Ordinary Hazards

by Anna Bruno

  Joan lifted Lionel, holding him up by his torso, legs dangling. He rotated his head, looking from her to me and back again. He smiled. He giggled. She said only, “How can you leave this little angel?”

  I thought about asking her how she left her two little angels for eight months, when she ditched the family to sojourn to an ashram in India, well before Eat Pray Love made that kind of behavior socially acceptable.

  Instead, I did something I’d never done in front of Joan before. I broke into tears.

  She looked at me, woman to woman, mother to mother, and said, “I admire you. You know that, right? Lucas does too. He probably doesn’t say it, but he does.”

  On my way out the door, an outlet guard caught my eye. Like Samantha, Joan plugged all the outlets in her house, but they were the kind of plugs that any child with a modicum of intelligence could simply pull out, and what I never understood was, if Lion was inclined to shove a fork or a paper clip or a wet finger into an outlet, why would Joan assume he lacked the wherewithal to first pull out whatever lamp cord or plug blocked his way? But these were just intellectual ideas, rationalizations, really, and in the end, I still felt like a bad mother.

  * * *

  WHEN GRACE AND I traveled to New York City for business, I stayed in Brooklyn, mostly because I felt guilty that the town house—my father’s wedding gift—remained largely vacant save the caretaker’s weekly visit. Grace preferred to stay in Manhattan.

  Waiting for Grace in the lobby of her hotel, I crunched the numbers. In the US, there were approximately twenty-five hundred children treated in the prior year due to wall outlet shock accidents. That statistic came from a site on the internet called statisticbrain.com, which seemed reputable enough for this back-of-the-envelope analysis. Something like twenty million children ages zero to four were alive in the US at the time. That meant 0.01 percent of kids stuck metal objects or wet fingers into sockets. If I counted five- through ten-year-olds, also candidates for misplaced aggression directed at electrical outlets, the number of incidents was more de minimis. When I thought about how many kids were traumatized by anxious, overprotective parents that year, probably in a double-digit percentile, 0.01 percent started looking pretty good. And sure, adjusting up for households that were completely locked down in terms of child safety, maybe there would be, like, ten or twenty more incidents every year, but that didn’t even move the needle, statistically speaking.

  Back then, this type of analysis brought no comfort, though I did it anyway. Motherhood does not account for statistical likelihoods. Low-probability events—lightning, child abduction, poisoned candy—share the same tonal qualities as ordinary hazards: wall outlets, toxic substances, a hole in the floor. I think maybe this is nature’s twisted prophecy: you can worry all you want, but you’ll never predict the thing that will destroy you.

  * * *

  THE ANSWER TO JOAN’S question (How can you leave this little angel?) was that we were in Manhattan to celebrate. We had just publicly announced the fund, and Grace organized a dinner to mark the occasion.

  Grace and I were among a small cohort of women who managed portfolios at hedge funds. The number of women at the very top of major funds? We could count them on two hands. Literally. Grace invited all eight to celebrate with us.

  Lionel was one year old at the time, and I was blindly feeling my way through motherhood. Naturally, I treated these women like objects of sociological inquiry. Two of them were divorced without children; three were married to men who understood that their careers were not nearly as consequential as their wives’ careers; two were lesbians—one was married to a woman who stayed at home with their child, the other, happily childless; Grace and another impeccably dressed supermodel-type were married to successful attorneys, and relied heavily on nannies; and then there was me—the hot mess, tired all the time, missing my baby, husband, and dog all the time, wanting a drink most of the time.

  Grace chose an East Village restaurant called Side Pony because the owner and head chef, Francesca Jones, was a new friend and her object of curiosity du jour. Grace was interested in food and restaurants, but she was more interested in the violent potential of kitchens—knives, flames, egos. At Harvard she’d dated a nontraditional student—an older guy, late twenties, who worked as a chef in Amsterdam before matriculating. He’d make her fancy meals on the electric burners of the dorm kitchenette, which was romantic until it wasn’t. When she returned to the dorm after a midnight study session with a guy from her econ class, the boyfriend led her to the kitchenette for toast and poached eggs, insisting the water had already come to a boil. She never told me exactly what transpired in that little kitchen, but the scars on her hand and forearm were plainly visible. The boyfriend was thrown out of the dorm but not the college. He claimed it was an accident.

