Jack With a Twist bm-2

by Brenda Janowitz

  “Our Jackie is such a mensch,” my mother says and throws her arms around Jack. My father looks over to me and we just look at each other. I know that he’s thinking: But didn’t they plan three other weddings already? but won’t say it.

  Truth be told, I’m sort of thinking the same thing, too.

  “Let us give the lovebirds some time to walk around and see our selection,” Maximo says, coming between all of us and taking Jack’s and my hands. “Now, go, lovebirds. Go and get inspired.” But, since he’s Spanish (or Italian), he says the “inspired” part as if in slow motion: een-spy-yeyrd. Which sort of does have the effect of inspiring me.

  Jack takes my hand and we begin to walk through the showroom. From the outside, it was hard to tell how large Maximo’s showroom would be, it looked like it would be the size of any regular Manhattan store, but as we walk through it, it keeps getting larger and larger, like one of those dreams where you discover that your very own house has extra hidden rooms that you never even knew about.

  “Why couldn’t you have been this diplomatic the other night when we were at your parents’ house?” I ask Jack, as we walk through a gazebo lined with pink hydrangeas.

  “You’re right,” Jack says, as he guides me toward a tiny bridge with a stream of running water flowing under it. “I agree with everything you just said and you are always 100 percent right. About everything. Always. Ever.”

  “I’m serious, Jack,” I say, looking down at the water. The waves are so delicate, so beautiful and the sound of the trickling water makes me wish that I could see the bottom of the pond.

  “You know how hard it is for me to have a relationship with my father,” Jack says, tugging at my arm so that I’m forced to turn and face him. “You know how hard it is to stand up to him. My family isn’t like yours.”

  Jack looks at me, baby blues deep and dark as night, and runs his fingers through his hair.

  “I know, Jackie,” I say. “I know.”

  “They are nothing like your family. And I’m just doing the best that I can with him,” Jack says. “Can’t you try to understand that for me?”

  “I know,” I say. “I just wish that you knew what was important.”

  “I know what’s important,” he says, mouth fighting back a smile, “Didn’t I tell you that you can buy as many Manolos as you want?”

  “And baby Manolos,” I say. “Which don’t even exist. You promised me those, too.”

  “Even baby Manolos. So, does this mean that you’re dropping the case?” he asks, eyes wide with anticipation.

  “God, no, Jackie,” I say, “this is the first client I’ve ever brought in and my first shot at being the lead attorney. Why should I be the one to drop the case? You should drop the case. There are a million different cases you could lead at Gilson, Hecht right at this very moment!”

  “But, this is a high-profile client,” Jack says, “and I need to show the big boys at the firm that I can handle the big clients. Especially Mel. How can I tell him now that I don’t want the case he brought in especially for me?”

  “Mel loves me,” I say, “just explain the situation to him.”

  “Mel would not understand. And anyway, word on the street is that Old Man Trattner is going to be coming in to visit the firm at the end of the month, and I want to make sure that I’ve got this high-profile case on my desk.”

  “I always forget that he’s still alive,” I say, remembering the days when I was an associate at Gilson, Hecht. When associates first get to Gilson, Hecht, they always think that the fact that the last named partner is still alive is like a law firm urban legend—that he doesn’t really exist, that he’s just a ghost used by partners to put the fear of God into associates (“You think working until midnight is bad? Back when Old Man Trattner was still here, he would have made us work straight through the night and checked up on us at 3:00 a.m. to make sure we hadn’t dozed off!”). But the truth is, Milt Trattner just moved out to California and is teaching anti-trust law at U.C.L.A. “Isn’t he, like over one hundred years old? Is it even safe for him to fly?”

  “He’s one hundred and three. But that’s not the point. I’m a partner now in a firm that has four hundred attorneys, and I have to start making a name for myself.”

  “Well, I’m almost a senior associate now,” I say, “and I need to start taking the lead on cases and bringing in clients if I want to make partner.”

