Good Riddance(26)

Another barely audible answer: “There’s proof and there’s proof.”

I asked what that meant.

“Just because you weren’t my child didn’t mean you were his. He’s a lawyer. That’s how lawyers think. He wanted a DNA test. I said no, but all your mother had to do was swab the inside of your cheek. When I wasn’t home. Apparently, she had to prove to him that she was merely an unfaithful wife, not a slut.”

The shock of “slut” pronounced by Thomas Maritch testified that this had been festering for possibly my entire life. “Did you think there were others, because that would be too crazy and too”—did “out of character” fit now that June Winter Maritch was a woman I knew not at all?—“unlikely?”

My father said, “I’ve gone too far,” and after an exhausted sigh, “What’s the point of this, Daff? I wish you’d never gone to that damn reunion and I’d never opened my big mouth.”

Me, too. Could we ever walk this back to the twosome we’d become, the Dad and Daughter Club of New York City? I said, “Stay! How about souvlaki from that place you liked on West Fifty-sixth? I have a five-dollar-off coupon.”

“Not up to it. If I’m hungry later, I’ll scramble some eggs.”

I caught him by the jacket sleeve as he opened the door. “If you’re worried that I’m going to make friends with P. A. just because he sent me flowers, you don’t have to worry”—realizing and regretting as soon as I’d pronounced the letters that P. A. spelled “Pa.”

“He did more in this life than send you flowers.”

“You’re my father in every conceivable way!”

“You might want to rephrase that,” he said.



Was the whistling across the hall meant to broadcast Jeremy’s arrival home? Guessing yes, I used the opportunity to dump some trash.

“Long day?” I asked, wastebasket prop in hand.

“Miss Daphne. Fancy meeting you here. Nope, this is standard.”

I didn’t have anything to contribute with regard to a standard work schedule, so I said, “Maybe we could have another drink some time.”

“Sure.”

In my new role as a loose woman, I asked, “Such as now?”

“Give me a half hour.”

“Not too soon?”

“No. Just a quick shower.”

“I didn’t mean too soon to come over. I mean too soon since . . .” I completed the thought with a lowered gaze meant to imply our last intercourse.

“Your call.”

I told him I’d be over after I jumped in the tub and changed from the clothes I was wearing earlier this evening when I told my dad what I’d found out at the reunion.

He had his bike resting on his shoulder and a backpack strap in one hand. “Do you want to discuss this?”

I said no. It was still so raw.

“Clearly.”

“He’s upset, possibly even mad at me. He’s never mad at me.”

Jeremy had unlocked his door and was waving good-bye, the good-humored kind that translates to Enough/Shhh/Save it.





14


Gold-Dome Dirt



I woke up in Jeremy’s big bed, my clothes a room away, the sun shining from an exposure not available next door. I thanked him for his hospitality and his other talents, said yes to coffee but no to an oversize bagel, and was back in my apartment by 7:30 a.m. I waited an hour before calling my dad, who’d sent a rather stingy good-night text in reply to mine.

“Are we okay?” I asked him.

“I didn’t sleep great, but that’s not your fault.”

I said I think it was.

“Let’s not go round and round on this. What’s done is done.”

But it wasn’t. My not sleeping great had to do with the ugly breaking news that my entire existence was based on a lie. Shouldn’t I have been warned of inheritable diseases that might be down the road? Or told to work harder in high school because I could apply as a legacy to Dartmouth? Such were the 2 a.m. agitations of a dispossessed daughter.

But by the light of day, I was asking, “Can we have lunch? Or take a walk? Or anything?”

“Not today. I’ve made some plans.”

“A date?”

“I have to go,” he said.

I was hearing announcements now, a list of towns and cities that sounded loudspeakerish. “Are you at Port Authority?”

“Just cutting through.”

“Let me know when you want to get together.”

“I will. Gotta run.”

I asked, “To where?” but he’d already hung up.



I got my answer by late afternoon that day. After taking a bus north to New Hampshire’s capital, he’d walked to the State House and straight to the office of Senator Peter Armstrong.

No, he told the receptionist, he didn’t have an appointment. No, he didn’t want to take a seat. Was the senator in? Was the senator through that door? Without permission, he rushed past her into Armstrong’s office, where he found the senator on the phone, a sandwich unwrapped and sitting prissily on the open square of a cloth napkin.

Senator Armstrong had no reason to recognize this intruder as the cuckolded husband of his old flame. He said into the phone, “I’m putting the receiver down, but stay on the line. I might have trouble here.”