“Of course you feel shitty,” Leo was saying.
“I feel sick.” Rob was referring to Lucy—and to his layoff—but mostly to Lucy. “How do I tell Maddy?” He was still holding Lucy’s apple, but had no memory of paying for it. He only remembered kissing her, which felt great, really great, ten-years-coming great, but also awful. Their kiss brought instant regret, but he was too full of her to stop, even as he sensed her pulling away, even as he acknowledged his mistake. And it was, he would learn, a terrible mistake. Long after Rob left Ellery, long after he found out how she’d betrayed him (how she’d betrayed all of them), long after they lost touch, Rob’s desire for Lucy Bender would haunt him any time he conjured her memory. Overwhelmed, overwrought, he thrust against her, wishing he was naked, free, and fucking her senseless—until she recoiled in distress. “Rob, stop—please!” She pushed him away, and then race-walked out of the market.
“You’ll tell Maddy when you’re ready,” Leo was saying. “In the meantime, you need to come to the office, finish talking to Rosa, and sign the papers. In case you’re wondering, I only found out yesterday—at which point I left you, like, fifty messages.” He paused. “Lucy just walked in. I thought you two were together. Rob, where are you?”
Shielding his eyes, Rob peered up at the ninth-floor HQ, imagining Leo standing at the window, peering down at him. He felt like a rogue agent being called in from the field by his handler. Could Leo be trusted?
“I can’t tell you where I am; it’s classified.”
“Rob, please. You’re being ridiculous.”
Ridiculous, yes. That had been established. “I’m coming in,” he said, resigned to his fate.
Upstairs, Rosa greeted him at the elevator. “Let’s go; we have a lot to cover.”
Yesterday’s folders sat on her desk. But this time, Rob was prepared. He had questions needing answers, requests he wanted granted. Thankfully, Rosa was also prepared—as well as efficient: she checked off boxes, asked questions of her own.
“Rosa,” he asked at one point, “if it’s okay with you, I’d like to work my last two weeks from home. I can’t imagine coming here with, you know, everyone knowing. Do you mind?”
“I’m not a believer in telecommuting, but in this case, no, I don’t mind. Rob?” She paused. “You’ll keep your chin up, yes?”
At the end, Rob rose to his feet. “Well, that’s it. Guess I’ll grab my things”—after looking around, he picked up a pen—“and, uh . . . put on my wheels and . . . book. Thank you, Rosa,” he added. See ya around, Warden.
Head bent, Rob shuffled down the long, cold cellblock. The other inmates peered out of their cages to see him off, rattling their bars in a final good-bye. Ignoring them, Rob trudged on. Behind him, an imaginary voice thundered through the concrete corridor. Hey HO, hey HO. Dead man walking! Dead man walking here! Rob ached to turn around, to get one last look, but instead he pressed forward, one foot and then another, to face whatever came next.
19
ROSALITA GUERRERO, CHIEF OF HUMAN RESOURCES, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT
MAY 2010
Rosa was in the tub again, only this time she couldn’t get out. Truth is, she’d dozed off. Now the water was cold, and her People magazine was on the floor. Idiocy. If she didn’t feel so stupid, she’d laugh at her situation.
She laughed anyway.
One, two, three. Up! She tried to hoist herself over the side, but her right arm was still too weak. “Leo!” she called out. “You there?”
No answer.
Leo was home in Brooklyn, she remembered. This was a good thing. Better he shouldn’t see her so indisposed. When he was here in February (already three months back!), it was humiliating, the way he’d waited on her. Never in her life did she think she’d allow such closeness with a member of her staff. If there was a word to describe worse than humiliating, worse than shameful, that’s how it felt. A part of her had to pretend it wasn’t happening; she had to float above herself and watch the proceedings. At the same time, her choices were limited, and he was . . . well, he was Leo. He made it easy to say yes, and in the end they survived. Another lesson learned: never say never. “Always say maybe,” she said to Peter. (Peter, who still hadn’t called, whose face, if only in memory, still made her heart flutter.) “Always say maybe. That’s my new motto. You on board?”
No answer from Peter either. (Before she was mad, now she was hurt.)
