On Turpentine Lane(5)

“Do you know what year it was built?” asked my mother.

I was too annoyed to do anything but sputter, “It was 1906, okay? Would you like to count the rings on the trees in the backyard?”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” said my mother. “You know I’m interested in genealogy.”

“Since when?” asked Joel.

“As I’ve said so many times, it’s a little doll house, don’t you think?” Tammy cooed.

“And it does have what one might call personality,” said my mother. “Have I said that yet? Nearly charming. I can see the appeal . . . for you.”

Joel laughed. I’d taken a half day off for this walk-through and signing, and soon these five and a half rooms would be officially mine. Wait till my New York friends heard that I’d bought a whole house with two bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, a parlor, a claw-foot tub, a backyard, and a garage for the price of a studio in Queens. As soon as the house was spruced up, I’d invite everyone to Everton for a housewarming. So far, no one knew that Stuart had proposed. Though I’d pictured a squealing dinner in a Dumbo café, with the sudden appearance of pink champagne, I’d hold on to that announcement. It’s the kind of news you want to tell your friends in person.





5





The Secret Life of Henry Frankel


HOW DID MY FATHER FEEL about Stuart? Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, they’d never met because my allegedly happily married father and mother had lived apart since Dad retired, just as Stuart was heading sort of west. For many months no one adequately explained why Dad had moved out, except for the wishy-washy reassurances that this was not an official separation. He dined with my mother a few times a month, and with Joel and me about half that. Once we learned of his semimonthly visits with Mom, Joel jumped right in and asked if their sleepovers were conjugal.

“I told you. He pays the bills and mows the lawn, just like always.”

Joel asked me in private, “Do you think Dad moved out so he could fool around?”

I said, “Ask him.”

When we did see our dad, it was in Boston, at restaurants. We talked in generalities—about my work, about Stuart’s progress, about towing and plowing, which was Joel’s latest business venture. In retrospect, I see that we assumed that life in his little Gainsborough Street studio was too sad to ask about—just TV, the Sox, the Patriots, beer, and General Tso’s chicken too many times per week.

I began calling the situation “The Secret Life of Henry Frankel,” which I’d reference even in front of my mother. Finally, several months into the allegedly friendly separation, she said, “He’s made himself very clear. He wanted to paint, and he needed a studio.”

I said, “You’re just telling us now? Since when did Dad want to paint?”

“Since . . . I don’t know. It was his big retirement plan: paint every day, all day. The place is a mess, but he doesn’t mind squalor. I mean, it’s artistic squalor. With oil paint, there’s no easy cleanup.”

“You’ve been there?”

“I helped him choose it. Correction: he allowed me to come along when he was being shown some garrets.”

Joel said, “Well! Don’t Faith and I have the most evolved parents! I guess we shouldn’t have been worried about you and blaming Dad and, let’s be honest, thinking he had a girlfriend—”

“Or a boyfriend,” I added.

We were at my mother’s kitchen table, drinking sherry from cordial glasses, the only alcohol on hand. “He says it’s all about painting,” she said. “I have a spouse who’s married to his art.”

“And how are you doing with this?” I asked.

“I’m adjusting. It might be a phase he’s going through. Remember when he threw himself into golf? I was a golf widow for two straight summers. Now he doesn’t even go to the driving range.”

Joel said, “All of a sudden the father I’ve known for thirty-four years is a painter?”

“Do you know what abstract expressionism is? I believe that’s the term he used.”

Joel asked me—or did I ask him?—“Is it possible for two adult children not to know that their father is an abstract expressionist?”

“How could you have known? I don’t think he even knew,” our mother said.

“Have you seen his work?” I asked.

“Pictures of it. He e-mails me a photo when he finishes one.” Less than eagerly, she asked, “Would you want to see some?”

Joel said, “I’m not sure.”

I said, “I would.”

As soon as she left the room, he whispered, “They could be shit.”

She returned holding snapshots, three by fives, one in each hand. “I get these made up from his e-mails,” she said. “They do that at CVS while you wait.”

She gave one to each of us. Mine was a photo of an easel, on which sat a small unframed canvas depicting a gold square sitting on top of an orange square with a horizontal crimson stripe between them. Joel and I swapped; the other was orange on top of purple with a turquoise stripe between. I said, “I like these. They look happy.”

“Why wouldn’t they? Happy painter, happy paint.”