Poor Alice needed to poop.

I was still trying to dry my hair with the towel Alastair had handed me. Wandering about the living room, I picked up a tabletop frame holding a picture of Mom and Alastair taken on their wedding day. He still kept it in a conspicuous place. I could’ve told him it wouldn’t end well but I was barely a year old and unable to speak intelligently at the time. Also, I slept through the ceremony, cradled in my grandmother’s arms.

“The rain’s stopped but it’s damp and chilly outside,” Alastair shouted from the bedroom. “Do you have anything to wear over your t-shirt?”

“Let me fish out my leather jacket from my case—”

“No, that’ll be too heavy to wear. I’ve got something for you. A light pullover sweatshirt. Don’t worry, it’s a girl’s sweatshirt. It’s even pink—”

“Didn’t know you were secretly cross-dressing, Dad.”

“Funny, Cherry, very funny.” He appeared before me as I turned around, gently placing the wedding picture back on the end table. He was holding out a pink sweatshirt with the word “Providence” in script across the front. It looked a size or two too large for me. “Put your arms through, Cherry.”

“Don’t tell me you kept one of Mom’s old school sweatshirts. Did she even notice you swiped it?” Mom had been a theater major at Providence College in Rhode Island, where she’d been born and raised.

Ignoring me, Alastair managed to entrap me in the sweatshirt in one smooth downstroke.

“You messed up my hair!” I shrieked.

“Girls wear their hair like that these days. Like a wild mare, red mane tossed by the wind—”

“Like you know how girls wear their hair these days. Dad, you’re an old dude. Look at those shelves against the wall. LPs. Actual vinyl LPs of dead jazz musicians.” I started to alphabetically list the names I remembered from my listening sessions with him. “Armstrong, Brubeck, Coltrane, Ellington, Gillespie—”

“I thought you liked jazz, Cherry.”

“Nah, not likely.”

“So, you’re probably very excited to meet Trent Foster tomorrow at rehearsal,” Dad snickered.

“Oh, give me a break. I wouldn’t call that music. He’s just eye candy for teenage girls.”

“Like you?” Dad placed his arm around me and, with Alice capering on her leash, we walked out into the hallway. He slammed the door shut and locked it. Both locks.

“He’s cute, I’ll admit but I’m not sure I’m attracted to boys. I’ve got a lot of things to sort out first.”

“Your mom told me you crushed on some boy at school—”

“She makes things up for the hell of it. Even if I did, how would she know? We’re rarely within 100 miles of each other. She sent me away to boarding school for a reason.”

“With the divorce, there was no one at home to properly supervise you. At least, before the split, one of us would always be there, as long as our schedules didn’t clash.”

“You sound like a caseworker,” I spat out.

“If my job didn’t involve so much travel, I would’ve petitioned for custody. But not being your adopted father, I had no legal standing. Your mom was adamantly against it.”

“Anyway, where are we taking Alice to do her business?”

“I guess you’ve forgotten, eh? It’s only been three years since you last stayed here with your mom. There’s a dog poop station in Christopher Park. After Alice relieves herself, we can head down to John’s Pizzeria and bring back dinner for two. Sound good?”

We headed east to West 4th Street, passing by the West Village’s famous brownstones on both sides of Perry Street. Turning right, we strolled downtown, slowing our pace to accommodate aging Alice’s tiny steps and inquisitive nose.

The sun was low in the sky and casting a golden sheen on our surroundings. Some of the pedestrians on the street were probably walking home from work. The smarter ones had made note of the morning’s weather forecast, staying relatively dry under rain slicks and umbrellas, now swinging at their side. Others wore exasperated expressions as rivulets of water still meandered down their faces.

Servers from a dozen sidewalk cafes along West 4th Street scurried about replacing outdoor tables and chairs almost immediately after the rain had stopped.

A couple of young women who looked like fashion models stopped and bent down to pet Alice. One of them asked, “Boy or girl?” For a moment, I thought they were addressing me.

“Her name is Alice. She’s a Bichon poodle mix,” I announced. They gave Alice one last pat on the head and slinked away, chirping to each other. I noticed Alastair was paying particular attention to them as they swayed into the distance.

“Dad, don’t be so obvious. Aren’t you getting any lately?”

“Don’t be disrespectful, Cherry. I’m still your erstwhile parental unit.”

