The message was as subtle as the Parkers’ annual Christmas lights glowing into my parent’s front room from across the street every year, casting enough yellow and green and red to make the walls seem like they’ve been painted: the life I’m living, the things I’ve achieved, they’re not just for me. I’m keeping the dream alive for all of us.
__________
I’m flipping through channels and licking cheese dust off my fingers when my dad finally comes in the front door. He steps out of his hiking boots and lugs four canvas totes with the green Cheddar and Better logo emblazoned on the front to the dining room table.
“You brought more?” I say.
He nods. “Mostly extras from the gift baskets, heavily Christmas-themed.” He grabs a pretty bag of peppermint-stick chocolate, tied with a red ribbon. “You want?”
“I love those things.”
He tosses it to me, shrugs out of his coat and then collapses in the brown leather recliner next to the couch. “Mom asleep?”
“Yeah. Worn-out from all the cooking.”
We grin at each other. “How did the heritage turkey drama turn out?” When my mom and I left, he had been dealing with a last-minute shortage: two fewer turkeys delivered than customers in need.
“The backup farm in Tennessee covered one, and I gave Mrs. Baxter some Cornish game hens and a ham on the house. I think it gave me an ulcer, though.” He shakes his head. “I’m so glad you’re not in this business.”
“I promise you, Dad. My business is not so different.” I imagine presenting one of my clients with a comped Cornish game hen. Roast this with butter and garlic, and I swear you’ll forget all about that pesky restraining order against you!
He rakes his hands through his light brown hair. “Trust me. Law school? A profession? Smartest thing you could’ve done.”
“All right, Dad,” I say, to end the conversation. I don’t want him getting teary-eyed about the Bacon Payne benefits package again.
He reaches behind his glasses to rub his eyes and blinks at the TV. “What are we watching?”
“Not sure.” I look at the screen for a few seconds. “Oh, Teen Mom.”
He snorts. “What?”
“It’s about teenagers who get pregnant.”
“You’re kidding me.” He shifts uncomfortably.
“Hey, you and Mom could’ve starred on it,” I say, lifting my eyebrows with mock excitement.
“Yeah, that would have made for great TV.”
“You know,” I continue to goad him, “isn’t it weird, when Mom was my age, she had an eleven-year-old? Can you imagine me with an eleven-year-old?”
He shudders. “I would kill you if you got pregnant.”
“Dad! Are you kidding? I’m twenty-nine. Most people are of the opinion that it’s acceptable and safe to procreate by then.”
He stops and stares, his green eyes boring into mine in a way that reminds me of being sixteen and having to tell him that I crashed the family car into a parking meter. “Are you trying to tell me something, missy?”
“No, no. Just teasing.”
“Thank God. Listen up, Molls. You’re doing everything right. Get as established as you can before you get bogged down with everything else.”
“Okay.” I raise my fist in a power salute.
“And after that near heart attack, I’m done for the day. Good night, kid.”
“’Night.”
I go over to his canvas bags and sort lazily through the new offerings. Shoved down to the bottom of the bag, between a tin of Moravian spice cookies and a bag of peanut brittle, is the day’s mail.
I’m putting a uniform stack of letters on the buffet when I see the envelope from United Bank. I open it: the minimum payment on their home equity loan is two months past due. I slip the bill in my pocket, knowing that I can pay it without a confrontation; my parents are hard workers, but they do seem to lose track of the details. I’m not sure whether this is a side effect of constantly scrambling or simply being in denial.
Whatever the case, it has allowed me to quietly pay off quite a few of their bills without being detected. My dream is that in twenty months—after receiving the Payne-ment—I’ll be able to wipe out their entire loan, silently. I never used to understand the anonymous donor thing, but now I do: no awkward scenes, uncomfortable expressions of gratitude or rebukes about how the money should have been spent. Everyone just walks away breathing a sigh of relief.
