by Dana Bate
“They really have that much control over you?”
I shrug. “It isn’t so much about control. I don’t want to disappoint them. They’ve sacrificed a lot for me.”
“But won’t they be happy if you’re happy?”
“Mmm, yes and no.”
“By which you mean … no.”
“It’s complicated.” I pour the rest of the gummy bears onto the picnic blanket in a small pile and begin sorting them by color. “My mom used to have this Peanuts cartoon in her office. Charlie Brown is explaining to Lucy that life has its ups and downs, but Lucy is like, ‘Why can’t life be all ups? I don’t want any downs! I just want ups and ups and ups!’ That’s what my parents want for me: nothing but ups. And as far as they’re concerned, the only way that will happen is if I pursue the same things they did. They know how that story ends. They know all the pitfalls. And I think they see my rejection of their choices as a rejection of them.”
Blake grabs a piece of candy from the pile. “But you’re an adult now. You have a job, an apartment, your own life. If you don’t want to get a PhD, don’t get a PhD. If you want to be a cook, be a cook. There are no rules. You can do whatever you want.”
“Yeah. And I know that, intellectually. Emotionally—that’s another story. Plus, my parents don’t really treat me like an adult. They still see me as the confused twenty-three-year-old who left their home three years ago and still needs their direction.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to be that person.”
I nod. “I know. But sometimes I look at my parents—how accomplished and successful they are—and think, wow, maybe they have it right, and I’m the one getting it all wrong.”
“Don’t write off your instincts like that. Give yourself some credit.”
“I guess.” I take a long sip of apple cider. “Did I tell you I’m supposed to take the GREs next weekend?”
“No. Why would you do that?”
I let out a sarcastic grunt. “I don’t even know anymore. I guess because I’m supposed to?”
Blake sits up and wraps his arms around his bent knees. “Do your siblings feel the same sort of pressure you do?”
“That’s the problem—I don’t have any siblings. My mom couldn’t have any more after me, so I’m like their ‘miracle child.’ Which means all the pressure is on me to become the next great Professor Sugarman.”
Blake takes a swig of water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then why don’t you tell them, point-blank, that’s not what you want?”
“Because it’s not that simple.”
“True. But the longer you wait to talk to them about this, the more difficult it’s going to be.”
My stomach churns. The same could be said of keeping my supper club a secret from Blake.
He screws the cap back on his water and holds the bottle tightly in his hand. “I know for me, I felt a lot of pressure from my dad to join the military. So what did I do? I said, fuck that, and went to Georgetown and got a job on the Hill. My brother Sam, of course, went to the Naval Academy, where my dad taught. I was convinced my dad was disappointed in me—that he wished I’d done what Sam did. I went along for years thinking that. It poisoned our relationship. My relationship with Sam, too. It wasn’t until my dad got sick that he and I ever talked about it. We made amends, but it was too late. I wasted years—good, healthy years—being pissed off and feeling like I had to prove myself to him, when really there was nothing to prove. Now all I have left of him is the stupid town house I bought with the money he left me when he died. Don’t make the same mistake. Have faith in your parents. They want you to be happy.”
Blake could be right. Maybe. But he doesn’t know my parents—how smart and dedicated they are, how they manage to be right about everything 98 percent of the time. Is there any indication they will accept that my happiness falls within the 2 percent they occasionally get wrong? No. Because, the way they see it, following their lead thus far has landed me at Cornell and one of the top think tanks in the country. Their ideas have worked. What I need them to understand is that I’m the one who brought myself this far. I have ambition and drive, and applying those characteristics to a job in the cooking industry instead of a PhD doesn’t make me a failure. There are more metrics to success than the number of degrees after my name. I suppose, on some level, I have to convince myself of that, too.
Blake stares out toward the horizon, fiddling with the cap to his water bottle. He looks lost and a little sad, and I wonder if it has something to do with the talk about his father.
“How did he die?” I ask. “Your dad.”
“Cancer. Pancreatic. It’s been about five years, but I still miss him as much as I did the first year.”
I run my hands along the blanket, wondering what I could say that would be of any comfort. “Missing him is better than not, right? In a way, you’re keeping him alive. In your thoughts, at least.”
Blake offers a sad smile. “Yeah. I guess that’s true,” he says. “But, I don’t know, the whole experience made me realize how unpredictable life can be. There are so many things in life beyond our control. I could get hit by a car tomorrow. I could get cancer. We have such a limited time to find happiness, to make a difference in the world. All my dad wanted was for me to do something good and real and meaningful. It didn’t have to be serving in the navy. It could be anything. It could be running for city council. It could be finding the love of my life or being a good dad. I figured all of that out too late. You can’t worry about what other people think you should do. The only way you’ll ever be happy or make a real difference is by pursuing the things that motivate you and make you excited to be alive. Life is too short to waste years of it being miserable or asking, ‘What if?’ ”
Blake takes another sip of water, and I feel my cell phone vibrate against my leg. I look down and see the caller ID flashing up at me: Jacob Reaser. A week ago—hell, an hour ago—I would have excused myself and relished an opportunity to talk to him. But something about this place, about listening to Blake talk about his views on life and family and independence, makes me want to stay here in this moment forever. With a few words, Blake has managed to inspire me to take hold of my life and really live. My thumb hovers over the buttons on the phone. I press IGNORE.
