My mom used to say that my grandfather transformed after I was born; at just shy of sixty, he went from being a man to a father. I am not sure who he was to my dad when he was growing up—maybe he was distant, busy, a lot like my dad is to me now—but in my lifetime, especially since my mom died, he has been Grandpa Jack, the person who makes being an only child bearable, the person who makes me feel less alone.
The three of us leave the retirement home behind, my grandfather in the middle; Ruth and I link each of his arms and walk out into the fresh air. We move slowly, and, from time to time, the two of them wordlessly communicate to stop and take a break. I’m sure it is my grandfather who needs to catch his breath, not Ruth, but I don’t ask. Fortunately, we don’t have far to go, just to the diner on the corner. I don’t have to be reminded of the limits of his endurance. As it is, I think about that daily.
Grandpa Jack and I are up against statistical impossibilities. I have studied the actuary tables—another skill I picked up from my grandfather, as he was, at one time, a real-life actuary—and the numbers don’t add up. Cold math says he won’t make it through the end of the decade; my pure denial says he will.
I cannot, I will not, imagine life without Grandpa Jack.
When we get to the diner, we commandeer a red vinyl booth and order pickles and coffee. We go here a lot, because it’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you could be anywhere in America, anywhere at all; the ambiguity makes us feel miles away from Riverdale. My grandfather looks thin, so I force him to get a strawberry milk shake. He has to lean forward to reach the top of the tall glass and ends up with a pink mustache above his lip. I don’t tell him, though, because I think he looks adorable, like a small child. It helps to hide the fact that his face looks older today. His skin hangs looser, as if it has become unhinged from his cheekbones. It creates deep hollow craters below, the kind only acceptable on supermodels. In the ’80s.
“So, Em, where’s Andrew?” my grandfather asks. Andrew often used to come to Riverdale with me, and the four of us would play poker all day. Nine times out of ten, Ruth beat our pants off.
“We broke up.”
“What? Why?” Grandpa Jack sits up straighter, stares me down.
“You know, these things happen. What’s going on with you guys?”
“Come on, Emily. No one is interested in hearing how yesterday Ruth and I learned to knit. Spill it. Are you okay?”
“Nothing to spill. I’m fine. Sometimes things just end.”
“What happened?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Breaking up is more than nothing,” he says.
“Leave her alone, Jack,” Ruth says, and takes a sip of his milk shake.
Unlike my grandfather, Ruth looks put together, almost saucy. Not young, of course, since she’s somewhere in her eighties, but youthful. She wears a bouclé Chanel suit, and her hair is sprayed into a platinum globe around her head. Although I can guess what she must have looked like years ago, prom-queen pretty, I cannot imagine that she could have been any more beautiful than she is now. Ruth has the sort of beauty—the wrinkles, the spots, the lived-in skin—that makes it impossible to look away, the kind that makes you want to explore each fold further. To point to the scar on her neck, as a new lover might, and say, Tell me the story of that one.
Though I am unsure of the parameters of Ruth and Grandpa Jack’s relationship—whether they share more than just a friendship—either way, my grandfather scored. Ruth Wasserstein is a living legend. She sat on the Second Circuit for over forty years, and at one point there was talk of nomination to the Supreme Court. (The way she tells it, “another Jew named Ruth” happened to get there first.) My grandfather teases her that he doesn’t believe she is actually the famous Ruth Wasserstein, since she’s way too much fun to have been a judge. Though, in her defense, she does say “objection” a lot.
“Oh, come on, I’m not giving her a hard time. This is important. I want to know what happened. Did he break up with you? Did he panic? If he did, I’ll break his legs. Better yet, I’ll hire someone to kill him. I have contacts, you know,” he says.
“Grandpa, no need to kill anyone. I broke up with him.”
“Seriously?” Grandpa Jack and Ruth ask in unison.
“Yup. Seriously.”
“But he seemed like such a nice young man,” Ruth says.
