The Family Man Part 6

"Your mother's att.i.tude was, we were the amateurs and Nanny was the pro. Nanny. No wonder I don't remember her name. Such an affectation."

Why hadn't he done something? Besides the baths and the att.i.tude, he'd objected to the nursery food, which was steamed, plain, presumably tasteless. Who would ever call plain yogurt "pudding"? Shouldn't a little girl be trying Chinese food, quiche, lasagna, maple syrup on her French toast? Denise-and truthfully he'd recognized this twenty-five years ago-was not the mother he'd want for a baby they might have had together.

Thalia asks if the visits stopped just because she was so miserable on the sleepovers.

"No. They stopped because Glenn Krouch's lawyers didn't think this house was a proper environment for you to be exposed to."

Thalia harrumphs. "Not proper, meaning gay?"

Henry says, "It didn't help that I had a live-in boyfriend at the time."

"Who?"

"Roger. Short-lived, but unfortunately the root of my custody problem."

"He was the root? Or my parents turned him into the root?"

"He was, as it turned out, nothing. And once Krouch adopted you, what was I? The ex-father without any rights."

Thalia says, "It's so sweet that you use the term ex-father without the step"

This is the time then. Henry says, "I haven't been completely honest with you about my tenure as your stepfather. There's more to it than-"

"Wait! Let me guess: When you met my mother, Roger was already in the picture, but there were social and professional pressures on you-how old were you? Thirty?-to find a hostess slash wife and settle down?"

"No. Much more mundane than that. Well, not mundane to me, but in the sense of legal doc.u.ments-"

Thalia jumps in again. "You and my mother were never legally married! The nanny knew it and that's why she didn't take any orders from you."

"We were legally married. Absolutely. And here's what I'm leading up to: At the end of the wedding ceremony, the judge announced to the guests that it was his privilege to proclaim flower girl Thalia Wales, officially on this day, Thalia Archer."

Thalia, uncharacteristically, looks stumped.

"No one ever told you that I legally adopted you?"

Thalia closes her eyes. "Wait. I have to let this sink in: You. Adopted. Me. This means what in relationship to ... the Many Fathers of Thalia?"

"Nothing cataclysmic. Just that I was legally your father for two years during the marriage, and for another twenty-two months until Glenn Krouch prevailed."

Thalia studies him for a few long seconds. "What's that look? You just curled up in a ball when you told me that."

He shakes his head. "Guilt," he finally says. "Cowardice."

"Even though it was my mother who ran off with another man and took me with her? What were you supposed to do? Show up the next day and take me to the circus?"

Sensing that Thalia is either irreversibly in his corner or immune to startling personal revelations, he confesses all: "I didn't fight in court. I let you go. I signed the adoption papers because it was the easiest thing to do. You saw me less and less, so of course each time was more difficult. I signed those d.a.m.ned papers and I never saw you again." He says, "Okay. Maybe I did. I used to watch you skate at Wollman Rink. From a safe distance. I knew you had lessons on Sunday morning in the fall and winter."

"This is getting a little heartbreaking," says Thalia. "Not to mention cinematic: Youngish man, divorced, loses custody and sneaks over to Central Park to watch his little girl, through binoculars. Cue the Viennese waltzes. Was I always dressed in an adorable skating outfit trimmed in ermine, or was that Judy Garland in Meet Me in Saint Louis?"

Should he laugh? Would Sheri Abrams ask him to probe deeper until he got to ... what? Issues behind his low self-regard and regrettable non-battle over custody? He hates that word: issues. "Is that an ish with you?" Celeste used to ask with a jab to his ribs. "Should I have dumped all this on you tonight, on the heels of Leif Dumont?" he asks.

"It's fine. In fact it's better, considering what's ahead. If by any chance I'm in the spotlight, and Entertainment Tonight starts looking for dirt-"

"Such as, father number two was gay and lost custody because of it?"

Thalia pours the last drop of wine into her gla.s.s. "And you know what I'd say to that? I'd say, 'I'm very lucky that my only surviving father is gay. It's a gift, just when I needed a nice, stable, parental relationship.' And please note the irony of it coming full circle: What once made you a bad father in the eyes of the court now makes you the perfect ex-father. Wouldn't it be harder if you were straight and single and I was eating lunch with you and dropping over and seeking your advice, and I had to worry about s.e.xual tension?"

"This is true," says Henry.

"You've read those creepy father-daughter love story memoirs, right?"

"Read reviews of one or two."

"I have had a lot of fathers," Thalia muses. "And they haven't had such good luck. I'm the Henry the Eighth of daughters."

"Or Denise is the Henry the Eighth of wives."

Thalia smiles. "Let's hate her together. It'll be fun."

Henry says, "I find you remarkably ... resilient."

"I thought you were going to say, 'remarkably mean to your recently widowed mother-'"

"Whom you might consider telling about Leif Dumont before she reads about your engagement in People."

"No, thank you. Mrs. Krouch and I are taking a break."

Another confession is called for: that he has kept his reunion with Thalia private. He says, "I haven't exactly told her that you and I are back in touch."

"Totally understandable," says Thalia.

"It's selfishness on my part."

Thalia says, "Poor Henry. He's selfish. He's a wuss. He's wracked with guilt. I think it's my job to raise your self-esteem."

"To which my therapist would say, 'Ha! Good luck with that.'"

She puts her gla.s.s down and begins making lines and loops with an index finger on the granite. After a few invisible tracings, she asks Henry if he has a pen handy. He does. Now she writes words on a paper napkin, shielding them from his view. "How's this?" she asks. "Stage name only. I wouldn't change it legally."

