Good Riddance(24)

Had Armstrong mentioned the class website? Was there one? I forgot. “Do you know he’s a state senator now? Lots of handshaking and congratulations from the time he arrived.”

“Scholarship or no scholarship, I don’t want to talk about Peter Armstrong.”

This was highly uncharacteristic of Tom Maritch and not a promising lead-up to paternal fact-finding. Searching for a question in a range between neutral and pleasant, I tried, “Have you had your museum date with Paula yet?”

“You overheard that?”

I reminded him that it had been a marathon Thanksgiving dinner and she’d been seated on my left.

“As a matter of fact, we went to the Met on Saturday.”

“And . . . ?”

“And what?”

“Did you have a good time? Was it mobbed?”

“A line out the door! But she was determined to see some costume exhibit that was ending. Very interesting, not something I’d have gravitated to on my own. And then it was my turn to pick, so we went to the Cubism exhibit.”

“Did you have lunch or drinks?”

“We had coffee.”

“Do you like her?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t sound gung ho.”

“I enjoyed her company. Did I feel a spark? I’d have to say no.”

I hadn’t meant to delve into his newborn love life, but might that vein get us back on track? I said, “This is nice—that you and I can talk about personal things. And it goes without saying that you have my blessing in terms of dating.”

“I haven’t heard about any of your dates.” He pointed to the flowers. “Care to elaborate?”

I said, “Dad. Stop me if this is none of my business. But were you and Mom happy?”

“Why that question all of a sudden?”

We were still standing in my kitchen, leafing through my takeout menus. “Okay. Remember when we were painting your bathroom and I mentioned throwing away her Monadnockian? It seemed to touch a nerve—that and when I asked you about the reunions she never missed.”

“And that made you jump to the conclusion that we weren’t happy?”

“I’m asking for a reason.”

“I know what that reason is.”

I waited.

“Peter Armstrong,” he said. “Peter goddamn Armstrong, golden boy!”

“Wow. Let me go first, then.” I fished the accompanying card from the trash. “Here. I lied to you. The flowers weren’t from a blind date. They’re from him.”

After reading its two sentences aloud, he asked, “So? You’re your mother’s daughter. He met you and he’s thanking you for coming to the reunion.”

“How about if you sit down in the living room? I’ll bring you a Scotch.”

He nodded. I told him I’d join him in a sec—just had to excavate some ice.

Alone in the kitchen, or so I thought, I practiced, barely aloud, what should follow the Peter Armstrong paternity confession I had to address. “We’re not only father and daughter, but . . . partners. Singles in the city. Luckily, neighbors. Buddies.”

Had I not realized he’d never left?

“Totally agree,” I heard. “And this new life and new city has been the silver lining to losing your mother.”

Losing my mother, that woman of easy virtue? How did that square with what I’d learned in Pickering?

I poured his drink and led him back to the living room. “Can you expand on why you inserted the ‘goddamn’ between Peter and Armstrong?”

He asked what I knew, what Armstrong had told me.

I said, “If I’m being completely honest, my takeaway was that Mom was not entirely faithful.”

“He told you that?”

How to elaborate when nothing in life until the past weekend had suggested anything but a happy, faithful marriage between pillars of the education community? I tried a very watered-down version of my mother’s betrayal: “Maybe he had . . . a thing for her?”

He shot me a most uncharacteristic look that said, We’re both adults. I’m widowed, you’re divorced, must I manufacture retroactive fidelity? So he said, “At one point, early in our marriage, she confessed to having a crush on him.”

Was it up to me to fill him in? “Just a crush?”

“As you must know with two parents in the field, crushes are an occupational hazard.”

“Dad! This was a two-way street. This wasn’t a student having a crush on a teacher. You just said she had a crush on him.”

From the handbook of wishful thinking, he quoted, “Your mother maintained that she never violated her professional ethics.”

Now what? Stop there? Scrub the truth? I said, “I don’t need my parents’ marriage sugarcoated. I’ve become a realist. Do you think I’ll fall apart if you told me that all wasn’t rosy between you and Mom?”

Eyes closed, he shook his head. “This is not what I want to talk about. I don’t want the third degree. I’m sorry, but I’m going home. I’m not mad, but I’m not enjoying this conversation.”

I told him I’d change the subject. “We’ll talk about . . . me! About movies and politics—”

“Not tonight. I’m beat.”