The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  Jimmy was in the living room sprawled across the couch drinking a beer, watching Braveheart for the umpteenth time. Scottish lords fought valiantly for their birthrights and professed love in the face of gruesome torture, but here in our living room, the only movement was Jimmy’s arm as he lifted and lowered his beer bottle.

  “Hello,” I said to him.

  “Hey,” he said, eyes glued to the television as he muttered the obligatory: “How was your trip?”

  “Awesome,” I said with a thick frosting of sarcasm, then turned on my heel, returned to the kitchen, and started shoving dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

  Jimmy came in a few minutes later.

  “What did I do this time?” he asked with a loud sigh.

  “More like what you didn’t do,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What?” he asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear that.”

  I stopped with a crusty plate in midair and turned to him. “Were you waiting for me to get home so I could clean all this up? Or did you not notice that it looks like a bomb went off in here?”

  “Are you kidding me? What do you think I’ve been doing for three days while you were gone? Taking care of the kids, cooking, shuttling them around, cleaning up after them, and all that other shit. God forbid I sit down for a minute.”

  “But that’s just the thing, Jimmy,” I said, turning off the water. “I never sit down. Ever. When was the last time you saw me sitting around, drinking beer, watching a movie while the house looked like it was hit by a fucking tornado?”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Abbey,” he said. “I can’t work all day and all night too.”

  “Why not?” I replied. “I do.”

  And then, before I could catch the words, I added something I knew would wound—“Someone’s got to.”

  All these months, I had never spoken of our financial situation, or how Jimmy’s reduced client list was affecting our lifestyle. I tried to be positive, promising him it would turn around, that things would improve. I knew that for any small business owner, watching hard-won clients leave would be tough enough, but for Jimmy it was agony. I also knew that he was this close to losing his business entirely, and soon he would have to go back to working for someone else, maybe even take an office job.

  I knew all this, understanding it was the sorest of sore subjects and thus should have been off-limits. But I was exhausted and angry, and at that moment I wanted to hit below the belt.

  Like my ratty cashmere sweater, I was worn thin, and I couldn’t keep on pretending. I had watched my once ambitious and positive husband become lost and unhappy, unable to accept the reality of the situation or do anything to stave off the pile of second notices that had grown even taller in my absence.

  “Someone’s got to?” He repeated my words back to me, but his were filled with pain, not just anger.

  “Forget it,” I said.

  “Oh no, Abbey. You’re so smart; you’ve got everything all figured out. Please, enlighten me. Please, Miss Perfect, tell me all the ways I’m failing you.”

  “I’m not perfect; I just try harder!” I screamed. “I try harder with work! I try harder with the house! I try harder with the kids! You phone it in half the time.”

  “Well, maybe you should try a little less,” he said as he glared at me. “I didn’t sign up for a lifetime of not measuring up. God, you can be such a… such a… bitch.” That last word came a second later than the rest, as if he knew that he, too, was crossing a line.

  I stood motionless, feeling the sting. Jimmy’s voice softened, turned sullen and defensive. “And I don’t phone it in,” he said. “Everything I do, I do for you and the kids. Everything.”

  “Except earn a fucking paycheck.”

  He walked over to me, and for a second, I thought he was going to hit me. But instead, he took the dirty plate out of my hand and flung it against the wall, where it exploded, sending white shards and tomato sauce everywhere. Then he walked past me and out the back door, flinging the screen door open so hard it popped off one of its hinges.

  “Great,” I shouted after him. “Another thing for me to take care of!”

  My ears were ringing and my heart pumping hard. But as I calmed down and my anger drained like the outgoing tide, what was left was despair.

  I sat there for twenty minutes, until my tears were used up and my body was drained and limp. By then, my rage had turned to guilt and my guilt to hopelessness. I knew we had unleashed the resentment that had been gnawing inside both of us for months, maybe years.