Finally, we reached the crossroad of West 4th, Christopher Street, and 7th Avenue. Once the light changed, we avoided some asinine New York drivers and stepped into Christopher Park, a postage stamp-sized island of shrubbery and benches that officially commemorates The Stonewall Riots in June 1969 that marked a new beginning for the Gay Rights Movement. The Stonewall Inn, where gay patrons fought back against a series of police raids, still stands two blocks away.

Alice looked up at the statues of a gay male couple and a lesbian couple seated on one of the benches. A youngish-looking derelict sprawled on the bench nearby leered at me. Disgusted, I pulled on Alice’s leash and leaned into Alastair, quickly moving toward the dog poop station. It took a few seconds for Alice to approve of the site before getting down to her business. I pulled out a poop bag from the dispenser and held it out to Alastair.

“Oh no, she’s your dog,” he said, both hands warding off the bag.

“You gave her to me in the first place! Never mind. Alice seems finished. Avert your eyes if you must.” I bent down and scooped up Alice’s work product, reversed it, twisted the top of the bag two times and then tied it off like a balloon.

A re-energized Alice accelerated her gait as we moved west down Christopher Street, intersecting in short order with Bleecker Street. John’s Pizzeria, the original John’s Pizzeria established in 1929, was three blocks south on Bleecker.

“The woman at the counter at John’s recognized me immediately. She remembered me as a boy before you and mom split,” I said as I picked up another slice of John’s Special Pizza. Extra cheese, mushrooms, onions, peppers, pepperoni, and sausage. It had been three years since I’d tasted real New York pizza.

“She complimented you. Said you used to be a cute boy and now you’re a beautiful young girl,” Alastair observed, pouring himself another glass of iced tea.

“I’m not used to hearing people saying I’m beautiful or even attractive. Everyone at school knew me as a boy named Jerry. When I started my junior year as Cherry, they mostly avoided me. They probably thought I was a freak. I’m sure they didn’t know what to make of my transformation.”

“Thankfully you weren’t harassed, though, right?” I nodded although there were stories I could tell.

“Your mom tried to help by organizing an elaborate 17th birthday party at your house, inviting many of your schoolmates.” Alastair chuckled. “She even hired a fleet of limos to pick them up from Mirage Canyon and bring them all the way from Chatsworth to Calabasas…on a school day!”

“Trying to buy me friends. Yeah, but it turns out they just wanted to meet Mom, the famous TV star and Tesla commercial spokeswoman. Especially the guys. They acted like she’d greet them in a bikini or something.”

“Or dressed like Space Babe?”

“Nah, they weren’t even born when those movies came out. You know, come to think of it, two of the boys came with their dads. They passed on the limo and drove down in their own cars.”

“Your mom tried, Cherry. She loves you a great deal. I hope you realize that.”

“And that’s why I’m sitting here eating pizza with my stepdad while she totally forgot to pick up her daughter at the airport. She sent Max instead. I’m surprised she didn’t ask you.”

“Well, what do you want to do while we wait for your mother to come pick you up?”

“She’s coming to pick me up?”

“Yeah, Max texted me while you were coming up on the elevator. She’ll come pick you up after the cast dinner ends. I think the Nederlanders give their stars car service for the duration. Just like your suite at The Carlyle. Gratis.”

“I wish we could play Minecraft but there’s no way we can do multiplayer on my laptop—”

“Plus I’ve never played that anyway, Cherry. As you’ve reminded me, I’m an old dude. We can listen to music—”

“No, Dad, just no. I’m wide awake. I’m still on West Coast time. Listening to your jazz records will knock me out. Then I won’t be able to sleep when I’m supposed to.”

“The Yankees game is on. They’re playing the Phillies.” I frowned. “I know you hate sports but I’ll turn the sound down and we can talk. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Alastair nursed his can of beer while I spooned chocolate ice cream into my mouth. We sat on opposite ends of his couch, facing the TV on the wall. When an inning ended and they broke into commercials, I decided to divulge my secret mission for the summer.

“I don’t think Mom ever told my biological father about me. I mean, that I even exist as…as his child.”

“I’ve always assumed that. But why would she not tell him, whoever he is or was. For all we know, he might be dead.”

“Oh, that’s easy, Dad. I’m surprised you were married to her for 12 years—”

“13.”

