by Ani Katz
No, he said.
No? I repeated, incredulous. Why not?
I’m not doing that, he said slowly. It’s racist.
How is it racist?
It implies poverty is dangerous, he replied, a nasty, impatient edge creeping into his voice. That poor people are dangerous. And that’s an extremely racist idea.
We can make the girl black, I said. Or Latina, or whatever.
That doesn’t matter, Brian snapped. It’s still racist.
It’s not racist! I said. It’s just telling a story. A good one, I might add. This is the best idea we’ve had so far, and I think we need to go forward with it.
You do it then, he said, standing up abruptly and putting on his coat. You write it. I won’t be a part of this.
You can’t leave.
And yet here I am, walking out the door.
He left. At that point, I felt I had no choice but to move forward, writing the copy myself. I stayed late, mocking everything up.
The next morning, everyone loved the concept: Citadella: Safe Wherever You Are. I tried to share the credit with Brian, but he was silent and sullen, stalking out of the room as soon as the meeting was over.
Brian left the agency shortly after I got promoted, moving to a firm in San Francisco so he could be closer to his extended family in the East Bay. I heard he was doing well out there, that he’d been part of the team responsible for last year’s award-winning Olympics ad campaign, the saccharine one with the veterans and the voiceovers by their children.
Aside from his hypersensitivity, Brian had just never managed to develop a close relationship with Greg, our agency’s senior creative director, and that failure to connect had left him out in the cold.
Greg Conroy was a Jackson Heights native, Yale School of Art dropout, and ex-hippie; an ivory-maned colossus who wore Nikes with his custom suits; a year-round surfer and New York City Ballet patron with houses in Great Neck and Montauk and a pied-à-terre on East Seventy-second Street. He was a powerful man who employed the digital shorthand of a teenager in his communications, typing u too thnx whenever I told him to have a good weekend.
He was the only person who was allowed to call me Tom. I hadn’t bothered to correct him when we first met, and now it was much too late.
Greg had reigned over our agency for the past two decades and was a huge name in the industry; he’d recognized my talents and ambition from the beginning, taking me under his wing as his protégé and encouraging me to develop my personal style while I was still an art director. He knew I’d deliver something stellar for the AiOn pitch. When I gave him the basic concept last month, paying him a visit in his expansive corner office on the floor above mine, he was thrilled with my ideas.
I’m seeing it as a socially conscious story about connection in a time of uncertainty, I said. Moments of people being drawn together, showing you how the AiOn brand can make you feel secure in today’s world. Ultimately I think it will be very uplifting.
Greg nodded, looking up at me from his television-sized flat-screen monitor, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger, the glare on his lenses masking his eyes.
Yeah, absolutely, he said. The way you’re describing it sounds terrific. I’m picturing an old-school Ridley Scott ad, except made like one of those interrelated story movies. You know, like the one about racism, with the car crash.
Exactly, I said. That’s exactly how I see it too.
Only not too dark, Greg said. We don’t want to scare them.
Of course not.
He sighed and leaned back in his leather desk chair, meaty hands laced behind his head, rotating slowly to face the skyline.
Honestly, Tom, it would be a huge relief for me if you could take the lead on this one, he said. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now with the Air China and Lenovo accounts—I’m back in Beijing next week, and probably again next month. Not to mention Emily’s matrimonial extravaganza. It’s gotten so crazy I can’t even call it a wedding anymore. Circus would be more accurate. Jesus!
He closed his eyes, as if wincing in pain.
Twenty-five years old and she’s got a guest list of two hundred and fifty people. Two hundred and fifty! She hasn’t lived long enough to know that many people.
And of course she had to marry an actor. Actor slash producer, I mean. Excuse me. Nice kid, great kid, loves Em to death, just adores her, but who do you think will be footing the bill for the rest of their lives? Not him, certainly. We’ve got a hell of a prenup ironed out for them, I can tell you that.
He sat forward and assumed a sermonic position, a finger gun pointed at me in emphasis.
When your daughter grows up, offer her cash if she’ll elope, he said. Ten thousand, twenty thousand, whatever. Any amount would be worth it. Trust me.
He leaned back in his chair again and spread his arms wide, opening his massive chest to me.
Look upon me! he boomed. I may appear to be a devoted father and successful businessman, but really I’m just an ATM.
We laughed at that. I always laughed at Greg’s jokes—it was something I’d learned to do early on, and the strategy had always served me well.
Go forth and prosper, he said finally, waving me out.
Greg trusted me without reservation. That was the kind of relationship we had. And so I had gone forth, seeking to prosper. With my guidance, Abigail had developed a terrific script, and Carly had sketched out each scene of the commercial just as I’d imagined. We’d mocked up some beautiful storyboards to display, but the crown jewel of the presentation would be the sample video we’d commissioned. The video was a rare step for us, especially when we hadn’t actually secured the account yet, but we’d hired some poor freelancer who didn’t know the worth of his labor to shoot and edit it for almost nothing—amazing what you can accomplish with basic equipment and software these days. I knew it would really show AiOn what we could do.
