"Just two or three months ago. Maybe four. Not that long."
"A long time to keep something like that to yourself."
"Not that hard. Not for me, anyway."
"Because we've hardly exchanged any words?"
"No," said Thalia. "What I meant was not very hard to play a total stranger ... because I'm an actress."
Henry wants to appear enthusiastic, but he is a seasoned New Yorker who translates "actress" as workshops taken and head-shots posed for against the odds.
"I was waiting for an opening," she continues. "If you had introduced yourself or asked my name..." She adds, after a pause, "Or asked me a question about myself."
"Do you remember me at all?" he asks. "A
ny
thing?"
Thalia says, "I have memories I never quite knew what to do with: Did we ever take a carriage ride around the park on a really cold day?"
"We did! Christmas Day. You were four and a half."
"And was there a cat somewhere in the picture? Or a kitten?"
"Almost. I took you to the Humane Society and you picked out a kitten—neglecting to clear that with your mother first. Very bad preemptive move on my part."
Thalia finally sticks a fork into a calamari ring and pronounces it the best ever. "Did you imagine what the next step would be after you announced that we're long-lost step-relatives?" she asks.
He isn't sure from her tone whether the door is opening or shutting. He says, "I imagined that I would ask you questions about the intervening years, and vice versa, in the manner of two people getting to know each other."
"Okay," says Thalia. "You first."
Out of politeness, he asks about her acting.
"One commercial and one movie," she says.
Her answer fashions a whole new view of Thalia. "A movie! How wonderful! That means you aren't just hoping to break into acting, but you're on your way!"
"Not quite," she says. "Do you know what a stand-in does?"
Henry chews, swallows, asks with fork poised over the next piece, "I'm guessing it's something like an understudy?"
"It's a person who substitutes for the actor
before
filming, for things like lighting. Once in a while, depending on the director, you read some lines."
"Have you stood in for anyone I might know?"
"I was a stand-in for the mean secretary, the one with seniority, in
The Devil Wears Prada,
but only when the real stand-in went home sick. And I was a clacker in another scene, which is what they called the editorial assistants running around in high heels. Unfortunately, no sign of me in the final cut."
"Still," says Henry. "A foot in the door and a very real credit on your C.V."
"And you're a lawyer, right? At least I know you went to law school. Vanderbilt, correct?"
"Once upon a time I practiced law. I quit after Thanksgiving. Retired. Quite early, unrelated to my lack of affection for the law. And I'll tell you why: My father keeled over of a heart attack at fifty-five, and I thought I should get out in time to enjoy life in case I inherited his arteries."
"And do you?" she asks. "Enjoy life?"
"In my own quiet way, I think I do."
"How are
your
arteries?"
"Good. As much as my cholesterol count testifies."
"As you know, Glenn also died prematurely, a massive heart attack, and his cholesterol was good."
"I'm being followed, just in case." He smiles. "I only have fried calamari on special occasions."
"Do you live alone?"
"I do."
"Are you in a relationship?"
"You first. It's bound to be more interesting."
Thalia says, "That'll be easy: There's no one."
"Even in the wings? On the horizon? Recently decamped?"
"I'm between boyfriends. Which is fine. I try not to date actors or hairdressers. What about you?"
"No one."
"Even in the wings? Recently decamped?"
"Recently deceased," he says quietly.
"A longtime companion?"
"Very."
"Please tell me it wasn't AIDS."
"It wasn't AIDS. It wasn't even a male companion."
"A woman? As in girlfriend?"
"A very dear woman friend, Celeste. Cancer. 'Companion' in the sense she was my movie date, my dinner date. We liked the same theaters and the same desserts, and neither of us put that much stock in reviews so we saw almost everything. We'd go to an early screening and grab a bite afterward. Sure enough some dame—her word—would waltz into Trattoria Dell'Arte with a grotesque hat or sequined ruby slippers, and Celeste would lower her eyes and make one of her trademark cynical remarks, and I'd practically need a Heimlich."
"Was she a lawyer, too?"
"She was a teacher, kindergarten, public school. She threw herself into it and the kids loved her. She'd wear crazy stuff to school—shoes with bows like Minnie Mouse or big polka dots, pop beads. You're too young to remember pop beads. But she collected things just for their effect on five-year-olds. You know how little girls are—you were like this—anything fancy or glittery or pink is a work of art"
Smiling, Thalia says, "Go on."
"Every once in a while, a girl or boy, grown up now, would come up to her and say, 'Miss McGonagle? I think you were my kindergarten teacher.' And she'd always pull something out of her hat, some memory that was absolutely spot-on. As soon as they were out of earshot, she'd say, 'Don't be impressed. For my entire career I recycled the same unit on sinking and floating.'"