  “If that’s the way you want it,” Jack says, “then that’s fine. You keep your case and I’ll keep mine. But just one warning—I am going to cut you into twelve little pieces and feed you to the jury. So get prepared for it!”

  “Don’t be silly, Jackie,” I say, “dissolution of partnership cases don’t go to trial.”

  “It’s a movie quote,” he says, smiling down at me.

  “Since when do you quote movies?” I ask.

  “I quote movies,” Jack says.

  Since when does Jack quote movies?

  “Lovebirds!” Maximo calls out, “are you een-spy-yeyrd?”

  “Very,” Jack says.

  “Well, good,” Maximo says, “I am glad. And I am glad that you found our little pond. You throw a penny in and make a wish now, no?”

  Jack and I look at each other and Maximo announces that he has a penny for each of us to toss.

  “I give you a moment to come up with a wish.”

  “I don’t need a moment,” Jack says, “I know what I wish for.”

  “Me, too,” I say, looking at Jack.

  “Then, let’s do it,” Jack says as Maximo smiles and hands us each a penny.

  We both close our eyes and throw our respective pennies into the pond.

  10

  “You do not look like James Bond,” I say.

  “Of course I do,” Jack says, not even looking at me, waving the zappy gun menacingly at the row of crystal bowls we’re browsing. We’re at Tiffany and Co. today to register since my parents’ friends apparently went to Tiffany to buy us an engagement gift and we were—gasp!—not registered there yet. (“The Goldmans said that you are still not registered at Tiffany’s. I could not believe my ears. Still not registered at Tiffany’s? Still? Well, when they told me I was horrified. Horrified!”)

  “You don’t,” I say, grabbing the gun from him to zap the Harmony bowl onto our registry. I’ve bought that bowl for so many engaged couples that I’ve lost count. I know that I should be thrilled that I am now the one registering for it, but all I can do is be annoyed at Jack for acting so juvenile. Who is this man-child and what has he done with my fiancé?

  Why does Tiffany’s even give out these stupid zappy guns to couples who are registering, anyway? You would think that a classy joint like Tiffany and Co. wouldn’t want to give couples a scanner to scan merchandise directly onto their registry. You’d think that they’d ask you to write them a formal note on perfumed stationery detailing just exactly which items you would like on your registry instead of letting all of their couples make a scene in the store by having them walk around debating the merits of the basketweave pattern versus the plaid. More importantly, don’t they know that the men who hold the scanners will instantly revert to children and start using the scanning guns as toys?

  I had this image of us walking into Tiffany’s—a modern-day Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard—behaving elegantly as we registered for all of the things that we would need for our glamorous new life together. I even wore a black shift dress and beige raincoat. Instead, my fiancé began playing with the gun like a six-year-old, thus testing our relationship to its very brink.

  “Gimme that,” he says, grabbing the gun from my hands, “those Russians are on our tails.” And with that, he begins to skulk behind the glassware.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” I whisper loudly as I follow him behind the rock-cut beer mugs.

  “Shhh!” he says, pointing at another couple around the same age as us who are also registering, “the Russian couple!”

  “First of a
ll,” I say, “they’re not Russian, Jackie.”

  “Yes, they are,” he whispers. “And use my code name, Hannibal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hannibal,” he says, crawling past the wineglasses straight toward the bowls. “You said that I had to be George Peppard today.”

  “Get up!” I say, pulling Jack up off the ground from his shirt collar, “His character’s name was not Hannibal.”

  “Well, I’m George Peppard from the A-Team,” he says, “George Peppard from Breakfast at Tiffany’s was a huge wimp.”

  “You can’t just pick whatever George Peppard you want to be,” I say.

  “The Russians!” he says, pulling me behind the wall that separates the personal shoppers from the rest of the floor.

  “Stop this,” I say, “You’re George Peppard from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Start behaving accordingly.”

  “A-Team!”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my fiancé?”

  “Please, Brooke,” he whispers, “we don’t want the Russians to attack. We’re vulnerable by the glassware. Let’s move to the sterling silver.”

