Manhattan Lullaby (20 page)

Paulie stood up. “Listen, I got a session in a few minutes and Luba won't be home til later.”

Maxine took the hint and stood up also. Bradley followed suit. Paulie continued, “But I'll tell her you guys dropped by and I'll get her to get all the stuff she has about the baby together and get it to you, O.K.?”

“Fine,” said Maxine, grateful that Paulie hadn't asked them to wait. It was getting dark outside and she didn't like the idea of trying to get a cab “down here” in the dark. It would be bad enough in the daylight.

Paulie walked the two of them to the top of the stairs. Then she turned to Bradley. “So, how do you like being a father?”

“I think I like it,” answered Bradley with youthful candor.

Paulie nodded her approval and then turned to Maxine. “You're Dear Maxine, right?”

Maxine nodded, surprised. Though come to think of it, from the letters she had been getting lately she shouldn't have been all that surprised that her audience included the Paulies and the Lubas of the world.

Paulie clapped her on the shoulder. “Luba'll be pleased her kid went to Dear Maxine's son. She reads your column every month. Quotes you all the time.”

“She does?” replied Maxine, flattered in spite of the source.

“Yeah, are you kidding? She thinks you've got the answers for everything. That's why when you said that it was O.K. for that woman who wanted to concentrate on her career to give her baby back to her ex-husband in last month's column, Luba knew it would be O.K. to give Rogue back to his father. 'Course, we didn't know you were going to turn out to be his grandmother.” Paulie laughed, showing off a row of perfect white teeth set in a bas relief of brown nicotine stains. “Life's a riot, ain't it!” And she clapped Maxine once more on the shoulder.

Chapter Fifteen

Harry was on cloud nine. He had to admit—and he did, at great length, to anyone who would listen—that although Joyce's pregnancy was certainly not planned, now that it was under way he was pleased, even—yes, he had to say it—thrilled. Something about making a baby at his age made him feel younger, more energetic. He no longer saw himself as on the verge of tailspinning off into the Decrepit Decades, doddering along the final highways of his life doing the senior shuffle.

For the first time in years he was thinking about the future instead of the past. It was a whole new mindset. And added to that was the fact that Joyce's doctor had told them it was going to be a girl. Or to put it another way, Rogue was going to have an aunt. Harry had never been the father of a girl before, so he just knew he was in for a whole new experience. He only hoped that Bradley would be able to handle becoming a brother after twenty-seven years of being an only child.

In order to break the good news to his son, Harry had invited him out for lunch. They had arranged to meet at twelve-thirty at The Chirp and Turf. Bradley showed up on time and Harry, who had arrived early because he was starving, waved to him from one of the booths, each of which was done up in a sort of wagon-wheel motif and ran the length of one barnwood-covered wall.

His son peered through the pale blue-white vaporous columns of cigaret smoke that punctuated the gloom provided by the hurricane-lamp light fixtures and waved back. Evidently the only no-smoking section at The Chirp and Turf was the alley that ran past the back door. Bradley gave a little cough as his lungs went on a pollution alert and gingerly picked his way between the formica tables and the captain's chairs with the red plastic seats, being careful as he went not to step on any of the work-booted feet that were extended in a sort of obstacle course.

The place was hot and busy and loud, and a fine film of grease clung to everything, including the air. Bradley looked around and noticed almost immediately that the source of this oleaginous blanket was located behind the counter, where a bank of deep fryers was being pushed to the limit by a man whose arms were completely covered by either hair or tattoos.

As he passed the counter he saw the man shake the accumulated beads of sweat and grease from his brow like a dog divesting itself of water after a bath. He shuddered at the thought of where these little bacteria bombs were landing and then plowed on through the murk. Whatever else it may have been, The Chirp and Turf was one of Harry's favorite restaurants, and since he needed his father's advice and possibly his help, he determined to grin and cough and bear it.

