A Good Family

by A. H. Kim

  “Well, the rumors are true. We’re making the announcement tomorrow. And, Hannah, we’re hoping you’d be willing to help open the new office,” he says. “We just signed a lease for three floors of a brand-new office tower just South of Market, with breathtaking views of San Francisco Bay. You’d have the title of Director of Legal Administration as well as a substantial increase in salary.”

  The offer is extremely flattering, and I make sure to tell him so.

  “You’re my top pick for the job, Hannah,” he says, sensing my hesitation. “You’re more than a law librarian. You’re our de facto IT guru, you outshine our best paralegals and you can even handle the receptionist desk in a pinch. Simply put, you get things done. You’re an asset to the firm, and I want to offer you this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  How could I say no?

  I’ve been to San Francisco just once, for a legal conference on e-discovery and document management best practices. It was a few years ago, and I stayed at one of those classic old hotels right in the heart of Union Square. The famous cable car route runs directly in front, transporting tourists up Nob Hill toward Fisherman’s Wharf.

  As with most conferences, the attractive location is almost irrelevant. We attendees are trapped in the hotel all day. The carpeted hallway connecting the elevators to the conference rooms is filled with vendors shilling their services, each one offering an astonishing array of company-branded swag: pens, Post-its, water bottles, coffee mugs, Koozies, hand sanitizers, lip balms, squeeze flashlights, earbuds, screen cleaners, mobile device chargers, luggage tags, tote bags, golf umbrellas.

  Breakfast, lunch and dinner are all served buffet-style, the same Sterno-fueled chafing dishes of bland American food being consumed in countless windowless banquet rooms across the country. Between such scintillating sessions as “Hold Me Closer: Litigation Holds in the Modern Corporate Environment” and “Metadata Management: A Year-End Review,” we keep ourselves awake with tasteless chocolate chip cookies and vats of bitter brown liquid posing as coffee. For those attendees in search of more sugar, the vendors in the hallway offer enormous bowls of company-logo’d M&M’s, carnival-striped bags of caramel corn and even a mobile frozen yogurt bar with a dizzying choice of mix-ins.

  On the final afternoon of the conference, we attendees feel like children on the last day of school, eager to finally break free of our keepers. Another conference attendee and I strike up a casual friendship and decide to make our way down to Tadich Grill, the oldest restaurant in the city. We treat ourselves to steaming bowls of their world-famous cioppino, the thick tomato broth redolent of garlic and loaded with seafood. The white-jacketed waiters remind me of the famously surly servers at Durgin Park, the centuries-old restaurant in downtown Boston where Owen and I had our first dress-up date.

  “God, I’m stuffed,” my conference companion says. She signs her receipt and slips the customer copy into her wallet. I sneak a peek to make sure I give the same tip on my half of the bill. “Wanna go for a walk to burn off some calories?”

  I’m happy to oblige. As we leave the warmth of the restaurant, the cold night air hits me hard, reminding me of the quote that may or may not have been uttered by Mark Twain. I pull the collar of my blazer up around my neck, realizing why all the tourists seem to be wearing the same cheap fleece jackets with the Golden Gate Bridge embroidered on the left breast. A foghorn sounds off moodily in the distance, and I half expect to run into Humphrey Bogart in search of the Maltese Falcon.

  My conference companion and I roam aimlessly around the downtown streets, giving wide berth to the homeless men bedding down for the night on flattened cardboard boxes in the doorways of dry cleaners and Starbucks that have closed for the night. We find ourselves on the Embarcadero, the scenic walkway that hugs the waterfront. The salty scent of the air reminds me of Le Refuge.

  “I think we run into Fisherman’s Wharf if we keep going left,” my companion says.

  “Then let’s go right,” I respond.

  We walk together in comfortable silence. After three days at the conference, it feels good to breathe fresh air and get some exercise. There’s a long line of people—notably diverse in race and age, but uniformly attractive and well dressed—standing patiently behind red velvet ropes in front of a nondescript building. Up near the roofline, it says “Pier 13½” in plain large script. There is no other sign on the building to indicate the purpose for the queuing up.

