Life After Yes (17 page)

A
nd that silent night is followed by a silent morning. And a silent plane ride home. And a silent week.

Sage and I avoid each other. This is not exactly a tough feat when working twelve-hour days. At home, we take turns in the bathroom and sip our morning coffee in silence. We share custody of the cat.

There's no mention of our thorny trip to Savannah. There's no mention of his mother. And there's no mention of the fact that we are supposed to marry in a little more than two months.

Couples, perfectly healthy couples, have these mini cold wars, I tell myself.

Another New York summer threatens to slip away. Kayla and I leave work early, hop into one of the countless waiting Town Cars, and head down to the water for our firm's end-of-the-season celebration, the Summer Sail, which will take
place aboard a soiled and sad “yacht” named
Destiny
of all things, a boat that spends long days tooling tourists along the Manhattan skyline.

Those who've been around awhile call it the Summer
Sale
because for a few hours our focus is not on billable hours, but on selling this world, this life, to a bevy of optimistic, impressionable souls. It's our job to make sure they accept the full-time offer they will each receive tomorrow morning as long as they make it through the night without sleeping with a partner's wife or saying something terribly racist.

We wait to board when I hear him.

“Nothing beats an old school booze cruise,” Sage says, appearing by my side, grazing my cheek with a kiss.

I force a smile. “Nothing beats a surprise cease-fire.”

“Who said anything about cease-fires? I figured it was time I get a firsthand peek into your little lawyer world,” he says.

“Peek away,” Kayla says, putting her hand on his shoulder. “I just hope you've come prepared to drink.”

Onboard, I look around at the summer associates, the future freshman class of the firm, who've now spent a few months apprenticing. And drinking heavily. They started in the middle of May, sharply dressed, eager to please. A couple months later, they are bloated and bleary-eyed like the rest of us. They cluster in small groups, little islands in a rough professional sea, shifting back and forth between stocked bars and lavish buffets, periodically exchanging well-cooked pleasantries with partners and associates who pretend to care.

“Talk about a captive audience,” I say.

“No kidding,” Kayla says. “Why do you think this shindig's on a boat?”

“So we can blame the existential nausea on the rocking?” I say.

“An odd choice among lawyers,” Sage says. “Gotta imagine the liability's greater on a trip like this. Certainly the suicide risk's higher than at a hotel ballroom.”

“Don't give me any ideas,” Kayla says, smiling.

“Might as well be the Fourth of July,” I say. Fat partners wipe brows with American flag napkins.

“Cheers to patriotic prom,” Kayla says.

In so many ways, life at the firm is just like high school: the cliques of catty attorneys, the copycat haircuts, the palpable social hierarchy. Gossip bounces through hallways and conference rooms. We even have a cafeteria, for God's sake.

But this time there's no epidemic of acne, no limp corsages on bony wrists, no legion of nervous virgins. And at this soiree, alcohol isn't taboo. There's no need to raid a parental liquor cabinet, to stash mini bottles of booze in backpacks.

Here, wine flows.

But conversation doesn't.

Sage's gray polo is tucked halfway into his slacks. And he wears that same goddamned sport coat from his mother again, but it's still wrinkled from our trip.

“Did you make an extra effort to be disheveled tonight?” I whisper to him.

“Only for you, Bug,” he says, glaring and grinning.

“Hey Banker Boy, let's round up some real drinks. Champagne's for pussies,” Kayla says, grabbing Sage's arm.

“Goose on the rocks,” I say as they disappear.

All of a sudden I'm alone and I do the predictable: I reach for my BlackBerry, scroll through messages, look busy, avoid
eyes. But as I pretend, the thing actually buzzes. I have a text message. From Phelps.

 

Phelps
: Know what tonight is?

ME
: Thursday.

Phelps
: Our anniversary

 

And I feel hot. And nauseous. It's the anniversary of our rowboat ride, our first time. My very first booze cruise.

 

ME
: How's the wife?

Phelps
: About to pop :(

 

And it all begins to make sense. I remember his words on the day of Dad's service.
She pees a lot. It all happened so fast.

Moments later, I feel a hand on my waist. My heart races. I slide my BlackBerry into my bag.

“That was quick,” I say.

“I'm anything but quick,” a voice says. It's Cameron.

“Thought you were someone else,” I say. “He's getting me a drink.”

“Getting his lady a drink? Wow, I guess the courting phase isn't over for you lovebirds.” He smiles big. His teeth are impeccably straight, too white. He pulls the plastic sword from his drink and chews on it. Kayla returns, balancing drinks. Sage is a few steps behind.

