by A. H. Kim
We grab our trays of the infamous kung pao chicken, along with thick slices of banana cream pie, and sit down at our usual table by the window. While Juanita and Deb eat, I pull out a fresh legal pad and ballpoint pen that I bought from commissary earlier this week.
“Whatcha writin’?” Deb asks.
“Another letter to Hannah, I bet,” Juanita says.
“Just making sure she gets the girls’ back-to-school supplies,” I say. “And updates my wish list on Amazon.”
“Did you thank her for sending me those books on my birthday?” Juanita says.
“No need to—it’s one of the fringe benefits of being my bunkie,” I reply.
I notice Juanita silently pushing over her piece of pie to Deb, who’s already finished up everything on her own tray.
“I’m lucky to be a friend with benefits,” Juanita says.
I have to laugh at Juanita sometimes. Even though she’s completely fluent, there are moments when you can tell English is her second language.
“I don’t think that’s what you meant,” I say.
Juanita’s not paying any attention to me. She uses her index finger to wipe some whipped cream off the corner of Deb’s mouth and then sticks her finger in her own mouth. Neither one of them is paying any attention to me. They’ve only got eyes for each other.
“Hey, you two,” I say. “What’s going on?”
Juanita turns bright red. Deb smiles and reaches for Juanita’s hand.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised,” Deb says. “Didn’t ya notice how much time I been spendin’ around ya guys? Or did ya think I was tryin’ to get some insider information on Big Pharma’s next hot drug?” She breaks out in a big belly laugh.
It’s one of the rare occasions where I’m speechless.
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“I think you heard me,” Deb says.
“So, you know I used to work for God Hälsa?”
“C’mon, Lindstrom,” Deb says. “You’re a celebrity. You were in People and on frickin’ TMZ. Everyone around here knows what you used to do. Some gals even used to take bets on what you’d wear to court. When they heard you were coming here instead of getting sent to Danbury, they almost threw a party. They ain’t been so excited since Martha left.”
“And Sugar? You’re not pissed at me about her?”
“Sugar was fucked up from the moment she was born to her cokehead mom and drug dealer dad. Metamin and me were the only things that kept her halfway sane. Once she got outta here and didn’t have us anymore, she crawled back into her crack pipe. Freedom was what killed her. Had nothin’ to do with you.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say.
“I hope you’re not upset,” Juanita says. “I know you thought maybe you and Deb...”
Oh. My. God. The two of them are worried about hurting my feelings.
“No, not at all,” I say. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
Deb reaches over and grabs Juanita’s ass, which makes Juanita blush even redder.
“Sorry, Lindstrom,” Deb says, “but you’re not my type. You’re just too damn skinny.”
* * *
It was over a year after Claire was born. The longest Charlotte and I had ever been apart. After months of my begging, Charlotte was finally willing to meet with me at the Champagne Bar in the Plaza Hotel and talk it out.
“You’ve gotten too skinny,” she says. “I thought new moms were supposed to get fat.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not like most women,” I say. “And I’m not too skinny.”
“I know, I know,” Charlotte interrupts. “You can never be too rich or too thin.”
“You know me so well,” I say. I place a signature red Cartier box on the table.
“And you know me so well,” Charlotte says. She can barely contain her excitement. She opens the box, and inside, there’s a five-carat canary diamond ring. Platinum-set. Cushion-cut.
“I’ve missed you, Charlotte,” I say, reaching to put the ring on her finger.
Good thing I already checked in to the suite upstairs, because we can barely wait for the waiter to arrive with the bill before we tumble over one another to rekindle the spark that never really went out. Charlotte and I get back together, just as I predicted. And true to his word, Sam is good at sharing.
We arrange it so that I spend alternating weeks in alternating homes. One week, I’m the perfectly dressed Fortune 500 executive living with her perfectly handsome hunk of a husband and two perfectly adorable children in our perfectly designer-decorated Princeton home. The next week, I’m “traveling on business” or “telecommuting” and indulging in quality time with Charlotte at Le Refuge or various five-star hotels across the globe.
It’s the night of AdWeek’s annual Brand Genius Awards. They’re the Oscars of Madison Avenue. Or maybe the Golden Globes would be more accurate. There’s an open bar and plenty of top-shelf cocktails to keep the evening flowing.
I don’t need any artificial stimulants. I’m buzzing from the natural high of winning Best Ad Campaign in the pharmaceutical category.
I am at the very top of my professional game. Little do I know that I’ll be going to prison less than two years later. But tonight, all is good in the world.
For the first time in history, the Brand Genius Awards are swept by women. In honor of this milestone, AdWeek persuades Ellen DeGeneres, America’s Sapphic sweetheart, to emcee the event.
“Oh my God, is that Portia de Rossi?” everyone whispers.
We all stare at the blindingly beautiful blonde in the front row. Charlotte and I are both thunderstruck. We remember seeing her for the first time as Nelle Porter in Ally McBeal.
Goodbye Buttercup, Hello Nelle.
