by Sonia Taitz
Abigail nodded uncertainly. Some law partners, in anger, had aspects of the thug.
“You remember that girl, Dana Kidder, the one in tax?”
“Sure,” she said, wincing again at the word “girl.” Dana Kidder was no mere “girl.” Abigail had always been impressed with Dana’s educational pedigree. Chicago Law was hard-core, conservative, with the worst grading curve. If anyone had virtual testicles, Dana did.
“Do you know what Kidder’s doing now?”
“I hear she’s living on the West Coast, right?”
“Living? Is that what you call it? I call it quitting, dying, losing, the sideline, the tar pits. Here’s the scenario. First comes birth. Baby’s gorgeous, what a miracle! Everybody’s so happy they send fruits in those nice baskets. The ones that look like flower arrangements, you know? Those.
“Time passes. Things seem to be getting back to normal. Is she coming back to work? Is she gonna make me sorry I ever hired her and broke her in, hoping she’d finally earn her keep? She asked for three weeks, but now she wants more. Baby’s not nursing, or maybe he is but now he won’t take the bottle, or maybe he’ll only take it from mommy. And oh, he’s still not sleeping through the night.
“Now it’s seven weeks; two months. Baby’s got hair on his chest, he’s ready for the soccer team and the Suzuki mini-orchestra, he’s ready for the black belt Tai Kwon Do. But mommy’s still not ready.
“Then, one day—she’s back! She is ready! You buy another basket, flowers for the desk this time, and let’s go make some money. But she’s not really back. There’s a picture on her desk of baby, with that sweet bottom tooth. Awwww. . . . What if he gets another one of those little teeth when she’s not there? Who would want anyone to miss that? The bad old law firm, that only cares about money?
“Now mommy’s torn. She’s worried. She’s on the phone all day. Yakking to nanny. Talking to doctor. Cooing to baby: ‘Did you make a little doo-doo? Mommy will be home soon to wipe it and put on the special tushy cream.’ ‘Soon?’ I want her to stay until eight, ten, like she used to! But no, at six thirty, she’s out the door, and the client can call, but who cares? Not mommy! She’s rocking baby. She’s feeding him that milk she pumped out on office time, with that machine that makes everyone sick in the john and fills up the fridge like you wouldn’t believe. Weekends? No way. Forget travel. Who could be so cruel to baby?”
“Couldn’t she just do—something like flextime?”
“Yeah, sure, let’s tell the client that she’s only here between the baby’s upchuck and his diarrhea-caca! Or maybe the day of deposition, kid’s playing a pumpkin—and you can’t miss the school play, right? Can you miss the Thanksgiving play when your kid’s the actual pumpkin? Huh?”
Abigail didn’t know the right answer. On the one hand, of course, it was “yes,” you can miss the play. But the way he was screaming addled her.
Fudim saved her by carrying on:
“Sometimes ‘here’ is never ‘here,’ OK?”
“Yes, exactly,” said Abigail, on safer ground now.
“But of course, we can’t spell this out. That’s ‘actionable.’ So sure, we’ll treat her just as good as the people who work their tails off, who actually get the job done! By the way, what are you talking about, Abigail—compromise? I thought you wanted to make it to the top here! ‘Flextime?’ Is that what you want?”
“No! Mr. Fudim, I know about the mommy track, and don’t want any part of it. I will lean all the way in and push forward as hard and as long as anyone. Pregnant, not pregnant, play, not play, poop, not poop. I mean, even on the day I’m giving birth, seriously, I’ll have my phone on me. And not just on vibrate.”
“And you’ll travel?”
“Of course!”
“Uncomplainingly? Without boring us with your miserable personal life?”
“Yes, anywhere!” Abigail pleaded. “Just send me.”
Fudim made his mouth into a large O. At first, Abigail thought that she had shocked him with the idea of her traveling in her condition. But after a moment, a ring of hot smoke emerged from Fudim’s mouth; it widened, then disappeared. He spoke again of his wayward associate.
