“Why don’t you like Asians?” Manny looked her dead in the eye. “We’ve only gone out twice, but you already mentioned your old boss, Chinese Shame, and the other one. Chang? Eng? Plus, you keep calling my coworker ‘the Asian guy.’ Why not ‘the tall guy’ or ‘the guy with the birthmark’? Or Gerald—which is his name, by the way. Gerald Leong.”
Lucy’s face burned. “I didn’t mean anything.” She wanted to disappear—no, die, that would’ve been better. “I’m so sorry.” Do not, she warned herself, do not, bring up the Cesar Chavez fund raiser from third grade.
“Not to make a big thing,” he continued, “but I’d feel bad if you called me ‘the Spic.’” He cracked a grin. “I don’t call you ‘the Hot White Girl Whose Keycard I Fucked With.’”
Though this didn’t reassure Lucy, she understood what he was saying. In fact, Manny shifted her perspective—not a lot, not about everything—but enough to make her think twice about Gerald the next time she passed him in reception. Still, as much as she liked Manny (and she did, very much), and as good as he was to her (far more than she merited), Lucy didn’t love him the way she wished she did, the way he deserved. Deep down, she also felt ashamed of her racism (bias, whatever), ashamed he’d seen it. But rather than act honorably, and explain all this, she cut him off. To wit: when he asked about their future, she resorted, disgracefully, to corporate-speak. “We have different goals, Manny. I don’t see us growing together long-term.”
“You are so hard,” Manny told her.
And she knew it was true.
ON MONDAY MORNING, Lucy heard the muffled ringing of her BlackBerry. She scrambled to find it, but her desk was in shambles. Files, proposals, reports, bills, and other detritus littered one end to the other. Was there no bottom? Her phone! Spying the caller, she did a double take. It was Rob. She put it down and then picked it up, but of course by then he was gone.
His message was excruciating. “Rob here.” He coughed. “The funeral on Friday was nice. Well, not nice, God no, I didn’t mean nice, I meant it was nice to see you.” More coughing. “So listen . . . I uh . . . got a call from someone you may know. Sally Rakoff at JPMorgan? She’s the HR division head, who reports to the global director (so many departments over there!). She saw my résumé online and asked me in. Well, a recruiter asked, but Sally and I have a phone thing. So I’m hoping you can give me insight into her . . . into her, into her whatever. Thanks.”
It took Lucy a minute to compose herself. Then, when she dialed back his new number, she froze. “Hello?” Rob asked. “Lucy?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“Lucy?”
“I’m here,” she choked out. “It’s me; I got your message.”
“Oh, hey. . . . Thanks for returning my call. So I was wondering if you knew Sally Rakoff. Oh! And congratulations on your promotion. It must feel good to be chief.”
“It would, if not for the way it came about.”
“You mean Rosa?”
What else could she mean? A beat of quiet, and then she plunged ahead. “Yes, I know Sally. She took my job when I left.” (So I left, Lucy corrected herself. Sally stole my job, so I was forced to leave.) “Will you be reporting to her?”
“Not directly. She’ll be a few people above me. They’re creating a new talent development program, and need someone to oversee it. I’m interviewing for that job.”
As Rob talked, Lucy cleaned off her desk (the madness!) and checked her e-mail. She didn’t need to hear the details of Rob’s interview because she was the one who’d set it up. Sally Rakoff was a sociopath, but she reported to the Stone Cold Fox,55 whom Lucy had called a month earlier to ask if he could help Rob. At most she’d expected a referral; that the Fox came through with an actual position endeared him to her all over again.
“Great idea to move into training,” she said when Rob finished. “It suits you.”
“Not really.” He laughed. “But out of all the jobs I’ve had, it’s the one I hated least.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well. When’s the interview?”
“Two weeks.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, is Leo in? I’ve been trying to reach him”
Lucy shook her head and then realized he couldn’t see her. “Not yet. But I’ll have him call you. And Rob?” She sighed. “We miss you; it’s not the same here without you.”
THE NEXT MORNING, halfway through her first official staff meeting, she received a text from Rob.
Need help! Leo in trouble! Come to his apartment?
