This Was Not the Plan

by Cristina Alger

  “Ugh. I know I say this basically every day, but I really don’t understand how you can work at that place.”

  “Well, I try to stay humble, Zadie, but white-collar defense really is God’s work.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. So, speaking of, did the case—”

  “Yes!” I say. “Dismissed! It’s finally over.”

  “Fantastic! Does that mean you’re coming home soon, then? I put a name tag on Caleb, just in case.”

  “Har har. Yeah, just finishing up one document and I’m out of here.”

  “Okay, terrific. Will you be home for dinner?”

  “Yeah, I should be,” I say, checking my watch. “How’s Caleb been today? Has he asked about . . . you know?” “You know” is our shorthand for “Mira.”

  “No. He seems all right. I don’t think he knows it’s her birthday.”

  “Okay, good. Still, I want to have dinner with him tonight.”

  “I think that would be nice. Listen, Charlie . . .” Zadie trails off, hesitant.

  “What’s up?”

  “Buck wants to come into the city tonight and take me out to dinner. We won’t go out until after you’re home, of course. No rush. That cool with you?”

  I sigh internally. Buck is my sister’s latest loser boyfriend. Usually they don’t last long enough for me to worry, but Buck has stuck around for the better part of a year. Buck’s not a bad guy, really. In fact, I’d potentially sort of like him if he weren’t dating my sister. I’d just prefer to see her with a guy who’s employed for once. Buck says he’s in landscaping, which I’m pretty sure is a euphemism for growing and distributing massive quantities of weed.

  Admittedly, Buck is an improvement over Casey, the previous loser boyfriend. At thirty-five, Casey was still living with his parents and working part-time at Uncle Funky’s Boards, a skate shop on Charles Street. Zadie liked to describe Casey as “passionate,” which Mira and I quickly realized meant erratic and prone to uncontrolled bouts of rage. One night Zadie turned up in our lobby with a split lip and a half-baked story about slipping on wet kitchen tile. By then Casey had taken up semipermanent residence in her tiny Brooklyn apartment, and she was afraid to return. I suggested killing him; Mira suggested that Zadie move in with us for as long as she needed. As usual, Mira prevailed.

  A month later Mira was dead and Zadie was still living in the spare room behind our kitchen. We never discussed her staying; she just stayed. We never discussed her quitting her job so that she could watch Caleb while I was at work; she just did. At the time, Zadie was just about as lost as I was. She still hadn’t recovered from our mother’s death a year before. She had spent months as Mom’s caretaker. She lived in Mom’s house; she prepared her meals and gave her sponge baths and took her for walks around the block. She’d even enrolled in a caregiving class at the local college. After Mom passed, Zadie moved to Brooklyn and took a job as an in-home health aide for an elderly woman named Mrs. Zimmerman, but her heart wasn’t really in it. Mrs. Zimmerman rarely spoke, she said, just watched television all day and asked Zadie to feed her cat. Zadie wanted to do more than change litter boxes and television channels. She was looking for someone to care for, someone else to love. And then there we were, Caleb and I, needing care and love more than ever.

  It’s been twenty-eight months. I think we both know this arrangement will at some point come to an end. Zadie will want to move on with her life. In theory, I want that for her, too. But frankly I can’t imagine getting through a day without her. And Caleb—well, right now Caleb can’t handle any more changes. His world’s been rocked enough.

  “Of course. No worries. You guys go have fun.”

  “You’re sure? I know this isn’t the easiest day for you.”

  “I’m fine, I promise.”

  “One last thing.” Zadie clears her throat, something she does right before she tells me something I don’t want to hear. “Dad called,” she says. “Just to check in on you.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’m not suggesting you call him back. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound stiff.

  “Anyway,” she says, speeding past the awkward tension that always arises whenever she mentions our father, “I’m making roast chicken tonight. Caleb’s favorite. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great.”

  In the background I hear a loud crash, followed by Norman’s plaintive howl. “Oh, fuck! Caleb’s playing dress-up with the dog again. Gotta run. See you soon.”