“The funny thing is that ‘mommy,’ I’m sorry, Dana, does decide to work part-time. Oh, yes, she’s a flexer, that one. An on-andoff ramper. Despite all the years we pumped into her. We find a way to satisfy her, give her dull cases with sleepy clients, trivial knots no good associate would touch, and she works less and less. She haggles over hours. ‘Nine to five isn’t really part-time,’ she whines, or ‘My baby is running a fever, I have to leave early’—she means even earlier, because she’s already leaving early, right? Fill in the blanks; she’s not happy, she’s not, what’s the word they all use, ‘fulfilled.’ Like I’m running a spa here, a Canyon Ranch with stretching by the, by the infinity pool. And by the way, I’m not thrilled, either.”
Fudim carefully rested his cigar in a heavy crystal ashtray. He reached for an antacid and bounced it around in his mouth. It made his saliva thick, white, and slushy, then disappeared, leaving a pasty blob on each corner of his lips. Abigail couldn’t help staring at these bright white spots as he resumed his lecture. Something about Mr. Fudim said “sad clown,” she thought, but she fought that notion away.
“And then she goes and what does she do? She gets pregnant again. By this time, she’s acting like she’s doing the firm a big, humanitarian favor just by showing up. After all, she’s been part of the great miracle of life, and we’re just money-grubbers, right? Use you up for cannon fodder?”
“I never think like that,” said Abigail, daringly meeting his eyes. Even at college, she’d been one of those who talked unabashedly about “big bucks,” starting from orientation. Some freshmen in her sorority had even subscribed to The Wall Street Journal. Abigail’s mother, visiting in the first term of law school, had gazed at the Fortune magazine in her daughter’s room, along with some fancy books on “business units.” She had said, with a soft, mourning tone, “I suppose you wouldn’t want this, hmm?”
She had brought Abigail a woman’s magazine. Despite the fact that the layout had made the words “Lady” and “Home” virtually unnoticeable, with the professional-sounding “Journal” large and proud, and despite the fact that the subheading read, intriguingly, “Never Underestimate the Power of a Woman,” Abigail had said, “No thanks, Mom, I really have no time. I mean, the workload here is crazy.”
And she was proud of that crazy workload. It meant she was somebody. A trooper, a Green Beret. An elite force.
“But I will eat that lunch,” she’d added, generously. Her mother had brought her a breaded chicken sandwich, like a schnitzel, homemade, of course, and some fresh lemonade to go with it. Abigail felt pinned by her mother’s hungry gaze as she watched her eat and drink.
“Mom, what? You’re kind of staring at me,” Abigail remembered how she’d complained, even as she enjoyed her meal. She also recalled her mother’s reply:
“It feels good to feed a child, even a grown one. It feels good to take care of somebody else.”
“Maybe you’re different,” Fudim was saying. “And maybe not. But let me finish up the Dana Kidder saga. So, the second baby comes, right? Thank goodness, it’s not the same sex as the first, otherwise she might have to have three. Anyway. Probably right here, the nanny leaves. You thought they were part of the family? Not so. They always leave; there’s turnover. The job is brutal, let’s face it.
“So what’s the story? Family problems in the West Indies. A landslide in the Philippines. Whatever. She’s got a real family, this nanny—and it’s not yours. Surprise!
“Now, mommy has to find new help, but now she’s not just anxious, she’s kind of, well, let’s be technical here. Let’s be clinical. She’s depressed. She’s having what you’d call an ‘existential crisis’—see, I paid attention in psych class, or was it philosophy? Anyway, an existential crisis. ‘What’s it all about?’ And now it’s not college, you know, it�
��s real! Life, work—the disappointments, right? Could you write the closing argument? Could you schmaltz up the summation, and make it come out tragic, Ms. Thomas? We want the jury crying, sobbing!
“Because mommy—I mean my part-time attorney—really did think the nanny was ‘part of the family.’ Now baby misses her, and finding another good one—not that the first was all that good, in hindsight she was a lazy bitch and baby can’t read or play piano yet—that isn’t easy. Mommy’s beginning to think about how hard she works here, at the firm, what we pay, and what she’s got to pay the new girl to keep her. Now the new girl has to watch two kids; that’s harder, that’s more challenging, more ways to screw up. And it’s more expensive, too. You get what you pay for. So mommy decides to take time off, to ‘re-prioritize.’ Big word. How many syllables? Five. And what does it mean? Give up.
