On Turpentine Lane(55)

“Husbands, plural? No doubt naming her the beneficiary on their life insurance policies. You know what my reaction is to fell down the stairs? No, they didn’t.”

“That’s exactly what Nick said. She pushed them.”

“Remind me who Nick is.”

“You know who Nick is! He’s in my department—Major Gifts—my officemate. And since November he’s been my housemate. Things changed on Christmas Eve, which I’m sure is the other thing Mom wanted to discuss.”

“He’s moved out?”

“No, just the opposite! We’re now . . . a couple.”

No congratulations issued forth, no mazel tov. “Your mother’s message didn’t sound like she had happy news to announce,” he said.

“I know. She’ll come around.”

He asked if she had grounds for her objection other than the obvious one.

Not Jewish, he meant. “She’s confused. Joel didn’t help matters by telling her that Nick was gay to get her off the scent.”

“What scent?”

“I think Joel was picking something up between Nick and me that I wasn’t even acknowledging yet, so when Mom was quizzing him about my new roommate, Joel thought it was the fastest way to get the subject dropped.”

Poor Faith, I was hearing in his silence. Poor, born-yesterday, clueless Faith. “Can I tell you what my feeling is when a man is thought to be gay? Almost always, where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

“But Joel was teasing. It’s a complete fabrication.”

“Does he know the man?”

I vowed at that moment never to tell anyone about Joel’s little joke, since the word gay seemed to hijack any conversation and distract any listener from the lovely news that Faith Frankel was now half of a couple. “All of that is beside the point. I was thinking you might be happy for me. Or at least be relieved that Mom wasn’t calling you about me in an intensive care unit.”

“Are you in love?” he asked.

This was the reconstructed Henry, the sensitive man with the new emotive vocabulary and throbbing nerve endings.

“I might be.”

“Care to share with your old dad?”

I did not. I said, um, not at this juncture. It was still early in the relationship. Don’t want to jinx anything. “How’s Trixie?” I asked instead.

“Tracy.”

“Didn’t I say Tracy? No matter. Is she still the love of your life?”

“I can’t tell whether you’re being facetious.”

“Kind of.”

“The answer would be it’s a love I never knew I was capable of.”

Oh, dear. I said, “I’m not used to hearing stuff like that from you.”

“Am I supposed to talk like the person I was before? Like a dead man? Like an insurance agent? I can’t believe any of it; I can’t believe Tracy shares these feelings. Do you know we go to services every Friday night, and I thank God for putting her in my path?”

What does a daughter, not given to similar confessions and pronouncements, say? I made some noises that sounded empathetic. And admitting to myself that only someone’s worst enemy or ex-wife would begrudge him his miracle, I said, “Well, good for you. And good for your art, no doubt.”

“It’s fueling me! Chagall is so . . . so magical! Each painting has a narrative. The more I do this, the more I feel as if I’m channeling him.”

“Dad? You’re sounding New Agey. Nothing wrong with that. Just a little weird coming from you.”

“I’m evolving.”

“From what to what?”—asked too reflexively before I considered the treacly answer I’d have to endure.

“From a man with a frozen heart, at least in the sense of love given and love received, to what I’ve—”

“Who said you had a frozen heart? Tracy? She’s saved you from us?”

“I didn’t say that, Faith. And just so you know, this is me digging deeper, me unlocking feelings and, yes, potency I never knew I was capable of.”

Oh, God. It was sounding familiar, and I realized why. If Henry Frankel was channeling anyone, it was annoyingly sensitive, self-involved, ex-nothing Stuart Levine.

“I’m your daughter! I’ve known you a lot longer than Tracy has. I never felt unloved. I always thought you were a good father, maybe even a great father, present circumstances notwithstanding. And as for ‘love received’? You never noticed that Mom loved you, or your kids did? And your loyal clients, not to mention your adoring administrative assistants? And what about your parents? Bessie and Abe would turn over in their graves if they heard you say you were unloved.”

After his melancholy sigh, I heard, “When I talk about love, Faith, I’m talking about passion.”

“I got that! I thought you called to check if I was alive, but we haven’t strayed too far off the topic of the new you.”

“I’m sorry! It’s just so overwhelming. And it isn’t so much about me as my defending Tracy.”

Did I hate my father at that moment? I said, “So sorry. I’ll let you get back to your little miracle. As for Nancy Frankel, my mother and your wife, call her back. I’m sure she’s sitting by the phone.”