I flip around the channels until I land on an Elf marathon. For some reason—maybe the poignancy of an overgrown Will Ferrell reuniting with his dad, maybe the newfound realization of just how little my dad wants grandkids—I catch myself thinking about Fern Walker, who is missing yet another Christmas with her children.
Before I can stop it, my mind moves to Karen Block. As always, when I think about her, I am almost suffocated by a queasy comprehension of the world’s failings. Elf takes on a sinister pall. How have I never realized how tragic this movie is? A special-needs man-child is abandoned by his mother and then shunned by his father.
I press the remote until I get to MTV. Better. It’s one of those mindless reality shows about a teenager named Ashleigh with a manufactured problem: she is athletic, but she longs to wear heels and a tiara. So wear frigging heels and a tiara, I think, forcing my mind away from Karen Block, from Fern. It’s not my problem; I’m sure her lawyer is deep into building a parental alienation case soon and she won’t be in the same situation next year.
I focus on the show. It takes a while, but as I watch a stammering and giggly Ashleigh ask out the captain of the football team, I feel my equilibrium return.
10
____
the acoustics in the ladies’ room
By late January, the days that I spent in Hillsborough over Christmas seem like something I’ve heard about secondhand. As Liz had promised, the New Year makes people take stock of their lives: gym membership, closet cleaning and kicking out their spouses.
I’m alone in the elevator after dropping off an agreement with Word Processing. I can’t help but glare at the Factsination! screen, which, ever helpful, informs me simply that unmarried people are 70 percent more likely to die of heart disease. As the doors open on the tax floor, Hope steps in. “You look pissed,” she says. She’s chic as ever in a crisp gray suit, but her face is pale and her lips are chapped and bitten.
I relax my features rather than attempt to explain my complicated relationship with Factsination! “How are you? I haven’t really seen you since the Christmas party.”
She grimaces.
“That bad?”
“I’ve been better. Lillian’s not happy with me right now.”
“What? Why?” Hope is a hard worker. She doesn’t sweat the small stuff, but she constantly pulls all-nighters and has a lot of responsibility, which I have always interpreted as a sign of her competence. Maybe she isn’t as on the ball as I had thought.
“It’s not just one thing, but at the moment, she’s mad because she doesn’t like the way I handled the Hermann settlement proposal. And now she wants to look at a prenuptial agreement draft that I did.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“I think I have it under control,” she says as we get off on thirty-seven, “but thanks.”
Lillian usually keeps as far away as possible from the actual nuts and bolts of the work. It’s hard to imagine her wanting to see the first draft of anything.
__________
Two days later, Lillian calls me on her cell phone from a seminar where she’s speaking. “Molly, a favor.”
“Sure.”
“Can you handle one more case? Frankly, I need your work ethic.”
“Of course.” It’s not like Lillian to ask before assigning work.
“I knew you’d be there for me. You’re really turning into something. Go ask Kim for the Hermann file.”
“Oh. The Hermann file.” Hope’s case.
She senses my hesitation and her sharp tone
softens, sharing a confidence. “Between you and me, Hope doesn’t seem up to the challenge of seeing it through—or much else, for that matter. It’s a mess. She really fucked up the support provisions, but I know you’ll fix it.”
After I hang up, I go into Liz’s office and shut the door.
“Um. Lillian just gave me one of Hope’s cases.”
“Welcome to the club.” She gestures to her windowsill where three files sit, newly removed from Hope’s office.
“It’s a trend?”
Liz nods.
“Should I tell Hope?”
“No need. She already knows that it’s being done and it will just get her upset.”
“What’s going on? I thought Hope was a good lawyer.”
Liz sighs. “She is. This isn’t about that.” She pauses, selecting her words with care. “You should be…careful with Lillian. When she likes you, things are great, but if something rubs her the wrong way…”
“What did Hope do?”
