by Jo Barrett
I nod my head approvingly. Take a deep breath. And opt for patience.
Dick bites into his chocolate chip cookie, looking pleased with himself. “So what is it? Some kind uh Rolex?”
“It’s a Patek Phillipe, circa 1952. Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a rare watch. One-of-a-kind, actually. The face of the watch is decorated with an English galleon.”
“A wha?”
“A ship. A great sailing ship. From the old days. Think Russell Crowe in that movie Master and Commander. Carlton is a sailing nut. He loves every boat that doesn’t come with a motor.” I motion to my crotch area. And blush slightly. “He even refers to his thingie as Captain Hook,” I say, quietly.
Dick waves his hand. “Too much information,” he says.
“Sorry.”
“Okay, so you want me to steal a watch from Mr. Pirates of the Penz-Ants.”
“Yes. The problem is, Carlton never takes the watch off.”
“I could beat him unconscious and then take it off.”
“Nothing physical, remember?”
“I could hold a gun to his head and make him take it off.”
“Sounds frightening,” I say.
“You don’t think Captain Hook can handle the heat?”
I ignore this comment by Dick. “Carlton takes off the watch when he sleeps and puts it on the bedside table,” I say. “Here’s the challenging part. You’d have to sneak into his room while he’s asleep.”
Dick breaks into a huge smile and bucks out his chest. “I may have bricks for arms, Jane,” he says, “But I got feathers for feet.”
He stands up from the table and taps each of his black motorcycle boots. First one, then the other.
I notice that Dick actually has small feet for a guy his size.
“Carlton goes out drinking on Saturday nights. It’s what he calls his “vacation night,” I say, “so he’ll be passed out by 3:00 a.m. It’ll be easier to get the watch while he’s passed out. So, I want you to do it on Saturday.”
“No problemo,” Dick says.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I say.
He pivots on his motorcycle boots and I see he’s light and agile, like a ballerina.
“Leave Mr. Brando at home. I don’t want you to be tempted.”
“Aw. C’mon. Jane. You’re spoilin’ all the fun,” Dick says. He glides out the door. My feather-footed hit man.
Chapter 44
The week after the abortion, it’s suddenly raining babies. I see babies everywhere. Peeking out the window of my townhouse, I spy young mothers with baby strollers. Mothers who are a lot younger and more youthful than me. In similarly small townhouses. Okay, so maybe they’re not running a start-up company, and maybe they’re married—unlike Carlton and me—but still.
I walk to the public tennis courts to get some fresh air. A pregnant woman is on the sidelines, watching her husband play. She claps her hands when he aces his opponent. Dainty little claps—clap, clap, clap. Her husband smiles at her, blows her a kiss. They’ve got a young boy with them. A blond-headed toddler dressed adorably in tennis whites. He holds a little kid racquet, sees a ball on the ground, runs over and whacks it. He swats the ball. Over and over. Like he’s trying to kill a bug.
His dad strolls over and says, “Easy there, cowboy,” and ruffles his hair.
The scene is so picture-perfect, it’s enough to make me cry. I watch TV all day for the first time in years, and see commercials for diapers and baby food. The tipping point comes when Heather calls me and announces she’s pregnant. She and Michael are having a baby. I’m happy for her and we both squeal on the phone, but afterward, I burst into tears. I want to tell her about Carlton and me, about the baby, everything. But I’m weak, ashamed, and emotionally spent.
I read a pamphlet from the clinic. It says I may suffer from severe depression due to the rapid drop in hormones after the loss of my pregnancy.
No shit, Sherlock.
Carlton, bless his heart, sends me a formal e-mail from the office that reads:
Maddy,
I’m sending a moving company for my things. I’ve also sent your key by FedEx.
He’s so polite, Carlton. And he’s not wasting time. Another e-mail arrives later that afternoon from Prince Charming that reads…
Maddy,
We need to discuss your exit strategy from Organics 4 Kids, pronto.
My exit strategy? Wow. He’s really in a hurry to screw me. I didn’t see any of this coming, of course, but hey, you’ve got to roll with the punches, right?
