Do This For Me

by Eliza Kennedy

  “It’s hard to explain, but more than how she looked, it was the fact that she was new. Someone different, who was into me. It was fun to feel that I was interesting, that I was important to someone—”

  “Wait,” I said. “Important? You’re important to me.”

  He gave me an uncertain look.

  “Aaron. You’re my husband. I love you.”

  “I know. Of course. But day to day, you don’t really…show it, so much.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t get it.

  “You’re so self-sufficient,” he explained. “It’s hard to know when you need me.”

  “I need you all the time!” Then I thought back to the day everything changed. I’d been waiting for news, missing Aaron, longing for his reassurance. I’d considered calling him—only to talk myself out of it. Over and over.

  It had been the idea of him that made me feel strong. Knowing he was in my corner.

  “You’re there for me in my head,” I said, well aware of how inadequate it sounded.

  He touched my arm. “I want to be there for you in the real world. All the time, like I used to be. That’s what makes a couple.”

  At which point I was overcome by the unfairness of it all. He loved me for being a superwoman, but also expected me to be a damsel in distress. I was supposed to be myself, but also open and expressive. Strong and vulnerable. Capable and needy.

  It was hard enough being me—now I had to be two people?

  “I’m sorry I let you down,” I snapped. “I’m glad you found a nice full-bodied woman who could be all the things you needed.”

  His face flushed. “I am trying here, Raney. Trying to apologize and explain. Two tasks, I’d note, that you haven’t gotten around to yet.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “It’s the same subject. You tried to destroy me, Raney. Is that how you treat someone you need? Someone who’s important to you? There are people who still look at me like I’m the enemy. My motives are going to be suspect for a long time. You did that.”

  “I was hurt!” I cried.

  “I know,” Aaron said. “Trust me—you made that very clear.”

  * * *

  —

  “Naked, Father Ralph stepped off the veranda to stand on the barbered lawn with his arms raised above his head—”

  “Can I help you?” asked the clerk.

  I jumped. The Thorn Birds slipped from my grasp. I fumbled to catch it.

  “No! Thank you. I’m only browsing.” I shoved the book back on the shelf and fled the store.

  I hurried to the café where I was meeting Sarah. It was a faux-French place, all fogged mirrors and woven bistro chairs. She entered a few minutes later, trailing Mercer.

  “No school today?” I said.

  “Pinkeye.” She shed her hat and coat. “We’re under quarantine, but we needed to get out of the house. Right, kiddo?”

  He saluted her. “Right, Mom-o!”

  Sarah ordered a cappuccino for herself and a hot chocolate for Mercer. I ordered a chai.

  Mercer said, “Did you know a kid in my class, his name is Moloch, when he was a baby he ate a stick and that’s how he got that voice?”

  I looked at Sarah. “Hard to know where to begin, right?” she said.

  “His name is Moloch?”

  “The evil god of the Hittites,” she said. “I had to google it. There’s also an Anouk, a Reagan, a Carter and a Xerxes.”

  “There’s not a Xerxes,” I said.

  “I shit you not, my friend.”

  “Don’t swear, Mommy,” Mercer said sternly.

  She ruffled his hair. “Sorry, baby.”

  Our drinks arrived. Mercer disappeared under the table with his cocoa. “You’ve lost weight,” Sarah remarked.

  “I’ve been going to the gym a lot.”

  “It shows.” She sipped her coffee. “Isn’t it great when the pounds finally start dropping off? When your clothes get loose, and full-length mirrors don’t need trigger warnings?”

  “I’m not doing it for Aaron, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  She gave me a baffled look. “I wasn’t, weirdo. I hope you’re doing it for yourself.”

  “I’m definitely sleeping better.”

  “That’s good. But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look hot, too. You should capitalize on it.” Her eyes lit up. “Let’s go shopping!”

  Sarah always lamented my, shall we say, no-nonsense personal style. Plain suits, plain blouses, plain shoes. I liked to keep things simple.

  Was Deirdre chic? Was she quirky? Did she dress her voluptuous body in sexy clothes?

  “I could take you to the guy who does my hair, too,” Sarah said. “Sergio is fabulous.”

  Was Deirdre’s hair long and stylishly cut? Did Aaron like to run his—

  “Raney?”

  I blinked and frowned and stared into my chai. “I’m not really in the mood to indulge myself.”

  “What a shocker.” Sarah blew on her drink. “You would have been a great early Christian. One of those guys who went out in the desert and, like, sat on a pillar for fifty years.”

  “A stylite,” I said.

  “You would also be a fabulous Jeopardy! contestant,” she remarked.

  “Do you think I repress my feelings?”

  Sarah regarded me over the rim of her cup. “Is that a trick question?”

  I pressed my fingertips into my eyes. “I wish I was on a pillar right now.”

  I felt her hand on my arm. “You know you keep a lot inside, honey. Like right now. Here we are, chatting about gym routines and Jesus freaks, and you’re obviously stewing in your own misery.”

