Ask Again Later (9 page)

“Martin, we'll have two chopped salads, two dirty martinis,” Jim says.

“Great choice, sir,” Martin says, not writing anything down. My father reaches for the basket on the table. He offers me some bread.

“Still at Schroeder, Sotos, Willett, and Ritchie?” Jim asks.

“No. Not really,” I say. I had no idea he knew where I worked.

He puts some butter on his bread. I notice his watchband is old and the leather is cracking. His cuff links and shoes are polished, so I decide he likes the way the watchband looks. Worn. Trusted.

“Not really?” Jim says.

“I don't like being quoted,” I say.

Martin brings our martinis. We sip them. I cough. Who knew people really drink martinis at lunch?

“Everyone likes being quoted. It feeds the ego,” Jim says. “Who doesn't want to hear his own conversational highlights?”

“Maybe it's a gender thing,” I say.

His words are matter-of-fact, but his tone is friendly, kind. He doesn't seem at all self-conscious that we are essentially strangers. Or if he is self-conscious, I don't know him well enough to read the signs.

“Where are you then?” Jim asks.

“Nowhere,” I say. “I quit. I needed to take a break, and I thought Mom could use some support. But as usual, I forgot who I was dealing with. She's amazing. She's managed to turn breast cancer into a social network.”

“Well, I can understand why you'd quit. I don't know why
anyone
would want to be a lawyer anyway,” Jim says.

The relief of having someone say the right thing should never be underestimated, whether he means it or not.

“
You're
a lawyer,” I say. “And you should have mentioned all this when I was applying to law school.” My thankfulness wears off, the way thankfulness does.

“I don't think we were on speaking terms at the time,” Jim says.

“Right,” I say. “Well, then, you're forgiven for that one.”

The salads are delivered. We start to eat. So this is what it's like to have a father?

“My father was a lawyer,” Jim says, as if that justifies his life's work.

“Ironically, so is mine,” I say. “I never met your father, did I?”

“No,” Jim says. “And neither did I.”

I don't remember his mother, either. I just remember that in her kitchen, she had a rack of wooden spoons, in graduated sizes. When I was about three, my grandmother showed me which spoon she used to hit my father with when he was “bad.” I cried whenever we went to her apartment; I was terrified to go into the kitchen.

“So being a lawyer—is that your way of getting to know who your father was?” I ask. Clearly it's mine.

“What else was I going to do?” Jim says.

“It's a big world filled with commerce and art and possibility,” I say.

“Art?” Jim says suspiciously, and dismissively. As if he is aware there is a thing called art, but wonders why I'm mentioning it to him.

“Yes,” I say. “Art. Sculpture. Painting. Unique expression. Commentary on contemporary life—”

“I know what art is,” Jim says.

Then why'd you put those dull lithographs all over your office? I want to say. But I know the answer. People want their lawyer's office to look responsible. It's reassurance that when the lawyer goes home at night, he's so steadfast, he works. He doesn't loosen his tie, or go out, or have a life. He's beige and boring and reliable. If you
walked into a lawyer's office and he had a Warhol electric chair painting on his wall, you'd have some serious questions to ask.

“Contract law? What was I thinking? Why didn't I choose family law—like you? You're probably out of your office by six o'clock every night,” I say. It's a relief to finally say it. To admit that I wasn't very thoughtful about a really important choice.

He thinks for a while.

“Have you considered turning this hiatus into something really special? How about backpacking through Europe. Not necessarily with a backpack, though. The human back is an underengineered thing. A really shoddy design, if you ask me. You could stay in some wonderful old hotels. The lake region of Italy is fabulous.”

This is a response that perfectly describes my father. My mother's just been diagnosed with cancer, and feels so alone she begged me to move in with her. I've just thrown my job out the window, in theory to tend to her, and he suggests I run away to see some Italian lakes. Go off and see something beautiful and distant…How do you become so monumentally lacking in empathy? You practice every day until it sticks.

“You want me to spend six hundred dollars a night on a hotel room in Italy. I've just quit my job, and I bought a co-op last year. Shouldn't you be telling me to run to my boss and ask him for my job back? Network with other lawyers? I've thrown my entire life off course,” I say.

“Maybe that's what you needed to do. I wish I'd done that,” Jim says.

Silence. Is he being ironic?

“You
did
do that,” I say.

“Yes. My only mistake there—and it was a big one—was timing,” Jim says. “I should have done it earlier—before I was married. You still have time. Really, ask yourself: Do you
want
to be a lawyer?”

“Please tell me these aren't the motivational tactics you use on your employees,” I say.

“It's not my responsibility to motivate them,” Jim says.

“I don't want to be a lawyer to the exclusion of all other things—and sometimes that feels like what the choice is. All or nothing,” I say. “But I'm not sure that I
never
want to be a lawyer.”

“You get only one life,” Jim says. “You could come work for me.”

His non sequiturs sometimes sound like they may have come from inside of a fortune cookie.

“You're hiring more lawyers?” I ask, surprised by my own interest.

“Oh, no. We're chockful of lawyers. But you could become our receptionist when Esther ‘retires.' It could very well change your life,” Jim says.

“How would answering phones change my life?” I ask.

“You'll either have a new appreciation for contract law
or you'll discover that you enjoy having your evenings to yourself. It's a nice group of people we have working there,” Jim says.

“So with one life—I should use it up on answering a phone? Buzzing people into your office?”

“The receptionists get to leave at five-thirty. You have to like that,” Jim says.

“Do you happen to know how much you pay receptionists?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” Jim says. “It can't be much. Next to nothing, I imagine.”

“So they do it for the love of the game? Or is it the added perk of having all the free coffee and microwave popcorn they can enjoy?” I ask.

