Though the car-rental guy takes twenty minutes to find our reservation, Carl refrains from making a fuss. Black AmEx stays firmly in wallet, hands stay tucked into his pockets. Instead, he chats with me, starts calling me “kid.” As in “It’s nice to get out of the city for a bit, isn’t it, kid?” And “I hope the partners haven’t been working you too hard lately, kid.”
I smile and nod and ignore the condescension, because truth be known, I feel different here too. The air is less charged, inserting more space in the gaps between everything—between my words, my steps, my breaths.
The route to Arkadelphia is a straight shot down the highway, and we drive with the windows down. I revel in the void of orchestral white noise; there are no horns, no patter of thousands of feet, no trucks loading and unloading. The road follows an empty landscape, its definition coming only from what it is not.
In this world, there are neither skyscrapers nor mini-malls. We go miles without seeing another car, not to mention a McDonald’s. Instead, there is just dirt, brown and cakey, with an occasional plant, always spiky, dotting the horizon. Just Carl and me on the empty road, arms hanging out the windows, pushing back against all that air.
We eventually pull off the highway and into a Hampton Inn parking lot. Usually when I travel for work, one of the few perks is that I get to sleep in five-star resorts, like the Ritz or the Four Seasons, places I would never go if I were footing the bill. But apparently this is the only hotel in Arkadelphia, the next-best option a Motel 6. I guess on this trip I will not add to my mini-shampoo collection, I will not sleep naked under seven-hundred-thread-count sheets, and, sadly, I will not order room service to avoid dinner with Carl.
We enter the hotel, a cement rectangle that could double as a junior high school. It smells that way too, like there is a cafeteria nearby serving hamburgers and Tater Tots. The boy behind the counter has freshly slicked-back hair, a name tag that reads Bob, and the tragic sort of acne that makes it difficult not to stare. Above his lip, there is a tiny bit of fur, a premustache mustache. His pants sit low enough to announce that he is wearing Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and for some reason this information—Bob’s choice of undies—makes me a little embarrassed.
“Welcome to the Hampton Inn, y’all,” he says.
“Reservations under MacKinnon,” Carl says, his voice formal again, pretentious.
“One king room, right?” Bob says. Carl doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a keen interest in a bit of dirt lodged under his fingernail.
“Uh, no,” I say. “There should be reservations for two rooms.”
“Let me take a quick peek-y here, but it looks like there is only one reservation in the system,” Bob says. He taps on his keyboard slowly and ignores a ringing phone.
“Okay, but we need two rooms, regardless of the reservation,” I say. “Please.” I keep my voice firm, as if to say There is no room for negotiation here. He types some more and appears to be scrolling down a list.
“No can do, little lady. We are all booked. It’s county-fair season,” Bob says.
“But I have a reservation,” I say.
“Nope, no can do, little lady,” Bob says again.
“You don’t seem to understand. We need two rooms. And I have a reservation.” I try to get Carl’s attention. Why isn’t he helping? Where is his black AmEx? I feel the betrayal of my body—my first reaction is tears, not anger—as it plays along with Bob’s vision of a “little lady,” of Carl’s “kid.”
“This is unacceptable,” I say, copying Carl’s tone from earlier this morning. Bob chuckles. He is not in the slightest bit intimidated by me.
“Sorry, it says here in our computer that there is only one reservation, for one room with a king,” Bob says, and turns the monitor in my direction. I have to stand on the tips of my toes to lean over the counter to see.
“Look, there is a note that you specifically asked for a king as opposed to two double beds,” Bob says. “There ain’t anything I can do.” The tears instantly morph into anger. I look over at Carl, who still has not chimed in, and see that he is casually inspecting a brochure for the Clinton Library.
“Carl?” I still hold out hope that he will jump in and help, that he didn’t do this on purpose, that his secretary must have made a mistake. Screaming at the clerk will have no effect. I will only be met with more dismissive laughter. Derision, even. Carl just ignores me, engrossed in a picture of Clinton with Fleetwood Mac.
