The Family Man Part 34

Henry picks up his pen again. "Is this an accurate summary of what got us here today: Mr. Pelletier is saying, effectively, if Denise loses her home, I could expose and embarra.s.s you for immoral if not illegal activities?"

Glenn grunts affirmatively.

"I checked online," says Eddie. "It's not blackmail."

"And what is your personal stake in all of this?" Henry asks Eddie. "Because we seem to have an epidemic suddenly of people compelled to do the right thing."

Glenn says, "He gets to live rent free on Park Avenue instead of in a fifth-floor walkup in h.e.l.l's Kitchen."

"Clinton," says Eddie. "It's no longer called h.e.l.l's Kitchen. And I've got a view of the Hudson River."

"Was I misinformed when I was told that you and your wife, Mrs. Pelletier, are back together?" asks Henry.

Eddie says, "Look. I'm not such a terrible guy. I gave my marriage one last try and, okay, that came at a bad time for Denise. She hated me, but then she missed me. And let me say one more thing: the so-called ma.s.seuses?" He wiggles his index finger instructively in the direction of Henry's notepad. "Every one of them is an Oriental girl just off the boat. Which is why all of these places have names that sound like Chinese restaurants."

"Get him out of here," says Glenn. "I'm the executor. His job is done. Now it's between me and Denise."

Henry says, "Let's clear up one thing, so Mr. Pelletier doesn't have an urge in the future to phone your brother and play Sunday school teacher: You came alone because your brother has no knowledge of the shenanigans upstairs?"

Eddie says, "With 'Waikiki' flashing outside his window?"

"It doesn't flash," says Glenn. "And to answer your question: Tommy knows we rent eight hundred square feet to a spa. He doesn't use it, and he was out of town the week our father had his heart attack."

"Let's get a secretary in here," says Eddie.

Henry says, "I recommend that you call the real estate agent and tell her the apartment is off the market."

"Now?" asks Glenn.

"Now. On my phone."

"He means, no tricks," says Eddie.

Glenn takes Henry's cell phone and walks it to a distant chair, meant just for this, outgoing calls by the defeated and dispossessed.

"How about the monthly charges?" Eddie whispers. "Those'll set her back a fortune."

"Here's what Denise should do about those costs," says Henry. "She should sell this apartment for a fortune, buy a nice, pet-friendly two-bedroom, and live happily ever after on the difference."

"Big move," says Eddie. "And not exactly what she was fighting for."

"Are you employed?" Henry asks.

"I still have my side of the business. I dropped the twine, so I'm exclusively a label vendor, about ninety percent online."

"And not dependent on Denise for housing?"

"I'm not totally divorced yet," says Eddie. "And even if I was, it doesn't look good so soon after Glenn died."

"Denise, of course, being as sensitive to protocol as she is," Henry says.

"She likes you a lot," says Eddie. "In fact, I'd be jealous except that I know I don't have to be."

"Quite correct," says Henry.

He waits until he's home to call Denise. "Are you alone?" he asks.

"Just Albert Einstein, who-did I tell you?-is going to puppy kindergarten, even though he's twenty-one in human years."

"I meant, has your boyfriend returned yet?"

"Oh, hon," she says. "I guess you're up to date on everything."

"Has he filled you in on the meeting with your stepson?"

"He called the minute he got out of the subway. He said-and I was going to call you to confirm-that the spa above the factory is a brothel, and now Glenn knows that Eddie knows, and how embarra.s.sed Glenn would be if his wife or mother or Saint Mary's of Manha.s.set ever found out."

"The apartment is yours," Henry says. "You'll be getting this in writing from George."

"It's so great! But do you think we should have pushed for more? If you were me, would you still take them to court over the rest of the estate? Then, as soon as I think that, I wonder, because of the pressure Eddie put on the boys, if we should just take the money and run."

"I'm not in the advice business any longer. There is no we. I don't like liars. I'm calling to say don't call me."

"Because of Eddie? Is that fair? He's not living here. And let's just say that ever happened? All you'd have to do is call ahead when you're coming over, and I'd send him to a movie."

"It's not going to happen. This is not the kind of friendship I want to maintain."

She yells, "You got Thalia! My daughter. Not yours. Mine. You've poisoned her against me. So have a nice life with all those adoring people I supplied you with. You win. I get a roof over my head and you get everything else."

"Denise-" he tries, but the line goes dead.

35. Something's Not Right.

THALIA E-MAILS HENRY to say that she dropped by Salon Gerard, and would he believe they gave her old job away-that stupid part-time minimum-wage nothing? He opens the kitchen door and yells downstairs, "Are you there? Want coffee? I have whipped cream in a can."

"Be right up," she says. "But let me warn you: I'm dressed for success."

She enters the kitchen in an outfit as bland as he's ever seen her in: a straight khaki skirt to the knee, a short-sleeved blouse in pale pink, ironed, and Williebelle's double strand of costume pearls.

"Job interview?" Henry asks.

"Temp agency."

From weeks of silent dwelling on the topic, he plunges into his occupational wish list: Yale Drama School? Tisch? That actors' studio he likes to watch on Bravo with students in the audience who don't look as if they're fresh out of college, either? What about teaching acting? To kids? Summer camps? At Elderhostel? Has she ever considered law school? She'd be so good before a jury. What about some kind of internship, maybe a cable news station, where a smart boss would catch on fast to the fact that she's smart, articulate- "I'm thinking cleaning lady," she says. "If I took care of upstairs and downstairs, I'd at least be contributing to my upkeep."

