“Yes, you had a hamburger for lunch,” said Bonnie, to laughter.
“—and they can tell that we’re full of shit. But the world keeps propping us up, and women know it, and we know you know it, so maybe we hate you because you have something on us. You’re basically witnesses to a crime.”
Greer, listening, thought about how she wished Zee were part of this. Then she remembered why Zee wasn’t, and felt a new, strange peppering of shame. She also thought about how Ben was like a young feminist’s dream, so good-looking and on the side of women, not threatened by them at all. Cory could be described that way too. Ben’s leg was against hers now, maybe not consciously. His other leg was probably against Marcella’s leg. Marcella in her little skirt and tights and heels. Marcella Boxman looked like she worked not for Loci or for ShraderCapital, but for Vogue. Distantly, Greer recognized her own envy of the way Marcella moved through the world. Marcella had Ben’s interest, and she had survived Faith’s criticism, and she would probably end up being a powerful figure of some kind. It was a good thing that the first summit was about power; Marcella could pick up some tips to hasten its inevitability in her own life.
The group was laughing, and the back room of the bar heated up further. Greer was overexcited being there, and the talk got loud, and louder, and then it peaked and the mood became reflective and even weary. The drinks stopped coming, and the evening started to wind down. Ben and Marcella would now have part two of the evening, Greer thought: going home to one of their beds. And the other people in the group, did they have partners waiting too? Was Greer the only one who would be alone?
“Time to tear ourselves away,” said Helen.
People started to get out their wallets to throw down money, but just then someone urgently said, “Faith,” which didn’t in and of itself mean anything, because Faith’s name was always getting said, a constant, a heartbeat, a rumbling blurp in the water cooler. But then Greer looked up and saw Faith walking toward the table. Wallets went back into bags and pockets, for the night apparently wasn’t over yet after all.
“Faith, over here!” called Bonnie. Around the back room, a few people at other tables looked up and whispered to one another. They smiled, and one person said, approvingly, “Faith FRANK!” then everyone went back to their conversations. This was New York, where famous people drank from the same trough you did, and where, in the scheme of things, Faith wasn’t all that famous. The long tables, pushed together, were filled to their maximum, but everyone squeezed even closer, and Greer found herself jammed further against Ben; she could feel the key ring in his pocket. Across from Greer, Faith sat down, and almost immediately a martini appeared before her, its glass perfectly beaded, extra olives in a pyramid at the bottom.
“I’m very grateful for this,” Faith said. “The world is so enormous, but if you have places where they know what you like to drink, then all is well.” Everyone casually talked to her, but no one wanted to monopolize her. Greer noted the way Faith maneuvered her way along the table without actually moving, like a figure in a painting whose eyes follow you around the room. She said something to each person, sharing a sympathetic or amused expression.
Greer had been talking to Kim when Faith broke in. Kim was telling her how women in a corporate environment were not always good to one another. “We have this woman upstairs who will go unnamed,” Kim said. “She’s a heavy hitter in VC, and awful to other women. I hear stories all the time. I was in the elevator with her and she just stood there staring at the door, not saying a word, not even hi, and I wanted to say to her, I know I’m just an assistant, but don’t you know that we’re supposed to be decent to each other? I totally get that you feel threatened, because you’ve been made to feel this way. The ranks of women are kept really, really thin, so everyone feels that they’re the only one allowed in, and they can’t afford to be nice to other women.”
Cunts, Greer thought. That is what Zee called women who hated women. She remembered the song with those lyrics that Zee had once sung.
Suddenly Faith said, “So, Greer, you’re making friends here? Finding your way?”
It was the drink, partly; that was what she thought later. It was the drink, and the late hour, and the coincidence that Greer had been thinking about Zee at that exact moment; of course, she’d been thinking about Zee a lot all week, because of her letter. Kim turned away, talking to Iffat and Evelyn and giving Greer a moment with Faith; Ben, on Greer’s other side, was talking to someone at the next table. No one was listening to Faith and Greer. “I have a friend who wants to work here,” Greer suddenly said to Faith, almost in a whisper. “She wants me to give you a letter that she wrote, telling you about herself. You met her with me back in college.”
“Ah,” said Faith.
“But if I’m really being honest with myself, I know that there’s a reason I haven’t given it to you yet.”
“Okay.”
“I guess I really don’t want her to work here.”
“She wouldn’t do a good job?”
“I’m sure she’d do a terrific job. She’s been an activist. She just puts herself out there. Plus, she was the one who told me about you in the beginning. She’s wonderful. I just don’t think I want to share this experience with anyone. I think I want it for myself.” Greer was waiting now for Faith to condemn her or absolve her. Greer’s purse with the letter in it, down at her feet beneath the table, felt as dangerous as a nuclear suitcase.
“I see,” said Faith. “And do you know why that is?”
“I have an idea,” Greer said. “But if I say it out loud, I don’t know how it’s going to sound.”
“Try it.”
“My parents never knew how to be parents,” Greer said, and Faith nodded. “The house was always messy, and I felt like we were all boarders in a boardinghouse. We didn’t eat together that much. They didn’t really get involved in the particulars of my life: my schoolwork, my friends. None of it was very interesting to them. They had this idea about being ‘alternative,’ but really I think they were mostly pretty marginal. They were potheads. They still are.”
“I’m very sorry,” Faith said gravely. “I wish someone had recognized what was going on, and tried to help your family be more of a family. It must have been confusing. A child just wants to love her parents and be loved, and it seems like it should be simple to do that, but sometimes it’s not.” Hearing the words in the past tense was kind of a revelation. That must have been confusing, Faith was saying, but it is no longer all that relevant.
“I think they were disappointed in me,” Greer said. “I was so different from them. But I wanted something more.” She realized how easily she was speaking to Faith. It wasn’t like the time in the ladies’ room. “I was very ambitious. I studied like crazy,” she said. “And I read novels day and night. I had a mission.”
“Which was?” Faith speared an olive in her drink, slid it between her teeth.
“To absorb everything in the world. But also to escape.”
“Makes sense.”
“So I’m not saying that this excuses what I feel about my friend working here,” said Greer. “But I think it’s the truth. She would be shocked if she heard me saying that I didn’t want her.” She paused. “She’s going to ask me what happened, either way, and I’ll have to say something.” Greer thought about it. “I could tell her I gave you the letter, but that there were no jobs. If I did that, would it make me a terrible person?”
Faith didn’t answer, but just kept looking at her. “Greer, shall I read the letter and make a decision about whether your friend should come in for an interview?” she asked gently. Greer couldn’t answer. “Or do you just want to let it go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, my offer to read it stands,” Faith said. “You can put it on my desk Monday. Or not.”