  “What do you think it is?” my companion asks.

  “Excuse me,” I ask a silver-haired woman who looks like she stepped out of an Eileen Fisher advertisement. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Joshua Redman,” she says. “He’s playing here tonight.”

  “Who’s Joshua Redman?” my companion whispers to me.

  “He’s a famous jazz musician,” I answer. Truth be told, I can’t remember exactly what instrument he plays, but I do remember he graduated from Harvard a few years after I would have. There was a fawning profile of him in the New Yorker a while ago.

  “Do you like jazz?” my companion asks.

  “I used to, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been to a live jazz club.”

  “What’s this place called?” my companion asks the Eileen Fisher model.

  “Stardust,” she replies.

  I stop breathing for a moment. My mind’s eye recalls images of Owen from the numerous Google searches I’ve run on him over the years.

  “Joshua Redman just finished playing a fund-raiser for the San Francisco Jazz Festival,” the Eileen Fisher model explains, “but the club owner just posted on Twitter that he’s personally driving him here for an impromptu jam session. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “That sounds cool,” my companion says. “A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

  I pull my collar even closer to my neck, but I can’t seem to stop shivering.

  “You wanna stay?” she asks.

  “Nah,” I say. “I’m freezing, and I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

  “Fine with me. I don’t really like jazz anyway. Hey, I think that’s the Ferry Building,” she says. She points to the brightly lit clock tower up ahead. “I hear there’s a place in there that has ice cream made with bourbon and Corn Flakes. You have room for a little dessert?”

  I’m walking before she even finishes her sentence.

  “Who doesn’t like ice cream?” I respond.

  * * *

  Despite the attractive potential of moving to San Francisco, there’s no way I can justify accepting the job, not with Sam and the girls. But I also can’t bear to waste the opportunity; it’s too good to pass up.

  “What about Tracy?” I suggest.

  “Tracy? Who’s Tracy?” Old Man Barker asks.

  “She’s the stylish young woman who supports me in the library. The one who helped me come up with all the questions for The Amazing Res Ipsa Loquitur.”

  Old Man Barker looks at me blankly.

  “She’s the one who helped cite-check that enormous brief we wrote for the DC Circuit last fall. She also organized that citywide scavenger hunt for the summer associates.”

  I can tell this isn’t ringing any bells.

  “She’s the black girl. The one with the great legs. The one you called Whitney Houston at last year’s holiday party.”

  “Oh, why didn’t you say so,” Old Man Barker says. “Of course, I remember Whitney.”

  “Tracy,” I correct him. “Anyway, I think Tracy would be the perfect person to help set up the new San Francisco office.”

  Old Man Barker looks doubtful. “She’ll have to submit a résumé,” he says.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And go through the normal interview process.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find her very capable.”

 
“We usually ask for references, but...”

  “Mr. Barker, I hope you’ll take my word for it. I can think of no one better than Tracy to help open the new San Francisco office.”

  A couple weeks later, a group of us gathers at Bombay Palace, an upscale Indian restaurant not far from the firm but far enough that everyone at Tracy’s impromptu going-away celebration feels comfortable ordering several rounds of Kingfisher beer. Andre, the handsome security guy, made the mistake of telling the waitress that he liked his food spicy, and everyone is now suffering the consequences. We’re all sweating like Nixon.

  “When Old Man Barker called me into his office, I practically shit my pants,” Tracy says, and the circle of friends around her laughs.

  “Were you worried he found out about the midnight brownie deliveries?” one friend asks, reaching for another piece of naan to absorb the spiciness.

  “Or the mysterious stains on the Barker Conference Room carpeting after the Summer Associates Welcome Party last year?” another friend adds.

  “Hey, watch it, you guys,” Tracy says, “Hannah’s here.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Hannah,” the mailroom boy says. “She’s not your boss anymore. Isn’t that right, Hannah?”

