This Is How It Happened (not a love story)

by Jo Barrett

  But she still can’t seem to find her inner Jewishness. She doesn’t have that keen Jewish wit, as they say. She’s a little slow on the uptake.

  Heather leans back on the sofa, finally, and pats her small belly. “I’m a size 4 now,” she sighs.

  I could kill her, I really could. If she weren’t so damn sweet. And my best friend to boot.

  “Wow, almost time for Plus-Sizes,” I say, sarcastically.

  Heather looks at me and I see her eyes twinkling. “I don’t mind, Maddy, because my boobs are fabulous!”

  Great. My pregnant size 4 girlfriend has fabulous boobs, now.

  I look down at my own boobs. I’m not wearing a bra so they seem a little droopy. Like they belong on an old lady.

  Heather shakes her head. “Oy Vay. I’m so nervous about my conversion test,” she says.

  “You’re going to do fine. The Rabbis just want to see that you’re committed to this.”

  “Oh I know, Maddy. It’s just that—I can’t seem to get anything right. I mean, I went to the grocery store last night and asked the manager where I could find the Filtered Fish.”

  I chuckle and pat Heather’s shoulder. “Look, you’re doing your best. And Michael loves you for trying. I mean, c’mon. You spent August in Israel. It was 120 degrees in the shade.”

  “Small price to pay,” she murmurs. I notice her mood is changing. Her face seems dark, suddenly.

  “Hey, that reminds me!” I say. My mood has just changed too—for the better. I jump up and rush to my bedroom. I return with a book and hold it up in the air. Like Moses with the Ten Commandments.

  “Voila!” I say. “We’re going to practice.”

  I flash Heather the title.

  “The Idiot’s Guide to Becoming a Jew,” she reads.

  “I figured out what your problem is,” I say.

  Heather stares down at the floor. “Yeah, I’m an idiot,” she mumbles.

  “Beep! Wrong! You’re trying to learn too much from a bunch of complicated books,” I say. “It’s time to simplify!”

  Heather looks at me with a hopeful expression.

  “Look, I made flash cards,” I say, holding up a stack of note cards.

  Heather’s face brightens and she claps her hands again, a dainty little clap. “Ooh, I love flash cards!” she gushes.

  “You’re going to pass this test with flying colors,” I say. “Okay, first things first.” I pull up the first flash card. “What’s a matzoh ball?”

  “The Rabbis aren’t going to ask me that, silly,” Heather giggles.

  “We’re getting into the swing of things,” I explain.

  “A matzoh ball is made with egg whites and matzoh meal. You roll it and put it in a chicken soup broth,” she says.

  “Very good.” I show her the back of the flash card where I’ve printed a recipe for matzoh ball soup from the Internet.

  When I was making the flash cards, I decided to start with a cooking question because I didn’t want Heather to be scared right off the bat. Testing her Jewish I.Q. will pose a challenge.

  “Next question. Why do the Jewish people celebrate Passover?”

  Heather chews her lip. “Passover comes from the Hebrew word, “Pesach,” meaning to pass over, to exempt, or to spare. It refers to the time when God “passed over” the houses of the Jews when he was slaying the firstborn of Egypt. “Pesach” is also the name of the sacrificial offering, or lamb, that was sacrificed in the temple.”

  “Wow. Very impressive,” I say. “And absolutely correct.”

  “I’ve been reading up,” Heather informs me.

  She leans back on the couch and I can tell she’s really getting into this flash card stuff.

  “Hit me again,” she says. And her face is beaming.

  I playfully punch her in the arm. A light little tap. “There, I’m hitting you.”

  “You’re a goof,” she says.

  “I’m Martha Stewart,” I reply.

  Chapter 20

  “How do I look?” I ask Carlton. I do a comical supermodel strut across the bedroom, swing around with my hand on my hip, strike a pose, and pout my lips.

  He chuckles and straightens his tie. “Like a champ,” he says.

  I watch him walk into the bathroom and lean in toward the mirror.

  “Jesus, I need a cigarette,” he says. He finishes fumbling with his tie and admires himself in the mirror. I see a hint of a smile streak across his lips.