Rosa ran more hot water and reached for her People. The text was fuzzy, so she yawned, which made her eyes water. As long as her eyes were moist she could see fine, but when they dried up, she only saw dots. (Funny to be sitting in a tub of water with dry eyes, like being thirsty in a swimming pool.) A similar thing happened to her words, which shriveled on her tongue when her mouth got dry. Dr. Brady said this could happen after the stroke, that Rosa could lose her short-term recall. “Will it come back?” Rosa asked. The idea petrified her. “Maybe,” was all the doctor would tell her. Rosa remembered the stroke as a blistering headache, so thick it felt like a presence, so expansive it filled her whole skull. Then after, stillness. Nothingness. Eventually her body healed, but now her brain had off days, when the spark didn’t catch, when she lost words and memories and long stretches of time. Meanwhile, her mind kept churning. Years back, when her nieces and nephews were little, they used to make collages using pictures cut out of magazines: ball gowns, dogs, buildings, apples, tractors, seashells, fairies, anything and everything. They glued the pictures on top of each other, then on top of those, then on top on top, creating a mishmash of faces, places, and things. Rosa’s mind was like one of those collages, only when she churned, it wasn’t just pictures; she mishmashed ideas, stories, lost memories, movies, books, songs, words, words, words. When she tried to peel off a word, a piece of one stuck to another and they peeled off together. Or one would disappear, except she knew it was there, just below the surface, so she’d work with all her might to grab it. When she got stuck, Dr. Brady told her to count backward from twenty to one.
Be patient, Dr. Brady told her. Stop pushing.
At the moment, Rosa was churning about three things. First, the actress Sandra Bullock. Sandra’s husband, it turned out, was a cheat and a liar. Apparently she never saw it coming. The good news was that Sandy was still young and beautiful, with a career and many men yet to meet. Rosa wanted to send her a letter to this effect, and made a mental note to ask Leo for the star’s address. I understand, she’d tell her, referring to Peter. I never saw it coming, either.
Rosa’s second churn was Rob, whose separation she’d fought, only to lose in the end. He was still getting paid through next week; plus, his severance was fair. But the situation weighed on her like a . . . like a . . . like a thing, like a weight. Some layoffs didn’t bother her—i.e., Maisie Fresh Butler, who’d erupted in rage. (After, when Lucy said they should’ve just posted the news on Maisie’s Facebook page [Dislike!], Rosa had tried not to laugh.) But watching Rob walk out, head bent like a small boy, made her cry. She was worried for Maddy; such a treasure, that woman! A job loss can destroy a marriage or strengthen it, and while Rosa was optimistic for the Hirsches, who knew what their future held? Losing Rob also made Rosa question herself. She worried that she should’ve come down harder on him earlier, monitored his deadlines, followed up more aggressively. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve—every boss’s dirty secrets, their private errors in judgment. Maybe she’d give Rob a call, see how he was faring, if he’d heard from Peter. Nice if they could all have lunch, her treat.
Rosa’s biggest churn was Rutherford, who had recently asked her to create—and lead—a new mergers and acquisitions committee. It aligned with the strategy work he’d asked for back in November, and there was a financial incentive, but taking it on moved her further away from HR. Rosa wasn’t sure; the idea sounded sketchy.
“What should I do?” she asked Howard, who happened to be standing at the door right now, chuckling at her predicament. She knew Howard was here; the bathro
om had filled with the sweet pungent smell of his favorite cigar.
“Go limp,” he replied. “I’ll lift you up.”
“Not about the tub, Howard, about Rutherford’s M&A committee.”
“What do I always say, Rosie? Trust your gut.”
This was the problem; her gut was untrustworthy. Since the stroke, she’d become a less confident businessperson. She used to be a pro, able to drill down decisions all the way to the who and what, to the yes or the no—quickly, cleanly, and objectively. But now she got hung up on the why, on motives and emotions, which made everything cloudy. When Rutherford was describing this M&A team, something about his description felt off. His request had other parts—secret parts he didn’t mention—and inside those parts was where Rosa got looped.
“This new committee will research companies for Ellery to purchase or merge with,” he’d explained. “Growth by acquisition—it’s the only way we’ll survive.”
“We can’t afford staff,” she pointed out. “How can we afford acquisitions?”
