to take him to any stop where he can hail a taxi. Has Thalia's overactive love life made him a bad judge of simple brotherly solicitude? Tommy, he reasons, was just the nicer stepbrother, closer in age to Thalia. He's seeing social outreach where there is none. Aren't both Krouch boys married to women who left the funeral by their sides, in protest? He'd quiz Thalia or Denise on that point—except for now he wants to keep his Long Island City mission off the record.
He calls Thalia from the back seat of a taxi, safely across the Queensborough Bridge. "Lunch anytime soon?" he asks. "I have a sudden craving for chicken tikka masala."
"Like, right now?"
"Earthen Oven? One hour?"
"I could almost do that."
"Where are you now?" he asks.
"Not home," she answers.
She slips into a seat opposite Henry and blows a kiss across the pappadams.
He asks, "Remember when we first met? This was our plan: weekly lunches. And now look at us." He opens his menu and smiles down at it. "You, me, and Williebelle."
"Ran home to change just for you," she says. "I believe this is what your mother would have called a housedress. The belt is mine."
Pleasantly, unaccusingly, Henry asks, "Still seeing Philip?"
Thalia hums, scanning the menu.
"Philip?" he prompts.
"He's okay. Why?"
"Just making conversation."
She looks up. "It's not a huge deal."
"But?"
"We had a little—what shall I call it?—misunderstanding. Now fixed."
Henry is never sure where his conversation ends and cross-examinations begin. He takes several casual and dilatory sips of water before asking, "About?"
"A photo he took of me. That I didn't appreciate."
She is speaking with remarkable equanimity,
Henry thinks,
considering that an incendiary device has just exploded in my head.
He looks around, judging waiter proximity. "A compromising photo?" he whispers.
"Here's the thing: I was in fact naked but I had a sheet over me." She runs a finger across her clavicle. "All the way up to my armpits."
"Awake or asleep?"
"Asleep!"
"Did he ask your permission?"
"No, but really—I don't want you to worry. He snapped it with his phone so there aren't enough pixels to do much with."
Henry says, his voice barely restrained, "You are to tell him in no uncertain terms—or I will—that he is to erase that photo of you."
"I already did."
"
And?
"
"He said he'd never e-mail it, sell it, put it out there, whatever, so it came down to a matter of trust."
"Oh, please."
"He said it never would have occurred to him in a million years that taking my picture would be seen as morally reprehensible."
"Because he was born yesterday? Every time you turn on the news you hear about some contestant whose wet T-shirt came back to haunt her."
She motions to the bartender, who sends over a waiter. "Two chicken tikka masalas," Henry says. "And do we want beer?"
"At the very least," says Thalia. As soon as the menus are collected she says, "Shall we change the subject to something equally annoying?"
"Sure."
New patrons are being shown to the next table, two women with enough shopping bags to identify them as out-of-towners. Thalia lowers her voice. "Estime told Leif on Friday that no one's interested in Thalia Archer. He needs to find someone the public cares about."
"Just like that? 'No one's interested in Thalia Archer'? Whose fault is that? What are you supposed to do? Get arrested? What nerve. What arrogance!"
"They're giving it one more try. With cash."
"For whom?"
"Paparazzi—the ones you can buy off."
The waiter returns with two beers and two pilsner glasses. "We're fine," says Henry, nearly shooing him away.
Thalia says, "I figured you'd be happy about this."
Henry the parent is happy. Henry the lawyer asks, "Were they expecting instant results? Overnight limelight for a guy who's been under the radar his whole career?"
Thalia shrugs. "He says he stuck up for me. Might even have said 'fought' for me. Hard."
"Because he wants to do the right thing? Or because it would be excruciating for him to start over with a new faux girlfriend?"
"The latter, I suspect."
"Such a web of lies," says Henry. "I don't know how I ever let you say yes to this scheme."
