Emmaline Waters, This Is Your Life

by Maggie Bloom

  First of all, I don’t “go by” anything. And, second of all, please don’t fire me before I even get started. I mean, I’m still filling out the paperwork on this job. “Sorry?”

  He clenches his teeth, a vein in his forehead pulsing. “You’re sorry? Lotta good that’s gonna do us. Listen, I’m running a reprint from the archives in place of that weak-ass crap you submitted. I mean, Downtown Dish? Really? Did you even bother Googling that? Hint: there are seventeen thousand restaurant-review blogs with that same exact title. And you gave Trattoria Saulino four stars? That place has been panned by every food critic on the Eastern Seaboard, which, again, you’d have known if you’d performed even the slightest bit of due diligence on this assignment.” He pulls in a breath, and I wilt.

  Do not cry, I order myself. Whatever you do, at least hold it together until you get out of this office. After that, all bets are off.

  “Was there anything good about the article?” I murmur, grasping for a flicker of positivity and some direction on how to proceed with the next—assuming there is a next—assignment.

  “The punctuation was killer.”

  On second thought, maybe I don’t want to work here. “I’m sorry you didn’t like it,” I say, my voice crackling with an ugly stew of anger, hurt, and frustration. “Maybe it would be best if I . . .” I shove the paperwork aside and rocket out of the chair. “Good luck finding someone in Boston who can write like Stephen King, read minds like The Amazing Kreskin, and—oh—pull in the twentysomething demographic like”—shit, I’m blanking on the name of an über-popular celebrity—“Lady Gaga,” I blurt, knowing the reference misses the mark. “Sounds like child’s play, if you ask me.”

  I don’t know what has come over me—yes, I do: he used punctuation to ridicule me!—but my upset has given way to a euphoric sense of calm that I harness as I stride for the escape hatch, a.k.a. the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Mitch barks as I breeze by.

  “Starbucks, maybe.” (Oh, the horror! Coffee from a behemoth corporate chain?! That ought to send his mind reeling!)

  Or not.

  He goes into his pocket for a twenty-dollar bill, which he forces into my hand. “Get me a grande vanilla latte,” he says, “and bring back the change.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Grande. Vanilla. Latte,” he repeats. “I’m dragging ass here. We’ll discuss your column for next week when you get back.” He snatches my employment paperwork off the desk, nearly crumpling it.

  “Um, all right,” I say, even though, in defense of women everywhere, I should tell Mitch Heywood to piss off and, in a blaze of David-versus-Goliath glory, storm out of the Boston Sunday Times in protest.

  But I want this job. I really, really do. And, apparently, I’m going to have to tolerate some pretty unsavory things—or people, actually—to make it work. Fetching coffee for a tyrant is as good a place as any to begin my spiral of moral decay, I figure. In fact, it’s so cliché it must be a stepping stone to greatness.

  “Waters,” the boss says, snapping me out of my delusion, “get a move on.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Chapter 7

  Until an hour ago, I had no intention of revisiting my job at The Crowbar. But with things on such rocky ground at The Times, it seems prudent to keep a foot in the door of my past, even if that means facing Jimmy.

  For the first time in a long time, I’m early for my shift. But instead of marching into the bar and resolving things with my boss (as far as I’m concerned, whatever happened between us never really happened, since I wasn’t in my right mind), I spend the extra five minutes sifting through the Prizm’s glove box for a grimy packet of Tylenol. Although the pills are expired by more than two years, I force them down.

  Well, here goes nothing, I think as I tug my coat on—it’s flurrying again!—and head inside.

  Kayla (the wife of the man I may or may not have seduced) is behind the bar when I enter, Jimmy curiously MIA. “Hi, Kay,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant as I tuck my coat under the bar and, since the boss man’s wife is on duty, actually don the apron I’m supposed to wear to “increase brand awareness”—or some such silliness Kayla picked up in her Wednesday-night marketing class at MassBay Community College.

  Kayla swings a bar mop over her shoulder and sighs. “Am I glad to see you!”

  I scan the vicinity for Jimmy but come up empty. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Aaron’s got the flu,” she says, referring to the oldest of her three boys. “Connor and Nate are at my Dad’s. I’ve gotta pick them up on the way to the pharmacy.”