“I need to speak with your manager,” I say.
“I am the manager,” Bob says, and smiles. He seems to be enjoying our small battle, putting me, the uppity Northern woman, in her place. I am almost old enough to be his mother. “Sorry, like I said, there ain’t anything I can do.”
“How about the Motel Six?” I ask. “Do you have their number?”
“All full. We get their overflow,” Bob says, his voice full of pride to be working at the second-most-popular hotel establishment in Arkadelphia.
“Oh, come on, Em. Don’t worry,” Carl says, tucking the brochure into his back pocket. Since when does he call me “Em”? “Bob, we can share. No big deal, right? We are both adults.” Carl winks at Bob, and Bob quickly hands over some keys. I am not sure what to say, but I know I have lost. I don’t have any choice here. It would seem childish to protest further, and Carl would never be stupid enough to admit that this was anything other than an honest mistake. I try to salvage the little dignity I have left.
“We will need a cot,” I say, and Bob glances at me and then loops his fingers into the edge of his Calvins, to pull them even higher.
“Sure thing,” Bob says, and it is clear that as long as he is on duty, there will never be a cot.
It is four hours later, halfway through taking the deposition, that I realize that things could actually get worse. I did not pack pajamas.
Breathe deeply. In and out. In and out. There is a court reporter who is recording each and every word I say, so any stammering or stuttering will be typed for posterity. Let the sleeping arrangements go for the moment. Get through the deposition. Do your job. Pretend you are a professional. You are a professional.
We are seated along a long rectangular foldout table that barely fits inside this airless square of a room. Our chairs brush the walls, our knees brush their neighbor. I am not sure why the plaintiffs’ lawyers put us in here; if our walk through their office was any indication, it looks like they have plenty of space. Maybe this is some sort of trick to psych us out?
Mr. Jones sits across from me and answers my questions dutifully, even respectfully. He wears thick plastic glasses with brown frames that dip onto his cheeks, and the sleeves of his sport coat rest about an inch above his wrists. He calls me “ma’am” and nods often, as if to look cooperative.
I glance at my notes and try to focus. I ask a series of what appear to be inane questions, but in my head I am forming the basis of my summary judgment motion. Carl wants me to go the typical blame-the-victim route. My goal is to prove that there are dozens of other variables at play here that could have caused Mrs. Jones’s cancer, anything other than the water polluted by Synergon.
“How much did your wife weigh, Mr. Jones?”
“Two hundred and eighty-five pounds.”
“Was she ever advised by a doctor to lose weight?”
“Objection, relevance.”
“You can answer, Mr. Jones.”
“Yes.”
“And did she?”
“No.”
“Did she belong to a gym?”
“No.”
“Did she exercise?”
“No. She always said you only get to live once. No use wasting time exercising.”
“Did she smoke?”
“Yes. But she quit. After little Sue Ann hid her cigarettes. That got to her.”
“How long did she smoke for?”
“Fifteen years.”
“What was a typical breakfast in your household while your wife was alive?”
<
br /> “Bacon and eggs. Sometimes sausage.”
“Is it true that Caddo Valley is famous for its fried Mars Bars?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’ll have to try some while you’re down here.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do that. Do you live near a FarmTech power plant?”
“Yes.”
“How far would you say?”
“Not far at all. About a quarter of a mile down the road.”
“And does Synergon own that power plant?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t believe it does.”
I am ashamed to admit it, but I enjoy the deposition. I am pretty good at this, I think, as I pin down Mr. Jones on favorable answer after favorable answer. I must be doing a decent job, because Carl lets me run the show. It is satisfying to reassert my own power after getting so abruptly dismissed this morning by the hotel clerk. Little ladies don’t save their clients hundreds of millions of dollars, I tell myself.
“Mr. Jones, tell me, is there a history of cancer in your wife’s family?”
“Objection, relevance.”
“You can answer, Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, ma’am, there is. Both of my wife’s parents had it too. They died within two years of each other.”
