Page 134 of Playworld

“I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. I’m here. He’s there.”

“He is.”

“You like me.”

She lowered her voice. “Of course I do. I always have.”

“And I like you.”

“And I take advantage of that,” Amanda said. “Sometimes.”

“Think about it,” I said.

The 4:30 Moviewas just ending. Suzy rolled onto her back in exasperation. “News,” she groaned, “now for hours all that’s on is justnews.”

—

On the way home, I ran into Dad on Seventy-Second Street and Broadway. He was coming out of the train station, a big Dean & DeLuca bag in hand.

He could tell I was confused that he’d gotten off at this stop. I could tell he was confused why I was here also.

“I was downtown recording all day,” he said, “so I caught the express.”

We waited for the light to change. There was a bottle of Rémy Martin and a rotisserie chicken. A head of romaine. A baguette in a plasticsleeve and a challah loaf. A jar of stone-ground mustard. Some smoked salmon. It reminded me that Mom still wasn’t home. “Fancy,” I said of the food.

“We’re celebrating,” he said.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I did fifteen spots for MTV today,” he said.“Fifteen.”And then he shook his head in something close to awe. “A lot ofgelt,” he said in a low pitch I did not recognize.

Back at the apartment, we unpacked the food.

“Is Oren back from school?” Dad said.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Set a place for him.”

We did not talk much over the meal. I had avoided telling him about last week’s meeting with Hornbeam. I was still reeling from my afternoon with Amanda when the phone rang. “That might be my agent,” Dad said. He got up to answer it, and when he returned, he was gleeful. “MTV just booked another ten spots,” he said, and his laugh sounded like a handful of gold coins falling on the table.

When we were through with dinner, he poured himself a snifter and said, “Join me on the terrace. It’s a nice night.”

It was breezy outside, but cool and lovely. The Empire State Building’s Observation Deck and lightning rod were red, white, and blue. It was long enough past rush hour that fewer cars filled the streets. Dad sat in the wrought-iron chaise my grandparents had given us, like a king on his veranda. I sat on the edge of the deck chair very close to him. We’d brought the furniture back from Virginia one Thanksgiving, tied to the roof of the station wagon—an Oldsmobile Grandpa had sold us before selling us the Buick.

“Are you sad about the show closing?”

“I’m over it now,” he said.

“Will you do another one?”

He shook his head bitterly. “I don’t want to be a gypsy anymore.”

He could tell I was preoccupied. “What’s on your mind, boychik?”

I recounted my conversation with Amanda.

---