  “That stinks,” I say. I step away to refill an empty pitcher for a couple of Crowbar regulars. “Is Jimmy home with Aaron?”

  She whips her apron over her head and pushes a jangly ring of keys down the bar at me. “Yep. As soon as I get there to relieve him, he’ll be in. Think you can hold down the fort until then? I wouldn’t ask, but . . .”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, surveying the sparsely populated seating area. “It doesn’t look too busy.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she cries. “You’re a lifesaver. Remind me to give you a big Christmas bonus this year.”

  We both laugh. Six months a year, The Crowbar is in the red, making bonuses of any kind—regardless of what Jimmy and Kayla might like to offer—ridiculously unlikely. “I won’t book that trip to Tahiti quite yet,” I joke back. “Let’s see how Thanksgiving pans out first.”

  “Deal,” she says, with the brightest, cutest smile. (God, if anything happened between Jimmy and me, I’m headed straight to hell!) With a twirly wave, she adds, “See you next week.”

  In the humdrum hour and a half that follows, I serve a whopping three drinks: two Irish Car Bombs and a Buttery Nipple. As I’m clearing an inch-thick layer of grime off the window ledge—boredom has driven me insane, apparently—the most bizarre thing happens: Jung slinks into the bar on the arm of the sexiest man alive outside of Ryan Gosling and Channing Tatum.

  What the hell? Since when does my mousy bookworm of a roommate socialize with, much less date—because that’s what this little outing looks like, Jung and the mystery man cozying up in a candlelit booth in the corner—genetically blessed super studs?

  Not that I begrudge her. In fact, there’s probably nothing Jung needs more than a good, stiff . . . “Drink?” I say, waltzing up to the table with my mouth agape.

  Jung smiles coquettishly at her companion, who responds with a rabid case of the goo-goo eyes.

  I clear my throat. “Hey, roomie,” I say, taking our communication to a whole new level. (Most of the “talking” Jung and I do is by text, except for the time she walked in on me in the bathroom and apologized for an hour straight.) “What can I get you?”

  Mr. Luscious goes old-school and orders for both of them—a matching pair of Fuzzy Navels—in a spine-tingling baritone that puts even his chiseled jaw to shame.

  How soon could Trent be back in Boston? I wonder. Suddenly, I’m in favor of thrusting our relationship full steam ahead. “Coming right up,” I say brightly.

  Jung has yet to make a peep.

  I mix the drinks—peach schnapps, OJ, a splash each of vodka and grenadine—and ferry them to Romance Central. “Here we go. Anything else I can get you?” I ask, though, other than alcohol, The Crowbar’s offerings are limited to a bowl of shriveled peanuts or a bag of microwaved popcorn.

  Without taking her eyes off her gorgeous date, Jung shakes her head.

  “All right,” I say. I try to work up a smile, but it seems pointless. I might as well be invisible. “Enjoy.”

  In the last few minutes, the handful of customers who’ve been keeping me company have vanished, leaving only Mr. Luscious, Jung, and me in the bar.

  Ick.

  Like I said: Go Jung. Rope that stallion. Just not under my nose. (Heck, even her bedroom at home would be better, since I’m sure she’d have the decency to close the door.)

  I dig a scu
zzy old pack of cigarettes out of my purse and, after a final check of the bar—the place will survive without me during a quick smoke break, I confirm—proceed outside. The weather is stuck in a holding pattern of weak flurries, coupled with temperatures that seem too warm for snow.

  Goddammit, I think as I fire up my first cigarette in two weeks, I wish Jimmy hadn’t quit smoking—or at least hadn’t kicked the weaker willed among us to the curb, literally, when he did. Before he went health-nut crazy (a budding midlife crisis, I suspect) he’d sometimes join me for a little clandestine puffing in Kayla’s office, providing she was off duty. Now when my resolve breaks down, I’m on the street—or, worse, in the alley, my venue of choice today for its umbrella-like awning.

  And, wouldn’t you know, I’m not three drags into the cigarette when the Tobacco Tyrant himself comes moseying down the sidewalk. I blow the smoke I’ve just inhaled out the side of my mouth and stub the cigarette on the brick wall behind me.

  “Oh, Em,” Jimmy says, as if he’s surprised to see me. He pauses at the cusp of the alley, which is narrow but still wide enough for both of us. “What are you doing here?”

