The Family Man Part 30

"With Corcoran," the woman snaps.

"Walls can be repainted," he says. "Besides, how far could she have gotten with one brush and no ladder?"

"There's more: She told Sheila that she'd lost track of time and thought it was Sunday morning."

"Instead of Monday? And you think that const.i.tutes cause? Because I don't see, as a lawyer, how painting her apartment matte black is an employer's concern."

The woman says, "Mr. Arthur, is it? Denise is not a licensed broker-not even close-but she does represent this office. More and more we'd be sending her out to turn on lights or arrange flowers or close a blind so that a property shows well. In other words, to exercise some aesthetic judgment. But let me say for the record, Denise was fired for nonperformance of duties. She failed to show up for work. You're right: Whatever color she chooses to deface the walls of her apartment with is none of our business." She stands, so he does, too. "I'm sorry. We liked having her around. Perhaps we can revisit this at some time in the future."

Henry says, "And that's your policy? One strike and you're out? You should be sorry." He spots a place mat with a doggy motif, a brown cartoon bone on white plastic, halfway under the front desk. Without asking, he seizes it.

The doorman says, "She doesn't want any visitors."

"I'm her lawyer," Henry tries. "Can't help you."

"Can you tell her Henry's downstairs?"

When the doorman appears to be considering his request, Henry muses, "If anything happened to her, if she's fallen or if she's ill and unable to call for help, I wouldn't want to be representing the management of this building."

"She said no exceptions. And she's not dead, so I'm not buyin' that. She walked her dog this morning."

Henry slips two fingers into his shirt pocket and produces a strategically folded twenty-dollar bill. "I'm quite sure she'll answer the intercom," he says. "Also, I neglected to say that I'm Thalia's stepfather. Were you working here when she was living at home?"

"Name again?" the doorman asks, punching numbers from memory. Then: "Henry Archer here to see you, Mrs. Krouch." He listens, then says without eye contact, "Elevator to your right."

With the door between them, she asks if he's alone.

"Open up, Denise. Of course I am. Who else would I be with?"

"Glenn!"

"Glenn? Your late husband?" he asks delicately.

"No, not my husband! I haven't lost my marbles. Glenn his son! He's been calling here."

"And why would I have teamed up with Glenn Junior?"

"Don't bulls.h.i.t me, Henry. I know you went to Long Island City."

"To help you. Not to team up with the sons. Just the opposite. Please open the door."

She does. She is wearing a flannel nightgown, an apparent veteran of too many permanent-press cycles. Her hair is flyaway and she wears no makeup, no lipstick, no foundation garments. Albert Einstein cowers at her feet, smears of black paint along his flanks.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

"They listed my home," she says. "I had to do something."

"May I come in?"

She takes a step back. The floor is covered with newspapers. "You won't like it," she warns.

He crosses the threshold and views the foyer. It isn't black, but darkest purple, a hideous sight. In better light Albert Einstein has purple streaks as well. "What made you think of this?" he asks as neutrally as if pointing to a paint chip under consideration.

"What else could I do? I wasn't going to take a pickax to the walls."

Henry walks up to a wall for closer inspection. He says, "You know, you did quite a good job."

"I know it! I was going to make a horrible mess of it on purpose and ruin the floors, too, but once I got going I had pride of workmanship. I've never painted a room before. You use a roller for the walls and they have this blue tape that keeps you from getting paint where you don't want it. Would you believe Home Depot opens at seven A.M. in this city?"

He peeks into the kitchen, still its original off-white. "Are you leaving some rooms as they are, or just haven't gotten to them yet?"

"I'm only doing what I need for maximum impact. I'm figuring a purple foyer and then a midnight blue hallway with black trim-what's worse than black and blue? I can barely stand it myself-and then I did the one viewable wall in the living room."

He peers down the hall. That one wall is a yellowish green that contributes to the hematoma theme. "You're right," he says. "It's disconcerting, to say the least. But let me play devil's advocate: Wouldn't a broker simply say to a potential buyer, 'Before we go inside, I have to warn you. The owner was acting out. Look past the paint, the colors, the bad taste. Just take in the bones of the apartment.' And doesn't a broker have the right to send a crew in here and make everything white or buff or greige or whatever's the new neutral?"

Denise says, "Only if my extremely loyal doormen let them in. They're on my side. And Christmas is only six months away. Want a drink?"

"Can we sit? Maybe in the kitchen."

Denise leads the way, hem raised daintily, newspaper sticking to her bare feet every few steps. "Do you think it's okay to use turpentine on Albert Einstein?" she asks. "I don't want the greyhound adoption people on my case."

"Did you use oil-based paint?"

"I don't know. I asked for whatever stuff would smell the least."

Henry goes to the sink, wets a sponge with warm water and a squirt of soap, and calls the dog, who shoots an anxious look at his mistress. "Try Kill Bill," says Denise. "Or Billy. I've been slipping back to that because he doesn't answer to Albert unless the topic is food."

Henry grips Albert by the collar and slides him across the linoleum to the sink. The yellow sponge takes on an inky tinge. "Latex," says Henry.

"I love you," says Denise.

"So tell me why you're here," Sheri Abrams, PhD, asks, clipboard on her lap, gaze neutral.

"He thinks I'm losing my mind," says Denise. "And he could be right."

"Why do you think Denise is losing her mind?" Sheri asks Henry.

"I never said that. What I said was, 'I think you're depressed.' When someone doesn't show up for work and paints her apartment black, blue, purple, and chartreuse-in her nightgown-it could be a cry for help."