  “You do realize that you’re supposed to be the normal one in this relationship,” I say as he drags me across the floor to the sterling silver. And he’s right, there’s much more cover in the sterling silver section. It’s just that my father will kill me if I register for any sterling silver that could be gotten for cheaper out on Long Island at Morell’s.

  “Do you see the Russians?” Jack asks, his back to the display case.

  “Okay, they are not Russian!” I say. “They are just another couple registering for their wedding, just like us.”

  “Well, actually, Brooke,” Jack says, “both of my grandmothers were born in Russia, as was my grandfather on my mother’s side.”

  “Could you focus on the task at hand, please,” I say, taking the gun away from him.

  “Shouldn’t you just be happy that I came?” Jack asks. “Most men make their fiancées do all the work by themselves. But, I’m here. So, can’t you just appreciate that and let me have a little fun instead of being bored to death?”

  “Oh, my God, Jackie, you’re bored to death?”

  “Kind of,” he says, “but I know it’s important to you, so I’m here.”

  “Jackie,” I sing, grabbing him for a kiss. “That is so sweet of you.”

  “Of course, sweetie,” he says as he glances back to the table filled with crystal bowls. “But you can do Bloomie’s with your mother, right?”

  “Right,” I say with a smile.

  “Hey, are these the Georgetown bowls?” Jack says, picking up a crystal bowl and turning it over. It’s a large crystal bowl, but rather plain. It lacks the elegant lines of the Harmony bowl, and has big sides that look cumbersome—like they’d always get in the way. I never would have chosen it myself, but if Jack wants it, I suppose I don’t mind.

  “Miranda says that we should register for the Georgetown bowl,” Jack says, getting the scanner ready to zap.

  Miranda? Why is Miranda telling him what to register for?

  “Why is Miranda telling us what to register for?” I ask, taking the bowl from his grasp under the pretense of taking a closer look at it.

  “She says it makes a great salad bowl,” he says, baby blues shining. He seems so excited about having suggested something for our registry that I barely have the heart to tell him that I really don’t care what Miranda thinks we should register for, since she’s not our friend. She’s just someone who works for Jack.

  Not like I’m jealous of her or anything. But, really. How dare he invoke her name while we are in the temple of Tiffany and Co. (And if you don’t think that shopping at Tiffany’s is a religious experience, clearly you’ve never been there.)

  “It’s at a good price point,” Jack says, smiling. “Didn’t your mother tell us that we should register for things in a wide variety of price points?”

  “Zap it in,” I say, forcing a smile. I think to myself that I can always delete it off of our registry later online.

  “Will do,” Jack says, and turns around to zap the totally boring Georgetown bowl into our registry.

  “Gotcha!” the faux Russian guy says, coming from out of nowhere, pointing his zappy thingy at Jack. Jack clutches his chest and pretends to fall to the floor. I do what any woman in my position would do—stand there with my mouth wide open, waiting for faux Russian guy’s fiancée to arrive so that we can roll our eyes at our respective men-children.

  “Brooke,” he chokes out, “just remember how much I love you. (Cough.) I want you to go on without me and live a happy life. (Cough, cough.) Don’t mourn me for the rest of your life. And—whatever you do—don’t register for that Metropolitan vase. I really hate it.” He coughs a bit more, just for good measure, and then collapses completely onto the floor, moaning all the way.

  I am not amused. Again, and I really can’t stress this enough, he’s supposed to be the normal one in this relationship.

  “Who are you?” I say, and take his gun and start zapping silver serving spoons indiscriminately.

  “Boys and their toys,” a woman, whom I can only assume is the faux Russian fiancée says to me, rolling her eyes. “Just give them a phallus and they can play all day.” Um, okay, can’t we just call them little boys? Was that phallus remark really necessary? That comment totally ruined Tiffany and Co. for me for the day. Perhaps forever.