  Thinking about it now, my memories underscored by the sounds of the choir and a man of God preaching forgiveness, I wondered when it was in our marriage that Jimmy and I stopped working together and instead started working beside each other. When it was that we lost the push and pull and began to only push.

  And when exactly our concern for each other had turned to contempt.

  After the service at East Falls Baptist concluded, we stood in line with the other families to shake hands with Pastor Wallace and the church elders. As the line moved and we neared them, I saw Wallace eye Alex with interest.

  “Brother van Holt,” he called. “What brings you all the way to East Falls this morning? Don’t they have God in Rittenhouse Square?”

  “I thought I’d come out and see for myself why so many people like it out here,” Alex said with a grin. “I hear they have some preacher who’s really stirring things up. Got a real fire in his belly. In fact, maybe he should be the one running for Congress.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so,” Wallace said slowly, thinking it over. He leaned closer to Alex and continued: “But I’ve got more than fire in my belly. I’ve got a hunger. So do a lot of folks out here. Hunger for something better. Hunger for what you got, Mr. van Holt.”

  “I know,” said Alex. “And I think they’ll get what they want. What you want.” And then, almost in a whisper: “What we both want.”

  “I hope that’s true,” Wallace whispered back.

  “I’m certainly trying my best.”

  “Well, then, God bless you,” he said, a smile breaking across his face. “And God bless your lovely family. We hope to see you back sometime. Even after November fourth.”

  Wallace shook hands with Alex, smiled at the kids and me, then turned to the next group. I walked in silence, wondering what had just happened.

  In the Suburban, I tried to put the pieces together when Alex called Frank with updates. It was something about a new tech company—named Ariel, like the Disney princess—moving their headquarters to Philadelphia. Wallace hoped the company would buy one of the old warehouses along the river, bringing hundreds of tech jobs to his community, not to mention new customers for the area’s restaurants, shops, and apartment buildings.

  The whole coded conversation with Wallace was political: Alex would sway Ariel to East Falls and Wallace would ensure his four thousand or so congregants made it to the polls. Seemed like perfectly normal political bargaining to me, but I also wondered if my husband would really have that kind of influence over a commercial business from another state. He wasn’t even a congressman—yet.

  When Alex dropped his phone and leaned back, I asked him about it. “Do you really think you can get Ariel to move here?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t seem so sure.”

  “Well, it’s not that. It’s just that Jonathan Brindle might have something to say about the matter.”

  Mr. Brindle from the cocktail party? The one whose wife didn’t know the Eagles? Why would they care? I stared at the river, so low and still from lack of rain, trying to understand.

  Unless… They were the same Brindles as the Brindle Department Store on Market Street, the very same building where I worked when I was just out of college. Where I first met Alex. And the same building that had been slowly losing occupancy since their flagship tenant, Philadelphia First, moved to the Cira Centre in 2007. I knew that because I still sometimes had lunch with my ol
d bosses, Sharon and Barbara, and they told me their building was like a ghost town.

  Suddenly it dawned on me. “Do the Brindles want Ariel for their building?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Why else would he give me one hundred thousand dollars for my campaign?”

  One hundred thousand dollars? That was a lot of money, even for the Brindles. Even for a godparent. The car quieted as it stopped at a traffic light, the only sound Sam chewing on his stuffed giraffe. Alex turned to me and spoke in a low voice: “Don’t judge me, Abbey. I feel sick about it. But there is nothing I can do.”

  “Sure you can. You cannot give in to the Brindles. They’ll find other tenants. Their building is in Center City. But East Falls really needs this.”

  Alex turned angry. “Why do you care all of a sudden? You certainly didn’t feel bad about East Falls last week when you were in the Brindles’ box at the symphony. Or when we borrowed their private plane to go to Vail.”

  I realized then that I, too, was culpable in this mess.

  “Seriously, Abbey,” said Alex, repentant. “You know I don’t like this. I’d rather it go to East Falls too. But I never promised Wallace it was a done deal. I only said I’d try.” He sighed and cocked his head, then added, “And you know what they say: ‘Don’t hate the playa… hate the game.’”