  I don’t know whether he means here in the specific sense (as in outside in the snow) or here in the general sense (as in at work, period). “Come again?” I say. (Okay, poor choice of words, considering what might have transpired between us during my naked, drunken blackout.)

  He steps into the alley with me, his body heat—he’s pumping out British thermal units at alarming levels—radiating through my Crowbar apron and down to my mismatched bra and panties. “Who’s watching the bar?”

  “It’s dead in there.” I gulp. “Are you sick or something?” I mean, the man has been home caring for a flu-ridden youngster all day, which could explain—please, God!—the feverish heat swirling around us.

  He moves closer. Before I know it, his mouth is on mine.

  I am paralyzed by 1) shock 2) guilt 3) the fact that, despite our fifteen-year age difference—not to mention that he’s my boss—Jimmy is one helluva sexy kisser: lips, tongue, that ticklish little beard? He knows how to use them.

  Only he shouldn’t be using them on me.

  I try to protest, but the effort comes out as a soft moan that, I fear, encourages him to escalate. Now, in addition to the facial probing, I’m the subject of an FAA-style pat down, his hands roving from my waist, to my hips, to my . . .

  “No,” I manage to murmur, during a split-second window of opportunity (his teeth bumped mine, forcing him to recoil). “Don’t.”

  He responds by jamming me against the wall, his overheated body—perhaps he’s delirious?—boring into mine.

  Get off me, I should be saying. Leave me alone. I’ll tell Kayla. Maybe even sting you with a sexual harassment lawsuit. But for a few animalistic seconds, I can’t do anything but return his lust. Then my conscience gets the best of me. I move my hands from where they’ve been dangling like puppet limbs to his chest and press him away. “Jimmy, stop. We can’t do this. Think of your family.”

  “It’s hard to think of anything but you since the other night.”

  Holy fuck. I slept with him. This can’t be happening. “Listen, whatever we did,” I say, running a hand through my hair, “it was wrong. We shouldn’t have done it. You’re married. I have a boyfriend. You’re my boss. I’m sure you can see how this whole situation . . .”

  He silences me with another toe-curling kiss, and instantly I know what I have to do. “Jimmy, stop!” I yell, shoving him hard enough to send him stumbling. I grope for my apron strings and hastily untie them, pull the apron off, and toss it in his face. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry; I quit.”

  He looks so stunned (and, if I’m not mistaken, heartbroken) that I have a flash of regret. But only a flash before zooming back into The Crowbar—for the last time, I realize—clutching my belongings to my stomach, and making a mad, bawling rush for my car.

  Chapter 8

  The steps to Mom and Dad’s brownstone seem steeper than usual today. By the time I reach their black, lacquered front door, I’m winded enough to stop and rest. “Friggin’ cigarettes,” I mutter as I buzz for entry.

  Moments later, the door drags ajar, Angie’s beaming face filling the gap. (She must’ve run through the foyer to greet me.) “Hi, Emmy!” she yelps, the heavy old slab of wood putting up a fight.

  I stroke her hair with one hand and give the door a shove with the other. “Hey there, pumpkin.”

  “Come on!” she squeals, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the apartment. “We have waffles! With chocolate chips!”

  “Hold on,” I say, forcing the door closed with my foot.

  She yanks harder, practically dislocating my shoulder. Since when has she gotten so strong? I wonder. Then I remind myself that she’s almost four years old. It just doesn’t seem possible.

  Mom and Dad’s unit is on the ground floor, a fact my lungs sorely (and sadly) appreciate. “Mmm, it smells good in here,” I remark, the scents of scorched sugar—and do I smell pure maple syrup?—greeting me as I make my way inside. Angie releases my hand and gallops ahead for the kitchen. I don’t bother trying to keep up—though I could, I tell myself. Definitely, I could.

  In a comfy recliner by the window sits my father, a soft gray cardigan draped over his shoulders, his chin tucked to his chest, his vintage (read: ancient) tortoise-shell eyeglasses—known throughout my childhood as his “owl eyes”—poised to careen off the tip of his nose and plunge to their death on the slate fireplace hearth. I nudge his arm, hoping to rouse him. “Dad,” I whisper. “It’s Em. Wake up.” I glance through the dining room, which is as cluttered as ever with Mom’s graphic design work, to the kitchen, where Angie is teetering on a stepstool and helping Mom ladle batter into a waffle maker. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

  A gurgled sigh rumbles out of Dad’s mouth. He shifts sideways and cracks an eye open.