  Francesca bore a twin scar. Hers was much worse, extending from her neck to her elbow, with more raised scar tissue. According to her memoir, which Grace had given me for my birthday, another line cook, frenetic, had accidentally dropped a pan of hot oil on her. Incompetence was, of course, a sin of a very different nature. Nonetheless, Grace and Francesca were now officially bound to each other.

  We all arrived at eight o’clock. The hostess seated us at a kidney bean–shaped table in the rear corner of the restaurant, elevated two steps from floor level, as if it had been a stage at one time. Over the table, nailed to an exposed beam, there was a small placard that read LA FAMILIA. The space had a shabby chic look, homey, if home was impeccably decorated. I felt good there, at the center of the table, ravenous. I raised my glass to Grace before acknowledging everyone else.

  The server arrived with an amuse-bouche paired with bubbly wine, and shortly after, Francesca dropped by to greet us. Grace embraced her, and a couple of the women gushed about her memoir, calling it powerful and irreverent. Before I knew it, Francesca’s white coat had come off, and she stood before us in a gray, ribbed tank top, revealing her scars. Someone said, “In your memoir, you chose not to identify the line cook who did that to you.”

  “Are you asking if it was a man? I’m not sure it matters,” Francesca said. “But I will say that I’ve never worked with a woman so careless around hot oil. I’ve seen women trip and fall, and drop hot plates, and cut off the tips of their fingers, but I’ve never seen a woman injure another person on the line. We only hurt ourselves.”

  We ate until we were full, course upon course, all designed by Francesca for us. The amount of power around that table, measured in net worth or political influence or sexual prowess or raw intelligence or spiritual gravitas, whatever, rendered all other symbols of power—the presidency, the bull, a Tesla in space, a big swinging dick—nothing more than limp reminders of the past: anecdotes and jokes.

  By midnight, most of the other patrons had cleared out. The women were polishing off the last of the wine and a few of us had ordered digestifs. Two men remained at the bar, banker types (commercial, not investment, by the looks of it), occasionally glancing over at our table. Our waitress delivered ten colorful glasses of rum punch, the potent house special, made with three kinds of rum, liqueur, and fruit puree. “From the gentlemen at the bar,” she said, slightly blushing. By the look on her face, the way her bow-shaped mouth went sideways into a smirk, it was clear she understood the men’s mistake. She was smart not to stop them, though, because the tip on a $150 round was probably worth her while—plus, she must have known we’d have some fun with it.

  Amrita Khullar, who managed a $24 billion fund, leaned toward the waitress and, in her gorgeous British accent, said, “Please thank the boys for their lovely gesture.” As she said this, she took a punch glass from the waitress’s hand.

  Grace flashed me a look, and I could see that thing in her eyes: ambition. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how big Grace wanted to go. Our current fund was just a pilot. How had I not seen it? Grace didn’t want to run a small fund—she wanted to manage billions.

  Grace said, “Yes, and then put
the drinks and the rest of their bill on our tab.”

  The other women clinked their rum punches together, toasting themselves. The waitress said, “Are you sure?” but what she really meant was, Why?

  Grace shrugged. “Oh yes; we’re sure.”

  Clapping ensued, and more drinks. When the men walked out a short while later, with heads slightly bowed, we all got a nice obligatory wave, which we returned wholeheartedly. After Francesca closed the kitchen, she joined us for the remainder of the night, which extended into the wee hours.

  The attitude around the table could be summed up in one and a half words: fuck ’em. No one said it outright, though. It was all very civilized. And I remember thinking, Power is dangerous but less dangerous in the hands of women.

  That night at Side Pony was the happiest time of my life. I know I’m supposed to say the birth of my son was the best moment, and—don’t get me wrong—it was among the best. But that night in Manhattan was the culmination of everything—Lucas, Lionel, and Addie, my partnership with Grace, and above all, the work that made all of it sweet, special, worth the sacrifice. I felt like I could fly.