  He seemed to expect me to laugh, but I just stared at him. Once again, he was joking his way out of an uncomfortable situation.

  “It’s Jay Z,” he explained. Then he rapped the line again.

  I continued to stare, cringing inside. He smiled and corrected himself: “Oh, that’s right. It’s Ice T. I always forget now that he’s on Law and Order—”

  “Whatever, Alex; that is not what’s important. Quit trying to change the subject!”

  I touched his arm, not willing to let the conversation end, but the car arrived at the apartment and Oscar ran around and opened my door, the kids’ and my cue to get out. As I watched him drive away, I thought about what other false promises he might feel the need to make.

  I walked the kids into the wide, elegant lobby of our building, past the uniformed doorman, smiling and courteous even on a Sunday, and I realized that for Alex, at least in part, this campaign was a game. For rich folks like him—and now me—things like economic development and tax hikes and gas prices were just talking points. Losing out on Ariel, and the jobs that could transform William Wallace’s neighborhood for good, would have no effect whatsoever on our quality of life or that of our friends. It was just one of many spins in this colorful game of political Life.

  And even though Alex professed he couldn’t do anything about it, I couldn’t help but think he could. The real truth? He just couldn’t be bothered.

  As for me, I couldn’t get William Wallace out of my mind. I knew Alex thought it was only a sin of omission, but I could see it for what it really was—lying. He wasn’t trying to get William Wallace what he wanted; he darn well knew which way the chips would fall. But I did believe him when he told me he felt bad about it, and that gave me some comfort.

  Up in the apartment, I turned on lights and some music to try to make the monotone space more fun and, as a special treat, figured I’d order the kids some pizzas. I searched for take-out menus but, finding none, called down to the front desk for suggestions. They obliged, and after double-checking that the place would take credit cards, I ordered two larges: a meat-lovers supreme for Sam and a plain for Gloria and me.

  I turned to tell her, then jumped, not knowing she was behind me. All day, she had clung to me like a little shadow.

  “They are going to bring the pizza here?” she asked, confused.

  “Yeah, that’s how it works,” I told her, surprised that the van Holts had never ordered pizza before.

  “That’s so cool! Is it coming now?”

  “They have to make it first. But it should be here in thirty minutes or less. Or we get it free.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Thirty seconds. So twenty-nine minutes and thirty seconds to go. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight…” Her eyes flew open in excitement; then she turned and ran into the family room to find the computer and its clock. She sat staring at it until finally, with just seconds to spare, the intercom system buzzed, letting us know someone was coming up. Gloria grabbed Sam and they ran out the apartment door toward the elevator.

  When it opened, Gloria cheered. “You made it with one minute to spare!”

  He laughed, handed us the pizzas, and, more graciously than he should have, accepted a tip of three dollars in change. (Tomorrow morning I would have to get this bank card situation sorted out.)

  After a hearty lunch, and Sam in a sausage-induced snooze, I returned to put away the leftover pizza. I then sat down in front of the computer to check my e-mails. There were still none from Roberta, so I e-mailed her again.

  Then I started to compose an e-mail to Jules. First, I tried inviting her to the animal rescue benefit next week. (Since it was “BYOP”—bring your own pet—there was a chance she would come.) But when I imagined her surrounded by society types and their little shih tzus, I reconsidered. I tried a peppy lunch invite but deleted it with a sigh. I composed a chatty e-mail about the kids, but that, too, seemed fake. Finally, I settled on just three words in the subject line: “I miss you.” I hit “send” and watched it take off toward her in-box with a whoosh and a silent prayer.

  I then checked the Philadelphia Inquirer for election news. There was none, but my eye did catch a Larry Liebman story on city worker pensions. I pictured her typing away or on the phone, the closest Philly would ever get to having its own Lois Lane.