“So, he's pretty romantic I hear. A Parisian proposal and Plato?” Cameron says.

Kayla shrugs. “Big mouths run in my family,” she says. “Luckily for the male population.”

“Well, I can't compete. All I've given you is a Happy Meal and a panic-inducing blackout.”

And Sage is back. Next to Cameron, he appears small, unpolished. “I come bearing gifts, Bug,” he says, handing me a vast glass of vodka.

I take a large swig and then do what's necessary. I introduce them. Their handshake lasts an eternity. All the while, Kayla is smiling, eyes twinkling, courting disaster.

“Only good things, man. Only good things,” Cameron says to Sage, still fiddling with that little plastic sword.

“Good to know,” Sage says, draping an arm around me.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. Now, I have some pressing business to tend to. Last chance to tap some summer ass,” Cameron says, pointing to a group of blonds in the corner. He and Sage laugh deeply. And I should be offended.

“Quinn, don't forget,” Cameron says.

“Forget what?”

“You owe me that milk shake,” Cameron whispers. And I'm not sure whether Sage hears him. Sage pulls his little sword from his own drink. And I imagine a duel with plastic cocktail weapons.

“Well, if it isn't my two party girls.”

It's Fisher. He clinks our glasses with his.

“What, the bartenders at this party aren't handsome enough?” he asks, looking at Kayla. “Not number-worthy? If you want, I can submit a complaint to my buddies on the executive committee.

“So, you must be the future Mr. Quinn?” Fisher says, reaching to shake Sage's hand.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Sage says, shaking Fisher's hand.

“No need for ‘sir'—I'm not a dinosaur. Just call me Fisher.”

“All right, sir.”

“What did I say?” Fisher laughs. “I guess you can take a man out of the South but you cannot take the South out of the man, huh?”

“Something like that,” Sage says. He's heard this cliché one too many times. So have I. “Cheers.” He clinks Fisher's glass.

“You must be very jealous that I'm whisking your girl away on a romantic jaunt to Dallas?”

And reality slices through. Fisher and I leave in less than two weeks for depositions in Dallas.

“Nah, she'll come back to me,” Sage says. “A few days of buffalo wings and beer will do the body good.”

“My kind of guy,” Fisher says, nodding, looking at me.

“So relieved you approve,” I say.

“Special delivery.” Kayla reappears and hands Fisher a fresh martini.

“Well, thank you,” he says. “Now, this is what the gals used to do in the good old days. They'd bring us coffee. Those were the days.”

In the corner, the blonds drape themselves over Cameron, giggling, gulping wine. I wonder whether much has changed.

“Well, aren't I a throwback then?” Kayla says, putting her hand on his shoulder.

“In the best possible way. Thank God there are no movie star waiters here because that means more attention for me, right?”

“Absolutely. I am beginning to think that ex comm knows exactly what it's doing,” Kayla says.

“Well, Sage, you're a lucky lad. You've hooked yourself one of our prized associates.”

“Prized associate who screws up from time to time?” I say, nudging Fisher, finishing my vodka.

“Little secret: We partners would be lost without our young colleagues. You grow older, you make your first million, they give you a corner office with views of the water, but you still fuck up. That never ends,” he says, guffawing.

“To fucking,” Kayla says, extending her glass. Her eyes are glossy and distant. “Up…to fucking up.” She laughs and spills the rest of her drink down her shirt.

Talk about fucking up. I try to facilitate a fast exit, a trip to the bathroom, anything. But to no avail. On this rocking boat, Kayla's feet stay stubbornly fixed to her little plot of carpet.

“I'm going to take her for some fresh air,” Sage whispers to me. He manages to drag Kayla away, and puts his sport coat around her as they head outside.

“That's a real gentleman you've found yourself,” Fisher says.

I nod. And slip my BlackBerry out of my bag again.

“I love your generation,” Fisher says, crunching ice. “Always plugged in.”

“Gotta love us BlackBerry kids,” I say, and glance at the tiny screen.

 

Phelps
: You there?

Phelps
: I miss you.

 

The boat sways. Music roars. Summer associates get frisky with each other on the dance floor.

All of a sudden there's a loud rumbling and the boat stops. Most people are too drunk to notice. The lights go out, and the music stops. In no time, we're all sweating and heading
outside. Fisher and I join Sage and Kayla at a table on the deck. Kayla drools on Sage's shoulder.

Cameron reappears, carrying five overflowing shot glasses. “What's a party without shots?” he says, putting a shot glass in front of each of us.

“Civilized?” I say.

