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godfather. He shocked me by crying. Yes, he said, my God, yes!
    It turned out he lost everything the night Jonah died. He came out, finally, losing not just his wife, which was no loss, but his sons as well.
    We came to an understanding that day at the Plaza: I would be the child’s one true parent, but Ahmad’s name would appear on her birth certificate, his enlightened university would cover our insurance, her education. People would assume he was her (nominal) father, but we would know better: that her father was a Sikh I’d met in Delhi; when Andi was older, she’d know it too. We could even live at his place till we got on our feet. By some administrative fluke, his apartment was large enough for all of us, and then some.
    We never left.
    Ahmad turned out to be a great dad. He took on midnight feedings, and didn’t mind changing nappies (as he called them). He sang lullabies in Urdu and watched our Andi sleep. Later, he shucked his Italian shoes to help her construct mega malls out of Legos, and had tea with her many dolls. He endeavored to explain conservative economics on Career Day and entertained Andi’s friends by drawing pictures of them standing next to film stars. Still, I had to remind him: ours was an arrangement of convenience, in the best interests of the child. I was the mother: I made the decisions, I took the flak. Still, periodically, he asked about adoption. As it was, he’d say, his rights meant nothing. One blood test and they’d be gone.
    Who’s going to make you take a blood test? I’d ask.
    Every time he brought it up, he had a new argument. This time he asked, what if something happened —to me, he meant.
    You mean, if I decided to abandon my baby at the airport?
    I wasn’t comparing you to your mother, as you very well know.
    If I died , then?
    Or became incapacitated.
    Or became incapacitated. Lovely, I said, holding out my glass for more wine.
    We have to plan for contingencies, he said.
    That’s what the birth certificate’s for! I said, or maybe I shouted.
    He was concerned about our daughter’s development , he said. She was reaching the age of rational discourse. It was time she knew who her real father was.
    Rational discourse? The girl who insists she has a telepathic relationship with Tinky Winky? Who believes most Chinese words are made up?
    Shh! he said. The look he gave me could have made raisins out of grapes.
    If we don’t tell her now, he said, she won’t forgive us when she learns the truth.
    You’re such a drama queen! I said, and waited for him to say, Better than a dairy queen , which was his usual response. Instead he said, You’re being selfish, Shira. You’re thinking only about yourself.
    You know that’s not true! I said. She’s way too young!
    Whatever it is, I heard my baby say, I’m not too young.
    We wheeled around in our chairs.
    Andi was at the entrance of the living room, wearing her primrose flannel nightie, though it was August. I’m nearly eight, she said. In addition to which my Enrichment Facilitator says I have an old soul.
    We’re talking about Ahmad’s secretary. She’s way too young. Too young to water-ski.
    Why would she think Ahmad was her father?
    We were speaking metaphorically, I said.
    I hate figurative language, my baby said. You know that.
    I know that, I said, repressing a smile.
    Tinky Winky was missing, it turned out. Andi distinctly remembered leaving him in the kitchen when she was building her Tupperware kingdom.
    Searching ensued, till Ahmad found that bad boy grinning under Andi’s bed.

6
    COMFORT ZONE

    The next morning I felt wonderfully well—the kind of well that comes from knowing things are happening , the New Life is upon us. I went to Cuppa Joe’s, where I ordered a decaf-skinny-mocha-capp and two bear claws from Joe himself, a tall, bulky Iranian (né Ali) with whom I’d once been “intimate.” I was still here often, though Joe had married a Persian maid half his age, siring black-haired twins.
    I