On Turpentine Lane(76)

“He’s busy,” said the little girl, later determined to be Alexis.

“Which way?” my brother asked, taking the first step into the foyer.

“Hank!” the little girl yelled. “Come quick!”

“What is it now?” my father answered.

“A stranger!”

“I’m not a stranger,” Joel said. “See the truck in the driveway? Frankel Towing and Plowing? Frankel. Like Henry.”

“If you don’t go away, I’m calling 911,” and with that, she brandished a sequined pink phone.

“Don’t be such a twit,” said Joel. “I’m his son. He’s coming home for a visit.”



How did I learn of the rescue/intervention? A three-word text from my mother on Sunday morning: Joel got Daddy. After just two tries, I had my hard-to-reach brother on the phone, but only because Leslie was good enough to answer when she saw my caller ID. “I’ll put him on,” she said, adding, “Quite the day.”

Joel reported, “I didn’t make up some excuse. I told him he was coming with me.”

“Did you say permanently? Or did he think it was going to be, like, dinner with us?”

“He knew. He took his white-noise machine and as much as he could stuff in one suitcase.”

“Where was Tracy during this commotion?”

“Not home. Shopping with the other kid.”

“So you charged into the kitchen?”

“He came out into the—what do you call that thing? It had a tree in it.”

“Atrium.”

“He came out, and said, ‘Joel! What are you doing here?’ I said, ‘Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for. Want to go for a ride in my truck?’?”

“He said he couldn’t leave because the kid would be alone. ‘Where’s your mother?’ I asked her. ‘Can you call her?’ I was being extra nice because she looked like she was going to start bawling.”

“And was Dad reassuring her that you were his son and she shouldn’t be afraid?”

“No! Did I mention Leslie was with me? I figured some sensitivity might come in handy. By this time, Dad was upstairs, grabbing more than I expected him to come back with. Leslie asked, ‘What’s your name, honey? . . . Alexis? This is Joel Frankel. Henry is his daddy. He hasn’t seen him in weeks. I bet you miss your dad, too.’?”

“Kinda brilliant,” I told him.

“She’s right here,” he said, “so I can’t pay her too many compliments.” I heard Leslie’s laugh.



Six days later we were three Frankels across—father, son, daughter—in the cab of Joel’s truck, returning to Wingate Terrace to reclaim his artwork. We’d called in advance. Tracy said she would be present, along with her brother, also a lawyer—a big guy, in case our father had some notion about taking Blue Mitzvah.

“Who does she think I am?” Dad asked us. “A shmuck who’d steal a painting that she commissioned and paid for?”

“As if you’d want a portrait of her little brat,” I said.

“Zoe had her moments, but she was basically a good kid.”

“Isn’t her name Chloe?” I asked.

My father shrugged. He was looking out the window, commenting every so often on the height of the snow drifts or denigrating the occasional lane-changing drivers.

Today’s return to Newton was the first time I was seeing him since Tracy’s dinner party had gone so wrong. “Where did you think Joel would be taking you?” I asked him.

“Home. Your mother and I were in touch.”

“E-mailing, I heard.”

“And talking.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Mezza mezza. Relief, then some anger bubbles up. But I deserve it. I’m sure my children agree.”

I did agree, but we were on a mission to the enemy camp. What if he was welcomed back with kindness and forgiveness, leading to a change of heart? I reached for his closest hand, and said, “Remember in the first Godfather movie? When Michael Corleone sees that beautiful Sicilian girl for the first time and he’s thunderstruck? That’s what happened to you.”

My father said, “No, it didn’t.”

I gave Joel a nudge. Pay attention. We’re getting to the crux of this ugly matter.

“She was relentless,” Dad said. “I was living alone. She loved my work. I let my guard down.”

“And that turned out to be what? Disappointing? Not the key to happiness?” I prompted.

“Do you know she offered to sit for me? To be my model? Where do you think that led? Did you ever see The Nude Above Vitebsk? She thought that would be her ticket in. I let it be! I didn’t know her or what I was getting into!”

I almost left it there, but I couldn’t help myself. “When Joel and I had lunch with you, and you were telling us about Tracy, you were reciting poetry. And so deeply in love that you didn’t touch your frittata.”

“I wish I could take it all back.”

“You have,” said Joel. “You’re back with Mom.”

When Dad didn’t answer, I said, “You are back together, right? You’re not staying at your studio?”