A Daughter's a Daughter

by Irene Vartanoff

  She had kept a favorite shirt, and a casual jacket of Jeff’s she often wore to get the mail or take out the trash. She had shed a few tears over his clothing, but she had finished. Why had it taken four years to face up to this cleanout?

  Now she had nothing left to do. The huge empty spot in her life was very obvious. For four years she had been in a total rut, with nothing in her life except useless routines. She had settled for her clerical job because it was easy. Now it was gone, and she already missed the big space it had occupied in her otherwise empty days.

  She heated water for tea in the microwave and sat uncomfortably on the edge of a massive easy chair, Jeff’s favorite, in the living room. The floor was now jammed with the boxes she’d run out and bought this afternoon to complete the clearing-out task. Her house was filled with memories of her life with Jeff and their children. Did she want to spend more years living in a shrine to the past? Or did she have the courage to make a serious change?

  She got a pad from a drawer and started writing down things she liked, things she wanted to do, things she was good at. Places she’d like to visit, too. As for places she never wanted to see again, Wall Street would go on the top of that list. She wasn’t bitter, but it had chewed her up and spit her out, and now she wanted to go in a different direction.

  Sarah would be pleased.

  #

  Linley was seated in her usual position on the panel, waiting for the regular afternoon program, Hot Tracks, to begin.

  “Linley, I’ve got a special role for you today.” Jason’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  She looked up. He loomed over her, holding out a piece of paper. She took it.

  “What’s this?”

  He smirked and took his seat. Then he swiveled in her direction, waiting for her to read it.

  “I get to interview the moron who drove Menahl into the ground. Yes!” she nearly screamed.

  “Oh, tell us what you really think,” Ralph jeered.

  “Yeah, we know you love those big, dangerous investment bankers,” Mike chimed in.

  “You’re what’s called a motivated interviewer,” Jason said. “Hang the bastard out to dry on national television. That’s all the revenge I can offer you.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Ernie asked.

  “My mother lost her job with everybody else at Menahl today. The rank and file received no severance,” she explained.

  The guys looked surprised and concerned.

  “Is she okay?” Ralph asked.

  “Sure. Thanks.” She didn’t say a dead-end job as a paper pusher was no big loss. Anyway, it was the principle of the thing. The top dogs at Menahl had screwed up, but the low-level workers ended up paying for it.

  “We’re going to set Linley on this guy like a junkyard dog? That’s the strategy?” Ernie asked.

  “Yes,” Jason weighed in again, taking them all in with his sweeping gaze. “This man ran the company into the ground, and now he’s giving interviews trying to justify his golden parachute.”

  They followed the plan, first carefully disclosing Linley had a personal interest because her mother had been laid off by Menahl today with no severance. Charles Saunders sat in a remote studio when Linley asked her questions. Although he started to complain about how the Federal Reserve had not stepped in to rescue the company, she broke in and asked,

  “Why isn’t Menahl paying the rank and file severance and wages to date?”

  “We’re doing our best to ensure all our loyal employees get a fair deal,” he claimed, trying to look concerned. His ten thousand dollar custom suit told a different tale.

  “Isn’t it true, Mr. Saunders, your company let go all the non-trading staff without any promise of severance? Or even their final paychecks?”

  He visibly calculated how much it would cost him to act as if he cared. Finally he said, “We’re still looking into the possibility. Our assets are very much in question right now.”

  “If there’s no money for the rank and file, why are you accepting thirty-five million dollars in deferred compensation? Isn’t that money meant to be paid for performing your job correctly? And wouldn’t you agree that leading your company into bankruptcy is exactly the opposite of doing a good job for the shareholders?”

  His eyes hardened. His cloying attempt at playing the caring leader crumbled. Saunders couldn’t deny the facts behind Linley’s accusation. “There’s a difference between leadership and rank and file.”

  Linley said nothing. She let his reply sit there and stink. Saunders’s arrogance and self-satisfaction and his signal failure were on view for all to see.

