by Sonia Taitz
Just this morning, she had carefully blow-dried it to a sleek, upmarket pageboy, but now, the mirror showed, it had gone wild. Abigail knew she must look slatternly, the sort of woman who wept in the gutters of the mainstream. The Greek chorus, at best. Abigail was genetically a sexpot, with lush, exotic features, but had spent the last few decades belying all signs of come-hither femininity. She had made her way solely “on the merits,” as they say in the courthouse.
And now, she had the apartment: a one-bedroom with windowed kitchen on West End Avenue, doorman, pre-war. It had the color scheme: white, black, and ecru, punctuated by the neutral geometric pattern of her pillows and the green of her potted jade plants, whose fat leaves needed only a torrent of water from time to time to survive spells of neglect. Abigail wore the outfits: expensive-looking suits and pumps (some bone, some black), ersatz South Seas pearls, and knockoff scarves. Velveteen jog-wear on weekends, boot-cut yoga pants for the gym. She had the career: an associate on the final brink of partnership. This was her seventh year at the firm, the critical year, in which the senior members decided if she made the cut or not.
She had to make it. Before her fall, Abigail had been diligently headed to the Library of the New York City Bar Association. Lying on the gritty sidewalk, she longed for its cool marble corridors, the tender-paged, leather-covered books, and the rich golden seal of the bar, rising over all. Yes, one could research anywhere—laptops had largely removed the age-old dignity of mahogany and vellum. But the library gave her work the patina of professional status, the classy sheen she craved. She, an honors graduate of Cardozo Law (named after a Supreme Court Justice, no less), was steps away from the Broadway express when she’d fallen down, smack on her jumbo bottom. Despite the blood scabbing under her ripped support hose—she could now feel her knee stiffening—Abigail knew she should still hasten down to midtown Manhattan.
She needed to find a precedent: Could a surviving spouse collect from an airline if it were proved that her husband had died of shock during the safety demonstration? But even without precedent, could it not be argued that such in-flight warnings were unduly alarming, particularly for the many Americans who suffered from heart trouble? Wasn’t all the rest of the airport rigmarole stressful enough? Now that you were vetted, x-rayed, seated, and resigned, did they have to openly bring up disaster and asphyxia?
The client’s spouse had suffered from angina and premature ventricular contractions. He had suffered a fatal heart attack while hearing the words “in the event of a loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop. . . .” The very mention of such a mask, popping like out like a goblin and seething with air, attached by a plastic umbilicus to a damaged mother plane, had scared him to death. The life support’s fragility had been untenable to weak hearts: his soul had flown from the fickle craft. Someone had to pay for this. Or at least that was what the partners at Abigail’s firm had said. More likely they were humoring the client, a wealthy woman with a large extended family, always good for estate probate every decade or so.
So there she was, having coffee with a stranger on a workday morning instead of doing her work. But it would be quick, and the man was exceptionally fetching and gracious, thought Abigail as she made her way to his booth.
The place was old-fashioned, the kind where you refueled quickly and continued on your way. It was the standard, reassuring retro: vinyl banquettes flanking Formica tables, sizzling grill, glass pots of coffee. Neon lights announced its hopeful name: The New Age Diner. Abigail’s colleagues, who tended to drink skim lattes and foamy macchiatos, would never frequent such a “greasy spoon.” In any case, they’d be at work by now, faces lit by glowing screens.
Abigail sat quietly, almost meekly, looking down at her paper place mat. It featured a map of the Aegean Sea. Despite her resolve to make this a quick pit stop, she was drifting into . . . something like the possibility of rest. It must have been the hormones—not just the pregnancy ones, but the endorphins that kick in when you’ve tumbled and bled. Even though she had looked at her watch (it was getting late), she had forgotten the significance of the big hand and the little. She looked, instead, at the tiny seconds, sweeping the face.
“What do you do?” she said, looking up at the man across the table. This was automatic to her, when meeting someone. What is your job, your career? And then she would proudly tell them hers.