“Strike out with the rookies?” Sage says, brandishing his little blue sword.

“I haven't done a shot in twenty years,” Fisher says, fingering the glass.

“Dinosaur,” I say, and smile and picture Phelps holding a tiny baby.

“SoCo Lime. Easy,” Cameron says.

“Who is going to offer a toast?” I ask.

“I think the lady should,” Fisher says. And I assume he's not referring to Kayla.

“Was this another part of female associates' job description in your heyday?”

“No,” Fisher says. “We didn't let them talk.”

An eruption of male laughter. Again, should be offended.

“Okay, then give me a second.”

“Only a moment, Quinn. You know, a good litigator must be able to think on her feet.”

“Ahhh, the pressure.”

I don't know where I find the words, but I find them. “To putting love first, the law second, and prudence dead last,” I say, clinking their glasses, looking at Sage, a beautiful and oblivious creature, a bemused visitor in a strange land.

“Yeah, forget prudence,” Cameron says, and I swear those teeth glow in the dark. Maybe I imagine it, but I think he grabs my thigh under the table before tossing that shot back.

“Fuck prudence,” Fisher echoes. Kayla's eyes open. She smiles before drifting away again.

And for a few moments, we sit in silence under a starless sky. A glass or two breaks. BlackBerrys blink.

And all of a sudden there's a piano and a piano player. Summer associates who can still stand gather around the baby grand and sing “Life Is a Highway.”

Sage whispers something from across the table. “I didn't know you drank milk shakes.”

“Apparently I do,” I say, and shrug.

I miss you.

“Know what I want to do later?” he asks, his blue eyes bright even in the dark.

“What's that?”

“Fuck Prudence,” he says, and laughs.

“A mama's boy and a fucking gentleman,” I say. “Lucky me.”

And we're all a little too fucked up to see the irony. Here we are, Manhattan attorneys—and those brave enough to love us—older, but not necessarily wiser, than a bunch of high school prom dates, living dangerously within padded walls. Being spontaneous in predictable ways. Spouting profanities and platitudes. Drinking in a curious mixture of warm booze, authentic laughter, and artificial emotion. We're sloppy advertisements for lives we struggle to enjoy, fates we should've perhaps dodged. And the stench of success and sweat and sewage embraces us all aboard a stalled vessel named
Destiny
.

T
he standoff continues. Days pass. Weeks. We barely speak. It is time for me to leave for Dallas. My suitcase is packed, and parked by the door. When I am about to leave, Sage walks toward me.

And eagerly I wait for the peace negotiations to begin. For the hug. The apology. The declaration that we've both been impetuous and silly. That everything will be okay.

But instead, he says: “We have a package.”

He pulls the cardboard box onto the counter. It's addressed to both of us, blanketed in stickers that say “Fragile.” And I wonder if it's an early wedding gift?

“Let me guess,” I say. “The contents are fragile?”

He doesn't laugh.

And there it is, snug as a bug in bubble wrap: his grandmother's fucking Spode.

Now Sage smiles. “See?” he says. “
She's
trying.”

“
This
is trying? No.
This
is a game. I'd rather have a white
trash mug from every state in the fucking union from that lug of a father you have than this,” I say, unwrapping a gravy boat.

“I'm glad I went sailing with you. I'm beginning to realize it's not my mother. It's not me. It's not your dad. This job is making you selfish bitch.”

“A selfish
alcoholic
bitch, no?” I say.

“You said it.”

“Didn't you get the memo that selfish alcoholic bitches make better lawyers?”

“No, but I did get the one that said they make lovely wives,” he says, gingerly placing a teacup on the counter.

“Don't get ahead of yourself. I'm nobody's wife yet.”

“Thankfully,” he mumbles.

I look down at my hands, shaking from anger, the ragged nails and chipped polish, the pale fingers still clutching that goddamned boat from which we will one day be expected to pour gravy. And, yes, I do it. It's a scripted move, straight from a formulaic and flop-worthy movie, but I do it. I wind up and hurl it at him.

I close my eyes and brace myself for the shattering and screams. But I get something else.

My fiancé, my handsome ex–baseball player fiancé, doesn't flinch. He extends his big hand like a baseball mitt and catches it. Places it down on the counter next to the lineup of teacups.

“Nice save,” I say, reaching for my suitcase.

And now Sage approaches once more, this time sporting a sad and conciliatory smile. He kisses me on the cheek and says, “Have a good trip, Bug. Live big. Have endless cocktails. Enjoy some time away from this incurable mama's boy who can't seem to do anything right.”

