On Turpentine Lane(36)

“So she’s a divorcée?” I asked, putting as much old-school disdain into that word as I could summon.

“It was a very unhappy marriage,” he said.

“Like we give a shit!” said Joel.

“And you met how?” I asked.

“And when?” asked Joel.

“We met in August when she commissioned me to personalize Blue Angel for her daughter’s bat mitzvah—”

“Wait!” I said. “Is she the one who started this whole thing?”

“What whole thing?”

“Painting Chagalls, personalizing them, whatever you call it. Just when we thought you were all starry-eyed and professionally fulfilled. Turns out it wasn’t art at all! It’s infatuation.”

“He’s fulfilled all right,” Joel said. “That’s coming across loud and clear.”

“This isn’t infatuation,” our dad said. “Infatuation burns itself out.”

“The new Chagall,” I ranted. “Getting Mom all invested so she sits home in case it’s a future patron calling, as if she’s your secretary. How’d you let that happen? How’d you let any of it happen?”

Dad assumed a look of misunderstood, lovesick confusion. Were his two adult children incapable of relating to love overwhelming, which in its own sweet, storybook way was guilt free due to its near-biblical inevitability—at least that’s how I was translating his expression.

After a prolonged period of sitting without any of us touching our food, he tried again. “I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. Your mother wanted to run to the phone, but I said, ‘No, let me tell them face-to-face.’ I didn’t want you to be shocked when I moved in with Tracy.”

“Did you say ‘move in with Tracy’?” I managed to repeat.

“With her barely teenaged daughters? Because good luck with that,” said Joel.

“Where?” I asked. “Florida? Isn’t that where this whole subspecialty got started?”

“Not Florida. No, that was different; that was a de Kooning I did in Aventura. Tracy lives in Newton. And, yes, with her daughters, two of them, fourteen and almost twelve.”

“Won’t that be handy,” I said. “Live-in models for all the princesses and angels and that other moony crap you’re peddling!”

Uh-oh. That was not exactly on topic. Within seconds, it was clear that the hush that followed was an unsteady one, that he was verging on tears, no doubt distressed first by our hostility and prudishness, and now by my artistic effrontery.

“Look,” said Joel. “We’re not babies. We know people have affairs and get divorced even after decades. But I don’t want to see Mom curled up in a ball, crying her eyes out.”

“She could be suicidal,” I hissed, drawing glances from our fellow café patrons.

“I assure you, she is not curled up in a ball,” Dad said.

“You know because you’re talking to her?” I asked.

“Daily,” he said. “More than that. And by the way, no one is talking about a divorce.”

More shocked noneating followed. Joel said, “Do they serve liquor here? Anyone else want a drink?”

“What do you mean, no one’s talking about divorce?” I asked.

“Exactly that. Your mother and I are not dissolving our marriage. I’ll be living with Tracy, but—”

“Oh, like Tracy is going to love that you’re not getting divorced. That’s fine with her? She doesn’t want to marry you?” I demanded.

“As a matter of fact, she doesn’t. At least not yet. It would be complicated, financially. We’re taking it one step at a time.”

“Why can’t you just seduce models in your studio like other artists do?” Joel asked.

Our dad’s phone was ringing, or more accurately, wind-chiming. My father answered, then whispered, “Still. Can I call you back?”

“She has her own ringtone?” Joel asked. “Who showed you how to do that?”

Our besotted father then offered his caller a good-bye so tender that something shifted in my anger equation.

“What are you going to tell your girlfriend when she asks, ‘How’d it go with the kids today?’?” Joel asked.

“I’ll have to be honest. I’ll say, ‘It didn’t go well. To my great disappointment, Joel and Faith would rather I keep my newfound happiness to myself, preferring I just sneak around behind their backs.’?”

“At this stage? Would that be so terrible? You were already living in separate cities, and Mom was okay with that, believing that you only flew the coop because you were painting 24/7,” Joel said.

“If this makes it any better, that was the reason for my renting the studio. Meeting Tracy came months after I left Everton.”

“Just like that? You weren’t looking—”

“I promise you, I was not looking to have an affair. Your mother adjusted once she understood that I had this need, this itch to paint, and I wasn’t moving out for personal reasons.”

“Yeah, well, that itch didn’t take long to shift south,” Joel muttered.

“She told us you came for supper every few weeks and you stayed over, implying conjugal visits,” I said.