“Yes, miss.” A waiter spun over. He must have thought she had summoned him. “What you want eat.” The young Samaritan asked for coffee. Abigail asked for decaf with skim, and seven-grain toast. The waiter spun away.
“Bring jam!” she heard herself blurting. A large nod, which did not slow his step, indicated that the waiter would comply.
“What do I do?” said her companion, picking up her question. “Oh, I do a few different things. A medley, you could say.”
“Do you think that’s good?”
“What?” His voice sounded a bit defensive.
“There. See it? Do you think it’s good?”
Abigail pointed to a glass case of muffins and pastries. She was getting hungrier by the second. “Do you think it’s fresh?”
“Oh, you were asking about the muffins,” he said, regaining his composure.
“The corn muffin. Did you think I was disparaging you somehow?” She hadn’t had a corn muffin in years. Now it seemed so humble and tasty.
“Yeah, my medley of work activities. Might have seemed a bit ad hoc to a smart professional like you.”
“I didn’t think that at all.” Abigail flushed with pride. The man could tell she was someone.
“Well,” he said, suave again, “as far as the food’s concerned, everything’s totally edible here.”
When the waiter returned with the toast and coffee, the young man ordered two corn muffins.
“I only wanted one,” said Abigail.
“The other one’s for me.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Aren’t you the hungry one,” he said, a statement rather than a question, looking into her eyes and smiling. Abigail nodded, then focused on her food. She smeared her toast with grape jelly, then tucked into it, just as the waiter spun by, dropping off the muffins with improbable speed.
“What sorts of ‘different things’ do you do?” she said, trying not to talk with her mouth full but unable to keep it empty.
“Nope. I’m not answering until you tell me your name,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. He stared at her appraisingly.
“Guess,” she said, surprised to be flirting.
“Marguerite? Esperanza?”
“What? No! Abigail. Abigail Thomas,” she answered, chewing. She swallowed completely and added, “Esquire.”
He seemed surprised by her name. Did he think she was a Latina? Or maybe he didn’t know what “esquire” meant. It was a stately title, alluding to the days when knights rode on horses. Abigail loved saying it, and even more, she loved putting the “Esq.” after her name. That q not only sounded fancy, it looked fancy.
“‘Esquire’ means lawyer,” she said aloud, for his edification. She fished for a business card to brandish the proof.
“Yes, I know that,” he said, now laughing, pushing the card back to her. “Well, Ms. Esquire, I’m plain old Timothy Vail,” he said, extending his hand. Abigail wiped her own hand (shiny with corn muffin grease) and shook his.
“Vail? Like the skiing place in Colorado?” Abigail wondered why she’d had to say that. This smooth young man made her feel insecure. She had grown up on the wrong side of stylish and had never learned to ski, sail, or ride. Secretly, she was glad to have missed these experiences, which seemed like unnecessary brushes with death. Skiing was, in fact, falling; sailing, a chance to get hit by a beam and drown in the brine. As for riding, which appealed to her in the abstract—the idea of being carried along by an understanding force—didn’t the horse often get spooked for no reason and throw you over? It could step on you, too, with its obstinate metallic hooves. Still, Abigail knew t
hat any admission of these rational fears revealed her original low-classiness. Powerful people courted danger; they laughed at it and asked for more. They fearlessly introduced their children to it.
Something about Timothy Vail conveyed an intimacy with these cold-blooded pursuits. His golden hair and fine, straight nose; that strong, chiseled chin. He had an unhurried way of moving, and a calm, patrician tone of voice. But she was someone, too; she had done battle, too. If only he could see her in her element, strutting across the firm, documents in hand—or at her desk, signing triplicates. Then he would know her true, worldly status. And he would respect her hard-earned accomplishments and wins.
“You’re a sultry little thing, aren’t you?” Tim’s voice was quiet, matter-of-fact.
Abigail’s face reddened. Was that how she came across, even in her smart professional outfit? Still, a small smile crept, unbidden, across her mouth. “Sultry” was an even better word than “sexy”—and what woman (especially when pregnant) doesn’t want to be thought at least slightly alluring? On the other hand, she had not dressed to entice (pregnant or not, she never dressed to entice at the workplace). She liked to be in charge of when and how she was sending those signals.
