Wife in the Fast Lane

by Karen Quinn

  After she’d finished changing the sheets, Renata sat on the couch and wrote in her diary, as she did every day:

  DEAR DIARY,

  ITS AFTER 8 AND GRANDMA’S NOT BACK YET. IT MUST BE BECAUSE MICHAEL AND CHRISTY ARE SLOBS. THEY HAVE GRANDMA PLUS A BUNCH OF OTHER SERVANTS AT THEIR HOUSE AND GRANDMA NEVER GETS HOME BEFORE 9. I BET MICHAEL THROWS HIS CLOTHS ON THE FLOOR WHEN HE GETS UNDRESSED. HE PROBABLY SPLASHES WATER OVER THE EDGE OF THE TUB AND EATS WITH HIS FINGERS. I BET CHRISTY HAS A MAID JUST TO WIPE HER BUTT JUST LIKE THE QUEEN DOES. REALLY, THERE IS SUCH A JOB AS A BUTT WIPER, WHICH IS WHY I’M GOING TO COLLAGE SO I’LL NEVER HAVE TO BE ONE. GRANDMA SAYS SHE HAS TO TAKE SPESHAL CARE OF CHRISTY BECAUSE SHE’S ALL ALONE IN THE WORLD. I TAKE CARE OF GRANDMA BECAUSE SHE HAS HIGH BLOOD PRESURE. NO ONE TAKES CARE OF ME, BUT THATS OKAY BECAUSE I’M A ROLLING STONE.

  YOURS VERY TRULY,

  RENATA RUIZ

  Renata’s favorite book was Harriet the Spy. It was Harriet who had inspired her to watch, listen, observe, and keep notes about things. So far, she had filled three journals. Renata wasn’t as daring as Harriet, who would actually break into people’s houses to spy on them. In the projects, that could get a girl killed.

  The buzzer went off and Renata took the chicken out of the oven. “First, I must chop the chicken into small pieces, like so,” she said, chopping for the imaginary home audience. Renata often practiced having her own show on the Cooking Channel when no one was looking. She would set Grandma’s vanity mirror on the kitchen counter and look into it like it was a camera. Placing the chicken, chopped tomatoes, and onion into a glass dish, she continued. “Now I’ll add the Ortega salsa, diced green chilies, and seasoning mix. I prefer the Ortega medium-spicy-style salsa because I think it has the perfect level of hotness, but you may want to use a hotter or less-spicy style. Then, I’ll mix the broken taco shells in like so, pat the whole thing down, and sprinkle Cheddar cheese on top. Aaaand VWA-LAH! Here’s what your casserole will look like before it’s cooked.” She held the dish up to the camera, then slipped the mixture into the oven. “For those of you tuning in tomorrow, I’ll be making Kraft macaroni and cheese with hot dog slices, so you may want to pick up the ingredients and cook along with me.”

  Renata heard the key turn in the door, so she stopped talking. Not that there was anything wrong with pretending to have her own cooking show. It just wasn’t something she felt like publicizing.

  Grandma took off her coat and laid it over the chair. She was carrying a heavy shopping bag.

  “Anybody ho-ome?” Grandma always said that when she came in. It was an inside joke between them, given the meager size of their apartment. Last summer, they painted the walls yellow because it is such an uplifting color. Their floor used to be bare parquet, but then they bought an orange rug from the neighbor down the hall who moved to a different building with better wheelchair access. Grandma slept on the flowery foldout bed she had rescued from a Park Avenue Dumpster. Renata couldn’t imagine why anyone would throw away such a beautiful piece of furniture. Grandma explained that it was because crazy New Yorkers were always redecorating. As the rich gave face-lifts to their already fabulous co-ops, doormen, maids, and supers upgraded their own homes with the valuable cast-offs that magically and regularly appeared in trash rooms throughout the city.

  “Casserole’s just about ready.” Renata went to Grandma, gave her a kiss, and took the package. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Christy had a party tonight, so they sent me home with food. But your dinner smells delicious. Let’s eat this tomorrow.”

  Renata took the containers and placed them in the fridge while Grandma changed into her pink satin robe from Macy’s. It had been a special present from Renata last Mother’s Day. Grandma always wore it after a hard day because it made her feel comfortable and pretty at the same time. Renata pulled out a kitchen chair. “Sit, Mommy, you look tired.” Renata and Grandma called each other “Mommy.”

