Jack With a Twist bm-2

by Brenda Janowitz

  I look down at the table and grab at the paper napkin under my mug. I tear it into two, and then four.

  “Why do you do that?” my mother asks, finally laying off my father for a moment and directing her energy at me.

  I shrug in response since I have no idea what she’s talking about. I tear the paper napkin into eight.

  “That thing with your hands,” she says. “Whenever you get nervous or upset, you grab at the closest paper product and just begin to tear it into pieces. Why do you do that?”

  “It’s just a bad habit, I guess,” I say. “It’s just like when you start picking at your fingernails or when Dad’s face gets beet-red. Just something I do.”

  “You do tend to do that when you get nervous, don’t you?” my mother says.

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “Tear things apart.”

  24

  “Usually when you break up with someone, you move in with me,” Vanessa says. We’re on the fifth floor of Saks, searching for suitable “date” clothing (read: slutty) for Vanessa. “Should I be offended?”

  “I seem to recall that when I stay with you,” I say, picking up a Nanette Lepore camisole for Vanessa to try on, “I have to train for the New York City marathon with you, and I really think that at this point, I’ve been through enough torture.”

  “It’s good for you,” Vanessa says, grabbing every Marc Jacobs camisole in her size, and piling it onto her arms, “running helps clear your head.”

  A salesperson comes by and asks us if we want to start a dressing room. We pile the clothes into her arms, and then get started on the Cynthia Steffe collection.

  “I broke my ankle last time I went running with you,” I remind Vanessa.

  “It was just a sprain,” she says, barely looking up from the green sundress she’s checking the price on.

  “I’m not running with you,” I say loudly over the racks to her, being sure to mouth the words clearly, so that there’s no confusion, even though she’s not even looking at me.

  “Well, you have to get out of your parents’ house,” she says, turning back to face me. “If you want, you can move in with me and I won’t make you run.”

  “I think I’ll just stay where I am,” I say, as we head back to the dressing rooms. “I’m kind of liking staying with my parents, actually.”

  “Even with Mimi?” Vanessa says, turning to me and raising an eyebrow.

  “Even with Mimi,” I say, surprising myself as I say it. Normally there’s a threshold on the amount of time I can actually spend with my mother, but this past week, she’s been uncharacteristically well-behaved.

  “Suit yourself,” Vanessa says, walking into a fitting room. Then, as she shuts the door: “So, I’m dating this new man.”

  “What?” I say, trying to open the dressing room door, but Vanessa’s got it locked already. So I say into the door: “Tell me all about him! Wait, this isn’t the guy who was so short that he only came up to your boobs?”

  Vanessa opens the dressing room door and comes out in a Theory wrap dress that fits her slender figure perfectly. She does a quick spin in the three-way mirror and casually says: “No, it’s not boob-level guy. It’s another guy.”

  “Not the one who told you that it was unconscionable to wear such expensive shoes when children are starving to death in Africa?”

  “No, not him, either,” Vanessa says, looking down at her Chanel four-inch-heel spectator pumps without realizing it. “It’s another guy. But, I think that maybe this one I’ll keep to myself.”

  I furrow my brow. “We don’t keep anything to ourselves,” I remind Vanessa.

  “True,” she says, “but, just this once, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to conceal the fact that she’s piqued my interest. I’ll have to take her for high tea at the Saks restaurant next. Their scones would make anyone spill their guts.

  “Thanks for that,” she says, as she retreats to her fitting room. “I really appreciate it. So, have you spoken to Jack yet?”

  “No,” I say, “Why would I talk to Jack? There’s really nothing to talk about.”

  “Of course there is,” Vanessa says, walking out of the fitting room in a Nanette Lepore top that is so low-cut, her navel practically shows. “There’s tons to talk about.”

  “Only buy that top if you are planning to give this new man of yours a coronary,” I say, as Vanessa turns from side to side to inspect the top.

  “Really? I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Vanessa says, smiling, and turns around to go back to her fitting room. “When are you going to see him?”

  “See who?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, who?” she asks. “Jack.”

  “I’m not going to see Jack,” I say.

  “Well, don’t you have to at least see him to give back his grandmother’s engagement ring?” she asks, as she walks out in a Marc Jacobs dress that looks a bit too big on her.

  I look back at her blankly.

  “You can’t possibly keep it,” she says, turning around so that I can zip her up. “Are you thinking about keeping it?”

  “Actually, according to the laws of the state of New York,” I say, sitting back down, “I don’t have to give back the ring. Since Jack gave it to me as a gift in contemplation of marriage, and then effectively broke off our engagement, I get to keep the ring.”

  “It was his grandmother’s ring,” she says, spinning around to look at me. “The ring that the man’s grandfather came home from the Second World War with and then gave to the man’s grandmother. It is a family heirloom. You can’t possibly be serious.”

  “I’m just saying that in the eyes of the law, I’m well within my rights to keep it. That ring was a gift with a promise attached to it. A promise that he in turn, couldn’t deliver on.”

