I Was Told It Would Get Easier

by Abbi Waxman

  He appeared to be mildly uncomfortable, which is one of his tells. John has never been mildly uncomfortable in his life; he was about to lay on a thick layer of BS.

  “Well, the #MeToo thing, the harassment thing . . .”

  I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.

  “The board is concerned if we promote too many women at once, it will look like we’re reacting to social pressure.”

  “Social pressure to promote capable people?”

  “Women.”

  “Which other women are up for partnership?”

  “Janet Manolo. Just Janet.”

  I took a breath. “And the board thinks making two women partner in one year is too many? Last year you made three men partners and no one wondered about that.” I suddenly thought of the RBG quote about enough women on the Supreme Court being nine.

  He capped and uncapped a pen. “Well, there was the thing with Jackson . . .”

  Jackson was a dirty word around the office. He was a partner who’d been fired earlier that year, much to the satisfaction of every other lawyer in Los Angeles, most of whom had hated him for years. I frowned at John and angled my head slightly. “The ‘thing’ being the way he offered an assistant a gram of coke to show him her breasts? Are we calling that a ‘thing’ now? It was illegal, it was repulsive, and it was why he got fired and sued in civil court. What on earth does Jackson’s inability to do his job have anything to do with Valentina’s brilliance at hers?”

  “It’s not me, Jessica, it’s the board. They’re worried about how it looks.”

  I frowned, and bounced my foot. “John, you’re forgetting who you’re talking to. Please spell out what you mean, because I’m going out of town in two days and I don’t have time to parse and reparse what you’re saying, looking for clues.”

  John pretended to consider whether to speak plainly or not, when obviously he’d been working up to this moment the whole time. He’d manipulated me into asking him to do it so he could make me responsible. I think I’m pretty good at directing testimony, but John really is a master.

  He turned up his palms. “Look, if you really want me to spell it out . . .”

  I said nothing. Fool me once.

  John hesitated, which he only ever does on purpose. “Valentina is a woman. She’s . . .” Again, pretending to be uncomfortable, John continued, “A very attractive woman. The board is concerned if we promote her to partner this year, this soon after the Jackson thing . . .”

  I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward. “Stop calling it a ‘thing,’ John, like it was an adorable eccentricity. He didn’t wear cowboy hats in the office or collect Disney miniatures. He broke several laws, state and federal, traumatized another human being, and cost the firm millions of dollars and untold reputation points.”

  “Precisely. The board is worried if we make Valentina a partner this year, people will think it’s payback for Jackson. That he did something to her, and we’re making her a partner to keep her quiet.”

  I considered this for a moment. It was perfect in its evil, sexist subtlety.

  “Let me see if I understand you, John.”

  He raised his eyebrows at me, and for a split second I saw that he was actually unsure what I was going to say. He doesn’t like to be in that position. I put him out of his misery.

  “You’re saying that a brilliant lawyer, a woman who has worked for the firm for over a decade, brought in major clients and extensive revenue, who regularly speaks on international panels and authors articles in journals, in two languages—”

  “I know Valentina is qualified, Jessica.”

  I raised my hand. “You’re saying this person cannot be promoted as she deserves because another lawyer—a male lawyer—behaved like a total pig.”

  “Well, people might assume . . .”

  “That she only got promoted because she had dirt on Jackson? The implication being that he assaulted her, too, but rather than coldcock him into next week and have him arrested, she would use it to further her own career?”

  For the first time in my experience, John genuinely looked uncomfortable.

  “You know how people talk, Jessica.”

  I shook my head. “No, John, I know how male lawyers talk, and how they assume other people think. Valentina deserves to make partner because of her work. That should be the only criterion, John, and would be the only criterion if she were a man.” I was steamed. “Let me be very clear. If you don’t promote Valentina—and Janet, who also deserves it—I will resign in protest.”

  John looked at me calmly, and I suddenly wondered if he’d wanted to force me into this position all along. “If you do that, people will think it’s because of Jackson, too.”

  I took a breath. “John, not everyone looks at the actions of women and assumes that somewhere a man is responsible for them. That’s you.”

  He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “My hands are tied on this one, Jess. The board . . .”

  “That’s bullshit, John”—I pointed at him—“and you know it.”

  “I promise I’ll make them partners next year. We’re pretty partner-heavy right now anyway.”

  I looked at him. “So you won’t be making any partners this year, then?”

  Long pause.

  “Well, no, we’ll be making Maier and Mako partners. They’re excellent lawyers.”

  “And have penises.”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “How are their penises irrelevant but Valentina and Janet’s ovaries are a total deal breaker?” My voice trembled, and I suddenly felt myself wanting to cry with anger, which is so not my favorite feeling. I’d love to become enraged without getting emotional, but that’s just not how I work. If I’m not emotional, I don’t lose my temper. You see the problem? Unfortunately, as I said earlier, John can smell salt water a mile away.

  He got up and came around the desk. “Jess, don’t get all upset.” He patted me on the shoulder, as if I were a horse. A short horse sitting in a chair, but it was that kind of reassuring touch he was going for.