“13 years. And you don’t know the whole backstory of her life. She was married straight out of college—”

“Yes, to Max’s father. Cole Mikkelsen. He’s a venture capitalist. Works with Silicon Valley entities. Had a baby before the ink was dry on their marriage license. Had a nasty divorce when your mother’s career took off. Right after the sequel to Space Babe came out and she started getting big time film roles. The judge awarded custody to Cole. Unusual to grant full custody to the father but Cole’s attorney pointed out that she’d been away from home on location two out of every three weeks for the last two years. The very definition of an absent mother.”

“Mom keeps a lot of feelings locked inside, away from prying eyes. Even from her husband—”

“But not her child? She shared her feelings with you?”

“No, not explicitly. But I could put the puzzle together. She was devastated by having her 5-year-old boy taken forcibly away from her. She wanted another baby. Preferably another boy. But she didn’t want to go through the same ordeal again and have yet another child ripped away from her.”

Alastair put down his beer and stared blankly out the window. “Did she think I would do that to her? And I thought I had trust issues. I could never do that!”

“That’s why she refused to let you legally adopt me. Why she insisted I call you Alastair instead of daddy. She just assumed you two would split up one day. I mean, it’s Hollywood, after all.”

“So you see, Cherry, your mother does love you. She treasured you more than she did our marriage. More than her own career.” Alastair held my hand tightly in one hand and patted my cheek with the other.

“Sometimes I think she thinks of me as an appendage of her body. A part of her. Losing me would be like amputating a part of her. But is that love? Or is it possessiveness? She had me to replace the lost limb that was Max. Now that I’m a girl, she no longer has the proper replacement.”

“Maybe. But I can’t help but feel you’re overthinking this, Cherry.”

“Tell me. Why would Mom sign to star in a Broadway play at this stage of her career? She hasn’t been on stage since she was a theater major in college. She was working on developing two television series. One of them was close to being greenlighted at GlobalNet. You’re the one lined up to executive produce it!”

“It was puzzling at the time. But your mother has always been a theater junkie. And she’s always wanted to sing on Broadway. Remember the year we sent out that musical Christmas card?”

“Sure. I was 4 or 5 and I accompanied Mom on bongos. Alice contributed the barks.” I laughed.

“Well, Cherry, bongos aren’t traditionally part of the arrangement for ‘White Christmas.’”

“Mom wasn’t mad at me.”

“That’s my point. Even Alice’s and your musical sabotage didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for recording that song. I don’t see it as strange that she would jump at the chance to play Broadway.”

“You might not know this, Dad, but she turned it down when they first approached her last year. Then they cast David Wetherell in the lead male role about a month ago. She did a 180 and contacted them! Everything came together quickly right afterwards.”

“David was her co-star in Thick as Thieves, the film she won an Oscar for, the year you were born.”

“And they’ve never worked together since. Despite a lot of projects that were developed especially for them as a screen pair,” I noted, my eyebrows arching Groucho Marx style.

“She told me she didn’t have a great time working with him. The guy’s a real horndog, a skirt chaser. And he was newly married when they were shooting the film. Left his bride at home in Scotland while they were filming in the South of France. He definitely tried to bag your mother.”

“David Wetherell is my biological father. I’m sure of it! He’s a ginger just like me! Who else has Mom bonked with red hair? Mom’s doing this show to rekindle their romance. I read online that he and his current wife are separated, awaiting a final divorce decree. Coincidence?”

“Whoa, Cherry. Talk about jumping to conclusions on flimsy speculation. She might have mentioned Wetherell’s name two, maybe three times in all the time I’ve known her. Even before we started dating.”

“Dad, I’m absolutely convinced he’s my father—”

The sound of screeching tires grew louder, getting closer. The rain had cooled down the night, allowing Alastair to forego turning on the air conditioner and open his windows instead to let the breeze in. The sounds were coming from the street below. I jumped off the couch and went to the window. There, up the street and moving faster than 35 miles per hour was a motorcycle with two riders.

“You have biker neighbors, Dad?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. The last biker who lived around here was Bradley Cooper. He and his Harley moved away a couple of years ago. Can’t say his neighbors miss him.”

The motorcycle parked in front of the building. I could see now that the riders were a man and a woman. When their faces were lit up by the streetlights, I recognized Mom. The man with her looked up at our window and pointed. I moved back from the window.

“I think Mom’s here to pick me up. And, if I’m not mistaken, she’s arrived on the back of David Wetherell’s motorcycle.”

“Buzz them in, Dad.”

A second after I said that, the buzzer rang. I ran to the intercom.

“Yes? Who may I say is ringing for entry?” I tried to make my voice sound higher than usual.

