by Adam Mitzner
Then, come last Thanksgiving, my mother must have assumed that enough time had passed, but Ohlig apparently had second thoughts. A lot had certainly happened since my father’s death, not the least of which was that he was about to go on trial for securities fraud. He must have told her it wasn’t the time to leave his wife. Maybe they had that discussion before and she was tired of his excuses. My mother must have threatened to tell Pamela, and that bastard couldn’t risk that the truth would come out.
“What is it, Alex?”
Elizabeth’s voice startles me.
“Nothing. I’m just trying to process it all.”
47
I’m very glad this year is over,” I say to Elizabeth as we’re sitting on the couch preparing for the ball to drop in Times Square.
“What did the queen call the year that Diana and Charles divorced and the castle burned down?” she says. “Annus Horribilis or something?”
“I wish the worst thing that had happened to me this year was that our house had burned down.”
“That’s the great thing about New Year’s, Alex. A chance to close the book and write a new one. Anyhow, it wasn’t all terrible this year.”
Elizabeth says this while looking down in her arms, where Charlotte sleeps soundly, curled up like a kitten. Charlotte is still wearing those ridiculous eyeglasses that they sell on the street corner for a dollar, the ones with the year serving as the eye holes.
Elizabeth had offered that we go out tonight. The mother of one of Charlotte’s friends, a woman whom Elizabeth has become friendly with through play dates, was having a party. I wouldn’t have been interested under the best of circumstances, but when I found out it was black tie, I told Elizabeth I’d much rather welcome in the New Year wearing my pajamas. She said that she was actually thinking the same thing.
“What do you think of the picture over there?” I say, pointing to the Scary Lady, who has taken up residence in the dining room.
Two days ago, I’d picked her up from the framer, who had given her a makeover with a cherry wood frame and off-white matting. The guy in the frame store told me that the lighter border would make the colors brighter.
“The new frame is nice,” Elizabeth says.
It’s not lost on me that the compliment is for the frame only. “We can take it down if you’d prefer.”
“No. If it makes you happy here, that’s fine with me.”
Ryan Seacrest is on TV, introducing this year’s group with the hot song. I’ve never heard of the band or even the song for that matter. It seems that this year, or at least the second part of it, I’ve lived outside of the world, as if nothing happened that didn’t happen only to me. I haven’t been to the movies or read a book. Where did the year go?
“Did you make any resolutions?” I ask Elizabeth.
“I did,” she says coyly, almost flirtatiously.
“Care to share?”
“You know that if I do, they won’t come true.”
“That’s only birthday wishes, and maybe for a shooting star. It doesn’t apply to New Year’s resolutions.” I say this with an air of seriousness, as if this is an expertise I possess, the knowledge of the distinction between resolutions and wishes.
“Nothing that extravagant,” Elizabeth says, apparently having been convinced that resolutions can be shared without losing their potency. “Just to be happier.”
“Just to be happier.” I’m not sure whether I’m repeating her resolution or trying it on for size myself. “Just like that?”
“Why not? I could say I’m going to lose twenty pounds or learn Chinese, but I know I won’t do either of those things. I think being happier is a more lofty goal anyway.”
“You should put in an order for me on that one. You know, happiness for two.”
She sends me the look that says things are about to become more serious. “Only you can make yourself happy, Alex.”
“I know. I know.” Even as I agree with Elizabeth, I’m still far from certain that Abby didn’t have this right when she offered the opposite opinion.
Elizabeth gets up from the sofa while still cradling Charlotte and walks toward the Pink Palace. From the couch, I can see into Charlotte’s room and watch Elizabeth pour our daughter into bed, bringing the covers up to her shoulders. Elizabeth reaches into the toy bin and pulls out Belle the bunny, gently tucking it under Charlotte’s arm, before kneeling beside the bed and kissing Charlotte’s forehead.
Elizabeth returns to the couch and adopts a very similar pose to Charlotte’s, curling her body and tucking herself under my arm. I begin to stroke her long hair with my palm, causing Elizabeth to make a purring sound to indicate her appreciation. There have been numerous moments like this over the past few months when I’ve wondered what happened to us. How did we—maybe I should say I—get here? I never have an answer.
“What about you?” Elizabeth says, startling me for a moment.
“What about me what?”
“Resolutions. You’re a pretty big list maker. I bet you have some good resolutions.”
“Nothing really,” I lie, really giving it away, I’m sure.
“C’mon, Alex. I told. Now you tell.”
“I kind of like the whole be-happy thing,” I say looking into her face. “It wraps up everything so well.”
“No fair. You can’t steal my resolution.”
“I can’t be happy?”
“Okay. You can borrow that resolution, but how about a new resolution we can share?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We should try to have more spontaneous, shall we say, intimate moments in the new year.”
“That’s a resolution I can get behind.”
“Alex!” she laughs.
“Sorry,” I say, realizing the joke. “I mean I fully support the sentiment.”
Without another word, Elizabeth pulls her T-shirt over her head. She’s not wearing a bra, and she presses her breasts against my chest. I pull back a bit to remove my own shirt, and then our bodies come together again.