She has written "Thalia Archer" in block letters and then in cursive, each signature less legible, as if practicing an autograph-worthy scrawl.

Henry says the first vaguely official thing that comes to mind: "You were registered for kindergarten as Thalia Archer."

"It's a little Kate Hepburnish, don't you think?"-and answers her own question with a throaty, high-spirited "Thalia Ahcha!"

"But"-and here in victory Henry is being chivalrous-"you've been Krouch for so long. Are you worried that you might feel a loss of ident.i.ty?"

"Henry! I'm selling my soul anyway! Why not lose my ident.i.ty? I've given Krouch a nice long tenure."

Up till now, he has been careful and respectful, lest his antiGlenn Krouch animus backfire so soon after the man's sudden death. But something has liberated him. "Krouch," he repeats. "I can't say it ever had a ring to it."

"A h.o.m.ophobic ring, maybe," says Thalia.

Their faux argument proceeds this way: cab versus subway for her return to Mott Street. She says "almost midnight" is not late, and besides, 11:35 P.M. is not midnight. He asks how far the subway stop is from her front door, and she says, "Four, five minutes ... depending on how many panhandlers I engage with."

He asks if she has a part-time doorman, a live-in super, ... anything? And she says, "Oh, Henry. I love your worldview." She gets down from the stool, stretches in a few different directions, and says, "I should let you get to bed."

"There's another option," says Henry. "I keep new toothbrushes on hand, and I can loan you pajamas that have never been worn."

Thalia says, "Dental floss? Retainer? Birth control pills?"

"Dental floss."

She strokes her chin as if there were a perplexing offer on the table. "I was half kidding. I'd love to stay. We modern girls carry our pharmaceuticals with us."

"Should you call your roommate so he won't worry?" he asks.

"I'll text him," she says. "Not that I want to set a precedent."

He leads her up the front stairway, not intending a full-fledged tour, but Thalia stops in the doorway of the master bedroom to admire what she calls its sleek good looks. She wanders in. He immediately apologizes for its size-the result of reconfiguring three second-story chambers into one bedroom, dressing room, and a bathroom that could accommodate two grand pianos.

She asks the color of the walls and he says, "I'm a little embarra.s.sed to know the answer off the top of my head but I do: It's Coastal Fog."

"Do you just love it?" she enthuses. "I'd never leave. All you need is room service."

He tells her that once there was no turning back, he worried the suite was ostentatious and the whole property less salable.

"Can't wait to see the guest room."

He leads her to the end of the hall, to the only room untouched by renovations, a small s.p.a.ce under the eaves that is white and crisp except for its faded antique quilt. "It's very sweet," says Thalia. "Even a little girly." She walks over to the bureau after spotting the three tarnished pieces-comb, brush, hand mirror-all alone on an eyelet bureau scarf. "Whose monograms?" she asks.

"My mother's."

"W? But not an A?"

" W.R. for Williebelle Randall, her maiden name."

"Is she still with us?"

"Afraid not. It'll be three years in May."

"Did I ever meet her?"

"At the wedding."

"Was she actually named Williebelle?"

"Awful, isn't it? Sounds like she grew up in Dogpatch. For some reason, she wore it well."

"And this was her room?"

He points with his chin: rocking chair, quilt, afghan.

"Was she living here when I used to visit?"

"No, much later. She lived with me for her last two years."

"Did she die in this actual bed?"

"No. She died at Columbia-Presbyterian in a lilac satin bed jacket. Pneumonia. She was ninety-one."

"Good genes," says Thalia.

"Not entirely. I must have mentioned since I'm mildly obsessed with the fact that my father had a fatal heart attack at fifty-five."

She points to the closet.

"Be my guest," says Henry.

She opens it and yelps, "Holy s.h.i.t!"

"I know. It's shameful. I haven't thrown one thing away."

"Are you kidding? I think I just died and went to hand-me-down heaven." She is sliding hangers back and forth in sale-rack rapture. "So you'll have to excuse me so I can start trying things on. Is there a guest bathroom?"

"Of course, of course. New toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the linen closet. I'll leave the PJs on the edge of the tub"'

She has brought forth a navy blue dress that looks old-ladyish to Henry, and severe, but Thalia is swaying, an arm holding it against her waist in dancehall fashion. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asks.

Henry says, "I'm afraid not."

"I'm thinking that if I could borrow some of these-"

"Of course! Of course! You'd be doing me a favor."

She tosses the first dress onto the bed and brings forth one he actually remembers his mother wearing in Wilmington: black-and-white check, with b.u.t.tons that have little rhinestone navels. "This one has to be from the nineteen fifties," says Thalia. "It's a shirtwaist. And ohmiG.o.d, it has a silk flower still pinned on it! This is too fabulous. Everything is."

"You'll probably want to take it to a dressmaker for ... what would be the right term? Updating?"

"No! There's so many. I'll find the right ones. But turn around. Don't look."

He faces the hallway and hears the rustling of clothes coming off and clothes going on. "Not yet," she says. Then in half a minute, "Okay, now."

She is wearing the navy dress. It's shinier-raw silk?-than he'd seen at first. It manages to be both too big in the bust and too short in the sleeves. Thalia twirls, and the skirt billows. She cuffs her hand around one wrist. "And can't you see it with a big wide bracelet? And very high strappy shoes? Burgundy patent? Don't you love it?" she demands. "Isn't it amazing?"

"It's all amazing," Henry says.