When she looked up, she saw everyone waiting. “Excuse me.” She texted Rob back.
Leo called out sick for the past two days.
I’m in a meeting. Can it wait?
Rosa warned her it would be like this, jumping from one crisis to another for ten hours a day. “Forget planning, forget agendas. Forget all of it. The job is a constant fire drill.” While Lucy did get a brief taste as number two, Rosa had acted as a stopgap. Now there was nothing behind her but wide-open space and a long, dark fall.
Leo is depressed. Won’t get out of bed.
Lucy stared at Rob’s text. What would Jamie Dimon do? Would he leave his staff meeting? Would he go to an employee’s house? Fuck that. What would Rosa do?
Sorry, can’t get away. I’ll come after work.
Hours later, she was squinting at the building numbers on Smith Street and deciding on a game plan. Discuss their relationship? (No.) Bring up the kiss? (God, no.) What if he kissed her again? (Rebuff.) Thus, prepared for anything, she hiked up Leo’s stoop, but when she stepped into the apartment, Rob barely glanced at her. Instead, he offered a quick hello and then ushered her to the bedroom, where Leo lay on his mattress and stared at the wall. The place was a disaster: dirty clothing strewn over furniture, piles of newspapers, cartons of half-eaten takeout. The air stank of unwashed socks and fried rice.
“Hey Leo,” she said softly. “How are you?” He didn’t answer, so she turned to Rob. “How long has he been this way?”
“Since the funeral.”
“Where’s Thomas?”
“The Virgin Islands,” Leo said bitterly, his voice thick with tears. He rolled over to face her. “On vacation. Couldn’t be bothered to cancel his plans—”
“You told him to go!” Rob cut in. “The vacation had been planned for months. You told him not to miss it. You said you’d be fine without him!”
“He’s forty-four. He should know what’s appropriate behavior. But whatever, I don’t care. You said it yourself, Rob: there is no point to anything. All we do is live and then die.”
Lucy looked at Rob. “You said that? When?”
“Right after he got laid off,” Leo said. “He was totally despondent.”
His tone was accusatory. Lucy wondered if he knew that Rob’s layoff was her doing. Either way, she was accountable, a concept that left her queasy. Rosa had said to expect this, too. “The job makes you feel powerful and powerless at the same time. People will hate you.” And sometimes, Lucy thought, they’ll be justified.
Leo started to cry. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Her throat closed. “Leo, I understand you feel lost with Rosa gone. You miss her—we all do. But you need to see Dr. Saul. He’s a professional; he can help you get through this.”
Leo scoffed. “This isn’t about Rosa. This is about my life.”
“Your life is in transition,” Rob said. “A lot of things are changing, you’re in a new relationship, you’re sad about Rosa.” He was using a therapeutic tone Lucy had never heard before, not in the entire decade she’d known him. Was this Leo’s influence, or was Rob in therapy too?
“Should we order dinner?” she asked. “I’m happy to stick around.”
Leo said he wasn’t hungry. “I appreciate you coming, but I just want to be alone. I had no idea Rob called you.”
“She’s your boss,” Rob said. “She should know what’s going on.” Turning to Lucy, he told her Leo needed a few days off. “Just to get himself
together.”
“I’m also his friend, Rob.” She didn’t like being relegated to the sidelines. (She was here, wasn’t she?) “Of course, Leo, take all the time you need.” (Although she probably shouldn’t have said this.) She bent down to pat his shoulder. “Call me, please.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Rob said.
Steering her into the hallway, he moved with crisp efficiency, as if he had a host of people waiting in the wings. All day Lucy had wondered what it would feel like to see him. Now, trailing behind him, she knew: it felt like bad timing, missed chances, impossible scenarios, and a long story ending. “I’m glad you called.” She didn’t want to talk to his back, but the hallway was too narrow for her to squeeze beside him. “I wish there was something else I could do.”
“That you came is a lot.”
They reached the front door. She wished they had more time—so much to say!—but he ushered her out. “Luce?” He touched her shoulder, gently. “I want to be friends.” He spoke atonally and quickly, as if he’d rehearsed this in front of a mirror.
“I want to be friends, too, Rob,” she said, though this wasn’t exactly true anymore. “Everyone misses you at work.” This, on the other hand, was very true.
