he took them off.
“Right, right.” He blinked at me like a soft, caged animal.
“What brings you over here?” I asked. My father and his wife lived on Upper Central Park West in an area I took great pains to avoid so as not to run into them.
“Nothing special. Nothing much. Just, you know, errands.” He glanced at his package. “Anemones for Linda. She loves them.”
Hank had a green thumb. In and around the garden on Marbury Road he could make anything grow. Trembling wisteria, flaming red hibiscus, polyanthus, larkspur. He would lift his worn nylon gimme cap and garden shears from the hooks in the muck room and wander the property every afternoon when the weather was fine. I followed behind at a discreet distance, rapt. It was part of our game to pretend that he couldn’t see me. But when he walked through the wooden gate and inside his seedling patch, he always shut the door behind him and held up a hand to stop me following. The first summer after Dad left us, the garden was set upon by rabbits, destroying inside of a month what it had taken him a dozen years to create.
He shifted his parcel, fiddled with the paper.
“Have you a beau these days?” my father asked, careful not to look at me.
I laughed, a phlegmy hiccup, really, shook my head. In the two years since my final breakup with Daniel Moss, I could not claim I’d had so much as a date. Nor had I wanted for any kind of attachment. But it was difficult not to take my father’s question as a loaded one and be conscious, as usual, of my failings.
Hank chewed the inside of his lip. I searched for something to say.
“Well, you look really good,” I finally ventured, trying not to inflame the situation.
“Thanks, thanks. We went over to Korea, Pusan. You know Linda’s family is still there.”
I did not know. Linda had been Dad’s teaching assistant, and he’d moved from our house directly into her apartment. When he left the university four years later, they moved to New York. I hadn’t met Linda more than a handful of times.
“Just got back,” he continued. “The food was extraordinary. Extraordinary.”
“Great, that sounds great.”
My father stole a glance over the cash register and in through the short-order window.
“How’s your work? Still at the museum?”
“Yeah. It’s good, busy. I’m assistant director of paintings conservation now. So. That’s good.”
“You sound like you have a cold.”
I nodded, waved it off.
“It’s really going around,” he said. “Linda’s got it, Dr. Orkin …” My father stopped himself and looked toward the kitchen again. He cleared his throat, adjusted the paper around the flowers. I felt an unexpected wave of dread.
“Who’s Dr. Orkin? Dad? Are you sick?”
“No, no. Dr. Orkin’s a … whatever. He’s a psychotherapist.” He smiled sheepishly, blushed. “Linda thought I might find it interesting. I’ve really just started. I don’t know if I’ll continue. But it’s been … amusing.”
I looked out the window and up the avenue. Shrink Row.
“Wow.”
“Is it so surprising?”
“Kind of.” I imagined my father in a dimly lit room, wringing his hands in a confessional mode, lightening his load. The idea was grotesque, obscene. And I was stung suddenly with a hot flame of envy.
“But I don’t really know you,” I continued, trying to be helpful to both of us by closing the subject, “so what do I know.”
My father grimaced and shook his head.
“What does that mean — you don’t know me?” The woman behind the counter brought out a brown paper bag. He lowered his already low voice. “I’m your father. Jesus, Addy,” he hissed, “that is so like you. Always apart. Always judging.”
A businessman in an overcoat who’d been waiting behind my father pushed between us with an exasperated shove of the shoulder. Hank picked up his bag and clutched the flowers. I felt the blood leave my face.
“You ought to talk to someone,” he said buttoning up
“Right, right.” He blinked at me like a soft, caged animal.
“What brings you over here?” I asked. My father and his wife lived on Upper Central Park West in an area I took great pains to avoid so as not to run into them.
“Nothing special. Nothing much. Just, you know, errands.” He glanced at his package. “Anemones for Linda. She loves them.”
Hank had a green thumb. In and around the garden on Marbury Road he could make anything grow. Trembling wisteria, flaming red hibiscus, polyanthus, larkspur. He would lift his worn nylon gimme cap and garden shears from the hooks in the muck room and wander the property every afternoon when the weather was fine. I followed behind at a discreet distance, rapt. It was part of our game to pretend that he couldn’t see me. But when he walked through the wooden gate and inside his seedling patch, he always shut the door behind him and held up a hand to stop me following. The first summer after Dad left us, the garden was set upon by rabbits, destroying inside of a month what it had taken him a dozen years to create.
He shifted his parcel, fiddled with the paper.
“Have you a beau these days?” my father asked, careful not to look at me.
I laughed, a phlegmy hiccup, really, shook my head. In the two years since my final breakup with Daniel Moss, I could not claim I’d had so much as a date. Nor had I wanted for any kind of attachment. But it was difficult not to take my father’s question as a loaded one and be conscious, as usual, of my failings.
Hank chewed the inside of his lip. I searched for something to say.
“Well, you look really good,” I finally ventured, trying not to inflame the situation.
“Thanks, thanks. We went over to Korea, Pusan. You know Linda’s family is still there.”
I did not know. Linda had been Dad’s teaching assistant, and he’d moved from our house directly into her apartment. When he left the university four years later, they moved to New York. I hadn’t met Linda more than a handful of times.
“Just got back,” he continued. “The food was extraordinary. Extraordinary.”
“Great, that sounds great.”
My father stole a glance over the cash register and in through the short-order window.
“How’s your work? Still at the museum?”
“Yeah. It’s good, busy. I’m assistant director of paintings conservation now. So. That’s good.”
“You sound like you have a cold.”
I nodded, waved it off.
“It’s really going around,” he said. “Linda’s got it, Dr. Orkin …” My father stopped himself and looked toward the kitchen again. He cleared his throat, adjusted the paper around the flowers. I felt an unexpected wave of dread.
“Who’s Dr. Orkin? Dad? Are you sick?”
“No, no. Dr. Orkin’s a … whatever. He’s a psychotherapist.” He smiled sheepishly, blushed. “Linda thought I might find it interesting. I’ve really just started. I don’t know if I’ll continue. But it’s been … amusing.”
I looked out the window and up the avenue. Shrink Row.
“Wow.”
“Is it so surprising?”
“Kind of.” I imagined my father in a dimly lit room, wringing his hands in a confessional mode, lightening his load. The idea was grotesque, obscene. And I was stung suddenly with a hot flame of envy.
“But I don’t really know you,” I continued, trying to be helpful to both of us by closing the subject, “so what do I know.”
My father grimaced and shook his head.
“What does that mean — you don’t know me?” The woman behind the counter brought out a brown paper bag. He lowered his already low voice. “I’m your father. Jesus, Addy,” he hissed, “that is so like you. Always apart. Always judging.”
A businessman in an overcoat who’d been waiting behind my father pushed between us with an exasperated shove of the shoulder. Hank picked up his bag and clutched the flowers. I felt the blood leave my face.
“You ought to talk to someone,” he said buttoning up
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