I feel her eyes on me. “I know. But the thing is, they’re my life. You encouraged me, begged me, not to work outside the home, so I quit my job at the ad agency, the job I loved, and built my whole world around the kids. They just don’t need me so much now that they’re in school most of the day.” Her voice is quiet, her eyes shiny but this time it’s because they are filling with tears.
“You raised them well. Now it’s time for them to learn independence so they can tackle the world. Boys pulling away from their mommy is natural. It’s how they become young men,” I say. “You still baby them too much. But that’s part of what makes you a great mom, the kind of mom I knew you would be when we first discussed your staying home. Don’t cry, honey.” Honey, such an interesting word to apply to a person. I guess she is dripping, sappy, syrupy, her tears like actual honey drizzling from a spoon. “This is our weekend. The boys are fine.” With their druggie babysitter, I don’t add.
I flash Mia my biggest rectangle grin, adding my signature wink, the account-winning combination. It’s the smile that launched a thousand new accounts for the advertising agency—until it didn’t. I swallow, holding the smile to reassure Mia that this is a joyful day filled with fun. “This isn’t a day for tears,” I tell her softly. I am a kind, loving husband. I understand her pain, I do. “This is our special day, a day for reflection and for being thankful for everything we created. A day to enjoy being together.”
“Of course,” she says, taking a big drink of water from the crinkly plastic bottle. Hypocrite. She reads my mind, a wifely skill I can’t say I’m overly fond of, and says, “They didn’t have any glass bottles, Paul. I need to start grabbing my glass water bottles for road trips. I don’t even know if I have any at the lake.”
“I don’t think you realized the peril of plastic water bottles last season,” I comment mildly, and now she smiles.
“Well, you know I’m right,” she says.
“Every woman’s favorite phrase,” I tease. We’re back to happy ground, I notice. She’s even tapping her right thumb on the bedraggled magazine, keeping time to one of our favorite songs, “Still the One.”
Until.
“So how is Caroline doing? Still flirting with you?”
I take a deep breath and squeeze the steering wheel.
11:00 a.m.
3
I check my expression in the rearview mirror, forcing my face into a blasé look of nonchalance: mouth relaxed, shoulders down. Poker-face Paul. I inhale a deep breath. I’ve got this, I do, but then I feel the heat on my cheeks. I pretend to check the driver’s side mirror.
“Caroline?” I ask, stalling for a moment as a shiny silver frame holding a photo of a smiling young couple thuds into my awareness. I shake my head, erasing it. My brain has enough to do. I must recollect everything I’ve uttered to my wife about Caroline, and the Thompson Payne office in general over the past few months. Then, like for one of Sam’s first grade projects, I must sort what has been said into one pile and what hasn’t been into another. This is an important exercise, best done on my terms, not hers. Too late for that, though.
“Your jaw is twitching,” Mia says.
It’s true. I unclench my jaw, sliding it back and forth. I take a deep breath and force a smile. This is disappointing, her observation of me. My skills are slipping. Not so poker-faced, after all, these days. I glance at my wife, who is smiling, presumably at my discomfort with this topic.
She adds, “So Caroline is still bothering you, huh?”
“No, not anymore,” I say, speaking slowly to find the right words. “She’s young. It’s her first job. She just didn’t know what is appropriate and what isn’t, that’s all.”
“Everyone knows it’s inappropriate to call your boss at home at midnight,” Mia says. “Especially when you’ve been drinking.”
“She was upset, Mia. I explained all of that.” I check the side mirror and pass the stupid green Honda traveling at a snail’s pace in front of us. It’s almost time for the two-lane road, so I need to get this menace far behind me. “Her father died. She didn’t know where else to turn.”
Mia gives me the look that says she doesn’t believe me, still. “So you turned her in to HR, but she’s still working at Thompson Payne?” she asks, her fingers drumming on the car door handle. I maneuver the car back into the right lane.
“We don’t fire people who need help, Mia. That’s why we have human resources. It’s their job to explain policies and help make people better employees.” I feel my eyes narrowing. I do not like this topic. Just the fact that I had to speak of human resources brings an unpleasant event to mind. I shake off the remembered smell of Miracle-Gro and old cat.
Mia isn’t backing off. “And we suggest these people who need help, people like Caroline who we have turned in to HR, to our wives as appropriate babysitters, do we? As part of some employee rehabilitation program?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, honey. We were in a pinch, you and me, remember? And that was ages ago. I’m not sure why you’d bring it up today of all days,” I say. I feel my jaw begin to clench again and rub the back of my neck with my left hand. I’d rather be talking about the strawberry daughters. I feel like I’m being squeezed too hard, and all the air is gone.
“Right,” Mia says. “Best day ever, I know. I’ll drop it. She still bothers me, though.”
“Honey, I never even see her at the office.” This is the absolute truth. I feel my jaw calming down as if someone released the vise around my head, relaxed the grip around my chest. Good old Thompson Payne. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of my life at those gleaming suburban offices. Much of my job has been to make sure everyone looks good to potential clients. Are the women wearing heels and short skirts? Are the guys clean-shaven and friendly, nonthreatening but cool? Advertising agencies are all about the sizzle, all about appearance instead of reality. Making a good first impression. And that’s why yours truly was a perfect fit for director of client services. I am like the man in the top hat at the three-ring circus that is an advertising agency. I am the person running the show, communicating with overbearing clients and the crazy creative team attempting to serve them. Running interference between the staff and the partners who are never satisfied even with our vast successes. Do they think it just runs itself? Without me, everything falls apart, as they have no doubt discovered.