“We’ll talk soon,” they both said, offering air kisses and corporate hugs.56 “I’ll call you.”
“I DID THE right thing,” Lucy told Dr. Ahmet the next day. “With Rob and Rutherford.” She sat up straight, anticipating the therapist’s approval. When he didn’t respond, Lucy prompted him. “I think my actions reflect a lot of progress. I’m replacing bad habits with new behaviors.”
Still nothing.
Did he not hear her? “Particularly with Rutherford. Because of my work with you, I can see that flirting with my boss is self-destructive.” She tilted her head expectantly. Funny how Dr. Ahmet had to be silent and withholding for her to care what he thought.
When he finally responded, he was uncharacteristically sharp. “You are the mighty lion, Lucinda, who has no pride.”
This sent Lucy reeling. “Excuse me?” He sounded so critical! Lucy’s leg bounced so frantically she would soon achieve liftoff. Rearranging herself only got the other leg going.
“Lucinda, I must tell you this once and for the end. You are traveling the wrong way. The source of love is not found atop the mountain; it is inside the mountain, it is of the mountain, it is the mountain itself. You climb and climb, yet you remain alone and”—Lucy couldn’t make out the next word. It sounded like perverted, but that had to be wrong. What therapist would call his patient a pervert? “This is difficult for the both of us.”
“Why is it difficult for you?”
“The bird soars only when she leaves the nest. This I would like to see.”
Lucy panicked. Was he breaking up with her? Oh, how the tables had turned! All this time, she’d believed she could see him as long as she wanted, that he’d continue to offer soothing if convoluted aphorisms until . . . well, until she died, basically. “You want me to leave your nest?” she asked quietly.
Perhaps sensing her distress, Dr. Ahmet shifted to a more melodic register. “Not my nest, Lucinda. Listen to me: None of these men interest you. Not the EMT or the Recruiter-slash-Trainer or your CEO. They are all one and the same. I did have hopes for the Doorman—”
“Manny? He works in security; he’s not a doorman.”
“Be that as it may, he is a possibility for later, not a poss-i-bil-i-ty for now. For now, you must understand who all these men represent. Consider this with your big brains. Who are you always the most wanting of? Who are you always never speaking about but always bereft of?”
Lucy had no idea, though this could’ve been a result of his poor grammar. (What she wouldn’t give to whip out paper and pencil and diagram his sentences.)
“The father is the son of the man, Lucinda. You are of the mountain; the mountain is inside you. You cannot fly free unless you release yourself.”
“The mountain is my father?” Now she was annoyed. “All my problems go back to him? That is so fucking reductive!”
“I did not say all your problems come from the Deadbeat, but you must explore those that do. Lucinda, you listen, but do not lis-ten. There is a difference, no? I think again of the goat, not up on the mountain but down in the valley. Which is why we must speak of your grief over the Deadbeat’s long absence. We must also speak of your grief over your Wizard, who has passed on. We can no longer dwell always on the sisters who compete for the mother’s love. One of the sisters is to be a mother herself. And perhaps she has never competed; perhaps it was only you. Your behaviors, when appropriate, are not always kind, and when kind, not always appropriate.”
Lucy’s face reddened. She knew this, of course she did; she should be helping Willa choose a crib, not ignoring her calls. The idea of her little sister having a little baby filled Lucy with unexpected warmth. She loved Willa deeply; she’d love Willa’s baby, her niece, just as much. She made a note to call Willa and tell her this. Maybe she’d also call her mother; it would make the old bird happy to hear from her. “It’s so ironic.” Shamed, Lucy wanted to cry.
“What is ironic?”
“What does ‘ironic’ mean? Is that what you’re asking?”
Dr. Ahmet shook his head. “You forget that I too am a man of fine education. I know what ‘ironic’ means. I meant what is the situation that is of irony?”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I am not offended, Lucinda, though you can be offensive, yes. (I refer to what you told me about your Security Man and his Asian friend, how he called out your prejudices.) But this is another defense we can speak of later; for now we must focus. What is ironic?”
“I’ve been thinking about quitting therapy.”
“Since when?”
