The Love Wars (8 page)

__________

E
very year, Bacon Payne holds its Christmas Gala at one of the grand New York hotels. This year, one of the ballrooms at the New York Palace has been taken over by the party-hungry lawyers of Bacon Payne.

The room is extremely dark, but after a few minutes, my eyes adjust enough to see the outline of a buffet in one corner of the room. People are lined up waiting for what I imagine is the usual ballroom fare—slightly soggy chicken Marsala, overcooked new potatoes and rice pilaf.

The gala is never about the food, though. The bar, the
axis mundi
of all Bacon Payne events, commands the opposite corner, already crowded even though it’s still early. In a third corner of the room, a DJ in an all-white suit and dancing enthusiastically blares ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”

The whole event is a dangerous trap: there’s a river of alcohol and music with great beats. You have to participate, but if you indulge too much, you will be the star of your very own Bacon Payne legend and the whole firm will snicker about your foibles until the following summer, when some tanked summer associate will do something to take away your title.

Last year, Anthony Cooper, a young tax partner, did the worm on the dance floor for thirty minutes, after which he puked on the head of the litigation department, after which he passed out. And don’t get me started on the dirty-dancing older lawyers, usually married, who feel no compunction about grinding on female employees decades younger than they are. The wisest strategy is to lie low and blend in.

I am still feeling the effects of my Kir royales. Lillian and
Roger have disappeared to schmooze and Hope and Liz are nowhere to be found. Rachel pulls my arm. “Let’s go to the bar,” she shouts, pointing exaggeratedly to it, in case I have missed her meaning.

I order a whiskey sour and Rachel and I clutch green and red cocktail napkins, sip our cocktails and scan the dark room. The DJ has worked up to “Brick House” and more people are dancing.

“Who’s that with Henry?” He’s ushering an attractive woman toward the buffet, his hand on the small of her back.

Rachel shakes her head, indicating she didn’t hear me, and pushes her ear toward my mouth.

I repeat the question and gesture toward them.

She looks and nods. I miss a lot of what she says but hear “Julie.”

“What department is she in?”

Rachel laughs, shakes her head and shouts directly in my ear, “JULIE. Henry’s GIRLFRIEND.”

I give her a surprised look, which Rachel correctly interprets as a request for more information.

“Glamour job. Something at a gallery.”

Henry has a girlfriend? It’s hard to picture. I try to imagine them brushing their teeth together. “Julie, you forgot to floss,” he’d say with an eye roll, pushing the container in front of her and stalking out of the bathroom.

And how on earth does Henry act when deciding how to spend a Sunday off? “Sure, let’s see that Bruce Willis movie with all the other idiots,” I can imagine him saying in an expressionless monotone, absorbed in his BlackBerry. “And then wait on a long line for overrated brunch. You go right ahead. Yep. Right behind you.”

Poor Julie. Well, on the plus side for her, she probably gets to leave work at five o’clock and do things like exercise, go out during the week and have standard mani/pedi appointments. I watch as they navigate the buffet. She doesn’t look bored and miserable.
She’s clutching his shirt and whispering something to him. He laughs in response.

Rachel grabs me and shouts in my ear, pointing wildly to the left. “Oh my God—Kim’s doing the robot. Let’s go.”

“I’ll meet you.” I see Kevin, my former office mate from the corporate group, across the room, animatedly telling a story to a group of corporate associates, and make my way there. We hug as though we haven’t since each other in months, even though we still keep close tabs on each other. Soon after switching departments, I realized that Kevin somehow possessed a rock-solid understanding of the politics in the matrimonial group.

“So, is Everett Butt-Munch still giving you a hard time?” I haven’t seen Everett yet tonight and look around to make sure he isn’t in earshot. No, he’s far across the room, deep in conversation with Liam, one of the paralegals. Poor Liam.

“You were right—Lillian keeps him on a pretty tight leash.”

Now we both look around, to make sure she’s not in earshot. Kevin nods with his chin. “There she is, by the door.”

Lillian is talking to Dominic Pizaro, listening intently. They are both miniature—probably about five feet two—but because of the angle at which she’s leaning forward toward him, she appears shorter. Whatever he’s saying must be funny because Lillian keeps laughing and touching his arm.

Roger stands behind her holding two drinks and staring into space. Poor Roger.

“Ah, good ol’ kiss up, piss down,” says Kevin.