  But, maybe they really are Russian. That post-perestroika tough-talking sort of Russian woman who simply tells it like it is. After all, she does have pitch-black straight hair, pale skin and bloodred lipstick. I ask you, what says Russian woman more than black hair, pale skin and red lipstick? And her fiancé has pale blond hair, even paler skin and a tall, skinny frame that totally screams Baryshnikov in White Nights.

  Or, she could just be totally correct. There was something disturbingly phallic about the zappy guns at Tiffany’s, with their long noses and thick bases.

  Eeew. Now I’ve grossed myself out.

  “Let me give you a hand there,” faux Russian says to Jack, as he helps pull Jack up off of the floor.

  “Thanks,” Jack says, brushing off his pants and running his hand through his hair.

  “No problem,” faux Russian says. “I’m Yuri. And this is my fiancée, Natasha.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking their hands as Jack introduces us. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the edges of Jack’s mouth creep into a sly smile.

  “So,” Jack says, putting his arm around my waist and giving me a squeeze, “you guys are Russian, huh?”

  Jack smiles, and I must admit, I smile a bit, too, at the ridiculousness of the situation, but really, all I can think is: Who is this man and what has he done with my perfect fiancé?

  11

  “So, how’s the Monique case going?” Noah asks me, peeking his head into my office.

  “Great,” I say, smiling at him, “just great!”

  And why shouldn’t I feel great? After all, I’ve got the litigation totally under control. I’ve researched the law on dissolution of partnership, studied Monique’s partnership agreement, analyzed her non-compete clause, and even had the case fast-tracked in an effort to avoid unwanted media exposure. So, I’ve got it all in the bag.

  “Litigating against your fiancé is going all right?” Noah asks, furrowing his brow. When he found out that Jack was the Gilson, Hecht partner on the matter, he wanted me to pass the case off to another associate, but I stood firm. I’m really going to prove myself on this matter and nothing’s going to stand in my way.

  “Of course!” I say, “In fact, it’s even better than I could have imagined. With Monique’s husband, it would have been a bit of a challenge to negotiate a settlement. But, with Jack against me, it’ll be a piece of cake! The man is putty in my hands. I almost feel sort of sorry for him, you know?” Now, I know I was laying it on a bit thick, but Noah Goldberg is one of the founding partners of the
firm and I just want to assure him that my case is going well.

  And, okay, Jack may not be actual putty in my hands—he didn’t drop the case when I asked (read: begged) him to—but, I know that he’ll treat me with kid gloves in this litigation and I plan to exploit that to the fullest extent allowed by law. You see, in a normal litigation I know exactly what Jack would do. Seeing that his opposition is a firm that’s much smaller than Gilson, Hecht, with much fewer resources, he’d begin the discovery process by burying the other side in a massive document production that would take them weeks to produce. He’d request thousands of pages of documents from the other side that they, in turn, would have to get from their client, review for relevancy and attorney-client privilege, and then number, stamp and photocopy. Given that our case is fast-tracked, the deadline would be even sooner than a regular document production, and in requesting as many documents as he could think of, he’d force the other side to concentrate all of their energy into putting together the requested documents instead of working on case strategy, which would then allow him to use all of that time to work on his own case strategy and easily win the case while the other side is inundated with minutiae.

  But, my Jackie would never do that to me. Thank God, really, because I have a million wedding dress appointments to go to in the next two weeks.

  “Putty?” Noah says to me, “Really?”

  “Yes,” I say in a stage whisper, “it’s almost embarrassing.”

  “That would be embarrassing,” he says, “if you hadn’t just been served with a discovery request.” He walks over to my desk and throws a legal document on top of the case law that I was reviewing. “So much for putty.”

  Served?

  How can that be? Jack and I had a very romantic dinner last night and he didn’t mention a thing to me about serving me with discovery requests. How could he do this to me when I was such a fabulous fiancée last night? I even cooked for him! Well, not so much cooked as ordered a Heat-and-Eat meal from Fresh Direct, but I did totally unpack the box and then heat it up for him! And picked up a bottle of wine and a cheesecake on the way home, to boot! He is really taking this Chinese Wall thing seriously.