“Peter,” said Miriam, shushing him. “We give a lot more than we receive.”
“We get a lot out of them too,” said Peter. “This time we got to travel all around northern China. We went to the Great Wall of China.”
“Now that was sensational,” agreed Miriam.
“That was the best thing we ever did,” said Peter.
“I’m afraid New Haven may be a bit of a disappointment after all that,” said Frank.
“Oh, we’re simple people really,” said Miriam. “New York, for instance, is too much for us. We’ve only been here a few days, and we’re already gagging to leave.”
Cleo’s eyes shot up from the napkin she had been playing with. “Few days? I thought you were only in town for a couple of hours before your train?”
“We decided to come a little earlier to see the sights,” said Miriam. “Sorry we didn’t tell you, darling, but it’s all been very last minute, and we really needed some time to ourselves to decompress between workshops. Holding that space for everyone is exhausting work.”
Cleo looked at her father, who had visibly colored.
“You didn’t say anything,” she said to him.
“Miriam’s right,” he stammered. “It was very last-minute.”
Cleo’s face hardened. She should have known there was no end to the ways in which her father could disappoint her. Frank gave her leg a sympathetic squeeze under the table.
“So, what did you think, Peter?” she asked. “Of New York?”
“I don’t know how you two can live here,” said Miriam. “The noise! And it’s filthy. I saw an actual rat yesterday.”
“It’s a fine city,” Peter said. “Very fine. But it’s not for everyone.”
“My mom always used to say, don’t fuck anyone who doesn’t love Manhattan,” said Frank.
“Well, let’s not be vulgar,” said Miriam.
“At least she has an opinion,” said Cleo, glancing at her father.
Miriam, catching this, gave the table a light slap of her turquoise-manicured hand.
“So true,” she said. “Opinionated women just aren’t celebrated enough, are they, Cleo?”
“And some a little too much,” said Cleo.
“Ah! Here’s our food!” said Frank.
Two burgeoning silver platters of seafood on ice were placed ceremonially before them. The ruby-red lobsters sat at the center, their shells cracked open to reveal the plump flesh within. Nestled around them were fresh shucked oysters, chubby pink prawns, green-lipped mussels, and clams the size of a human palm. Flimsy white paper cups of tartar sauce and thick slices of lemon finished the impressive display.
Frank emptied his glass and passed it back to the server.
“I’ll have another,” he said, then turned to the table. “Let’s feast!”
Miriam continued to do most of the talking while they ate. She had been asked to contribute to a psychological study on childhood trauma and masturbation and was regaling them with the story of her own first orgasm, which she achieved at the precocious age of four and a half. Frank marveled that neither she nor Peter asked a single question about Cleo the entire time. Not about where she lived, how they’d met, who her friends were, what she was painting, or any other facet of her life in New York. Finally the abundant platters were reduced to a collection of scraped-out shells floating in melting pools of ice and whisked away.
“Do you have any baby pictures of Cleo?” Frank asked. “I’d love to see them.”
“Do you know something, darling?” said Miriam. “We don’t.”
“I didn’t think …” began Peter.
“We should have brought some photos of Cleo’s paintings,” said Frank. “She’s so talented.”
“How old were you when I met you, Cleo?” asked Miriam, ignoring this.
“Fourteen,” she said.
“So Humphrey must have been eight,” she said. “God, he was precious.”
“Cleo was a beautiful child,” ventured Peter. “Hair like spun gold.”
“Oh yes, she was a beauty,” said Miriam. “Until that ugly tomboy phase. Can you believe it, Cleo, I still see some of those skater boys you used to hang around with in town? I call them boys, but they must be men now. What was the one you were so fond of with the funny name? Ragamuffin? He works at the Café Nero now.”
“Ragdoll,” said Cleo. “His name was Ragdoll.”