“Since our second session.” Admitting this (finally!), Lucy felt liberated.
“That was five and a half years ago, Lucinda.”
“Please don’t take it personally, Dr. Ahmet. It’s not you. I don’t listen, which is obvious, given that it’s years later and I’m still doing the same stupid shit. But maybe I’ve been in therapy too long. Maybe I’m just immune to the process.”
“I disagree. You have made several changes. You are Chief. You did not chase the Recruiter-slash-Trainer or the CEO. You broke it off with the Security Man for sensible reasons. You will be, I suspect, a wondrous leader. Yet your heart still aches.”
“So I shouldn’t quit? I mean, I really don’t want to.”
He shrugged. “I do not know what to tell you, Lucinda. As I have said, I am not the kind of doctor with the answers. I am the doctor who can only pose the questions.”
Surprisingly, Lucy was calm. Her foot, she noticed, no longer bounced. All these years, she’d been waiting for one grand epiphany that would assuage her mental turbulence, but maybe this—confidence in her job, faith in her loopy therapist, a plan to come back—was as good as it got. Christ, who knew that therapy—sitting in a chair and talking about herself—could be so demanding? Luckily, Lucy Bender never shied away from hard work.
“I think we’re done,” she said, using her newfound earnestness. “But I’ll be back next week. And Dr. Ahmet? It might take awhile to sort out this ‘father of the man’ thing. You know that, right? You won’t give up on me?”
“I won’t give up,” he assured her. “And do not worry. Time flies like an arrow.”
“Fruit flies like a banana,” she shot back.
It took him a second. Then a tiny laugh escaped his lips. “You made a joke!”
Smiling, Lucy gathered up her things.
“Fruit flies like a banana.” The good doctor was still chuckling as she saw herself out.
28
ROBERT HIRSCH, CANDIDATE FOR DIRECTOR OF TRAINING, JPMORGAN CHASE
AUGUST 2010
Rob could tell Leo felt a lot better. Although still sad—grief is a process, he kept reminding Rob—he was definitely out of the woods. “Don’
t worry,” Leo said. “I’m seeing Dr. Saul tomorrow, and then once a week for the foreseeable future.”
Riffling through a tie display, Rob was relieved to hear this. It was Thursday morning, and they were in the Men’s Wearhouse near Wall Street, trying to find a suit for his interview. JPMorgan was his first real lead since he lost his job three months back, and Rob was determined to make the most of it.
“I told Lucy I’d be back in the office on Monday. Also”—Leo turned his head, suddenly bashful—“Thomas is home. He only went on vacation because I insisted—he really didn’t want to miss Rosa’s funeral. So, uh, yeah. You were right.”
Rob held up a red tie embossed with silver banjos. “Too much?”
Leo covered his eyes. “Ugly, cheap, dated, and what’s with the pattern?”
“Not for you. Is it too much for me?”
“Oh . . . for you, it’s fine.” Plopping into a chair, Leo sighed. “I hate Men’s Wearhouse.”
For someone who supposedly felt better, Rob thought, Leo was very cranky. “This interview is important, none of my suits fit, and this place is affordable.” He held up a second tie, this one solid navy. “This one?”
“Better.” Leo pulled out his phone. “Rule of thumb: patterns on ties are a shonda. Second rule: one high-quality suit beats five shitty ones.” Head bent, he was texting. “Third: let’s go to Barneys.”
“Do you even know what a shonda is? I’m Jewish, you’re not.”
“A shame upon your people.” Leo smiled. “Thomas says Men’s Wearhouse is fine, and don’t let my snobbery influence you.” He offered Rob his phone. “Wanna see his text?”
“Just tell him I say hi.” Scanning the ties, Rob felt a wave of panic; why were there so many choices? He looked for a salesman. “Little help, please?” Rob thought shopping with Leo would solve all his problems; instead he was chasing after a skinny man with a yellow tape measure looped around his neck like reins. “I’ll be right with you,” the man said, turning back to a beefy guy appraising himself in the mirror.
The store was crowded for a Thursday morning. Why weren’t all these people at work? Probably because of the two-for-one sale. Two for one! Rob still couldn’t get over it.
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