Thalia says, "That does it. Now I want to go into teaching and change my name to Miss McGonagle and have grown-up students deliver testimonials ... But I guess I meant go on about me—details my mother would have to refer me to a nanny for."
Henry, so very happy to relate the Thalia lore he's bottled up, says, "I remember the oddest things. You loved olives. You snacked on them like they were—what do toddlers usually snack on?—raisins. And you liked strawberry ice cream better than those more complicated flavors, but you'd spit out the bits of actual strawberries."
"Still do"
"You wouldn't go down the slide in the park. And when you finally worked up the courage, you went on your stomach, headfirst, and banged into a little boy who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Wham. An hour later you had a black eye. And your favorite thing, at least in the coloring book genre, was dot-to-dot. When you were three, I was buying the ones that were recommended for ages five to seven."
"Such a girl genius," she murmurs.
"I know all parents think that, but in so many areas—"
Thalia leans forward. "It must have been a shock to find me passing out smocks in a hair salon."
"No!" he says. "Don't say that. I couldn't be happier. If Celeste were here, she'd be dancing on the table."
"Because...?"
"Because she loved children and she knew about you, knew I wanted to fix this. And even though I wouldn't call it her dying wish, she'd open her eyes during that last week and say, 'She's probably right under your nose. Make some phone calls, for chrissakes.'"
Thalia's eyes—and should this alarm or thrill him?—are now red-rimmed.
"I'm sorry," he says. "Let's change the subject to something less lugubrious."
"Not at all," says Thalia.
"I only meant to say that she was a marvelous friend."
Thalia leans in. "I bet she thought you were marvelous, too." She pronounces it "
mah-velus
" and she is teasing him. Is she an aristocrat directed by the Marx Brothers, or is she vintage Billy Crystal on
Saturday Night Live?
He doesn't care. Her timing and delivery are excellent, and within the tease lies a compliment. He is smiling again and hungry. Thalia can act!
H
E ASKS, PREFACING
the question with "You mustn't feel obliged," would Thalia care to make lunch a weekly commitment?
He watches carefully for a telltale hesitation, and his heart contracts when he hears, "Sometimes I skip lunch if I'm leaving early because of an audition—"
"I understand," he says. "Of course."
"Hey! Don't fold. I was about to say, 'Great! Love to.' You'll give me your contact info so if I hear about an audition, I won't stand you up."
He adores her all over again—such decency and good humor! "Did you enjoy your meal enough to make this our regular place?" he asks.
Thalia blinks hard. "Did I enjoy my meal? Did you ever see anyone enjoy her food as much as I just did?"
"Would you like to order something for later?" he asks.
She groans, but gratefully, delightfully.
"Shall we make this our regular spot?" he asks again. Thalia looks at her watch, says, "Yikes," then immediately adds, "Oh, so what? I'll explain the very dramatic, life-altering nature of my lunch." She leans in to ask, "How insensitive is it of me to propose we meet next time at Trattoria Dell'Arte?"
"Insensitive?"
"You know—in case it's kind of sacred."
"Celeste, you mean?"
"Exactly"
"That would be no problem," says Henry.
"Your next haircut is on the second," she says. "Should we make it then so you don't have to make an extra trip?"
"Perfect," he says. "On the second. Trattoria Dell'Arte"
She is on her feet now, knotting a long orange scarf that looks homemade and intentionally potholed, then tapping his numbers into her cell phone as fast as he dictates. "And next time you won't be tempted to bring along any estranged relatives of mine, right?"
"No, I promise. Just me."
"So no mediating?"
"I swear. And why would I include her when she's had you to herself for twenty-some-odd years?"
She smiles. "Because you don't hold grudges?" She doesn't wait for an answer but asks if he'll at least let her pay the tip.
"You run. I've kept you too long. I'm fine here," he says, waving his hand over the table to mean
Of course this is—and always will be—my treat.
She leans over and kisses one cheek. "Awfully glad to officially re-meet you," she says.
It is worse now when he's alone. He is every man he hates on
Prime Time, 48 Hours,
and
CNN Reports
—the absent father who surfaces decades after the hard work has been done and the tuition paid. Look what he's missed: twenty-four years of Thalia. He had rights. It didn't have to be the surgical separation that it was. But to a relatively unschooled bachelor father, the biweekly lunches and teas were ordeals: Thalia cried when she had to leave her mother and her turncoat homophobic nanny, whimpered at restaurants while the surrounding patrons glared. With no one's goodwill—not Denise's or her new husband's nor the little girl's herself—the outings grew further and further apart until they stopped.