"Because on paper it looked doable. And because I was deluded enough to think I could pull it off." She returns the smile of the newly seated neighboring diners, who, Henry realizes, are enjoying Williebelle's paisley housedress and its mother-of-pearl snaps. Thalia turns back to Henry. "Please don't make your
au contraire
speech now about what a talented and delightful person I am."
"I won't," he says unhappily.
She hands him one-half of the last pappadam. "Although, if you wanted to say something philosophical and parental that puts everything in perspective, this might be a good time."
Henry picks up his beer glass, thinks, puts it back down without taking a sip. "How's this: Sometimes I look down the road, and I wonder what toll it will take. I mean, will you tell your children that you pretended to be someone's girlfriend—"
"For money! For alleged fame and fortune. Because a man thought he was so unappealing he had to hire an agency to hire a girl to fall in love with him?"
"Not true?" asks Henry.
Thalia reaches down into her backpack and brings forth a folded piece of paper. "See what a nice world we live in," she says.
It is a printout from a website, a place he's never visited, The
Superficial.com
. Above a photo—finally, the two of them together, by name, allegedly being turned away from too-hot Bungalow 8. The headline above it declares, "Thalia Archer Has Terrible Taste."
A
S AN ACT
of good faith, Philip has purged his phone of the evidence after e-mailing it to Thalia, who forwards the photo to Henry. He calls Thalia immediately to say, "Now I know for sure I've been corrupted."
"I doubt
that,
" says Thalia.
"It's true. I could see this perfectly lovely photo of you on some website with a clever headline such as 'Wake Up, Thalia Archer!' The implication would be, 'You're a smart and talented girl. What are you doing with Leif Dumont? You don't need him to make your way in the world. In fact, he's proving to be a millstone around your neck.' Is that something Gawker or TMZ might run?"
Thalia says, "Neither. I think I'd find that on Fatherly Advice dot com."
He loves
fatherly;
at the same time, he's embarrassed by his pop-culture clumsiness. "Never mind. Stupid thought. I guess I was supposed to say, 'Good for Philip. He's an honorable young man.'"
"He's right here. Do you want to tell him yourself?"
Henry says, "No, thank you. I'll let you get back to your company."
"Are you doing anything today?" she asks.
He isn't; he reminds her that the retirement consultants all say one shouldn't do much of anything for the first six months. But he'll take a walk and read. He and Todd are going to see an early movie and have a late dinner.
He changes into his new brown suede sneakers and has one proud foot out the front door before ducking back inside. Denise and her dog are carefully descending Thalia's steps, one paw at a time. He waits and listens. Should he make a run for it or stay put? He retreats to the kitchen and within seconds hears footsteps on the back stairway, followed by a sharp knock.
"You there? My mother's at my front door," Thalia calls. "Can we hide upstairs?"
He opens the door to find Philip at Thalia's side, wearing drawstring pajama–like pants and a T-shirt that says "Audioslave." She is, thankfully, in her pink sweats. "Sorry, man," says Philip. "No time to get dressed. I'm Philip. We met on moving day."
Henry says, "Come in. Does that woman ever call before she shows up on a doorstep?"
"I was going to ignore the knock," Thalia says, "but I could see the doorknob moving this way and that. Like a horror movie. I thought maybe I hadn't locked it and she was going to come charging in. So we bolted."
"Is she still down there?" Henry asks.
Thalia asks, "Which window is your lookout?"
Henry smiles and says, "I resent that," immediately followed by "Either one on the south wall of the parlor."
When she's left the kitchen, Philip asks, "This woman—was she Thalia's mother, or stepmother?"
"Mother. Still is, present tense. Her name is Denise. You probably know they're more or less, despite drop-in visits, estranged."
"Was there an argument? I mean, did they have a fight and no one wants to be the first to apologize? Or is it more all-encompassing?"
"You'll have to ask Thalia. I do know that Denise mortally offended everyone with thoughtless remarks at the funeral of her most recent husband."
Philip calls out rather jovially in the direction of the parlor, "Come back. I want to discuss what the big deal is. Life is short. You'll feel bad when she's dead. Just go talk to her."
