Part 4 (1/2)
Henry says, ”Do elaborate.”
”A junior at NYU. His parents came through with a couch and a TV, so I made an exception to the youngster rule. He's perfectly nice.”
”By smitten do you mean-?”
”A crush. Partly my fault.”
Henry waits.
Thalia says, ”Okay. One kiss. Well, a couple more than that, but confined to one night after watching a particularly stirring episode of s.e.x and the City guest-starring David Duchovny. So it's my own fault.”
Ordinarily, this would be exactly the kind of gossipy report tinged with s.e.xual bravado he thoroughly enjoys, but not from Thalia.
”Would you rather not hear such things?” she asks.
”It's fine,” he says. ”I'm cool.”
Thalia laughs. ”So I see.”
”What's this roommate's name?”
”Alex.”
”Have you discussed this with Alex and reached some kind of understanding?”
”Had to, on the spot, because he a.s.sumed we were moving directly from couch to futon. I had to give that little speech about how irresponsible it was of me, and don't get me wrong, you are an excellent kisser, but actual s.e.x would be disastrous for roommate relations.”
”Futon,” Henry repeats. ”Is that what he sleeps on?”
”Actually it's what I sleep on.”
”In a bedroom?”
”Sort of. It's three rooms so we use two as bedrooms.”
”And one bath, I imagine?”
”Don't faint. The bathtub is in the kitchen. No, really, it's fine. We work it out. We have a painted Chinese screen on three sides of the tub and an honor system. Besides, he never has cla.s.ses till noon so he's always asleep when I bathe before work.”
”Is a bathtub in a kitchen up to code?”
”Doubt it. But it's cheap, and actually quite charming if you don't mind a few b.u.ms on the stoop. Kidding! No one calls them b.u.ms anymore. No stoop, either, just a noodle joint on the ground floor. Not great, but open till two A.M. And I'm a stone's throw from Little Italy, Nolita, the Bowery, SoHo, the Lower East Side, and every subway line known to man. That was the rental agent's big selling point, that I'd be in the epicenter of Manhattan.”
”Where exactly is your place?”
”Chinatown, Mott Street. A fourth-floor walkup. Which I don't mind at all. It's very New York. You've seen those movies in which tenants are trudging up the stairs after a hard day's work or pus.h.i.+ng a drunk date past a cranky non-English-speaking neighbor? That's me, sans elevator, sans doorman.”
It is the first time she's alluded to a grander former life. Henry wonders, Would George consider this reference to be an outstretched hand? Subsidize my rent so I can move back uptown? ”Very admirable,” he says.
Thalia says no, it isn't, not at all. And now, with what can only be described as acute acting talent, she tells him that she has a safety net. ”I like living there. I could afford a doorman building in the Village if that's what I wanted ... I don't know if you know that Glenn Krouch left me money. A lot. He owned a very successful box factory.”
Henry says, ”I did know that.”
Thalia adds, ”My brothers run it now. And as you can imagine, online shopping has sent the sale of corrugated boxes through the roof. Now would Mr. Archer care to share the twelve-item antipasti?”
Could she have uttered anything less gold-diggeresque or more perfect? He can't wait to tell George: Thalia lied to me so I wouldn't worry about her dead-end job and her nineteenth-century plumbing.
”My situation, my life-it's all good. Really. Good for me and good for my art.”
He feels a stinging behind his eyes but manages to subdue it. From his inside breast pocket he brings forth a small leather appointment book and its companion pencil. ”Sometimes I cook,” he says.
6. You Might As Well Say Yes.
NOW THAT DENISE rings Henry every morning after breakfast, he points out that it's exactly the telephone relations.h.i.+p 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 b.o.o.b job and her Sub-Zero.”
Henry, who is finis.h.i.+ng the Monday New York Times crossword puzzle as Denise prattles, stops mid-clue. ”Since when?”
”The b.o.o.b 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 fiance 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 s.e.x 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 relations.h.i.+ps, 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.”