Henry says, "She connected the dots in her own head. Now you have to rea.s.sure her."
"I don"t have AIDS, Ma."
"You think you don"t, or you got yourself tested?"
"Ma-no AIDS, no HIV Lillian puts her mug down on the ottoman at her feet, covers her face with her hands, and releases a wail.
"See?" says Todd. "Did I need this?"
"I think you have it wrong," says Henry. "I think those are tears of relief."
Todd says, "I forgot the tray table." He leaves the room and comes back with a box of tissues. "Ma? Is Henry right? Are you crying because you"re relieved?"
"I"ve been sick with worry!" Lillian moans. "Sick. It was eating me up inside."
"Did I seem HIV-positive to you?"
"All I knew was that you"ve had fevers and colds. And bronchitis when you missed a week of work."
"Like five years ago."
"He had to have a chest x-ray," Lillian explains. "And he seemed tired to me."
Henry turns to Todd. "I"m sure it"s not purely rational or scientific on your mother"s part." Then to Lillian, "Do you believe Todd when he tells you he"s fine?"
She nods bravely, then asks, "And you"re fine as well? You"re not one of those people swallowing fifty pills a day?"
"I"m fine. Thank you for asking."
She picks up the plate of Congo bars and offers it across the ottoman. "Homemade," she says. "No nuts."
All three take a cookie. "Delicious," Henry says.
"I use Splenda, but I don"t think you can tell."
"Undetectable," says Henry.
Lillian takes a nibble, then puts the cookie back on the edge of the plate, a sanitary distance from the others. "I feel the need to say that I am a modern woman. And as much as I hate to pick a fight in front of your friend, I have to say it"s humiliating to be viewed as the kind of parent who wouldn"t love a h.o.m.os.e.xual son."
"That was never an issue, Ma."
Lillian repeats, "I"m a modern woman. And I was a modern woman before my time."
"I know that."
"Did you think I wasn"t intelligent enough? Or did you think I was a secret religious zealot?"
"Ma, c"mon. It wasn"t you. It was me. I was a shmuck, okay? And now everything"s on the table."
"I"m not a prude and I"m a Democrat."
"I know that-"
"I was a woman ahead of my times. I went to Boston University"
"I know-"
"At a time when my parents wanted me to live at home and commute to Queens College on the subway."
"I know."
"No, you don"t. You"re just agreeing with me. You didn"t know me in my youth." She hesitates and then says, "I could have been more forthcoming with you."
"What does that mean?"
She takes her cookie back. "I dabbled."
"What do you mean "dabbled"?" Todd asks.
Lillian brushes invisible crumbs off her lap. "s.e.xually."
"You did not!" Todd says. And to Henry, "She"s just trying to be one of the boys."
"Ask Fredalynn Cohn," says Lillian. "Call her if you don"t believe me."
"When was this?"
"When do you think? In college."
"I thought you met Dad in college."
Lillian shoots Henry a worldly and indulgent smile. "I did. My senior year."
"I"m supposed to believe you were a lesbian before that?"
"I didn"t say that. I said I dabbled. Nowadays you"d say I was experimenting."
"Did Dad know?"
Lillian shakes her head primly.
"Because it was just a one-time fluky thing?"
"Because your father and I didn"t sit around discussing what we did with other people before we met."
"Ma! You just met Henry two minutes ago."
"Don"t be a prude," Lillian scolds.
"May I ask what path Fredalynn took?" Henry asks.
"Same as me! She met a man over the summer, a waiter in the Catskills, a college student, Syracuse on the GI Bill, and came back her senior year pinned. No kids. They got divorced and she married his brother."
"Interesting," says Henry.
"How come you never told me this before?" Todd asks.
Lillian arches her eyebrows with as much irony as one round face can project. "By "this" do you mean my private life? You"re asking why my private life wasn"t an open book in this house? Is that not the pot calling the kettle black?"
"You could"ve asked me about my private life. I would"ve told you the truth."
"That"s not what the literature says. The literature says the child will tell you when he or she is ready, and the best thing the parents can do is just keep demonstrating their love and support."
Henry says, "Wouldn"t it be wonderful if all parents read the literature?"
"There was a father in the mix, don"t forget," says Todd. "A father who had only one child and Little League dreams."
"My husband wasn"t cut from the same cloth as I am," Lillian explains. "If he were still alive, I might understand keeping this all a big secret. For decades."
"I came to you tonight," protests Todd. "Don"t I get credit for that?"
Henry raps his knuckles ineffectually on the side of his mug. "You know what I"d say now if this were a mediation session? I"d say, "We"re on the same page. You accept him and love him, and he knows he was wrong to keep such a major fact of life secret. The clock is running, so let"s move on.""
"Are you a judge?" Lillian asks.
"A lawyer."
"And how long have you known Todd?"
"Three weeks."
"Three great weeks," says Todd. "So don"t worry."
"And how did you meet?"
"A mutual friend gave him my phone number," says Henry.
"His ex-wife."
Lillian says, "Todd went through a phase like that, too. I could have made that mistake-pushed him into marriage. He dated plenty of girls, and I was guilty of saying things like, "You know, Todd, after a year of steady dating, the polite thing would be to give her a ring. And don"t forget Bubbie"s diamond ring is in the vault waiting for you to pop the question.""
Henry says, "Is there a gay man in Manhattan who doesn"t have his grandmother"s diamond ring appreciating in a bank vault?"
"We should sell it," says Todd.
"I already did," says Lillian.
"Was that hard for you?" Henry asks.
"Hard?" she replies. "You know what it was? Not the ring. It"s the other stuff. What mother doesn"t picture walking her son down the aisle and gaining a daughter? And then of course the missing grandchildren. I always thought I"d be a champion grandmother."
"I know, Ma."
"I"m not saying that to make you feel bad. I"m just being honest. That"s what the literature says you have to get over, the death of the conventional dream."
"That"s okay," says Todd. "That"s good. You can say anything you want."
Henry has a thought, a topic yet unbroached that might appeal to a grandparent manque. He hands his mug to Todd and stands. "This has been lovely, a wonderful night for all concerned, myself included. And I"d love to stay. But I promised my daughter I"d be there when she gets home tonight." He checks his watch. "Which could be any minute now."
"A daughter?" Lillian asks. "How old?"
"Twenty-nine."
"Married?"
Todd says, "No, but she"s very popular. We think there"s no question she"ll marry someone of the opposite s.e.x someday."
"Only one child?" Lillian asks.
"Just one: Thalia."
"She"s fabulous," says Todd.
"And she lives with you, or is just visiting for the weekend?"
"She lives downstairs. I have a townhouse on West Seventy-fifth, and she lives in my maisonette."
A lawyer, a daughter, a townhouse. "You"ll come back soon?" Lillian asks.
22. You Seem Good.
THERE IS NO PRESS loitering outside Henry"s house, and Thalia"s apartment is dark. The streetlamp allows him to see a long white florist"s box leaning against her door. Shall he call her? No: too anxious, too custodial. But once inside his own door, conjuring the unknown quant.i.ty that is Leif-the sheer size of him and the sociopathy of his movies-Henry rings her cell.
"Can you talk?" he asks, as music thumps in the background.
"Sort of," she yells.
"I mean is Leif right there?"
"Leif? No. He didn"t want to come."
"Come where?"