“And he bought me that beer-of-the-month-club thing. Do you think he’ll cancel it now?” my grandfather asks.
“Jack,” Ruth says.
“Relax. I’m kidding. Though that apricot ale was pretty great, right, Ruthie?”
“It was. Emily, if you don’t mind my asking, why? I mean, he just seemed so…well, for lack of a better word, perfect for you,” she says.
“Nah, not really. We were never going to get married, you know? It just seemed like the right time to end it,” I say.
“But he was going to propose,” Grandpa Jack says.
“What? How the hell did you know that?”
“He told me. Well, actually, he asked me. I said that he should go right ahead.”
“You did what? Grandpa, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you warn me? I can’t believe this.”
“I thought you’d want to be surprised. Was I supposed to say no? How could I say no to the guy? I’m sorry, Emily, but he’s great. Most boys aren’t raised to be men nowadays, but his parents did a decent job.”
“You just like him because he’s a doctor,” I say.
“Not true. Andrew’s a really good guy. He bothered to come all the way out here to ask me in person.”
“He came here? To Riverdale? When?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Last week maybe.”
“So all it takes is someone actually asking you to get your permission?” I say it lightly, because I realize I can’t blame my grandfather for how things turned out. This is my fault. My decision.
“Yup. And don’t forget the beer. The beer helped too.”
“What did he say?”
“I’m not going to lie to you. It wasn’t pretty. He was nervous. Could barely get the words out. But he was polite and serious, and you got to give the guy credit for trying to do things right.”
“We’ve been on pins and needles waiting for the call to say you’d gotten engaged,” Ruth says. “We were so excited.”
They both look at me, still with a little bit of hope in their eyes. As if this is all a practical joke and Andrew is going to walk through the door any minute. My guilt feels heavy in my gut; I’ve disappointed enough people lately.
“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t mean to let you guys down too.”
“You didn’t let us down. I just liked the guy, sweetheart. I’ve been less worried about you these past couple of years with him. He seemed to take good care of you,” Grandpa Jack says. “That’s all.”
“I can take care of myself. I’m a grown woman.” I plead like a sixteen-year-old whining about her car privileges. “Oh, God, do you know if he asked my dad?”
“I don’t think so. I spoke to Kirk a couple of days ago and he didn’t say anything about it, and I didn’t tell him,” Grandpa Jack says.
“Good. Please don’t. I’m just not ready to tell Dad yet, about any of it, you know?”
“No problem. Emily?”
“Yeah?”
“All I want is for you to be happy,” he says.
“I know, Gramps.”
“I worry that you are not so good at making that happen all by yourself,” he says.
“I’m fine, really. I’m happy. I am,” I say. “I really am.”
“You’re full of shit,” Grandpa Jack says, but not unkindly.
“What can I do? I learned from the best.” My grandfather just nods at this, suddenly solemn.
“Does this mean we can’t invite him to poker anymore?” he asks.
“Probably not,” I say.
“Damn,” Ruth says. “He was so easy to beat.”
/>
“I know,” my grandfather says. “It wasn’t even fair.”
A couple of hours later, I walk Ruth and my grandfather to their doors, units PH1 and PH2.
“See you later, Emily,” my grandfather says as he kisses me good-bye. “Say hello to—” But he stops in midsentence and lets his words just hang there a couple of beats too long.
“Grandpa?”
“Say hello to, you know, what’s his name—”
“Kirk,” Ruth says, quickly. “Say hello to Kirk for him.”
“Yeah, let him know he should visit me once in a while,” my grandfather says.
“Of course, Gramps,” I say. “I’ll tell him.”
Grandpa Jack goes inside to lie down, but Ruth invites me to her place for some tea. She says it will warm me up for the train trip back. I am happy for the excuse to spend some time in her apartment, which I love, if only because it’s fun to see the polar opposite of my grandfather’s. Everything here is superfluous. Instead of displaying one or two favorite photographs, pictures cover the walls, litter every surface. Her flowered couch has two throws, a solid and a pattern, since she couldn’t decide which one she wanted more. She has four clocks, all antique, which riotously celebrate each passing hour.
