Good Riddance(21)

“He gave you his card, didn’t he?”

He had. “Maybe.”

“At one point in my life, I would’ve said that he’s too old for you, but I’ve mellowed on that.”

I said, “Ugh,” for reasons she couldn’t know.

“I gave him my card, but he only had eyes for you. You wanna hear my theory?”

“No.”

“He had a crush on your mother, and you look like the young version of her.”

“That’s no theory. He announced that as soon as he sat down—that everyone had had a crush on her. Now go back to sleep.”

“When you’re through poring over that, put it back in my briefcase.”

I didn’t answer. I found Gloria Hink, hair teased up to the frame of her photo, and—thanks to “Pep squad” under “Activities”—a Roseanne who surely had been our tablemate.

I closed the book. If Armstrong was right, life and paternity as I knew it was a lie. And my mother’s fixation on the class of 1968 had gone from silliness to sin. I remembered my father’s irritation over the subject of reunions and his unwillingness to attend. He couldn’t have known, or irritation would have given way to fury or divorce. And if he had known all along that he wasn’t my biological father, didn’t that make him all the more noble and devoted a dad?

I owed Peter Armstrong nothing. I was shaken and deeply sorry I’d heard this possible weighty truth. Why couldn’t he have fathered an out-of-wedlock child who’d been put up for adoption and would now be thrilled to find a respectable, elegant, seemingly prosperous elected official as her birth father? At least, at least, this Armstrong hadn’t told me of photos, report cards, and locks of hair slipped to him over the years.

Oh, wait. Locks of hair? When did DNA tests start confirming parenthood? I Googled “DNA testing began when?” and learned that it was possible, that tests were around to tell the tale by the time I was born.

Thanks a lot, Peter Armstrong, candidate for most likely to upend someone’s life in an instant.

Your alleged love child never wants to see you again.





11


Whatever Works



Was it right and natural or unfair to assign blame for my agitated state to Geneva? She’d dragged me to the reunion—more or less—resulting in my feeling sorry for myself and the man who would always be my real dad, biologically or not. Dodging her, I checked the corridor like a sleuth or a cat burglar, nursing my grudge in private.

Well, maybe not strictly speaking in private, because I confided in Jeremy. The ostensible reason for my ringing his doorbell was homework in the form of a batch of truffles. It was the Monday after both Thanksgiving and the reunion. He answered the bell wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said HATERS GONNA HATE underneath the silhouettes of the elderly hecklers from The Muppet Show. Tray in hand, I told him, “I need a taster with a clean palate.”

“My pleasure. Come in.” I did, trying not to be too obviously taking in the surroundings, the handsome deep taupe of his foyer walls, the watercolors and woodcuts. He selected a truffle, wiggling his fingers first, pretending there was a variety to choose from, chewed it appraisingly, swallowed, coughed. After slapping his chest, he said, “I’m a lucky guy, living across the hall from someone who bakes. Is this baking?”

“No, they’re truffles, which aren’t baked. They’re just . . . made. I’m still learning.”

“Interesting, though,” he managed.

“You can be honest; it won’t hurt my feelings. Maybe if a person liked wasabi and raspberry together, they’d be okay?”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “Daphne . . . I love wasabi. I’m kinda famous for my wasabi tolerance . . .”

“But no?”

“Let me put it this way: Your garbage pail or mine?”

Then, without segue or preamble, I announced, “I went to the Pickering High reunion. Geneva made me.”

“And?”

“Traumatic! I’m trying to put it behind me!”

“I can see that. How about a drink and you tell me what happened?”

I said, “One sec,” because the living room was beckoning, revealing a startlingly gorgeous view of the Hudson River. The room was large, book-shelved, grown-up. I asked if he’d done it himself.

“Done what?”

“Picked things out.” I pointed upward to a red, black, and yellow mobile, a Calder clone, then downward to the wall behind the couch where three drawings of women’s fancy pumps were hung side by side. “Shoes,” I said.

“Warhol. From his days as an illustrator for I. Miller.”

Warhol. I sighed. I wanted artwork. I wanted walls to hang it on and a view. My ex–marital apartment had some favorite paintings I considered walking off with, maybe just one or two for all my troubles, but my ex-mother-in-law had my departure supervised by a man with a walkie-talkie.

“Martini?” Jeremy asked.

“Gin,” I said. “With extra olives. A little dirty.”

“You can sit and wait, or you can come and watch.”

“Wait? Are you kidding? When I haven’t seen your kitchen yet?”

He took the plate of truffles from my hand. “My trash compactor is begging for these,” he said.