Necessary People

by Anna Pitoniak

“Oh, so now I’m not careful?” she said. “There’s always something you want to criticize, Violet. We’re never good enough for you. What’s next?”

  Teeth clenched, I stayed quiet.

  “Hmm?” she said. “You think you can come back here and act like you’re better than us?”

  I changed my flight and returned to school early, on Christmas Day. It wasn’t until then that I could pinpoint what had changed. My parents, my mother especially, were obsessed with status in the way the downtrodden always are. They clung to anything that could assure them of some minor superiority. And once upon a time, I’d been that thing for them. The smart daughter, the good daughter. The only teenager in town who wouldn’t end up a deadbeat. They took pride in that. But when I came home, my mother felt the disgust radiating from my skin. She had lost the one thing that had made her special.

  I hadn’t done what I was supposed to do. I hadn’t returned with compassion and love, an ambassador from another socioeconomic land. But this was another thing I admired about Stella: her indifference to what was expected of her. Why did I have to pretend to like my family? Or the holidays, for that matter? What was so great about them? The pageantry demanded was so one-note and unoriginal. If you weren’t lucky enough to have a loving family, a long dining table, a bountiful spread—and maybe a crackling fire and attractive dog, to top it off—then you weren’t doing it right. You were made to feel deficient.

  Wherever Stella was in the world right now, she had probably forgotten that it was the fourth Thursday in November. Drinking champagne in Geneva or shopping in the souks of Marrakech, doing exactly what she pleased. Glamorous, but then again, why should that picture be any more glamorous than this one? I was a young woman alone on the beach, surf lapping at her ankles beneath her cuffed jeans, a weekend of freedom stretching ahead. One picture wasn’t better than the other. Stella wasn’t happier than me. Mostly she just acted that way.

  “I won’t give them a reason to pity me,” my mother used to snarl. This was a bitter catechism she’d recite every few months, when money was tight. Food stamps were normal in our town. So were visits to the church basement, where canned and dried goods were free for the taking. I knew better than to suggest we make use of these resources, so that we could spend our money to repair the car or buy new shoes or pay off the credit card. My mother made it clear how she felt about that. Over time, I understood the point she was making. Pride could be a sin, but it could also keep you afloat. Pity was something you invited by acting pitiable.

  On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I traced the same route from the motel to the town to the beach. The shops were livelier, windows advertising steep Black Friday discounts. When I stopped into the coffee shop, a barista was standing on a ladder, pinning up pine garlands while Christmas carols played in the background, the month-long milking of the holiday already in full swing.

  Most of the restaurants in East Hampton were way beyond my price range. But that night I found a bar at the edge of town, with a Mets pennant and a neon Bud Light sign in the window, which looked more my speed.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked when I pulled up a seat at the end of the bar.

  “A glass of the house red,” I said. “And a grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “That,” he said, setting a wineglass on the wooden bar, “is an interesting combination.”

  “My version of a wine-and-cheese pairing,” I said.

  “Ah.” He had a nice smile. “You’re a classy woman.”

  The bar was about half full, pleasantly buzzing but not too loud. After he had circled around to pour refills, the bartender stopped in front of me, drying his hands on a towel. “How is it?” he said, nodding at my half-drunk glass of wine.

  “Entirely serviceable,” I said.

  He laughed, and extended his hand. “I’m Kyle.”

  His handshake was warm and firm, ridged with light calluses. I said, “I’m Stella.”

  “Stella,” he said. “I love that name. What brings you to town?”

  I cocked my head. “You don’t think I live around here?”

  “No way you’re a local. I’ve got a radar for these things.”

  “I needed a break,” I said. “From my family. You know how the holidays are.”

  “Where are your folks?”

  “Westchester,” I said. “But I live in the city now.”

  It was an old shtick when Stella and I were at parties: if a guy hit on us, we’d give the other person’s name and phone number. Nine times out of ten, this meant my phone would buzz with the persistent advances of a man hoping to get in touch with that gorgeous blonde named Violet. Every once in a while, someone—the less attractive sidekick—would hit on me, and I’d have occasion to call myself Stella Bradley.