  Still in our proof-of-concept phase, Grace and I had made only a series of small trades with our own money. At any time before we called on our capital commitments, we could have simply shut the whole thing down. But I am my father’s daughter. I am that girl who woke up early to rearrange the pens in his briefcase while he took calls. I am that girl who wanted to know what a manure was so I could be one someday. And I think, even though Lucas gave me a taste of it, I am a woman who is not supposed to be happy.

  * * *

  SIRENS APPROACH.

  The cops look at our IDs, write down our contact information, and take brief statements: Who started it? What happened next? Which direction did he go?

  They take Cal’s gun but don’t bag it like TV cops do. I roll my eyes at their sloppy police work, knowing, at the same time, there’s nothing to investigate—no fingerprint analysis or testing for gunshot residue necessary. It’s Cal’s gun; he fired it; everyone knows it.

  One of the cops tells Cal he’s going to take him down to the station. Cal asks if he’s under arrest. The cop says no, but Sheriff Redman wants to talk to him there. Pointing at Summer, the cop says, “Your daughter can come too.” Cal agrees to go. Red is in Cal’s coffee klatch. They meet at eight a.m. every Friday at Jimmy’s place.

  The rest of us are told we can stop by the station tomorrow to give official statements. One officer asks Jimmy if he wants an ambulance.

  We’d all forgotten about Jimmy’s face in the hubbub. A jagged line, deep red, extends from the middle of his forehead to the edge of his eyebrow, just shy of his temple. Smeared to keep from dripping into his eyes, there is dried blood on the side of his head and in his hair. He says, “No doctors.” I expect the cops to insist, but they don’t. They are in a hurry to leave, anxious for action. On their way out the door, they say they will look for Martin Yagla.

  Just like that, they’re gone.

  Amelia hands me a clean towel. I tell Jimmy his wound might open up again, he might need stitches, offer to take a cab to the hospital with him, but Jimmy doesn’t have health insurance and doesn’t trust the system. “I started the fight,” he whispers.

  “Yag instigated. Everyone in this place will back you up,” I say.

  “You’ll never see him in here again. Don’t you worry about that,” Amelia says.

  There’s something worse than the blood crusted on Jimmy’s brow. He’s crying. I’ve seen more grown men cry in the last two years than I have in a lifetime. Who’s next?

  * * *

  WHEN I WAS A child, my dad had this old movie camera with film reels. He never watched the film or tried to digitize it. Later, I realized the camera just gave him something to do so he didn’t have to talk to people at family gatherings. After he split, I took a few of the reels from my mom’s house and set up a projector so I could watch them. The footage is silent, so it’s just a lot of smiling and waving and baby fat. Everyone seems so happy. Old film reels are the physical manifestation of nostalgia. Digital video does not have the same effect, perhaps because you can hear all the words.

  My last happy memory on Catherine Street is an old reel I play over and over again in my head. The only sound is the click-click-clicking of the reel, but as it spins, I remember the idea of sound in notes and chords and laugher and guttural almost-barks. My brain layers audio over the reel, which creates an eerie sort of distance, like the whole thing exists in memory, but it happened in another dimension, where the woman is me and isn’t me—she’s the woman I used to be. I see her and stare.

  Jimmy is over with this new girl he’s seeing. He looks at her like he’s falling in love. Her last name is Woodford, which inspires Lucas to pull out the stepladder and stretch to reach the bottle of Woodford Reserve that is hidden away for a special occasion.

  The girl holds the bottle next to her face, posing with it, moving it from one cheek to the other, a huge smile stretched from ear to ear. We open the bottle and Lucas pours two neat for Jimmy and him, and two on the rocks for the girl and me.

  The girl asks Lucas to put on Graceland, and—this is the sound layer—Paul Simon’s voice fills the room.

  Lionel is dancing. I’m holding him on my hip and his arms are outstretched, moving to the music. We’re all singing, even Lucas, who never sings. The reel spins. I see our mouths moving. I see our heads tilted back.

  I look down at the floor and the hole is there, but I don’t give it a second thought. I’m not worried Lionel will catch a foot or the Woodford girl will twist an ankle. In a flying dream, do you worry you’ll crash? You can fly, remember? That’s the whole point.

