Necessary People

by Anna Pitoniak

  “How was that your fault?” I said, surprised Oliver was bringing this up. Like anything unpleasant, that episode had become taboo in the Bradley family. Maybe it was the setting. When she ran away that Christmas, Stella had come here, to the house in Maine. She was right under her family’s nose the entire time. It was too easy to fool them. Later she told me that she returned to the city mostly because she’d gotten so bored.

  Oliver frowned. “Who knows? Stella can do no wrong.” His tone was acidic, and his stare contained real contempt. “That’s the way it’s always been.”

  Anne was waiting as we pulled up to the dock. She wore a bright Lilly Pulitzer sheath and held her hand over her eyes, shading them from the sun. “You’ll never guess who I ran into,” she said, as Stella knotted the rope around the cleat. Stella was surprisingly dexterous with the anchors and ropes and engine. In another life she could have been a mechanical engineer. Or maybe this was just how you turned out when you grew up around fancy boats.

  “Who?” Oliver said.

  “Ginny. Ginny Grass! I bumped into her at the market. Isn’t that a funny coincidence?”

  “Not really,” Stella said. “She lives down the road.”

  “Well, she’s coming for dinner tomorrow night. Won’t that be nice?” Anne said. “Violet. You must know Ginny, too, of course?”

  “Of course,” I said. When Ginny passed through the newsroom, the most she’d give me was a bland smile. I was too many rungs down the totem pole to matter.

  “I’m starving,” Stella said.

  “Cocktails in fifteen minutes,” Anne said, starting back up the lawn to the house. “Hurry, please. Your grandmother doesn’t like wet bathing suits.”

  There was a corner of the porch that Grandmother Bradley liked in the evening: on the western side of the house, looking over the inlet that separated the peninsula from Maine proper, the sky and the water flamed with a blood orange sunset. There were Adirondack chairs, a wooden table with fixings for cocktails, and a silver bowl filled with nuts. The bowl, Mrs. Bradley had explained, was a family heirloom. It dated back to the nineteenth century. When Mrs. Bradley refilled the bowl, she did so with a Costco-sized, generic-branded plastic container of mixed nuts. I’m not sure whether anyone else found this as funny as I did.

  That night, Mr. Bradley was mixing a pitcher of martinis, and Mrs. Bradley was supervising. She took a sip. “Too much vermouth,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Bradley said sharply to Anne, when she breezed in. “Anne, I wish you had consulted me before inviting Ginny Grass to dinner.”

  “What do you mean?” Anne’s smile faded. “I thought you loved Ginny.”

  “Tomorrow is Louisa’s night off. We won’t have any help.”

  “Oh.” Anne went pale. This was serious. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I can take care of it. I’ll pick something up from the market. Pasta salad and corn on the cob. Ginny won’t mind.”

  Mrs. Bradley emitted a mirthless laugh. “It’s a good thing Ginny’s mother is no longer with us,” she said. “She’s probably spinning in her grave. The Bradley family serving her daughter corn on the cob. My goodness.”

  Anne looked miffed. “Well, times have changed.”

  “Hmmph,” Mrs. Bradley said. Then she looked at me, and her expression changed. “Actually, I have a better idea.”

  So this was how I spent my last day of vacation: cooking dinner for eight people. I went to the market that morning, Anne’s credit card in my pocket. “Spare no expense,” Anne had said, winking like she’d just given me a wonderful gift. She loved Mrs. Bradley’s idea. It was the perfect chance to show me off. Planning menus, cooking gourmet meals—look at how far Violet Trapp had come! I was tempted to throw the game. To remind them that they couldn’t count on me to be their performing monkey.

  But I hadn’t gotten this far in life by being a spiteful jerk, so I settled on an heirloom tomato tart for an appetizer, followed by sirloin steak, zucchini gratin, roasted potatoes, and blueberry pie for dessert. At the wine store in town, I asked the clerk to recommend a pairing. When he asked about a price point, I repeated, “Spare no expense.” He steered me toward a thirty-five-dollar bottle of sauvignon blanc. I bought a case of it, threw in a few bottles of Bollinger champagne, and took pleasure in handing him Anne’s platinum credit card.