I feel myself crumbling on my couch. Melting like the wicked witch.
The day turns into night. But I don’t shower. I don’t eat. I don’t even move.
Chapter 45
When he was sixteen, my brother drove a carload of marijuana across the Texas–Mexican border. With his boyish good looks and affable smile, the border patrol agents didn’t bother checking the car, figuring he was just another high school student on a fandango. Drinking and club hopping.
After that, Ronald Piatro became a regular driver for one of the largest, most powerful drug gangs in South Texas. He spent his weekends in Matamoras, became fluent in Spanish, and funded his cocaine habit by making Sunday afternoon drug runs in a dusty, beat-up Jeep. When he was busted, at age nineteen, he spent a year in jail for trafficking. I hired Michael Wasserstein to get him out, and because of a technicality with an eager-beaver patrol agent forgetting to advise my teenage brother on his right to counsel, Michael succeeded.
That was how Michael and Heather met. Heather came with me to the courthouse for moral support, and she and Michael hit it off. It was “love at first trial,” as Michael calls it.
That was ten years ago, and Heather and Michael have been together ever since.
I’m at the Wasserstein home because it’s the day of Heather’s baby shower and I’ve promised to come over early and help decorate.
Heather tells me that the Jews consider it bad luck to have a baby shower before the baby is actually born.
“It’s not technically a baby shower,” she says, fluttering around her kitchen. “It’s more like a house party,” she says, as we both tack up powder blue baby decorations everywhere.
Heather points to the tray of miniature cupcakes that she’s baked—complete with little plastic toy storks poking out of them.
“Some house party,” I say, and Heather slaps me on the arm and giggles.
“How’s Ronnie?” Michael asks. “Still counseling troubled youth?”
“Ronnie refers to them as ‘challenged,’” I reply. “They’re not troubled, they’re ‘challenged.’”
“I’m always behind on the lingo,” Michael says. He comes up behind Heather, wraps her up in his arms and presses his hand to her belly. “Well, if this little guy ever becomes ‘challenged,’ he’s gonna see the short end of my temper stick,” Michael says.
“This is your unborn son you’re talking about,” Heather says. “And you’re already grounding him for bad behavior. Taking away his car keys.”
“Gotta lay down the ground rules while they’re still in the womb,” Michael jokes, his eyes flashing in amusement.
Heather titters around the kitchen in a beautiful floral dress that would look like a curtain on me.
Michael sneaks a cube of cheese from a tray, and Heather slaps his hand away. “These hors d’ oeuvres are for the ladies,” she says.
Michael says, “Well, you gotta feed the poor sucker who paid for all this stuff.” He opens his mouth wide and sticks his tongue out. Heather giggles and places a cheese cube on it.
Michael swallows, rubs his hand over his stomach, and says, “Well, I guess I’m outta here. You ladies seem to have everything under control.”
He points at me and says, “Take care of my gal.”
I bow my head, clasp my hands together as if I’m praying, and curtsey like a Geisha girl. “As the Master wishes,” I say.
Michael says, “Thadda girl.
”
Heather and I watch as Michael slings a dry cleaning bag over his shoulder and strolls out the door with a lot of fanfare.
We carry the trays of hors d’oeuvres into the living room, light pretty candles, and arrange the flowers and baby decorations for Heather’s “open house” party.
I’m nervous for Heather. She’s invited Michael’s cousins, and some of his friends’ wives. Heather tells me that I will be the only non-Jew, because, apparently, my prom queen girlfriend is now a Jew. I don’t know which Rabbi performed the conversion; I can only assume Michael slipped him a winning lotto ticket.
“Don’t worry, everyone will love having a Chick-sa goddess like you to join us,” she jokes.
“Shiksa. With an S,” I say.
“Whatever,” she replies, sighing. “I can’t wait to have this baby, Maddy.”
“You and Michael are going to be terrific parents,” I say. “The best.”
“As long as he’s got Michael’s brains, I’ll be happy,” she says.