  “I’ll be home by six,” I say, but Zadie’s already hung up. “Home by six.” It’s been a really long time since I’ve uttered those three little words. They feel good, I think. They feel right. I’ve really got to say them more often.

  • • •

  I rush through the Harrison Brothers memorandum, giving it less of a close read than it probably deserves. After correcting a few typos, I fire off a quick one-liner to Fred with the memorandum attached. Given that it’s 164 pages long, I figure I’ve bought myself enough time for a leisurely dinner at least. With any luck, Fred won’t get back to me until tomorrow.

  My office door closes behind me with a satisfying thunk.

  “Heading home, Charlie?” My assistant, Lorraine, looks up from her cubicle. She looks hopeful, if vaguely perplexed, by the sight of me leaving while it’s still light out.

  “You bet, Lorraine. Case closed. Going home to see the kid.”

  She flashes me a thumbs-up. “Nice!” she says. “You deserve it. What’s it been this time? Three straight days in the office?”

  “Uh, seventy-five hours. Not that anyone’s counting.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “You lawyers sure know how to live.”

  “Livin’ the dream, Lorraine. Livin’ the dream.”

  The elevator door pings open.

  “Go,” she urges. “Go now before someone catches you.”

  “Thanks. If anyone calls—”

  She waves me off. “If anyone calls, I’m telling them you’re in a very important meeting with a very important client.”

  • • •

  I’m about to step into the elevator when I feel a stiff hand on my shoulder. I spin around and find myself face-to-face with Welles Peabody, the head of the firm’s Mergers and Acquisitions department. Welles is an old-school lawyer, the type who wears bow ties and seersucker suits without irony. He staffs his deals only with Ivy Leaguers who, like him, play a mean game of squash and mix a killer martini. Being that I’m just a lowly public university grad, Welles has almost never given me the time of day. I’m sure he squawked a little when Fred decided to hire me. Lately, though, Welles seems to be warming up to me. I get the occasional nod from him in the hallway, and just last month he stopped to congratulate me on the acquittal of Marcel Albin, the CEO of a multibillion-dollar hedge fund who had been accused of insider trading. Given that Welles chairs the partnership committee, he is at the top of my list of people I really need to start sucking up to.

  “Hello, Charlie,” he says with a stern nod. “Heading somewhere?”

  I feel my heart sink into my stomach. “Uh, well, sir, I was, you know, heading home.” I always get strangely tongue-tied around Welles.

  Welles frowns. “Home? So early?” He checks his watch, just to be sure he’s understanding the situation correctly.

  “Yes, well, I’ve actually been here for seventy-five hours, and I haven’t exactly slept or showered, so I was thinking—”

  Welles begins to nod, like Yes, yes, now I see. “Oh, Charlie,” he says. “You really don’t need to worry about changing for the cocktail party. I know the Lowell Club usually requires a tie, but everyone knows you’ve been slaving away on the Harrison Brothers suit, so we’re willing to cut you a little slack. And listen, if anyone at the door gives you a hard time, well, just tell them you know the club president.” He throws me a little jab to the ribs with his elbow.

  “Cocktail party?”
I say weakly. I watch as the elevator doors slide closed in front of me. Suddenly it all comes flooding back. I’ve gotten at least six reminder e-mails about tonight’s all-firm summer associate welcome party at the Lowell Club. It’s the kind of event that no one, under any circumstance, is allowed to miss. Every partner is there, and every potential partner is definitely there, hoping for a chance to schmooze with the higher-ups. Last year, my friend Moose actually drove from Boston just to attend the party for an hour.

  “Yes,” Welles says, looking impatient, “the summer associate welcome party. You didn’t forget, did you?”

  “No, sir, of course not. I’ve been looking forward to it. I just didn’t realize it was getting so late. I was hoping to, as you said, dash home and freshen up a bit.”

  Welles claps me on the back with an iron hand. “Nonsense, Charlie. Come as you are. In fact, if you’re headed that way now, I’ll walk with you. It will give us a chance to catch up.”

  I pause and look Welles directly in the eye. There is, I realize, no way to get out of this without lying my ass off.