  “Thanks for talking with Hot Tracks,” Jason said formally, ending the interview. His cold tone fooled no one. They’d pinned Saunders to the wall.

  Once the video feed was cut, she could contain herself no longer. “That has to be the most hypocritical and smug appearance we’ve had on this program,” she said, surprised at how angry she felt. They were still on the air.

  “Looks as if self-interested thinking is still happening in the nearly empty boardroom at Menahl,” Ralph said, speaking more professionally than she could at the moment.

  Jason nodded. “Can New York’s crusading D.A. take Menahl on? Ideas, Ernie?”

  “Doesn’t state law require a company to have cash reserves to cover payroll?”

  “Probably, but they’re bankrupt now,” Jason dismissed.

  “They still have assets to be sold off to satisfy creditors, don’t they?” Ralph rejoined.

  “Of course, but that’s the meat of the problem,” Jason said. “The credit default swaps are mere insurance contracts, totally unregulated. No one actually knows what any of them are worth. Not having sufficient cash reserves after they spurned the Japanese deal and couldn’t get the Russians to play ball is what sent Menahl into bankruptcy.”

  “The Fed refused to help, let’s not forget,” Linley said.

  “Bad move. Crazy move,” Ernie said. The others nodded.

  “The ripples of Menahl’s bankruptcy are spreading across the entire economic structure,” Jason warned. “Get ready for a bumpy ride.”

  Then Jason brought it back to the personal, asking Linley, “What’s your mom thinking?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But she’s not happy about losing her job.”

  Although Linley wasn’t sure. Her mother had never seemed attached to the work itself, only the routine. A place to go each day. It kept her from getting weird and keeping a lot of cats, or something.

  Pam had no ambition, unlike Linley, who was determined to grab fame for herself. She’d seen how people looked up to Grandma Dorothy, how they crowded around her wherever she went. People respected Dorothy Duncan. They asked for her help and advice. Linley wasn’t as public-spirited as her grandmother, but she was equally determined to be a force. This on-air financial expert gig was only the beginning for her.

  #

  Dorothy wandered into her living room, where a pile of mail was stacked on the table next to the couch. She ought to take another look at it soon. She had sorted the incoming pieces, hadn’t she? Mostly charitable appeals and activist newsletters.

  She must remind these groups to stop wasting trees with paper newsletters. Let them send their information via email. Not that she had anything to do with computers. Linley had given her a computer, a notebook, she called it, and shown her how it worked. Impressive, but Dorothy found herself confused when she was alone with it. When she was a younger woman, she would have taught herself mastery of a new machine. Lately, it all seemed too complicated. She was an old woman now. Surely she did not have to keep up with every new technology?

  She leafed through some of the photographs on the dark mahogany dining room table. A pile of photos had accumulated on the polished surface. Oh, that’s right. She’d been going through some old boxes of photographs and old albums, intending to separate them out for the children.

  Ah, there was her photo of Greta, taken when t
hey both were young girls working in the war effort in the 1940s. Greta was smiling, wearing a beautiful white linen suit and matching big-brimmed hat. Greta had long hair that she had refused to cut despite the war admonitions that it wasn’t safe in a factory. Her clerical job in the factory office didn’t put her hair in jeopardy, she insisted. Anyway, Greta said she had to keep her long hair so her husband would recognize her when he came back from the war. Such a beautiful deep red color her hair had been.

  Of course, the photo was black and white. That’s all they had back then, but it was crisp and sharp. Greta was smiling that lovely smile she’d had, the one that said she was the most daring girl in their circle. It was true. Greta was the one who had the courage to marry a soldier before he shipped out. She had written him throughout the war, and finally Roger had returned alive. Then they’d set up housekeeping, gotten to know each other, and had a baby.