  I sashay up to him, in my best suit, my interview suit, and wrap my arms around his waist.

  “We’re going to get this money today, don’t you worry,” I say.

  He turns around and pecks me quickly on the lips. I smell his cologne, the faint smell of burning wood, like a fire out in a log cabin, and my knees go momentarily weak. God, he’s gorgeous. This man I love. I stare up into Carlton’s beautiful eyes.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life,” he says. “To present a phenomenal business idea in front of my father. In his boardroom.”

  “That’s why you should make the presentation,” I protest.

  Carlton puts his hand to my lips. “Shhh. We’ve already been over this,” he says.

  I notice he’s sweating slightly. A few tiny droplets forming above his upper lip.

  “You’re nervous,” I say, pointing to his face.

  He peers into the mirror and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, self-consciously.

  “It’s hot as a bitch in this house,” he says. “Why don’t you ever turn on the AC?”

  “It’s your house, too, you know,” I say.

  “Please, Maddy. You own this place. It’s your name on the title, not mine.”

  “If you want me to add your name to the title, why don’t you just say so?”

  Carlton rolls his eyes. “Because you know I can’t help with the mortgage payments. Not on this goddamn hourly wage my dad is paying me. You’d think the son of the CEO would make more than your average day laborer! But he’s paying me the same as all the other Mexicans working the shit-shift!”

  “He’s giving you a great hands-on experience, babe. I mean, it makes sense for you to experience every aspect of running a company, from the ground up. And how would it look if you made more money than those other guys? They’d hate you.”

  “I don’t care. After today, I hope I’ll never have to set foot in that shit-hole of a warehouse again,” Carlton muses. He swings back around to the mirror. I watch him as he adds gel to his hair and combs it back in a crisp, formal style.

  “After today, you’re going to be CEO of Organics 4 Kids,” I say. I put my arms around his waist and hug him from behind.

  He cups his hands over mine. I feel him fingering the Juliet ring on my left hand.

  “You better take this off,” he says, holding my hand up. “I don’t want my dad thinking we got engaged overnight.”

  I stare down at the bathroom floor. “Don’t you think it’s about time we told him? I mean, I’ve had the ring for months, Carlton. He knows we live together. We’re in our thirties. Jesus! We’re adults,” I say. And I realize my voice sounds whiney. Child-like.

  “Maddy,” he says, softly. He slips the ring off my finger and places it gently on the bathroom counter. “Today is not the day. You know that, sweetie. We want my dad’s mind to be strictly on our business plan. I swear if he sees this ring, all he’ll be thinking about is pre-nups.”

  “I already told you I’d sign one,” I say. “Especially if it makes Daddy Dollar-Sign feel better.”

  Carlton loosens my arms from around his waist. “Don’t call him that,” he warns.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. I walk into the bedroom and slip on my heels. I’d prefer to wear a conservative pair of loafers since I’m going to be standing up during my presentation, but heels make me taller.

  Carlton’s dad, Forest Connors, is a big man. An assuming presence in a room. So I need all the height I can get.

  My ring finger feels bare without the J
uliet. I rub the tan line where the ring used to be. Something is missing.

  Carlton strolls into the room looking like a Calvin Klein model in his dark, tailored Italian suit. He grins at me—his famous, winning grin, and takes me by the arm.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I sigh. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He taps his watch, the watch his father gave him, the Patek Phillipe. “It’s do or die time,” he says.

  “Leap Before You Look,” I reply.

  Three hours later, I’m at the head of the boardroom, standing in front of Carlton, his father, and a group of six men in serious suits. My new heels are causing blisters on the back of my feet. I’m aching, but I smile through the pain.

  “As you can see, gentlemen, the only possible competitor will be Giganto Foods,” I say in a confident voice. “But they haven’t even begun to enter the organics market for kids. So our company—Organics 4 Kids—will be the first to enter this new niche market.”

  I smile and make careful eye contact with each man around the table. Carlton’s father nods at me, in a clipped, no-nonsense fashion.