Apparently enjoying her befuddlement, Tim added, like a challenge: “Where’d you get that crazy hair? I love curls, by the way.”
Abigail realized that her tedious blowout must have completely reverted, releasing her locks to their wildest state. The heat of the day, the fall in the street, and now the steamy coffee shop; she was done in. The Dobermen she dated seemed to prefer the straight bob, the smooth, unruffled surface. And here she was, all ringlets and flop sweat. All she was missing was big hoop earrings.
“Well,” she said, trying to smile about what she felt was one of her biggest weaknesses. “It is naturally curly—both my parents had curls. Yours didn’t, huh?”
“My family comes from Norfolk, originally. I don’t think they allow curls there, over the age of three or so. You have to leave.”
“Norfolk, Virginia?”
He cleared his throat with a touch of pride. “Norfolk, England.”
“So they did leave.”
“Pardon?”
“Because you’re here. In New York, I mean. America.”
“Yes. Here I am.” He took a look around the coffee shop. Abigail’s eyes followed his, suddenly noticing the blacks and Puerto Ricans, and the omnipresent Jews. The people like herself, the “ethnics.”
“I think my folks just got bored,” he was saying. “Here, they had an edge. In the land of the curly-wurlies, the straight-haired man is king.”
He spoke without shame, like a real Anglo Saxon from the bygone ages, when the words and the concepts had bullyish heft.
“Not to mention the fair-haired boy,” she said. “You’re the heir apparent.”
His pause and tiny nod implied agreement. “And you?” he said finally.
“What about me?”
“Your people?”
That was so un-American, she thought: “your people.” She was herself, that was who she was, and she could define whatever that was. Wasn’t that the meaning and the payoff of career? Still, to hedge the answer was to express a shame she wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge.
“You mean my family? Oh, we come from everywhere.”
Abigail often thought of her family history. Her maternal grandparents, like her father, had been immigrants; they’d escaped Germany’s midcentury madness and had clung tenaciously to their china service, silver candelabras, and Old World politesse. Not only German, they’d been Jewish, which added a level of high-minded history, a sense of thoughtful sorrow and lovingly kept traditions. Her mother, Clara (née Milch), had been simultaneously attracted and repelled by what she considered her Welsh husband’s more barbaric influence. The Celts didn’t worry about delicate matters, at least not the men, it seemed. The men were brought up to be tough.
Owen Thomas claimed to have liked hunting during his boyhood. You caught something, killed it, and then, as he put it, “you’d bagged it.” (It was also the way some of his loutish peers referred to seducing a woman.) Clara, raised by cautious, bookish people, had considered this to be “goyishe naches”—gentile joy, by which she meant something callous, unworthy, and cheap. Bearbaiting, cockfighting. Decent folks devoted their lives to improving the world with love and caring. She had been a doting mother to her three daughters. Even here in America, she’d darned their white socks and made sure they had cod liver oil whenever constipated. Each of her girls was a pearl, a pretty seed pearl on a cashmere cardigan.
“Are you all right, Abby?” Tim reached out to stroke Abigail’s cheek.
“Hey,” she said, blushing. “I prefer Abigail.” For a moment, she leaned her face against his hand.
“Excuse me,” Tim said, sounding like a real gentleman. His hand went back to the other side of the table. Abigail tucked her hair back behind her ears again. She took a long drink of water and said, “Would you like to hear about how I usually spend my mornings?”
“Sure, anything you want to tell me,” said Tim.
“Well, I actually work in a midsized midtown firm.”
“Corporate area, I bet?”
“Not in the traditional sense. I mean, sure, we have a number of corporate clients. Small businesses, S Corporations. But I do estates. And aviation disasters.”
“What? Both? At the same time?”