  But we only did this to keep them away. Tonight, even while shaking his hand, I thought, I want to sleep with him. Using Stella’s name was part of the seduction. In college, I’d hooked up with guys every few months, enough to make me feel normal. It was easy enough, because Stella created a halo effect. If this ordinary-looking girl was always with the most beautiful girl on campus, then there had to be something special about her, right? They were consistently forgettable encounters, but already this felt different. A kind of desire that was almost like a test. Could I do this? Could I convince him that I was someone funnier, cooler, sexier than I actually was?

  “So what do you do, Stella?” Kyle splashed more wine into my glass without asking.

  “Nothing,” I said. The word was pleasant to say; a smooth, easy release.

  “Nothing?” he said. “Doesn’t that get boring?”

  “I’ve been traveling,” I said. “Taking time to figure out what I really want to do.”

  And why shouldn’t I? I thought. Go ahead, let this guy say something snarky, I don’t care. Why shouldn’t I do what I feel like doing? Stella had physical gestures—tilting her head and swinging her long hair over one shoulder, leaning her body across the table—that I found myself now imitating. She had taught me how to flirt, how to carefully mete out your personality, because the person across the bar isn’t yet ready to know the real you. Borrowing Stella’s name gave me a boost of confidence. I imagined a live wire stretching between me and her, wherever she was.

  “An international woman of mystery,” he said. “I like it.”

  “What about you?” I said. “Are you from around here?”

  He stuck his thumb over his shoulder. “Grew up about ten miles down the road. I’ve been working for the owners since I was eighteen. They have another bar over in Sag Harbor. I switch between the two. Keeps things interesting.”

  “So you’re a bona fide local.”

  He smiled. “You could say that.”

  “Well,” I said, cocking my head. “Maybe you can show me around sometime.”

  In that moment, Kyle’s expression changed. I’d seen this before. That sudden snapping of attention when a girl signals her interest, or there’s a fourth down during a tight game.

  At the end of the night, when his shift was over, Kyle said, “Can I walk you out?”

  He’d been drinking water, and I’d switched to club soda. So many college hookups had been drunk and fumbling. Not this. There was an intensity from our being sober, from the hours of anticipation. In the parking lot, standing next to his car, the night clear and full of stars above us, neither of us had our jacket on. It had been hot in the bar, and the cool air felt good. Kyle was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. One of the tattoos on his forearm was a silhouette of Long Island. He reminded me, in ways, of the boys from back home. Anchored forever in familiar soil.

  Kyle kissed me. His hand slipped under my shirt, and I felt the ridges of his calluses against my rib cage. After a while, he said quietly, “Is your hotel nearby?”

  I shook my head. “Let’s do it here,” I said.

  “In my car?” he said. He turned, surveying the parking lot, which at 3 a.m. in November was empty
except for us. When he turned back to me—my body against the side of his car, the prospect of gratification right there—he pushed into me and kissed me harder, his erection even more pronounced. It felt good. I thought, I made this happen.

  After, as the car windows fogged from our breath and we twisted our limbs to pull our clothing back on, he said, “I’m so glad I met you, Stella.”

  “Me, too.” I smiled at him, but a sadness seeped into the edges. The carriage was turning back into a pumpkin.

  Kyle wanted to drive me home, but I couldn’t let him see my dingy, run-down motel. There was a fancy hotel in town, where I told Kyle to drop me off. He waited in his car, headlights piercing the darkness. I stood at the entrance to the hotel, waving at him, but he didn’t move. Only when I opened the door and went inside did I hear Kyle’s car pulling away.

  The man behind the front desk seemed surprised to see me.

  “Hello,” I said. “Uh, I’m staying at another hotel down the road, but it’s just not up to snuff. I may want to switch. Do you have any availability tomorrow night?”