The doctor asks Denise how she feels about Henry's characterization.

"It's wrong! It wasn't a cry for help. It was a battle plan. It was one thing I could do to make the apartment a total turnoff. I wasn't going to blow it up like the crazy guy on East Sixty-second-remember him? Between Madison and Park?-to punish his ex because their divorce was forcing him to put his townhouse on the market."

"Go on," says Sheri.

"Henry only found out by accident because he went to my office and they told him I was fired."

"And not in great shape," Henry says quietly.

"Wait. Back up. Were you fired without cause?" Sheri asks.

"Totally! I was late and because I didn't answer my phone-"

"Tell her what your outgoing message said," Henry prompts.

"I don't remember word for word, but it was along the lines of 'This apartment is not for sale so if you're calling about that, take a hike.'"

"Potential buyers would be calling you? Isn't it in the hands of a broker?" asks Sheri.

"Two brokers!"

"Not an exclusive?" asks Sheri.

Henry slides lower in his chair.

Denise turns to him. "What? Why are you grimacing?"

Henry says, "The issue isn't whether the apartment has a broker, or the broker has an exclusive." He sends Sheri a look. "But it's not my job to keep us on track, is it?"

"First," says Denise, "we need to explain that when my third husband, Glenn, died, his children got everything. And guess how two boys divide a multimillion-dollar apartment straight down the middle? They sell it."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," says Sheri.

"So am I," says Denise. "And still in shock."

"How many months has it been?" asks the doctor.

"February. What's that? Four months. It feels like four days. Are you married?"

Henry says, "We don't ask our shrinks personal questions. You know that."

Sheri says, "I'd like to ask about your support system."

Denise says, "That's easy: my dog, who goes with me everywhere. He's new since Glenn died. I'd have brought him today, except..." And she gestures with what Henry knows is contemptuous acknowledgment of the ancient and unhandsome poodle at the doctor's feet. "He's so smart, and his EQ is so high that I named him Albert Einstein."

Sheri smiles, but not with the irony he thinks Denise's digression deserves. "I named my dog for the same reasons," Sheri tells Denise, reaching down to stroke the poodle's ears. "She's Simone, after Simone de Beauvoir."

Henry checks his watch. Only ten minutes have pa.s.sed.

Sheri continues. "What about humans? Who among them do you turn to for support?"

Denise reaches over and takes Henry's hand. "Only my friend here. Plus my doormen."

Sheri says, "What about your daughter?"

"She's not speaking to me."

Henry extracts his hand from Denise's. Sheri says to Denise, "I meet you and I see someone who is outgoing, attractive, intelligent, all the things people want in a friend. So where are these connections misfiring? Could it be that you are expecting too much from friends? That they should be reaching out to you as a widow? Do you think, after a little more time pa.s.ses, that you'd want to revisit these friendships and work a little harder?"

"Do you have children?" Denise asks. "Specifically, a daughter?"

"Don't ask her that stuff," Henry snaps.

"It's okay," says Sheri. "The answer is no. But I am a daughter. I know that a mother-daughter relationship requires work."

"What about an ex-husband?" asks Denise. "An ex-anything?"

"Denise!" Henry hisses.

"Let me finish, sweet pea. She should know that I'm twice widowed and you're in the middle of that marital sandwich, the meat and the cheese, a cushion between those two tragedies. You're all I've got, and I wish we'd sought counseling when we were still married."

Sheri asks, "Henry? What would you say to more meetings with Denise?"

"Your walls, Denise," he says sadly. "They're black and blue. That's why we're here."

Denise confides to Sheri, "He doesn't like to talk about our marriage or divorce: touchy subject. And complicated."

"Is that true, Henry?" Sheri asks.

"Am I in a fun house?" Henry asks. "Are we talking about marriage counseling-as if ... what? Henry married Denise once, and they had their little issues, easily fixed, so maybe he'd do it again?"

"Of course not," Sheri says. "Please sit down."

"He paces when he's nervous," says Denise. "And I know why he's nervous: I kissed him like I meant it a few weeks back, and from time to time I tell him I love him. But that's just me. I'm very ... what's the right word? Pa.s.sionate. Besides, I know he's gay. I also know that's not a thing that comes and goes." She sends an air kiss in his direction. "I know you think I'm a pain in the a.s.s. And I am! Maybe I am off my rocker and/or depressed and now jobless and soon homeless. But I think, underneath all of that, you're very fond of me."

Sheri Abrams, turncoat therapist, repeats, "Homeless? Literally?"

"Not yet," says Henry. "And maybe never. I'm doing what I can."

"My rock," says Denise.

My ball and chain, he thinks.

32. Every Time I Turn Around.

TODD INSISTS he has to see it. Has to! His imagination fails him, accustomed as he is to muted, decorator-chosen palettes. So don't even make up an excuse, just, "Todd is dying to see what you did with the apartment."

"Does she ever go out?" Todd's mother asks. "Because she could have come to supper tonight. I could have called it a thank-you for fixing you up with Henry." She is at the stove, ladling too many meatb.a.l.l.s onto platefuls of spaghetti. "If the occasion presents itself again, tell her she's very welcome and I use ground turkey instead of chuck."

"I'm trying to lay low," Henry says. "Too much Denise lately. Twenty-five years of relative peace and suddenly she's on my doorstep every time I turn around."

Todd says, "Want to know how nice Henry is? He took her to his shrink where she announced she had one friend in the whole world."