  “That concludes our presentation,” I say, motioning toward Carlton. He’s sitting at the end of the boardroom and he smiles, nervously.

  “We’ve worked out all the angles, Dad,” he says, a sheepish grin crossing his face.

  I see a shadow cross Forest Connors’ face when he hears Carlton refer to him as “Dad.” It’s inappropriate for Carlton to say this in such a formal setting and Carlton immediately realizes his mistake. He assumes a professional tone and says, “Madeline and I have prepared an investor prospectus for each of you.”

  Reaching down into my messenger bag, Carlton pulls out seven navy blue folders. He stands and passes them around to each man at the table.

  I take a seat at the end of the table. As Carlton walks by me, he whispers, “Great job,” in a muffled tone.

  Forest Connors flips through the prospectus. The room is suddenly quiet. I hear a clock on the wall ticking. Everyone waits until the Big Man on Campus speaks. He swivels around in his chair and stares at me, his eyebrows raised. “You’re proposing Carlton as CEO and yourself as Chief Operating officer?”

  “Correct,” I say.

  “And you are also proposing a 15 percent ownership stake for each of you in the Class A shares?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The problem as I see it, Madeline, is you don’t have any skin in the game,” Carlton’s father says, crossing his arms over his linebacker-sized chest. “You’re not risking any of your own money.”

  I shift around in my chair. I’m wearing my best dress suit. My interview suit. But I’ve got a run in my panty hose. I see it. Right below my skirt. Heading dangerously close to my knee. I tug the skirt down.

  I glance at Carlton. He’s taken a seat next to me at the table. He takes a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. I can tell he’s nervous. The cup quivers a little in his hand. We anticipated this question, Carlton and I, but Carlton was supposed to answer it. So far, he’s sitting quietly in his seat, staring down at the table. And leaving me high and dry.

  “I’m quitting my job, Mr. Connors,” I say. “That’s a risk.”

  Forest Connors glances at the other men in the room. His other investors. He takes a deep breath. Like a man about to deliver bad news.

  “Yes, and to compensate you, we’re willing to pay you a generous salary and give you any title you choose. But quite frankly, I feel uncomfortable issuing you a seat on the board, or voting power with the company. You’re what we call ‘sweat equity.’ You’ve got to earn your shares in the company by working for them.”

  He shrugs his bullish shoulders. “It’s business 101,” he says.

  “I wrote this business plan,” I stutter, holding up my black notebook. “The concept for Organics 4 Kids is my idea.”

  Carlton’s dad flutters his hand, as if shooing away a fly. “Could’ve been a work-for-hire,” he says.

  “But I’m quitting my job with Henry Wrona,” I say. “I’ve worked for him fourteen years! All through college and grad school.”

  Carlton’s father leans forward in his chair. “How is ol’ Henry?” he asks. He’s eyeing me like a vulture eyes a wounded baby deer.

  Before I can answer, Forest Connors says. “Problem with Henry is he’s a small fish. He thinks and acts like a big fish, but he ain’t. It’s a shame, really. Cause the man’s got talent.”

  I glance at Carlton and see he’s fiddling with his watch.

  Fantastic.

  “Well, I like Henry as a boss very much. In fact, I’ve never had to worry about getting my paycheck,” I say. “Henry always pays his bills on time.”

  Forest Connors’ eyes harden and he stares at me. A cold stare. He’s wondering if I’m sassing him. Which I am. So I play it off. I mean, what the hell am I doing? Forest Connors has the power to make or break Organics 4 Kids. What am I doing? Shooting myself in the foot?

  I flip my hair, giggle, and do the girl thing. Right in the boardroom. Like the boardroom babe that I am.

  “And heaven knows I need to pay off my student loans,” I say.

  I look over at Carlton. He’s staring at me, but he suddenly breaks out into a relieved smile. “Maddy’s always worried about her monthly student loan payments,” he says, backing me up.

  Forest Connors nods quietly.

  The clock ticks by and no one says a single word.

  Carlton shoots me a look from across the table as if to say he’s sorry. But it’s too late.

