“What is it, Clare?” She sounded harried, but this was the norm for Alice.
“I’m wondering if you’ve finished the chart we talked about this morning. Henning will be looking for it about now.” She hadn’t thought of the chart since she passed the assignment on to Alice that morning.
“I couldn’t get to it,” Alice said. Clare’s gut dropped, as if she’d hit a sudden pocket of turbulence.
“What do you mean? Please tell me you’re teasing me.”
“Do I sound like I’m teasing?” Alice said dryly. “I got pulled away by Richards. What could I do? I’m not saying no to a name partner in favor of an associate.”
“Fuck! You could have told me, for one thing. Henning will kill me.” She was approaching panic.
“I tried calling you once, but got interrupted. I forgot to call again. Sorry.” Alice didn’t sound very concerned. Her position in the firm was much stronger than Clare’s. There were partners and senior associates who couldn’t do without her. Clare was increasingly expendable.
Maybe she should run away. There was no excuse that would get her off the hook. The real reason the chart wasn’t done—that she’d passed the assignment off—would get her into even more trouble. She fished in her pocket for her pillbox and swallowed a Valium dry. Her heart was racing and she was alarmingly agitated. This pill was medicinal. As she was taking a few deep breaths, she heard her name being paged. The receptionist told her to get to Henning’s office ASAP. She knew for whom the bell tolled. It tolled for her. She wondered if she could even make the walk down the hallway. Her legs were unresponsive, as if she’d had a mild stroke. Every second she wasn’t in Henning’s office made the situation worse. It wasn’t until she heard her name paged again that she managed to leave her office and walk down the hallway.
The moment she entered, Henning looked up from his desk, his eyes focused on her empty hands.
“Where’s the chart?” He stood from his desk, as if getting ready to fight.
“I don’t have it.” She sounded calmer than she was. She looked around the room, taking in the perks of partnership, which she clearly would never enjoy. The giant mahogany desk, the private washroom, the drinks cart, the couch and chairs. Henning was silent for a moment before he steeled his voice.
“You don’t have it as in it’s not done?”
“That is correct.”
He exploded. “What the fuck? Did I not say it had to be done today? I’m talking to the plaintiff’s attorney tonight.”
“Yes, that’s what you said.” She felt physically threatened by his heavy body leaning toward her, his red face and beady eyes. She wondered at this world she worked in, where Mondays were neither the beginning nor end of a work week, where life outside the firm became a tiny part of her existence. Where a partner became judge, jury, and executioner.
“Then what possible reason do you have for not doing it? I’m curious what would cause you to shoot yourself in the head.”
She wouldn’t throw Alice under the bus. She should have been checking on her progress throughout the day, but she’d simply forgotten to. “None that will make me look any better than I do now.”
He ranted and raved for several minutes, even coming around from his desk to stand closer to her. She stood her ground and stared back at him. Finally, he returned to his desk. “I’m writing you up. This’ll be your second in a year, if I recall correctly. It’ll be up to Novak to decide what to do with you.”
The tranquilizer kicked in and she felt a muted euphoria. Whether it was the drug or the possibility of being done with this nightmare of a law firm, she didn’t know or care. She smiled pityingly at Henning, as if he were the one in deep trouble and not her.
“You know what? Don’t bother, Mr. Novak.”
“What do you mean?” he looked at her suspiciously.
“It means I quit, you fucking bastard.” She turned on her heel to leave the office, but not before she saw the shocked look on his face.
Chapter Two
Clare packed the few belongings she had in her office and left without saying good-bye to anyone. There was no sentimentality about leaving, only relief. She grinned as the elevator door closed on her, ushering her into a new life. Perhaps she should have planned her exit. Her bank accounts were low and she’d have to get another job quickly. But she believed things happened for a reason, a helpful creed for someone whose life was filled with mishaps.
Next stop was her drug dealer’s, where she had an appointment to replenish her supply. That brought another wave of relief. Happiness was a full pillbox.
