Adam wasn’t there yet, so I found a seat at the bar with a view of the TV in the corner. The bartender came over, and I ordered a vodka soda with lime. The TV was tuned to CNN. A reporter in Kabul was describing a recent spate of fatalities. I knew I ought to feel lucky. I could have been born in war-torn Afghanistan, every day fearing for my life, and instead my biggest problem was losing a job I didn’t even like. I had no right to complain. This was my mother kicking in, her voice in my ear. Don’t be a brat, Julia. I finished my drink and waved to the bartender for another. I was glad that my parents hadn’t picked up the phone, actually. Their sympathy would be brief, and then they would immediately embark upon the project of Fixing My Life. But I wanted a few dark hours to dwell in my resentment. I wanted to get really, really drunk. I wanted Adam to fuck me and then hold me while I fell asleep. I didn’t want to go back to my shitty apartment on the Upper East Side, my shitty life.
I realize now: that should have been another clue. I had just lost my job—I hated the sound of those words—but I didn’t want the encouragement of my parents. I didn’t want the genuine sympathy of Abby. Even though part of me wanted to call Evan, I didn’t, I couldn’t—I couldn’t go back to that old life. I didn’t want anything useful from the people who’d known me the longest. What I wanted was Adam. He offered me an escape. A new situation entirely. I couldn’t see it at the time, but Adam was always the easiest way out.
When I was halfway through my second drink—where was he?—the CNN anchor switched to coverage of the Bernie Madoff scandal. Madoff had been arrested the day before. They interviewed one of his victims, a sad old man in Florida with eyes like a basset hound. I fiddled with my phone, wondering if I should call Adam. Abby had texted. Saw your call, what’s up? I had started typing out a reply when I heard my name.
He ran over. He ran. That’s how much he cared. I dissolved. “Oh, Julia,” Adam said, kissing my forehead. “Babe, babe. It’s okay. I’m here.” He was the only one who understood. He put his arm around me and steered me toward a booth in the corner. I hadn’t wanted to cry in front of him like this, but maybe it didn’t matter. If Adam and I were going to be together, really together, I had to trust that he wouldn’t care about a few tears. He went to the bar and returned with whiskey for him and a vodka soda for me, with a wedge of lime floating on top. A little part of me wondered whether he’d finally remembered my drink order or whether the bartender had corrected his mistake.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. He held his glass up, clinking it against mine. “Or should we just leave it at ‘Fuck them, they’re idiots’?”
He wanted me to laugh. I did, and he smiled.
When I told him what happened, I found that a story emerged. A narrative with a satisfying arc. It was so obvious when I traced it from beginning to end: I was the victim. I didn’t deserve this. So what if I’d hated the job? That wasn’t the point. The point was that it was unfair. I had worked hard, never made a mistake. I’d been fucked over, and I was angry about it. I had every right to be angry. It had taken the firing for me to see that. I was angry at Laurie and the Fletchers and Evan and everyone who had been treating me like shit for the previous six months. The floodgates were opening.
“So wait a second,” Adam said. “Laurie said that the Fletchers had to cancel their donation for financial reasons, right?”
“Yeah. Apparently they’re having a bad year.” I thought of my father, on the phone with Henry Fletcher every day over Thanksgiving weekend. It made sense. The Fletchers were running out of money.
“Did she say specifically that they were strapped for cash?”
“I don’t really remember. It happened so fast.” He was staring at me. “Why? What is it?”
“It doesn’t add up.” Adam pulled his phone out, typed something in, then handed it to me. “Look at this.”
“What?”
“It’s from today’s Journal. Just read the first paragraph.”
ForeCloser, a company that tracks upcoming foreclosure auctions within a given geographic range, announced today that it has raised $20 million in Series B financing. The round was led by Fletcher Partners and included founding investor Henry Fletcher. ForeCloser will use the financing to aggressively increase the scope of its geographic coverage, which is currently limited to California, Washington and Oregon. In the announcement, the company outlined a goal of covering all 50 states by the end of 2009.
I looked up at him.
“Do you see what this means?” he said. “The Fletchers are fine. They have plenty of money. Maybe they withdrew their donation, but it wasn’t because they didn’t have the cash for it.”
“So they still could have donated the—then what?”
“I’m sorry, babe. It isn’t right.”
Something turned. Darkened. “What the fuck, then? Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know, Jules. These people play by a different set of rules. Henry Fletcher isn’t thinking about what’s fair or not. Maybe when things were flush, he was happy to toss a little aside to make his wife happy. You know, give her a charity to play with. But now that the market’s bucking, he has to stay lean. You see what he’s doing, don’t you?”