Good Riddance(6)

“You’re right. I should’ve told you. But it’s an atypical presentation—”

“Fine. Get treatment. Go to rehab. You’ll probably meet some nice sex-addicted women there and hook up the whole time. I hope you’ll be very happy.”

Did this seem precipitous? It wasn’t. Ever since I’d heard I was merely an inheritance tool, I’d been waiting for him to break a marriage vow so my escape would appear to have means, motive, and opportunity. He did obey my wishes and leave, but not until he’d spent a long time packing his suitcase with too much care, too much consideration of which tie went with which shirt and suit, as if he was preparing for a week of dates with female hedge-fund managers. I finally said, “Just go! I’ve served my purpose! I know about the will. I figured it out. And I know this for damn sure: You never loved me.”

He didn’t counter that. Instead, he reminded me that I’d signed a prenup. I’d better not be thinking that his trust fund was mine to share.

Later I looked it up. He’d been right: Except for prairie voles, monogamy was unheard of in mammals.





4


You’ll Be the First to Know



I waited to hear from Geneva Wisenkorn, who presumably took the yearbook along on her writing retreat, promising I’d get it back eventually. Upon her return, whenever I’d pass her in the hallway, she was in too big of a hurry to talk. The one time I got as far as “Any news?” she looked slightly bewildered as if wondering, About what?

After the second unresponsive exchange, I said, “Geneva? You realize I’m asking you about the documentary?”

“Of course I do. I’m still making notes. Rome wasn’t built in a month. You’ll be the first to know.”

I called after her, “But you’re still doing it, right?”

“Of course I am. Nothing means more to me than our project.”

Our project. I caught that. It had the ring of remuneration.



I didn’t have a case with respect to keeping the six-room marital apartment in the divorce since Holden’s unsympathetic mother owned it. I considered a move back to Pickering, but my dad said via phone, “No, don’t. There’s nothing for you here. There’s nothing for me here. Are you sitting down? I’m thinking of joining you in NYC.”

I asked him to define “joining.” Did he mean a visit? He’d always be welcome, just not as an overnight guest in my postage stamp of an apartment.

“Maybe I could help. You’re newly alone. Maybe if we pooled our resources—”

“Dad! Adult children don’t live with their dads unless there’s something seriously wrong with them. Or something’s off.”

“Isn’t getting a divorce ‘something off’? Or maybe something’s off with a parent who lost his wife of thirty-six years and is lonely. For the record? Baby boomers’ children certainly do live with their parents. It’s a movement.”

I didn’t want to be indelicate. Should I address the loneliness part or the baby-boomer-returns-home part? I said, “I hate to hear you’re lonely. Aren’t friends inviting you over and leaving casseroles?”

“That’s one of the reasons I need a change. Too much mother henning.”

Of course that would be true. My father would be a matchmaker’s dream once he took the measure of his own five-starness.

“Daff? You still there?”

“Is there no one in Pickering you could see yourself spending time with?”

“Honey, I’ve sat next to every eligible woman at every awkward get-together that was billed as a casual family dinner. And if I say, ‘Too soon,’ these hostesses come back with ‘Too soon for what? A few hands of bridge?’”

“But you said you’re lonely. No one you’d consider taking to a movie?”

“Maybe ‘lonely’ is the wrong word. Maybe just ‘alone.’ I want to start this new chapter in a new place. If I don’t move now, when would I? I still have my health. I can afford it. If ever I needed an adventure, it’s now.”

Even though I had no say in the matter, I said, “Let me sleep on this.”

I did, and I woke up thinking that I had no right to discourage the very move I myself had made. I called him, and said, “I’m in. You should move here. You could volunteer and maybe tutor. Go to concerts and readings. Find bridge partners, for sure. And you won’t have to drive to Manchester to see a movie.”

“I appreciate that. And, hon? When I said we’d pool our resources, I didn’t mean I was looking for a couch to sleep on. I want my own place, a home. I just meant we could get together when you had a free night. For dinner. Or lunch. Your dad could treat you to a play once in a while.”

I said, “Sounds great.” And I meant it.

“I’ve wanted to live in New York City my whole life. Your mother was afraid of the city. Well, maybe not afraid, but she hated it. Everyone waving their arms for the same taxi. Long lines for hamburgers that aren’t anything special and cost as much as a steak back home. And forget the subway!”

“How come I never heard this before—about your New York dream?”

“Because I thought it would never come true. Your mother wouldn’t leave Pickering. Even when I talked about downsizing, she’d say she’d never leave.”