  “I’m not upset, John, I’m furious.”

  “Well, you look upset.” He got up to go back to his chair. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? We’ll be telling Valentina and Janet the news later, and I know it would be hard for you to be here.”

  I swear to you I felt my tears getting sucked back into my tear ducts. “You’re telling them last thing on a Friday? That’s kind of a dick move.”

  He shrugged. “It’s just business, Jess.”

  “No, John, it’s blatant sexism and total bullshit.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

  I stood up. “It’s more than an opinion, it’s the truth. You had Jackson working here for months after rumors started, and it was only when there were male witnesses that you started paying attention. Now you’re literally not promoting someone because of their gender, which is illegal.” I could feel my heart pounding.

  John laughed, “What, you’re going to sue me now? You’re a partner, too, Jessica, you have a responsibility to the firm. And to yourself—your share of the corporate profits this year will pay for several years of college.” He smiled at me and said, “Aren’t you going on a college tour with Emma next week? Just wait till those tuition bills start rolling in, you’ll soon stop worrying about anyone else’s salary.”

  I stared at him, and while I hate to use a cliché, the blood was literally rushing in my ears. Tears were pricking my eyes again—traitors—but I knew what I wanted to say.

  “John, it’s not about salary. It’s about equity.”

  “Jessica, their time will come. I promise.”

  “Their time is now, John, or I walk.”

  He shook his head at me. “Don’t be silly, Jessica. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you, you’
re too good for that.”

  “Are you going to make them partners?”

  “No.”

  “Then I quit.” I turned and walked to the door.

  “Jessica, don’t be so childish.”

  I paused and turned on my heel like a boss. “Why don’t you go and say that to the board, John, then give me a call. I’m out next week, as you say, and I won’t announce my resignation until I’m back. Fix it, John.”

  I opened the door. “And by the way, my daughter’s name is Emily, not Emma.” I walked out, closing the door behind me.

  Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. Now what was I going to do?

  * * *

  • • •

  I got into my car and did what women have done since the dawn of time: I called another woman. Presumably, an ancient woman had to actually run over to her friend’s cave, but thanks to technology, our best friends are now carried around in our pockets, conveniently nestled close at hand.

  Frances and I became friends when our kids were toddlers, meeting at a “mommy and me” music class that made overenthusiastic use of the cowbell. I’d been dutifully chiming along to “Baby Beluga” for the eighteenth time when I happened to catch Frances’s eye across the circle, whereupon she’d swiftly mimed cutting her own throat, and the rest is history.

  The phone rang a couple of times, and then she picked up. “Frances’s Home for Unloved Mothers. We appreciate you when no one else does.”

  “I just threatened to quit my job.”

  “Empty threat or actual plan?” This is one of Frances’s greatest strengths: She always hits the ground running. She could open her front door to find the entire neighborhood on fire and she’d simply turn around and fetch a bucket of water. She’s got the filthiest mouth of anyone I’ve ever met, but she’s rock solid.

  “Unclear.”

  She sighed. “Tell me.”

  “John . . .”

  “Your dickish boss John, or the John who works at the dry cleaner’s?”

  “My boss. Why would I have threatened the dry cleaner that I was going to quit?”

  “Good point.”

  “Besides, the dry cleaner guy isn’t John.”

  “He is.”

  “He’s not. He’s Johnson.”

  “He introduced himself to me as John.”

  “Probably because his parents named him after a slang term for ‘penis,’ but I know the truth.”

  “You’re drifting, get back to the story.”

  “So, John wasn’t going to promote Val and another woman to partner because of the scandal.”

  “The coke-for-tits scandal?”

  I frowned. “Yes, has there been another scandal I missed?”

  “I don’t fucking know, I don’t work there, do I?” There was a scuffling sound in the background. “Hang on, Jess, the puppy is stuck in the duvet cover.” She put the phone down on something, and I could hear her untangling the dog. “I’m back.”

  “Yes, the coke-for-tits guy. How did the puppy get in the duvet?”

  “Accidentally, obviously. You think he was helping me fold the laundry?”

  “No, although that would be helpful.”

  “Right? Fuck catching Frisbees, folding sheets is definitely Best in Show.”

  “Anyway, John said the board didn’t want to seem to be appeasing the ‘#MeToo-ers’ . . . ”

  “Whoever they are . . .”

  “Precisely, so I said if he didn’t promote them, I would walk.”

  “And he said?”

  “He said that would be foolish.”

  “And you said?”

  “I repeated my threat and walked out.”

  There was a pause while she considered this. Then: “Do you think I was stupid to get a puppy?”

  “A hundred percent, but the kids were very persuasive.”

  She sighed. “I think you did the right thing. He doesn’t want to lose you, and if you end up leaving, you can take the other two women with you and start your own firm. It’ll be fun, you can name it after yourselves and order new letterhead.”

  I sighed. “And I’m leaving day after tomorrow for the college tour.”

  She laughed. “There you go, that’ll be a total freaking disaster and therefore a great distraction from the impending end of your career.”

