to probe deeper until he got to ... what? Issues behind his low self-regard and regrettable non-battle over custody? He hates that word: issues. "Is that an ish with you?" Celeste used to ask with a jab to his ribs. "Should I have dumped all this on you tonight, on the heels of Leif Dumont?" he asks.
"It's fine. In fact it's better, considering what's ahead. If by any chance I'm in the spotlight, and Entertainment Tonight starts looking for dirt—"
"Such as, father number two was gay and lost custody because of it?"
Thalia pours the last drop of wine into her glass. "And you know what I'd say to that? I'd say, 'I'm very lucky that my only surviving father is gay. It's a gift, just when I needed a nice, stable, parental relationship.' And please note the irony of it coming full circle: What once made you a bad father in the eyes of the court now makes you the perfect ex-father. Wouldn't it be harder if you were straight and single and I was eating lunch with you and dropping over and seeking your advice, and I had to worry about sexual tension?"
"This is true," says Henry.
"You've read those creepy father-daughter love story memoirs, right?"
"Read reviews of one or two."
"I have had a lot of fathers," Thalia muses. "And they haven't had such good luck. I'm the Henry the Eighth of daughters."
"Or Denise is the Henry the Eighth of wives."
Thalia smiles. "Let's hate her together. It'll be fun."
Henry says, "I find you remarkably ... resilient."
"I thought you were going to say, 'remarkably mean to your recently widowed mother—'"
"Whom you might consider telling about Leif Dumont before she reads about your engagement in People. "
"No, thank you. Mrs. Krouch and I are taking a break."
Another confession is called for: that he has kept his reunion with Thalia private. He says, "I haven't exactly told her that you and I are back in touch."
"Totally understandable," says Thalia.
"It's selfishness on my part."
Thalia says, "Poor Henry. He's selfish. He's a wuss. He's wracked with guilt. I think it's my job to raise your self-esteem."
"To which my therapist would say, 'Ha! Good luck with that.'"
She puts her glass down and begins making lines and loops with an index finger on the granite. After a few invisible tracings, she asks Henry if he has a pen handy. He does. Now she writes words on a paper napkin, shielding them from his view. "How's this?" she asks. "Stage name only. I wouldn't change it legally."
She has written "Thalia Archer" in block letters and then in cursive, each signature less legible, as if practicing an autograph-worthy scrawl.
Henry says the first vaguely official thing that comes to mind: "You were registered for kindergarten as Thalia Archer."
"It's a little Kate Hepburnish, don't you think?"—and answers her own question with a throaty, high-spirited "Thalia Ahcha!"
"But"—and here in victory Henry is being chivalrous—"you've been Krouch for so long. Are you worried that you might feel a loss of identity?"
"Henry! I'm selling my soul anyway! Why not lose my identity? I've given Krouch a nice long tenure."
Up till now, he has been careful and respectful, lest his anti–Glenn Krouch animus backfire so soon after the man's sudden death. But something has liberated him. "Krouch," he repeats. "I can't say it ever had a ring to it."
"A homophobic ring, maybe," says Thalia.
***
Their faux argument proceeds this way: cab versus subway for her return to Mott Street. She says "almost midnight" is not late, and besides, 11:35 P.M. is not midnight. He asks how far the subway stop is from her front door, and she says, "Four, five minutes ... depending on how many panhandlers I engage with."
He asks if she has a part-time doorman, a live-in super, ... anything? And she says, "Oh, Henry. I love your worldview." She gets down from the stool, stretches in a few different directions, and says, "I should let you get to bed."
"There's another option," says Henry. "I keep new toothbrushes on
"It's fine. In fact it's better, considering what's ahead. If by any chance I'm in the spotlight, and Entertainment Tonight starts looking for dirt—"
"Such as, father number two was gay and lost custody because of it?"
Thalia pours the last drop of wine into her glass. "And you know what I'd say to that? I'd say, 'I'm very lucky that my only surviving father is gay. It's a gift, just when I needed a nice, stable, parental relationship.' And please note the irony of it coming full circle: What once made you a bad father in the eyes of the court now makes you the perfect ex-father. Wouldn't it be harder if you were straight and single and I was eating lunch with you and dropping over and seeking your advice, and I had to worry about sexual tension?"
"This is true," says Henry.
"You've read those creepy father-daughter love story memoirs, right?"
"Read reviews of one or two."
"I have had a lot of fathers," Thalia muses. "And they haven't had such good luck. I'm the Henry the Eighth of daughters."
"Or Denise is the Henry the Eighth of wives."
Thalia smiles. "Let's hate her together. It'll be fun."
Henry says, "I find you remarkably ... resilient."
"I thought you were going to say, 'remarkably mean to your recently widowed mother—'"
"Whom you might consider telling about Leif Dumont before she reads about your engagement in People. "
"No, thank you. Mrs. Krouch and I are taking a break."
Another confession is called for: that he has kept his reunion with Thalia private. He says, "I haven't exactly told her that you and I are back in touch."
"Totally understandable," says Thalia.
"It's selfishness on my part."
Thalia says, "Poor Henry. He's selfish. He's a wuss. He's wracked with guilt. I think it's my job to raise your self-esteem."
"To which my therapist would say, 'Ha! Good luck with that.'"
She puts her glass down and begins making lines and loops with an index finger on the granite. After a few invisible tracings, she asks Henry if he has a pen handy. He does. Now she writes words on a paper napkin, shielding them from his view. "How's this?" she asks. "Stage name only. I wouldn't change it legally."
She has written "Thalia Archer" in block letters and then in cursive, each signature less legible, as if practicing an autograph-worthy scrawl.
Henry says the first vaguely official thing that comes to mind: "You were registered for kindergarten as Thalia Archer."
"It's a little Kate Hepburnish, don't you think?"—and answers her own question with a throaty, high-spirited "Thalia Ahcha!"
"But"—and here in victory Henry is being chivalrous—"you've been Krouch for so long. Are you worried that you might feel a loss of identity?"
"Henry! I'm selling my soul anyway! Why not lose my identity? I've given Krouch a nice long tenure."
Up till now, he has been careful and respectful, lest his anti–Glenn Krouch animus backfire so soon after the man's sudden death. But something has liberated him. "Krouch," he repeats. "I can't say it ever had a ring to it."
"A homophobic ring, maybe," says Thalia.
***
Their faux argument proceeds this way: cab versus subway for her return to Mott Street. She says "almost midnight" is not late, and besides, 11:35 P.M. is not midnight. He asks how far the subway stop is from her front door, and she says, "Four, five minutes ... depending on how many panhandlers I engage with."
He asks if she has a part-time doorman, a live-in super, ... anything? And she says, "Oh, Henry. I love your worldview." She gets down from the stool, stretches in a few different directions, and says, "I should let you get to bed."
"There's another option," says Henry. "I keep new toothbrushes on
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