The work had been relentless, all-consuming. And even though I loved the high-stakes excitement of pitch mode, I had to admit that there had been too many late nights these past few weeks. It was hard on the girls—my girls at home, I mean. They missed me.
At least I could look forward to their loving reception when I did come home—my daughter bounding down the stairs in her pajamas with a joyful shout, my wife greeting me with a kiss and a warm meal. Those moments did a lot to ease the strain and stress of all my hours at the office.
But one night I’d come home exhausted to find a cold and sterile kitchen, the house drained of its coziness. Ava was already in bed, and my wife sat sulking in front of the television, unfolded laundry sorted into little piles all around her. I spoke to her from the doorway.
Is there dinner for me?
She looked up from the crimson polo in her hands to regard me blankly.
There’s leftover ravioli from last night.
I brought that in with me for lunch.
Oh.
She looked at her lap, then back at the television. On a drab street corner, two detectives were talking to a heavily made-up young girl in a grizzled leopard-print coat. The girl seemed to be mocking the detectives, her red mouth puckered impertinently, gesturing with a cigarette balanced between her fingertips.
Well, I think there’s a shepherd’s pie in the freezer, she said, still staring at the screen. Do you want me to heat it up for you?
What’s wrong?
She looked up at me, startled. I’d spoken very suddenly, maybe more vehemently than I’d meant to. I was tired.
What do you mean?
You’ve been home all day, I said. Why haven’t you done anything?
I did laundry.
Are you depressed? Is that it?
She was quiet for a moment, looking at her lap again, still gripping that polo shirt. At this rate she would need to iron it before Ava coul
d wear it to school.
No, she said finally.
Then I don’t understand.
The girl on the screen was crying now, her mascara staining her cheeks with black crow’s feet. The detectives must have said something to upset her.
Look, I sighed. I work very hard for us. I make sacrifices and put in a lot of long hours to make sure we have what we need. And I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty—it’s just what I do, because I want us to be happy. But when I do come home, I expect to be treated a certain way. It shouldn’t be that hard for you.
Then she laughed, my wife. She laughed in my face, an ugly bark of a laugh.
What? I demanded. What’s so funny?
Did you really just say that?
What do you mean? That I want us to be happy?
No, that you expect to be treated a certain way. Mr. Big Shot, she taunted. Just listen to yourself.
I moved toward her then—I don’t know why—and she threw the polo at me, hurled it, hitting me hard in the throat.
I may have thrown it back at her, I don’t remember. We were both upset.
I microwaved the shepherd’s pie and ate it at the kitchen counter. When I went up to bed my wife was already asleep, her body turned away from me, her face to the wall. Though I wanted very badly to take her in my arms, I decided not to bother trying to touch her. I knew she was in the kind of state that would make her reject all my attempts at reconciliation, no matter how sincere.
Recently I’d read that in order to maintain marital harmony and satisfaction, you needed to treat your relationship like a bank account. Positive interactions—stimulating conversation, togetherness, sex, and romance—were like deposits, and negative interactions were like withdrawals. According to this theory, it was pointless to try to resolve conflicts that could never be resolved, or attempt to avoid problems that couldn’t be avoided. You just needed to maintain a buffer of positivity, a healthy balance to make up for the inevitable disappointments. Research showed couples didn’t even need to bother with therapy—as long as they could keep their marital bank accounts flush, they’d be happy.
I knew things would get better once I wrapped up this pitch and could get back to building that balance of positivity. I would come home in time for dinner more often. I would help around the house whenever I was asked. I’d be there for opening night of Ava’s school play, even though I would have to miss the celebratory drinks after the AiOn presentation.
It had been a stressful season for everyone, really—a very bad few months around the world. They’d discovered more mass graves outside Damascus, traffic police in Tampa had shot an unarmed man while his young daughters watched from the backseat, and on a brilliantly sunny day in November three college students had set themselves on fire in front of the Capitol, burning to death to protest their imminent deportations. Scary times, everyone said. It felt as if we were all crawling toward the holidays, crushed under the weight of current events, reaching out helplessly for the comfort of our loved ones.
But now it was finally upon me: all my hard labor on the cusp of fruition, Christmas right around the corner. The night before the big day, after we’d rehearsed the presentation one last time, I broke out a bottle of pink Veuve Clicquot to reward the girls for their efforts (Abigail and I drank most of it, of course). And after Carly left, cabbing it home to her husband, dog, and duplex on the Upper West Side, Abigail and I moved on to the Laphroaig I kept in my desk.
By that point it was late, too late for me to go home. I must have fallen asleep on my leather couch, because sometime in the night Abigail stumbled into my office and draped her body over mine, her chin on my knees and her hand splayed spiderlike on my fly, which she was struggling to free me from.
I’ll call you a car, I said.
Abigail shook her head slowly, extravagantly, turning it this way and that so that it lolled against her bare shoulders. She’d taken off her sweater, was down to a chemise, navy charmeuse against her pale skin.
I don’t want a car, she drawled. I want you.
Abigail, you’re drunk.
Don’t care. So are you.