  When I returned from town, Stella and Oliver were playing on the tennis court, which was right near the driveway. I hefted a paper bag into my arms from the trunk and squinted into the bright sunlight. “A little help?” I called.

  “It’s match point,” Stella called back. “I’m about to finish him off.”

  “Please? The ice cream is melting.”

  She ignored me, bouncing the tennis ball with one hand, touching it to the racket and rocking back on her heels. She raised the racket above her head, and smashed it down in a powerful stroke. It was a perfect serve, the ball landing just shy of the service line, but Oliver returned it with a drop shot. Stella sprinted toward the net, but she was too late.

  “Ha!” Oliver said. “Deuce.”

  “Goddamn it,” Stella said.

  “You’re both useless,” I shouted.

  The steady thwack of their game continued as I carried groceries into the house. The Bradley family avoided the kitchen all day. By the time everything was done—the tomato tart and blueberry pie baked and cooling, the steak ready for the grill, the gratin and potatoes ready for the oven—it was nearly 6 p.m. Promptly at 6:30, I heard the crunch of tires over gravel. I was wearing my best dress, had put on makeup and jewelry. Tonight could be an opportunity to impress Ginny. To be charming and interesting, to lodge myself in her awareness as more than just another employee.

  “How do I look?” I said to Oliver, who was mixing a drink on the porch.

  He smiled. “Lovely.”

  As I was about to say hello to Ginny, Stella swept onto the porch and cut me off, wearing the same ratty sundress she’d worn all day, her unwashed hair in a bun. This is the harshest advantage of the truly beautiful: the less effort they put in, the more they distance themselves from the rest of us. Stella managed to monopolize Ginny for the entire cocktail hour. The Stella charm offensive was at work.

  Later, Anne clapped her hands. “What do you say, Violet? Are we ready for dinner?”

  Everyone turned to look at me, including Ginny. She nodded, gave me her bland it’s-you-again smile. Grandmother Bradley took my elbow and tugged me away from the group. “We ought to serve the food in the kitchen,” she said. “I can’t stand buffet-style. Too messy. Then I suppose I’ll help you carry the plates out.” She said this last as if it was an enormous favor, not a basic courtesy.

  But when his grandmother approached the table with two plates of tomato tart in hand, Oliver sprang to his feet. “Oh, Nana, you shouldn’t be doing all that,” he said.

  “Violet can handle it, can’t she?” Stella said. “Here, Nana, sit next to me.”

  I carried the rest of the plates out by myself, and twenty minutes later I cleared them, and then brought out dinner by myself, too. The group was too absorbed in conversation to notice my to-and-fro. As I returned to the table, I saw Stella turn to Ginny, who was seated next to her. She touched a finger to Ginny’s wrist. “What’s this bracelet?” Stella said.

  “Oh,” Ginny said. She fiddled with it. “It’s a medical bracelet. I have a heart condition. A form of arrhythmia.”

  “Is it serious?” Stella said, her eyes wide with fake concern.

  “If I keep an eye on my diet, I’m fine,” Ginny said. “You’re sweet to ask, my dear.”

  “Violet?” Anne said. “Could you please bring out another bottle of wine?”

  It was so easy for them: even though it was Louisa’s night off, they didn’t need to adjust any of their usual routines. The dinner was perfect—the white linen tablecloth, hurricane lamps flickering in the breeze, dahlias from the garden, the food exactly right—but beneath it persisted a sour taste. This
had been a mistake. I should have stood up for myself, should have asked for help. Where was my backbone? I was letting them walk all over me.

  “Oh, my favorite,” Ginny said, when I brought out the pie. “Is this from the bakery?”

  “Violet made it,” Anne said.

  “You did?” Ginny said, looking at me with new attention. “It’s delicious.”

  “Thank you,” I said, refilling my wineglass with a generous pour.

  “My sister and I would pick blueberries all through our summers up here. We’d eat them until we were sick,” Ginny said, wistfully. “That feels like a long time ago.”

  “Remind me, was your sister older or younger?” Stella said.

  “Younger, by a few years.”

  Stella smiled. “I always wanted a sister.”