“According to Hope, nothing. But you know how Hope is—she doesn’t really play the game. She might have turned down some of Lillian’s invitations or not been as ‘there’ as Lillian wanted.” The phone rings. “Oh, I have to take this. Talk later, okay?”
__________
Like many big fancy firms, Bacon Payne makes the offices as comfortable as possible so that we employees will never need to leave.
In addition to the dining room, the New York offices have a gym, with yoga classes scheduled in the early morning and late at night; free breakfasts on Tuesdays; free sandwiches on Thursdays; and themed happy hour on Fridays, along with pantries stocked with snack food on every floor.
Some of the amenities sounded better in theory than they are in practice. When you get right down to it, does anyone really want to strike a downward dog pose—in spandex—behind the partner who just made you cry?
Nobody could disparage the Bacon Payne restrooms, however. They are nothing short of glorious.
I’ve been to many of the fanciest law firms in New York, and without fail, no matter the plushness of the carpets or the exquisiteness of the artwork decorating the walls, once the restroom door is pushed open, the scene is industrial-deco at best: fluorescent lighting and chipped laminate stalls cut off at the knees in off-putting colors like maize yellow or powder blue, punctuated by rusted locks and gunked-up bag hooks.
Not at Bacon Payne. First, you enter the anteroom lounge, which has thick gray carpeting, two full-length mirrors, a couch and a vanity. On the vanity is a basket with sanitary napkins, hair spray, Tylenol, Advil and ever-changing hand lotions, as though we’re all attending a wedding instead of relieving ourselves during a sixteen-hour workday. Beyond the lounge are the commodes themselves, poised chicly on an onyx marble floor with full-length ivory doors. Offering dignity and privacy, the Bacon Payne ladies’ room is far nicer than my home bathroom, which is probably the point.
My ear is bright red and ringing. I’ve had the phone receiver pressed against it for the past two hours while stuck on three successive calls about which parent has responsibility for Harold’s college tuition and SAT prep courses. Harold is five.
I’ve allotted myself three minutes to chill out, sit in the cushy chairs and sample the different hand lotions. Today’s flavors are pink and berrylike or citrusy. I have no idea who puts them there.
My work schedule has been unrelenting lately. I and the other matrimonial associates spend our days doing actual work—handling clients and going to court. Consequently, all my drafting work—and there’s a lot: motions, court papers, deposition outlines, settlement agreements and proposals—is pushed to the off-hours, evenings and weekends.
I’ve gotten into a routine.
I get to the office between eight thirty and nine thirty. Breakfast is coffee. Lunch is from the cafeteria and eaten at my desk. Dinner, usually Chinese, sushi or Italian, is ordered en masse by Lillian’s “girls.” When the food arrives—usually around eight—Liz, Rachel and I file into a conference room, plastic black take-out containers in tow. Hope joins us occasionally, although these days she has been eating at her desk.
I work six full days a week and am usually home for the evening between ten o’clock and twelve o’clock. When I have motion papers due, I work the entire weekend. And three times since I’ve started, I’ve had so much work that I’ve pulled an all-nighter. It’s a lot of hours, but still fewer than the corporate group.
I squint in the mirror and dab at a mascara smear under my eye, only to realize that it is a dark circle. I must be tired, because I’m hearing things. I swear someone is yelling, which never happens in the sterile and staid halls of Bacon Payne. Still hear it. Wait—is that Lillian? I move closer to the door and lean my ear against it.
“Horrible! Just a fucking travesty!”
It is Lillian. I’ve never heard her yell like this. I open the door a crack and hear another, quieter voice.
“I’m sorry. Just let me try to fix things. How can I—”
Shit. It’s Hope. With the door open, I can hear them clearly but not see them. They must be in the hall adjacent to the bathroom hall, smack in the middle of the offices and secretary carrels. If their fight is audible from the bathroom, it is everywhere else on the floor too. I freeze.