“Hey! Don’t sell yourself short in the brains department,” I say.
The women arrive in groups. I become the official greeter. I answer the door each time and say, “Welcome!”
After thirty minutes, Heather fetches me from the front door. “Everyone’s here,” she says, “Let me introduce you.” She swishes me into the living room.
Heather claps her hands. “Oy! Everyone—everyone—this is my best friend, Madeline,” she announces to the roomful of Jewish women.
“Maddy is a good Munch,” she adds.
I jab Heather with my elbow and whisper in her ear. “Mensch!” I whisper. “M-e-n-s-c-h. Not munch.”
The women smile, politely.
I hoist up a tray of champagne and swirl around the room. The women raise their glasses. “Mazeltov,” they say.
Heather smiles and raises her Diet Coke. “Yes, Muzzle-top,” she says.
I notice a few women exchanging glances, but no one says anything. They all know Heather is doing her best.
She sits down and opens her “house party” gifts. It’s the usual baby stuff. But there’s also some red lingerie, and even a book called The Sexy New Mom in You.
I bring Heather a huge gift. One of those baby strollers she can jog with.
When Heather opens the huge box, she squeals and claps her hands to her mouth like the sorority girl she is.
I try not to flinch.
“Ohmigaaah, Maddy! It’s exactly what I wanted!” she says, grabbing me in a hug and swinging me side-to-side.
My goodness.
I hug her back and see the women in the room smiling very, very politely.
After that, Heather begins a long journey across a landmine of faux pas.
One of Michael’s cousins says, “We sent Nathan to St. Paul’s.” And Heather pipes up, “Why would you send your Jewish child to Catholic school?”
The woman just looks at her.
I give Heather the secret signal by slashing my hand back and forth under my neck. But Heather bulldozes ahead.
“I mean, why not send your child to a Jewish—”
I squeeze Heather’s knee and pipe up, “Excellent choice! St. Paul’s is the best private school in New England.”
And everyone smiles. So the disaster is momentarily averted.
But then one of the women from the baby shower says, “Those private schools are so expensive, it’s like you have to sacrifice your first born to pay the tuition. Oy Vay…don’t get me started.”
And Heather says, “Started on what?”
The women glance around at each other.
I say, “Heather, isn’t there another tray in the kitchen?”
Heather stands, smiles, flutters into the kitchen. She has no idea.
The women all smile at me and I smile back. I hoist a champagne bottle and a pitcher of orange juice and proceed to pour a round of Mimosas for everyone.
“Drink up, ladies!” I say, figuring that if everyone gets sloshed, they won’t remember Heather’s little mistakes.
Just then, Heather bursts out of the kitchen. “And for the next course, ladies,” she squeals. “Bagels and lockets!”
Oh. My. God.
Chapter 46
I put on my pinstriped power suit. “Be strong,” I tell myself, but my heart is like a policeman pounding on my front door. I’m afraid Carlton will hear it beating loud and hard. This is my final day at Organics 4 Kids. I’m headed to the office for one reason only. To clean up my workspace. I’ve accidentally slit my finger on scissors as I taped up packing boxes. I stick a band-aid on my bleeding thumb, hoist the boxes into my car, and drive up Barton Creek Road in total silence.
Carlton and I haven’t spoken in nine days. But we’ve exchanged e-mails. Mine were pleading. Emotional.
Why are you doing this? I don’t understand, was the general tone.
His were formal.
At this time, I think it’s best for you to halt all future employment with Organics 4 Kids.
Ten minutes later, I roll into the Organics 4 Kids parking lot. I flip the visor down, and check the mirror. I’ve been crying for weeks, so I look exhausted. Beaten down. Crumpled. Saggy.
I trudge up the stairs to the office, balancing the boxes in front of my face. Inside my office, a guy with curly red hair is behind my desk. He swivels around and jumps up.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
Cool and calm, I tell myself. Cool and calm. “You can help me with these boxes,” I say.
“Oh. Of course. Sorry.” He takes the boxes from my arms, awkwardly, and sets them on my desk.
