Do This For Me

by Eliza Kennedy

  Wally ambled in. “Get your coat, li’l lady! I got us a reservation at that Brazilian steak joint on Fifty-First Street. We’re going to stuff our faces with skewered meat until they kick us out.”

  “Or we collapse from acute gastrointestinal distress,” Jonathan added, coming in behind him.

  “Tempting. But I’ll pass.”

  Wally stretched out on the sofa. “Come on, Raney. We want to hear all about your consciousness-raising sessions.”

  “My what?”

  “We heard about your meetings.” Jonathan grinned. “Ladies’ Night with Raney Moore!”

  A few days earlier, I’d asked Amanda to gather a group of women associates for a chat. I’d also begun dropping in on some of the other women partners. Everyone had stories. Everyone was eager to talk about unconscious bias and bad habits, and how we could change the atmosphere at the firm.

  “We heard you lit candles and offered a prayer to the moon goddess,” Jonathan said.

  “Then you led a drum circle.”

  “After which all the attendees miraculously sprouted armpit hair.”

  “It’s too bad you weren’t there,” I said. “Some of our associates are dissatisfied in ways the partnership doesn’t realize.”

  “Associates are always dissatisfied,” Wally said.

  “You do realize we have a culture that isn’t welcoming to women, don’t you?”

  “Culture?” Jonathan smirked. “Like the ballet?”

  “We work at a law firm, Raney. It’s an equal opportunity hellhole.”

  “No it isn’t,” I said. “It’s—”

  “They don’t like the culture?” Wally continued. “Lead the way. Explain that the key to happiness is finding a hot client to sleep with. They’ll stop complaining about the culture.”

  “And billable hours will skyrocket,” Jonathan noted.

  I stared at them both. “You think I found happiness through a man?”

  “Uh, didn’t you?”

  “No. The happiness came first. The understanding. Only then could I—”

  “Whatever. We can debate this over giant skewers of charred steak.” Jonathan stood up. “Shall we?”

  “Another time,” I said. “Have fun.”

  They left. I continued cleaning off my desk. Wally and Jonathan were clowning around as usual, but it was annoying. Did they not see the problems at the firm? Or did they not want to see them?

  Or did they not care?

  I threw a letter into the recycling bin. They thought I was being humorless. I could tell from their faces. Well, maybe I needed to be. Maybe the time for joking was over.

  I was irritable. Restless. I didn’t want to be at work. But I didn’t have a good alternative.

  I sent an e-mail to Cameron, asking for help with an upcoming deposition. He appeared at my door within moments, and I started explaining what I needed.

  “I’d like a pleadings binder, organized chronologically,” I said. “I’d also like a correspondence binder. Then, I’d like you to—”

  “Hang on a sec,” he said.

  He typed furiously. He bit his lip. I watched him.

  Cameron had a nice mouth.

  He reached up and tugged on an ear. Good hands, too.

  He was young. And energetic. A little loopy.

  I wondered what it would be like to sleep with him.

  Whoa, I thought. Cameron? No. No, that’s…

  True, he’s adorable, but I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. I have Singer.

  I have Singer. What does that mean?

  I said I was besotted. I didn’t just like him, I liked him liked him. I found him wonderful in every way.

  Maybe I did—

  No. Not possible. I wasn’t trading one man for another, no matter what people like Wally and Jonathan thought.

  So if I wasn’t in love with Singer, why was I acting like it? Denying any interest in other people? Denying what I might want?

  Singer and I weren’t exclusive. We’d never had that talk.

  Cameron cleared his throat. “Is that it, Boss?”

  “Scratch all that,” I said. “Arrange the materials chronologically. Make a detailed table of contents that tells me where everything is. I need to make this easy.” I paused. “Much like myself.”

  He looked up from his phone, startled. “Was that a…double entendre?”

  “How was it?”

  “Good!” he said. “Basic, but good.”

  I wasn’t in love with Singer. And I was going to prove it. I was going to establish once and for all that my happiness, my new self, my revolution, was my doing, and not the result of union with the Right Man.

  “Boss?”

  I’d been gazing at Cameron as I pondered. Now he was gazing back.

  I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

  * * *

  —

  In those tumultuous months from September to April, I did a lot of reprehensible things. I lashed out. I melted down. I made some terrible decisions. Some of what I did was understandable—a product of my heartbreak and fear and utter estrangement from myself. I behaved badly, but not unforgivably. For the most part.

  But of all the rash, inexplicable, reckless things I did during that time, there was one thing I truly regretted.

  The thing I did next.

  * * *

  —

  I didn’t regret it right away, though.

  “He was amazing!” I gushed to Sarah on the phone the next day.

  “Cameron the paralegal?” she said. “This is who we’re talking about?”

  “I see why you like young guys now.”

  “Yeah, but not ones who work for me.”

  “It’s fine,” I assured her. “He won’t talk.”

  “Okay, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not like you to flout the rules like this.”