She’d first met Casey when she went to Sidetrack, a venerable gay bar in the Boys Town neighborhood in Chicago. She’d been a little queer curious, but unsure what she was looking for, exactly. Did she want to pick someone up? She didn’t have the nerve for that. Someone would have to pick her up instead. Men were easy to attract. Piece of cake. Was that true for women? She hoped so but doubted it. It was clear as soon as she entered the bar she wouldn’t find the answers at Sidetrack. The clientele was entirely men. She wedged onto a barstool and asked the man next to her whether he knew of any lesbian bars. That was Casey. He wore a patterned, untucked shirt and tight jeans and looked about her age—late twenties—with posture so straight it was as if a yardstick were taped to his back. He turned to her with a smile.
“Honey, lesbian bars are like a new restaurant in Lakeview. They last about a year before shutting down. You girls don’t drink enough.”
She was tempted to say she drank plenty. “So, there are none?”
“You must be from out of town,” he said.
“There’re still lesbian bars up and running in New York.” She had no idea if this were true.
“Well, it’s New York.”
She looked around the bar again. “No hope of meeting any women here?”
“Afraid not.”
She hesitated. “How about drugs? Could I find that here?”
He put his drink down and stared at her. “Interesting, I wouldn’t have pegged you.”
“Why?” she asked.
He laughed. “If there’s a type, you’re not it. It’s your eyes. They look halfway intelligent.” He leaned in a little closer. “But I may be able to help you out.” It was never easy to find a new drug dealer. It was like striking gold.
“You mean I hit it on my first try? My usual dealer is closing up shop, so I’ve been looking for a replacement.”
“You’ll have to let me know what you’re looking for.” The bartender stopped in front of them with a bottle, but Casey put a hand over his glass and waved him away. Clare still had nothing to drink. “I can fix you up with some meth.”
“Meth? Do I look like a loser? That stuff’s addictive. I was thinking of some speed.” She had her standards. Speed helped her work. Meth was for getting as high as possible, and she wasn’t interested in that.
“Wise woman. Meth is a staple product for the people in this bar, but I don’t like it myself. Come up to my apartment. I’ll get you fixed up.”
A year later, they were still doing business together. She spent a lot of money buying drugs, but she made a ridiculous salary. Or did. What if she couldn’t buy what she needed because of lack of funds? Maybe the decision to quit her job had been rash. She drove from the office to Sidetrack, where Casey lived above the bar, and found him waiting outside his door. He waved her into the living room, which looked like a magazine photo in an article on minimalism.
“You’re back soon. Didn’t I just see you last week?” Casey said.
Clare blanched. “Is that a problem?” She knew she sounded defensive, but what the hell? Did he want to sell product or not?
“No problem at all. It was an innocent comment.”
“You can keep your innocent comments to yourself. I’ve had the crappiest of crap days.”
What did it say when your own drug dealer commented on how much you’re using? The thought of cutting down had come and gone over time
, but mostly gone. That night was certainly not the time to grapple with it.
He pulled a briefcase from below his black leather couch and opened it, revealing small packets of crystal meth, hundreds of Adderall tablets, a bulging bag of large pills she knew to be Oxycontin, a couple ounces of pot, and another bag of small packets she hoped wasn’t heroin. She didn’t want to be associated with heroin in any way. Those people were the worst, completely ruled by their addiction.
He peered over the briefcase. “Good shipment of Adderall and it’s the real thing. How many do you want?”
“The whole bag?”
“No way. I have to spread this around to keep my customers happy.” He was smiling as he dangled the bag in front of her. There must have been a thousand pills in it.
“How many can I have, then?”
“A hundred.”
She hid her disappointment. “Done. What else is in there?”
“We have some fresh Vicodin today. I can give you fifty of those.”
“I’ll take them. Are there any Valium? The last shipment I got from the online pharmacy was pathetic.”
He poked around in the case until he found a bag of small white pills. “I can give you a hundred of those.”
“Add them to my order. Anything else?”
“Christ. Speed, Vicodin, and Valium aren’t enough?”