“No, Hope! I don’t want to fucking hear it. You messed up. You messed up! You just glide through life, not caring about anything, thinking everyone will just hand you things. Well, this is a meritocracy and you haven’t earned shit.”
“But I was just trying to—” Is Hope crying?
“You think anyone respects you? They don’t. Everyone knows you’re just a pretty face. Just a pretty face, expecting the same handouts Mommy and Daddy give you. How much attention goes into what you’re wearing, Hope? How much time and money into picking out that pretty little pendant necklace, that neat little dress, fitted just so, and those shoes! So much attention to how you look and what you’re wearing. You’re an empty, shallow girl.”
Wow. Compared to this, the corporate group’s fuck you, stupids are like a warm hug.
I leave the bathroom and turn right, taking the internal staircase to thirty-eight, crossing the hallway upstairs and going down another internal staircase to get to my office without having to walk past them. By the time I get back, it’s quiet.
I e-mail Liz.
are you there?
No response. I remember that she’s out of the office for a deposition and I e-mail Rachel.
did you hear that?!
who didn’t? Right outside my office, 5 ft from me. am trapped.
I pick at my cuticles and try to read a fax, but can’t concentrate. Nothing registers.
I click “Send/Receive” on my monitor screen several times until something appears. It’s another e-mail from Rachel.
lillian is on her way out of the office for a meeting, probably gone for the day. hope is packing up her things.
When I get to her office, Hope—her eyes red and watery, her face blotchy—is taking down picture frames. Rachel is already there, unfolding flat cardboard into Bankers Boxes and lids.
“You’re leaving?” I ask. “Did she fire you?”
“She didn’t come right out and fire me, but how could I work here after that?” Hope tries to smile, but her lips quiver instead. She looks at Rachel. “You know how it goes. I’m dead now.”
How it goes? Has this happened before?
I grab a tissue from Hope’s desk and hand it to her. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been interviewing at other firms since the cold freeze started, just in case. I almost have an offer from Knight, Weston & Woodley. Something will work out.”
Rachel nods. “Oh, that’s a great place. You’ll be fine.”
I nod too, but am chilled by the thought of poor Hope having to start from scratch at another law firm.
“That was awful, though. Was it the worst?” says Hope.
Rachel pauses and considers. �
��Not even close. It didn’t approach the Jennifer London level. Remember how she played us that voice mail message Lillian left her saying no one would ever love her because she was too desperate and clingy?”
“Yeah.” Hope makes a sound between a giggle and a hiccup. “And at least it wasn’t outside of the cafeteria.”
Rachel unfolds another Bankers Box. “That was before my time, but I heard about it.” She explains, “Bethany Carter took a three-week honeymoon after having the balls to get married, and Lillian cornered her right when she got back and told her that she was destined to become”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“a jobless hausfrau.”
“She does this a lot?”
Hope nods. “Oh, yeah. This is her MO. Anyone who is less than one hundred percent available gets on the shit list. And once you’re on the shit list, forget it. I felt like I’d proven myself, you know. Like she genuinely liked me and was happy with my work. So I guess I let my guard down—I excused myself from her office when I had heard an inane war story before, missed a girls’ night once this fall to see my friend who was visiting from Boston. I guess I tempted fate.”
“That’s crazy. You’re here all the time.”
“I know. And when she started to give me the cold shoulder, I thought maybe if I didn’t challenge her and tried to play doormat, it would be okay.” She grabs a box and slams it down on her desk. “That fucking cunt. I spent three and a half years of my life catering to her every whim. I hate her.”
“What about Liz?” I ask.
“What about Liz?”
“Well, she’s worked here six years. Has Lillian freaked out on her?”
Hope looks at me like I’m crazy. “I love Liz—don’t get me wrong—but she drank the Kool-Aid a long time ago.”
“What about Henry?” I know I am bordering on being insensitive, but my foundation is shifting. It’s like finding out that my parents are part of the witness protection program or something.
The Love Wars Page 7