  Dorothy hadn’t thought about Greta, dear Greta, in years. Oh, she’d remembered the good times, the ladies’ lunches and the teas. The rest Dorothy had put firmly behind her. Greta was dead and it was over. Lately, thoughts of Greta had come to her frequently. She wondered if at this age she was developing a sense of guilt, finally. She examined her conscience. No.

  How ironic. Her own daughter, Pamela, feared and admired her because she was a do-gooder. If she only knew what a truly bad person her mother could be. Dorothy’s actions back then had hardly been moral or legal. She had meted out justice, and she had never been sorry.

  The dog was barking next door. He’d been barking ever since she returned from her morning walk, hours ago now. She would go over and meet the annoying little thing. Maybe it would bark less if they were introduced.

  She walked next door and started petting and playing with the dog.

  “What’s your name, boy? Oh, yes, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she cooed as she patted the springy fur on his spine. The little dog practically danced from the attention. He kept yipping.

  “It’s Yappie,” said the man who came onto the deck. He was wearing jeans and a dark tee shirt, the hallmark of the baby boomer generation.

  She straightened a bit, not at all discomposed to have been caught on her neighbor’s property petting his dog. “He certainly is yappie.”

  “No, I mean, his name is Yappie,” the man said, smiling. He looked healthy and in good shape, about Pamela’s age. He was home in the daytime so he must be retired.

  “Because he yaps a lot.”

  She straightened up completely at his words, frowning. “Do you mean to say you allow this dog to bark all day?”

  “Uh…” His face took on a guilty expression.

  Before he had time for a reply, she swept on. “Because that’s very ill-mannered, and he ought to be trained to behave. It’s a wonder you haven’t been evicted from where you lived previously. Or were you?” She stared down her nose at him.

  “Are you volunteering to train Yappie out of his sole hobby?” he asked. His smile was in evidence again.

  What a pleasant young man. So reasonable. She smiled back. “I’d be happy to help you make Yappie a model citizen. That will make you more popular with your neighbors. Shall we agree on once-daily sessions?”

  Looking a little surprised at how quickly she moved, he soon agreed to allow her a half-hour of training Yappie each morning. Then he would join her for a walk on the beach afterwards to solidify Yappie’s progress.

  “Excellent. My name is Dorothy Duncan, by the way. Welcome to the neighborhood. What’s your name?”

  #

  After he’d waved a polite goodbye to Dorothy Duncan, who reentered her house, Bruce stood on the deck a while. He looked at the ocean. Technically, it was a bay or something, but to him it was the ocean.

  He had introduced himself again to his neighbor. Perhaps she had forgotten they had introduced themselves a few days ago. Yet, he had hailed her by name as she returned from her daily beach walk this morning. He hadn’t taken into account the forgetfulness common in old age. That could be a problem.

  Yappie sat by his feet, silent for once. “Yappie, you’re a regular babe magnet.”

  Yappie had barked endlessly at the pound where Bruce found him. Bruce could not resist the hopeful, crazy little dog. He’d had a wire-hair fox terrier puppy when he was a boy. He remembered being given the dog on his fourth birthday.

  His father got angry. “It’s hard enough to make my paycheck stretch to you two without adding another mouth to feed,” he’d said on coming home and finding Bruce petting his new friend. His father was always angry. Bruce did not understand, but he saw little of his father. His mother always put him to bed soon after his father came home each night.

  This night, Bruce was too excited to want to go to bed, but his mother had insisted he only rated an extra ten minutes after his bath. He was already in his jammies, playing with his new puppy, when his father got home and started yelling about the cost of feeding a dog.

  “You make enough money, Roger, if you don’t spend it at the track,” his mother said. Bruce heard a smack. When he looked up, his mother was holding her cheek as if it hurt. Had his father hit his mother?

  “Oh, Roger, don’t—” his mother said, in a shaken voice.

  “I want a beer,” his father ordered. She hesitated, then turned and left the living room to go into the small kitchen. She came back with a tray with a brown bottle, an opener, and a glass, and put it on the table next to his father. Bruce still played with his puppy in the corner.