She slithered toward my face, rutting her hips against mine, too heavy and awkward to be sinuous. Then she slumped against me with a heavy sigh. She mumbled something into my chest, but I couldn’t make out her exact words.
I thought about it for a minute. I really did. It had been such a hard few weeks, and Abigail was so sweet, so pliant. A tease. I let her lie on top of me for a while longer, ran my hands up and down her bare arms. I may have stroked her hair, may have applied a gentle pressure with my palm to the back of her head as her body wriggled back down mine and she finally succeeded in undoing the button of my slacks.
But I couldn’t go through with it. I was a faithful person, and I’d always been faithful to my wife. I could never betray her like this. After a few more minutes of adolescent tussling I sat up.
Stop. Just stop.
She was lying still now, all the delight gone out of her. In the end I had to push her off of me.
I ordered her a car. When she was finally gone, whisked away to her Red Hook walk-up, I finished the Laphroaig and lay down to rest, trying to put the whole undignified encounter out of my mind.
But I couldn’t sleep. I was too keyed up, my body clenched by a mysterious dread. It wasn’t like me to feel this anxious before a presentation. Something else had to be bothering me.
I turned on the radio, and the tender chords of Schubert’s Ständchen D. 957 no. 4 for Baritone and Piano filled the room. I sat down at my desk, and before I was fully conscious of what I was doing, I’d started to make a list, setting down words and numbers in a teetering column.
Mortgage—4000
Property Tax—1625
Tuition—3000
Utilities—200
PT and Meds—450
Sump pump—670
Landscaping—350
Phone—225
Internet/cable—150
Car Insurance—500
Ma and the Twins—2500
Visa—9000 balance
Amex—4000 balance
Those were the major expenses for this month, not including food and things like that. It made me slightly sick to look at the numbers all together. The credit cards were the most worrisome—I had to pay those off as soon as possible. And I’d have to buy presents, which would set me back at least another thousand. Ava had a long list of must-have gadgets and expensive junk she thought she needed, and I’d have to get Miri a piece of jewelry, something especially nice to make up for the tension of the past few months.
We’d spend Christmas with my family, gathering in the warm chaos of the living room, a fat tree towering over us, firelight hot on our faces. The twins would attempt an overly ambitious dinner and cover the counters with plates of cookies; my mother would confine herself to an armchair and cry silently when Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “O Holy Night” came on the stereo. She insisted on listening to that album, even though it made her upset. I tried to hide the CD every year but she always found it, somehow.
When we were children, Evie and I would perform homemade Christmas pageants. She would dress us in bedsheets and foil crowns and tie tinsel around our necks and wrists; one year, she fashioned a pair of angel wings for herself out of cardboard and the innards of an eviscerated feather pillow. We would prance around in front of the fireplace, singing songs and delivering dialogue of Evie’s own invention—sometimes following a story, sometimes not. Our mother would watch our antics with tears glimmering in her eyes. Our father, drunk, would fall asleep.
We always went to that house for the holidays. Though Miriam and I had talked about it for years, I couldn’t manage to put anything aside for us to buy our own vacation home, somewhere in the country. The best we could do was a rental for a week or tw
o in the summer.
My salary was $150,000 a year. I had around seven thousand in checking, thirty thousand in savings, five thousand in Ava’s trust that couldn’t be touched, a bit over fifty thousand in my 401(k) (I’d drained it a few too many times in the past few years). Not as much of a cushion as I would have liked, and not nearly enough so that Ava would never have to worry (which was my ultimate goal), but life was expensive, and I always made it work somehow. I would get my Christmas bonus next week, and I was due for a raise in January, which would help ease the slide into the New Year. Then I’d get everything under control.
The Schubert was hopeful and mournful all at once, the deep-voiced baritone begging for a lover who would never arrive, resigned to his fate even as he pleads for her. I bent my head and let the music pass through me, breathed as if I were chanting the words myself.
Do you hear the nightingales beating?
Oh! they implore you,
With the sounds of sweet laments
Plead for me.
It was fine. It would all be fine.
* * *
■ ■ ■
They always set out a beautiful spread on pitch days—steel platters of mini bagels with pink handkerchiefs of lox, golden croissants, and Technicolor cubes of freshly cut fruit—but I didn’t touch a thing. The screen and projector were ready to go, all the connections triple-checked. I paced the sunstruck conference room as Abigail and Carly sat quietly in one corner, going over their notes one last time. Earlier in the morning I’d watched Abigail for signals of distress or clinginess, but she’d apparently decided to pretend nothing had happened between us. She was a good girl, more sensible than I’d imagined. We could both just forget about the whole thing.
I gazed down into the deep, half-shadowed cavern of the street, thirty-two stories below. Tiny cars floated in silent procession through the darkness, heading north; they paused at the corner, hesitating in the intersection’s triangle of light before turning out of view.
The glass door swung open, and we all stood at attention. In strode Greg, followed by a dark-suited quartet of AiOn executives, and the room filled with the murmur of greetings and introductions, pleasantries and handshakes exchanged in the usual choreography.