Little Pink Slips (33 page)

as much as a long toke on a good joint. "Now we're getting somewhere.

To the best of your recollection, what did you tell that sonofabitch?"

"Well, I can't remember, exactly," Magnolia said. "That I didn't

think this was the time for him to make advances—the company was

already in the middle of a scandal. Bebe had just been caught making

sexual overtures to this boy, Nathaniel Fine, who worked as our

intern. The press blasted her. The company was trying to clean up an

enormous mess."

"I heard about that," Wally said. "The parents are members of our

club and everyone was talking. Fourteen-karat gold gossip. I felt sorry

for the kid, but it all went away. The Blake woman paid up big. Your

company, too, up the wazoo."

"Scary paid?" Magnolia said. "Really? I never knew that. How do

you know?"

"I was in a foursome with the kid's dad."

"How much did Scary pay?"

"Settled out of court, close to a half million from the publishing

company, and more from the talk show gal. But stick to your story,

darling," Wally said. "We might be on to something."

"I told Jock, 'I like the way things are now.' "

"Not sure I understand," Wally said. "What did you mean, 'I like

the way things are now'?"

"I didn't want us to be a couple."

"I like the way things are." Wally let the phrase roll off his tongue.

" 'I like the way things are.' Now we're hot."

"I'm not the first woman Jock's tried to harass at work," Magnolia

added quietly. "He's the matinee king. If you could get to Elvira, his

secretary . . . She keeps his calendar, makes his reservations, pays the

hotel bills. . . ."

Magnolia heard a knock at the door. "Just a minute," Wally said as

he took notes. The knocking became a pound. "Coming," Wally shouted. "Coming."

Wally got up to open the door as Whitney Fleigelman flew through

it, blond hair flying.

"You fucking creep, Wally," she said, slapping him in the face.

"Not again! 'I like the way things are,' " she mimicked. "How many

times are you going to use that old line? And you!" She jabbed Mag

nolia with her finger, which had a long nail tip manicured the pink of

a baby's tush. "You! 'I like us as a couple,' " she whined. "You had your

nerve to call my home. You piece of dreck. And you come to my home

in fuck-me jeans. Get out!" she ordered. "This minute!"

"Whew, Whitney, honey," Wally said, grabbing his wife by her nar

row shoulders. "Calm down. You heard things wrong. And there's no

need to insult Magnolia."

"Magnolia!" she said. "Like I care. And what kind of a bullshit

name is that?"

   "It's her name, Esther Rose!" Wally said. "Oh, excuse me,
Whitney,
the mother of Morgan and Harper. And what were you doing eavesdropping anyway?" His voice was as loud as Magnolia remem

bered it could be.

"Wally, I'll fuckin' listen to anything I want to in my own house,

thank you very much," Whitney screamed, her face as red as her

slinky sweater dress. Magnolia wondered if Whitney got a dis

count at Tse Cashmere or had just scored at the pre-Christmas sample

sale.

"Magnolia! You've never gotten over that tramp, have you, Wally?"

"Get a grip, you crazy bitch," Wally said. "We have guests. You

know, I shoulda stayed with Magnolia. At least she doesn't sit on her

fat ass all day."

   
"You're saying my ass is fat?"
Magnolia and Whitney asked the question in unison. But neither of the Fleigelmans heard Magnolia.

They were too busy dismembering each other.

Magnolia left the study. "I'll call you," Wally yelled as she shut the

door. "I've got an idea or two about your case."

Magnolia went downstairs. Guests were cheering in the media room, and the box of chocolates she'd brought was still sitting on the

table where she'd left them.

"I forgot something," she said to the intern-turned-waitress, who

just then walked through the foyer en route to the kitchen. Magnolia

opened the box, offered a truffle to the waitress, and took one for her

self. She closed the box, put it under her arm, and left.

C h a p t e r 3 3

Yesterday's History, Tomorrow's a

Mystery

"You're getting a what?"
Magnolia asked Abbey as they trolled the Sunday flea market two weeks later.

   "Getting a
get,
" Abbey said. "A Jewish divorce."

   "You're only half Jewish."

"My mother's Jewish—that's what counts." She rummaged

through a box of old coins, examined one, and deemed it unfit for her

new collection of chokers and charm bracelets.

"Tommy's conversion was pretty lightweight—you weren't even

married by a rabbi." Magnolia had been the maid of honor at the

wedding, which featured an officiating judge who couldn't have

passed a breathalyzer test.

"Immaterial," Abbey said. "If a Jewish woman remarries without

a proper religious divorce, any kids she might have in a second mar

riage are considered illegitimate," she recited, as if she were being

tested on the answer. "Didn't you get one with Wally?"

"I refused. If his kids are bastards, I take no responsibility, and he's

not going to hear it from me—not when he's been providing such

excellent pro bono work on my behalf." "How's that going?" Abbey asked.

