Pink Slip Party Page 7

  Mom gives Kyle a grateful look.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the table is too stunned to say anything.

  My mom never had a job, not while I was alive. Todd told me that she’d tried going to cooking school to be a pastry chef before I was born, but Dad complained about having to watch Todd in the afternoons (after pre-school), and how he made enough money for Mom to stay home, and why did she want to cook for perfect strangers when the people who would appreciate her cooking the most would be forced to eat frozen TV dinners and be neglected while she was off at some fancy cooking school? Besides, Dad was not a big believer in education. He thought people who went to school to learn how to decorate their living rooms or paint were people too dumb to figure out how to do it themselves. He also subscribed to the theory that most of the professors at the community colleges were scam artists, out to make a quick buck.

  Mom eventually did drop out of the pastry classes when it was clear she was pregnant with me, and she said the morning sickness combined with the smell of dough was too much to take all at once. She had me nine months later, and settled into the habits of a resigned housewife. She never did give up her interest in cooking and baking, and was always threatening to open up her own catering business or go back to cooking school. Dad had not expressly forbidden it, but he has been known to make sexist remarks on occasion, like “my wife’s place is doing my laundry.” Mom always said he was kidding, but I was never sure.

  Mom looks to me for support. I am not sure I can give it to her — I am just too taken aback to think about anything except the fact that my mother — a fifty-five-year-old with no discernable job skills and only half her college credits — has gotten a job, while I am languishing in the unemployment lines.

  “Where?” I squeak.

  “Well, it’s one of those Web places.”

  “You mean dot-coms?” Todd says, speaking for the first time.

  If possible, Dad’s jaw drops a bit further.

  “You don’t even know how to work a computer, Doris,” says my dad.

  “I do so know how to work a computer,” Mom says. “I send email all the time.”

  This quiets Dad. In fact, it quiets the whole table.

  “That’s cool,” says Todd’s girlfriend Deena. “I worked for a dot-com. They’re a lot of fun.”

  “I’m very excited,” admits Mom to Deena. The two share a girlish giggle.

  Meanwhile, Dad is turning purple.

  “Don’t even start, Dennis,” Mom warns Dad. His head looks as if it might, seriously, explode. The vessels are popping out of the sides of his temples. “You know we need the money.”

  Dad pounds a fist on the table, causing the salt shaker to jump and then topple.

  “I thought we agreed not to discuss that.”

  “You agreed. I said that if we don’t do something, we’re going to lose the house.”

  “Mom,” whines Todd, who has always been deeply affected by arguments between my parents. For a full five years, from age ten to fifteen, he was certain they’d get divorced.

  “Todd, this has nothing to do with you. It is between your mother and me,” says Dad.

  Todd appears in danger of whimpering. I look at him through squinted eyes.

  “The truth is, kids,” Mom says, “Dad’s been reduced to working part time. We didn’t want to tell you because we know you have enough to worry about.”

  Mom looks at me when she says this.

  “Anyhow, your Dad’s being forced out.”

  “I am not,” Dad protests, but I can see it’s just for show.

  “They asked you to take the early retirement package,” Mom says to Dad, who seems to have suddenly lost his appetite. He shoves a bite of piecrust to one side of his plate with the tip of his fork.

  I stare at him, unbelieving. Dad, the man who my whole life has been spouting Republican propaganda about how all you have to do in this country to get ahead is work hard and hope no one elects a bleeding-heart president, is suddenly looking sheepish and small. The same man who argued with me that “corporate welfare” is liberal labeling, and that a company’s first priority should rightly be to its shareholders, is now sitting at the head of his table unable to look anyone in the eye.

  I can’t believe it. It doesn’t seem possible.

  He’s too old to adjust to the cold, hard reality of modern corporate America — he entered it when it was full of promise — like a new suburb built in the ’50s. Now, it’s been reduced to drab strip malls, chain restaurants, and drive-by shootings.

