Page 96 of Playworld

“Well, this neurotic finds most realists crotchety.”

“Don’t forget condescending,” Amanda said.

Dr. West, gratified, said, “What about you, Griffin? Realist or romantic?”

Overmatched, I parroted a line that my father loved to use in such situations. “I just work here,” I said.

Everyone laughed at this. Even Amanda, whom, I realized, her father had not asked and who, when she smiled appreciatively at my joke, was, I thought, trying toremainromantic, in spite of current evidence—Rob’s absence, my presence, and her mom’s ordinance—to the contrary. Which made me, I realized, feel for her. In spite of myself.

“Well,” Dr. West said, gesturing toward a building on our left, “here we are.”

From the hallway we walked onto an elevator. Dr. West pressed the topmost button, and next the doors opened onto the restaurant’s entrance, which read, in gold letters,Terrace in the Sky. Waiters in black tie hurried between tables with white napkins draped over their arms or cradled bottles of wine or balanced oval trays. A tiered dessert stand went rolling by. The hostess led us to our table at the deck’s corner. Dr. West pulled out Tina’s chair, and I did the same for Amanda. The sunset had draped its fading pink blanket above the city, and my seathad a view I’d never before enjoyed: the northwestern corner of Central Park, that Sherwood Forest it sometimes seemed Manhattan had been built to enclose, its walkways dimpled by its snow-white globes, just now beginning to shine.

Following Dr. West’s lead again, I snapped open my napkin and laid it on my lap. Dr. West, looking down his nose, seemed to somehow peruse the menu with his chin. When the waiter asked for our drink order, Dr. West said, “Ladies?” and Amanda said, “White wine spritzer, please,” and Tina said, “Sex on the Beach, please.” To Dr. West’s glance, once he, in a bit of acting, recomposed himself from Tina’s order, I replied, “You first, sir,” and with his menu still open, Dr. West said, “Martini up, please, very dry, olives.” And I said to the waiter, “Same,” at which Dr. West nodded approvingly.

“Griffin, do you know how to make the perfect martini?” he asked. “Into your shaker you add ice, then very good gin. Next you take a capful of vermouth”—and between his thumb and index finger he held up an invisible cap—“wave it over your tumbler”—he made several circles—“and then throw it over your shoulder.”

At this, the girls, who clearly understood him, laughed.

We all considered our menus. Dr. West, breaking the silence, asked, “Well, everyone, what looks good?” To which Amanda replied, “I think the filet,” and Tina said, “The duck à l’orange,” and I said, “What do you recommend?” and Dr. West said, “I’ve got my eye on the fish en papillote,” to which I, having no idea what it was, replied, “I was just looking at that myself.”

The waiter was placing our drinks on the table. Dr. West raised his glass and said, “To the romantics.” We all clinked, and when I sipped, what slid down my throat had the shininess and consistency of mercury and felt like a long snake made of ice.

Dr. West went on for a while about Shirley Hazzard. He mentioned that her husband was translating the letters of Flaubert. “Speaking of,” he said, and asked Amanda if she’d bothered to read the copy he’d sent her ofMadame Bovary.She replied that she was saving it for break. “I’ll hold you to that when you come visit us at the beach,” Dr. West said. “And what about you, Griffin? What are your summer plans?”

“I’ll be working,” I said.

Dr. West said to Amanda, “I like him more than Rob already. And where, might I ask?”

“NBC,” I said.

“Griffin’s an actor,” Amanda said at her father’s piqued expression. “He does TV and movies.”

Tina, who had taken a bite of bread, covered her mouth and grabbed my wrist. “Wait, you weren’t Rudi Stein inThe Bad News Bears,were you?”

“He’s in the new Alan Hornbeam film,” Amanda said. “They shot it across the street from my school.”

Tina, impressed, said, “I lovedMemento Morris.”

“An actor,” Dr. West said. “What school?” When I told him I went to Boyd Prep, he said, “No, I mean your formal training. Like the Method?”

I had no idea what that was.

“It’s all baloney, of course,” he said, waving his hand before his face. “Pasteurized. Self-obsessed. Quintessentially American.”

Tina looked at me gravely and then at Dr. West as if to say,Here we go again.

“The British gave us Shakespeare and negative capability. America gave us autobiographical motivational narcissism,” he said.

“Griffin’s appearing inAs You Like It,” Amanda offered. “At his school. I’m going to see it next weekend.”

“And who do you play?” Dr. West asked.

“Charles the wrestler,” I said.

“Wonderful,” he said. “And what do you make of it?”

I looked at Amanda, who looked at her father. “I’m not sure I understand,” I said.