"Scary caved some, but Wally's holding out for more," Magnolia

said, putting down an art deco bracelet as soon as she saw the price

tag. "Back to you—where's Tommy with all this?"

"In Australia with his new honey but willing to get it done,"

Abbey said. "He's flying in tonight, and I don't want to lose track of

him again."

"But you certainly aren't getting any pressure from Cameron, that

crusty old WASP," Magnolia said. "Are you?" She wasn't sure if she

even wanted the answer.

Abbey grimaced, which with her delicate features managed to look

enchanting. She struck some people as fragile, but Magnolia knew

she was a waif built of titanium. "You're spending too much time

with a lawyer—what's with the third degree?"

"Something's off," Magnolia said.

"What may be off is Cameron and me," Abbey said. "I like him—

he's smart and makes me laugh and is a god under those flannel shirts

and baggy jeans—"

   Magnolia closed her eyes. "Too much information."

   "—but I met someone on my trip to Paris. Someone
Juif. "

   "
Juif ?"

   "French and Jewish. Gorgeous in that dark, brooding, existentialist way. He's been e-mailing, but he's very traditional and won't go out

with me until I get a get."

"Does Frog Man have a name?"

"Daniel Cohen."

   "A name that crosses borders," Magnolia said, "like the euro."

   "He has piles of those. G
randmère
is a Rothschild. They own vineyards." Abbey was practically bouncing. "So, will you come with me

tomorrow afternoon when I get a get? Rabbi Nucki recommended

that I bring a friend."

   "As in nooky?"

   "As in Nachum. Means 'wise.' "

   "Sweetie, I'm so sorry, but I may be busy," Magnolia said. Every where, Magnolia heard doors slamming. She didn't want to be part of another ending, even if it was the conclusion of a marriage which

never should have been.

"Busy how—cleaning your closets?"

"Don't mock your unemployed friend," Magnolia said. "Believe it

or not, I have a job interview Wednesday, and I am devoting myself to

maintenance—highlights, haircut, eyebrow and leg wax, manicure,

and shoe shopping." Magnolia failed to mention that most of these

events could wait for Tuesday. "But if this means a lot to you, I'll

reschedule."

"Let's flip," Abbey said.

"Fair enough," Magnolia said. "Heads, I go." The brave on the

buffalo nickel seemed to wink at her as he hit the table, face up. "Go
get
ter reporting for duty," she said. "Tell me where to be."

Monday afternoon,
address in hand, Magnolia searched a street for a stately cross between the neo-classic courthouse downtown—

the one where Martha Stewart flirted with the press—and Temple

Emanuel. Unless Abbey gave her the wrong information, however, the

high rabbinical court of the land dwelt in a dingy, postwar building eas

ily at home in any Communist-built section of Moscow. Magnolia

checked the wall directory: twelfth floor, the Beth Din of America.

"Welcome," said a ruddy-faced receptionist, whose desk was

crowded with a computer, an oversized box of tissues, and paper zin

nias arranged in an empty seltzer bottle. She looked no older than

twenty and wore a long, gathered denim skirt; a frilly, high-necked

blouse, and a blond wig. "I'm Malka," she said as she extended her

childlike hand, which featured a dainty diamond solitaire and a gold

band. Around her wrist was a red string.

   "
I'm
Malka!" Magnolia said, "I'm named for my father's greataunt." The only time she'd been called by that name was at her Bat

Mitzvah on a windy November morning twenty-five years ago. Was

she Malka bat Elliot? She couldn't recall her proper Hebrew name.

"So, we're like sisters," the receptionist said. "Are you here for

your get?" "I'm the support team," Magnolia said. "My friend will be here

any minute now."

"So, Malka. Sit. Some tea maybe? Soda? Rugelah?"

"No, thanks," Magnolia said. "I'll settle in with my book."

She pushed aside the faded orange pillows on the brown foam sofa

and opened Anna Wintour's unauthorized biography, which she

hadn't been able to put down since she had started it the previous

evening. Magnolia felt for Anna—no fewer than two hundred writers, photographers, and former colleagues of the
Vogue
editor in chief had gleefully tattled about how she was as cruel, cunning, and

controlling as she was pin thin. On the other hand, the same crowd

admitted she was brilliantly talented and industrious and could

charm any snake slithering along her red-carpeted path. Magnolia

thought she might learn a thing or two. How, for example, did Anna

beguile every man she wanted for whatever purpose she had in mind?

She was at the part when Anna has chewed her way through a

number of magazines no longer included on her résumé and lands an interview at
Vogue.
Its editor in chief at the time asks her what job she aspires to. "Actually, the job I'd like is yours," Anna answers

before the woman ejects her from her office.

Do not—repeat, not—do that tomorrow, Magnolia warned herself.

