Good Riddance(13)

I was torn. I didn’t want to be with the unmoored and orphaned, but I knew my father would consider such a gathering his coming-out party. I said, “I’d have to ask him. He was widowed not that long ago.”

“All the better!” crowed Geneva.

Should I call her on such an insensitive exclamation, or was her diplomacy an unrealistic goal?

“What’s better about that situation?” And for added hostile measure: “I think you’ve forgotten he’s dead set against your yearbook project.”

“All I meant was that my invitation would be all the more appreciated at a time like this. Is that not true? I order four different kinds of pies. Does he have a favorite?”

“Lemon meringue” popped out.



“You don’t think it’s a charity invitation, do you? Lost souls for Thanksgiving?” my father asked. We were meeting halfway between our Hell’s Kitchen apartments, rather unnecessary when you considered the short four blocks separating us.

“Dad, this is New York. You’ll find out how many people moved here when they were young and never went back to Indiana or West Virginia or Baton Rouge. They’re actors and choreographers or buyers at good places like Saks and Bergdorf?’s. They got older. The lucky ones have rent-controlled apartments. Many never got attached along the way.”

“Do you want to go?”

I admitted that I hadn’t made a Thanksgiving plan. And the thought of just the two of us at either his small bistro table, transferred from the Pickering patio, or the rigged piece of wood that hung by a hinge from my kitchen wall . . . no, not that. I could make a reservation somewhere. Restaurants on every block here! Didn’t he love that about New York?

“I’ve never eaten Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant in my life,” he said.

I asked if he wanted to think this over: a holiday with strangers. I added the piece of identification I’d failed to provide: “Our hostess is the woman who pilfered Mom’s yearbook.”

Wouldn’t that put a whole new undesirable spin on this invitation? No, it did not. He said, “I can separate those two things. Remember: I was a high school principal. I’d be meeting with a parent who had one great kid and one total pain in the ass.”

“Which applies to this situation how?”

“I can compartmentalize. I could run a workshop on compartmentalizing.”

Close to giving in, I told him that Geneva had asked what his favorite pie was.

“Did you tell her strawberry rhubarb?”

“That’s a summer pie. I told her lemon meringue.”

“That’ll do. She can’t be all bad. I’ve found that women who cook and entertain are my kind of people.”

“She’s having it catered.”

“Ha. Another new experience for me.” He asked if it was potluck.

“People don’t do that in New York. Somehow it works out. You’re the host, maybe you even cook, then they take you to dinner as a thank-you.”

“I’m writing that in my book.”

“Literally?”

“Not that kind of a book. It’s a notepad. When I hear something that sounds like a New York custom or a recommendation for a restaurant or a movie or a doctor, I write it down.”

Something about that made me worry about him. A babe in the woods of Hell’s Kitchen.

I left a postcard at Geneva’s door. The front was a black-and-white photograph of a bakery shop window. On the back, I wrote, “My dad (Tom Maritch) and I accept your kind invitation to join you for Thanksgiving dinner. Let me know the time and what we can bring.”

It took a day before I found the same card outside my door. She’d written over my ink scratches in a black Sharpie: COCKTAILS 6. DINNER 7? WINE RED OR WHITE THNX.





We went around the table, introduced ourselves by name, and—at our hostess’s request—provided one interesting fact about ourselves. In the previous round, occupations, I’d learned we had two psychologists, an acupuncturist (Geneva’s), a gemologist, an SAT tutor, a physical therapist (Geneva’s), a cantor in training, and a food stylist.

I almost said, “Pass,” when it was my turn because the interesting facts that others were confessing were either too personal or more impressive than I could come up with: Cancer survivor. Bernie Madoff survivor. Preop transgender. Ice-dancing judge in the 1988 Winter Olympics. Fired by Martha Stewart. Fired by Leona Helmsley. Taught Woody Allen and Soon-Yi Previn’s daughter in preschool.

Dad and I were last. I’d been watching him take in his tablemates’ answers, thinking he might be shocked or awed. But what I saw was something like a relocation ratification. His answer, the least glamorous one so far, but a perfect accompaniment to his bow tie and herringbone jacket, was a simple “I just moved here from a town with a population of under five thousand. You could call it a lifelong dream to live in New York.” Who knew that would be an exotic answer? It seemed to me that the whole table was clucking sympathetically. Geneva let that go on for a few indulgent oohs and aahs, before prompting, “Daphne? Something memorable to close out this round?”

What did I have to report that was the least bit memorable? I decided on a truth I didn’t have to varnish. “I was bamboozled into a loveless marriage because my husband wouldn’t inherit his grandparents’ money while he was still single.”