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Benny. I needed Benny. Even if it upset Andi.

You’re kidding, he said. You don’t want me at Thanksgiving, you don’t want me in your house at all because you don’t want to upset your daughter, then suddenly Ahmad’s coming over and you want me at your side?

That’s about it, I said.

Hmm, he said. You mean what you said last night?

I did, I said, and blushed.

How about you come over and convince me? I want convincing.

I giggled despite myself. Benny laughed and hung up.

Jeanette didn’t need me. Her instant mashed potatoes were reconstituting, she’d only pretended to need my cranberry sauce, which in any case was done. She was in the kitchen now, teaching Andi to top and tail beans. Snap, snap.

This is fun! Andi said, delighted.

I didn’t know if Andi knew Ahmad was coming for dinner, I didn’t think so. She’d be so happy! I could see her leaping off the couch when Ahmad arrived, the soft expression on his face when he gathered her in his arms, and there it was again, that crazy lump in my throat.

Thanksgiving this year would be a regular Hallmark card.

Almost. I snuck out the door in a long coat, stockings, a garter belt, and not much else.

Benny was in bed, half asleep. I let my coat drop to the floor.

Hallelujah, he said. Come to Poppa!

•

Benny and I arrived at the Den in time for me into slip into a dress, for Jeanette (holding a yam-and-marshmallow casserole) to say, Aren’t we looking rosy, for me to wink and smile, for Andi to say, Oh,
he’s
back, for me to say, Andi! I won’t have you being rude to my friends!, for her to stick out her lip and cross her arms, for me to walk her to her room, and leave her there till she learned some manners, in time for Ahmad, who arrived carrying bottles of wine and wrapped presents in a Bloomingdale bag.

Where’s my girl? he asked softly, looking at me, putting down his bags.

I’ll get her, I said, and then, as if in afterthought, leaned over to kiss his cheek.

You ready to come out? I said, knocking on Andi’s door, then opening it. She was involved in a game, six dolls being instructed by a seventh; she wouldn’t look at me.

I have a surprise for you, if you’re ready to come out.

She heard Jeanette’s voice in the living room, jumped up.

Dotty! she cried. You said she wasn’t coming!

No, another surprise. Also a good one.

I’m ready, she said, trying to nudge past me through the door.

Not yet, I said, blocking her way. First you have to promise you’ll be polite to our guests.

Yes, she said, still trying to squeeze by.

I’m serious. Look at me, I said, kneeling down, aware that I’d never asked this of her before. You will only
ever
be polite to Benny or any of my friends, do you understand?

Yes, Mom, she said, rolling her eyes.

That’s not good enough, I said, unsure what I wanted from her. You’re going to be seeing a lot of Benny …

It was too late: from the living room, she heard Ahmad laughing.

Ahmad! Andi whispered. Ahmad’s come to see me!

Yes, sweetie. Go say hello.

Off she ran.

When I reentered the living room, Ahmad was swinging my
daughter around, her legs flying. She wrapped her legs around his torso and held his cheeks with her small brown hands, their foreheads touching, her brown eyes watching his.

Then Ahmad distributed gifts: a Spirograph for Andi, a crystal vase for Jeanette, a box of cigars for the absent Georges. He shrugged at Benny: Sorry, mate, didn’t know you’d be here.

For me, a drawing, framed, of young Shira in ecstasy—Botticelli hair flying, arms raised, dancing, as if for a lover, gold-flecked eyes open, looking at the viewer—the very picture I’d imagined him drawing in “Domino,” that story he’d hated, the story about Jonah at fourteen.

It was beautiful. Not just because it was beautiful, but because it was from that story. He was trying to tell me something: he was accepting my work, he was accepting me.

56

LET’S MAKE A DEAL

Conversation was subdued: all-time best stuffings, did people really eat tofu turkeys. Then Jeanette got a call from Georges; she shrugged and kissed our cheeks goodbye.

I told Andi it was time for bed. She asked if Ahmad would be there in the morning.

No, lovebug, he won’t.

I’m not going to bed, then! she said, clamping her hands to her chair, and you can’t make me!

Andi! I said. That’s enough! It’s past your bedtime!

Ahmad! she insisted. Tell her!

Shira, Ahmad began, then stopped himself. He’d been about to tell me to let her be, but didn’t. Our eyes met. He was telling me he wouldn’t second-guess me, he wouldn’t undermine my authority. He was giving me back my child. Under the table, Benny squeezed my hand.

I extricated my hand and moved toward my daughter. The table was silent, but for her fierce breathing. Her face was pale and strained as she continued to grip her chair; even her jaw was clamped shut.

I knelt down beside her, looked into her eyes. Deep behind their blackness, which was trying to say
no
, she was trying to say
please
. I placed a hand on her small brown cheek, so soft!, another on her shoulder, fragile like a bird’s wing.

I hate you! she said. You can’t make me go!

You must be very sad that Ahmad’s not been here.

Andi looked at me, surprised, unsure what to say.

I’m sorry you’ve been sad. I’ve been sad, too. Sometimes adults mess up and kids get the worst of it. It’s not fair. I’m sorry.

It’s your fault! Andi said, as if pleading with me to do something. If it wasn’t for you, he’d be here all the time!

I can see how you might think that, but it’s not true. Things aren’t that simple. It’s partly my fault, though, you’re right about that. I made a lot of mistakes.