“That’s my problem. But I’m talking about partnering with firms in our same situation or distressed assets we can pick up on the cheap. You can handpick your team, take your time, and continue to keep tabs on HR. If anything pans out, you’ll get a piece of every deal you find.”
“Plus a piece of every other deal,” Rosa said. “Regardless of who finds it.”
Rutherford laughed. “You never stop, do you?”
There was a catch. Rosa had to appoint a deputy chief, a real number two, and make it official. No more dragging her heels. Another catch—Rutherford wanted it to be Lucy. “You think she’s ready?” Rosa asked.
“If you mentor her, yes.” Rutherford sighed, not looking her in the eye. “Rosa, HR will always be yours. You’ll always be chief. But in October, you’ll be sixty-five. At some point, we have to consider what’s next. Not now,” he added. “I’m not saying now—soon, though.”
And there it was, the unsaid parts: You’re done here, my friend; while we appreciate your service, it’s time to consider what’s next for you—and (more important), what’s next for Ellery. What’s next for Rosa was a whole lot of nothing, a lot of sitting around and waiting, a lot of stewing in her own juices. What came after Ellery was a throwaway life.
Rosa never used to think this way, never allowed her feelings to override her sound judgment, but just as it had stolen her words, the stroke had softened her ability to reason. So here’s what she needed to know before she decided: One, was Rutherford aware of her stroke? Two, would he do this to a man, put Charles Mayfield out to pasture? Three, could she mentor Lucy without her ego intruding? And four, how would she ever thank Leo for all he had done?
Rosa was still in the tub. She drifted for a few minutes, then decided to wash her hair; sometimes she preferred doing it herself instead of going to the beauty place. As she rinsed out the shampoo, she remembered Delta had never sent her the check. Last month, when she went to the spa, the airline had lost her bag, so she had to buy new clothes and toiletries. She submitted a claim, but they never sent her a refund. That’s how they get you. Everyone’s too busy to follow up; no one does the extra legwork. Well, Rosalita Guerrero wasn’t everyone.
She dialed Leo, careful not to get her phone wet. As it rang, she got angrier and angrier. “Leo!” she was practically shouting. “Leo! What happened to my reimbursement?”
“What reimbursement?” She heard him yawn, which made her yawn, too. “What reimbursement, Rosa?” he asked.
“Delta never reimbursed me for my bags.”
“For your spa trip? Rosa, that was last year. And as I recall, they did reimburse you.”
“No, Leo, you’re wrong. Don’t you see? That’s how they get you!” She paused. “Also, please find Sandra Bullock’s address. I want to write her a note. She was blindsided, which is funny, since Blind Side was the name of her movie. Do you think they called it that on purpose?”
“Actually, you’re right, Rosa,” Leo was saying. “We never did get your money. Hold on. I’ll call Delta and then call you back. Are you having trouble sleeping?”
Rosa checked the time. It was 2:00 a.m.! She’d been in the bathtub for three hours. “I’m fine,” she told him quickly. “Sorry to wake you.”
“No bother, Rosa. We’ll figure it out, and then you can go back to bed.”
“I’m right here, kiddo.”
She hung up, satisfied that Leo was on the case. She flipped through her magazine, but slower than before. It might take him a while to deal with Delta, and she didn’t want to be sitting in this tub with nothing to read. Actually, that was a fifth question, which she’d ask as soon as he called back. Leo, if you were stuck in a bathtub, how would you get out? I don’t mean really stuck, she’d say. Just imagine if.
Part III
PUNCHING OUT
20
KENNETH VERVILLE, SENIOR MANAGER, COMPENSATION & OPERATIONS
MAY 2010
When Kenny was a kid, maybe seven or eight, his father moonlighted a few nights a week at a paper goods factory. Sarge’s shift at the army PX was seven to three, and his factory shift was four to midnight, which left no time for dinner. On those nights, Kenny biked to the factory with a hot meal. Once in a while, the shift supervisor let Kenny sit with Sarge in the break room. This thrilled the boy, who was tracking a poster on the wall: 243 DAY(S) SINCE OUR LAST LOST-TIME ACCIDENT! (According to Sarge, the same sign hung inside the factory proper, but Kenny wasn’t allowed near the lines.) The bosses promised a party when they hit 365, so he was counting the days. True to their word, when the factory went a year with no accidents, there was a celebration (white cake and punch), and Kenny was invited. Six months later, they hit 548 (eighteen months!), and every employee was treated to cake again, along with an extra twenty dollars in that week’s paycheck and a blue umbrella with SAFETY FIRST printed on it in block letters.