As she began to wonder where Anna got her mutant strain of mon

strous confidence—clearly, they didn't grow it in North Dakota next

to the amber waves of grain—Abbey walked through the door,

Tommy at her side. For a couple planning to dissolve their marriage in

the eyes of the tribe, they looked decidedly amicable.

"Hey, Magnolia," Tommy said, hugging her. "Sorry to hear about

the end of your career."

This might, Magnolia realized, be his version of sensitivity.

"Thanks, Tommy, but I'm hoping all that's ended is one bad job, not

my whole brilliant career," she said, still simmering from his mid

night visit months earlier.

"Mr.—" Malka was checking her paperwork. "O'Toole?" She pro

nounced the name as if she were sounding out a word in Urdu.

"Rabbi Plotkin can take you in to see Rabbi Lipschitz now. Sign here, please." Tommy walked to the desk as a tall young man entered the

reception room from another chamber.

"Rabbi Nachum Plotkin," he said, shaking Tommy's hand. "Or

Nucki, your choice. Mrs. O'Toole, you stay—we'll call you soon. You

brought a friend, yes?"

Abbey pointed to Magnolia.

"Malka," the receptionist said.

Rabbi Nucki approached Magnolia. "You are a good person to be

here," he said. Magnolia put Anna in her bag, and extended her hand.

The rabbi stepped back slightly, kept his hands by his sides, but

smiled. Magnolia pulled back her hand. "Thank you, Malka," he said.

"We'll talk later." He escorted Tommy into the next room and closed

the heavy double doors behind them.

"Are you sure about this?" Magnolia whispered to Abbey. "You guys

aren't even legally separated yet—and this step is terminal."

"I'm sure," Abbey whispered back. "It's over with Tommy, no mat

ter what."

Magnolia noticed Malka looking at them and felt rude for whisper

ing. "Malka, have you worked here long?" she asked.

"Since I graduated from Barnard last year," she said, "but I'm quit

ting soon." She smiled happily and patted her stomach.

"Congratulations," Magnolia said.

"Mazel tov," Abbey added.

"I'm blessed," she said. "My husband, Avi—he's a cardiology resi

dent at Mount Sinai."

"Malkele," an older man's voice called from the other room.

"Please send in Mrs. O'Toole."

Magnolia squeezed Abbey's hand as she got up to join Tommy and

the rabbis.

"Malka, are you married?" the full-time Malka asked when they

were alone.

"No. Well once, a long time ago," Magnolia said and decided to

answer the inevitable question. "No kids."

"I know we've just met, but I'm wondering. Would you like to meet

someone, Malka, a beautiful woman like you? Avi has an older brother, Chaim. He's thirty-nine. His wife—of blessed memory—

died. Breast cancer. Tragic." Malka wiped away a tear. "Seven won

derful children who need a mother. It's been a year. You walking in today . . . You know
beshert
?"

   "I know
beshert
and thank you for thinking of me, I'm very flattered, but . . ."

"But what?"

"But no," Magnolia said. "Though I thank you."

"You're not interested. I understand," Malka said and returned to

her computer. In a moment she looked up. "Actually, I don't under

stand. If you don't mind me asking, if you're single, why wouldn't you

want to meet such a good man?"

Magnolia put down her book. She began to feel like a tax return

under audit. "I'm concentrating on work right now, that's all."

"What is it you do?"

   "I work in magazines—although I don't have a job just now." She looked around, expecting to see at least a dog-eared
Reader's Digest.
Nothing. "Malka, do you read any magazines?"

   "Yes, at the doctor's office," she said conspiratorially. "Especially fashion magazine—I like
Good Housekeeping, Woman's World, Vogue.
"

   Anna Wintour, meet your reader, Magnolia thought, as Rabbi

Nucki walked out of the other room and sat across from her. It took a

moment for Magnolia to calculate that minus the Old Testament

beard and side curls, dressed in a suit that didn't hang on him as if he'd

just lost thirty pounds, and with a spritz of bronzer to mitigate his

indoor pallor, Rabbi Nucki could pass for a handsome Wall Streeter.

"It's sad when a marriage ends, yes, Malka?" he asked.

"Yes, Rabbi. But Abbey and Tommy—they'll meet other people.

I'm sure of it."

"God willing. And you, Malka?"

Magnolia looked into his earnest face. A better shirt and tie

wouldn't hurt, either. "My first priority is to find a new job, Rabbi,"

she said. "The man can come later," she added, surprised to be reveal

ing anything to this ambassador from a galaxy far, far away. "If you believe, they both will happen, Malka," he said. "Put your

faith in the Almighty. As a great Talmudic scholar once said, and I

paraphrase, yesterday's history, tomorrow's a mystery, and that's why they call today 'the present'—every day is a gift.
Forshtes,
Malka?"