"I see. And would I have to fire Lidia?"

"No," she says. "Of course not. Bad idea."

"Sit. A single or a double?" he asks, even though her favorite mug-John Travolta, in powder blue as Tony Manero-is already under the machine's spout. "I realize," he begins over the noise of beans grinding, "that the enlightened parent is supposed to say, 'If cleaning houses makes you happy, follow that dream.' But I know you're joking. I have great faith in your talent and therefore your future-"

"Too much faith! I'm almost thirty, and I can't even get my job back handing out rayon smocks. And yes, I'd love to go to the Yale School of Drama, but I'd never get in. And if I did, by some fluke, I'd be the oldest and possibly the least qualified-"

"Don't say that! You studied acting. We could compose a very respectable resume-"

"Anyone can study acting. Is that what geniuses major in? Anyone who watches celebrity Jeopardy knows that they dumb down the questions those weeks."

He turns around, abandoning work on his own cup. "Where is this coming from? Please don't tell me that this fiasco with Estime has made you question yourself and your potential."

"I'm too old for potential. Look at my mother: I probably inherited her career genes." She holds the can of whipped cream at arm's length as it releases its last noisy froth into her mug.

"I have another," says Henry.

"I'm good." She takes her first sip. "Mom ever call you back?" she asks.

He hands her a teaspoon and napkin, then takes the second kitchen stool. "Is this from the daughter who never wants to see or talk to her again?"

"It's about you," says Thalia.

"How is it about me? Because when a person slams down the phone in the middle of my sentence, in fact a sentence that was about to turn conciliatory-"

"I know you! You don't like a grudge floating out there in the ionosphere, even if it's your cheating ex-wife."

"I'm a lawyer. I have hundreds of open grudges out there, defendants and plaintiffs."

"Doubt it."

He goes to the refrigerator for the new, unbidden can of whipped cream. When he returns he says, "She e-mails me. Regularly."

"Apologies?"

"Not in so many words. You know her: She has a blind spot for when she's being ignored. Or, by some members of her immediate family, being thrown to the wolves."

Thalia, between sips, says, "Utterly predictable."

"Which?"

"The mending fences. I knew this would happen, one big blended stepfamily, especially since you're not that great at banishing and abandoning."

Henry says, "I don't encourage her. My answers are quite terse. And I don't reply to every one."

"Ha," says Thalia.

"She always ends with something equivalent to 'How is Thalia?'"

"And you say what to that?"

"That's the part I don't reply to. Well, maybe every other time. Maybe just, 'She's well.'"

"Does she mention her boyfriend?"

"No."

"Just mine?"

Who is this "mine"? Henry wonders. Not Giovanni; not if he's filled the salon job with another pretty girl. The deejay? Not likely; he had his moments, but Thalia hasn't mentioned him or his club in weeks. After what he determines to be a nonchalant interval, he asks, "Did Leif ever answer your text messages?"

"So far, no."

Henry says, "Then I'm appalled."

"He's taking it all out on me: We flopped. He paid a ton of money for his big exposure, his reinvention, and what happened? Nada. A couple of insults on blogs and a few embarra.s.sing photos."

"What the h.e.l.l is wrong with him? Does he not know that if you have intimate relations with a woman and then don't call, regardless of what business failures complicate the relationship, it's rude and it's loutish?"

Thalia says, "Listen to the expert. I love it."

Henry says, "I learned a lot, secondhand, from Celeste. I was something of a repository for her romantic woes. Out in public, we were often mistaken for a mister and missus." He smiles so wistfully that Thalia asks, "What? What are you remembering?"

Henry says, with difficulty, "I shared this at her memorial service ... Once, a waitress-it was a nothing place on Columbus, now closed-came over to our table and said, 'You two aren't married, are you? To each other?' And we said, 'No, why?' and she pointed to another waitress, who waved from the counter. 'We have a little bet going. I said you couldn't be married because you two talk to each other. For real. Constant conversation. Married people tend to bring a newspaper. Or stare out the window. Or fight.' So Celeste motions to the waitress, Come closer. Then she announces, 'You're very observant. He and I are having an affair. So if either of us comes in with our spouses, don't say a word. They're rich. We married them for their money. But this is the real thing.'" Henry shakes his head as if he's been babbling foolishly.

Thalia asks, "Hesh? Would it be news to you that Celeste was in love with you?"

"You never met her! She had no illusions about our friendship-"

Thalia puts her mug down to count on her fingers. "You were married once. She was single, heteros.e.xual-have we established that?-and probably showing up at your front door with ca.s.seroles when Denise left, if it went back that far."

Henry says, "I don't remember any ca.s.seroles. She wasn't much of a cook. In fact, over the entire course of our friendship-"

Thalia interrupts to say, "Okay. Never mind. I love that you were blind to this."

Henry says only, "She was wonderful company."

Thalia says, "But now you have me. And Todd. Don't you think we're wonderful company? Or used to be, before my downward spiral?"

"There's no downward spiral. It's just a b.u.mp in the road. All actresses at one time or another work temp jobs and wait tables. It's honorable. And it makes for a better human interest story when you hit the big time. Rags to riches-people love that."

"Too late," she says. She pats the pockets of her skirt and brings forth a silent phone.

He asks if she is expecting a call.

"Not any more than usual."