Thalia's head appears, peeking around from the hallway. "Do you know something I don't know? Is Denise sick?"
"Denise is fine," says Henry. "Annoying as hell, but as far as I know healthy."
Philip says, "I'm not speaking from any insider knowledge. I'm just asking, What did she do that was so terrible that you can't have a conversation?"
Thalia says, "I'd need a couch."
"What's the worst thing?" asks Philip.
"The worst? Okay. How's this: terrible mother. I was baggage from the dead husband, and it didn't help that I looked like him. I was like a chaperone on a honeymoon, except that it went on and on. She was always trying to please Glenn, to show that she wasn't the wife who'd had two previous husbands. She wanted to erase her history, so how does a kid fit into that?"
Henry is thinking two things: I'm learning a lot. And look what an in-depth and openhearted conversation she is having with this young man.
"So? You're a grownup now," Philip says. "She was a lousy mother. She wanted to prove he was the great love of her life—sorry, Henry—but it's not like she fed you bread and water and someone discovered you under a trapdoor ten years later."
Henry says, "Philip does certainly take the long view."
"Have you and your mom ever been in therapy together?" Philip continues.
"They sent me to a shrink when she ran off with Glenn and I was torn asunder from Henry."
"They did?" Henry asks.
"I don't remember any of it except there were puppets and M&M's."
"What about now?" Philip asks. "Would your mother agree to family therapy?"
"Are you speaking from experience?" Thalia asks. "Did you hate your mother, then find out you didn't, but it was too late? Something tragic like that?"
"Not me. A friend of mine was always on the outs with her mother—young, like fifty, healthy as a horse. And she was hit by a car—get this—on the way to the post office to mail a letter to my friend."
"What kind of letter?"
"A let's-get-over-this letter. A love letter, essentially. Imagine what that's like: You get a phone call from your father hearing that your mother died, and the next day you get a letter from her begging for a truce."
Thalia says, "That's a
Hallmark Hall of Fame
first act. You made that up."
"Okay, maybe part of it. She wasn't on the way to the post office. But she was in a car accident, and when this friend came home from work there were two messages on her machine: one to call the hospital, and the other from her mother, calling from her car, like a minute before the accident."
Thalia says to Henry, "Note the use of 'my friend.' Very discreet. Must be an old girlfriend?"
"Irrelevant," says Philip.
"Too late. She's gone, headed toward the park."
"I didn't mean now, today. I only meant soon. Ask her to lunch."
Thalia asks Henry, "Would you like to step in and tell Philip what lunches with Denise are like? Or maybe you agree with him; maybe you know that mothers do die and it's better to patch things up while everyone's still alive. You can be honest. I won't feel ganged-up on."
Henry weighs his obligation to
honest
in front of Philip the stranger/arbitrator. Finally he says, "Speaking selfishly, I'd be nervous."
"Why?" asks Philip.
"I know why," says Thalia. "He doesn't have to explain."
"A bitter divorce that cost you your only child?" Philip supplies.
Thalia moves from Philip's side to slip her arm around Henry's waist. "Only for a few decades," she says.
Henry would prefer feeding only Thalia but has politely made omelets for her (cheese) and her guest (jelly). Upon receipt of his breakfast, Philip turns the plate forty-five degrees this way and that in artistic appreciation and says, "This could be in an advertisement for the egg council."
"It's really the single thing I cook well," Henry says.
"Are you joining us?" Thalia asks.
Henry says he had oatmeal an hour before. He'll just wash the omelet pan and get on with his day.
"What
is
your day?" Philip asks. "What keeps you busy?"
"He's retired while still youthful," says Thalia.
"You putter around? The workbench-in-the-basement sort of thing?"
Henry says, "I do the legal equivalent of puttering around."
"And I'm the workbench," says Thalia. She asks Henry if he has any juice, but no, sit, she'll get it. "Philip?"
"What kind is it?" he asks.
"Orange," says Henry.
