“You’d know that, of course, being an expert on ‘officially over,’ as if there’s no continuum. No second chances.”
I knew what he meant: our breakup. I didn’t acknowledge that, hating to admit I once tolerated him and wore his mangy red thread around my finger.
Stuart said, “Let’s face it. Brooke needs a man.”
“Other than you, I take it.”
“I offered. But we both get that our values are incompatible. Maybe you know someone?”
“Seriously? Who are the two least likely people in all of Everton and possibly the wide world to find Brooke a man? What could I say to recommend her to anyone?”
“That she has a two-bedroom apartment, a car—”
“Plus a nasty streak and no manners. I can’t believe you even asked.”
“You guys work outside the home. You interact with people. I don’t know why you’d feel like it’s a weird request.”
“Because Nick is her ex-boyfriend and because she’s never been anything but rude to me. How’s that?”
“You’d be doing me a favor. She can’t make the whole rent herself. It’s kinda up to me to find my replacement. Apparently, I signed something.”
“Is that so? You ‘signed something.’ Would that be a quaint document known as a lease?”
“I guess so.”
Just to get him off the phone, I said, “Okay. I’ll think about it. But it’s a big ask: to find Brooke a date-slash-roommate. Even if I knew someone . . . oh, never mind. It’s never going to happen.”
“You do know someone. Who is it? Your brother? A friend of your brother’s?”
“No one. Forget it.”
“Give me his name and I’ll make it happen.”
Whom did I know who was downsizing, single, male, deserving of Brooke, and vice versa? Not Reggie O’Sullivan. I swear I didn’t mean to speak that name.
45
Poor Chagall
AFTER ONLY ONE vague hint by me, my wonderful brother drove to Newton on a snow-free Saturday morning in late March, rang Tracy’s bell, told the preteen who answered that he needed to speak to Henry Frankel.
“He’s busy,” said the little girl, later determined to be Alexis.
“Which way?” my brother asked, taking the first step into the foyer.
“Hank!” the little girl yelled. “Come quick!”
“What is it now?” my father answered.
“A stranger!”
“I’m not a stranger,” Joel said. “See the truck in the driveway? Frankel Towing and Plowing? Frankel. Like Henry.”
“If you don’t go away, I’m calling 911,” and with that, she brandished a sequined pink phone.
“Don’t be such a twit,” said Joel. “I’m his son. He’s coming home for a visit.”
How did I learn of the rescue/intervention? A three-word text from my mother on Sunday morning: Joel got Daddy. After just two tries, I had my hard-to-reach brother on the phone, but only because Leslie was good enough to answer when she saw my caller ID. “I’ll put him on,” she said, adding, “Quite the day.”
Joel reported, “I didn’t make up some excuse. I told him he was coming with me.”
“Did you say permanently? Or did he think it was going to be, like, dinner with us?”
“He knew. He took his white-noise machine and as much as he could stuff in one suitcase.”
“Where was Tracy during this commotion?”
“Not home. Shopping with the other kid.”
“So you charged into the kitchen?”
“He came out into the—what do you call that thing? It had a tree in it.”
“Atrium.”
“He came out, and said, ‘Joel! What are you doing here?’ I said, ‘Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for. Want to go for a ride in my truck?’?”
“He said he couldn’t leave because the kid would be alone. ‘Where’s your mother?’ I asked her. ‘Can you call her?’ I was being extra nice because she looked like she was going to start bawling.”
“And was Dad reassuring her that you were his son and she shouldn’t be afraid?”
“No! Did I mention Leslie was with me? I figured some sensitivity might come in handy. By this time, Dad was upstairs, grabbing more than I expected him to come back with. Leslie asked, ‘What’s your name, honey? . . . Alexis? This is Joel Frankel. Henry is his daddy. He hasn’t seen him in weeks. I bet you miss your dad, too.’?”
“Kinda brilliant,” I told him.
“She’s right here,” he said, “so I can’t pay her too many compliments.” I heard Leslie’s laugh.
Six days later we were three Frankels across—father, son, daughter—in the cab of Joel’s truck, returning to Wingate Terrace to reclaim his artwork. We’d called in advance. Tracy said she would be present, along with her brother, also a lawyer—a big guy, in case our father had some notion about taking Blue Mitzvah.
“Who does she think I am?” Dad asked us. “A shmuck who’d steal a painting that she commissioned and paid for?”
“As if you’d want a portrait of her little brat,” I said.
“Zoe had her moments, but she was basically a good kid.”
“Isn’t her name Chloe?” I asked.
My father shrugged. He was looking out the window, commenting every so often on the height of the snow drifts or denigrating the occasional lane-changing drivers.
Today’s return to Newton was the first time I was seeing him since Tracy’s dinner party had gone so wrong. “Where did you think Joel would be taking you?” I asked him.
“Home. Your mother and I were in touch.”
“E-mailing, I heard.”
“And talking.”
“And how’s that going?”
“Mezza mezza. Relief, then some anger bubbles up. But I deserve it. I’m sure my children agree.”
I did agree, but we were on a mission to the enemy camp. What if he was welcomed back with kindness and forgiveness, leading to a change of heart? I reached for his closest hand, and said, “Remember in the first Godfather movie? When Michael Corleone sees that beautiful Sicilian girl for the first time and he’s thunderstruck? That’s what happened to you.”
My father said, “No, it didn’t.”
I gave Joel a nudge. Pay attention. We’re getting to the crux of this ugly matter.
“She was relentless,” Dad said. “I was living alone. She loved my work. I let my guard down.”