She shoots, she scores, and the crowd goes wild. I feel pure pride for a moment, until I catch Mr. Jones’s eye. He just looks at me. Sad and a little confused.
“I loved the part where you made the bastard tell us about all the family cancer. Great genetic argument,” Carl says later, with the energy of a twelve-year-old boy reenacting his favorite action film. “Good maneuvering, changing the subject so quickly that he couldn’t say that they drank Synergon water. Brilliant, Haxby. Brilliant.”
It is just the two us again, over dinner at the Cracker Barrel, a couple of miles down the highway from our hotel. Carl still has his client game face on and oozes charm and sincerity. He plays the role of suave older gentleman, peppering the conversation with interesting war stories to show off his pedigree. He drops Princeton at least twice and refers to the time he spent in Cambridge, lawyer code for Harvard Law School. He mock-complains about the amount of work he does for the trustees of the Museum of Modern Art. I wonder if some women might find him attractive, this fluid exhibition of wealth and control.
Carl is not ugly, though I’m sure he would prefer to move each of his eyes in a bit closer to his nose. Unlike most of the men in my office, he still has a full head of silver hair, cropped thick and tidy, and his wrinkles make him look more distinguished than old. Given that he never goes on vacation and lives in New York, his consistent tan must come from either a bed or a bottle. And he dresses to hide the curse of gravity; his two pudgy man boobs and wide flat butt get tucked away into pin-striped Armani suits and shirts tailored in Asia.
But he looks ridiculous here, with his bright-blue cuff links pinned into monogrammed sleeves, eating a fussy salad among the plastic plates, the free soda refills, and the families in T-shirts and jeans enjoying their fried pork tenderloin. I order the half-pound hamburger steak and ask for a side of garlic mashed potatoes, extra garlic, just in case.
I have been told that beyond hitting on women in the office, Carl is often spotted wining and dining models around Manhattan with his wedding band hidden in his pocket. I don’t get what they could possibly see in him and his casual cruelty. Although I imagine there are some women out there who equate wealth with attractiveness, other than Carisse, I am not sure I’ve ever met any. All of the women I know are looking for Lloyd Dobler, not Gordon Gekko.
When we finish eating, Carl asks if I would like to share the chocolate cake. I decline. Digging our spoons into the same plate is somehow too intimate and certainly too datelike. On the way out, I quickly check the Cracker Barrel Country Store for pajamas, but despite about a thousand different types of bird feeders, there is not a single T-shirt or pair of shorts for sale. I’m not sure what I am going to do when it comes time for bed. All I brought were suits and underwear.
Carl drives us back to the hotel, and as I feel the night’s stillness surround us, I grow increasingly nervous. I hope Carl got the message this morning with my reaction to the shared room. Surely he can’t really believe that I want to have sex with him. Could he? He is twice my age. He is married. He is my boss. Maybe Bob has brought me a cot? I do not picture Carl offering to sleep on the floor and shudder at the thought of lying on the dusty Hampton Inn carpet in my suit.
I am shaking by the time we walk into the lobby. I consider working genital warts into the conversation, but can think of no casual way to bring it up and figure it is probably not wise to start that kind of rumor. Even in self-defense. I mentioned “my boyfriend” a couple of times in the car, without any reaction from Carl. If his pregnant wife doesn’t stop him, I’m sure that my imaginary boyfriend won’t either.
I notice a convenience store tucked around the corner, and I tell Carl that I’ll meet him upstairs in a minute. He smiles at me and nods, and I wonder if he thinks I am buying condoms. No, I tell myself, you are just imagining these things. He will not hit on you, and if he does, you will turn him down politely. This is the closest thing I have to a plan. And please, please, God, let the store have something resembling pajamas.
Thankfully, I see a T-shirt hanging up against the wall. I ignore the fact that it says Someone in Arkansas Loves Me, given that my only other option is one with a cartoon image of Clinton smoking a cigar. Definitely not the message I want to send. I buy the first shirt in XXL and a pair of boxer shorts that say Kiss My Arkans-ASS across the back. It is the best I can do.