“Start a heading here, Abigail. Open a file. Call it ‘End of Career.’ The husband—he’s got a job that runs smooth as Grey Goose—he tells her she’s making the right choice. He has to. Otherwise she’ll keep him up yakking about it nightly for the next four or five years. Already she’s been moaning every day about how hard she has to work, two jobs, the office and at home, and baby’s getting too close to nanny II, and prefers daddy to everyone, and what does he do, anyway, change a diaper? Wiping some crap off makes him a hero? JD, MBA, what difference does it make? She’s knee deep in crap every day!
“So daddy tells her, ‘Do what your heart tells you.’ He means bury yourself in Diaper Avalanche for all I care, if you’ll just shut up. ‘Would you even think of giving up your career?’ she says. And he’ll say, ‘Anyone would love to stop slaving all day and just play with his kids.’ That’s verbatim what he’ll say, almost believing it. ‘To watch them grow? To love and be loved in return by an innocent child? I’d give anything to trade places.’ But of course, he can’t, he won’t, he wouldn’t.
“But she does. She takes her ‘leave of absence.’ In the beginning, she’ll do a little legal work at home. Send a couple of e-mails, do some research online. Billables come in, it’s true, and no overhead. But time passes. She begins to forget. It seems normal for her to be a Mrs., a housewife, someone’s mommy. And such rewards! Those wet kisses, applauding that pumpkin at the end of the play, the artwork on the fridge, all dedicated to her. And it looks, it really looks, like it’ll last forever. Like time doesn’t pass. Like she’s the only mommy and those are the only kids, like the story’s new and fresh.
“She’s new and fresh and us lawyers, we’re old and cynical. We don’t get it, right? She snuggles the babies and pities us. Right? She gets to feel especially snotty about those mean bitches in suits and high heels. They have all the bad nannies now! They have the psychopaths, and her child’s got her, the Woman Who Gave It All Up.”
“Sounds like you’ve had a lot of experience with this,” Abigail ventured, only slightly shaken. She had always beaten the odds, and she would now.
“I’ve seen it from all sides, dear. I’m a father—here, look.” He motioned over to a side table near a side window. Within a gilt frame was his most recent family, several small kids in ski gear, his wife’s lineless face haloed in lavender fox.
“She had a degree in interior design from Parsons,” he said ruefully. He took his cigar up from the crystal ashtray and put it to his lips again. “But you know how it goes,” he said, dragging. “Now she decorates our houses. The Sun Valley lodge is actually a knockout.”
“Beautiful,” said Abigail politely, referring to the wife, the snow, the house, Sun Valley. All of it. What else could she say? In some way, she saw that Fudim felt proud of his silver-framed story. But she, Abigail, would not be silver-framed.
“And then one day the husband decides to move to San Diego, and she goes,” Fudim continued, releasing a billow of smoke. “True story. Dana Kidder, tax attorney, JD Chicago, law review, federal clerkships?—an appendage, mere chattel. Her husband parks her in the Spanish-style mansion that it takes a team to clean, waves goodbye, and hits the road running. In fifteen years, her kids’ll do the same. Run off to the East Coast, you know, Williams, Wharton. Maybe they’ll come back, and maybe not. But meanwhile, Dana’ll get real good at tennis. Renovate the kitchen. Again. Take a puff pastry course. Have a midlife crisis when the kids get mouthy and her husband gets quiet. Get a liquid facelift, lift her boobs, Brazilian ass job. . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Sounds like you know a lot about this,” said Abigail diplomatically.
“Autologous fat transfers,” said Fudim, as though he were speaking a different language. He knew so much from keeping that third wife of his in shape.
“Ridiculous,” she replied. How awful he made women sound, and how wonderful that she, Abigail, would pioneer a new era of values. It was an effort, though, to continue to keep her nerves steady. Despite her resolve, a little of Fudim’s sexism was a lot, and Abigail was starting to feel queasy. Not just the cigar smoke and the thought of a South American “ass job” (whatever that was), but this talk of renovating kitchens? How dare he! She was satisfied with takeout; no, she preferred it. What difference did it make if you cooked the food or someone else did? What was wrong with salads, wraps, and yogurts? And—come to think of it—who were these people who matched fabric to wallpaper? It seemed bizarre to have such fixations. Whenever her mother had asked her to choose a color for the towels or a pattern for the tablecloth, Abigail had been proud to feel bored and above it all.