  And it wasn’t like her to be so disapproving. I thought she’d be delighted. I thought it would be like those times she called to brag to me about her conquests.

  “What happened to Singer?” she said. “Did you have a falling out?”

  “Are you trying to make me feel bad about this?”

  “Of course not! I’m…surprised, that’s all.”

  “It was an impulse decision. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, I’m glad you had fun.”

  From: Aaron Moore

  To: Raney Moore

  Date: Tuesday, March 27, 1:09 AM

  Subject:

  Dear Raney,

  I’m beginning to understand that you’re not coming back. I know it’s my fault—still, it’s hard to accept that our marriage is over.

  It’s late. I’m having trouble sleeping. Who cares, right? But it’s hard, being in this big house without you. Remember the night we moved in? The girls were, what, seven? We couldn’t figure out how to light the stove. We had to drive around forever to find pizza.

  Remember the fall when I was at Stanford, and we watched movies over the phone? I kept a list of everything we rented. I just pulled it out. Can you believe we watched Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles? Talk about desperation.

  I guess I’m feeling nostalgic tonight.

  Here’s another memory. Something you said to me once, early on. That you’d felt alone all your life. But with me, you weren’t alone anymore. I was so happy. I was going to make sure you never felt alone again.

  This is killing me. I’d better stop.

  Love,

  Aaron

  THIRTY-ONE

  I couldn’t pinpoint the hour, the day, the week it started, but at some point, Marty and I stopped getting along. We had always been in and out of each other’s office
s. He was the first person I turned to for advice. I was the first person he called when he had a special project. But lately, he didn’t drop by as much. His e-mails were short and to the point.

  After a partner meeting on the second of April, hostilities spilled into the open.

  I’d just returned from the conference room on forty-eight when he strode into my office and shut the door.

  Hand still on the knob, he said, “In the future, please tell me in advance if you want to add an item to the agenda. That way, I can make sure the subject matter is appropriate.”

  “The subject matter was perfectly appropriate.”

  His face was dark with anger. “What on earth, Raney? You just delivered a diatribe about how the firm is riven with sexism, how that has to change, and change has to come from the top.”

  “It wasn’t a diatribe.”

  “You’ve obviously been speaking with some of the women partners—they were nodding along. And you’ve been meeting with associates?” He threw his hands in the air. “What is this, a coup?”

  “I should have warned you,” I conceded. “I hadn’t intended to bring it up, but Horner made that dumb joke about women who talk too much, and—”

  “Did you see how they were looking at you? Horner and Anton? Fanucci and Tate? It was like you’d grown a second head.”

  I didn’t respond. Marty wandered to the window. He returned and took a seat.

  “Listen, I know what you’re talking about, Raney Jane. Men can be assholes. But the rest of the partnership? They don’t have a clue.”

  “They need to get a clue, Marty. They’re part of the problem.”

  “But the examples you gave were such little things. Jokes and interruptions and tone? Being told to smile? Is that really such a big deal?”

  “That’s a selective summary,” I countered. “How about the big dinner last month with Morehouse Capital, where a bunch of hedge fund managers ranked the attractiveness of our female associates, and our partners sat by and said nothing? How about the partner—whom I didn’t name—who drove a married associate out of the firm by sending her poems and repeatedly confessing his love? Or the associate who got drunk and assaulted the paralegal at a team event? Or—”

  “Okay, yes,” Marty said. “But those are isolated incidents.”

  “To you, maybe. To women? They’re part of a pattern. And a culture.”

  “A culture,” he repeated. “Our supposedly ‘toxic’ culture. What does that mean, Raney? What does it encompass? I call you ‘dear.’ Am I harassing you now?”

  “That’s different and you know it. You said you knew what I was talking about, Marty. You said you got it. So why are you arguing with me?”

  “Because you need to pick your battles.”

  “Pick my battles,” I said. “Be accommodating. In other words, fulfill their idea of what women are like.”

  “ ‘Their,’ ” he said. “Them and us. It’s come to that?”

  “Here’s something interesting,” I said. “You applaud me when I fight for the rights of waitresses and line cooks. But when I object to the treatment of my own employees, I’m causing trouble.”

  He only shook his head and turned away.

  “Every workplace has these problems, but this is our workplace, Marty. We can make it better.”

  He turned back to me then, and he was the old Marty, gentle and imploring.

  “What’s really going on, Raney Jane? I don’t mean to harp, but I hear things, and, well, they concern me. Is this sudden zest for female empowerment somehow connected to”—he waved vaguely in my direction—“everything else?”

  It wasn’t. And it was. Two branches from the same root. How could I explain that? Why should I have to?

  Anyway, Marty didn’t want explanations. He didn’t want to help. He wanted a return to the status quo.

  “My personal life is none of your concern,” I said.

  He was hurt. Then his face hardened. He stood and headed for the door.

  “As you prefer. But keep in mind that you aren’t the head of this firm. If you’ve got something you want to say, run it by me first.”

