Rich Boy

by Sharon Pomerantz

  At home, everyone was aware that for the immediate future Robert was a kind of indentured servant: within the next nine or ten months, he would make partner or be damned. Crea went off to benefits and charity events alone or with friends, and during the day she and her set met with caterers and party planners, spending their time arranging seating charts and marking their personal touches on hundreds of invitations for worthy causes—it was her busy season, too. He now took Gwen to school in the mornings, sneaking in time with her, watching forlornly as she leapt from his car, already anxious to be on her own. Why not? When they had so often left her with other people and she had been in school since the age of three?

  Still, for Gwen’s first Halloween, he’d promised to take her around, and he tried to keep his promises to her, if to no one else. The year before she’d been sick on Halloween and they’d spent weeks after, or so it seemed, making up the loss to her, so this year Gwen was doubly expectant. Initially he’d been excited, too, but about ten minutes into the ritual he decided that trick or treat was for the suburbs. Knocking on strangers’ doors at night, even in his posh neighborhood, put him on edge. Too many teenagers, too many boys as tall as men running up to yell something in your face, and then the candy—didn’t people know by now that it was supposed to be wrapped? He’d have to take half of it away from her.

  Dressed as a ballerina, she seemed to have no fear at all, and before he could stop her, she’d walked right up to a homeless man and asked him about his costume, which included one shoe and a shirt with no buttons. The man’s response was a mumbled cursing. Robert yanked Gwen into his arms, then dropped a dollar in the crumbled cardboard at the man’s feet, and hurried along. Was this what they taught her at that rarefied private school? No street smarts whatsoever? The other parents who passed by were in a state of similar fear. He could see it in their faces, in their restrained greetings and watchful eyes. He hurried her through the collection process, barely getting down two streets and to a few restaurants before rushing her home an hour before bedtime. She pulled at his arm, telling him he was a grouch.

  As they got closer to the house, he saw a crowd gathered on his steps, mostly adults and teens with a smattering of children; they held out pillowcases and plastic bags, accepting their candy as they twisted their necks and craned their eyes to see into the first floor.

  “Why are you back so soon?” Crea asked from the entrance hall, where she’d been helping May distribute Snickers bars. Robert, carrying Gwen, pushed his way through. Gwen slipped from his arms and ran to her mother, asking for a second try, another few minutes on another few streets, and Crea’s face brightened, for once having been requested.

  “I don’t like it out there,” Robert said. “I think she’s had enough.”

  “Gloria Wardell had said to come to her building,” Crea said. “Did you try there?”

  “I didn’t feel like going all the way to Central Park West,” Robert replied.

  “They go trick-or-treating in the building and then there’s an ice cream party in a room downstairs.” His daughter jumped up and down now, pleading.

  “You want to take her to that, you take her,” he said. Gloria Wardell was the daughter-in-law of her father’s now-retired partner and Crea’s closest female friend, or had become so since she more or less dropped Claudia, disapproving of her new habits. The Wardells had no children of their own and had somehow nominated themselves as Gwen’s godparents.

  As they left, Robert heard a noise, then noticed a strange woman in the living room, asking about a rocking chair as if she were on a house tour. Quickly escorting the woman out, he told May to stop giving out candy and go home—the nanny, fortunately, was at a party. He closed up the house and locked the doors, then went into his study to do some work and glance, regularly, out the window, waiting for his wife and daughter to return.

  He thought of the years driving a cab when he’d been fearless, driving into Harlem and the South Bronx at all hours. He’d had less to lose then, but there was something more to it. Why, with all the money flooding into New York, did the city feel so unsafe? With a disease no one could cure, an explosion of homeless people, and an army of self-appointed vigilantes standing guard on the subway, looking as scary to him as the criminals. He stayed there, staring out the window for what felt like hours, until finally he saw a cab pull up in front, saw Crea’s leg half out the door as she paid the driver, then she got out, helping his daughter to do the same. Why now, when his daughter never needed to step inside a subway, and every major possession they owned came with insurance and an alarm, why now did he feel so nervous, as if he had woken up in the wrong life—a life lived from car windows and behind locked doors? He could now see, as he hadn’t then, how fragile was the world around him, the world his daughter had entered suddenly and without his permission.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Christmas comes round at last

  It was raining men, and the woman’s deep, full tenor commanded, “Rip off the roof and staaaay in bed!” as the young lawyers and paralegals stripped off their jackets and shoes and went out on the floor with their hands in the air, echoing back, “Rip off the roof and stay in bed!” Some jumped up high while others wriggled close to the ground, twisting and contorting.

  “I thought you said most people at the firm seemed unhappy,” Crea whispered.

  “Do you think happy people drink and dance like that?” Robert replied.

  Crea, her athletic figure shown off to best advantage in a sleeveless pale blue silk dress, leaned forward, squinting to get a better look. She needed glasses but would not give in. “I suppose you’re right,” she replied. “They look half mad.”