He slid gingerly onto the banquette opposite his father. On the table between them was a small ceramic chicken, which, judging by the contents that had dribbled and hardened on the outside, probably contained ketchup. Next to it was a cow of similar design that evidently did the same for mustard. Each place at the table, which would have seated four if Harry hadn't had some pull with the owner, was set with a paper placemat on which were pictures of the various dishes on the menu. And in between the salt and pepper shakers, which were actually converted beer bottles, there was a smaller sheet of paper with pictures of the beverages. Bradley was careful not to touch any of these.

“Hi, Dad,” he said, leaning forward slightly so he could be heard above the raucous din.

“Hello, son. Isn't this a great place?” replied Harry, effusively smiling back. “Real food. Real people. None of that chichi bullshit in here. No siree. Just good hot food and plenty of it. And I'm ready for mine. Boy, am I ready. How about you?” And rubbing his hands together with anticipation, he looked down at his placemat.

Bradley glanced around the room. It looked like they were holding a casting call for a revival of “The Village People”. He had never seen so many hardhats and cops all in one place. He understood why the menu was printed in pictures as well as words.

Harry looked up from the placemat. “D'you decide yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet.” Bradley quickly surveyed the pictures of chicken and burgers which seemed to make up the bulk of the menu. “Uh … gee … everything looks so good,” he murmured, thinking that he could really go for a nice endive salad and perhaps a little calamari.

“I'm having the Coop Combo,” offered his father. “It includes wings, fingers and a burger. Why don't you try that?”

“A Coop Combo,” said Bradley, slowly shifting the idea from his mouth to his mind and back again. “Mmm, sounds good.” It sounded like it would be all fat and feathers. “Can I get a salad with that?” he asked hopefully.

“A salad!” cried Harry, sounding appalled. “What's up with you? You get fries. See, look at the picture.” He poked a finger at the placemat. “You can't eat a salad with this stuff. All that grease'll wilt the lettuce.”

Bradley decided to go with the flow. He had come here to ask his father for help with his life, not with his diet. And since this crowd looked like it thought DIET was an acronym for Double Icecream, Extra Twinkies, there was no point in trying to fight it. “O.K., Dad, I'll have whatever you're having.”

Harry called over Guido the waiter, an even larger, hairier version of Tessio, the guy manning the fryers. “Hey, Guido, two Coop Combos and—” he turned back to his son. “What do you want to drink?”

“Alka-Seltzer?”

“Two beers,” ordered Harry.

He turned back to Bradley. “So, how's the baby?”:

“He's O.K., Dad. Ma's looking after him today so I can have lunch with you. Did she tell you we went to see the mother?”

“Yeah, lives down in Tribeca, right? With a roommate of the lesbian persuasion.” Harry shook his head. “What a world.”

Bradley nodded. “It seems that Rogue's mother is a thespian.” Bradley had read the word in last Sunday's
New York Times
, and this was his first opportunity to try it out. He thought his father would be impressed.

But Harry, who was still in his what-a-world frame of mind, was only listening with one ear and half his brain. “Have you developed a lisp or something? I thought your mother said she was a lesbian?”

“She
is
, Dad.” Bradley looked around to make sure no one was listening and then lowered his voice just in case. This was
not
the sort of place where you talked about alternative lifestyles. “But she's also an actress. You know, a
thespian
.”

“A lesbian thespian?” Harry was having trouble keeping a straight face.

Bradley nodded. He had a feeling his father was enjoying a joke at his expense. “She's doing this picture called
Witches of Wall Street
and …”

That did it. Harry decided it was time to have his say. “Bette Davis is an actress. Katherine Hepburn is an actress. A lesbian thespian who works in a movie about witches on Wall Street is
not
an actress.”

“Anyway, Dad,” continued Bradley, who was not about to get into a discussion of the merits of intergenerational movie stars, “did Ma tell you about what happened at the hospital?”

“You mean about the nurse thinking she was the mother? Yeah. Kinda funny.”

“Well,” Bradley picked at the chipped corner of the tabletop, “it
was
funny. But it isn't anymore.”

“How so?”

“This morning I got a call from the child welfare people. They think maybe they'd like to come and see me and my
wife
, make sure we're providing a proper environment for Rogue.” Bradley heaved a deep sigh. “I haven't told Ma yet.”

“It's getting kind of complicated, isn't it?”