Her insides tumbled. Casey had never spoken to her that way. No one had ever said anything to her about her drug use, though no one really knew what it was besides Casey. She held her tongue rather than lash out at him. It wasn’t wise to piss off your drug dealer. “Add up the bill, please.”
She paid the two thousand dollars, money she now needed to live on. Casey offered her a beer and she stayed a half hour to chat. She laughed despite her terrible day and felt reluctant when Casey said it was time to go. Next stop was her neighborhood tap. She couldn’t face the silence of her dark basement apartment. There was always someone she knew at the local tavern, someone to distract her from herself and her horrible day.
* * *
The last time Clare woke up with a stranger she swore it would never happen again. But here she was, opening her eyes to a room she’d never seen before. She lay on her side, naked in a four-poster bed, as a familiar gut-clenching remorse made her stomach tumble. Her breathing became shallow and rapid. She didn’t dare turn to see what kind of man she’d gone home with.
It was still dark out, and only the glare of the streetlight poking through the window blinds lit the room. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus, very tidy except for the pile of clothes strewn near the door. Next to the bed was an antique table and Tiffany style lamp, a pile of books stacked high. She skimmed the titles. What a man read would tell her a lot. There were the most recent releases from Margaret Atwood, Zadie Smith, and Emma Donoghue. Contemporary fiction by women authors. Maybe she’d hit the jackpot and hooked up with a well-read feminist man. She turned to her right and found, instead, a woman leaning on one elbow, gazing at her. She had clear eyes, auburn hair hanging loose around her shoulders, and a crooked smile. Her face was handsome, with chiseled cheekbones and a slightly patrician air. Clare grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her chest.
“Good morning, Clare,” she said in a timbre rich alto.
Clare stared at her with fixed eyes. Hearing her name made her feel more vulnerable. The woman had the advantage over her—Clare knew nothing and she knew everything. She prayed she hadn’t done anything mortifying. It was a good sign the woman was smiling at her. Whatever she did couldn’t have been too bad. She broke her gaze and lowered her eyes. “Good morning,” she said, her throat froggy from sleep and God knows what else.
“You seem uncomfortable.”
Clare forced herself to look at her. “I’m a little nervous. I’ve never been with a woman before.”
“So you said last night. I hope it was a good experience for you.”
She hoped so too. She wasn’t upset at having sex with a woman, something she knew would have happened sooner or later. But she was ashamed she didn’t remember meeting her or anything that came after that. Her short-term memory had been on the fritz—when she was in a blackout she forgot everything almost as soon as it happened, which was why drunks so often repeated themselves. At least that’s what she’d read in a depressing article on alcoholism. She scootched up to lean against the headboard and winced at the hammering in her head. She was beginning to feel the full strength of her hangover
“How are you feeling?” the woman said. She now sat in a lotus position, facing her. Clare avoided her eyes. She seemed entirely out of her league.
“Not so bad. Yourself?”
“I’m surprisingly good, given how drunk we were last night,” she said. “But I have no regrets.” She reached over for Clare’s hand and held it gently. “I hope you don’t.”
Can you regret something you can’t remember? “No, it was lovely.” She looked on the floor for her cell phone. It was nowhere in sight. “Do you happen to know what time it is?”
The woman turned toward her nightstand. “It’s six, still time for more sleep.” She ducked her head to meet Clare’s eyes. “Unless you were interested in doing something else?” Her voice was sultry, as if she really desired her, which Clare found impossible to believe.
“No! I mean, I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve got to go.” She swung her legs to the side of the bed.
“Six is late?”
“I have to get into the office. I work in a sweatshop.” Why was she lying? She remembered she didn’t have to go to work, that she’d quit the day before, but she was desperate to get away. She looked to where her clothes were scattered near the door. Apparently, they’d been in quite a hurry to get them off.
“I thought you were a lawyer.”
“I am. And the hours are ridiculous.” Clare took a breath before she slid off the bed and tried to walk in a reasonably dignified manner across the room to her clothes. She could feel the woman’s eyes on her.