  “I am. It was a busy day getting ready for all that company. I’m pooped.”

  Renata stood behind Grandma and rubbed her neck so hard that her fingers got sore. Grandma’s shoulders were thick with knotty muscles underneath. Lots of kids at school didn’t get along with their parents, but Renata loved Grandma. She was glad her mama didn’t raise her. Her mama had been mixed up with trouble. Renata wouldn’t have known what to do with a mama who was mixed up with trouble. Last year, Grandma gave Renata a snapshot of Mama in her white confirmation dress. Renata stuck it under her mattress that night. Later, Grandma bought her a wooden frame from Hallmark with red hearts just for that picture, but Renata placed one of her and Grandma in it instead.

  “Thank you, Mommy,” Grandma said. She looked at her granddaughter with so much love that Renata lowered her eyes. The child walked back to the kitchen, pulled the casserole dish out of the oven, and fixed two plates.

  “This looks delicious,” Grandma said. “You are a better cook than I am, Mommy.”

  Renata beamed at the compliment. “No, I’m not. Anyway, you taught me how to make this. Mommy, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “We’re having a concert at school two weeks from today, and me and Andrew Gutierrez are singing solos. Can you come?”

  “I’ll do my best, Mommy. If Christy can spare me.” Grandma was rubbing her forehead absentmindedly.

  “Tired?”

  “No, headache.”

  “Maybe you better go to the doctor.”

  “No, I’ll lie down. A doctor can’t do nothing for me.”

  Grandma finished eating, then opened up the couch and climbed into bed. Renata was glad today was Monday because Grandma had clean sheets. Quiet as a mouse, she rinsed the dishes and snuck back to her alcove, pulling the curtains closed and curling up with her journal beneath her Mary-Kate and Ashley quilt. Soon Grandma was snoring lightly. Renata got up and locked the door and the dead bolt, and gave Grandma a kiss. To Renata, being with Grandma in their cozy apartment was about the safest feeling in the world.

  DEAR DIARY,

  ITS STILL MONDAY BUT I’M WRITING AGAIN BECUASE GRANDMA’S SLEEPING SO I CAN’T WATCH TV. TODAY MRS. GERMER CHOSE ME AND ANDREW TO SING SOLOS IN THE CONCERT. YAY ME (AND ANDREW TOO)!!! WE HAVE TO LEARN THREE SONGS IN SPANISH. EDDIE GOMEZ SAYS THERES GOING TO BE A TALANT SCOUT FROM NICKALODEON IN THE AUDIENCE. EVERYONE IN MY CLASS THINKS I SING AS GOOD AS JENNIFER LOPEZ SO THERES A BIG CHANCE THEY WILL PICK ME TO STAR IN A SHOW. AND HERES MORE GOOD NEWS!!! GRANDMA’S COMING TO THE CONCERT IF CHRISTY GIVES HER THE DAY OFF WHICH OF COURSE SHE WILL. BREAKING NEWS ON THE ROMANCE FRONT! EDDIE GOMEZ LOVES ME. I MEAN LOVES MELOVES ME. HE CHASES ME IN P.E. ALMOST EVERY DAY AND WHEN HE CATCHES ME HE SITS ON MY CHEST. IF HE CALLS I WILL HANG UP ON HIM.

  SINCERELY YOURS,

  RENATA RUIZ

  A Rich Brownie

  Christy couldn’t believe what a difference a year could make. She felt she could almost reach out and touch the meringue caps of the treeless peaks on either side of her as the helicopter floated noisily up the valley toward Davos. It was her first copter ride. She could hardly fathom that she was arriving with one of the major players of Davos and that he was her very own. Never again would she have to worry about being in the freshman class. Or alone. Her life as a solo player had finally come to an end—to a fairy-tale ending, in fact. She smiled at her husband, and he squeezed her hand.

  When their helicopter landed in Davos, a chauffeur met and drove them to their suite at the Royalton. They were considered, in Davos parlance, a “power couple.” Michael’s assistant had enrolled them in their sessions the day before, and Michael was leading one of the hottest panels.

  Michael began sorting through invites to private parties. “Ha, ha! Your friend Fran Rich and his wife Brownie…what kind of a name is that…cordially invite us to a reception tonight honoring Jimmy Carter, the two George Bushes, and Bill Clinton. You interested?”