  Gloria walked in carrying a red T-shirt and black leggings, wanting to play “pizza deliverer.” I laughed as I pulled off her church clothes and helped her slip on her “uniform.” As I pulled up her pants, I noticed her underwear had little mermaids all over it. Little Ariels, to be exact.

  Ariel. Larry. Inquirer.

  An idea began to form.

  I finished helping Gloria, even tying back her hair and drawing on a little mustache, and watched her run off to deliver the two empty pizza boxes around the apartment. Then I turned back to my computer, anxious to learn more about Ariel.com. Apparently, the company offered a traveling Wi-Fi device that worked all over the world and was one of last year’s hottest American tech firms. It was named not for The Little Mermaid but for Ariel Morganstern, the company’s founder, who just happened to be a University of Pennsylvania graduate, class of 1998. Same as Alex. So that’s how he would use his influence. He and Ariel were friends. And the Brindles knew it.

  I went back to the Inquirer’s home page and searched for Ariel.com, sure that some reporter would be tracking the developments. But strangely, there was nothing about Ariel or Morganstern. Not one mention.

  It would seem that the deal would be negotiated over the phone, at private dinners, and behind closed doors. And the press wouldn’t know about it until the deal was signed. Unless…

  I opened up Gmail and set up the most anonymous e-mail account I could think of: “johnsmith65@gmail.com.” Then, using the new address, I typed a message: “Did you know Ariel.com is looking to move their headquarters to Philly, specifically East Falls? Could mean great things for the community. Find William Wallace at the Baptist church for details.” I signed it: “A concerned citizen.”

  I then addressed it to lliebman@philadelphiainquirer.com.

  If Larry bit, and I was pretty sure she would, the headline alone could get everyone in this city thinking Ariel and East Falls. Then if the Brindles subsequently made their own play for the lease, they’d look unsporting, trying to woo away jobs from a black preacher trying to build a community. Rather than risk the bad press, or the fight, they would most likely back down and maybe not even bid at all. But more important, Alex could face the Brindles with a clear conscience, himself having no idea who’d tipped off the Inquirer. A win-win for all.

  God, I loved it when public relations
actually worked for the public. I hit “send.”

  Feeling a surge of energy, I turned my attention to the apartment. May had been gone only twenty-four hours but already the place was a mess. How had she ever cleaned this place and watched the kids and cooked those elaborate meals? I felt myself getting angry again, especially when I pictured Mirabelle’s smug face, and began shoving dishes in the dishwasher in a fury. When I saw Gloria slink into the family room and click on the television, I barked at her.

  “Not so fast, hot stuff.”

  “What, Mommy?”

  “I need your help.”

  “But I always watch cartoons while Van’s napping.”

  “I don’t care. I need your help. We have work to do.”

  “What do you mean ‘work’?”

  “Chores.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean together? You and me?”

  “Yep. You and me.”

  She put down the remote and ran over, excited. I kneeled down and grabbed her hands.

  “Hey, GloWorm,” I said in my super-duper mommy voice. “Think you could drive a vacuum?”

  Her eyes grew even wider and her mouth dropped, as if I had just offered her a ride on Space Mountain.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” I said. “But first you’ll have to show me where it is.”

  And so, the world’s first millionaire mother-daughter cleaning service got to work, starting with the master suite in an effort to not wake the baby. I wiped counters, watered plants, folded towels, scrubbed the toilet, sprayed down the shower, and shoved dirty clothes and towels into tall hampers. Gloria followed behind me with the Dyson, and even though it was taller than she was, she didn’t do a half-bad job.

  I was gathering some of Alex’s clothes in the bedroom closet when something that slipped out of a pair of dress pants caught my eye.

  Scribbled on a crumpled cocktail napkin was the name “Jennifer.” And a phone number. I stared at the white square, slowly beginning to comprehend. I then checked the rest of his clothes and the trash and came up with two more notes and three business cards, all from women. One even included a pink lipstick kiss. Really?