  “Dad,” I repeat, unconvinced he’s recognized me.

  He gives a couple of milky-eyed blinks and, excruciatingly slowly, straightens up. Even though part of me wants to help him, I don’t. (You know, teach a man to fish and all that.) “Emmaline,” he says, his face sparking back to life. “You made it.”

  These Sunday-morning brunches were Dad’s idea, a way to keep us united as a family and encourage a bond between Angie and me. “Of course, I’m here,” I say, trying not to sound hurt. I mean, whether he knows it or not, these get-togethers are a crucial part of my mental-health program.

  Dad grins and, as if he’s developed a sudden, almost comical case of narcolepsy, nods back off to sleep.

  Brilliant.

  No matter, I decide. Mom is beckoning me to the kitchen anyway, a heaping plate of confectioner’s-sugar-dusted waffles—hey, where’s my share of that sweet Vermont maple?—awaiting me.

  Usually we make a show of eating at the dining room table, but with Mom’s projects clogging up the works, we’re stuck huddling around the island on the rickety barstools Dad rescued from our neighbors’ lawn back in Brookline. It could be worse. I mean, at least the kitchen offers a more intimate setting in which to broach the subjects of my iffy employment and my recent foray into adultery.

  On second thought, maybe I won’t broach. As the saying goes: What you don’t broach can’t hurt you, right?

  Wrong.

  “So,” Mom says, a gob of waffle batter splashing the counter as she returns the ladle to the mixing bowl, “how’s that new job of yours?” She raises an eyebrow and puts on a silly face. “Are you in line for a Pulitzer yet?”

  See, I come by delusions of grandeur naturally. “Sure,” I say, dipping my pinkie in the bowl for a taste of raw batter. I drop onto one of the death stools. “The check’s in the mail. I gave the selection committee your address. I hope that’s okay.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Be serious. How’s the job? I actually do want to know.”

  Really, she doesn’t. “Eh, it’s all right,” I lie. “I’m still getting into the
swing of things.” A bright smile. “It should be old hat by, say, Christmas.”

  Mom’s demeanor relaxes. The effect of my remark on Angie, however, is the opposite. “Christmas!” she’s suddenly squealing. “I LOVE Christmas!!!”

  Duh.

  “I know,” I say, helping her peel the most recent—and nearly burnt—waffle off the griddle. “Christmas is fun, huh? Do you have a list yet?”

  Mom shoots me a stifling glare, the reason for which I don’t grasp. I mean, she and Dad love spoiling Angie as much as Angie loves being spoiled. “This year, we’re going to focus less on presents and more on people,” Mom says in her imparting-pearls-of-wisdom voice.

  Hmm. I agree with her in theory, but dialing back the gift giving for a four-year-old is a thorny proposition. “Well, um,” I say, trying to get Angie to focus on me and stop pouting, “that means you’ll have to really, really think about what you want. Is there a special present that’d make you happier than anything else in the whole wide world?”

  Angie thrusts her lip out. “NO!”

  Oh-oh. A temper tantrum is brewing, and it’s my responsibility to quash it. “What about those giggling monkeys?” I suggest. (All right, I admit it: I watched an online ad for stuffed baby monkeys that “play and cuddle like the real thing.”) “I bet you’d love one of those.”

  “I HATE monkeys!” Angie screeches. She scrambles off the stepstool and starts running figure eights around the kitchen.

  Duly noted.

  “Maybe”—have I been duped by any other cutesy advertisements of late?—“a hugging Elmo, then?”

  “Elmo’s dumb!” Angie declares, stomping off for the living room.

  I turn to Mom and shrug. “Sorry. Has she been doing that a lot lately?”

  “Doing what?” Mom replies distractedly.

  Before I can answer, a racket erupts in the living room. I spin around to catch what looks like Dad backhanding Angie across the face. “Hey, HEY!!!” I spout, speeding to intervene. I rear to a stop beside Dad’s recliner and tuck Angie behind me for safekeeping. “What are you doing?!”