“Everything you said, it’s not going to happen to me, Mr. Fudim. I’m not that kind of superficial person. I want to go all the way here. I don’t even know what a ‘Bugaboo’ really is—my younger sister, Annie, she’s got four kids, believe it or not—says I won’t be able to live without it. It’s a fancy stroller, I think, with great accessories. I’m still pretty sure I can live without it. But what I know I can’t live without is work. It’s my life. Without it—and I do mean full-time, in-house, on-call—I feel completely . . . not me.”
Abigail was starting to feel unlike herself even now, talking to a senior partner about caca and Bugaboos. “As far as I know, Mr. Fudim, I don’t even like babies until they start behaving like people, you know, walking properly and talking clearly and not spilling and touching everything.” She was thinking of Annie’s four little challenges. “I’m relieved that there are such things as professional caregivers. I’m not in the least maternal, and if someone else wants to do it, I’m thrilled to pay for it. Fair exchange of goods for services. As for stay-at-home moms, I had one, and that thrill, on either end, isn’t apparent to me. If you must know, sometimes I’ve felt like yelling ‘Get a life!’ at my fertile sister.”
“Just wait, you’re going to be one of these people.”
“I’ve already got a great life. Here at the firm.”
“Sure, let’s hope for the best,” said Fudim, generously. “I have kids, and it hasn’t changed me one iota.”
That seemed true.
“Ask any of my wives,” he continued. “Took the little one, Jordan, into the office last year on his birthday, remember?”
“Yes!” Abigail vaguely recalled a stout ten year old who kept diving under the secretaries’ desks to touch their legs. “He was so interested in everything,” she attempted, politely.
“He’s a pistol, that kid, and I love him to bits. But some people think you have to give, give, give like Mother Teresa in her heyday. ’Taint so, dear.”
“Me, I give at the office,” said Abigail. “And that’s a fair exchange, too.”
“Good,” said Fudim, distracted now by a pinging text.
Abigail stood up and left without further disturbing his routine.
3
The obvious questions—why, how, and with whom she’d gone and gotten pregnant—hadn’t come up in Abigail’s meeting with the senior partner. There were rumors, of course. Perhaps Bertram Fudim—who’d been so rashly frank in general—had thought these areas too personal to explore, verging on the action
able borderline of harassment as well as of employment discrimination. That was lucky, because if he had “gone there,” Abigail couldn’t have given satisfactory answers.
What were the real answers? Hard to put into rational words. For a brief time, Abigail Thomas, organized and focused, had been possessed by blind emotional need.
It had been a while since she had gone to that dark place. During her late teens, between childhood and BusinessWeek, Abigail had been magnetized by anything bad, sad, or dangerous. Her parents’ respective immigrants’ blues may have had something to do with this, but it was also the spirit of the times, echoing the hormones that carried her on a rough, shocking journey from stick figure to full-blown vamp. Dark and dingy was a common place for young people’s imaginations to dwell.
Abigail had had more company during this stage than she had ever had before or would after. Together, they sat in East Village dives, listening to singers croak about hard-knotted love, or lounged in hookah bars, feeling numb. Nietzsche (like other harsh existentialists) was big, as were fingerless gloves, Little Debby snack cakes, Cheetos, and clove cigarettes from Nat Sherman, held like sticks of incense as the ashes dropped. Soul mates were chosen from some endless weirdness cornucopia: Korean cellists with callused fingers that scratched, Irish Kabbalists, black hip-hoppers from Bronx Science. In those days, Abigail fell in love over and over. It hurt.
In college, the same. A graduate student from Norway played with her heart during sophomore year. It had taken her almost a year to soften him, and then he was all passion, all in. And then, one day, he seemed angry at her, as though caring for her had diminished him. Now he would make love to her, eyes aflame, weeping. Now he would storm out of her dorm and give her three days of silent treatment.