  “Wow, that’s super supportive.”

  “I scare because I care.”

  “Thanks.”

  “In other news, this morning Sasha told me I make her want to jump off a cliff.”

  “What prompted that?”

  “I said her uniform skirt was too short.”

  “And that gave rise to suicidal ideation?”

  “Teenagers. They’re all about balance and reason.”

  “Good point.” I pulled up in front of the house. “I’m home. Talk to you later.”

  “We never close,” she said, and hung up.

  * * *

  • • •

  My god, I’m grateful for the friendship of women. A strong female friendship is like a romance that kept its mystery and never beached itself on the shores of exhausted intimacy. It was the first six weeks of a new relationship, except, you know, forever. Friends listen carefully. They poke fun at each other, keep favorite cookies on hand, and can tell the difference between hormonal and genuinely pissed off. They’re Team You when you’re arguing with your partner, Team Both of You against the children, and Team All of You against the world.

  Plus, you love their children. Not like you love your own, but close. Sasha and Emily are only a few months apart in age and have been tight as ticks their entire lives. They take each other for granted, unlike their mothers.

  Frances likes silver more than gold, won’t eat eggplant, and thinks prostitution should be legalized. She knows I disagree with her about the eggplant and the jewelry but agree on the hookers. I knew she was The Friend for Me when one day she showed up at my door with toilet paper because she’d seen it written on the back of my hand and knew I hadn’t made it to the store that day, and she had. Name me one husband who would do that. That’s right. None.

  2

  EMILY BURNSTEIN, 16,

  STRESSED BEYOND BELIEF

  This week cannot end soon enough.

  I got off the bus and walked through the school gate. Deep breath, Emily. Keep your head down and push through. Straight to the library through the side door, hide in European History till first bell, front of the class and eyes forward until lunch, back in the library, Comparative Religion this time, no one’s ever there. Two classes after lunch, take the side gate and home by four. Out of town by lunch on Sunday and gone for a week. Plenty long enough for the dust to settle.

  Skidding between two classes, I had no option but to take the upstairs hallway, and—because God hates me—the principal, Mrs. Bandin, was coming out of her office. I had literally just crossed the point in the hallway where all other avenues of escape were closed—I would have walked into the janitor’s closet if I could have—so I panicked internally and glided along like nothing was wrong.

  She watched me come, smiled at me as I passed, and I’m pretty sure watched me the whole way down the corridor.

  I swear to you . . . she knows.

  Seven days with my mom, away from here—any other time it could feel like a punishment, but right now it’s the perfect escape.

  JESSICA

  I walked into the house. It was quiet, unless you count the distant sound of a badly loaded plate gonging in the dishwasher. Emily was still at school, where she’d much rather be than at home with me, and the live-in nanny, Anna, lives a daytime life I know nothing about. I used to think I couldn’t wait for the house to be all mine again, when every surface wouldn’t be covered with crusty baby plates or plastic dogs with impossibly long eyelashes or packs of Costco bab
y wipes. But of course, silence comes in many flavors.

  Let me be clear: I love being a mom, and when Emily was little it was wonderful. She was a fat, round, good-humored baby, like sunshine dipped in butter. When she said her first word, and it was Mom, I felt like I won the lottery. Of course, the word soon became a jabbing spear in my side every time it was uttered, because it was uttered about forty thousand times a day.

  “Mom, why . . .”

  “Mom, what . . .”

  “Mom, who . . .”

  And of course, just Mom . . . said in a tone of voice or frequency of repetition that, were it weaponized in some formal way, would probably end all human conflict. One afternoon of solid, endless requests for things that are immediately thrown on the ground or for food that is “made wrong” or for toys that are “not right” would make anyone agree to anything. But you get the hang of it, and the soft hand resting on your arm while you read, the snuffly kisses in the middle of the night, and the running jump when you get home from work are sweet rewards.

  Not to mention the development of new, albeit nontransferable skills: the ability to pause like a hare and hear the sound of crayons moving over wallpaper three rooms away. The mastery of pea balancing on a shallow plate so none of them roll into the string cheese (thereby rendering themselves inedible and possibly deadly). And, of course, changing diapers in complete darkness, without waking the baby, while tears of exhaustion drip from your chin. I nailed them all. It’s the world’s most wonderful and most terrible job, and if you do it well enough, you get fired.

  After the toddler wars were fought and won, I moved into what was, for me, Peak Kid. Six to twelve. The golden years. Emily loved me, she listened to me, she thought I knew everything. She ate well, she slept well, she laughed at fart jokes, she told fart jokes . . . it was great. When she said Mom it was with love, or with a specific request that could usually be responded to with a sandwich, a tissue, or a firm not in a million years.

  As a single parent I didn’t really have the option of staying home, not that it would have worked for me, to be honest, and I’d returned to work once Emily was old enough. I had my mom to help at first, and then I moved to Los Angeles and hired a nanny. I worked long hours, I got promoted, I felt fulfilled personally and professionally, and I managed to balance motherhood and career flawlessly.