  “No way,” Christy said, shuddering at the memory of that arrogant asshole and his snob
by wife. “What do you say we go for a run, then hail a sleigh, drink champagne, and make out?”

  “Mmm. That sounds perfect, Beegee,” Michael said, kissing his bride and unbuttoning her sweater.

  On Wednesday, Christy and Michael attended sessions together. That evening they were invited to the power-couple dinner at the Luhof Castle in the next village. As they drove up, Christy felt like she was in a movie. They entered through a thirty-foot stone arch lit with candles, and uniformed guards stood at arms. The castle had been converted into one of the finest restaurants in Switzerland. Once inside the cozy room with candles flickering against the ancient walls, a maître d’ led them to their table.

  Christy was mortified when they were seated with Fran Rich and his wife, Bronwen “Brownie” Rich. Brownie had a pleasant face, but her body was as squat and soft as Christy remembered from the co-op interview. If you didn’t know that her maiden name was Biltmore, you might wonder what a man like Fran ever saw in her. When Francis Rich, banker, met Bronwen Biltmore, heiress, sparks flew. Brownie found Fran to be handsome and brilliant. Fran found Brownie to be loaded and connected. A merger was struck, and two daughters later, Brownie was Parent Association president at the Colby School, secretary of the co-op board at 830 Fifth Avenue, and founder of the Golden Latchkey Foundation. Brownie’s hands were far too full to stand by her husband’s side as he entertained clients and networked about town, not that Fran seemed to mind. This time, however, Brownie had decided to accompany Fran to Davos.

  “I’m Brownie Rich, and this is my husband, Fran. I’m sure you remember Fran,” Brownie said in a formal, clipped tone.

  “Hi, I’m Christy, and this is Michael. I guess you don’t remember me. I applied for an apartment in your building once.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. We get so many applicants,” Brownie said, avoiding Christy’s eyes.

  “Right,” Christy said, looking at Fran, who winked at her like they shared a secret. Michael caught the eye signal, and she felt him stiffen.

  “We missed you both at our reception last night. Did you have something more important to do?” Brownie asked.

  “We had some personal business that couldn’t wait,” Michael said, instinctively claiming his territory, putting his arm around his wife. Christy adored how romantic he was. Brownie looked scandalized. Fran eyed Christy up and down as if he was trying to remember what she looked like naked.

  “So, are you enjoying married life?” Brownie asked, seemingly oblivious to the testosterone dance going on under her nose.

  “It’s wonderful. We’re so happy,” Christy said, trying to make reassuring eye contact with Brownie and find out how much she knew.

  “I suppose you’ll be quitting your company soon,” Brownie sighed knowingly. “Being the CEO’s wife is a full-time job what with the entertaining you have to do, the running of the house, maintaining your looks, being the brains behind the man.”

  Christy decided Brownie didn’t know about her and Fran.

  “I’d never want Christy to give up work,” Michael said, reaching under the table, taking her hand. “I find it exciting to be married to a woman who puts herself out in the world instead of one living through her children. Been there. Done that. No offense, Mrs. Rich.”

  “Well, I love having a wife like that,” Fran said, giving Brownie a peck on her thin, chapped lips. He was a man who could not help but compete.

  “For God’s sake, Francis, I’ve told you a hundred times not to do that in public. It’s inappropriate for someone of your station,” Brownie snorted. But she looked a little surprised and pleased.

  “I can’t keep my hands off her,” Fran said.

  “I don’t blame you,” Michael said, barely suppressing a grin.

  “Brownie, I think the choice you’ve made is admirable,” Christy added, trying to smooth over her husband’s blunt honesty, one of the qualities she found most appealing about him.

  “Well, if you ever have children, you’ll change your mind,” Brownie declared.

  “That’s not in the cards for us. Done that, too. I love my daughter, but raising a family is something I would only attempt once,” Michael said.

  “And your bride feels the same?” Brownie asked.

  “Absolutely,” Christy said. And she meant it. She couldn’t imagine how life could be sweeter. For the first time, she had a protector and a playmate who could not only keep up with her but could actually inspire awe in her.

  Brownie pressed on. “Yes, but if you knew what it felt like to raise a child, to educate her, to give your heart and soul toward the betterment of her school, you would never say that.”