Now what will he say when Thalia inevitably asks what made him disappear?
Too bitter and too angry with your adulterous mother to be a man, especially with the courts hinting that I was something less than that?
Your stepfather wanted to adopt you and the affidavits all made the same argument: that the inconsistent presence of a man, a virtual stranger with an unconventional lifestyle, was confusing to the minor child.
Precisely because he doesn't like to lie and is a very poor dissembler, he avoids Denise. "Sorry I missed you again," he tells her answering machine, returning her calls at an hour he thinks she will be out. Denise doesn't take the hint and keeps trying to enlist him for her morning walk. He tries "cold coming on" and "waiting for the boiler service guy." After more than a week of white lies, he is out of excuses. He agrees to accompany her—in fact, in one hour. Since their détente, she has been overconfident and unceremonious, and he realizes that she has placed him under her girlfriend banner. The phone rings twenty seconds after he hangs up, and it is she again. He doesn't answer, quite sure that she wants to know if he's figured out why Thalia looks so familiar. But she's not calling about that; instead she's complimenting their new, comfortable, remarkably honest friendship. "And since I know you're standing there listening, I'll end with, How did I ever let all these years go by without mending fences?"
He resists the impulse to lunge at the phone while she's on the line and purge some of the old bile.
Don't be so coy. I always hated that in you. And furthermore, just because I agree to take a walk doesn't mean we've mended fences.
But he doesn't pick up. He erases her words after replaying only their first sprightly syllables. He will be a neutral party for some greater good, the one ahead that he hasn't quite imagined yet.
As soon as she spots him, Denise yells across Fifth Avenue, "I've decided to get a job." When he reaches her side, she tells him she's been researching careers online. Did he know there was a whole world of jobs out there that she thinks she'd be very good at? At the top of her list, well, not exactly a career but a one-pronged plan of action: to get her real estate license so that she can sell her apartment herself—how hard can that be?—and divide the gigantic commission with the listing broker. She can take courses at the New York Real Estate Institute; she likes the look of the place, likes its slogan, Profit Through Knowledge, and likes its location on the north side of Macy's. What does he think of that?
They walk east, then turn south on Madison, her daily route. "It's not a job you can jump into," he tells her. "It's an attractive field, and it would be overrun if it didn't involve several big hurdles."
She slows down as they pass a shop window filled with cashmere and stops fully in the next doorway to gaze at the bejeweled shoes on display. "I used to shop here," she says. "I'd try on pair after pair and wouldn't even ask the price"
"Are we walking or shopping?" he calls back to her.
She sighs and follows. "I know it's not a job I can jump into. I know it involves courses and exams and a license. Is that so beyond my reach? Because you certainly sound dubious."
"Because you're counting on that license to sell your own apartment, and one doesn't get a real estate license overnight."
Denise is shaking her head vigorously. "I can stall the evil stepsons. I'll plead widow's mourning period or lead paint removal or chronic fatigue syndrome. They're in no hurry, believe me, with the market out of whack."
On every block she nods to fellow walkers, all of whom, he is quite sure, are noticing and evaluating the new widow's companion. "What else are you thinking about as a career path?" he asks.
"You know," she confides, and slips her arm through his as they pass two muzzled German shepherds on leashes, "don't laugh. But I think it would be fun to be one of those greeters in a nice restaurant."
"Do you mean a hostess?"
"What I'm picturing is one of those cozy restaurants where the owner's wife greets you at the door, welcomes you warmly, and hands the menus to a waiter who then leads you to your table. You and I both know that in this city there are plenty of restaurateurs who don't have wives."
He says, "You know, of course, that managers and owners hire—if they can get away with it—the youngest, most attractive, most buxom woman who applies for the job."
"That doesn't intimidate me! I'm thinking of a place with an older clientele. A bistro, probably French. Probably in my own neighborhood." She waves to a passerby, a tiny elderly woman swaddled in a fur coat. "She's ninety if she's a day," Denise whispers. "So's the coat."
How petty she is,
he thinks, and therefore scolds, "It isn't like having guests in your house who arrive at seven-thirty and leave by ten. You'd be on your feet for an entire shift. I think after one night it would lose its luster."
"Why are you taking a tone with me? I know that jobs involve work and not flitting in and out like a volunteer"
"Good."
She points to a coffee shop across the street and asks if they should reward themselves with a cappuccino.
"Reward ourselves for what?"
"Walking this far in the cold. And you walked across the park, so you're even more deserving."
He says, "Let's keep going. It makes more sense to have that on the way back."