  “Terrific, sir,” I hear myself say. “I’d like really that.”

  “You know, Charlie, everyone’s impressed by the effort you’ve put in on this Harrison case. But, son, I’ve been at this business for a very long time and I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” He gestures for me to come closer. “There are things in life that are more important than work. Sometimes, Charlie, you need to socialize. You need to relax, let your hair down a bit. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so, sir,” I say, and suppress a sigh.

  “Tonight, for example. I know there are probably e-mails you want to return, phone calls you have to make, documents you want to review. And I get that, son, really, I do. But tonight, it’s more important for you to come to the club and share a few ‘brewskis’ ”—here, Welles actually employs air quotations—“with the folks on the partnership committee. Let us get to know you. You deserve it, Charlie. Consider it a much-needed break.”

  The elevator doors ping open again, and Welles ushers me inside. As he drones on about the importance of socialization, I close my eyes and silently apologize to Caleb, my hilarious, eccentric, motherless five-year-old, who is, once again, about to be stood up for dinner.

  The Speech

  For those of you who have never been to the Lowell Club, let me set the scene for you. It’s a snobby, stuffy, exclusive establishment on the corner on Park Avenue and Fifty-Second Street, of which Welles Peabody is, fittingly, the president. The Lowell Club counts among its membership three ex-presidents, fourteen senators, two Supreme Court justices, and countless blue-blooded scions of the wealthiest and most powerful families in New England. It has no female members, no Jewish members, no members of color. There is a strict jacket-and-tie policy for men, and I’m almost certain that never in the club’s history has anyone ever asked for, or been served, a brewski. And yet, somehow, every year, all the attorneys of Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman gather together in its grand oak-paneled drawing room and attempt to make our summer associates—whatever gender, religion, or race they may be—feel like family.

  The coatroom attendant gives me a withering stare as I hand him my laptop bag. If I wasn’t standing next to Welles, it’s possible he would ignore me altogether. My hand shoots self-consciously to my collar; for the second time today I kick myself for wearing a cheap button-down and chinos from Men’s Wearhouse instead of one of my Brooks Brothers suits. Usually I’m a decent dresser. After ten years at the firm, I’ve amassed a reasonably nice wardrobe. I’m no George Clooney, but I look well enough in a suit. At six foot two, with broad shoulders and a paunch that’s easy enough to hide beneath a jacket, I’m assumed to be athletic even though I haven’t had time to go to the gym since law school. I’ve got a nice head of hair, too. Black and thick, with just a few streaks of silver running through it. Zadie calls it “Clark Kent” hair. You’d have to be drunk to confuse me with Christopher Reeve, but it’s what I’ve got, so I own it.

  When I walk past the mirrored door of the coatroom, however, I stop and do a double take. The face looking back at me is drawn and exhausted. I hardly recognize myself. After three nights of sleeping in my office, my hair looks like a hedgehog that just crawled out of an electrical socket. I’m sporting a three-day-old beard and my glasses are sitting slightly askew on my nose. No wonder the coat-check guy didn’t want to help me. He was probably wondering when the doctors in white coats were going to show up, cuff me, and drag me back to the asylum.

  The party is in full swing when Welles and I walk in. The chatter of 120 attorneys and eleven summer associates bounces off the high vaulted ceilings of the Lowell Club drawing room. There’s a bar at either end of the space, which everyone seems to be making good use of, and a handful of harried-looking waiters pass trays of minuscule hors d’oeuvres. As with everything at Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman, the room appears to be neatly divided by rank. The partners cluster together at the front of the room. The senior associates hang out nearby, hoping to be noticed by the partners. The mid-level associates gather in the center of the room, hoping to be noticed by the senior associates. Then come the junior associates and, finally, at the very back, the summer associates, who huddle around the bar and hope to be noticed by no one.

  Welles makes a beeline for Steve Mays and Fred Kellerman, who are standing, martinis in hand, at the front of the room like generals leading their troops into battle. On any other day I might have followed him. Walked right over, clapped Fred on the back, congratulated him on our milestone victory. Shaken hands with Steve, made sure he knew my name. And then, after a sufficiently brown-nosey amount of time, I would’ve excused myself to the bathroom, slipped down to the lobby, and made a dash for home.