"He meant, 'Is it from concentrate?'" says Thalia. She slips off the stool, gets the juice, pours each a glass in what Henry sees is less than loving fashion.
Philip says, "I know you're the go-to guy for Thalia in terms of her contract with Dumont."
Henry, at the counter, studiously wraps up the cheese and washes the cheese grater.
"Henry?" Thalia tries. "Come sit down. I'll do that."
Philip says, "I think I know what your stepfather is thinking right now."
"Which is what?" asks Henry.
"If I were you I'd be thinking, 'Who
is
this guy? It seems like one minute ago he was a total stranger and hired hand, and now he's her confidant. What exactly is going on?'"
Henry doesn't like
confidant
and now, officially, doesn't like Philip. He will ask Thalia as soon as they are alone if this is typical Philip conversation and does she find it presumptuous. But for now, as ever, Henry remains the good host. He says, "Thalia from the beginning, from moving day, told me that you knew about the Leif arrangement."
"I understand celebrity," says Philip. "I see people in the club whom I'd characterize as near-desperate for attention, and I'm not just talking about attention from a guy or a girl. I mean they want their name in lights and their million hits on YouTube. They put up with all kinds of degrading treatment from bouncers and drunken playboys to be seen as someone who makes it past the velvet rope."
"Yet you choose to work in that environment?" asks Henry.
"My club isn't like those pseudo-exclusive places. We're relatively democratic. And you know what? In the end, that's what's really cool."
"We're all going down," says Thalia. "In the
Twilight Zone
version of us we'll end up in a world with no tabloids, no websites, no cameras, no clubs, no hooking up. We'll have to live quiet Amish lives in western Pennsylvania."
"If there was no hooking up, I believe we'd be Shakers," says Henry.
"You should come by some night," says Philip. "We take reservations and there's no bullshit about 'Don't see your name on the list, dude. Sorry.'"
"I'm probably not right for your clientele. And vice versa. But thank you."
Thalia, sponge in hand, wipes down the island and says, "I think it's time we let Henry get back to his routine."
Philip asks Henry, "How well do you know this Leif character? I mean, has he sat around your kitchen and engaged you like this?"
"Not specifically the kitchen. But he's been here for a drink."
Thalia adds, "I brought him home to meet Henry before I signed up. And then he came by to apologize after he was arrested."
"I've rented some of his movies," says Philip. "They're not bad for the genre, but I don't see any irony in them—not dramatic irony, not situational irony. Nothing really clever there."
"I haven't watched them," says Henry.
"I haven't either," says Thalia. "And don't want to. I read reviews on Netflix so I'd sound like a student of auteur Dumont if the subject comes up."
Philip says, "I don't know how much Thalia's told you about my views on this mock romance—"
"Nothing at all," says Henry.
"This might surprise you, given my own investment, but I think she has to stick with it."
Henry manages to repeat, "Given your own investment?"
"Emotional investment," Philip says. "I thought that was obvious."
Henry says, "This is the first conversation we've had since your moving truck pulled away. That makes it hard for an outsider to gauge your emotional investment."
This would be the time and place for Thalia to back Philip's claim or to deny it, but she says only, "Tell Henry why you think I have to stick with it."
"My major was Ethics, Society, and Law," says Philip. "I think she made a commitment—not just by signing a legal document, but by offering Leif something deeper."
"Oh, really?" says Henry.
"Friendship."
"The old-fashioned kind," adds Thalia.
"So your advice is that Thalia, at odds with what the contract asks for—essentially to fake a romance and an engagement—should stick it out despite the early humiliations, so Leif Dumont learns lessons about friendship?"
Philip says, "Thalia likes to act. In the role of Leif's friend, she is forced to be her true self."
Her true self! Henry prays that he can quote every word, every presumption, for later reporting to Todd. He glances at Thalia, hoping for a sign, for her signature wide-eyed comic double take. This isn't what he sees. Instead there is a look he's observed only during mother-daughter hostilities. It marks, he believes, the end of Philip.