  “I don’t remember that from law school,” Vanessa says, “in fact, I recall just the opposite. I’m pretty sure that, legally, you have to give the ring back.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head, “I don’t think so.”

  “What grade did you get in first-year Property?” she asks, as she walks back to her dressing room.

  “An A-, thank you very much,” I call out to her.

  “Well, I got an A,” she yells back at me, “so, I’m right.”

  “Professor Silverman didn’t test the law of engagement rings on the final,” I say, “so that really doesn’t prove a thing.”

  “Your argument’s got a big flaw, anyway, Brooke,” Vanessa says, walking out of the dressing room in her own clothing, holding a big pile of clothes. “You called off the engagement.”

  “No,” I say, as Vanessa and I make our way to the cash register, “I maintain that he called it off by acting in such a way that I had no other option but to call off the engagement. But for his behavior, we would still be engaged. Thus, it stands to reason that he forced me to call it off. So, in the eyes of the law, it would totally be considered his fault.”

  “If that’s the sort of logic you’re using in your Monique case,” she says, piling her clothes onto the counter so that we can check out, “you’re definitely going to lose.”

  “The way he acted in Tiffany’s—” I begin, only to be cut off by Vanessa.

  “You’re breaking off your engagement because you don’t like the way he used a zappy gun?”

  “No,” I say, “you know that that’s not it at all. Registering at Tiffany’s was just the beginning of the end. It was the first time that I realized that I didn’t really know him at all.

  It snowballed from there—next came the way he litigated against me—”

  “That’s because you two never should have been opposing each other in court in the first place,” Vanessa says, handing over her credit card to the cashier.

  “The way his family treated mine,” I say.

  “You’re marrying Jack,” she says, turning to face me, “not his family. If I’d judged Marcus by his family, we’d have never made it down the aisle. You’ve met h
is sister. What was it that you called her?”

  “Now whose argument is flawed?” I say, turning to face her, too. “You divorced Marcus.”

  “But still,” she says.

  “But still nothing,” I say. “I think your argument proves my point. Maybe you should judge a guy by his family. I remember what I called Marcus’s sister that time I met her. But, I’m a lady, so I refuse to repeat it.”

  “You know, Brooke,” Vanessa says, “people get very stressed when it comes to planning weddings and stuff. I’m sure that Jack’s family isn’t nearly as bad in reality as they were in the course of planning this wedding. I’m sure they were just as stressed about all of this as you. Let’s just assume that what we saw wasn’t actually the real them. I’m sure that if you just explained to Jack how you really feel, he’d save the day and fix everything for you. Just like he always does.”

  “Well, it’s too late for that now,” I say, grabbing one of Vanessa’s shopping bags while she grabs the other one and the garment bag, “so let’s go get a bite to eat in the café. I’m thinking scones?”

  I will be finding out who Vanessa’s mystery man is, no matter how many scones it takes.

  When I walk in the door from work the following evening at 11:00 p.m., my mother’s still up, boxing up engagement and wedding presents to ship back to their respective senders. She’s in a pale-pink robe that I bought for her for Mother’s Day last year. She always wears pretty robes and nightgowns to sleep—something about advice her great-aunt gave her as a newlywed about “always keeping the magic alive”—so that’s been my go-to present for her for as long as I can recall.

  “Late day, huh?” she says, looking up from her bubble wrap. “Want something to eat?”

  “I grabbed a slice of pizza at the office,” I say, throwing my work bag down in the foyer and taking off my jacket.

  “Reminds me of when you worked at Gilson, Hecht,” my mother says.

  “Please don’t even mention the name of that law firm to me,” I say, slipping my shoes off and sitting down next to her in the living room.

  “It’s just that you seem to be working just as hard now as when you left the firm,” she says, putting down the industrial roll of tape she’d been using. “See, I didn’t mention the name.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and grab the roll of tape to help her seal up a box from Crate and Barrel. “I’m on a very high-profile case. You know that.”

  “You’ve told me that,” she says, passing me a black Sharpie to use to write the address on the box, “I know how important the case is. For God’s sake, you sacrificed your wedding dress for it.”

  “I didn’t sacrifice anything for it,” I say, looking up and trying to meet her eye.

  My mother slowly looks up from the box she’s packing and regards me.

  “I didn’t,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says, going back to her box. “It’s just that I thought that the reason you left your old firm to go to a smaller firm was so that you wouldn’t have to work quite as many hours. So that you could have more of a life.”

  “I do have a life,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says with that smile again. It’s that same smile she’s been using since I’ve been home. I want to scream: “It really is okay!” but I know that screaming like that will not prove my point. It will prove hers.

  I just know her too well. And being here, back at home, reminds me of everything I forgot about my parents. Well, I didn’t forget, it’s just the things that I stopped noticing since I moved out. Like how my mother dons these adorable nightshirt and robe sets and doesn’t take her makeup off until the second before she jumps into bed. Or like how my father calls out “Honey, I’m home!” when he walks in the door at night, or really any time he enters a room in the house.

  It reminds me of things that I’ve forgotten about myself, too. Who I used to be. Who I used to think I’d grow up to be. How I thought my life would turn out.