And in this fragile and fleeting moment, I want to tell him that as much as I hate him, I love him more. But instead, I act like the proud and selfish lawyer I am. I grab my suitcase and say: “You know what? I will.”

 

After a four-hour delay, Fisher and I board our plane.

“Those assholes really fucked everything up,” Fisher says, checking his Rolex as we settle into our seats. “The airlines are never going to recover.”

And then he must remember that
those assholes
did a bit more than cause airline delays.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “That wasn't appropriate.”

I don't say anything. I roll my coat up and stuff it in the overhead compartment. People look at me like I've just flashed them.

“Ah, a business class virgin,” Fisher says, standing, retrieving my coat from above, smoothing it out and handing it to the waiting flight attendant. “They take care of you here. Right, Candy?”

Candy nods and smiles.

“It's important to know people's names, to say them as much as you can. Throw them in at the beginning or end of a few sentences. It makes them feel important. Even if they aren't,” Fisher whispers. “But I don't know what the hell is wrong with people these days. The names they give their children. Candy? Might as well be Bambi. Don't tell me her parents thought she'd grow up to be anything other than a stewardess or stripper with that name.”

“Like our very own Crystal Sugar?” I say, referring to our sexy nemesis, one of the lead plaintiffs in our case.

“Exactly,” he says.

“So Quinn passes muster, I hope?”

“A little unorthodox for my taste, but sounds distinguished. It is a boy's name though,” he says as if this is a news flash. “But that's not a bad thing. Especially in a man's world.”

“My name's actually Prudence,” I say.

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Now that makes sense to me. Good old Irish name for a smart, savvy girl. A maker of sound decisions.”

“My parents were just big Beatles fans,” I explain.

“Whatever you say. Truth is, parents have agendas,” he says as if he knows something I don't. “Anyway, it's a big name. You'll grow into it someday.”

I nod.

“Let's hope this plane fares better than that sad excuse for a yacht,” Fisher says.

I laugh nervously. I'm way too young to die.

“You okay?” Fisher asks.

“I will be. Not a great flier,” I say.

“More babies drown in mop buckets every year than people die in planes crashes,” Fisher says, appealing to an odd statistic in a clumsy effort to comfort me.

“Good to know.”

“It's nothing a little sauce can't solve,” Fisher says, and flags down Candy. “A little Grey Goose for the lady, Candy.”

He knows my drink.

“A good lawyer pays attention to details,” he says.

He orders himself a bourbon.

“Here comes the plebeian parade,” Fisher says, nodding toward the front of the plane.

The cabin fills up. People shimmy past each other, dragging bags and books and kids. Luggage is loaded below us.

And for a moment, I wish I could slip into line with them, follow them to the back where I could be anonymous, where
I could read a gossip magazine and fall asleep on the shoulder of a stranger. Where I could be scared. Where I could take a break from pretending.

We take off. The plane climbs high into a slate sky. Reaching for clouds and beyond. The upward hike is always the bumpiest; Mother Nature tosses us around a bit, screwing with us. When we reach our cruising altitude, she'll give us a break and we can pretend that we're not pushing our limits, hanging high in the sky where we don't belong.

The vodka helps. Here we sit, divided by a generation, getting sloshed.

“So, you ready?” Fisher asks.

“I think so. I'm going to read over my notes and I think I'll be okay,” I say, pulling a folder from my bag.

“No, Quinn. For marriage.”

“Oh,” I say. “I think so.”

Fisher nods. “I took one goddamned philosophy class in college. And all I remember is Plato's parable on love and marriage,” he says, pronouncing “parable” like it rhymes with “barbell.” “Do you know it?”

“Rings a bell,” I say. Of course I know it. I don't tell him I was a philosophy major. Partners aren't interested in LBL, life before law. And, more than that, they like to hear themselves speak, and feel like they are teaching us.

But of course I remember the classic story.

Plato asks his teacher to describe love. And the teacher tells Plato to walk through a field and find the best stalk. When Plato comes back empty-handed, he says he found a great stalk and didn't pick it because he didn't know whether there were better ones out there. So, the teacher says that is love. You only realize love's worth once it's gone.

Then Plato asks his teacher to define marriage. And the
teacher says to go into the field and chop down the tallest tree. Plato comes back with a tree that's neither healthy nor tall. The teacher asks Plato why he brought back such an ordinary tree and Plato says because of his earlier experience. He didn't want to come back with nothing. The tree was not bad, so he cut it down. And the teacher says that's marriage. Love's an opportunity, but marriage is a compromise.

“I only remember the gist,” Fisher says after a big gulp of bourbon. “Love is like a beautiful wheat field, but marriage is like a dying tree.”