  The man believed me, or he pretended to. “Yes,” he said. “We do, in fact. Our deluxe junior suite is available tomorrow night. The rate is nine hundred.”

  “Great,” I said. “Perfect.”

  “Do you need a taxi?” the man said, as I headed for the door.

  “There’s a car waiting for me outside,” I said. “Good night.”

  Pete, one of the doormen in our building, nodded at me when I returned to the apartment.

  “Did you have a good time in Florida, Miss Trapp?” he said.

  I must have looked confused, because he added, “Mrs. Bradley mentioned it to me.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right. It was fine.”

  “No sunburn.” He winked.

  “Nope,” I said. “The sun is terrible for your skin.”

  In the elevator, I felt a vague annoyance with Anne Bradley. She had a tendency to do this, to treat the most mundane details like breaking news. Why on earth would Pete the doorman care where I spent Thanksgiving? But people like Pete tended to indulge Anne, to feign interest. Doormen, hairdressers, manicurists, personal shoppers, housekeepers: Anne was a wealthy woman, and earning her tips or year-end bonuses required making her feel that her minor concerns were in fact major. In the past, when Stella chafed at her mother’s nosiness, I thought she was overreacting. Give her a break, I had said more than once. At least she cares.

  Now I sympathized with Stella. To financially depend on someone—as I did, with the Bradleys—and to sense them tracking your movements, that was unpleasant. Money bought allegiance, and allegiance bought control. Money also insulated its possessors from what people really thought. Poor Anne. People like Pete the doorman never told her that she was boring them to death. They warned you about these things in leadership books, the danger of yes men. But so far, no one had written a leadership book for wealthy women who exercised compulsively and lived in waterfront mansions in Rye.

  I shook my head as I turned on the lights in the apartment. That was a nasty, ungrateful thought. The Bradleys were generous. Take this apartment redecoration—so much effort, and I was the only one who’d get to enjoy it.

  It was beautiful. The walls were painted ecru and cream, the floors overlaid with oriental rugs in pale shades. The couches and chairs in the living room were covered in subtly patterned fabric and accented with bright pillows. A glass coffee table held oversize art books. A chandelier hung above the long dining table. In the kitchen, the cabinets were filled with flatware and mixing bowls and wineglasses. On the marble countertop were white ceramic canisters, lids lifted to reveal flour and sugar and rice and pasta. The furniture and artwork I understood, but the thoroughness in the kitchen baffled me. Was this meant for Stella? For me? It was like I’d wandered onto the set of a movie in which I wasn’t starring.

  I dipped a finger into the sugar. It was real. I’d wondered, for a moment.

  The master bedroom was transformed, too. There was a king-size bed with a massive headboard, a vanity table in one corner, an armchair in the other. Lilacs in a glass vase on the nightstand perfumed the air. The flowers wouldn’t last longer than a few days. I felt uneasy. None of this was meant for me. It was meant for a girl who wasn’t here, and who had no plans to return anytime soon.

  The door to the walk-in closet was slightly ajar. I opened it and turned on the light inside. It was filled with Stella’s clothing. High heels and ballet flats lined up on shoe racks, sweaters folded and organized by color, dresses on silk hangers. I was light-headed and dizzy. It was too perfect. It was like a diamond necklace in a glass display. It said, you want this, don’t you? It tempted you into smashing the glass and running off with the goods, even while the bloody shards in your knuckles reminded you that it didn’t really belong to you.

  I turned off the light and slammed the door closed. My heartbeat was running wild when I sat down on the mattress in my room. The lumpy mattress without a bed frame, the thrift-store lamp and the particle-board bookshelves: they were hideous, but they were mine. If I stuck to this room, I was safe. No one could accuse me of theft. Of leaving fingerprints on another person’s possessions.

  But over the following days, I kept thinking of those final moments in the car with Kyle.

  Can I have your number? That was the last thing he’d said to me, looking eager. I had to remind myself that dismissal came naturally to Stella. In this movie, I was a rich girl visiting from the city, and he was a townie bartender. Rebuffing him gave me a satisfying rush of power. The feeling was so good that I knew it had to come with a price.