We are as one on the couch, just like it used to be, when I hear the honking horns from the street and the screaming from the party down the hall indicating the arrival of the new year. Elizabeth opens her eyes and stares into my face inches above her.
“Happy New Year, Alex,” she breathes.
“Happy New Year, Elizabeth.”
“This is going to be a better year,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I promise. I really promise. Please don’t give up on us.”
48
For a city that never sleeps, just before nine in the morning on January 1st is pretty dead. I would wager that half the people I see on the street have not been home since yesterday, continuing their New Year’s Eve revelry well into the sunlight. Even if they had been to bed, it most likely was not their own, and they must have hightailed it out of there as soon as they woke up.
On a normal workday the Cromwell Altman lobby teems with people, each one racing to make the elevator as if another one will never arrive. Today it’s eerie how deserted it is. Some of that is understandable given the holiday, but I’m surprised I haven’t overlapped with at least one or two of my partners.
I check my watch. It’s five minutes to nine. Prime time for arrival.
The Cromwell Altman partnership has met every January 1st since 1885 to vote on whether to enlarge its ranks. In addition to Abby, three corporate associates are up for partner this year, one of whom apparently has enough backing to make it, although it may be close. The other two have already been declared dead on arrival. With Aaron’s backing, Abby is considered a shoe-in.
I’ve never had any doubt that when the time came I would vote for her to make it. Of course, I realize it might be better for me if Abby simply vanished off the face of the earth, but even if I could derail her, which is highly doubtful considering Aaron’s backing, I know myself well enough to realize that I’m not constitutionally equipped to handle the guilt of ruining someone’s
career.
There’s another reason as well, one far less noble: I’m still not over her, not completely. I want her to stay at the firm so that I can maintain some type of connection. Even if we’re not going to be lovers, at least I’ll be able to still see her from time to time.
The front desk of the building’s lobby is manned during business hours by as many as six security guards. Even on weekends there are usually two. Today a lone guard, the poor guy who has to work on a national holiday, sits behind the marble station. I’ve probably walked by this same guard three times a day for the past seven years at least, but I don’t have the first clue as to his name.
“Happy New Year,” I remark as I walk by, not making eye contact. I fumble for my wallet, which contains my building pass, and then slap it outside against the turnstile and proceed through, only to make hard contact with the gate. When I again touch the pass to the turnstile I hear the same buzz and this time also see the red “STOP” beside the gate.
The few times this has happened over the years, I’ve walked over to the front desk to explain that my ID was not working. Now I’m afraid I’m going to be late, and seeing that we’re the only two people in the lobby, and he must have heard the buzz of denial as clearly as me, I call out to him.
“Hey, my pass isn’t working. Can you let me through?”
“I’m going to need to see some ID,” he calls over to me. “You’re also going to have to sign in.”
I let him know my displeasure with an exaggerated sigh, the kind that says I can’t believe how so little power can go to someone’s head. I walk over to him and put my wallet on the desk, removing my building pass and driver’s license from the sleeve.
The guard examines the pass as if he’s never seen it before, despite the fact that I’m quite sure he’s seen more building passes than any man who has ever lived. He next looks down at the desk. I follow his eyes, but the barrier at the desk curls upward to block my view of what has captured his attention.
All of a sudden, I comprehend what’s happening. I don’t even hear the guard explain it. His words are drowned out by my own, although mine are in my head only.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand.”
The better explanation is that I haven’t been listening. I’m sure what he said is fairly simple to comprehend.
“Mr. Miller, someone will be downstairs at approximately nine o’clock to discuss the situation with you.” He looks at his watch. “Please have a seat in reception.”
Revoking my building pass and denying me access to my office is something that could only be done at the highest level of the partnership. My mind races with the possibilities, but there’s really only one—Abby has filed a complaint against me.
If a client called me from the lobby of his office building and said that his partners had locked him out of a partnership meeting, my advice would be for him to get the hell out of there immediately—do not pass go, do not collect $200—and come directly to my office without talking to anyone. And then he’d say: But if I do that, they’re definitely going to think that I did something wrong and they’ll fire me. And I’d respond: They wouldn’t be treating you like this unless they had already decided to fire you.
The Cromwell Altman delegation selected to address me arrives in the lobby at precisely nine. It’s comprised of Aaron Littman; Jim Martin, the head of the corporate group, whom I probably haven’t spoken with for more than ten minutes in the twelve years I’ve been at the firm; and Paul Harris, whose presence on this team is undoubtedly to provide a friendly face to keep me calm.
Standing behind them, making it difficult to see him, is Ron Kantner, the firm’s HR director. His presence confirms what I had already surmised—I’m about to be fired.
Paul steps into the lead as they approach. I wonder if this is choreographed. Then again, perhaps this is what friends do to cushion the blow.
“Hello, Alex,” he says, extending his hand as if we were greeting each other at a funeral.
“What’s going on?” I ask, although he knows that I know.