Kenny was primed for 730 (two years!), but just before Christmas, the number dropped: 1 DAY(S) SINCE OUR LAST LOST-TIME ACCIDENT! Turned out Duane Farmer had caught his hand in the chip feeder two days before. “What a loss,” Sarge said, making clicking sounds with his tongue. He was referring to Duane’s three fingers, but Kenny thought he meant the 715 days that were suddenly gone. To an eight-year-old boy, the idea of resetting the clock and reworking all those hours seemed impossible, unfair, and filled him with despair, though his dad quit the factory soon after, and it would be years before Kenny thought about lost time again.
KENNY AND JANINE were arguing. They were both cranky lately, so if they weren’t shouting, one of them was freezing the other out. Generally, Kenny preferred to shout. Then he knew where he stood—unlike the silent treatment, which left him confused. The other night, for example, after a prickly fight, he found Janine lounging on his side of the bed with Dog. While the sight was unsettling, Kenny felt silly pointing it out. After all, it was only a bed. Still, it needled him to see her lying on his pillow, next to his nightstand, availing herself of his reading materials. “It’s obvious you’re still mad at me,” he said.
“I’m not mad.” She spoke out of the side of her mouth, her eyes fixed on (his) Wired.
“The garage door broke; it’s not a tragedy.” Kenny had screwed up the electric eye again, but instead of calling a guy like he promised, he’d made it worse by trying to fix it himself. Okay, he’d failed. Did that warrant her behaving like such a baby?
“I’m tired.” Her words were terse, cold. “My new job—which if you recall, I only started three weeks ago—is killing me.” Then she turned off his light and curled up with her baby-dog, as if everything were normal. Kenny did the same, but he felt disoriented stretched out on her side. He could barely see the TV, and the heating vent roared in his ear, so he tossed and turned for hours. The next morning, Janine didn’t mention their sleeping arrangements, but he could sense hostility, like fumes, rising off her body.
At the moment, they were fighting about food. “You promised,
Kenny! You said you’d make dinner. Stop making promises you can’t keep.” Having beaten him home from the office, Janine had already changed into a long lavender sweater over lavender pants. Unbuttoned, the sweater flapped behind her like royal robes as she stomped through the kitchen.
While Kenny understood the implications of “making promises,” he chose to focus on making dinner. “I had to work late, Janine.” (This wasn’t true—Kenny had stopped for a beer in the city with Fez—but whatever.) “Why does that piss you off? I have a job too.”
“You want to know why I’m pissed? Because you can’t be bothered to make dinner or call the garage guy or do your other chores. Because the second I went back to work, you stopped pulling your weight.” Pivoting in disgust, she headed for the stairs.
Kenny watched her go. Janine was always bitchy when she started a new job, as if the only way to handle the unfamiliar testosterone on the trading desk was to take it out on him. Sure, he had sympathy for her; all day, she heard her male colleagues threaten to “fuck that bitch in the ass,” “that bitch” being any female in the room (including her). But if she’d always been competitive, Wall Street had made her ruthless. She used to fight on Kenny’s behalf; now he was her adversary. If he was tired, she was exhausted. If he was hungry, she was starving. She stacked the dishwasher better than he did, her sense of direction was keener, and she could’ve fixed the garage door with her eyes closed.
Knowing that this was how she blew off steam, Kenny usually let her rail, but sometimes he got fed up and fought back. Fighting used to feel good, like fucking, though these days it was a poor substitute because nothing between them was ever resolved. And tonight Janine happened to be right: Kenny wasn’t doing his chores. Still, he refused to give in. What he wanted was for her to admit she was fucking Les Hough. For the past month, it had taken all Kenny’s restraint not to hold up her phone and shout, “Look what I found!”
This Could Hurt Page 20