  All eyes turn to me.

  “That’s right,” I say, giving Tracy a warm smile. “Tracy’s got no reason to worry about me anymore.”

  hannah

  thirty-three

  I haven’t spoken with Sam for nearly a month since my trip to Tiffany’s. Honestly, it isn’t easy. Every morning, I have to remind myself: I’m mad at Sam. I’m not going to call to check in on the girls. I’m not going to see how his day is going.

  At the end of the first week of silent treatment, I shoot him a quick email—I can’t come to Princeton this weekend; tell the girls I’m sorry—and expect him to call to ask why. Instead, he just emails back, Okay, have a nice wknd. The same thing happens the next week. I start to wonder if Sam notices my absence from his life.

  It’s the week before Christmas, and I’m sitting at work when an email alert flashes in the corner of my screen. It’s from Sam.

  Hey, Hannah, hope you’re doing okay. Could I ask a favor? Could you get the Xmas decorations set up at Le Refuge before I get there with the girls on Thursday night? Eva and Martin won’t answer my texts, and I know I can trust you to make sure everything is perfect. Thanks so much. Love you, Sam.

  I feel conflicted. It’s almost Christmas. It’s one thing to punish my brother for his gift-giving transgression, but the girls? Why should they suffer? They’ve done nothing wrong. And besides, I miss them.

  I’ll leave work early on Wednesday, I type. Everything will be ready by the time you arrive. My fingers hover over the keyboard.

  Love you, too, I write before pressing Send.

  * * *

  I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s like that children’s book I used to read to the girls, If You Give a Moose a Muffin. When I stop off at the Home Depot just outside St. Michaels, it’s with the express purpose of buying one, just one, Christmas tree. I pick out a tall noble fir, not as fresh or fragrant as the trees Alex used to get from that specialty tree farm in Maine, but it’s perfectly fine and a fraction of the price. A nice young man wearing a bright orange apron puts my selection on a hand truck and starts wheeling it toward the checkout when my eyes seize upon a tiny tree. It reminds me of Charlie Brown, which, in turn, reminds me of Ally.

  “How much for the small tree?” I ask, pointing.

  “That one’s ten dollars.”

  What a bargain. How can I pass it up? I nod to the young man, who adds the small tree to the hand truck. But if I get a tree for Ally, I have to get one for Claire, too, and if I go through the bother of buying three trees, it doesn’t make sense not to buy a fourth. Otherwise, I can hear the cries of disappointment from the girls: “Where’s Mommy’s tree? What happened to Mommy’s tree?” Forty more dollars is a small price to pay for Claire and Ally’s happiness.

  “That’ll be $145,” the cashier announces. It’s less than the cost of one of Alex’s fancy designer trees. I feel a mild sense of triumph as I hand over my credit card.

  “Which one’s your truck, ma’am?” the young man in the bright orange apron asks.

  Truck? I look out and see my subcompact rental dwarfed by the pickups and SUVs in the dimly lit lot.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t have a truck. I should have thought of that.”

  “We offer delivery service for fifty to a hundred dollars, depending on your location,” the cashier says helpfully. “Our delivery guy is out on a call right now, but he should be back in an hour, if you want to wait.”

  I should probably just return the three smaller trees and have the young man strap the largest tree to my car roof, but in my mind’s eye, I can already see the girls reveling in the magical holiday scene. Four sparkling trees, just like always.

  “That would be great,” I say.

  The next evening, my hands are still sticky from tree sap as I clutch my coat tight around my neck, trying to ward off the icy Chesapeake wind. I dart between the clusters of happy holiday-goers strolling around St. Michaels’s retail district. Most are tourists visiting for the day, taking in the Christmas decorations that festoon the four-block main street and ogling the expensive offerings in the posh shop windows. The cozy pubs and restaurants are full of boisterous patrons taking advantage of the seasonal excuse to eat and drink to excess, although, truth be told, none of them look like they’ve been holding themselves back the rest of the year.