  It’s not any other day, though. It’s Mira’s birthday, I’m late for dinner, and I’m not in the mood to suck up. So, the second Welles is one step ahead of me, I hang a sharp left and disappear into the crowd. Foolish, maybe. Cowardly, absolutely. But right now my mood is black and I’m nearing clinical levels of sleep deprivation, and so instead of risking embarrassment in front of the entire partnership committee, I figure it’s better to cut and run.

  As soon as I am lost in the sea of suits, I whip out my BlackBerry and send Zadie a frantic and mildly incoherent text indicating that I’ve been hijacked by a senior partner and will be home as soon as possible. When she doesn’t instantaneously respond with her customary “No worries,” I feel my heart sink a little. I’m sure she told Caleb to expect me for dinner.

  “WELL, LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN,” Jamie “Moose” McClennan announces loudly when he sees me, attracting the attention of everyone within a twenty-foot radius. When Moose speaks, he’s hard to ignore. He has a booming voice and a laugh like the Jolly Green Giant’s. He’s also six foot four, at least 250 pounds, and has recently grown himself a full, curly red beard that makes him look like the bastard love child of a Viking and a lumberjack. In fact, Moose is a bastard love child, but of socialite heiress Cassandra Moore, of the Kennebunkport Moores, and Hank McClennan, a local lobster fisherman with whom Cassandra once had a summer fling. Basically, this explains everything you need to know about Moose. He’s a study in contradictions. He’s wearing a suit tonight, which is a rarity, but he has artfully paired it with a loud plaid tie and hiking boots. If the guy hadn’t graduated number one in his class at Yale Law School and served as a Supreme Court clerk, there’s no way the Hardwick hiring committee would’ve let him through the door. But he did and he was, and so they’ve convinced themselves that Moose is simply a brilliant academic with a few charming eccentricities.

  “Holy hell, man. You look like you crawled out of a Dumpster. I’m surprised they let you into this joint.”

  “Says the guy in the hiking boots.”

  Moose lets out a roaring chuckle. “Whatever, man. This is style, right here.”

  “It’s definitely some kind of style.”

 
“A little flair never hurt no one. Anyway, you never know what kind of honeys might turn up. Us bachelors need to look our best.” He strikes a pose, drawing stares from the summer associate crowd.

  I roll my eyes. Moose is fully aware of my disinterest in dating. As for him, he gets embarrassingly inarticulate around attractive women. Mira tried twice to set him up. The first girl had to take Moose to the ER after he choked on a peanut. The second girl refused to give Mira a lot of detail, except to say that she didn’t find paintball to be the best venue to get to know someone. He means well, but there’s definitely a chip missing when it comes to Moose and dating. I chalk it up to the fact that he was homeschooled.

  “You look like you need a drink, dude. Seriously.” Moose ushers me over towards the bar. “Whatever you want. I’m buyin’.”

  “Awfully generous of you, sir.” I look at the bar, pondering my order. “Grey Goose and tonic, please,” I tell the bartender. “Actually you know what? Just make that Grey Goose straight, on the rocks. Thanks.”

  “Go big or go home!” Moose shouts. “I heard you guys got your case thrown out. That’s huge, man.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I feel my shoulders relax a little. It’s just beginning to sink in that the case that has dominated me for the last four years is actually over. In a day or so Marcia, the Litigation department staffer, will waddle her way down the hall to my office and inquire about my “capacity.” This is code for I hear your case was dismissed, so you obviously have the room to take on another soul-crushing eighty-hour-a-week assignment. But until that happens, I’m a free man.

  “You gonna celebrate tonight?”

  “Well, I was on my way out to see Caleb when Peabody kidnapped me.”

  “Oh, brutal, man. Can you sneak out?”

  “I have to.” I scan the room, looking for the best escape route. “I haven’t seen my boy in days.”

  “That’s disturbing. Seriously, Chuck, you need to go home. No one expects you to be here. And if they do, they’re assholes. How many hours did you clock on that thing?”