Blake looks out across the skyline, and his expression softens, his look of somber introspection melting into one of awe. “Check it out,” he says, pointing into the distance.
I follow the tip of Blake’s finger and shift my attention to the horizon. The Washington Monument soars into the sky like a tall red flame, flickering against the gray-blue sky, a building ablaze in the light of the setting sun.
“It looks like it’s on fire,” I say. “The Capitol, too.”
“Wait,” Blake says. “It gets better.”
He scoots in closer to me and presses his shoulder against mine, and we sit in silence, our gaze fixed in the distance, as we watch the monuments burn.
CHAPTER
thirty-five
Going back to work after a Sunday like that is akin to eating canned SpaghettiOs after dinner at The French Laundry. The two experiences cannot compare, and it becomes painfully clear one event is far more representative of your everyday life than the other.
But I keep telling myself soon my life will be The French Laundry. Or at least closer to fine dining than canned pasta. First thing Monday morning, inspired by Blake’s pep talk, I cancel my registration for the GRE exam this weekend. My parents would spontaneously combust if they knew this, so I’ve decided not to tell them until I see them in person—an event I have managed to put off until Thanksgiving, much to their chagrin. There is too much going on at the moment, between the supper club and my ongoing work misery, and though my discussion with Blake bolstered my confidence, it’s not as if one good conversation is going to undo twenty-six years of dysfunctional behavior. Eventually I will tell my parents everything. Just not yet.
As soon as I cancel my GRE
registration, I submit my completed application to L’Academie de Cuisine, and according to both Blake and the L’Academie Web site, I should receive a letter of acceptance or rejection in a few weeks. I wish I could know now, today, but I suppose I can keep my impatience in check for a few weeks. After all, I’ve worked at NIRD for three years—three long and painful years—so it’s not as if a few more weeks of uncertainty will kill me. I can handle it.
At least that’s what I tell myself on Monday. By Tuesday, I’m starting to lose it.
When I get into the office Tuesday morning, Mark is running in circles like a dog chasing its tail, all atwitter over the election, even though this is an off-year election. Aside from two hot gubernatorial races, there isn’t much going on. The only reason Blake is even running for his dinky neighborhood commission is because someone resigned earlier this year.
“Did you vote?” Mark asks, his flame-colored eyebrows bouncing up and down on his forehead.
“Yes, Mark. I voted.”
“Well done.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know it doesn’t affect us, but this New Jersey gubernatorial race is fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.”
I nod. “Mmm.”
“Oh, by the way, did you see the e-mail I sent you?”
“About …?”
He sighs and drops his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion. “Global leverage and asset price bubbles?”
By his tone, he might as well have just said, DUH.
“No, I didn’t see it. But I’ll take a look.”
“Good. Because I’d like to write an op-ed refuting certain aspects of Nouriel Roubini’s latest report, and I need you to do a little digging on the dollar carry trade. I’d like you to send me a summary and an outline for the op-ed by the end of the day. Oh, and I’m supposed to give a speech on risk management at a conference in New York next week. I’ll send you an outline for my PowerPoint presentation. Could you pull that together?”
“Sure.”
“Excellent.”
He whirls around and heads back into his office, humming “La donna è mobile” at full volume. Ah, yes. Another glorious day at the office.
After eight painful hours of reading through currency reports, I head back to my apartment, and as I round the corner I run into Blake, who is virtually skipping down Church Street.
“Hey!” he says, meeting me in front of his wrought iron steps. “Exciting news! They haven’t finished counting the votes, but going by the early results, it looks like I’m going to win.”
There was only one person running against Blake, and from what I read on a few local blogs, his opponent was a seventy-five-year-old, borderline senile Libertarian. The contest wasn’t exactly heated. Still, his enthusiasm is endearing. “Wow, Blake—congrats. That’s great.”
“Thanks.” He smiles and gently nudges my shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it without your vote.”
Truthfully, voting for Blake was probably one of the more insane things I’ve ever done. By voting for him, I endorsed a candidate who would, given the authority and power, shut down The Dupont Circle Supper Club without compunction. But not voting for him would have endorsed the idea that holding secret supper clubs in his house without his knowledge was the morally upright thing to do. And not voting at all—well, that wasn’t an option. So I voted for him, and I’ll just hold our next supper club outside his jurisdiction—something I planned to do anyway, after all the time we’ve spent together lately. Besides, on Sunday Blake opened my eyes to the possibilities before me—culinary school, a new career, a fulfilling existence. He gave me an entirely new outlook on life. How could I not give him my vote?
“Some friends are coming by in a bit to celebrate,” he says. “You’re welcome to join.”