  “We were close, growing up, but I suppose we drifted as we got older.” Ginny twisted the stem of her wineglass between her thumb and index finger. “We only lived twenty blocks apart in the city, but I rarely saw her.”

  “You said she used to work as a model?”

  “Quite a successful one.” Ginny smiled. “She was a muse to a whole contingent of designers. She saw something in their clothes that even the designers hadn’t seen.”

  “Why did she stop?” Stella asked.

  “You know, I never had the chance to ask her.”

  Stella paused, then said quietly, “How did it happen?”

  “A few weeks went by,” Ginny said. “Two, maybe three. She wouldn’t answer her phone. I started to worry. The doorman finally let me in to her apartment. It was very peaceful, in a way. It was winter. She turned the radiators off and opened the windows. The apartment was cold. There was no smell. The pills were on the nightstand. The strangest thing was, she looked so alive. So pretty. She looked like she was sleeping.”

  The candlelight caught in Ginny’s brimming eyes. From the distance came the roaring ocean. From closer, the sound of crickets in the garden. When Ginny spoke again, her voice was quiet. “I don’t tell many people about my sister.” She smoothed the napkin in her lap. “A lot of people don’t even know that I had a sister. But it’s nice to say these things out loud.”

  Stella put her hand on Ginny’s. “It’s clear that she meant a lot to you.”

  Ginny smiled softly. After several long moments of silence, she sighed and said, “I think you have a knack for this, my dear.”

  “What do you mean?” Stella said.

  “You’re very good at getting people to open up to you, aren’t you?”

  My stomach lurched. Stella shrugged, but there was the slightest curl to her lip. Her supplicant curiosity, her personal questions, it had all been part of her plan. I knew exactly how charming and convincing Stella Bradley could be. And she knew it, too. How could I have been so stupid not to see this coming?

  “If you can get me to talk about the dreadful situation with my sister,” Ginny said. “Well. I’m not exactly an easy nut to crack. And I think your talents might be going to waste at KCN.”

  “Oh, but Ginny, I love my job,” Stella said, her tone sickeningly sweet.

  “You’ll love it more when you’re in a position that suits your talents. I’ll make a few calls next week. I don’t see why we should be squandering this”—Ginny gestured at Stella—“when we could have you in front of a camera.”

  Chapter Ten

  stella began as a general assignment reporter for KCN, working the 5 a.m. shift four days a week and a shift on Sundays. It was the gruntiest of grunt work: getting man-on-the-street interviews, banking live feed that would go unused, enduring ridicule every time she flubbed a line or threw it back to the wrong person.

  But glamour is relative. Stella was now Talent, capital T. She had an office, a small one, but it had a door and a window. She hired an agent to negotiate her contract. She used the Talent Only entrance at the side of the building. She spent a fortune upgrading her wardrobe, and several hours a day in hair and makeup. She hired a vocal coach; she wore whitening strips on her teeth every night. And none of this was silly or vain, because it was now her job to look good. Because if viewers liked watching her deliver the news, it meant they would keep the channel tuned to KCN, which meant we could charge steeper rates for advertising, which meant the rest of us could receive our salaries and health insurance and afford to buy groceries.

  For someone in Stella’s position, cable news had a benefit: twenty-four hours of airtime to fill meant plenty of opportunities to get hits. A reporter could rise through the ranks on cable far more quickly than at a network. Stella’s big moment came in November, just a few months into her new role. A gas main exploded in Hell’s Kitchen and a fire tore through nearby apartment buildings. Stella was the first reporter on the scene. KCN had it up at least five minutes before anyone else. She held her stick mic, looked confidently into the camera, and delivered flawless live shots every thirty minutes for the next twelve hours straight.

  “Who is that?” Rebecca said, looking at the wall-mounted screen in the newsroom. Night had fallen, and Stella was delivering yet another live shot in front of the smoldering buildings. The chyron blared BREAKING: TWO DEAD, SIX MISSING. “Is she new?”

  “She used to be an assistant here,” I said. At least Rebecca didn’t remember who Stella was.

  “You sure she didn’t come straight from the Mattel factory? She looks even younger than you, Violet.” Rebecca crossed her arms and watched in silence as Stella read the latest statement from the NYPD. “She’s not bad, actually.”