The table was deeply silent now, as if everyone had fallen away to leave me alone with my girl. How could I say the right thing? Behind her rigid face, behind her anger, I could see my own childish hurt: What consolation had I received? There had been none. What might anyone have said that could have made a difference?

I love you, Andi. I love you more than anything. We all love you. No matter what happens, that will never change. Do you understand?

She half nodded. I wasn’t sure she understood, but I’d said everything I could.

Almost.

Ahmad loves you, too. As if you were his very own. Even if he doesn’t live here, even if he isn’t your biological father, he will always be your
real
father.

Andi’s eyes darted over to Ahmad, for confirmation or relief from her too-intense mother. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. Satisfied, she looked back at me.

I’ll make you a deal, I said.

She nodded enthusiastically, her face relaxing: she was a born deal-maker, she knew that.

You can stay here with us as long as you keep your eyes closed. You can listen to everything we say, you can even talk, but you have to keep your eyes closed. That way, when you’re ready to sleep, you can. Deal?

Andi put her fingers on her chin and pursed her lips, the very picture of deliberation.

Maybe the best place for you to sit is on your father’s lap.

She didn’t bargain. She leapt from her chair and clambered onto
Ahmad’s chair. Quickly, his arms surrounded her, her short arms encircled his waist, her face, smiling, pressed against his cashmere sweater. The look he gave me over her shoulder cannot be described: thank you, he seemed to be saying, I’ll care for this precious being, this child we love more than anything.

He gave me my daughter, allowing me to give her back again.

•

Soon, Andi was sleeping, her mouth slack against Ahmad’s sweater. We put her on the couch, covered her with the guilt quilt. Benny took that opportunity to take his leave.

I saw him to the door, into the hallway.

I’m proud of you, he whispered. I put my finger to his lips.

Thank you, I said.

For what? he asked. I shook my head, stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s good for you, Ahmad said, when I sat back down. I smiled. I may have blushed. I’m going to Pakistan, he continued. I thought you should know.

Wow, I said. May I ask?

I’m going to see my kids. They’re still minors, I still have rights, even in my benighted land. I’m going to tell them I love them. They’ll decide for themselves if I’m a monster.

What made you decide, after all these years? I asked, and suddenly his answer seemed the most important thing I could hear.

I never told Roger how I felt, and I lost him. Jonah, too. We can’t cut off pieces of ourselves hoping to protect ourselves from hurt. My boys may reject me, but I have to know I tried. I leave in December after my last class. I’m terrified!

I can imagine, I said, and I could.

57

LOVE, OUR HARROWING

It was Sunday, the last day of our Thanksgiving weekend, and Ahmad was alone with Andi—the first time since that night. I was at Joe’s with a novel, halfheartedly drinking a half-caff. Joe was sitting by the jukebox, the twins on his lap pulling his mustache and squealing. In the background, the warm
shhh
of the cappuccino machine, the lilting sounds of the Old Jewish Couple.

It seemed like years since those sweaty, heady days when I sat at this very window, pondering Romei’s
penna
, my place as a footnote at the apex of the postmodern ridge of the Western canon. Years since I’d sat in Slice of Park, surveying my Comfort Zone, elated about New Life. The distance between here and there: I was temping again. Benny wanted to marry. He was traveling next month to see my mother. Ahmad was going to Pakistan to try to reconcile with his sons. He and I had fought—again—and had reconciled—again. Life had changed, again and again, but had I?

Ahmad called. Andi was locked in her room, talking to an imaginary friend. She wouldn’t come out. He’d told her he was going to Pakistan, he explained when I arrived back at the Den. He hadn’t realized she’d take it so hard.

I could hear her from the front door, shouting at Ovidio, calling him
stupid boy, bad boy!
On Pammy’s insistence I’d installed
a pretend lock inside Andi’s door—only a piece of string looped around a nail; I’d snip it in an emergency, but I wasn’t convinced this qualified.

Andi, I called out. It’s Mommy.

She became utterly still, like a bird startled, hoping to trust its camouflage markings.

Ahmad says you’re upset. You want to talk?

No answer.

She thinks I’m her father, Ahmad whispered.

Well, you are, I whispered back, wondering if we had to go over that again.

No, he whispered, she thinks I’m her
real
father.

She what? I said, pulling Ahmad away from Andi’s door. What are you talking about?

She was telling Ovidio, before she got mad at him. She doesn’t believe what you said about the guy in India. Her friend, the one who looks like Pippi Longstocking …

Martina.

Martina told her that you sent me away because mothers get rid of
real
fathers in order to marry
new
fathers.

Sheila’s ex is in jail, I murmured. Insider trading. She remarried.

Might explain why she hates Benny, Ahmad said softly.

How had this happened? I’d been unequivocal when I’d explained about Andi’s “real” father. The power of hope: it changes how we hear things, it creates possibility out of nothing. It enabled Romei to write pages I would never read, Ahmad to assume we’d move to Connecticut, Benny to propose. Up to me to disappoint them all?

What do you think I should do? I asked.

You’re the mother! Ahmad said. Don’t ask me!

You know Andi. I’m asking your advice.

Talk to her, he said. Don’t be afraid of her sadness. She’s hurt, not broken. Then make her some Ovaltine. I’ll be in the living room.

•

I noticed my daughter with a Scooter Pie. While you’re eating it, I said as she opened the door, we need to talk, and I placed a foot inside her room.