  I feel suddenly selfish and petty. Here I am thinking I’d borrow money from them, when they might actually need to borrow money from me.

  “When?” sputters Todd. “When did this happen?”

  “Last week,” Dad says.

  “Four months ago,” Mom says at the same time.

  I look from Dad to Mom and back again.

  “Four months,” Dad admits, after a pause.

  “And you kept this from us?” Todd asks, the look of betrayal and childish angst on his face. Leave it to Todd to blow things out of proportion. He sounds as if he’s just discovered that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

  “Well, we didn’t want to worry you,” Mom says. “We didn’t want to be a burden.”

  I feel about the size of an ant.

  “But we have a right to know,” Todd says. I am not sure what rights he’s asserting here. “I mean, what other secrets are you keeping from us? Is one of you dying from cancer?”

  “Todd,” I scold.

  “Well, Jane, I mean, seriously — doesn’t this upset you? I hate secrets. This family is always keeping goddamned secrets!”

  Todd, unfortunately, is prone to fits of paranoia and conspiracy theories. He, like Dad, believes there is a secret government ruling the world made up of billionaires who decide the fate of nations based on high-stake poker games. He also thinks global warming is a fiction devised by liberals.

  “Watch the language!” Mom commands.

  Todd throws his napkin on the table.

  “Todd, shut up,” Dad shouts. “This isn’t any of your damn business.”

  I snicker. I can’t help it. Todd so rarely gets any negative criticism from the parents. Dad and Todd usually tag-team me, so it’s two against one (with Mom always acting as Switzerland).

  Todd can’t believe Dad’s told him to shut up, and his bottom lip starts to quiver slightly as if he might cry. Instead, he slams back his chair with a screech and declares, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “I don’t want you working, Doris,” Dad says, ignoring Todd as he stomps out of the dining room. “I’m still working part time. You don’t need to work.”

  “Honestly, Dennis. You’re being ridiculous. Let’s face facts. We can’t live on your reduced salary.”

  “I’m not the one being ridiculous, here,” Dad says, throwing down his butter knife. “Just what are you going to do for them? Bake cookies?”

  A hush falls on the table. Mom’s mouth draws itself into a thin line. She doesn’t turn to me like she usually does to say, “Your father is just joking.” Her eyes get that steely look of determination, the one usually reserved for PTA meetings and Tupperware parties.

  “For your information, I am going to write about cooking,” she says, teeth clenched. She is trying hard not to raise her voice. She is trying not to let the strain show. “They are going to pay me for my expertise.”

  Dad laughs. He really shouldn’t have. As it is, I doubt he will see the inside of the bedroom for weeks.

  “Well, that doesn’t matter,” he says. “The fact is that you don’t have to work. I mean, if Jane paid us back those loans she owed us from college…”

  Now, it is my turn to drop my utensils. Those are not loans that any child is supposed to reasonably be asked to pay back. Everyone knows that. I look to Mom, hoping for a vigorous denial, but she is still studying Dad, saying nothing.

  “Mom,” I protest. She doesn’t turn.

&
nbsp; “I mean,” Dad continues, seizing upon her silence as encouragement, “we still have $18,000 on one of her loans, and if we calculate all her spending money from age sixteen to twenty-one, that would put us right around $80,000.”

  “Dad!” I shout, in a panic.

  He can’t be serious. This is in direct violation of the parent-child contract that allows for youthful spending and irresponsibility during college without fear of future financial reprisals. I mean what’s the fun of being a poor student if you’ve got to worry about paying your parents back for all those hundreds of 2:00 A.M. pizza runs?

  Upon hearing the panic in my voice, Todd returns, presumably to gloat.

  “And if we ask Todd to pay us…”

  “Todd already paid us back for his school loans,” Mom says, her voice eerily calm.

  I stare at Todd. He shrugs.

  “Oh, you’re right,” Dad concedes. “Well, if Jane pays us the near hundred grand she owes us, then we’d be all set.”