“You can say that again.”

But before Harry could, Guido the Large arrived at the booth carrying two foaming tankards of beer in one ham of a hand and two giant platters of cholesterol in the other. “Two Combos and two beers,” he said, pronouncing it
Cum-bas
and
be-ahs
and slapping the whole lot down on the table almost simultaneously, slopping a good supply of the foam onto the formica in the process. “Enjoy it, eh, Harry.”

Bradley wasn't sure if it was an order or a salutation. Either way, he didn't think it was possible. He wasn't really hungry and even if he had been, he sure wasn't hungry for this especially now he had seen it in 3-D.

While Bradley was eyeing his food, Harry was busy slathering his burger with the contents of the cow and the chicken, on top of which he added the pickles and the container of coleslaw that had been snuggled up next to the bed of french fries that supported the wings and the fingers. When he had finished he looked up. He seemed perplexed and then his face lit up. “Hey, Guido,” he yelled to the big waiter. “You got any chocolate syrup?”

Guido made an
O
with his forefinger and thumb and disappeared behind the counter. He showed up at the booth a few seconds later with a small dish of chocolate syrup, which he placed in front of Harry.

“There you go, Harry. Rather you than me, eh?”

“Thanks, Guido,” replied Harry gratefully.

“No problemo,” replied Guido, and he literally slid back into the fray.

Bradley looked at the dark, congealing pool of brown goo in the dish. “Dad, what are you going to do with that?”

“I'm going to eat it,” replied Harry.

“Oh, Dad, please, don't tell me you're going to put that on your burger!” begged Bradley as he swallowed hard at the thought of the taste.

“Are you nuts or something? Of course I'm not going to put it on the burger. Jeez.”

Bradley relaxed. “Thank God. For a minute there I thought—”

“I'm going to put it on the wings.” And he poured the viscous brown liquid over the wings and dribbled a little more on the fries that lay beneath.

“Yuck!” cried Bradley, averting his eyes. “Dad, what's the matter with you? You can't eat that.”

And then he watched as Harry devoured first one wing and then two, sucking the chocolate and the crisp skin and pale fat-soaked meat of the chicken into his mouth all at the same time.

Bradley grimaced. On top of everything else he now had to cope with the fact that his father was obviously a very sick man. So not only did he need to find a mother for his son, he also had to find a doctor for his father.

Harry wiped a smear of the chocolate sauce from the corners of his mouth and then picked up the burger and took a big bite, chewed, swallowed, had a mouthful of beer and then attacked the chicken fingers, which he dipped one by one in the contents of the cow.

Bradley, whose stomach had begun to squirm, reached out a hand to stop him. “Dad, wait!”

Harry looked up but kept chewing.

“Is there something wrong, Dad? Are you sick? Is it terminal?” Bradley's voice was full of fear and concern. He didn't think he could face gaining a son and losing a father in the matter of a few weeks.

Harry swallowed his food. “Sick? What's wrong with you? Of course I'm not sick. Do I
look
sick?” And he picked up his burger again.

“But, Dad, this food. The chocolate syrup. You can't be eating this stuff because you
enjoy
it. It must be some sort of metabolic imbalance. Maybe one of those weird digestive diseases … or maybe it's psychological. You know, a delayed reaction to the divorce.”

Harry washed down the burger with another slug of beer. “I'm eating this because it tastes good, not because there's anything wrong with me.” He thought maybe now was a good time to bring up his own little piece of news. “Has your mother been saying anything to you about what happened to me when she was pregnant with you?”

The sudden change of topic put Bradley even more off balance than the food did.

“Look son, there's something I wanted to tell you today.” Then he stopped. He wasn't sure just how to put it into words. He cleared his throat. “When your mother was having you she got these cravings, you know. She wanted pickles all the time. And then after a while I wanted pickles too. Of course I've always liked pickles, but your mother and her doctor thought that the reason I wanted them
now
was because your mother was pregnant. Do you understand?” He looked into his son's eyes to see if the penny had dropped. But it was still up in the air, so he continued. “What I'm trying to say is that some men get like that when their wives are pregnant.”