“No, not at the same time. Not usually. I mean, it could happen, I guess. I’m not at a famous firm,” she continued, “but it’s a quality firm, to those in the know. I could have worked at Cummer, Sachs & Veitch, or even Grimsby, Levin & Twain downtown, but I’d be a faceless drone. Then, at partnership time, they could easily pass me over. At Fletcher, I’m on the track. Unless I’m a screwup, I’ll make partner this year,” she concluded, her phrase coming out with another quaver. This pregnancy was definitely beginning to lead to “screwups.” Like sitting here and telling her life’s agenda to a stranger. On a work day.
“Partner, huh? One of the lucky few.”
This gave her pause; it was like his “happy” comment.
“Oh, I’m not lucky,” she said, thinking of her mother’s brutal, prolonged cancer death and her own lonely personal life. “I’ve planned almost everything that’s ever happened to me.
“For instance, I worked hard for my grades,” she continued, with a bit of an edge. “No luck there, and no one handed them to me. And I work extra hard at my job. Meanwhile, I’m still paying back my law school loans.” Leaning forward, Abigail confided, “You look more like the lucky one to me.”
“What makes you think I’m lucky?” said Tim, a tiny tinge of sadness in his voice.
“Oh, you. You have that lucky look. I bet everything falls into your lap.” She blushed again at the implication. She had virtually fallen into the lap of this charming, handsome man.
“Nothing falls into my lap,” he said quietly. “I’ve got my eyes open. I saw you falling and I reached out and grabbed you, Abby. And here you are, about to run off to work and never see me again.”
“Abigail,” she corrected. “And here you are, relaxing in the morning, and look—you’ve got this great watch.”
She took his wrist in her hand and examined the blue-faced Rolex. Then she looked under the table. “Just as I thought. Those comfy walking shoes that look like Hush Puppies but cost three times as much. Just to amble around Broadway. What are they called, Mephistos?”
“Why not call them Mephistopheles, since only a lucky devil like me can afford them, if that’s what you’re implying.” Tim’s voice seemed unduly harsh, she thought. And suddenly so different.
“But I need these very expensive shoes,” he continued, the edge still hardening and the pace quickening. “I need my Doctor Faustuses, see, because there’s all the extra walking I have to do, back and forth from the bank, checking up on my trust fund, and then to the accountant to find all those tax loopholes.
> “You know, too much talk about money is kind of crass, Abigail.”
Crass was what spoiled people called those who had to make it on their own.
“Maybe it’s crass, but on my planet, Richie Rich, we do talk about money,” she replied. “We talk about it a lot. All the time, and with gusto. And you know why? Because I’ve always had to fend for myself.”
“I know your planet. The planet of money and ‘Where do you work?’” Tim raised his pitch to sound like a demanding, peevish female, which affronted Abigail.
“On my planet,” she began, “work is a—”
“OK, here it is,” he burst out. “My father’s a banker. Investment, not commercial. And my brother, the clone, the chip, he of course works for McKinsey. Have you heard of it? It’s the top of the top. Management consulting. Whoop-dee-do. Maybe the thrill on this end isn’t as great as it should be. I mean, I have no special fetish about wearing a tie around my neck.”
“I can see that.”
“You can.”
An awkward silence followed.
“So what do you actually do all day?” said Abigail. At ten fifteen, he was dressed in a soft flannel shirt, his long legs outstretched in faded black jeans.
“Are you checking me out ‘for partner’?”
“No, no, I’m totally out of that market,” she said, self-consciously covering her ringless left hand. “I was just curious.”
“Curious, that’s all it was?” His eyes narrowed, and he looked kind of sexy.
“Yes, just pregnant and dizzy and curious.”
“OK,” he said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. He was fully pleasant now. “I’m going to do my little career speech.” He paused. “I’m in IT. Information technology. I work at home as a consultant for small companies. You know, ad hoc. Projects. On my weekends, I teach an entry-level computer course to kids. They make their own books; I sort of publish them.”
“Doesn’t the IT consultancy pay your bills?” said Abigail sympathetically. She often worked weekends, and knew how exhausting seven-day workweeks could be.