  Mom actually considers this a moment. I feel like I’m in the middle of a parental Savings and Loan Scandal.

  Kyle’s head is bobbing back and forth like he’s got a front-row seat at Wimbledon.

  “Mom, don’t listen to Dad,” I say, desperate. “He’s just trying to convince you not to work. He feels threatened.”

  “But even so, it isn’t enough. I’m taking this job. And that’s that.” She slams her flat palm on the table, causing everyone to jump. Mom rarely raises her voice and never, except behind the scenes, disobeys my father. An argument of this magnitude is rare enough — but having my mother win a public fight? Unheard of.

  They have a traditional relationship, one based on outdated gender roles and a mutual fear of confrontation.

  “But, Doris…” Dad starts.

  “No more,” Mom says, and her eyes flash a warning, her hands curling around the handle of her steak knife. “I’ve taken the job. I’m starting tomorrow.”

  “Doris…”

  “Don’t say another word, Dennis. Not another word.” Mom’s teeth are clenched, and a small blue vein in her temple is throbbing.

  After a pause she adds in a pleasant, high-pitched hostess voice, “Would anyone like seconds on dessert?”

  Todd drives me home, and I am sandwiched in the backseat next to Kyle. Deena, naturally, gets the front seat. Todd hasn’t even pulled out of the driveway before he brings up the obvious.

  “Mom got a job, Jane — MOM.”

  “I know,” I sigh. I can’t help but feel slightly jealous that Mom has a job and I don’t. Not that she isn’t deserving of one, but how did her resume get through when mine didn’t?

  “I think it’s cool she got a job at her age,” says Deena. “What is she? Fifty?”

  We all ignore her.

  “Mom doesn’t even have any dot-com experience,” Todd says.

  “I know,” I say.

  “I don’t know what the hell is up with this job market,” Todd says, for once not telling me that it’s my fault I’m unemployed. “I just don’t get it. And Dad…” he trails off. “Do you remember when Dad used to take us to his office?”

  Todd looks at me in the rear-view mirror. I look back, and for a second, I think we share a moment.

  “Yeah, and we used to play cops and robbers, and you were always the cop,” I say.

  “That was a lot better than playing Wonder Woman with you and that damn paper clip lasso.”

  “You played Wonder Woman?” Kyle laughs.

  “I didn’t play Wonder Woman,” Todd clarifies. “Jane was Wonder Woman. I was Spider-Man.”

  “Spider-Man and Wonder Woman didn’t work together,” Kyle says. “They were totally separate comics.”

  “Spider-Man was in the Justice League,” Todd says.

  “He definitely wasn’t,” I say.

  “Whatever,” Todd says, rolling his eyes and sighing. “I just liked Spider-Man, OK?”

  “I can’t imagine Dad without his job, can you?” I ask Todd.

  Todd shakes his head. “Nope, I can’t imagine it.”

  “I still think it’s cool your mom got a job,” Deena says. “That’s what I call girl power.”

  We stare at her until she says, “What?”

  Todd pulls up in front of my apartment and Kyle hops out behind me. I am almost to my front door by the time he catches me.

  “Wait, Jane,” Kyle says, touching my shoulder. He’s holding a small, wrapped box in his right hand.

  “Happy Birthday,” he says, giving it to me. He has already turned and is jogging back to Todd’s car before I can say anything.

  Inside my apartment, I open Kyle’s present. In the box, there’s a sterling-silver, flat skipping stone. On one side is carved the single word, hope.

  Kyle’s gift hits me hard, like a dodge ball to the stomach.

  I don’t deserve it. This act of kindness.

  Then, for no reason, I start to cry. For the first time since I can’t remember when, I cry.

  Hard.

  I cry so much that I fall asleep in the fetal position, hiccuping.