He shakes his head and looks to Aaron. I’m about to be on the receiving end of what I’ve seen Aaron do so many times before—impart bad news in a way that’s designed to make the recipient feel lucky to be receiving it.
“Alex, I’m very sorry that it’s come to this, but the partnership has voted to reformulate. We all wish you the very best in your legal career.”
“I don’t understand,” I reply.
Aaron has faced down many more liars than most people, and I’m not as proficient as those who do it every day. He sighs deeply. The look on his face is classic Aaron—the one he gives at the point when clients profess their innocence.
“Alex, I was really hoping you would spare us the discomfort of going over what we all know.” He says this solemnly, as if it’s going to pain him to explain why my career is over.
“I’m sorry,” I say, immediately kicking myself for apologizing to him, “but you’re going to have to. I really don’t understand why you’re firing me.”
Aaron sighs again, this time even deeper. “Very well. Why don’t you have a seat.” He motions that I sit down on the leather sofa where I was waiting for him. Aaron sits across from me but Martin, Harris and Kantner remain standing. When I’m in position, he begins, “Human Resources received an anonymous call via the sexual harassment line reporting that you were involved in an inappropriate relationship with Abby Sloane. As you know, we have a duty to investigate all such allegations, even the anonymous ones. We reviewed your emails and voicemails and they left no doubt that there was an intimate relationship between the two of you, which, as you also know, is improper and grounds for immediate termination.”
The lawyer in me knows not to admit anything, even just to argue that Abby and I had sex only once. That means there’s no way I can defend myself but to deny the charge outright—a futile gesture if they’ve actually listened to my voicemails or read my emails.
Although it shouldn’t matter, that Aaron used the term intimate—not sexual—to describe my relationship with Abby has taken some of the wind out of my sails. I’m sure he thought the two terms were interchangeable and made the word choice based on decorum, but it makes his charge accurate, whereas otherwise there would be room for debate.
“What about Abby?” I say, just to fill the void because I know the answer.
“She’s been elected to the partnership,” he says, as if there is no inconsistency at play. Needless to say, it would compound the problem if Cromwell Altman penalized Abby in any way. I’m only glad she made it on her merit, because if she hadn’t, your conduct would have put the firm in an untenable situation. Even so, her elevation is always going to be tainted with the idea that the firm had no choice but to make her partner in order to avoid a lawsuit.”
Aaron moves slightly to the side, allowing Kantner’s bald head to stick through. It’s his turn now, like the guy who reads the disclaimers at the end of the commercials.
“Mr. Miller,” he says, “we’ll be boxing up and sending to you all of your personal items. After you sign a release, the firm will send you your final paycheck for the year and whatever year-end profit you’re entitled to.”
I spent nearly thirteen years at Cromwell Altman and billed more than 30,000 hours, and this is my good-bye. I’m being treated like a criminal, locked out and not even permitted to retrieve my photographs.
At least, I’m going to be paid for the year, which will provide some financial cushion. But the firm really had no choice about that. For starters, I’m owed that money under the partnership agreement. But what probably carried the day was that the last thing Cromwell Altman wants is a public lawsuit centered on partner compensation. Besides, the fact that they’re going to require that I sign a release (and confidentiality agreement, I’m sure) before they pay me a penny of what I’ve earned leaves little doubt that they consider us to be enemies now.
After what is less than a mi
nute, and feels like a blink of an eye, Aaron stands and extends his hand to me. “I look forward to continuing our relationship, Alex. Being your partner was enriching for me, and I hope that remains true, even as your ex-partner.” The use of the term ex-partner strikes me as unnecessary and, in a way, just cruel, bringing home the finality of this decision. Then again, that was probably the point.
They are about to walk away—in fact, Martin is already heading toward the elevator—when Aaron turns back to me. “One more thing,” he says. “I know you’re enough of a professional that there’s no need to say this, but Abby has specifically requested that you not contact her. She’s understandably very upset. No one wants to make partner this way.”
All at once, my entire being becomes consumed with the same thought. Not that I am unemployed; or how I’m going to explain this to Elizabeth; or even whether this will cause the end of my marriage.
I wonder why Abby would do this to me.
Even though it’s close to freezing outside, I walk the more than twenty blocks back to our apartment, each step of the way wishing I had somewhere else to go. The walk gives me time to play out in my head different ways to tell Elizabeth, but no version sounds better than any other.
When I turn the doorknob to the apartment, I have no idea what I’m going to say, or even if I’m going to tell her. What awaits me inside, however, is even more surprising to me than the end of my career—Elizabeth is painting.
The easel I bought for her thirtieth birthday is set up in the living room and the paints that were included with the gift are on the coffee table.
“You’re back earlier than I expected,” she says, relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in some time. “Last year, didn’t it go all day? Isn’t it some type of ridiculous firm tradition where you make them bend over and ask ‘may I please have another?’”
I don’t even force out a smile. “You’re painting?”
“You make it sound like you found me here with another man. Yes, I’m painting. You do remember that I did that once, don’t you?”