I look around the office. But it isn’t my office anymore. The guy with the red hair has pictures of his family on my desk.
“Where’s my stuff?” I say, suddenly. I reach for the desk and rip open one of the drawers. “All my stuff! Where is it?” I say, my voice rising.
He holds both his hands up in the air, as if I’m robbing him.
“Look. I don’t know who you are. But I just started this job yesterday. Carlton told me to use this office.”
“He did, did he?” I say. “And who might you be?”
He sticks his hand out. “Chris Jackson. V.P. of Marketing.”
“V.P. OF MARKETING!” I roar.
Chris Jackson looks scared. As if I’m carrying a butcher knife.
I turn and storm toward Carlton’s office. Burst through the door.
Carlton looks up from his phone, startled. “I’ll call you right back,” he says, slamming the phone down.
I notice immediately he’s taken our photograph off his desk. The one from our ski trip.
“Where’s the picture of us?” I say, pointing at the empty space on his desk. He stands up, closes the door behind me.
“Sit down,” he says. “Please.” His eyes are looking at me differently now. As if I’m the enemy. A disgruntled employee waving a pistol.
“I don’t want to sit down!” I say. My voice is no longer cool and calm, but feverish. Frantic.
“Please, Maddy. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“Where’s our picture?” I demand.
He slides open his bottom desk drawer. Tosses me the picture. It hits my knee and falls to the floor. “Take it if you want it,” he says, coldly.
I scoop it off the floor. Set it on my lap. Look down at it. Suddenly, I feel as if I’ve been drugged. My movements are slow. Like a sleepwalker.
Carlton takes a deep breath. He clasps his hands together on his desk like I imagine his father does when he fires people.
“I told the cleaning people to clear out your office, Maddy, and leave your things in boxes. I thought it would be easier for everyone involved. You, especially. But there was some miscommunication. They didn’t understand my English.”
He sighs. Rubs his temples. “Long story, short. They threw everything in the dumpster.”
I look up at him. Stare into his eyes. “What?” I say, my voice cracking.
�
��It was an honest mistake,” he shrugs. “An accident.”
“I had everything in my desk, Carlton! Why would you…” my voice trails off. I choke back tears.
“OhmyGod, my portfolios! What about my portfolios? I—I can’t interview for another job without my portfolios.”
“I was thinking Henry could hire you back,” Carlton says, matter-of-fact.
My head droops. I feel myself caving in—a snail retreating into its shell.
“Look. You had a lot of stuff saved on the computer. I copied your hard drive,” he says. He stands from his desk, walks around it, and thrusts a zip drive into my hands.
“You’re unbelievable,” I snap. “Do you have any feelings at all? Did you ever?”
“Let’s not do this here, Maddy. Not at the office.”
“The office I helped build! This company was MY IDEA.”
Carlton stares at the floor. “It’s not like you didn’t get paid,” he says, quietly.
I jump from the chair. I want to scream, shout, throw things. But I don’t. For some reason, I stand and breathe quickly. In and out. In and out.
“Thanks Romeo. For the ring. For Forever.” I say. I rip the Juliet ring off my finger and slam it down on the desk.
Carlton doesn’t say a word. I turn and rush out the door.
Later, in my car, I’m a wreck. I’m crying so hard. I can’t drive. I can’t breathe. I swerve over onto the side of the road, fling open my car door, and throw up on the concrete.
Chapter 47
I’m at Starbucks squeezing honey into Dick’s coffee. When I walk back to the table, he smiles up at me and says, “I want one uh them apple strudel things.”
“Sure,” I say. I go to the counter and get Dick an apple strudel and a big chocolate chip cookie. So he can have double the fun.
Dick’s eyes light up, as much as it’s possible for dark black eyes to light up, at the sight of all the sweets.
He rubs his palms together back and forth, bites into half the strudel.
“Captain Hook sleeps like a baby,” he says, revealing a mouth full of apple goo. “I got the wheels and the watch, and I was considerin’ taking Mr. Big Shot’s money clip, as a little bonus, but I restrained myself,” he says.