For the opening sequence, AdWeek assembles a montage of classic female-targeted ads from the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s, including the Mystery Date board game (“when you open the door, will your date be a dream...or a dud?”), Secret deodorant (“strong enough for a man, but made for a woman”), Virginia Slims cigarettes (“you’ve come a long way, baby”) and everyone’s all-time favorite, Enjoli perfume.
I recall spying that sleek purple-helmeted bottle in the perfume counter of the Rexall pharmacy when I was young, curious to understand its magic powers while at the same time hoping to avoid any chance encounters with my classmates as my mother stocked up on Kotex maxi-pads and Summer’s Eve douche.
“I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and never, ever let you forget you’re a man,” Ellen sings slightly off-key as the video montage finishes up. The enthusiastic audience roars in recognition.
“I don’t know the Madison Avenue genius who came up with that ad campaign,” Ellen continues in her charming deadpan, “but he sure as hell is going home empty-handed tonight.”
Everyone goes wild.
After the awards ceremony, Charlotte and I are exhausted. Exhausted but exhilarated. We’re both reclining on the smooth leather back seat of the limo, headed back to Princeton.
“Damn, I’ve got that stupid song stuck in my head,” Charlotte mutters. She kicks off her five-inch Giuseppe Zanottis. I don’t need to ask what song she’s talking about. It’s stuck in my head, too.
“I can bring home the bacon...” I start to sing.
“No,” Charlotte begs. “Please don’t.” She leans over to kiss me.
“One stop or two?” the driver asks.
I hesitate. I know the answer, but I hesitate anyway.
“Two,” Charlotte responds.
“I could tell Sam I was suddenly called away on business,” I suggest.
“Oh, that’ll work for sure. Sam will never see through that.”
“I don’t care if he sees through it,” I pout.
“Beth,” Charlotte cautions.
“What?
”
“Be fair,” she sighs.
“I don’t want to be fair. I want to be with you.”
“Beth, you are with me. But this is your week to spend with Sam and the girls.”
“I’m tired of keeping up appearances. I never know which week I’m supposed to be with Sam and which ones I’m allowed to be with you, which weekends we’re spending in Princeton and which ones we can sneak away to Le Refuge.”
“Ah yes, the perils of a double life,” Charlotte says dramatically.
“Speaking of Le Refuge, did you do something with that frame I usually keep on the nightstand?”
“You mean the Lindstrom family triptych?”
“Yeah, I didn’t see it the last time we were there.”
“I couldn’t stand seeing Sam smiling at me every time we were fucking, so I put it away in your paper pantry.”
“You mean the wrapping room.”
“Whatever.”
“Well, don’t do that. Hannah gave us that frame, and I rather like it.”
Charlotte turns her body away from me and looks out the car window.
“Okay, if you don’t want it at Le Refuge, I’ll just put it in the Princeton house,” I say.
I pull Charlotte’s feet onto my lap and give them a good, hard rub. Karen once told me about pressure points in the foot that can help relieve stress and tension. I wish I could remember where they are.
“Honestly, Charlotte, I think it’s time to stop with this charade. Did you see Neil Patrick Harris in the front row tonight? He gets to have the career of his dreams and two beautiful kids and live with the person he loves.”
“Darling, you’re amazing, but you’re no Neil Patrick Harris.”
“I’m not joking,” I say.
“You’d be committing career suicide,” Charlotte warns. “You’re the only female senior executive in the whole company. Those chauvinist pigs are stuck in the Stone Age. They can barely tolerate having a woman in their ranks. I don’t think they’re ready for a dyke.”
“Things have changed,” I say. “Lipstick lesbians like us are a dime a dozen. No one cares anymore. Hell, there are more same-sex weddings featured in the New York Times style section than there are straight ones these days.”
“What about the girls?” Charlotte asks. “Are they really ready to costar in the after-school special I Have Two Mommies? Never mind the psychological stress of being the kid of divorced parents. This is the whole reason I didn’t want kids in the first place. Now you have to think about them instead of just doing what you want. You have to think about the girls before you make any rash decisions you’ll later regret.”
Our car emerges from the Holland Tunnel. The bright lights of the city are behind us, and we head into the dull gray maze of steel and concrete that is the New Jersey Turnpike.
I close my eyes and try to think. I’m thirty-nine years old. Next year, I’ll enter my fifth decade of life. Mother died at the age of forty-four. Would she have lived her life differently if she’d known how little time she had?
The year is drawing to an end. Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and then it’ll be Christmas before you know it. I’ve already told Alex to go ahead and order the trees from Maine and the straw goats from those enterprising Swedish nuns.
Claire and Ally were so happy when they woke up at Le Refuge last Christmas. It really was a magical winter wonderland scene. Charlotte is right: I have to think about the girls instead of just doing what I want.
But children are resilient. Everyone says so. After Christmas, one day soon in the new year, I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask Sam for a divorce.
Because I’m worth it.
hannah
twenty-eight
The days are getting shorter now. Even though summer barely ended, the cold winds and dim lighting make it feel like winter is just around the corner. It’s been an unusually long week at work. Thankfully there’s only one more day before the weekend. I log off my work computer and start reaching for my overcoat when my cell phone buzzes. The screen reads Sam@Home. I pick up right away.
“Auntie Hannah,” Claire says, “do you know where Daddy is?”