“Stop fooling around, wee lassie. Your mother is here to take you home,” a baritone voice with a slight Scottish accent bellowed.

Alastair reached over my shoulder and pressed the button to buzz them in.

“That’s David Wetherell, alright,” he declared.

We waited anxiously while they came up on the elevator. Two pairs of footsteps, one heavier, one lighter, approached the door. Mingled laughter echoed in the hallway. I couldn’t wait and opened the door just as David Wetherell was about to rap his knuckles on the door.

“Ah, Cherry Brooks! What a pleasure to meet you. Your mother has told me so much about you. I’m David Wetherell.” Moving his helmet to the crook of his left arm, he removed the motorcycle glove from his right hand and thrust it forward. Thinking he wanted to shake hands, I put my right hand out tentatively. Instead, he grabbed it and kissed the back of my hand.

“Charming and tasty. I do believe the essence of cherries resides in your skin.” He chuckled and stepped aside to uncover Mom, standing behind him, a wide grin on her face and, to be honest, a ruddy glow on her cheeks, perhaps from wine, perhaps something else.

“Cherry, David’s a comedian, isn’t he? How was your flight, darling?” She hugged me and brushed her cheek against mine. I could smell the wine in her breath.

“Mother, they wouldn’t let Alice sit on my lap on the plane. She looked so sad. Cooped up in that kennel.”

Taking David by the arm, she led him over to Alastair. They exchanged greetings and shook hands.

“Alastair, we’ve never worked together. How is that possible?” asked David.

“Maybe we can collaborate on a future project. GlobalNet would love to feature someone of your talent and notoriety. And the Scottish accent drives women on this side of the Atlantic bonkers. Isn’t that right, Lulu?”

“I’ve heard that. Some women are immune to that. Being from Rhode Island, I’m more partial to a down-easter accent.”

I was at the window, looking down at David’s motorcycle and admiring its aerodynamic lines and gleaming chrome wheels.

“What kind of motorcycle is that?”

David looked over my shoulder, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. He was smelling my hair.

“That’s a Harley-Davidson Softail Standard with a Milwaukee-Eight 107 V-Twin engine, electronic sequential port fuel injection, and 2-into-2 shotgun exhaust, with chrome trim.”

“You lost me at that’s…” I smiled and subtly moved back into him, turning away from the window.

“Have you ever ridden on a bike like that?”

“No, never.”

“Tell you what. The Sunday after the 4th of July, let’s go out for a ride, just you and I. Would you like that?”

“David, that’s my daughter you’re trying to chat up. She’s 17.” Mom pulled him away from the window and from me. “She’s never dated before and she’s not going to start with a man old enough to be her father…”

“Lulu, you misunderstand my intentions. She seemed very interested in my bike so I offered to take her on a spin. Very innocently. Truly.” David spread his hands apart and shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s late, David. Thank you for the ride. It was more fun than taking the car service. We should let you go. I’m sure your wife is anxiously awaiting your return.” She turned to me and Alastair. “David’s lived in Valley Stream on Long Island for years now. His wife is American. From the Bronx.”

“I wish I could fit three on my bike or I’d take the both of you over to the East Side, to The Carlyle.”

“I could sit on Mom’s lap like I used to,” I offered.

“Cherry, that’s when you were 4 years old. You’re almost my size now,” Mom countered.

“I’ll drive them over to the Carlyle, David,” Alastair assured him.

“Well, then I leave them in your capable hands, Alastair. Good night, ladies. Gentle sir.” David doffed his helmet and walked out into the hallway as Alastair held the door open.

“Do you have to leave right this moment? I could make some coffee. Your cheeks look like you might need a cup.” Alastair smiled.

“I’m bushed, Al. A long day of table reading and getting notes from Danny. Then a cast dinner at Giorgio’s. I shouldn’t have let Danny and David talk me into a Sambuca drinking contest. It was that scamp Annie Flaherty who egged me on. I just want to lay my head down and get forty winks. And I’m sure Cherry is ready for beddy-bye too.”

“Not me, Mom. I’m still on West Coast time. It’s still the shank of the evening to me.”

“I’ll go and bring the car around. If I can remember exactly where I parked it. That’s the problem with living in a brownstone. No on-site parking.” Alastair hurried out the door.

Mom turned to address me directly for the first time since she walked in the apartment.

“I think spending a summer in New York City will be quite the adventure for you, sweetie.”

“Old Chinese proverb, Mom?”