  “Get the kid outta here. And that mutt.”

  “Okay. It’s bedtime, anyway. Come on, honey.”

  His mother had whispered softly to Bruce then, and he had gone to kiss his father, who was sitting in a big upholstered chair, holding a beer bottle and looking at nothing.

  “G’night, Daddy,” he’d said.

  His father had suffered the kiss and muttered something, then pushed him away. Bruce was relieved. His father was an intimidating figure. Then the excitement of his new puppy took over. His mother had made up a box in Bruce’s bedroom for the puppy, right next to his bed.

  “You two may keep each other company,” his mother said after kissing him and pulling his covers up around him. “Now go to sleep.” She turned out the overhead light but left the night light on. Bruce remembered not being able to sleep for a long time. He kept looking at the puppy in the bed on the floor. Each time he did, the puppy stirred and whined a little. Finally, the puppy crawled up onto the bed and nuzzled into Bruce. Then they slept.

  That day had stood out in his young life. Even now, nearly sixty years later, he could still remember it vividly. How pretty his mother had been. How surly his father.

  Sometimes, he dreamed he remembered more, screaming and yelling, but it was unlikely. Human brain development wiped out early childhood memories. He’d researched the phenomenon for one of his long magazine articles.

  Within two months of his fourth birthday, both his parents were dead. Aunt Nora had taken him in. Bruce and his puppy became part of a big, boisterous Irish family. Bruce remembered missing his mother, but surrounded by cousins to play with and with two loving new parents, he'd recovered. He hardly thought of those early years. Only lately had he tried to remember.

  The time had come to confront the past. If it was possible.

  #

  Back at her cubicle, Linley stretched her arms over her head to relieve her tension. Jason was driving her crazy. On camera, he smiled at her, he called on her, and he deferred to her opinions in a collegial manner. Contrast that with before and after the broadcast when he joked with the other panelists and usually left her alone. Somehow, he managed to make it seem completely natural. He wasn’t interested in getting to know her on a personal level.

  Why was she carrying on about this anyway? She hadn’t taken this job to be near Jason, but to further her career. She should be looking around, capitalizing on whatever push being on Jason’s show gave her, and looking for her next opportunity. Screw
Jason.

  She raised the phone. Time to call everyone she knew and ask them what they’d heard lately about movement in the cable news and talk world.

  “You’re at ground zero,” her college pal Tamara insisted. “Jason Egan is the hottest of the info hunks. He’s coming up fast. Stick close to him.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Girl, a lot of people are talking about how fine he is. You’re lucky to be with him every day.”

  Tamara liked to exaggerate, but two other media contacts confirmed Jason was on the fast track for up-and-coming cable television personalities. If he got tapped for a new opportunity, should she angle to take over the show? Was it too soon? Or should she create an exit plan? She had to carve out a niche for herself, brand herself, so the execs would think of her when considering a replacement.

  For now, she had a brainstorm. Why not use her own mother’s job loss as a dramatic example of ordinary people being thrown out of work? She could even get Pam on the air. Viewers loved slice-of-life stuff, loved criticizing the average citizen’s clothing and hairstyle choices. Not to mention their bad luck. Schadenfreude.

  Linley quickly fired off email queries and made calls to some managers and producers. She hit gold. A gig on the Today Show. Now all she had to do was convince her mother to appear on television.

  #

  When the phone rang, Pam expected it would be Sarah, checking up on her. Instead, for the third time in one day, she heard her daughter’s voice. Pam eagerly rushed into speech.

  “Hello, dear. It’s sweet of you to call me again, but I’m fine, you know. No need to worry about me.”

  “I wasn’t worrying.”

  “Oh.”

  “I got us a great opportunity. A spot on the Today Show tomorrow morning. They want to interview you about how it feels to have been laid off from Menahl.”

  Pam grimaced. Those jackals outside the building this morning had wanted fresh blood, too. “Thousands were let go. Why talk to me?”