“You’re beautiful. You know that, don’t you?”
No, she didn’t. Surely her outside looked as bad as her inside felt, a toxic brew of nausea, the hammering head, and a bucket full of recrimination. Her business suit lay crumpled on the floor and she pulled it on before glancing back at the woman. She’d gotten out of bed and stood naked in front of her, as comfortable as a hand in a glove. She was at least six feet, a few inches taller than Clare and a hundred times more confident. Whatever actually happened, she hoped she’d given the woman pleasure. Usually her blackouts erased the memory of behavior she’d rather forget, but she would have liked remembering her first time with a woman. Would like to know whether it was everything she suspected it to be.
Clare had to clear her throat to talk. “Sorry I have to run. I’ll let myself out.”
“Wait.” The woman came closer, her nakedness seemed billboard-sized. “You seem skittish. There’s no pressure around what happened last night. Two adults and all that.”
“Sure. I understand. It’s just I have to get going.”
She stared at Clare for a moment before leading her out of the bedroom to the front door. She seemed ready to move on herself. She held the door open, unconcerned at who might pass in the hallway. “The name’s Ellen, by the way. I know you don’t remember.”
“I do remember. Of course, I do.”
Ellen raised one eyebrow. “Are you lying to me or to yourself?” She smiled and motioned Clare out the door. “Take care of yourself, Clare.”
She flushed as she hurried down the hall to the elevators. Lying about knowing Ellen’s name was a white lie, not a lie lie. And she never lied to herself. She was clear on the fact she’d been in a blackout, that she’d gotten shit-faced drunk and acted the fool. The drama of quitting her job made her hit the bourbon more than usual. Mercifully, the elevator door opened as soon as she pushed the button. She could feel Ellen watching from her doorway. As soon as the door slid shut she reached into the pocket of he
r long wool coat and pulled out her pillbox. It was empty, though there’d been two Valium and a Vicodin in it when she’d gone to the tavern the night before.
Once she was on the street she realized she was a few blocks from her apartment. She wasn’t wearing a party dress and high heels, so the walk down Clark Street didn’t look like a walk of shame. But that’s what it felt like. That she’d slept with a woman? She was relieved her hookup was with a woman. She could have woken up with a great, hairy, Cro-Magnon man in a bad temper. Or worse.
Now she tried to reconstruct the night with Ellen as she walked south to Berwyn. She’d run into her friends Todd and Marty at Hopleaf, a Belgian bar/restaurant a couple of blocks from her apartment and had a few cocktails with them. She also swallowed a Valium, which was her first mistake. She knew better than to mix a night of drinking with benzos, but she hadn’t had one that day and how much could one hurt? Todd and Marty were law school friends and the talk was all about Clare quitting her job, something half the first-year associates in Chicago would like to do themselves.
“What are you going to do?” Todd asked. “I hope you saved some of that Dearborn Pike salary. You don’t get a package when you quit.”
“I’m good,” Clare said with a confident smile, even though she had no idea what she would do for money. She hoped her paltry 401(k) would tide her over for a while.
They’d parted ways around nine o’clock. Todd and Marty said they were on their way to a party, but Clare knew they would go straight home to sack out on the couch and watch Netflix. They were only two years out of law school and already settled down, ending their evenings at a reasonable time, still relatively sober. They weren’t aware that Clare was still going at full undergraduate speed.
As a rule, she tried to keep her drinking confined to weekends. She wasn’t a drunk, mainly because the consequences were usually bad when she drank too much. There was a moving line past which she blacked out, and she couldn’t predict how near or far that line was on any given night. When she was on Valium or any of the other depressants, the line was crossed sooner rather than later. After her friends left, the night started to get hazy, but the thought of going home didn’t enter her mind. She walked up the street to Simon’s Tavern, a drinking establishment more dedicated to the dedicated drinker than the craft beer atmosphere of Hopleaf. The last thing she could remember was ordering a bourbon with a beer back.
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