“She’s not that bad,” I say. “She just took us all out for drinks.”

“Whatever,” he says.

“No, seriously. She’s actually good to work for.” I lower my voice. “Between you and me, I’m kind of thinking that this is where I could be for a while.”

He looks at me in mock shock. “No more five-year plan?”

I shake my head. “Nope, I’m thinking long-term.”

He shakes his head. “I guess that make sense—all the people drama. You like that stuff. Hey—guess how much I billed last month? Really, it’s insane.”

About twenty Motown hits later, the DJ has worked up to eighties pop and is bopping his head to “Take on Me.” I have checked my inhibitions and am dancing with Rachel, Kevin and some assorted corporate associates.

The DJ starts playing KC and the Sunshine Band and cranks up the volume so I can barely hear anything else; more people crowd the dance floor. I haven’t noticed any overt displays of inappropriateness so far. Someone must have slipped the DJ some cash to create the perfect environment for the birth of this year’s legend. Who could resist KC and the Sunshine Band? Way to up the ante, Mr. DJ.

Obviously a little wasted, Rachel and Kevin start bumping hips.

I turn to Rachel. “I used to go dancing all the time, but now it’s only at weddings. I miss dancing!”

“What?” She smiles and leans closer.

I lean in to repeat my brilliant observation.

As Kevin shimmies over to me, the DJ puts on some Kool and the Gang. I’ve been to enough of these things to recognize that this means the party will end soon.

I’ve had a genuinely good time tonight—a first for a Bacon Payne party. What’s even more notable, I realize, is that for the past—I don’t even know how long—I’ve actually been in a good mood. I bathe in the great-feeling combination of alcohol and good cheer and feel myself grinning as Kevin twirls me around.

Finally, finally, finally. My life feels like it’s falling into place: I like what I do. I feel competent, useful. I can’t believe how simple it all was: going to the matrimonial group is the best move I’ve made.

____

F
or the first time since graduating law school, I have managed to escape Bacon Payne for four full days to spend the holidays with my family. Of course, my parents, the exhausted owners of Cheddar and Better—Hillsborough’s premier kitchen supply and specialty foods shop!—expend so much energy hawking the fantasy of a picture-perfect Christmas dinner for their customers that they have no interest in trying to achieve one themselves. Tomorrow will be as it is every year: the Grant family, clad in pajamas, periodically shuffling from the couch to the table to grab a handful of gourmet caramel butter-crunch popcorn or spread some duck pâté on an artisanal rosemary focaccia crisp. Our dining room already looks like the lobby at the annual convention for gift basket treats—delegates from the vacuum-sealed meat category clustered in conversations with boxed pears and chocolate-dipped shortbreads.

I scope the offerings. There’s some maple-honey ham in a clear bag that I know my mom will try to crown tomorrow’s “entrée,” so I bypass it and grab a tin of pimento cheese straws. I pop off the top, grab the remote and settle in on the couch.

I am exhausted, having spent the day at the store. Ostensibly I was there playing the part of stock girl, unpacking boxes in the back room with the goal of shelving the last-minute gift items—single-serve French presses, prewrapped boxes of chocolate caramels—that
we were trying to push out the door before the holidays.

I was slicing packing tape with a paring knife when my dad pushed against the swinging door. A tower of boxes stacked too close stopped him from opening the door all the way, so he stuck his mouth and nose through the sliver of space.

“Hey,” he said, talking loudly, as though into a cave. “You there? Come to the floor for a sec.”

So I had stopped unpacking, shifting the boxes to create a small path, and followed him out to where a woman with blond waves pulled back in a sloppy bun was waiting, a Cheddar and Better tote bag stuffed with paper-wrapped deli items slung over her shoulder.

“Here”—my dad put his arm around my shoulder as I wiped my dusty hands on my jeans—“she is.”

“Hi.” I smiled politely.

“Your dad is so proud of you,” said the woman, glancing at my father. Indeed, his eyes, a green so sharp that the color is visible behind his glasses, reflected this. She continued. “I hear all about your achievements, so I had to meet you in person. And Bacon Payne! The big leagues, huh? I’ve gotta go prepare.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a whopper of a meal tonight—but so, so great to meet you.” She nodded at my dad. “Just one cup of milk? You sure?”

“No more,” my dad said, nodding. “You’ll be fine.”