"You've gotten bossier in addition to being more patronizing," she says rather cheerfully. She speeds up and begins pumping her elbows in a power-walk impersonation. "C'mon," she says. "It burns more calories." She stops for a Don't Walk signal at the corner of East 64th. "What would be your idea of a Denisecompatible job?" she asks him. "And don't say bank teller or nanny or dog walker or taxi driver."
He says, "I can just see you behind the wheel of a gypsy cab."
She leads him across Madison, heading east. "I pick up my lunch on Lex," she explains.
"Have you acquired any hobbies?" he asks. "Hopefully one that could convert into a paying job."
"I wish
docent
paid. I'd spend a different afternoon in each museum. Another thought I had was
decorator.
"
"For which you'd need a license. And experience."
And not ten beige rooms utterly devoid of personality.
"I'm getting offended" she says. "I don't hear one single note of confidence in your voice. Is this how you'd talk to a son or daughter who was shopping around for a new career? Wouldn't you say, 'What are your strengths? Let's look in the classifieds. Let's give you one of those skills assessment tests'?"
Shouldn't the word
daughter
remind Denise of her own child? He doesn't bring Thalia up because the reunion is still too thrilling and too sacred to be uncorked. "Now, now," he says. "I'm playing devil's advocate."
"I'm sure all of these people heading for the nearest subway work in offices," Denise says with a sweep of her arm. Do they know something I don't know? And did they start off with more credentials than I have?"
"Can you touch-type?" he asks.
Denise stops and lets her jaw drop theatrically. "Can you see me as someone's secretary? Answering a phone? Taking shorthand? Emptying coffee grounds?"
"Then don't ask my advice! It's not an unreasonable idea. There are receptionist jobs that amount to being a greeter in an outer office. Always nicely dressed. Gracious. Keeping your shoes on under your desk."
"I'm mildly intrigued," she says.
"Then read the want ads. Make some phone calls. Charm some HR people."
"Is this wishful thinking? That I can dress up and sit at a beautiful desk in an atrium with a gorgeous arrangement of flowers—you've seen those giant, hotel-lobby-sized ones with birds of paradise and hydrangeas—and greet clients when they get off the elevator? Or that jobs like this exist at all nowadays? Don't companies want armed guards?"
"We used a headhunter who specialized in law-firm hires. I can look her up. There's bound to be firms who'd welcome someone with social skills and maturity—"
"Maturity! That's what I'm up against: age discrimination! You know where I'll end up? Waitressing at one of these places where they brag about their elderly help, and their nametags say how long they've worked there. I saw that in a Beverly Hills delicatessen once: 'Dottie, forty-five years.' 'Pauline, thirty-three years.' No, thank you."
"Would you consider sales?"
Denise recoils. She stomps right on Lexington and picks up speed.
"I was thinking of a place like Bergdorf's or Bendel's," he offers.
"Well, I certainly know my way around those places—"
"But?"
She stops, strikes a pose, imaginary cocktail in hand. "'Oh, what do I
do,
attractive single man whom I've just struck up a conversation with at a dinner party? I work at Saks. No, no, not
Goldman
Sachs. The other one, the flagship store on Fifth. I sell pocketbooks and occasionally fill in at costume jewelry. I wrap your purchases in tissue and then I run your credit card. Fulfilling? No. But I do get an employee discount. And what did I do before that? Nothing, actually. I had a grant from the husband foundation. How about you?'"
Henry smiles. Had he ever noticed a talent for showmanship in the young Denise? He doesn't think so. Certainly there were good looks, a flattering gaze, and small talk that bordered on the charming. He asks, "Were you this entertaining in the past?"
Denise grins. "I must have been. Because you know who inherited my sense of humor?"
He
does
know but doesn't answer.
"Thalia. She's funny in the way I'm funny: not joke telling, but just—what would you call it?—putting a story across."
This would be the time to ask if Thalia is putting that ability to good use, but he is saved by the sudden appearance of particularly big and beautiful artichoke hearts attached to their stems marinating in a café window. Denise gasps. "I must have one of those," she says. "That'll be my dinner, with a cold glass of something crisp and white."
"That's not enough for dinner," says Henry.
"Then my lunch," says Denise, "which I'll eat the minute I get home."
He follows her inside and overrides her when she tells the man behind the takeout counter, "One of those artichokes in the window."
"We'll take six," says Henry. "Four for her and two for me." His billfold is already in his hand. Denise is protesting but not strenuously.
"He feels sorry for me," she tells the man behind the counter. "My husband died and took all the money with him."
The man smiles uncertainly. After all, who would say such a thing if it weren't a joke?
"I'm the ex," Henry volunteers, then wonders what's gotten into him.