The Futures(68)

“You’ll be paid through the end of the month. You can leave as soon as you’ve gathered your things. And we’d appreciate your discretion for the time being. Please don’t say anything to the others just yet.”

The phone started ringing. “I should take this,” Laurie said, visibly relieved at the interruption. “Could you close the door on your way out?”

I sat down at my desk. I heard the printer humming, the phone ringing in the lobby. The office was unchanged from a few minutes earlier, except for the silent bomb going off in my brain. A half-written e-mail floated on my computer screen. It was a summary of Laurie’s expenses for the month of November, for accounting. A rote, routine e-mail. Anyone could do this after I left. But why not just finish it? All I had to do was attach the statement and click Send. I was numb.

It was as I started typing that it hit. My hands shook. I was aware of the smooth plastic keys against my fingertips, the too-loud clacking, the strange way the words emerged on the screen, like someone else was writing them. The last e-mail I’d ever write from this desk. Finally it exploded, flooding my mouth with a sickly iron-tinged flavor. I had just lost my job. I was unemployed. Unemployed. I turned off the computer, gathered my things—an extra pair of shoes, a coffee mug, a spare sweater, that was it—and waited for the elevator. Unemployed. Unemployed. It ran through my head like blinding ticker tape.

Outside, the snow was starting to thicken. Fat, lazy flakes drifted heavily through the air, coating the pavement in white. There was the sharp piney smell of Christmas trees for sale down the block. I tried calling Abby, but it went to voice mail. I tried my parents next, but they weren’t there. Then I called Adam. He picked up right away.

“They fired me,” I said, my voice splitting in half, tears springing unbidden.

I used to wonder, those months I lived in New York, about the women I saw crying in public. Usually they were on the phone, sobbing into the mouthpiece. It was always women. What was it? I wondered. What bad news were they delivering or receiving? It was so disturbing, one red crumpled face in a sea of blank expressions. Did they know something that the rest of us didn’t? Was this the first wave washing ashore with news of some global tragedy, something we’d all hear about in a matter of minutes? In this city, privacy was a luxury. You shared the sidewalks and subways with strangers, heard sirens through the windows, your neighbors through paper-thin plaster. What you did—what you had to do—was erect invisible walls to protect yourself. A stranger sobbing on the street, a dirty hand holding out a cup filled with change, an elbow digging into your back on a crowded train. The person in your bed whom you haven’t really talked to in months. Look forward, breathe in, shut your mouth, think about other places. Think about anything except what’s right in front of you. It’s a way of staying sane in an unreasonable place. But at that moment, I saw the downside of this careful indifference. Even in the cab I wasn’t alone, though I might as well have been. I hiccuped and cried, and the taxi driver kept his gaze straight ahead, the scratched plastic barrier between us.

Adam gave me the name of a hotel bar in midtown, said that he was on his way. I stopped in the bathroom to clean myself up. I looked awful. I splashed cold water on my face, dropped Visine into my eyes, reapplied lipstick and mascara. I missed Evan suddenly. He’d seen me like this before, crumpled and exhausted and freaked out: Our fights in college, the moments of bad news, the disappointments, the long four years. He never cared how I looked. And he wouldn’t try to stop it; he wouldn’t tell me to snap out of it or calm down. He was quiet and steady, always ready with just the right thing to say. This vanity was stupid. It didn’t matter how I looked. And yet there I was, fixing my hair and makeup like someone about to embark on a blind date.

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.