  “Who is?” Eliza said, as she walked past. Then she followed Rebecca’s gaze to the screen. “Oh,” she said. “Give credit to Jamie on that one. That’s his new girlfriend.”

  They had started dating right around Labor Day, and told me soon after. The careful choreography annoyed me even more than the news itself: their gentle voices, their glances back and forth, loaded with meaning. Is she okay? You go first—no, you go first. But be careful. They acted like I was so fragile I might shatter.

  “We don’t want this to be weird,” Stella said, brow knitted in sympathy.

  “Why would it be weird?” I shot back.

  “It won’t affect our friendship,” Jamie said. “Or our working together.”

  Stella took his hand, nodded earnestly. She often absorbed the mannerisms of the men she dated. For the moment, at least, Jamie was turning her into a heart-on-her-sleeve idealist. “You know how important you are to us.”

  Us. They wrapped that word around themselves like a cozy blanket. Jamie began spending the night at our apartment. Once a week, then twice, then almost every night. One morning I ran into him in the kitchen, where he was clad in boxers and a T-shirt. Instead of sitting with me, he smiled sheepishly and carried two mugs of coffee back to Stella’s bedroom.

  After he closed the door, I could hear them laughing. It was painful, how vividly I could imagine the rest of it. The mugs of coffee set aside, the minty toothbrushed kiss—Stella standing on her tiptoes to press her lips to his—then the kiss turning into more, the T-shirt and boxers easily shed. Stella had told me several times how good Jamie was in bed. How attentive, how generous, how unlike the men she’d been with before.

  That fall turned into a long, dark, trudging winter. January, February, March. I bought earplugs so I could sleep through the night without hearing them. I wondered if it would be better to leave—find a new city, a new industry, or at least a new apartment, where I wasn’t constantly in the shadow of Stella Bradley. But at the same time, I was doing well at KCN. I got a raise, and then another. With my cheap rent, I was saving plenty of money. Rebecca and Eliza gave me more responsibility. They liked my pitches. I had that news instinct, they said. I loved the work.

  And what was the issue, anyway? Why couldn’t we both succeed? I had no desire to be on camera. I had no desire to date Jamie Richter. So what was it to me if Stella succeeded in those arenas? But any attempt to be happy for her was an intellectual exercise. And there was no one to t
alk to about this, because I had lost my two closest friends to each other.

  Rebuffing Jamie had been easy for me, because what he was offering—love, affection—didn’t seem necessary. But that’s because I already had love—I had it from Stella. It was such a given that I didn’t even think about it. Not until Stella and Jamie started dating did I realize the comfortable assumption that had formed my bedrock for so long: Stella wasn’t the type to settle down with a man, and I was too busy with work to meet anyone. It was perfect. It would be just the two of us; we were all the other person needed.

  Now, that assumption was smashed to pieces. The resentment was suffocating. I mean this literally: muscles clenched behind my breastbone, making it difficult to breathe and drink and swallow. And along with this I felt guilty, too. Why couldn’t I be a better friend? Wasn’t that what friends were supposed to do—support one another, love one another, take pride in one another?

  There was this economics class I’d taken in college. One day, we learned about the concept of a zero-sum game. “Of course,” the professor said, standing at the front of the room, “not every situation is zero sum. Most situations aren’t. The real world is infinitely more complex than this abstraction. And the more complexity there is, the less likely it is that zero sum obtains.”

  That lecture lodged in my memory: the dusty chalkboard, the professor in her black sweater and gray slacks. She was pretty, young, on the tenure track. A diamond ring glittered on her left hand as she paced back and forth across the front of the room. But what I remember most was walking out of that classroom and thinking: she doesn’t get it. Of course the world is zero sum. Every gain demands a loss. The loser may not be aware that she is a loser. But the loss will reveal itself at some point. This pretty young professor was the type of woman to bake cookies for faculty meetings, to write thank-you notes after dinner parties. The type to believe that she didn’t have to be like the other guys—selfish, cutthroat—in order to get ahead. That there was such a thing as a win-win, as a rising tide.