  Finally, Forest Connors speaks. “I’ll back this venture, but only on certain terms. First, Carlton is President and CEO. Second, I’ll hold one-third of the shares, Carlton will hold one-third, and these other fellows will hold one-third. We can design a plan to award you shares, Madeline, based on performance over time. I’ll have my lawyers write up the paperwork,” he informs us.

  I glance at Carlton and see him trying to hide a smile. This is the moment he’s been waiting for. His father passing down the torch, if you will.

  “We enjoyed your presentation, Madeline, and I’m sure you’ll make a fine addition to the company,” Forest Connors says.

  I suddenly realize Henry was right. In one swift move, I’ve lost all control. I’ve been sucker-punched.

  I remember Henry telling me about Forest Connors. “He made all his money in medical supplies,” Henry said. “The man positively ‘minted money,’ with these incredibly high markups on wheelchairs and oxygen tanks.”

  At the investor meeting, I look helplessly from Carlton to his father and around the table at his father’s cronies. Forest Connors is a shark, all right.

  Carlton walks around the table and sits down in an empty chair next to me.

  “I don’t feel comfortable being just an employee,” I say.

  Carlton grabs my knee under the table. He whispers in my ear. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You’ll own some of my shares in the company soon.”

  Which is a hint toward a wedding date, I guess.

  “Very soon,” he says, winking at me.

  Carlton leans back in his chair. Eyes the men around the table. “Dad, I don’t want Maddy to get the short end of the stick here. Even if you won’t give her the title of Chief Operating officer, I want her to be Director of Marketing and P.R. And I want her to be free to hire whomever she wants.”

  Carlton’s father looks at me. Regards me like he’s looking at a strange new species of bug.

  “Fine,” he says, finally, slapping his palm on the table. THWAP! “We’ve got some housekeeping issues to cover. Let’s move on.”

  Chapter 21

  My brother calls himself an “addiction specialist.” I’ve seen his speech. It always begins the same way. He walks to the microphone, steadies himself, and says in a low voice, “When I was fifteen, my parents died in a car wreck. That was the night I took my first drink.”

  The room is always crowded with hardened drug users and alcoholic
s. And everyone is usually under twenty years old. Ronnie Piatro deals strictly with teenagers. “Gotta catch it before it starts,” he always says.

  Ten years ago, I remember kidnapping my brother out of the filthy, drug-infested apartment he’d been sleeping in. There were a few dogs, some feral-looking cats, the smell of urine and burning drugs. Like sulfur and marijuana and other smells I couldn’t identify. I remember seeing all the tools for cooking drugs on a dirty coffee table, littered with cigarette butts and beer cans; broken light bulbs; what looked like a camping burner; propane gas; even syringes.

  I kidnapped my brother. He was barely conscious. I drove three hours from San Antonio to Houston and dumped him in the Medical Center. Every few hours, I checked on him and brought him food and water. He went through the throes of coming down. The detox process. He screamed, sweated, overturned the furniture, smashed all the lamps.

  At one point, he attacked me with his fists and threatened to kill me. I knew this wasn’t Ronnie. This was the drugs. My brother was a good soul. A kind, gentle, funny person. Four days later, he agreed to enter a three-month, inpatient, rehab program in Jackson, Mississippi.

  And that’s where he hooked up with Snoop Santino. Why bother snorting it or shooting up, he and Snoop decided, if you could sell the stuff and make a killing instead.

  Snoop and Ronnie devised several legitimate business fronts to mask the drug deals, and soon became a fearsome team.

  It took a bullet, thirty-seven hours of surgery, and a drug deal gone bad to finally jar Ronnie out of the criminal life.

  That night in the hospital, I cornered Snoop Santino.

  “My brother is finished working for you,” I’d hissed, pointing my finger in his thick chest.

  “Your brother knows too much,” he’d replied, like a threat.

  “Ronnie will never talk, and you know it,” I’d said, and then I did something I never imagined I would do. I leaned into Snoop Santino’s face.

  We’d had a stare-down contest—me and Snoop Santino—one of the most feared drug dealers in the state. He’d shrugged, finally, and skulked out the hospital door, with a few of his henchmen in tow.