When I come to Ruth’s, I explore her one-bedroom apartment like it’s a museum. I start with the bookshelf, which is built-in, overstuffed, and full of treasures: signed first editions, writers I have forgotten but always wanted to read, treatises by Ruth herself. Then I follow the progression of photographs, her three kids first as children and then later as parents themselves. My favorites are those of Ruth alone, as a young woman dressed in the court’s black robes. In one in particular, her skin is smooth, her hair longer and curled into a low bun. The smile is the same, though, her two front teeth angled toward each other, her bottom lip thinned out by the width of her grin.
“I was in my early forties when that one was taken,” Ruth says, and puts down a tray full of a hundred different kinds of tea. “I don’t know which is harder for me to believe: that I was ever that young, or that I am now this old.”
“You still look great.”
“Thanks, dear. Listen, I’m sorry about Andrew. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse back there.”
“You didn’t. Not at all.”
“If you ever need to talk, I’m here. I know you talk to your grandfather about these things, but if you ever need a woman’s opinion…”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” I look at another picture of Ruth, a twenty-something Ruth that I never met, holding an infant; it is a picture of a mother. “Really.”
“That’s my Sarah. She was a beautiful baby,” she says, and it becomes clear that, for Ruth, it is a picture of a daughter.
“Very cute.”
“She’s a lawyer now too, in D.C. Though she’s getting ready to retire. She’s at the end of her career, while you’re just at the start of yours.” She looks at the picture one more time, shakes her head, and puts it back on the mantel. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about Jack, if you don’t mind. Does he seem a little different to you lately?”
“Not really. I mean, he looks tired maybe, and he probably needs to get out more. The idea of you and Grandpa Jack knitting is depressing. Why? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. He just seems to get a little confused more often. Forgetting things, losing things…”
“I think that’s just a Haxby thing. I’m exactly the same way. When I went to the bathroom before, I realized I’m wearing my underwear on inside out. The Haxbys are flaky. I’m sure that’s all it is.”
“Maybe, but—”
“He would have told me if he wasn’t okay. When we went to the doctor’s last time they said that he might start to forget things a little more. That at his age, that sort of thing is to be expected.”
“But, Emily—”
“He would have come to me if something was wrong, Ruth. Seriously, my grandfather is fine.” I can tell she knows what I really mean to say: He has to be fine. He just has to be.
“Okay,” she says, and waves a hand, a gesture that I take to mean Ignore me.
And so that’s exactly what I do. We finish our tea in a wonderfully civilized manner, pinkies out, and discuss what it was like for Ruth to be one of only four women in her class in law school. We chat and gossip and laugh, and neither of us says another word about Grandpa Jack.
Eight
Three weeks later, I am standing on line in the Continental Airlines terminal at Newark with Carl MacKinnon. I am carrying a laptop, a shoulder bag, fifteen deposition binders, and dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel. It is four-thirty in the morning, and though my arms ache from my excessive amount of luggage, I am worried about the real possibility of falling asleep standing up. My head keeps rolling to one side as I drift off, and I feel drool gathering at the corners of my mouth. Like the consummate professional that I am, I use my suit sleeve to wipe it away. It leaves a mark.
When it is our turn to check in, the woman behind the counter smiles brightly at us despite the cruel hour. I attempt to return her enthusiasm, but my lips don’t have the energy for it. The effect is something like a snarl. I begin to tell the woman that we are headed to Little Rock, Arkansas, but Carl interrupts me.
“There has been a serious mistake,” he says, loudly enunciating each syllable of each word. “My colleague here is booked in coach. I request that she be moved to first class immediately and be seated next to me.” The woman registers the gravity of the matter by typing furiously. Though I don’t speak up, there is no mistake here. I was responsible for reserving our flights, and Carl’s secretary took care of the hotel arrangements. I purposely booked myself in coach and Carl in first class. I figured the limited seat room was a small price to pay for some time away from him.