“I’d love to, but I have a lot of work to catch up on.” Work that involves the next installment of The Dupont Circle Supper Club—which, incidentally, will no longer take place in Dupont Circle.
He shrugs. “Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
“Okay. Thanks.” We linger at the bottom of the steps, an awkward silence hanging between us. “By the way,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going, “I submitted the application to L’Academie yesterday.”
Blake brightens. “That’s awesome. Congratulations.”
“Save your congratulations until I actually get in. It’s a little late in the application process.”
“Nah,” he says. “You’re a shoo-in. Nicole told her aunt all about you. I sent an e-mail about you, too.”
“You did?”
He smiles. “Of course. Between the honeycomb ice cream and the devils on horseback, I told them it would pretty much be a federal crime not to admit you.”
“A federal crime? Wow, breaking out the big guns.”
“Well, now that I’m part of the Dupont Circle Neighborhood Commission …” He smirks as he offers a mock self-important shrug.
“I can already feel the power from where I’m standing,” I say.
The skin around his eyes wrinkles as he laughs at my lame joke, and for a minute we just stand there like that, smiling at each other. Then he glances down at his watch. “I’d better get inside and start setting up. But come up anytime, if you want. And remember—I’m looking out for you. No more of these underground supper clubs to ruin your shot at making it.”
My cheeks flush. “I’m sure you have bigger fish to fry.”
“Hey—who’s the one making fish jokes now?” He laughs. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Sure. And congrats again on the election.”
Blake clasps his hands together and shakes them on either side of his head, as if he were just elected president of the United States, and as I watch the smile bloom on his face, I start to think everything would be a lot easier if I’d never started The Dupont Circle Supper Club in the first place.
The week drags on, each day filled with more inane and incomprehensible requests from Mark, and by Friday my week has reached a new level of shitastic. When I arrive at my desk Friday morning, I find a cardboard box bearing the Amazon.com logo sitting to the right of my keyboard. A package for Mark? No. The label on the box is addressed to me. Did I order something from Amazon? I don’t think so. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have it delivered to the office.
I rip open the box and dump out a collection of goodies: the latest edition of Kaplan’s Get into Graduate School: A Strategic Approach for Master’s and Doctoral Candidates, some sort of self-help book titled Getting Organized from the Inside Out, and a detailed Excel spreadsheet outlining acceptable economics PhD programs with coordinating application deadlines, Web site addresses, and GRE codes. I rifle through the box and find a small gift note:
Chance favors the prepared mind! Thought these might help with your grad school applications. Please note that Harvard’s deadline is DECEMBER 1.
Love,
Mom and Dad
p.s. Good luck with your work on Mark’s book!
Thought number 1: Shoot me.
Thought number 2: How did they know I was working on a book for Mark? I haven’t told them.
I am beyond annoyed, but before I can give the subject any further consideration, my phone rings.
“Mark Henderson’s office.”
“Is this Hannah?” asks a woman’s voice on the other end.
“Yes …”
“This is Daphne Curtis. In Human Resources? I was wondering if I could speak with you.”
“Okay …”
“Is now a convenient time?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“Fantastic. Do you know where my office is?”
“Your office? Can’t we do this on the phone?”
Daphne hesitates. “No, I’d rather talk in person. If that’s okay with you.”
She reminds me where her office is and tells me to swing by in the next fifteen minutes, at which point we will discuss … I have no idea what. All I know is that when Huma
n Resources gets involved, it’s serious: hiring, firing, pay cuts, and benefits.
Ideally I will be told the economic downturn has hit the NIRD coffers hard, and they cannot afford my services any longer, so they’re letting me go and offering me an enormous severance package, which I will then use to pay for culinary school or launch my own catering company. Of course the likelihood of this happening is infinitesimal, but a girl can dream.
I take the elevator to the tenth floor and slink down the hallway to Daphne’s office. She sits at her desk, stuffed into a leather swivel chair that, set against her plump figure, looks as if it were made for a child.
“Ah, Hannah, come in,” she says when she sees me in the doorway. “Please, sit down.”
I pull up a chair directly across from her. “What’s up?”
She removes her wire-frame glasses and runs her fingers through her feathered, honey-colored hair. “I’d like to talk to you about your relationship with Mark Henderson.”
“Okay …”
“It was brought to my attention that he has, perhaps, made some inappropriate and potentially threatening advances, some of which may have been sexual in nature.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
What, what, what?
“Another member of our staff voiced some concern over events that occurred a month ago, though it is unclear if there have been other incidents as well.”
“A month ago?”
She looks down at her desk calendar. “Five weeks, to be exact.”
Jesus Christ, what is this woman talking about? My mind races. Five weeks ago. What happened five weeks ago? I barely remember what happened yesterday. Five weeks, five weeks. That was around the time of the CNBC interview, right? And the meeting in Mark’s office, where he offered to let me help on his book?
And that’s when it hits me. Mark’s office. The tipped chair. My legs in the air. My crotch. Susan.
“Oh, Daphne—no, no, no. This is all a big misunderstanding. Nothing happened. Honestly.”