  The band had been chosen by the younger partners in the hopes of livening up the annual Christmas party. The Pierre, while convenient, would always be a staid environment, but the ballroom had been decorated with tinsel and banners reading “Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, A, L and W!” On each table was a forest of potted foliage, a centerpiece that made things green and festive but also blocked any view of the other side of the table, as if conversation at such events was not already treacherous.

  The secretaries and support staff, with spouses and dates, sat at the tables at the edge of the room. Most had been through their share of office Christmases. Some would eventually go out on the dance floor, but that would be at the end, when the older partners had left. You could see a few swaying in their seats, as if warming up, but they stayed put, drinking and talking to each other. Only the occasional lawyer went back there to greet them, and Robert was one such person. He shook hands with Hayward in the mailroom and kissed Lola, his secretary, nodding while her husband, Rafael, showed him wallet photos of a little girl with scant hair and a big pink ribbon around her scalp. Then he signaled Lola over to a corner and handed her the Christmas bonus early so she would be able to meet her holiday expenses—he knew there were complaints each year about how late the money came, and so he generally went into his own pocket early, then got someone in payroll to quietly reimburse him. Lola thanked him, shoving the envelope into her purse while glancing meaningfully at her husband. He knew that look of relief; he’d seen it all his life.

  The meal did not pass Crea’s standards: the prime rib was dry, she told Robert, and the vegetables were undercooked, but an excellent chocolate soufflé for dessert revived her a bit. He agreed; they almost always agreed in public, were affectionate with each other, appreciative, and would likely go home that night and make love. Some men cheated because they didn’t get sex at home, but lack of sex had never been the issue in his marriage—it was more of a bonus amenity, a sweetener that kept the deal from falling apart. He and Crea always bickered more this time of year. She wanted a tree, but he didn’t. He wanted to celebrate Hanukkah, and she refused. They’d compromised on an anemic bush, which now stood in the bay window, its narrow limbs bowed by even the smallest ornaments. Robert gave Gwen a dreidel and some chocolate Hanukkah gelt, but it made no sense out of c
ontext, its novelty drowned out by the twelve-foot tree that sat in Jack’s enormous Tuxedo living room, with countless silver and gold foil boxes, and the promise of endless toys, stacked underneath.

  “Where’s Saldana?” Phillip Healey asked. He now stood by Robert’s chair. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing this year’s Miss Buenos Aires.”

  Mario’s seat was vacant, though he generally got to these things late. Every year he came with another Latin American fashion model with a deep smoker’s voice and heavy accent, each one thinner and more scantily dressed than the one before her. Rather than keep track, his colleagues tended to refer to them all as Miss Buenos Aires. Mario was still a conspicuously dapper dresser with a flair for bright color, still lived on Prince Street in the loft co-op that he’d bought in law school, and still drove a silver Porsche Carrera with little regard for the speed limit. But what had been seen a decade earlier as fussy, foreign, and strange—his fashionable clothing, lack of permanent attachment, insistence on living downtown—was now viewed in another light. Whether Mario had consciously worked on his PR, which included personal appearances with glamorous females, or had simply been the lucky benefactor of changing times, Robert was not sure. But these days he was the firm’s own GQ Don Juan, a man who appeared to have grasped the trends of the decade before they’d even occurred.

  Robert’s eyes drifted across the room to Jack Alexander, who moved from table to table, smiling and shaking hands like a seventy-year-old bar mitzvah boy. Young associates and partners no longer stopped talking when Robert came into the room—they had figured out years before that Robert did not have Jack’s ear—on the contrary, every step of the way he’d had to fight against Jack’s insistent neutrality, and the message that it sent. The less Jack had been involved in Robert’s career, the more Robert was determined to prove himself—which was no doubt what his father-in-law wanted in the first place. No associate at the firm had had a harder time getting supporters, or finding a rabbi. Now, because Robert had thrown in his lot with Mario, or, more accurate, Mario had taken him up, the two of them—youngish, handsome, and with some independent means—attracted attention. As the market revived, the real estate practice group became sexy, much the way that mergers and acquisitions was now sexy in firms with larger corporate practices, and Robert and Mario were its mascots. The two men were envied, and perhaps hated just a little, because their lives looked so good to everyone else.

  Robert was as aware as anyone that image created its own truth, and so when Healey asked about Mario, he shrugged and smiled sheepishly, as if to imply that God only knows what Mario was up to. Then, with some relief, he spotted the young partner walking around the dance floor, dragging a sylphlike woman in a tiny red sequined dress behind him. As they walked through the crowd, heads turned to watch them.

  “You missed the dinner,” Healey said, as the couple came closer.

  “We ate already,” Mario replied, slipping his arm around the girl’s waist. “This is Graciella.” The young woman offered a limp hand, first to Phillip and then to Robert. Her flesh was ice-cold.

  She said something in heavily accented English that Robert didn’t make out. She was taller than Mario and leaned down slightly, whispering in his ear.

  “She wants to dance to Madonna,” he said. “First we have to say a few hellos, amor.” Despite his cultivated appearance—the slicked-back hair, the black Armani suit, a persimmon-colored shirt, no tie—Mario looked tired, with heavy bags under his eyes. Robert wondered where he had been, but before he could ask, Mario and his date were off again, making the rounds.