  With Facebook or Google, it was easy to find out the truth. I waited for the lie to catch up with me, for Kyle to track me down. But days passed, and nothing happened. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal, after all. I was merely channeling what I’d learned from Stella. Her confidence, her verve. Didn’t they say imitation was the sincerest form of flattery?

  The week after Thanksgiving, I stood in front of Stella’s closet. I don’t know why this had spooked me so badly last time. They were just clothes. Stella was thinner than me, but some of her dresses had forgiving cuts and loose tailoring. Several of them fit me well. What harm was there in trying them on, enjoying the sight of myself in the floor-length mirror? What harm was there if, sometimes, I felt like sleeping in her king-sized bed instead of my own? Or if I took the occasional bath in her deep claw-foot tub?

  It’s just stuff. That’s what Stella liked to say, when one of her uptight friends got a stain or spill on a piece of expensive clothing. Who cares about stuff?

  And besides—she’d never know.

  Chapter Four

  rebecca carter had two reputations: that within the industry, and that within our newsroom. Within the industry she was blazingly competitive, never hesitating to flatten anyone who got in the way of an exclusive sit-down or a big get. She was a shark, our competition at CNN and Fox said with suppressed admiration. As ambitious as they come. If securing an interview meant that Rebecca herself had to camp out in the front yard of a subject’s home, groveling and showing obeisance, she wouldn’t hesitate for a second. How else were you going to get the ratings?

  But within our newsroom, she was like a mother hen. The lack of resentment she engendered was remarkable, because resentment seemed inevitable. She was a celebrity and a multimillionaire who attended state dinners and had appeared in Vogue. The rest of us were overworked and exhausted, pickling ourselves in sodium-rich takeout. But Rebecca knew how to prevent jealousy from taking root. When a senior producer was sleepless because of her colicky newborn, Rebecca hired her a night nurse. When someone’s parent or child or spouse was ill, Rebecca paid for the best medical care. When someone was burning out, Rebecca sent them on vacation to a lavish Caribbean resort and banned them from e-mail.

  But this warm and fuzzy reputation wasn’t, in fact, a contradiction of the harder reputation. They went hand in hand. Rebecca’s generosity d
idn’t stem from some nurturing impulse. It was politics, plain and simple. She knew that, in order to win, she had to keep the proletariat on her side.

  The best example of this came at Christmas, when Rebecca hosted a party for Frontline employees at her Park Avenue penthouse. Jamie told me that she gave each employee a personalized gift, hand-selected with their interests in mind. Rebecca’s assistant actually did the research and the shopping, but the fact that Rebecca beamingly played Santa Claus was what counted.

  “This is what you learn when you work in TV long enough,” Jamie said, on yet another Friday night. Halfway through his second beer and he was getting philosophical. “It’s all manufactured. Even the serious stuff. You think 60 Minutes doesn’t use clever editing and camera angles to get their point across?”

  “Oh no,” I said. “Jamie. Are you actually a conspiracy theorist? Are you about to tell me the moon landing was faked?”

  “Well, why haven’t we gone back?” he said. Then he laughed. “No. Here’s what I mean. Even if the story is manufactured, even if it’s contrived a certain way, the reaction isn’t fake. If a viewer starts to cry, or laugh, or get angry—that emotion is real.”

  “So we’re manipulating them? We’re tricking them into feeling something?”

  “You have to make them feel something. Your goal can’t be pure verisimilitude. If you just served up the news with no editing or storytelling or tension, the viewer wouldn’t feel a thing. And that’s bad for them. That’s bad for the world.”

  “Treat the news as advocacy. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Treat it as a story. Use the tools at your disposal. Viewers need us to make them care.”

  I waved to the waitress, signaled for the check. “You ever think about writing this stuff down? Turn this into Journalism 101. Professor James Richter.”

  “I’m selective about my students,” Jamie said. “Gotta make sure it’s worth it.”