“Claire, honey, are you okay?” It’s past six o’clock. Sam usually comes home by five in the afternoon to relieve Grace, the babysitter, so she can get back to her dorm in time for dinner.
“Yeah, me and Ally are here with Grace, but Daddy didn’t come home yet.”
I ask Claire to put Grace on the line, apologize profusely and get her to agree to stay a couple more hours with the girls until I can get there. I don’t have time to go back to Hoboken to pick up my weekend bag. Getting myself to Princeton as soon as possible is the top priority.
Where are you? The girls called so I’m headed to Princeton right now, I text Sam on my way to the train station. There’s no answer. I keep checking my phone every few minutes as the train wends its way toward Princeton, as I sit in the taxicab driving me to Sam and Beth’s house, even as I walk up the brick walkway to the front door. The screen remains blank.
“Auntie Hannah!” the girls cheer as I enter the foyer.
“Grace, I’m so sorry about this,” I say, slipping off my shoes and reaching into my purse for my wallet. “I got here as soon as I could. There’s a cab waiting outside to take you back to school. I’ve already prepaid him. How much do I owe you?”
Grace casts her eyes sideways to the girls at her elbows.
“Claire and Ally,” I say, “hug Grace goodbye and go check the freezer to see what you want for dinner.” There were at least two homemade lasagnas and a chicken tetrazzini in the freezer the last time I checked.
As soon as the girls are gone, I ask Grace if there’s something wrong. She tells me this isn’t the first time Sam’s been late, although he usually texts or calls in advance. Sam promised to pay Grace double her ten-dollar hourly rate for anything beyond her normal working hours, but he’s always been short on cash.
“Has he paid your regular wages?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Oh yeah, that’s fine,” Grace says. “I get two hundred dollars automatically transferred to my bank every week. That’s never been a problem.”
Grace has been working for Sam and Beth for over two years, ever since she was a sophomore. Beth would’ve set up the automatic payment arrangement when they hired her. Sam’s never been good with computers or finances; he wouldn’t know how to change the arrangement even if he wanted to.
I can’t help but do the mental math: two hundred dollars per week times roughly thirty or forty weeks of work in a year. It’s way more than the nineteen-hundred-dollar annual IRS threshold. I can’t imagine they’ve been withholding for Social Security and FICA or paying the required taxes.
“How much does Sam owe you for overtime?”
“I haven’t been keeping super close track,” Grace says. I can tell she’s lying. Grace’s parents own a dry-cleaning store in Pittsburgh. Grace helped out at the register every day since she was old enough to count. Grace was trained to keep super close track of money.
“Come on, Grace, tell me what Sam owes you.” As our conversation drags, I think about the taxi driver in the driveway, the minutes ticking away and the waiting charges piling up.
“Like, maybe, nine hundred?” Grace says, her voice inflecting upward.
I’d been expecting to hear a hundred dollars, maybe two hundred, but nine hundred dollars takes my breath away. How many nights has Sam been coming home late? And why?
I give Grace all the money in my wallet—roughly sixty dollars—and write her a check for the remainder. Grace looks almost guilty as I make the notation in my check register and rip the check carefully from the checkbook.
“Um, this is probably a really bad time to bring this up,” she says, accepting the check with both hands, Korean-style, “but I’m going
to be graduating next spring.” Her voice inflects upward again, as if this is a question rather than a statement.
I hadn’t thought about it before, but of course we’ll need to find a replacement for Grace. Sam needs someone who can pick up the girls from school and watch them until he comes home from work, and Grace can’t be expected to do it forever. Normally, I’d suggest Maria or Jorge take on these additional responsibilities, but I’ve been urging Sam to let them go, so that’s not a long-term solution.
“Oh, congratulations,” I say. I’m grateful Grace is giving us so much advance notice.
“My parents say I’ve saved up enough money to get me through the end of the school year, so they said I could take spring semester off—you know, so I can enjoy my last semester of college?”
It takes me a moment to realize she’s not taking spring semester off from school. She’s taking it off from work. She’s quitting.
“Can you stay with us through the end of the year?” I ask.
“Mrs. Lindstrom usually gave me December off,” Grace says. “You know, to study for exams and stuff?”
“Of course, that makes sense. Can you work through the end of November?” I ask. That’s just five weeks away.
“Yeah, definitely,” Grace says, slipping on her jacket and heading outside.
As the cab drives away, I check my phone again, but there’s no response.
“Where are you, Sam?” I say to myself.
After dinner, I give Ally a bath and zip her into footie pajamas. I’ve sent Sam three more texts—all unanswered—and scoured the local news websites for reports of car accidents or other calamities. I’m tempted to call the police but Sam’s not even four hours late. I don’t know what the minimum number of hours is to report a missing person, but I’m pretty sure it’s more than four. I don’t want to call and be reprimanded for wasting precious police resources.
I’m snuggling with Ally in bed, reading her a book, when Claire bursts into the room and yells, “Oh my God, Auntie Hannah, tomorrow’s my field trip to The Cheesecake Factory, and I just remembered my teacher told me that Daddy didn’t turn in my permission slip.”
