Starting Over by Dan Wakefield

he hated the syrupy sweetish taste of Dubonnet, but he would have taken anything with alcohol in it.
    The children appeared in the hallway, staring at him.
    â€œHi,” Potter said. He forced a grin.
    â€œSay hello to Mr. Potter,” Renée said brightly. “That’s Scott, and Teresa.”
    Scott, a skulking lad of around ten, glared hatefully at Potter. Teresa, a golden-haired little doll in bunny-print pajamas with feet, sucked avidly on her thumb.
    â€œC’n I have a Coke?” Scott asked his mother.
    â€œYou’ve already had one today.”
    â€œC’n I have a half a one?”
    â€œOne’s the limit. You know that, dear. Let’s not argue.”
    â€œAw, Christ.”
    â€œBehave now, Scott. There’s company.”
    Scott turned his back toward Potter, and asked in a semiwhine, “Who’s gonna sit for us?”
    â€œDeeDee.”
    â€œShe’s stupid.”
    â€œScott, you’d better snap out of this mood and act like a grown-up boy or you’re not going to watch any television.”
    Renée said this quickly, in a level, heartfelt monotone, and came from the kitchenette with a glass of Dubonnet and a determined smile. She sat down in a large armchair that was beside the sofa, and brushed back a wisp of hair. Most of it was black, but there were these wispy little ringlets of grey right around her ears that wouldn’t stay put.
    Potter said “Thanks,” and took a quick sip of the Dubonnet.
    â€œSay hello to Mr. Potter, Teresa,” Renée asked hopefully.
    Teresa was still rooted to the spot where she first emerged from the hallway, staring unblinkingly at Potter and working the hell out of her thumb.
    â€œHi, Teresa,” Potter said in what he hoped was a jovial, winning manner, “how are you tonight?”
    Teresa bit down harder on her thumb, and slowly, relentlessly, tears started streaming down her cheeks. She suddenly bolted and ran for her mother, burying her curly little head in Mrs. Gillespie’s long skirt.
    â€œTeresa, hon, there’s nothing to cry about!” Renée said.
    â€œShe’s a-scared of that man,” Scott volunteered.
    â€œI’m really harmless,” Potter said feebly. His neck itched.
    â€œMr. Potter’s a nice man,” Renée said.
    â€œHow do you know?” Scott asked. “You never even met him till just now.”
    Potter felt a deep, pure urge to smack the kid, just once, as hard as he could. Instead he took a belt of the Dubonnet, narrowed his eyes, and said, “You’re right, Scott. For all you know, I might be The Boston Strangler, recently escaped from prison.”
    Renée’s face gave way to a sudden twitch, but she quickly resettled it into a smile and said, “Scott, dear, why don’t you see what’s on television?”
    Teresa was bawling harder now, despite her mother’s reassuring strokes and pats.
    â€œIs he really The Boston Strangler?” Scott asked.
    â€œDon’t be silly. Now go and see what’s on.”
    â€œI was just kidding,” Potter said.
    There was a knock at the door, and Renée jumped up, leaving Teresa to bawl by herself, and let in the baby sitter. Potter thanked God she was fat. There was no worse torture than having to drive home one of those exotic, longhaired twitchy-assed baby sitters after a lackluster night on the town with a harried divorced lady. Potter prayed for ungainly baby sitters.
    When they finally got to Chez Dreyfus, and were seated, Potter ordered a double Scotch on the rocks.
    â€œI don’t usually do this,” Renée said, “but I think I’ll have a martini. A Very Dry Martini.”
    â€œYou deserve it,” said Potter.
    â€œI’m sorry it was so—hectic. They’re really nice kids, but—”
    â€œI understand. It must be hard.”
    â€œTheir father lives in Washington, now, and he only gets up about once a