“I’m sorry, sir. First class is all booked,” she says. I realize I have been holding my breath, and I let it out slowly. The thought of having to sit next to Carl for the next three and a half hours is almost too much to bear.
“That is unacceptable,” Carl says, and slaps his hand down hard against the counter. “I fly over a hundred thousand miles on Continental each year. What’s your name? I demand to speak to your manager.” Carl throws different kinds of plastic on the counter. A platinum frequent-flier card, a black AmEx, a shiny Admiral’s Club pass. The woman taps the computer keys violently in response and a bit of sweat forms on her brow.
“Well, it looks like something just opened up, sir. Sorry about that.” She starts printing up documents and shuffling them together. “Unfortunately, it will be an extra two hundred and sixty-four dollars. Is that okay?”
She types some more, just to look busy.
“Absolutely,” Carl says, passes her his credit card, and winks at me. This trip is on Synergon.
“You two will be in One-A and One-B. Have a safe flight.”
And there goes my morning of freedom. She hands over our boarding passes, and mine has a security stamp on it and Carl’s does not. Which means that before I get on the flight, all of my luggage will be hand-searched. Ironic, really, that she thinks between the two of us, I am the more likely terrorist; perhaps it is my punishment for associating with such an asshole.
As we walk through security, Carl lectures me about assertiveness, says I will not get anywhere in this world without it. He is clearly empowered by his seating coup, and his mood is jocular. We stop for caffeine and breakfast in the terminal, and he makes small talk. His personality seems to be wholly circumstantial. At counters and behind desks, he rolls over people with his aggression. But sitting side by side in attached plastic chairs, balancing bagels on our laps and coffee on the armrests, he acts human, friendly even, as if he is looking forward to our three days in Arkansas together.
I am not. I will be spending the next twenty-four hours alone with Carl. After our flight, we will drive to Arkadelphia (a location so remote that it didn’t come up on Expedia when I did a hotel search)
and spend the next three days in a dusty conference room taking the deposition of Mr. Jones. The plan is to grill him about the sordid details of his wife’s death. I believe Carl’s exact words were “Make him weep.” And tomorrow it will only get uglier. At noon, Carisse flies down to join us.
When we get ready to board, airport security pulls me aside and unzips my luggage, to the amusement of all on the line. They watch as the security guard uses a plastic wand to pick through my underwear. Carl looks on, presumably to see if he can get a cheap thrill from a lacy thong. I am happy to disappoint. By the time we take our seats in first class, though, my boss and everyone else on the plane now know that (a) I am on birth control and (b) I buy my cotton briefs at Target.
After the security humiliation, the flight goes relatively smoothly. We experience some turbulence and there is much ado made about the fasten-seat-belt sign, but Carl leaves me alone for most of it, content to let me do his work. And I am content to be left alone. Since Carisse can’t make it down here until tomorrow, and I will be taking most of the depositions, I have been assigned the responsibility of drafting the summary judgment motion. This is a big deal. If we win it, and by “we” I mean Synergon, the entire case gets dismissed before trial. The company will pay nothing—zip, zilch, nada—to the people of Caddo Valley. They will, however, pay plenty in attorneys’ fees to us. And by “us” I mean APT.
Though I am not a fan of the subject matter, writing this motion is my first opportunity in my almost five years at the firm to show the partnership that I have a brain, that I am capable of doing more than reviewing documents day after day in a conference room. This is real lawyer work; this is my shot. I intend to take it.
When we get off the plane, the fact that we are far from New York immediately becomes evident. Everything moves slower here; the change in pace feels something like relief. The Southern drawl has a laxative effect on Carl too, magically removing the stick from his ass. He has gone from raving mad at the Continental lady, to reasonably friendly over bagels, and now to downright chummy. You would think we were in Arkansas for a couple of rounds of golf, not to “rip Mr. Jones a new one.” (Carl’s words yesterday. Not mine.)
The Opposite of Love Page 6