  I’m not tempted by the jewels or the booze. I’ve got more important things to do.

  “‘Marzipan, ginger beer and heavy whipping cream,’” I read off my shopping list as I enter St. Michaels’s Gourmet Galley.

  Claire and Ally loved the tiny marzipan treats I made last year, the sweet almond paste tinted and molded to look like their favorite emojis, and they were crushed when I told them I hadn’t had time to make them this year. I imagine their joyful faces tomorrow morning when they dump out their Christmas stockings on the floor and see that Santa came through after all. I’m still debating whether to make a poo-shaped marzipan this year.

  Martin and Karen decided to spend Christmas at their own home, but Eva and Alex begrudgingly agreed to come at the last minute. Sam has selected the nor’easter as the signature cocktail of the week, and it’s a sign of how tense everyone feels that, in just one day together, we’ve already gone through our entire supply of ginger beer. We’re still good on bourbon, however, as Sam makes sure to buy that by the case.

  I can’t remember exactly why we need whipping cream. And I have this nagging feeling there’s something else. Something I didn’t put on the list.

  It’s almost claustrophobically crowded in the small shop. Festive out-of-towners needing to warm up from the cold are chatting with the cheesemonger over slivers of Humboldt Fog and Neal’s Yard cheddar. Regal housekeepers in their secondhand mohair coats exchange holiday greetings with red-faced butchers as they wait for their huge hunks of meat to be wrapped like presents in pure white paper. As I push my cart through the crowd, I’m still mad at Sam about the diamond earrings, although I haven’t had the nerve to mention it to him. If fraudulent gift giving were a crime, the statute of limitations would have come and gone a long time ago. It’s been over ten years since that fortieth birthday celebration.

  I find the marzipan in the baking aisle. The two small tubes look lonely sitting at the bottom of the oversize grocery cart. Despite my disappointment with Sam, I feel compelled to give him another chance. After all, Christmas is the season of forgiveness. Or is it? It’s been a long time since I’ve been to church.

  “Senorita Hannah,” someone calls from the back corner of the shop. I turn around and see the familiar faces of Jorge and Maria, the lovely Mexican couple that has cooked, cleaned and gene
rally taken care of Sam and Beth and the girls ever since I can remember.

  I give each of them a warm hug. In a world where most people stand at least six inches taller than me, I feel a special kinship with Jorge and Maria, who are similarly short.

  “Jorge, Maria, how wonderful to see you! ¿Cómo estás?”

  “We are well,” Maria responds while Jorge nods and smiles.

  “What are you doing here in St. Michaels?”

  “We find work with another family here. But we miss nuestros ángeles Claire and Ally.”

  I smile appreciatively. Maria has always been so kind to the girls. She even encouraged them to call her abuela, which means a lot to me given that my nieces have no grandmothers of their own.

  “We miss you, too,” I say, “especially the girls. I hope our letter of recommendation helped.” Out of respect for their pride, I don’t mention the two-month bonus I withdrew from my own savings account to go along with the letter of recommendation I drafted for Sam to give to them. The couple looks at one another with knit brows. I can’t tell whether they don’t understand me or whether I’ve insulted them somehow.

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” I ask in Spanish.

  Jorge and Maria start to argue, with Jorge whispering gently and Maria shaking her head crossly. My Spanish is rusty, but I get the drift of their conversation. Sam didn’t give them any recommendation.

  “Did he give you the bonus?” I ask, although I already know the answer. The lovely couple shake their heads again. They explain Sam hadn’t paid them for nearly four months, so they finally had no choice but to quit. This was months before Sam told me he had decided to let Jorge and Maria go. I think back to that night in the fall when the girls and I were searching for The Cheesecake Factory permission slip. The house had looked uncharacteristically untidy. I’m ashamed to remember I thought Maria was shirking her duties and taking unfair advantage of Sam in Beth’s absence.