The Family Man (4 page)
N
OW THAT DENISE
rings Henry every morning after breakfast, he points out that it's exactly the telephone relationship 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 boob job and her Sub-Zero."
Henry, who is finishing the Monday
New York Times
crossword puzzle as Denise prattles, stops mid-clue. "Since when?"
"The boob 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 fiancé 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 sex 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 relationships, 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 cocktail 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-associating. Is he being deceitful? He reminds himself that as Mrs. Archer she kept large and rather malignant secrets from him. A burgeoning friendship 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 grass 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?
I
T 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 shiver 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.
"Sell?" Henry repeats.
Leif doesn't wait for an answer. He's moved on to Henry's wall of shelves and is gyrating his favorite snow globe. "You have good taste," he says. "And I like the way you intersperse antiques between the books."
"Leif just moved into a new apartment," Thalia explains.
"Here in New York?"
"In Tribeca, a sublet: three thousand square feet with city views and a screening room."
Henry winks at Thalia and says, "Where are my manners? Can I get either of you a glass of wine? Coffee? Tea?"
"Single-malt Scotch?" Leif asks.
"I'll check. On the rocks?"
"Neat," says Leif.
Thalia announces she's going to find the powder room but instead follows Henry into the kitchen.
"Who
is
this man?" Henry whispers.
"I'm kicking him out after one drink. Can I tell you then?"
Henry, at the open refrigerator, asks, "White okay? Sancerre? Or I can run downstairs for a nice red."
"White's good," says Thalia. She motions to the hall outside the kitchen. "Let me go flush a toilet so it doesn't look like we were back here talking about him."
"First door on the right, under the stairs. Tell your friend I'll be out with his Scotch in a minute."
"Hope he's not stealing anything," she says.
Leif's tour has taken him to the library, where Henry finds his guests seated side by side on his tufted leather sofa. "So how do you two know each other?" he asks.
"We had the same acting teacher," Thalia says. "About five years apart."
"Six," says Leif. He asks Henry how he came into possession of coasters that say
A Raisin in the Sun,
and are they suede?
"At auction. A fundraiser for Broadway Cares. Originally the sets were cast gifts on opening night."
"I love that play," Thalia says.
"Take them," says Henry. "Really. I'd love you to have them."
"Absolutely not. I'll visit them here. Besides, I don't have a coffee table to put them on." She takes her glass and Leif's from the tray Henry has set down. "And don't give me that look."
"Which look?"
"The one that says, 'I'll wrap them up and surprise you for your next birthday. And a coffee table to go under them.'"
"Making up for lost time," Henry says.
"Are you looking to get rid of them?" asks Leif.
"No, he is
not,
" Thalia answers. "He's being generous and, if I may be so bold, paternal."
"I used to be married to Thalia's mother," Henry explains. "For a short time, a very long time ago. Denise was a widow with a child when we married. Thalia's biological father died in a climbing accident."
"He was dashing and brilliant, I understand," says Thalia. "I, of course, take after him in every possible way."
"How do you know that?" Leif asks.
Thalia puts down her glass, closes her eyes, and moves her hands in circles over the coffee table. "We talk. When he doesn't show, I try the Ouija board."
Henry smiles. "She's very entertaining, my ex-stepdaughter, don't you think?"
"I don't know yet," says Leif. "We just met today."
There is a prolonged silence as all three sip their drinks. Finally Henry asks, "Would I have seen any of your work, Leif?"
"
Land of Louie,
probably," says Leif. "Unfortunately, I was typecast by that role."
"It was a sitcom," Thalia says. "He wasn't Louie. He played the creepy upstairs neighbor—"
"Boo Trumbley. For the entire run: five seasons. I assume you have cable?"
Henry nods.
"It's in syndication on TVLand. Channel eighty-five here."
"I'll be sure to catch an episode," says Henry. "Or many."
"You won't like it," says Leif. "Not that I'm disowning it. Every door I've passed through since then was opened by Boo Trumbley."
Leif is looking more and more to Henry like an undesirable upstairs neighbor. His forehead is high and bony, and he doesn't appear to blink.
"Leif now produces and stars in horror films," explains Thalia.
Henry raises his glass. "What fun," he says.
"They're not fun," says Leif. "They're terrifying—which I say proudly."
"I love Hitchcock," says Henry. "I once rented a car when I was in California and drove to Bodega Bay just to see where
The Birds
was filmed. The schoolhouse is still there. I turned one of my photos into my Christmas card."
Leif says, "Hitchcock didn't make horror films. He made thrillers."
"Of course," says Henry. "And I'm sure you're sick of every person waxing lyrical about Hitchcock as soon as you state your genre."
Leif's professional annoyance has made him down his Scotch in a few gulps. Henry asks if he'd like a refill, an offer Thalia thwarts with, "Leif has meetings in the morning. You and I should probably get started on that legal stuff you were going to help me with"'
Leif stands up to his full gangly height. Henry shakes the enormous hand and manages to say that it was very nice of him to drop by.