  Phillip Healey made small talk with Robert, gossiping about a client who was going through a very public divorce. Healey had implied more than once that he would stand with Mario when he supported Robert for partner, but Robert didn’t trust him. He had never really backed anyone unless the person already had the support of the entire room—the only person he stuck his neck out for was Phillip Healey. Robert looked around, wondering, once again, whom he could count on. Was Mario powerful enough, valued enough, to push his case? Jack, who was just then walking toward them, was the real wild card. If Jack would, once and for all, come out for Robert, all would be well; he would be promoted in a shot. If he asked her to, Crea would intervene—she was one of the few people who had power over Jack—but Robert wanted to feel that he’d earned partner, that his hard work had been noted, and he hadn’t struggled in vain.

  “Phillip, I didn’t see you out there,” Jack said, gesturing toward the dance floor.

  “My sciatica,” Healey said. “Men who sit all day long cannot shake their groove thing.”

  “Merry happy, Father. That singer is the best thing here,” Crea said, looking up at him and taking his arm. His face relaxed into a broad smile.

  “Shout, shout, let it all out!” belted the vocalist and her backup. The crowd on the dance floor stomped their feet aggressively. “These are the things I can do without —”

  “Tears for Fears,” Crea said. “That’s the name of the group.”

  “Sounds like a rallying cry for insurrection,” Jack replied.

  The dancers looked more like robots than rebels, starting and stopping to the odd beat. Only Mario Saldana’s date, dancing within their view, had any evident sense of rhythm. Robert, Crea, and Jack watched her with interest. Her shimmering dress seemed to move with her like a second undulating skin as she shook her behind. Her legs were endless, and though her movements were odd, they appeared to work with the music.

  “Is Saldana dating a Martha Graham dancer?” Jack asked, just as a waiter stepped in front of Robert to refill Crea’s empty wineglass. By the time the waiter stepped away, the crowd on the floor was mysteriously and suddenly still. Someone shouted: “Call 911!” The lights came up and Jack rushed forward to examine the situation. In the split second when Robert was not looking, Mario Saldana had collapsed and now lay unconscious on the floor.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Back at the office

  The next morning, as lawyers arrived late and hungover, each found a memo, placed on the desks throughout the office’s two floors, explaining that Mario Saldana had contracted viral meningitis and was in the hospital. The firm had already sent a flower arrangement and the memo gave the address of the Upper East Side hospital, and his room number, in case people wanted to send cards or call. The memo was carefully crafted—reminding them that viral meningitis was the less serious kind—that it was contagious, but no more so than any other cold or virus. It told them to wash their hands frequently and see a health-care provider if they developed a sudden fever. Robert arrived just after nine and read the memo over the shoulder of the receptionist before walking down the hallway to his office. On the way, he passed Wilton Henry and two associates whispering in a tight group. They looked at him as he passed, and he nodded and said good morning.

  A few minutes after speaking to his secretary, Robert dropped off his accoutrements and walked briskly back down that same hallway toward Jack Alexander’s office. It was now nine twenty, and all doors were closed, though through the panels of beveled glass—a decorative element in each doorway that served not only to give the hallways a look of distinction, but also to keep employees on their toes—he could make out that most were on the phone. Unlike his colleagues, Robert had no time for gossip, or a panicked call to the family doctor; he had been summoned. These meetings in Jack’s office, few and far between over the years, always made him nervous.

  Jack’s office had long ago been updated from seventies minimalism to eighties minimalism. On the walls now hung giant abstract canvases splashed with thick circles of brown and black and tan interspersed with angry splotches of mauve. In between two dark brown leather couches was a plain, square steel table. Jack directed Robert to an armless chair facing his now-metal desk but did not sit down himself, instead standing by the windows across the room.

  “So I assume you got the memo on Mario,” Jack said.

  “Yes,” Rob
ert said. “Do we know how long he’ll be out?”

  “At least a week, probably longer,” he said, walking back to the desk and sitting down. “I spoke to that woman friend of his, but she’s hard to understand.”

  “Graciella,” Robert mumbled.

  “Since you and Saldana work so closely, and you can speak Spanish with his Venezuelan clients, you’ll have to pitch in with some of Mario’s work. I know it’s a burden, but it’s only for a little while and, well, this is also an opportunity.”

  Robert nodded, uncertain how to respond.

  “Take whomever you want to help you. Elaine is good, isn’t she? And of course Phillip Healey will be available for your questions.”

  Robert frowned. “I’m glad for your confidence in me,” he said. “But when you said that this could be an opportunity, I assume you mean because I’ll be up for partner this year?”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, actually.”

  “Oh?” Robert sat forward in his seat.

  “You’re respected around here, Robert, because you’ve earned respect without my help, which was as I wanted it. I know it’s been hard on you. But you’re up against several excellent candidates. It will be a tough decision, and frankly, you might watch your step a bit more.”

  “If I watched my step any more, sir, I’d be standing still.”

  “Is that what you call inviting a bevy of half-naked girls to come in here and perform?”