  “What’s so great about emotions?” I demanded. “Last time I let mine out, I nearly ruined Aaron’s career. I keep a lid on them—I always have. But suddenly everyone wants me to change. Bogard thinks I should open up. Aaron says he needs more of me. What does that even mean?”

  I pushed my chair away from the table. Mercer looked up from his cocoa, worried.

  “I thought I had a good marriage, Sarah. Then Aaron did a terrible thing. Then I was told that the terrible thing wasn’t a freak event, or an aberration—it was the result of problems. And those problems allegedly involve me. Aaron committed the crime, but I have to change. Even if I should, even if I can, I don’t know how.”

  Sarah was already coming around the table. She enveloped me in a hug. Mercer reached out and hugged my leg.

  “I need to act, Sarah. I need to do something. I can’t just keep sitting around waiting for Aaron to tell me the next thing that’s going to make me feel bad about myself.”

  Sarah pulled back. “I have an idea. Let’s go away. You and me. A girls’ weekend. We can do crazy shit like parasailing and zip lining. We’ll have so much action you’ll want to puke.”

  I shook my head. “Work is too busy right now.”

  She was doing her best. And I loved her for it. But I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—be helped.

  She touched my arm. “I know this sucks, but you’ll get through it, Raney. I promise.”

  FIFTEEN

  On the first of November, the partnership held its monthly meeting. Attendance was light—maybe fifty of us gathered in the conference room on forty-eight. The discussion revolved around planning for the firm’s bicentennial gala—a lavish, black-tie affair we were throwing in April at the Museum of Natural History. Partners, associates, general counsels, CEOs, all gathered together to celebrate the firm. It was going to be quite an event.

  After the meeting, I headed back to my suite. Renfield was on the phone. I was about to enter my office when I saw Mickey Singer sitting on my sofa, paging through a document.

  I stood in the doorway and watched him. His legs were crossed. One elbow rested light
ly on the arm of the sofa. He reached inside his suit jacket, took out a pen and made a note.

  He was different than I remembered. I must not have been paying attention when we met. Or my rage goggles had blinded me. He was a handsome man. Was he this tan last time, or had he recently returned from someplace warm? I liked his suit. It was an unusual shade of blue.

  He raised his head, saw me and smiled. “Hi there.”

  I felt my face go hot. Did he think I was staring? Because I wasn’t staring.

  “Do we have a meeting?” I said.

  “Nope. I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop this off.” He held out the document. “Your motion to dismiss, with my brilliant comments.”

  He was dropping it off in person? Who drops things off in person? I took the draft from him and walked to my desk, nearly tripping along the way.

  “It’s excellent,” he added.

  I sat down behind my desk. My wide, safe, distancing desk. “Thank you. I have a talented new associate.”

  “Of course.” He rose and walked over to the window. “I knew you couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

  Who drops things off in person? Clients, I told myself. All the time. His behavior is totally normal. Your reaction is what’s weird.

  Rather than analyze that, I called for backup. “Renfield!”

  She stuck her head through the doorway. “Would you like something to drink?” I asked Singer. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “I’d love a glass of water, thank you.”

  He smiled. She melted. Typical.

  “I’ll have a chai,” I said. She disappeared.

  “Chai,” Singer mused. “Interesting.”

  “Is it?” I flipped through the document. He’d made a half-dozen notations and rewritten a few sentences.

  “Definitely. Why do you call your secretary Renfield?”

  I liked his spiky handwriting. “Sorry?”

  “Her nameplate says Gloria Chernowsky. Why do you call her Renfield?”

  “Literary joke.” I held up the pages. “Thanks for this.”

  Renfield came in with his water. “Thank you, Gloria.”

  “You’re very welcome, Mr. Singer.” She headed to the door. Looking at me behind his back, she put a hand on her heart and mouthed, I love him!

  “What about my chai?” She rolled her eyes and walked out.

  “I brought you another present,” Singer said. Now I noticed a foil-wrapped package sitting on my desk. “It’s from the food truck down the street. They make the best carnitas in Manhattan.”

  “Thanks.” While he was looking out the window, I googled “carnitas.” They looked disgusting.

  He turned back to me. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  His expression was grave. My stomach dropped.

  “Your office,” he said, “is intensely boring.”

  That was a relief. Or a disappointment. Or both. How could it be both? Why did it even matter? I pushed those puzzling thoughts away and checked my e-mail. “Yeah, well, it reflects its owner.”

  Singer laughed. “I doubt that.”

  He wandered over to my desk. I kept my eyes on my screen. He picked up my single personal effect. The girls and I were still smiling up from the beach blanket. The jagged edge showed that someone had been lopped off. I’m sure that didn’t look bizarre or anything.

  “Your daughters?”

  “Twins,” I said. “They’re fifteen. Do you have any kids?”

  “A boy. He’s nine.” He replaced the photo. “I’m divorced. Are you married?”

  “That’s…a little complicated,” I said.

  Complicated? I was married. There was a certificate, in an appropriately labeled folder in a filing cabinet at home, attesting to the legal union of Aaron Peter Moore and Raney Jane Margolis, which occurred on April 17, 2002.

  The situation may have been complicated. My marital status was not.

  “Complicated,” Singer said. “Right.”

