She seems to have come through the divorce, and through Denise, unscathed."
"And how did Thalia turn out?"
"Wonderfully."
"Actress, right?"
"Some TV. Making inroads."
"Beautiful?" Todd asks.
"More interesting than beautiful."
"Spoken like a true father," says Todd.
"Thank you," says Henry. "And just in case I forget to mention it, Denise doesn't know that Thalia and I have been reunited."
"Doesn't know and won't find out?"
Henry smiles. "I think I'm punishing her. She had an exclusive for twenty-five years, and it's my turn. It helps that mother and daughter aren't on speaking terms—"
"Since when?"
"I don't ask—"
"I could ask for you," Todd says happily.
Too much, too fast? Henry wonders. But no, he's wrong. Todd is joking. Todd is not overstepping the line between Thalia and the rest of the population that Henry is monitoring. Todd lowers his voice. "You weren't at Krouch's funeral, were you?"
"I wasn't. But I heard about it. Denise told me she rambled on about stupid stuff. Trivia. She couldn't get out of the hole she was digging."
"Did she tell you that the sons walked out? First one, then the other, wives trotting after them. Then one by one their stiff-necked friends."
"I didn't get the impression it was that bad."
"Bad? It was fabulous! Although I may not be the best judge of what's offensive at the funeral of someone I hardly knew."
"At what point did the sons walk out?"
"I believe," Todd says dryly, "that that particular point would have been ... let me see ... the vasectomy soliloquy."
"No," says Henry. "Not even Denise—"
"Yes! To the tune of: He never told me until we were married that I couldn't have his child. Well, maybe I knew, but it didn't sink in until we were on our honeymoon. He had you two boys, the heir and the spare, and Thalia, you were his princess, DNA notwithstanding. My biggest regret —read: grudge— was that we didn't have a child together. Subtext: to even the sides. And then we heard how the boys' away games ruled their weekends for at least a dozen years, further testimony to Glenn being father of the year, every damn year, all twenty-four of them. P.S. He had no interest whatsoever in reversing the vasectomy."
Henry, who has been shaking his head throughout, asks wearily, "Was she drunk?"
"If only!"
"Was this in a church?"
"A chapel in a funeral home. Do you think she'd have said anything different if it was Saint John the Divine?"
"No wonder she's been ostracized. No wonder she turned to me. I must be the only person she knows who missed this."
Todd says, " Please don't be saintly about this. Because if you're saying Denise isn't the most outrageous widow who ever gave a eulogy, I'm afraid I have to go home now."
Does Henry feel a pinch of loyalty or pity for the inappropriate Denise? No, he does not. He slides the check toward his side of the table and says, "I'll get this one."
Up the street, they secure the last two seats at the sushi bar, not ideal for conversation, but most agreeable for meaningful contact between adjacent shoulders.
"What do I do? " Todd volunteers before Henry asks. "That's always an awkward question."
Henry waits, hoping this isn't the moment when Todd's resumé reveals something unsavory and insurmountable, or a lifetime of dead-end auditions. "Awkward because...?" Henry ventures.
"Because it usually stops the conversation dead."
"Out with it," Henry says. "Unless it's something I wouldn't want to testify to under oath."
"Here it is," says Todd. "The humble truth: I'm in retail. In table tops. At Gracious Home."
On one hand, Henry is relieved; on the other, a question relating to Last year of education completed? rears its snobbish head. "Which store?" he asks.
"Here," says Todd. "Broadway and Sixty-seventh. And, believe me, I know: It's not a career a mother brags about over a game of bridge."
"But you like it?"
"I do," says Todd. "I like my coworkers, and"—he smiles—"I get to make the Upper West Side's table tops a
"And how did Thalia turn out?"
"Wonderfully."
"Actress, right?"
"Some TV. Making inroads."
"Beautiful?" Todd asks.
"More interesting than beautiful."
"Spoken like a true father," says Todd.
"Thank you," says Henry. "And just in case I forget to mention it, Denise doesn't know that Thalia and I have been reunited."
"Doesn't know and won't find out?"
Henry smiles. "I think I'm punishing her. She had an exclusive for twenty-five years, and it's my turn. It helps that mother and daughter aren't on speaking terms—"
"Since when?"
"I don't ask—"
"I could ask for you," Todd says happily.
Too much, too fast? Henry wonders. But no, he's wrong. Todd is joking. Todd is not overstepping the line between Thalia and the rest of the population that Henry is monitoring. Todd lowers his voice. "You weren't at Krouch's funeral, were you?"
"I wasn't. But I heard about it. Denise told me she rambled on about stupid stuff. Trivia. She couldn't get out of the hole she was digging."
"Did she tell you that the sons walked out? First one, then the other, wives trotting after them. Then one by one their stiff-necked friends."
"I didn't get the impression it was that bad."
"Bad? It was fabulous! Although I may not be the best judge of what's offensive at the funeral of someone I hardly knew."
"At what point did the sons walk out?"
"I believe," Todd says dryly, "that that particular point would have been ... let me see ... the vasectomy soliloquy."
"No," says Henry. "Not even Denise—"
"Yes! To the tune of: He never told me until we were married that I couldn't have his child. Well, maybe I knew, but it didn't sink in until we were on our honeymoon. He had you two boys, the heir and the spare, and Thalia, you were his princess, DNA notwithstanding. My biggest regret —read: grudge— was that we didn't have a child together. Subtext: to even the sides. And then we heard how the boys' away games ruled their weekends for at least a dozen years, further testimony to Glenn being father of the year, every damn year, all twenty-four of them. P.S. He had no interest whatsoever in reversing the vasectomy."
Henry, who has been shaking his head throughout, asks wearily, "Was she drunk?"
"If only!"
"Was this in a church?"
"A chapel in a funeral home. Do you think she'd have said anything different if it was Saint John the Divine?"
"No wonder she's been ostracized. No wonder she turned to me. I must be the only person she knows who missed this."
Todd says, " Please don't be saintly about this. Because if you're saying Denise isn't the most outrageous widow who ever gave a eulogy, I'm afraid I have to go home now."
Does Henry feel a pinch of loyalty or pity for the inappropriate Denise? No, he does not. He slides the check toward his side of the table and says, "I'll get this one."
Up the street, they secure the last two seats at the sushi bar, not ideal for conversation, but most agreeable for meaningful contact between adjacent shoulders.
"What do I do? " Todd volunteers before Henry asks. "That's always an awkward question."
Henry waits, hoping this isn't the moment when Todd's resumé reveals something unsavory and insurmountable, or a lifetime of dead-end auditions. "Awkward because...?" Henry ventures.
"Because it usually stops the conversation dead."
"Out with it," Henry says. "Unless it's something I wouldn't want to testify to under oath."
"Here it is," says Todd. "The humble truth: I'm in retail. In table tops. At Gracious Home."
On one hand, Henry is relieved; on the other, a question relating to Last year of education completed? rears its snobbish head. "Which store?" he asks.
"Here," says Todd. "Broadway and Sixty-seventh. And, believe me, I know: It's not a career a mother brags about over a game of bridge."
"But you like it?"
"I do," says Todd. "I like my coworkers, and"—he smiles—"I get to make the Upper West Side's table tops a
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