  Michael spoke softly. “Mrs. Rich, I think it’s great that enriching the lives of your kids and volunteering at their school gives your life meaning. I just think a lot of these rich kids are spoiled brats. I worry more about the ones who have never had a shot.”

  “But that’s just Michael’s opinion. Neither of you is wrong,” Christy added, wondering what ever happened to small talk.

  Brownie pursed her lips and said nothing. To everyone’s relief, a waiter arrived to take orders. Christy and Michael asked for fish, knowing they would be facing many rich courses. Brownie and Fran went for beef. The lights dimmed, signaling the start of the entertainment. In keeping with the power-couple theme, Diana Krall and Elvis Costello were performing. Christy looked around the room at the half-dozen tables decked out in Continental finery, the couples dining in the rich glowing light, the centuries-old tapestries on the walls, and the golden candle sconces and chandeliers poised over everything. This is all so glamorous, she thought: my wonderful husband, this amazing life. She could hardly fathom how she had made the journey from Glenbrook to Davos, and to this remarkable man with his slightly possessive hand on hers.

  “Can you pour me some coffee?” Christy asked.

  “My pleasure,” Michael said, refilling her cup. Christy and Michael were being lazy. Instead of getting up at the crack of dawn to hear the much-anticipated speech on Shifting U.S.–Asian Alliances, the newlyweds got caught up in their own romantic alliance. Michael was an amorous spouse, and Christy was delighted by his need for her. They were cuddling in bed over breakfast, sharing the papers that had been delivered on a silver tray.

  “You know,” Michael said, buttering his croissant, “seeing Fran and Brownie last night made me so glad I gave up that life, not that I ever cheated on Suzanne.”

  Christy stiffened. She had never told him about herself and Fran. When she and Michael were first married, they decided not to drag each other through blow-by-blows of their pasts. “I guess he has a reputation for running around, huh?” Christy said.

  “He does. Maybe you can’t blame him. It’s obvious he and Brownie don’t care for each other. I was willing to settle for that once. After Suzanna, I promised myself I wouldn’t date anyone I cared about and wouldn’t care about anyone I dated. But now that I have you, I see how wrong I was.”

  Christy smiled and nuzzled closer to Michael. “I love you so much,” she said.

  “Me, too, Beegee,” Michael said. “I just want to make you happy.”

  “You do,” Christy said with a sexy smile. “In fact, after breakfast, maybe you can make me happy again.”

  Michael laughed. “I’ll give you the front page for the Finance section.” They exchanged papers and read quietly for a few minutes.

  “Oh my God!” Christy said, spilling coffee on the bed. “Look. How could you miss this article?” She handed Michael the paper and pointed furiously at the headline:

  CHRISTY HAYES’S LEADERSHIP LAPSE

  by Galit Portal

  In the fifteen years since Christy Hayes founded Baby G Sports, the company has expanded from three employees to four thousand, with profits of $50 million. Three years ago she led the company to a hugely successful public offering underwritten by Goldman Sachs. Still, inside sources report that last week, Baby G’s board of directors issued an ultimatum to Ms. Hayes: Run t
he company under the supervision of Hamish Cohen, Managing Partner of Bain Consulting, or step down and allow a more seasoned CEO to take over. Sources say board members believe the company has become too complex to be managed by a leader who hails from the athletic world and who does not have an MBA. In setting this condition, the board cited the stock’s lackluster performance in the last two years, which has dropped from $42/share the day of the public offering to $26/share. This is an average percentile loss for businesses in the sector, which has suffered an industry-wide downturn. For Ms. Hayes, this event represents the stiffest challenge yet to a career that was launched on the coattails of two Olympic gold medals. While this reporter tried to reach Ms. Hayes, she is out of the country at a conference and unavailable for comment…

  Christy felt sick to her stomach. “Michael, none of this is true. I met with the board before we left. Everything was fine. The stock’s down, yes, but sales and profits are up. How can they print something like this without verifying it?”

  “Are you sure they didn’t decide it after you left? Could they be planning to issue an ultimatum when you get back?” Michael was as surprised as Christy, but he’d learned to expect the worst.

  “I can’t imagine. We talked about increasing my incentive package. Why would they consider that if they were questioning my leadership? Look who wrote it—Galit Portal. Isn’t she at the conference?”