  After boxing up a few more presents, my mother and I retreat upstairs where I plop down onto my bed without even taking off my work clothes. I look around my room—up at my bulletin board, untouched since the day I graduated high school, with my varsity letter from cheerleading and various snapshots from Senior Weekend, into my closet, with my prom dress and assorted bridesmaid dresses from throughout the years, and my bookshelf, with my books from law school piled high.

  Back when I lived in this room, I thought that I had it all figured out. I’d go to college, go to law school and then meet and marry the man of my dreams. Soon thereafter, my 2.4 children would follow. When I thought all of these things, I suppose I was a child myself. I had no idea all of the heartbreak and hard work real life would bring. How hard it would be to have a life and make a life for yourself.

  I took for granted that I could just have a happy life and live happily ever after. Happily ever after never included being over thirty and moving back in with your parents.

  I turn onto my side and begin to quietly cry. I try to keep it down, since I don’t want my parents to worry, so I turn my face toward my pillow.

  As I look at my bedside table, I see the messages set neatly next to my phone, the way they have been every evening since I’ve been here. I get the same messages every night: Jack called (7:05 p.m.), Jack called (7:49 p.m.), Jack stopped by to see you (8:40 p.m.), Jack called (9:55 p.m.). They are almost the same as the ones I get at work every day, which my assistant drops on my desk without looking up to meet my eye: Jack stopped by (9:27 a.m.), Jack called (11:45 a.m.), Jack called (2:15 p.m.), Jack called (4:01 p.m.), Jack stopped by (5:55 p.m.).

  I pick up this evening’s messages and look at them for a moment before throwing them into the trash.

  25

  “Oops, she did it again!” Esther sings to me as she comes sailing into my office.

  “Did what?” I say, barely looking up from my research on dissolution of partnership. “Who?”

  “Miranda!” Esther says, clearly enjoying the delivery of this news way too much.

  “What did she do?” I ask, barely able to choke the words out.

  “What does she always do?” Esther says.

  But, I don’t have to ask because I already know what Miranda always does.

  Sleep with partners. That’s what Miranda does.

  I just hope that she hasn’t slept with my partner.

  “Who was it?” I say, just as the phone begins to ring.

  “Come to my office when you’re off,” Esther whispers, and then disappears before I even have a chance to tell her that I’ll let the call go to voice-mail.

  I don’t pick the phone up anyway, and instead choose to just stare at my computer screen blankly. Out of habit, I go onto the Internet and pull up the Gilson, Hecht Web site. First, as I always do, I type in Vanessa’s name, as if that’s the real reason I’m there. From there, it’s just a few clicks over to the S section of the “Our Attorneys” page and I’m at Jack’s profile.

  I remember the day he got the picture taken for the Web site. Even though the Gilson, Hecht attorneys get photographs taken every year for the firm Web site, this was the first year he’d be getting his done as a partner. We obsessed the whole week before over what Jack should wear in his photo. Should he wear his navy single-breasted suit, so as to denote “serious junior partner on the fast track to becoming an equity partner?” Or, should he instead go simply with a shirt and a tie, so as to denote “serious junior partner who’s just too busy working hard to worry about dressing up all fancy for a silly firm photo?” In the end, we’d decided on the navy suit, since his shaggy brown hair was always mussed, denoting the “too busy working hard to worry about my appearance” thing all on its own. He wore a pink Chanel tie that I’d bought for him as a gift when he made partner. I put my finger up to the computer screen just as my intercom begins to buzz.

  “Excuse me,” my assistant says over my intercom, “Monique deVouvray is on the line for you.”

  “Thank you,”
I say, and pick up my phone to speak to Monique.

  “We had plans to discuss settlement,” Monique says in her thick French accent. “Am I calling at the right time?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, minimizing my computer screen so that I can focus solely on Monique. “What were your thoughts?”

  After speaking with Monique for almost an hour, I can barely wait to call Vanessa. At least three different times during my phone call to Monique, I was tempted to e-mail Vanessa to ask her about Miranda. In the end, I decided to wait until my phone conference was over to call her, in case she had bad news to share. Bad news is one thing, but getting bad news over e-mail would just be too much to bear.

  “Break it to me gently,” I say to Vanessa, practically closing my eyes to prepare for the news. I had to have Vanessa’s assistant pull her out of a meeting with a new client in order to speak with her, but I simply couldn’t wait another second to hear about what happened with Miranda.

  “Break what to you?” Vanessa says back quickly, sounding strangely like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She was clearly glad to have been sprung from her meeting. “What did you hear?”

  “Miranda,” I whisper into my phone. I consider closing my door for a second, but then remember that since no one at SGR ever closes their door, it will actually attract more attention if it’s closed. I whisper: “Please tell me it’s not Jack. Please tell me that she didn’t sleep with Jack.”

  “I thought you said that you don’t even care about Jack anymore,” Vanessa says.

  “I don’t,” I say back a little too quickly.

  “Haven’t your parents been canceling deposits all over town?” she asks. “First the Pierre, then Maximo Floral—”