  * * *

  —

  I called Sarah as I left work that night. I needed to vent.

  “You would have thought I was the first person ever to suggest that law firms are bastions of male privilege,” I fumed. “Or that sexism is still a problem in the world. People have been talking about these issues for a long time—and not only in the law. Other firms are taking steps—we should too, or we’ll be left behind.”

  “Right,” Sarah said.

  “He tried to make it all about me, which was really infuriating,” I continued. “Like I’m not entitled to speak up, because I never have before. Or that my complaints should be ignored because they’re by-products of other changes in my life. I’m beginning to wonder if part of why I’ve succeeded is that I never really threatened them. The men, I mean. I worked hard, but in my own neutered way. They didn’t think of me as a woman. But now that I show myself to be one, they’re up in arms. Especially when I make the slightest gesture toward questioning their vaunted prerogative.”

  I was expecting some indignation, but she was silent.

  “Sarah?”

  When she spoke, she seemed to be choosing her words with care. “I’m sure you’re right about the environment of the firm, and you know I love a good conspiracy as much as the next girl. But…Marty kind of has a point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You aren’t really yourself lately, Raney.”

  This again.

  “I don’t think he’s questioning you because you’re a woman, but because you’re…”

  “What?”

  “Acting like a sex-crazed teenager,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “People get freaked out by the unfamiliar. He’s worried about you.”

  “I’m having fun. I’m living my life. I’m doing what you wanted me to do.”

  “Which is great,” she said. “But don’t forget—you’re still married. That’s something you need to deal with. And fortunately you’re in a position to deal with it. You’ve found someone you really like.”

  “My goal isn’t to replace one man with another, Sarah.”

  “What is your goal?”

  I didn’t answer. I hadn’t thought about it. For once in my life, I didn’t have a plan, or a strategy, or an objective. Why was everyone having such a hard time with that?

  It had been a long, busy day. I was stressed. I think that’s why the conversation took the turn it did.

  “Are you bothered that I’m actually enjoying myself?” I said. “Are you jealous?”

  “What?”

  “You were always the fun one. The one who slept around and loved to talk about it. Now that I am, too, it feels like you’re becoming a little puritanical.”

  “Puritanical,” she said. “Really.”

  “I thought you’d be happy for me,” I said. “I thought that you’d get it. I guess I was wrong.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, this has been interesting, but I hear Mercer calling. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She hung up.

  THIRTY-TWO

  A few days later, an old case reared its head. I needed a file from my office at home, so I had Jorge drive me out to Westchester after work.

  The girls were bickering at the kitchen table when I walked in.

  Maisie saw me and gasped. “Who died?”

  “You seriously need help,” Kate told her.

  “I’m getting something from upstairs,” I told them. “I’ll be right back.”

  As I left my office, I saw light coming from the master bedroom. Inside, Aaron was on the bed, reading The New Yorker. He was wearing a faded button-down a
nd his clunky glasses. A lock of hair fell over his forehead. He brushed it back. He smiled at something. Turned the page.

  He didn’t see me. I stood there, and I simply looked.

  I’d spent weeks freezing him out, telling myself he was a stranger, a liar, a deceitful conniver with unfathomable motives. He wasn’t. He was a human being. Full and complicated and contradictory, full of virtues and flaws. He had a story, just like me. He had whole worlds inside him. Needs and wants and yearnings.

  He wasn’t good or bad, right or wrong. He was normal. Mortal.

  I felt a rush of tenderness toward him.

  He saw me and scrambled to sit up. “Hi!”

  I stepped into the room, holding up the folder I’d come for. “Just grabbing something.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, it’s good to see you.”

  I sat on the bench at the end of the bed. He watched me, wary, curious.

  “I saw your picture on a newsstand the other day.”

  “What? Oh.” He laughed, embarrassed. “Those stupid ads.”

  “You looked cute. How’s the new book coming?”

  “Slowly. But I’m keeping at it.” He was encouraged by this unexpectedly amicable conversation. “You look wonderful, by the way. Have you—”

  “I get why you did it, Aaron.”

  He drew back, uncertain. I got up and shut the door. When I returned, I sat on the edge of the bed, closer to him. I put a hand on his leg.

  “You wanted. And you wanted me to want you. I didn’t. Not in the way you needed.”

  “What are you saying? That you…you never loved me?”

  “Of course I did,” I assured him. “With all my heart. But somewhere along the way I stopped showing it. I always had this protective shell. You got past it, more than anybody else. But it kept growing. And I…”

  “Don’t cry, Raney.”

  “I’m not!” I laughed, brushing the tears away. “I mean, I am, but I’ll stop.”

  His eyes were so expressive. I felt a flash of attraction for him. He was so familiar, yet totally strange. I looked around the room. Dresser and nightstand and lamp. Bathroom door. Window. I used to live in this room. And this bed—it was my bed. The site of so many long talks with Aaron. So many kisses good night, so many see-you-in-the-mornings.