“It's amazing how that butter flavoring tastes so real,” Jim says. “I resisted trying it for years. Big mistake. Of course, the office smells like a goddamn movie house.”

“It really
does
taste like butter,” I say. We have something in common! We both adore popcorn prepared in the microwave!

I stare for a while. How did the topic of what to do with the rest of my life turn into this? I can't quite figure out what to make of my father's suggestion that I go to Italy. Is the trip supposed to spare me the experience of my mother's cancer? Or does he just want me to be the one to leave this time? Ease his guilt?

We drain our martini glasses.

I make a joke about answering phones all day and
my official cause of death being listed as “bad case of boredom.”

My father gets annoyed. He's not amused by any reference to the great good-bye. Despite the ravenous dating habits he enjoyed while married to my mother, it turns out he's quite sensitive about his ex-wife's diagnosis. Perhaps there is some leftover love between them. Or guilt. Sometimes love and guilt look the same.

“You are so much like your mother,” Jim says.

“How would you know?” I ask.

He stares out the window.

There's nothing I can do about my mother's health. Crying hasn't helped. Neither has the career suicide or personal-life sabotage. But the dirty martinis have been tasty. For a few minutes there, I was enjoying getting to know my father. Until that last comment.

“Well, think about the job,” Jim says.

“I already have,” I say.

“And?” Jim says.

“I'll take it. Thanks,” I say.

My inheritance is right here in the room with us, boiled down to a simple equation. My mother's fear of communicating married to my father's immaturity. It's all mine now! And I don't want any of it. What I add to this heap is longing. It's a romantic and useless notion, unless it's converted into something resembling personal satisfaction and a blueprint for happiness.

Love Map

MAPS, ALL OF THEM,
hopefully imply there are places you should want to be, and people working diligently to make it easier for you to get there. I like to imagine a band of solitary travelers dispersed and making all the wrong turns so I don't have to. I long for the neat, personal map that warns me of the wrong turns that could have saved me the inconvenience of a few side trips in my life.

Steve was one such pit stop. He was cute, distant, and extremely cheap. Tight with money and love: Congratulations! You've arrived at your destination!

A map might also have prevented me from stumbling into Miller. In spite of the fact that he held on to a deep, deep hope that I'd agree to hurt him during sex, he made me laugh. In the morning, he'd serve me café latte in a china cup. Sans pants, but taking the time to don a cowboy hat, he'd teeter across the floor not spilling any coffee. He was a runner, and I'd watch him carry that latte cup away in amazement. Plus, he still seemed like such a kid, and in that way he was a relief. A temporary thing requiring no stressful tests to see how my past might repeat itself in my future with him.

A map might have warned me that my mother would be getting sick, and that my father would reappear. That he'd try to rewrite history, and that he'd be too late.

There are maps to places you have no right to go, like maps of the stars' homes. You've got no business driving by Siegfried and Roy's home on a Thursday afternoon—but still, you can. Facilitators of your wishes are practically daring you to go. Here is the map. A map is permission. Señor Siegfried won't mind.

Of course, our parents leave us maps—musty, folded the wrong way, and stowed in the glove box in case you need them. They were good enough for my parents; they must be good enough for me! Only problem is, I know where my parents ended up.

You could brace yourself for the various pileups along the way. Sixty miles 'til infidelity; watch out for the fork in the road at every family holiday; and whatever you do, don't mention how Dad falls asleep at “an old friend's” house “due to unforeseen weather,” sickness, sprained ankle, thunderstorm, pants on fire…That's the sucker's map because it shows the easiest and most dangerous road to follow. And when you're not paying attention, just cruising along, searching for what's next, it can also be the most hypnotic and appealing. Don't ever underestimate the allure of what looks easy.

Psychologists say our “love maps” are established by the time we're seven years old. At seven, I loved trolls. I loved diaries. My father had become a stranger. My love map is really more like a set of sketchy directions scribbled on a cocktail napkin.

In the end, all of us will have created a map that works
only for us. If anyone else dared to follow it, he'd be signing up for a horrific triptych the likes of which the automobile club could never even conceive.

As for right now, I'm lost. A map, any map, would be greatly appreciated. I'm not the first lost person to feel this way. Lost people just want a way out; they'll follow any foolish trail.

Paul Molé

IT'S SATURDAY.
We are weighted down with ski coats, mittens, and boots. We walk around the Central Park Reservoir. One of our daily rituals.

“You're not getting the full effect if you aren't landing on your heel and rolling up to the ball of your foot, and then off your toes, each time your foot lands,” Mom says.

“You don't like the way I'm walking?” I ask.

“I took a walking class at Canyon Ranch,” Mom says.

“A walking class?” I say.

“I enjoy these walks with you,” Mom says.

“Me, too, we argue less when we're moving,” I say.

“We don't argue. I have no idea where you get these ideas of yours,” Mom says. “Listen, after this, let's go home, get showered, and then go over to Paul Molé.”

“The barbershop?” I ask. I had all of my childhood haircuts there.

“I've decided I'm going to get my head shaved before
the surgery,” Mom says. “I don't want any hospital intern cutting all of my hair off.”

“First of all, it's too cold to shave your head. If you really want to do that, wait until the summer. Second, you aren't having chemotherapy; you aren't going to lose your hair. You're having a lumpectomy and then a few radiation treatments,” I say.

“You're just saying that to make me feel good. Besides, I like the idea of getting my head shaved. It seems empowering,” Mom says.

“On second thought, don't take my word for it, go get your head shaved,” I say.

Mothers and Daughters

NANA AND I MEET
at the mall. The stores open at ten. Management, very kindly, unlocks the doors to the main building for the loiterers at nine.

“Can we walk slow today? I'm not in the mood,” I say.

“Oh, please,” Nana says, not slowing down.