“So,” Carl says when I enter the room. He is lying on the bed, wearing only his tailored shirt and plaid boxers. I accidentally glance down and see the pink head of his penis peeking out of the slit in his shorts. I just saw Carl MacKinnon’s penis; I cannot believe I just saw Carl MacKinnon’s penis. I repeat the words in my head as if on a loop, and soon the word “penis” starts to sound ridiculous. The image sears my brain too, and I wonder if I will ever be able to forget it. Although I realize that I am in trouble here, there is still a part of me that wants to giggle. The situation has moved so out of control, I half-expect him to pull out a pair of furry handcuffs.
“Where’s the cot?” I ask, as if my boss is not lying on a bed in his boxer shorts, as if the flap is buttoned closed.
“Guess Bob didn’t bring it,” he says, and shrugs. “You look beautiful in that suit, but isn’t it uncomfortable? Perhaps you should take it off.” Carl looks at me matter-of-factly, as if he just asked me to bring him a file. I wonder if he knows he is sticking out. Surely, he can’t.
“Nah, I’m fine. Really. Um, I’m going to call the front desk about that cot.” I keep my eyes fixed on the phone and stare at its old-fashioned rotary dial.
“You don’t have to. This bed is big enough for the both of us.” He pats the comforter next to him.
“No, I don’t think that would be appropriate, Carl,” I say, hoping my firm tone implies that I have no interest in sharing a bed with him. Ever.
“Come on, Emily. Stop being so coy. It will be fun to have a sleepover,” Carl says in a boyish voice. I wonder if someone once told him that baby talk becomes cute again at sixty. I have no idea what to do or what to say. I wish I had taken a course in law school on how to react to seeing your boss’s member.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” I turn my back on Carl and, with a shaking finger, spin the phone dial until I get the front desk. Luckily, Bob is off duty.
“The cot will be here in five minutes,” I say.
“Well, here is the thing,” he says. “I’m still hungry, and since we didn’t eat dessert, I want to eat you. You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Carl reaches down to touch himself. This cannot be happening. I want to cry and laugh and vomit all at the same time. How will I ever be able to look anyone in the eye at work again? I imagin
e their faces will all be blacked out with a picture of Carl’s genitals. Worse, with a picture of Carl massaging his genitals.
His flag is now at full mast.
“No,” I say. “No, I would not like that. In fact, I don’t want to be having this conversation. This is not going to happen. Please stop it right now.”
“I thought you would be the type to play hard-to-get. Make me work for it. Don’t worry, I like hard work.”
“Carl.” There is an embarrassing amount of pleading in my voice.
“Emily.”
“Carl.”
“Emily.”
“No. Absolutely not. I can’t do this. Please, please, please leave me alone.” I am not sure why, but somehow these are the magic words, and I notice out of the corner of my eye that his hands are now tucked behind his head.
“Fine. Suit yourself,” Carl says, and shrugs, as if I just refused an offer of an extra pillow and not cunnilingus from my boss.
“Oh, by the way, I have arranged for a six-thirty a.m. wake-up call, so we can do extra prep before the deposition,” he says, his tone casual.
“Sure thing,” I say, ever the dedicated associate. “Sounds good.”
Carl turns away from me and switches off the light. I sit in the dark, waiting for the knock on the door. I have goose bumps, despite still wearing my wool suit.
When the cot finally arrives, I tip the bellman fifty bucks. I will find a way to bill it to Synergon. But, of course, cot or not, I can’t sleep in here. I am not sure what I was thinking. I can’t share this small room with Carl, even though the fact that he is snoring—the fact that he is a veritable one-man band—signals that he won’t be coming on to me any more tonight. Instead, I lock myself in the bathroom with a pillow and a blanket and lie down in the bathtub. I hold the removable shower head between my hands like a gun, regretting that I didn’t find a Wal-Mart to buy a real firearm. You could probably do that here in Arkadelphia.
The Opposite of Love Page 7