  Addie’s with us too. This is her optimal situation: everyone together in our kitchen, dancing around, touching and not touching. She slips between us, stands on her hind legs, and puts her front paws on my thigh.

  Lion wants to be down on the floor with her, so I bend over and put him on his feet. His legs aren’t quite ready to hold his weight. He drops to his butt. Addie’s tongue juts out. She licks him on the face.

  Lucas grabs me, swings me around, dips me backward, pulls me in, kisses me on the lips. It’s the kind of public affection that would normally embarrass him but we’re all drunk, and Jimmy’s eyes are glued on the Woodford girl.

  Lion puts his little hands on Addie’s back and pulls himself to his feet.

  We all look down at them: Lion’s feet move to the music. He sticks his diapered butt out. His fingers grip Addie’s fur. His cherry-red lips turn upward. Addie, stirred by the dancing just moments ago, is now calm. She stands still. If she moves, he’ll fall again.

  There’s a glitch in the reel. We are suspended in time: Lucas with his arms around my waist; Lionel holding on to Addie beneath us; Jimmy with his eyes on a new love. Memory is an infinite loop.

  Jimmy squats down, his enormous frame folding in on itself. He reaches for Lionel, puts him on his shoulders. Lionel wraps his legs around Jimmy’s neck and dances all the way to the ceiling.

  I see my kitchen full of dancing bodies. I taste a hint of whiskey on Lucas’s lips. I hear my child giggle. I feel Addie’s wet nose against my leg. But the reel is grainy, the colors tinted in sepia, and the music stops, and then I remember: this is what I had and lost.

  * * *

  I GET JIMMY UP on two feet, his arm around my shoulder. The smell of kitchen grease on his clothes is still strong. I can almost feel it rubbing onto me as I hold my arm around his waist. “Amelia, you got a first aid kit in this place?” She tells me to take Jimmy down to the basement. The kit is mounted to a wall down there.

  I’ve been in the basement before with Lucas. On nights when his buddy Jacob used to bartend, he’d let Lucas go down there to grab bottles for him and use the staff-only toilet. Lucas took me down with him once and we had sex standing up, against the cold, rough cellar wall. That was a long time ago now but the smell carries me back. />
  The first time Lucas and I made love was at the house on Catherine Street. I climbed on top of him. He looked at me, first at my breasts, my stomach, my hips beneath his hands, and then into my eyes. He said, “I haven’t had this in so long.” I knew he wasn’t talking about having sex, or even about good sex. He was talking about love, or maybe having sex with someone he loved, which is good but different than good sex—it is sex that exists atop a series of reference points, all time and experience operating like construction lines.

  After he finished he said, “I’ve never had this.” I hadn’t either. I’d loved other guys, sure, but not like this, not like Lucas. It was different, and because it was different, the sex was different.

  I’ve had sex with exactly one person since the divorce, a stranger. It was raw and drunk and a little bit sad. It was a reminder of what was once mine, and I welcomed that pain.

  Something about the dankness of the basement brings me back to wilder days—times when I was willing to bear the strangest discomforts to have Lucas inside me. Now, suddenly, on this night when the sparrow breached the threshold, when I saw a younger version of myself in the mirror, I want him again. It is a sudden, discernable moment, not a gradual change.

  I close my eyes. Wrapping my arms around myself, I feel his firm arms, his rough hands, his long gaze. My body aches with the distinct desire to be penetrated, and it is an ache only Lucas could satisfy. Jimmy, even if he weren’t such a loyal friend, couldn’t relieve the feeling, nor could a stranger. I wonder if some other woman has eased this ache for Lucas, and I guess that she has, but only temporarily.

  Ellis, the waitress from Antolini’s, dances into my head. Perhaps she fulfills Lucas’s longings as I no longer can. She is sexy—all that blond hair flows down, covering her breasts as she sits on top of him. He pushes her hair aside, over her shoulder, so he can see her. He admires the tightness of her stomach and the curve of her hips, and the way she moves: fluid, a dancer in the bedroom as she is a dancer in life. This doesn’t make me jealous. It turns me on.