Paul and I emerged into the shock of the late afternoon sun, glancing at each other awkwardly. “You’ve got some charming associates,” I said.
“Mr. Zhou’s all right. He just needs to be in control of everything, you know?”
“It’s a common urge.”
I looked at my watch. It was three thirty-five, almost time to pick up Melissa at school. Angela, who needed to prepare more work for her show, had asked me to take the girl to her weekly piano lesson.
When I exited the subway on 77th Street, the cool air washed over me—a new man in black cashmere, at ease among the townhouses and prewar apartment buildings. Respectful doormen nodded as I passed, making my way toward Madison Avenue. As I approached the neo-gothic facade of the Bradford School, I saw Melissa across the courtyard with a group of friends.
She smiled and said something to the other girls that made them all laugh. Their monitor—Mrs. Dorfman, in a brown herringbone coat—signaled to the guard to let me in.
“Sorry for the delay,” I said. “I was trapped in a business meeting.”
“We were beginning to worry,” Mrs. Dorfman replied. “Girls, say hello to Melissa’s uncle, Mr. Wyeth.”
The eight little misses, all wearing uniforms of deeply pleated plaid skirts and white blouses with crested blazers, said in ragged unison, “Hello, Mr. Wyeth. How do you do? Very nice to meet you, sir.” Then they bent together in giggles, a random pair of eyes flashing up occasionally from the mass of blue jackets and neatly combed hair. The students suddenly had a great deal to say that neither Mrs. Dorfman nor I could quite hear. I saw blushes on several cheeks.
“Girls,” Mrs. Dorfman chided them, “show some manners.”
Melissa looked at me beseechingly.
“It’s all right,” I said. “We really should be off. Missy’s piano teacher is waiting. Then we’re going to work on her French lessons tonight.”
This induced gales of titters. Finally, one of the classmates stepped forward. “Missy said you might come and talk to us about really weird art sometime.”
“Weird like what?”
“Animal parts, wrecked cars. Right now we don’t get anything past de Kooning.” She sliced the air in a series of Zorro-style slashes. “You know, all those hacked-up women with ugly faces.”
“That’s quite enough, Jessica,” said Mrs. Dorfman. “Very generously, Mr. Wyeth has in fact consented to address the class on postwar art. You may discuss New York School painting with him after his lecture, in February.”
The girls found this prospect hilarious. Melissa separated herself from their laughter and whispers, taking my hand.
“Come on, Uncle Jack,” she said. “Let’s go where we can have an adult conversation.”
We caught a cab that took us across the park to the Upper West Side.
“Your friends seem to think I’m pretty funny,” I said.
“They’re just dorks.”
“High maintenance dorks, I bet.”
“Actually, they all think you’re dreamy, if you want to know the truth.”
“I always want to know the truth. It’s a curse.”
Even in the dimness of the cab, punctuated by occasional bursts of reflected light, I could see Melissa’s eyes roll.
“You’re such a child sometimes,” she said.
Her piano teacher turned out to be a Juilliard student in need of pocket cash, an earnest young man with wire-rim glasses and an ostentatious way of counting in German to keep his pupil on beat. The neat minuscule apartment was lined with books. At least Melissa played fluently, with the kind of feeling that Zhou Dong’s father would have approved.
Back in SoHo, we stopped for dinner at Marc Sans on Sullivan Street. Lights were just coming on in the cloudy fall twilight. The owner gave us a table along the east wall, “where mademoiselle can see and be seen.”
“Merci bien,” Melissa said. “On est toujours à l’aise dans ce bel endroit.”
Marc, exaggeratedly impressed as always, immediately switched into French, and the two of them bantered away for several minutes about the evening’s menu. At Melissa’s suggestion, I ordered the duck confit.
“You’ve made a new conquest,” I said when the young owner, slim and curly-haired, went back to the kitchen. “I’m very impressed.”
“No, I don’t want more than one copain,” Melissa answered gravely.
“That’s not very French of you.”
“I don’t care. I’ve decided to be completely faithful to you. It’s more daring these days, don’t you think?”
“It’s hard for me to say.”
“You’ll see once you get used to it.”
“Get used to what?”
“My devotion.”
“Very cute. No wonder your friends are so entertained all the time.”
“They were laughing because I told them about us.”
“Told them what?”
“That you’re my boyfriend now.”
“Stop it. That’s very silly.”
“Is not.”
“It’s a fun game, Missy, but you have to be careful.”
“Why?”
“Because some very obtuse people might think you’re serious.”
“I am serious.”
“Stop it.”
“It’s not up to you. I get to decide.”
“Not by yourself. Both people have to agree.”
“You do agree, Uncle Jack. You just won’t admit it.”
Melissa was interrupted by the arrival of two mesclun salads and a basket of bread. She looked at the food very carefully. Raising her eyes to me, she said with great deliberation, “I’ve decided to be true to you because I see how the other way just massacres everything.”
“Like what?”
“Like your marriage to Nathalie, like my daddy’s life.” She did not blink or look away.
“Your father made some mistakes, like everybody.”
“And now he’s ended up half crazy, because some sex germ is eating his brain. That’s what Mom says, anyway. She ought to know. She’s kind of slutty herself.”
“Don’t insult your mother, Missy.”
“What do you know about her?”
“That she’s a terrific woman, a good mother. I also know you’re her whole life.”
“Except when she’s off with some guy and forgets all about me. I’m never sure when she leaves the house if it’s really, really for an opening or a studio visit or whatever, or just a hook-up with some horny creep.”
“You’re not being fair to her, Missy.”
“Maybe not. But it’s what I feel. That’s why I want to start fresh with you.”
“I might be the worst choice of all.”
“You might, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you do, honey. I just care what I feel. So I’m going to be true to you until you’re like really old, maybe fifty or something. Then I’ll marry a rich doctor and make him take care of you when you’re all twisted up and can’t walk and stuff.”
“How sweet. Why would you do that?”
“Because you take good care of me now, and no one else does.”
“How can you say that? Lots of people take care of you. Especially your mother.”
“Sometimes. But I take care of her, too.”
“How so?”
“In a special daughter way. You don’t get to know.”
“Not ever?”
“Only when we get married.”
I had a long drink of wine and tried to laugh Melissa’s fantasy away.
“Don’t kid yourself, Missy,” I said. “Once you’re grown up, you won’t even remember my name.”
“Won’t I?”
“Guaranteed. The first love is never the last. You’ll understand that someday.”
“Do you understand it?”
“No, not really.”
It was too much. I began to look desperately, vainly for a waiter.
“Why are you being so difficult?” Melissa asked.
“Look, you’re a wonderful girl, Missy, but I can’t be a boyfriend for you.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too ancient.”
“You are not. You’re too scared, that’s all.”
“It’s more or less the same thing.”
She pondered for a moment, her right index finger working the edge of the table. “Why do you always talk to me about being old?”
“Because anything else would be a lie.”
“You don’t seem old to me. You seem my age.”
“It’s a trick I learned once.”
“I like it. It’s magic.”
“With you, yes. Not with everyone.”
“See how good I am for you?”