"Thalia will fill you in," Leif says.
Henry makes her a perfect cheese omelet, which he serves at his rose granite kitchen island. "I'll back up," she says. "Last week I was approached by the former teacher of mine—"
"Teacher when you were how old?" he asks sharply.
"No, no. Not that. No restraining order needed. This was after college. An improv workshop, Sally Eames-Harlan—"
"From the acting Harlans?" he asks.
"Married into them, now hyphenated. You listening?"
"Sorry. Go on."
"She called me about another ex-student of hers, one of her more illustrious alums." Thalia pauses. "Who turned out to be Leif. So far, not bad, right?"
"We'll see," says Henry.
"Anyone who's ever taken a class with Sally has heard about Larry Dumont, who wasn't—to put it mildly—just another pretty face in Hollywood. So we're on the phone and she's going on and on, and I was tuning her out because I was at work, and I thought it was just the Leif report. And then I hear, 'This is where you come in.' I said, 'Me?' Sally says, 'His people would like to meet with you.' I immediately think, audition. 'For what part?' I ask. Sally says, 'Serious girlfriend.' 'But in what?' 'Life,' she says. 'He needs a serious relationship that can go public. I thought of you immediately.' Now I'm paying attention. I ask, 'Don't you mean, Would I like to go out on a
date
with Leif?' And she says no. This is a campaign designed by a publicist to repackage him as someone who's attractive enough to be a regular character actor and not a monster—"
"She said that?"
"Not in so many words."
"Because," Henry says, "there's only one reason a successful actor needs a publicist to manufacture a romance—"
"Nope, not gay. It was the first thing I asked Sally, who got a little huffy about how she'd never help a gay man find a beard, blah blah blah—followed by her first-person testimony to his straightness." Thalia takes her first bite of the omelet and pronounces it delicious.
"Why doesn't this Sally sign on? Wouldn't that be a better story—acting teacher takes up with her irresistible star pupil?"
"Nope, wrong profile: She's twice his age and married. They're looking for someone he can propose to within a matter of weeks."
Henry says, "Are we actually having a conversation about your becoming engaged to a total stranger?"
"A
fake
engagement! An acting job! If he doesn't announce that extra step, it's just Boo Trumbley dating a nobody. The thinking is that an engagement gets you into 'Milestones' at the back of
People.
Besides, you've met him. It would take an actor of great skill such as
moi
to carry this off."
Henry says, "Eat. It's getting cold." Then: "It strikes me as very sad—that this is what acting has come to. And it also strikes me as very sad that a man has to buy his way into a woman's affections."
"It strikes you as very sad as in 'Don't do it,' or it strikes you as very sad as in 'Yes, do help the poor fellow out'?"
Henry says as calmly as he can, "Whichever answer makes you say no."
Thalia taps the tines of her fork lightly on his hand. "You're being a purist. Wouldn't you get even a little thrill out of opening your newspaper and seeing a blind item that said, 'What human gargoyle and his girlfriend were seen photo-op shopping at the diamond ring counter of a famous jewelry store on Fifth Avenue?'"
Henry says, "They don't have blind items in the
New York Times.
"
Thalia slips off the stool, helps herself to a handsome transparent peppermill, returns. "I'm going to say yes because it could be very good for me. I'd get a salary, a housing allowance, and an entire year of health insurance. Sally claims there are hidden depths and appeal there, or some such. All I have to do is be seen at clubs with Leif and pretend to be in love.
Which
I consider a professional challenge."
"And if your public finds out that you're taking money to be romanced, and it's all a hoax? Doesn't that make you a punch line? Not to mention a paid escort?"
"I need to do this," she says quietly. "It's not the money. It's the exposure. You don't put 'stand-in' on your resumé. If it weren't for one commercial and my union card, I'd be officially an actorwannabe." She opens a cupboard, finds a glass, fills it with water, and returns to her chair. "It seems to me a win-win situation: I get to play a leading lady. I get a platinum American Express card to beef up my wardrobe. No sex. We'll put that in writing. After six months, he dumps me. I keep the ring. I sell it and donate the proceeds rather conspicuously to Oprah's school for poor girls in South Africa, no doubt earning myself a guest spot on her show."
Henry doesn't mean to smile or be intrigued, but he is thinking of Celeste, who lived for gossip and blind items, who unapologetically devoured the supermarket tabloids he brought to the ICU. "Is any of this on paper yet?" he asks.
"Not yet. I say yes, and then his people talk to my people. Or as the case may be, my person."
She is smiling at him with such an impishly angelic grin that some primal Sunday school impulse makes him think,
Celeste arranged all of this.
Immediately he shakes that off; he is not given to beliefs about dead friends or deities watching over him. But he does settle on another notion, halfway between reason and magic:
This is why I have been restored to fatherhood.