“Ah,” I say, nodding. Guess now's not the time to ask him about his wife.

“So, you want a family?” Fisher asks, casually, like he's asking if I want another drink.

“Sure,” I say, perhaps a bit too quickly. I wonder if he's trying to gauge how many years he and his partners can get out of me before I pop one out.

“So did I,” he says. And I can picture the kids from the pictures in his office.

“You have these dreams,” he says, swallowing. “But the problem is they come true.”

A baby cries.

“Got a mop bucket handy?” Fisher says. And I can't help but smile.

 

The hotel lobby is packed.

“What's the commotion, Cindy?” Fisher asks, eyeing her name tag as we check in.

“A medical malpractice conference,” the lady behind the desk says.

“Better than Candy,” he mumbles to me. “But still no Prudence.”

“So here we are in the throes of a malpractice conference, huh?” I say.

“Doctors and lawyers. Lethal combo,” Fisher says, and asks for directions to the cigar bar.

The cigar bar?

“Too late to work,” he says. “Let's grab a bite.”

I follow him, noticing for the first time that we are wheeling the same efficient little suitcases. His is just an older model. We travel down a carpeted corridor toward music and the smell of smoke. And I find myself missing Giuliani and his smoking laws.

In Fisher-talk, grabbing a bite apparently means ordering cigars and booze. He orders two Bloody Marys and two cigars. He hands me one of each. I thank him, shove the cigar in my bag, and think of poor Monica Lewinsky. The little place is packed. It's ironic that a bunch of lawyers and doctors are sitting around smoking and drinking, bantering about professional responsibility and malpractice.

“How do you like it?” Fisher asks as I sip my drink.

“Not spicy enough,” I say.

Through the fog of smoke, I see Fisher smile; the lineup of imperfect teeth glistening with chandelier glow.

In the corner, a fat man and a girl who could be his daughter huddle and laugh.

“That's not his wife,” Fisher says, instructing me on the obvious. And I mine his words for judgment, for disapproval, but I don't detect any. “Don't blame him. Probably has a witch of a wife at home. Let the guy have a little fun.”

“And who are we talking about?”

Fisher shrugs. “You're young. You'll learn. Can't live life with the dying tree. Sometimes you've got to visit that pretty little field again.”

And I don't have to check my handbook on sexual harassment to determine that this isn't the portrait of appropriate.

I should be offended. Mom would probably throw her drink, or slap a cheek. But I stay put, sipping red vodka, breathing in his precarious words with his cigar smoke.

“Did you always want to be partner?” I ask.

“Hell no,” he says, taking a drag, laughing deeply.

“So how did you get here?” I ask.

“American Airlines Flight 759,” he says, pointing to my glass. “Or have you had too many to remember?”

I smile.

“It just happened. The guys and I started as summers. Worked a little, partied a lot, went to Yankee games, accepted our offers in August.”

I try to imagine a younger Fisher. A little more hair, little less belly. But my imagination fails me and all I can see is the aging boy of a man in front of me, reclining in a deep velvet chair, desperately inhaling cigar smoke in August, numbing the pain that's evident, quieting dreams forgone. Flirting with the closest thing to him, a person who will listen or pretend to, who will nod at appropriate times and even laugh at a bad joke.

“Before I know it, I'm a seventh year. I have a wife. And she's pregnant,” he says. “Time to grow up. Time to provide. An inspiring tale, huh?”

And I think of Mom's words.
Growing up is not a fact. It's a decision.

“Almost as profound as Plato,” I say. And drink some more.

“Don't squander it,” he says, patting my knee, pulling himself to stand, leaving his dying cigar in the gold ashtray, and heading to the bathroom. “Don't do what I did. Don't let this job suck the life from you.”

“Okay,” I say. And wonder if it's already too late.

My BlackBerry buzzes. And for the first time in too many hours I think of Sage. I didn't call him when we landed, which is something I always do. The little screen lights up, a small beacon in the dark cave of a bar. And it's a text message. And not from Sage.

 

Phelps
: What are you up to?

Me
: Not too much. You?

Phelps
: In a smoky bar, getting my drink on. Missing you.

 

My heart jumps.

 

Me
: Oh.

Phelps
: Purple is a good color for you. Or is it navy??

 

I look up, scan the small room, and there he is at the bar, mere yards away, grinning behind a glowing pint of Guinness.

Fisher returns, rescues his cigar. “You and that thing. You chatting with your man about this creepy old geezer?”

“Something like that,” I say.

 

Phelps
: Ah, so you traded up?