  He looked like he was about to say more. Instead, he headed toward the door. “I’ve got to get back. Thanks again for the motion. Enjoy your lunch.”

  With a cheerful salute, he was gone.

  An instant later, Wally tumbled in. “Was that Dr. Scholls?”

  “What?”

  “The guy who just sauntered out of your office. Is that Foot Fetish Man?”

  “Enough with the foot thing, okay? Shoe repair was an inside joke.”

  Jonathan entered, grinning. “They have inside jokes! You know what that means.”

  “Raney and Schollsie, sitting in a tree,” Wally chanted. “K-I-S—”

  “He’s a client, guys! You’re being absurd.” I began deleting e-mails.

  Wally stretched out on the sofa. “Client or not, he’s cute.”

  I looked up from my screen. “You think?”

  “That athletic build? That strong chin?” Jonathan looked wistful. “I wish I had a chin.”

  “For sure,” Wally said. “And I never say that about other men.”

  “Owing to your deep-seated homosexual panic,” Jonathan noted.

  “Exactamundo. But that guy?” Wally whistled. “I’ve got a half chub just thinking about him.”

  Jonathan cringed. I googled. Then I cried out in disgust.

  “Out of here, both of you.” I pointed at the door. “Some of us have work to do.”

  * * *

  —

  A week before Thanksgiving I went to Knoxville, Tennessee, to depose a witness in a breach of contract case. Amanda accompanied me. It was her first deposition. The day could not have gone better. I was on my game, and it felt great.

  Afterward, we waited for our plane in the airport bar. I sent a quick e-mail to the client letting them know we were in good shape for summary judgment. Then I turned to Amanda.

  “What did you think?”

  “I think law school doesn’t prepare you for the law,” she said. “That was intense.”

  “They aren’t always that contentious. You’ll get used to it.”

  She shuddered. “That guy was the worst.”

  “Who, the witness?”

  “No. His lawyer. He acted so put upon, as if he couldn’t believe he had to sit across the table from a woman. He kept lecturing you about the documents, and smirking at his client, like, ‘Let’s humor the little lady and answer her silly questions.’ And he called you dear. Twice.”

  I poked at the bottom of my iced tea with a straw. “Did he?”

  “You didn’t notice?”

  “Not really. I was too busy wiping the floor with his client.”

  Amanda got my meaning. “I know that’s what matters. Still, it was so blatant. Weren’t you bothered?”

  “It said a lot more about him than it said about me.”

  “Right,” she said. “But…”

  “What?”

  She was about to respond, but seemed to think better of it. She shook her head. “I’ll go check on our gate.”

  The bartender refilled my glass. I called Aaron. When he answered, I said, “I get it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve changed. I’ve changed. We’re,” deep breath, “not who we used to be.”

  I heard him sigh. “Yeah.”

  It had taken a lot of frustrating, circular conversations, a lot of painful reflection, but I couldn’t deny it any longer. Our marriage had always functioned so well. I didn’t think it required much attention. I didn’t tend to us.

  The worst part? I didn’t notice. Me, who was always on top of things, always in control. I’d been focused on being a great lawyer, a great mom. My marriage had been slipping away, and I wasn’t even paying attention.

  “I still can’t believe it happened,” I lamented. “We
had a life. We had a marriage that was…capacious. It meant everything to me.”

  “We still do. Don’t go past tense on me.”

  “I mean that it’s changed. Everything we had has narrowed to this single point. It’s all we talk about. It’s all we are anymore.”

  “Because it’s something we have to work through. Something we are working through. We’ll get back to where we started. Stronger than ever.”

  He sounded so certain. Amanda appeared in the doorway of the bar, pointing toward the gate. It was time to board.

  * * *

  —

  I described the call to Bogard the next day.

  “I accepted some responsibility,” I said. “I acknowledged that Aaron’s description of our marriage had some truth to it. That’s progress, don’t you think?”

  “Tell me more about your conversation with your associate,” he suggested.

  “Why don’t I ever get to decide what we talk about?”

  “You do.” He granted me a thin smile. “You just don’t realize it.”

  I checked my e-mail, then dropped my phone into my bag. “She thought I should have made an issue out of my opponent’s obnoxiousness. I disagreed. That was it.”

  “So you did notice his behavior.”

  “How could I not? I’ve been the recipient of it for years.”

  “Recipient of what, exactly?”

  “Condescension. Excessive explanations. Gentle dismissal. The jokes and the jabs and the attempts to intimidate, subtle and otherwise. I work in a profession that tends to attract a particular type of man—arrogant, argumentative, combative. Sometimes—not all the time, but sometimes—that type of man is also the type of man who would prefer that a woman know her place, which to him is not on a bench, or at counsel’s table, or across from him at a deposition. So yes. I noticed. But I didn’t get worked up about it.”

  “I would think that sort of thing would rankle you,” he said. “As a woman lawyer—”

  “I’m not a woman lawyer,” I said.

  His gray eyebrows rose. “You’re not?”

  “No. I’m a lawyer who happens to be a woman.”

  “Explain the difference.”