  Citibank Financial Offices

  Customer Service

  Wilmington, Delaware 19801

  Jane McGregor

  3335 Kenmore Ave.

  Chicago, IL 60657

  March 9, 2002

  Dear Ms. McGregor,

  While we are glad to see that you are getting use out of your free Balance Transfer checks we sent you in February, we cannot accept one of these for your minimum balance payment of $524.32, which you included with your March statement for your Citibank Platinum MasterCard.

  Please call your customer service representative at 1-800-PAY-NOW2, and arrange a payment of your outstanding minimum balance immediately in order to maintain your credit rating.

  Sincerely,

  Andrew Causey

  Citibank Customer Service Manager

  P.S. We have also received your request to raise your credit limit to $54,000. We are afraid that in light of your late payment status, we cannot approve such a credit line increase.

  6

  I dream that I am at the center of an action movie, where I must defuse a nuclear bomb to save all the members of my former company. They are all shouting at me to cut the wire.

  A persistent and annoying ringing wakes me up in the middle of the night and it takes me several long dreamscape seconds to figure out it’s my phone. It is pitch black in my bedroom, and I think it must be 3:00 A.M. I snap on my bedside lamp, blink back the agonizing brightness, and reach for the cordless on my nightstand.

  “Hello?” I croak, only half awake, my throat sore from crying.

  “Jane? Jane did I wake you?” It’s my mother, and she sounds anxious.

  “Mom, of course you woke me, it’s the middle of the night,” I say, yawning.

  “It’s seven in the morning,” Mom clarifies.

  “Right, the middle of the night,” I say. What’s the point of being depressed and unemployed if you can’t sleep half the day away? Sleep is one of the only free activities (next to daytime television) that I have to look forward to. The longer I’m awake, the more time I have to contemplate my bleak finances and seemingly worthless job skills. While indulging in a moment of self pity, a thought occurs to me. “Is everything all right? Did Dad have a heart attack?”

  “No, no, no,” Mom says. “Nothing like that. Maybe I should let you sleep.”

  She pauses on the line, and I know she feels obligated to give me a way out, but that she doesn’t actually want to let me sleep.

  “Mom,” I say.

  “Yes?” she says.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “You’re sure? You’re sure I’m not bothering you?” Again, the expectant pause.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I could call back later…” She lets her voice drift off.

  “Really. I’m awake.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Mom!” I cry, starting to get anno
yed. “What do you want?”

  “Well, I sort of have, a, er, issue.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s about work, you see. I start today, and I’m not exactly sure…” Her voice drops and I can tell she’s trying to keep Dad from hearing. “…what to wear.” She says the last part quickly, almost as if she’s embarrassed.

  “You don’t know what to wear?” I echo.

  “Yes, that’s right.” She sounds guilty, as if she’s admitting to shoplifting Miracle Bras. “They told me casual, but I’m not sure what they mean by ‘casual.’ Can I wear slacks? Is that appropriate? Or do you think I should wear a dress and hose?”

  Mom uses words like slacks and hose despite my reminders that they make her sound older than she actually is.

  “Mom, when you went there for an interview, what were people wearing?”

  She thinks about this a moment.

  “Well, I don’t exactly remember. I think, though, the receptionist was wearing sneakers. And, maybe I saw a couple of maintenance workers. They wore blue jeans.”

  “How do you know they were maintenance workers?”

  “Well, surely, the people who work there don’t wear blue jeans? I mean, it is a respectable office.”

  “Mom,” I say. “Dot-coms usually don’t have dress codes, so jeans are probably fine.”

  “Blue jeans!” Mom cries, sounding offended. Mom uses the word “blue” to describe jeans, even if they are another color like “white blue jeans” or “pink blue jeans.”

  “Well, why don’t you just wear some khakis and a regular shirt.”

  “You mean like a beige skirt?”

  “No, pants. I mean like regular pants and a regular shirt.”

  “A pants suit?”

  “No. Like a pair of black pants, and like a shirt.”

  “A blouse?”

  I hate that word almost as much as I hate the word slacks.