“Nice to meet you too. Merry Christmas,” I called after her, turning to my dad. “And that was?”

“Gertie Manning,” he said, as though it explained everything. “She’s a professor at the law school, so naturally, we talk about you.”

“Naturally,” I said.

As it turned out, Professor Manning was just the first through the receiving line. My dad pulled me out of the storage room six times—approximately
once every hour, to meet all the customers shopping on Christmas Eve who had—to his knowledge—ever been, known or needed a lawyer.

The message was as subtle as the Parkers’ annual Christmas lights glowing into my parent’s front room from across the street every year, casting enough yellow and green and red to make the walls seem like they’ve been painted: the life I’m living, the things I’ve achieved, they’re not just for me. I’m keeping the dream alive for all of us.

__________

I
’m flipping through channels and licking cheese dust off my fingers when my dad finally comes in the front door. He steps out of his hiking boots and lugs four canvas totes with the green Cheddar and Better logo emblazoned on the front to the dining room table.

“You brought more?” I say.

He nods. “Mostly extras from the gift baskets, heavily Christmas-themed.” He grabs a pretty bag of peppermint-stick chocolate, tied with a red ribbon. “You want?”

“I love those things.”

He tosses it to me, shrugs out of his coat and then collapses in the brown leather recliner next to the couch. “Mom asleep?”

“Yeah. Worn-out from all the cooking.”

We grin at each other. “How did the heritage turkey drama turn out?” When my mom and I left, he had been dealing with a last-minute shortage: two fewer turkeys delivered than customers in need.

“The backup farm in Tennessee covered one, and I gave Mrs. Baxter some Cornish game hens and a ham on the house. I think it gave me an ulcer, though.” He shakes his head. “I’m so glad you’re not in this business.”

“I promise you, Dad. My business is not so different.” I imagine presenting one of my clients with a comped Cornish game hen.
Roast this with butter and garlic, and I swear you’ll forget all about that pesky restraining order against you!

He rakes his hands through his light brown hair. “Trust me. Law school? A profession? Smartest thing you could’ve done.”

“All right, Dad,” I say, to end the conversation. I don’t want him getting teary-eyed about the Bacon Payne benefits package again.

He reaches behind his glasses to rub his eyes and blinks at the TV. “What are we watching?”

“Not sure.” I look at the screen for a few seconds. “Oh,
Teen Mom
.”

He snorts. “What?”

“It’s about teenagers who get pregnant.”

“You’re kidding me.” He shifts uncomfortably.

“Hey, you and Mom could’ve starred on it,” I say, lifting my eyebrows with mock excitement.

“Yeah, that would have made for great TV.”

“You know,” I continue to goad him, “isn’t it weird, when Mom was my age, she had an eleven-year-old? Can you imagine me with an eleven-year-old?”

He shudders. “I would kill you if you got pregnant.”

“Dad! Are you kidding? I’m twenty-nine. Most people are of the opinion that it’s acceptable and safe to procreate by then.”

He stops and stares, his green eyes boring into mine in a way that reminds me of being sixteen and having to tell him that I crashed the family car into a parking meter. “Are you trying to tell me something, missy?”

“No, no. Just teasing.”

“Thank God. Listen up, Molls. You’re doing everything right. Get as established as you can before you get bogged down with everything else.”

“Okay.” I raise my fist in a power salute.

“And after that near heart attack, I’m done for the day. Good night, kid.”

“’Night.”

I go over to his canvas bags and sort lazily through the new offerings. Shoved down to the bottom of the bag, between a tin of Moravian spice cookies and a bag of peanut brittle, is the day’s mail.

I’m putting a uniform stack of letters on the buffet when I see the envelope from United Bank. I open it: the minimum payment on their home equity loan is two months past due. I slip the bill in my pocket, knowing that I can pay it without a confrontation; my parents are hard workers, but they do seem to lose track of the details. I’m not sure whether this is a side effect of constantly scrambling or simply being in denial.

Whatever the case, it has allowed me to quietly pay off quite a few of their bills without being detected. My dream is that in twenty months—after receiving the Payne-ment—I’ll be able to wipe out their entire loan, silently. I never used to understand the anonymous donor thing, but now I do: no awkward scenes, uncomfortable expressions of gratitude or rebukes about how the money should have been spent. Everyone just walks away breathing a sigh of relief.